"No way," Leo whispered, his tiny jaw dropping as he stared up from a desk cluttered with papers strewn across the surface. "That's... that's… you!"

You stood by your desk, trying (and failing) to hide the massive grin on your face. "Class, settle down. We have to remember our manners, m’kay? As a special treat for finishing your reading units, we have a guest speaker today."

Garrett smirked, tossing a casual wave to the room, though his stomach did a strange, unfamiliar flip. He was used to a sold-out arena, fans screaming his name in a packed stadium, not feeling the pressure of everyone’s expectation when he’s on the ice. But the intense, wide-eyed scrutiny of twenty-four eight-year-olds felt entirely different—it was terrifying. "Hey, guys."

Instantly, two dozen hands shot into the air like rockets, their little fingers with slight stains from washable markers waving up high. You pointed to Maya in the front row, who was practically vibrating out of her chair. 

“Miss!” Maya squealed, looking between you and Garrett with widened, eager eyes, “How did you get him here?” You leaned back against your desk, crossing your arms, and shot Garrett a playful, teasing look. “Oh, you know, I called in a favour from a friend.” 

Garrett let out a low chuckle as a collective, teasing ooh went through the room, his grey eyes locked onto yours, glimmering with amusement. The tight, protective knot that usually sat in his chest during a high-stakes playoff run instantly dissolved.

"I’m glad she did," Garrett agreed, walking over to stand right next to you. He casually leaned his hip against the edge of your desk, close enough that his arm brushed yours, grounding him. "She's very persuasive, guys. I didn't stand a chance."

For the next forty-five minutes, Garrett was completely at the mercy of the class, and to your amazement, the same man who was lethal and ruthless on the ice was the one who’d naturally gotten along with your class, despite his frets last night. He answered questions about his training routine, what it felt like to lift the cup, and patiently explained for the hundredth time that, no, he couldn't body-check anyone in the classroom.

But what made your throat tighten with unexpected emotion was the sheer gentleness he showed them. When a shy little girl in the back mumbled her question, Garrett didn't rush her. He got up from your desk, walked over, and awkwardly dropped his massive, six-foot-two frame onto a tiny plastic chair across from her. He rested his elbows on his knees, listening with total, undivided attention. When Leo proudly showed off a drawing of a hockey stick doing a trick, Garrett took the crinkled paper, examined it with absolute seriousness, and told him his technique was perfect.

Watching him, a sudden, violent tug pulled at Garrett’s heart. He looked at you, standing by the whiteboard, laughing at a joke a student made, the golden afternoon light catching the strands of your hair. He saw the amount of unconditional love and pride you held in your eyes as you looked at your students, and something fundamental shifted inside him.

He had always known he wanted a family eventually. The way he could rewrite the concept of family, a chaotic house of chasing his kids to get them to eat breakfast, or seeing tiny jerseys with GRAHAM slapped across the back as they stumbled into an arena to watch him play. But it had always been a distant concept—another thing to check off the bucket list. 

Seeing you in your element, surrounded by a love you had cultivated out of pure patience and warmth, made the future hit him like a physical wave. He didn't just want a family someday; he wanted it with you one day. He yearned to see your warmth directed at a little person who had his eyes and your laugh. It went from a distant dream to a desperate, burning necessity in his chest that felt warmer than standing in the sunlight on a humid day.

When the bell finally rang, the kids practically groaned, dragging their feet as they packed their backpacks and shouted their goodbyes into the echoing hallway. "Thanks, Mr. Graham!" Leo yelled on his way out. "Can you come every day?"

Graham exhaled a laugh, patting him on the back, “I wish I could, buddy, I got a championship to win.” 

"Have a good weekend, Leo," you softly called back, head tilted as he turned around the corner out towards the exit. Once the door clicked shut and the room fell into a quiet stillness, leaving only the sound of a distant lawnmower outside and the ticking of the wall clock, you let out a long breath.

"Well, Mr. Graham," you said, turning to him. "You have officially survived third grade."

Garrett didn't answer right away. He was standing by the window, watching the kids spill out onto the pavement below, but his mind was entirely fixed on the quiet hum of the room. When he finally turned around, his usual sarcastic smirk was completely missing. His expression was raw, intense, and fiercely focused entirely on you.

"Garrett?" You walked closer, your brows furrowing as your sneakers squeaked softly on the linoleum. "Hey, you okay? They didn't tire you out too much, did they?"

"They were great," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its usual playful edge. He stepped away from the window, closing the distance between you until he was standing right in front of you. He reached out, his large, calloused hands settling firmly on your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He needed to feel the physical reality of you to anchor the recurring thoughts racing through his head. "But you... baby, you're incredible."

"I didn't do anything," you murmured, your heart rate kicking up at the sheer heat in his gaze. "You did all the work."

"Watching you with them," Garrett continued, ignoring your protest. He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your skin. "Hearing them feel so comfortable talking to you, even the patience you had with them. Seeing the way you look when you're in this room... is it so bad that I want to see that every day?"

"Yeah?" you whispered, your hands finding their familiar place on his chest, feeling the steady, heavy thud of his heart.

"Yeah." He swallowed hard, his grip tightening just a fraction around your waist. "I’ve always thought about the future, you know? But after today? I can’t help but want it to happen faster. With you. I want a house full of loud, chaotic kids who have your laugh and your eyes."

Your breath hitched, a sudden rush of warmth flooding your entire body. For a man who so often hid his deepest feelings behind sarcasm and charm, Garrett was laying his soul completely bare in the middle of a third-grade classroom.

"Our kids?" you asked, a soft, breathless smile breaking across your face.

"Our kids," Garrett confirmed, a soft, vulnerable smile finally touching his lips. "Miniature versions of you driving me crazy. Though, I'm telling you right now, I'm the one teaching them how to skate. I know you're going to try to put them in figure skates or somethin’, but it's not happening on my watch."

A delighted laugh bubbled out of you, the sudden emotional weight lifting into something sweet and real. "Excuse you, figure skaters have superior edge work, Graham."

"Don't care. Hockey rules in our house," he teased, but the humour quickly softened back into that unwavering adoration. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before lingering in a deep, promise-filled kiss that tasted like he was pouring every promise of the future into it, one that felt like a preview of all the kisses he’d envisioned for the future. As he pulled back, his eyes were shining in the fading afternoon light. "So... I didn’t scare you off, did I?"

You smiled up at him, wrapping your arms securely around his neck, the quiet classroom fading into the background. "Not a chance, Graham. I’ve seen you on the ice, yet here I am."

"Good," Garrett murmured, kissing your forehead. "Because I’m not going anywhere now."

You smiled despite yourself, chuckling before adding, “Yeah, I guess that’s Lana for you.”

"I'm Drew, by the way." He offered, before you smiled and introduced yourself as well. 

"Nice to meet you." Drew shifted his weight awkwardly, adjusting the slightly crooked baseball cap on his head. There was a beat where it looked like he might walk away, making you think of all the ways you could find a way out and forget the interaction all together, even though he’d piqued your interest, before he glanced back at the cup, "I think somebody mixed, like, six different drinks together."

"And you're still drinking it?"

"Yeah, well, now I'm committed."

“No way,” you stepped closer to him, not feeling as uncomfortable as you entered his space, “I have to try this.” 

Drew handed you his cup, your fingers brushing each other as you wrapped yours around the cup. Raising the cup, you could feel the weight of his gaze as he watched you drink the same substance, smirking as your face contorted to confusion. 

“That’s like, four completely different drinks fighting each other,” you said, lowering the cup.

Drew laughed, taking it back. “Right?”

“There’s definitely orange juice in there.”

“Yeah.”

“And something coconut.”

“Okay, see, I didn't get coconut.”

“There is. I swear.”

He took another sip, considering it seriously for a moment before shrugging. “Maybe. Honestly, I think we're giving this way more thought than whoever made it.”

You laughed, trying to ignore the warming feeling you had blossoming inside, “Who even made it?”

Drew looked around the crowded living room. “Good question.” For a second, both of you scanned the room as if the answer might magically appear, before he concluded, “No idea.”

“Thank you, Drew,” you nodded sarcastically, as Drew couldn’t help but feel a little spark of excitement as you said his name, “That's reassuring.”

“Yeah, we're basically test subjects for how to get blackout drunk quickly.”

The conversation should've ended there. At least, that's what usually happened at parties. A quick exchange, a polite laugh, then both people drifted off in opposite directions. Instead, neither of you moved. A group of people squeezed past, forcing you both a little closer to the wall. Drew shifted beside you, one shoulder brushing yours briefly, leaving your skin burning. As you talked, the chaotic noise of the party seemed to lose its edge. Drew shifted his weight from foot to foot, waving his hands with a quirky, uncoordinated enthusiasm whenever he got excited. There was a total absence of Hollywood pretension in his demeanour.

“So,” he said, adjusting the brim of his cap as he laughed wholeheartedly. “You’re telling me some crackhead, who looked like Santa on Ozempic, chased you on his wheelchair at Union Station?”

“Yes! Listen,” you exclaimed, eyes widening to match his expression as he watched you, “anything can happen in New York, there’s no way I could make this up out of thin air.” 

"Okay, okay," he teased, his voice intentional and soft. "I believe you, Ethan Hunt."

Inside, you felt the exhausting social anxiety you'd been nursing all evening melt away. For Drew, looking down at you, a quiet fascination taking root. He was captivated by your quick wit and the grounded, unpretentious way you carried yourself as you continued your conversation, surprised that he’d managed to find something fun when he’d solely shown up out of formality of being invited.

But when you accidentally checked the time on your phone, you gasped. "Shit, it’s so late. I’m so sorry, I have to go!" You called out over the music. "It was really great meeting you, Drew!"

“It was nice meeting you, too,” he called back, offering a soft smile. It wasn’t until you were sitting in the quiet chill of the Uber, staring at your blank lock screen, that a cold weight dropped into your stomach.

You forgot to get his number.

For the next week, that heavy feeling morphed into a frustrating ache that swung between self-recrimination and the thought that you’d never get to see Drew again. You didn't even know his last name, just the memory of his laugh echoing in your mind while you stared mindlessly at spreadsheets at your desk at work. It wasn’t until that one Sunday afternoon when you’d decided to treat yourself to your favourite self-care ritual. 

You were seeking refuge in your absolute favourite vintage bookstore downtown, the one that you’d found on a whim when you first moved to the area. The environment here was a quiet, dusty sanctuary that smelled heavily of vanilla, old paper, and aged leather bindings. The only sound was the faint creak of floorboards and the muted patter of a light rain against the front window.

"No way, it’s you." The murmur came from right beside you in the fiction section. You turned, your heart doing a sudden, violent flip. There he was, dressed in an oversized, faded green sweater covered by a vintage leather jacket, holding a tattered copy of a classic novel. The grin that spread across his face was instant.

"Drew," you breathed, a massive wave of relief washing over you as you watched him take a few strides towards you. "I thought I completely ruined my chances of ever seeing you again. I felt like such an idiot walking out like that."

“You? An idiot? Please,” he admitted, a faint, endearing flush creeping up his neck as he rubbed the back of his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “Honestly, I was way worse. I got back to my apartment and was like, 'Man, you're such a dumbass.'” He shook his head. “For real, I was annoyed at myself for, like, a week." He felt an exhilarating surge of adrenaline, a silent confirmation that the intense pull he’d felt at the party wasn't just in his head.

“God, no.” Glancing down, you take note of the novel in his hands again, “Never took you up for a guy who knows this place, it’s so niche.” 

“Aw man, I love Seekers.” He looked around, the admiration for the dainty shop clear in his eyes. “It was one of the first places I’d come by when I first moved out here.” 

“Got any recs?” You motioned towards the copy in his hands, clearly different to the romantasy books you usually picked up. He chuckled, taking in the little frays in the bind of the book he held, before he looked up at you with a soft look in his eyes, “How much time do you have?”

Drew’s apartment was exactly how you’d anticipated it be, a physical extension of his mind—warm, comforting, and slightly cluttered with towering stacks of books and scattered scripts, the air smelled of the remnants of a cedar-bergamot candle that still clung in the atmosphere and coffee grounds. You ended up finding your self sitting cross-legged across from Drew on his plush living room floor, the once bright-grey sky now deepening to a dark ashy twilight outside the window. 

“So, Mister Big-Shot Actor,” you said, swirling the last of your drip coffee that he’d made for you, “Is Hollywood as glamorous as everyone thinks?”

Drew let out a soft snort, shaking his head. "Not even close. Most of the time it’s just sitting in a damp trailer for twelve hours eating stale pretzels, tryin’ to remember how to cry on command.”

He paused, deep in thought but oddly still at comfort with explaining the the reality of it all. “It’s weird, and it’s sweaty, but... I don't know. When a scene clicks and you know you did it exactly how you read it in the script, it’s the best feeling." His voice dropped an octave, filled with a quiet, humble passion that made your chest ache with admiration. 

“For someone who’s on camera, you’re oddly everything but what I imagined,” You confessed. “Like, incredibly humble for someone who’s probably got people lining up for him.” 

“Nah don’t even—that still boggles my mind.” Drew retorted, the two of you chucking when suddenly, you glanced at the vintage clock ticking on his wall and gasped. "Oh my god, it’s past nine. I have to go. I have an early start at the office tomorrow."

"Let me drive you," Drew said immediately, his keys already jingling in his hand.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "You don't have to do that, I’d hate to impose anyway. My car broke down last week and it’s stuck in the shop for another week, so I’m at the mercy of the city transit system.” As you collected your bag, you continued, mentally thinking of how you could make up for all the sleep you’d lose by the time you got home, “Just the way to lose half your paycheque after all the 401K and tax deductions, huh? I’ll just catch the bus.” 

Drew blinked, a soft, incredibly amused smile tugging at his lips before his expression turned firm and intentional. "Woah, woah, absolutely not. You are not taking some cold bus this late.”

"Drew, you don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted softly, his eyes locking onto yours with total sincerity. If you hadn’t scolded yourself over the giddy warmth you felt over that, you certainly were now. 

As soon as he pulled up to the front of your building, the dread of your time together coming close to an end, Drew spoke up, "Tomorrow. 7:30 AM. Be ready." 

“Huh,” Confused, you looked at him to try and see if he was joking, except Drew still seemed dead-serious. “Why?”

“I’m picking you up and driving you to work. No arguments."

“But—”

“Aye, no buts. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It was supposed to be a one-time favour, but soon evolved into your favourite morning ritual, a shared universe that was built in the enclosed space of his car. As he promised, he’d shown up to your building every single day, at 7:30 AM sharp. Inside, the air conditioning would be humming, while a small container of chia seed pudding had in a cup holder. 

“Something about fibre? I don’t know but seems like you’d need it.” He explained teasingly the first time, as you gave him a raised eyebrow, giggling at how locked in he was. 

“Well, thank you. Didn’t know acting came with a medical degree.” You joked back, the grin on your face permanently cast for every ride, where Drew would lean over the steering wheel, pitching his voice into a ridiculous executive monotone. "Well, if we don't align our cross-functional paradigms, how will we ever optimize our bottom line, human resource?"

The ridiculous display had you laughing so hard your chest hurt, completely forgetting the looming stress of the day. Soon, the boundaries of your morning rides blurred entirely and the limits of your friendship became more close and intimate. While he’d be away on set, the coldness of your corporate cubicle would be broken by the sharp buzz of your phone. You'd open it to find random, candid photos of him a costume for the day or visual FX makeup that looked more real than not, making an absurd face into the camera. 

Drew: Do you think Pearl would be into me? 

You: seeing there’s a fence post stuck on you, yes. 

In return, he started bringing his scripts over to your apartment. You would sit side-by-side on your fabric couch, reading the opposite lines in a deadpan, flat voice just to make him break character.

"No, no, you have to say it with more malice," Drew would instruct, pointing a script page at you. "You're playing a ruthless cartel leader, not your depressed self at work.” 

“I am, I’m putting all my hatred for that one coworker into this, Drew,” you’d then retort solemnly, making him burst into the same bright laugh that echoed in your quiet living room, making the room feel more homely than any of the decor hung on the walls could’ve ever added. Before you knew it, you soon found yourself pining for him, the feeling creeping in like slow-burning fire catching light on a rope. The deep, agonizing yearning began to take root in your core, every moment that was spent with him becoming both your favorite part of the day and the hardest to leave behind. It lived in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the way you caught yourself searching for him the second you walked into a room, in the instinctive glance toward your phone whenever something happened that you wanted to tell him about.

The worst part was that there was nowhere for those feelings to go, he was your friend, now one of your closest friends.

So you buried the longing beneath laughter and inside jokes, tucked it away every time his shoulder brushed yours or his smile lingered a second too long. You swallowed every what if before it could leave your lips, afraid that speaking it aloud would shatter something you couldn't bear to lose. The fear of rejection, of losing the precious space you held in his life, was a suffocating weight that kept your lips sealed when you’d look at how he was a rising actor while you were holed up in the corporate world. 

Instead, you let yourself dream, imagining a future that would never belong to you, piecing it together from stolen moments and wishful thinking. The way he'd greet you at the end of a long day, or the lazy Sunday mornings spent sharing coffee and conversation. The comfortable silence that already existed between you, stretched across years instead of hours. You pictured building a life around the things you already loved most about him—his easy laughter, his kindness, the way he somehow made every place feel a little more like home.

It was a cruel kind of comfort, knowing you couldn't have any of it while still allowing yourself to imagine it. Yet every time he looked at you and smiled, every time he remembered some insignificant detail you'd mentioned weeks ago, every time he chose the seat beside you when there was one across from you, the tiny spark of hope buried deep inside your chest refused to die.

Balance sheet reconciliations were probably the corporate world’s version of medieval torture, brutal and all the more frustrating as you sat in the office, your eyes burning from the glare of the screen telling you that you were still off my a couple hundred thousand. It was nearly seven o’clock, making you groan out loud. Only your manager would make you take on extra reconciliations since you “knew it best”, or whatever he’d meant. 

Your phone then buzzed against the wood of your desk. 

Drew: Still at the office?

You: Yeah. 

You: I have these recs due tomorrow. I think i need to be admitted into a neurosurgeon’s class after this bc my brain genuinely has turned to mush

You waited for Drew to have some witty reply, except, it’d never came, making you turn the phone screen downwards and get back to work. It wasn’t until half an hour later when you heard a heavy knock on the glass doors of your office boom through your office, your name being called which left you suspicious. As you walked up to the door, startled, Drew walked through the maze of dark cubicles. He looked entirely out of place, wearing a baggy hoodie and sweatpants, carrying two large brown paper bags that radiated the heavenly scent of spicy Thai takeout.

"Drew? What the fuck are you doing here?" you asked, a breathless, tired laugh escaping your throat. "How did you even get up here past security?"

"I told the guard downstairs that I was delivering a doordash order," he said, a goofy wink lifting his eyes as he pulled up a squeaking rolling office chair right next to yours. "And more importantly, I knew you wouldn't eat if someone didn't force you to."

He unpacked the containers right over your desk, forks and napkins scattering the top next to your notebooks and keyboard. For the next two hours, he sat patiently, eating pad thai and letting you rant about how much you hated having to work through these when it was your manager’s responsibility to do them.

"And that," you concluded, pointing aggressively at the number that finally said displayed a green-toned zero, indicating you’d successfully reconciled your work, "is how we reconcile our bank account general ledger for the quarter."

Drew clapped slowly, his eyes filled with a soft, unwavering admiration that made your heart ache. "I understood about three words of that, but you do make a convincing point. Where do I tell HR to fire that son of a bitch?"

By the time you packed up your bag, it was an ungodly hour, the air outside was freezing and an apparent look of fatigue on both of your faces. Guilt overtook you as you thought of how tired Drew must have been after work and still managed to come over to stay with you as you worked away. 

"You're too tired to drive back to your place," you murmured as you walked to his car. "Just sleep over at my place tonight."

"Yeah?" Drew asked, his voice suddenly quiet, checking your face in the dim streetlights. "You don't mind?"

"I'd mind more if you crashed your car because you were sleep-driving," you muttered, your cheeks warming.

When you woke up the next morning, the apartment was bathed in a soft, pale morning light. You walked into the living room, already dressed in your blazer and dresspants, to find him still asleep. He was tangled in your knit throw blankets, his head rested peacefully against the pillow, which made him look more vulnerable. 

You froze, watching the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of profound emotion hit you so hard it felt like a physical blow. You loved everything about him.

You were in love with him. And it was too late to go back to try and bury the admiration that continued to grow. 

The urge to reach out, to pull the blanket just a tad bit higher on him, to brush your fingers over the small strands of hair that just covered his scalp and whisper the truth was almost impossible to pull back from, but the same sharp spike of fear struck again. The fear that if you confessed what you had felt, it’d change everything, leaving you dealing with the pieces of you heart that you laid bare and the regret of losing a friend because you’d confessed how your heart seemed to find its way back to him every single time you saw him. 

So you left it, swallowing the dry lump in your throat and silently grabbed your things, leaving a quiet note on the counter before heading out. The pining became an exquisite, agonizing torture over the next few weeks. It was in the way his hand would linger on your shoulder just a second too long when he dropped you off at work. It was in the quiet, heavy silences that fell between you while reading scripts, where his eyes would drop to your lips, his breath hitching slightly before he abruptly looked away.

Then came that day. Drew landed a major role for a new movie adaptation, meaning he had to fly out to Europe for a four-month shoot—the longest you had ever been apart. The night before his flight, he came over to say goodbye, though it felt like it’d be the last time things would be the way they were, given the atmosphere in your living room was suffocatingly quiet.

"Four months is a long time," you said, your voice tight and thin as you stared down at your hands.

"Yeah," Drew murmured. His voice was incredibly soft, thick with an emotion he was trying desperately to suppress. He reached out, his large, warm hand gently catching yours, his fingers squeezing tight. "But it doesn't change anything. I'll call you every time I have a break, even with the time difference. I’ll even send a few reels to you even though they’re kinda dumb. I promise."

"You're going to be so busy, Drew. I’d rather you have fun in Europe instead of trying to make me feel better over here." You swallowed hard, the irrational fear clawing at your throat. He’s going to find someone better.

"Hey," he said softly, lifting your chin with his index finger so you had to look at him. "I'm never too busy for you. You know that, right?"

“Yeah, yeah.” You managed a weak, trembling smile as you nodded, seemingly in understanding even though your heart beat with ache. When he finally stood up to leave, the hug he gave you was desperate, pulling you against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

"Bye," he whispered against your skin, before turning and walking out the door. The moment the lock clicked shut, the apartment felt entirely hollow. For ten minutes, you sat motionless on the edge of your couch, the fear mutating into a sharp, blinding clarity. If he left across the ocean without knowing how you felt, the regret would consume you for the rest of your life if he came back with someone else on his mind, someone who’d hear the same laugh you’d love hearing, someone who’d kiss his worries away, or someone to laugh with over how bad they were at reenacting their lines in his script. 

It hadn’t even clocked to you what you were doing when you realized you were halfway down the stairs of your building to your car, your coat slung over one arm and keys dangling out of the pocket just enough that you could lose them. By the time you pulled onto the road toward the airport, your stomach was twisted into knots, your mind ricocheting between panic and hope as a thousand reasons why this was a terrible idea fought against the one reason you couldn't stay home: the thought of letting him leave without trying. The possibility of embarrassment, rejection, or heartbreak sat heavily in your chest, but not nearly as heavily as the regret you knew you'd carry if you turned the car around.

The airport terminal was a chaotic, overwhelming blur of rushing travelers, rolling suitcases, and loud announcements. Your lungs burned as you sprinted through the departure level, your eyes scanning the dense crowds desperately.

And then, you saw him. He was standing near the international security line, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking entirely isolated and miserable.

"Drew!" you screamed, your voice cracking over the crowds murmurs that’d piled on immensely as every second passed by.

Drew whipped his head around, his eyes widening in absolute shock. He dropped his duffel bag instantly, taking three long strides to meet you halfway.

"W-what are you doing here? Is everything okay?" he asked, his hands flying to your shoulders, his fingers gripping you tightly as if to anchor you. His eyes searched your for any sign of distress, his voice low as he softly said your name. "Did something happen?"

You were panting, your chest heaving violently, hot tears finally spilling over your eyelashes.

"No- I mean yes, I mean- I don’t know!" You sobbed out, a breathless, hysterical laugh escaping you. "I tried to be reasonable. I tried to be the one who just stays in her lane and does the smart thing and let the friendship be, but I can't let you get on that plane without telling you. I'm terrified, Drew.”

Drew simply looked at you, concern and confusion all over his face as you took a deep breath. 

“I'm terrified that you’re going to go to Europe and realize your life is bigger than this, or whatever it is between us, and that you'll find someone better. Because I am completely, irrevocably in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since you slept on my couch, probably even since we met at Lana’s party. I just needed you to know before you left."

Drew stared at you, completely frozen, his breath catching in his throat. For a terrifying, suspended second, the entire chaotic airport seemed to fade into absolute silence. Then, a small smile broke across his face, almost as if he was relieved, his eyes crinkling with an overwhelming warmth. A soft, breathless laugh bubbled out of his chest, and his hands moved to cup your face, his warm thumbs gently wiping away your tears.

"You know, for someone who’s so smart, you’re such an idiot," he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, emotional relief, entirely soft and intentional. "You think I could ever find someone better than you? I’ve been completely miserable for months because I thought you just saw me as the guy who drives you to work."

"You... what?" you blinked, stunned through your tears. “Huh?” Drew chuckles as he says your name, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I’m crazy about you," he insisted, his face tilting closer to yours, his expression fiercely certain. "I’ve been in love with you since… I don’t even know when! You don’t know how many times I almost told you on those morning drives. There is no one else, there never could be."

"You're not just saying that because you feel bad?" you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"I'm saying it because I mean it," he murmured.

He didn't wait for you to answer. He pulled you up to him, his lips meeting yours in a deep, desperate kiss right in the middle of the crowded terminal. It was everything you had ever pined for, warm, consuming, and all the more certain, erasing months of agony in a single heartbeat. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours. His hands were still cradling your face.

"Four months is going to fly by so fast," he murmured, a goofy, ecstatically happy grin returning to his lips. “Cause you're coming to visit me the second you can get a week off. And until then, you're getting a phone call every single day. Deal?"

You laughed, your heart bursting with a profound, radiant happiness. "Deal.”

taglist: @raf3cam3r0n @bonjourjiminie

You had seen him before from afar, but tonight, his piercing blue eyes were locked on you as you moved to the rhythm of the music. But Rafe didn’t just look at you, he anchored you to the spot with a dark, heavy stare that made you feel completely exposed before you’d even taken off a single layer. Your body swayed with practiced ease, hips grinding against the pole as you descended into a split. The routine was muscle memory, your hands trailing down your own body, teasing the audience with glimpses of skin they paid to see, except the mere remembrance of whose eyes were on you made the light cast upon you feel hotter than it actually was. 

Though Rafe wasn't like the others—he didn't throw money or shout crude comments that you’d become accustomed to, even if it did sting at times. He just watched, his intense gaze making your skin tingle in a way that had nothing to do with the stage lights. You found yourself stumbling slightly, a move you'd performed thousands of times, suddenly feeling foreign under his scrutiny.

When your set ended, you collected your tips with forced smiles, your eyes occasionally darting back to where he sat. He hadn't moved, still watching you with that unnerving intensity, with one tailored trouser leg over the other. He didn't smile; he just tracked the nervous twitch of your fingers, his eyes darkening.

"Rafe wants a private dance," your manager whispered, nudging you with his elbow.

“Huh?” You looked at him, wide-eyed, with your anxiety peaking as you took in what he said.

 "Go,” he urged, pushing you towards the room. “He's paying triple."

Your heart raced as you nodded, making your way toward the VIP section. The security guards parted for you without a word, and you then found yourself standing a few feet away from his leather chair, the synth-heavy bass of the club vibrating through the soles of your platform heels. 

Usually, you’d already be in his lap, spinning a web of practiced charm. Instead, you found your fingers nervously plucking at the sheer fabric of your robe. His sheer presence, dripping with absolute confidence and an unspoken, terrifying possessiveness, completely tripped you up.

"H-hi," you managed, your voice steadier than you expected but still not the same confidence you usually managed to exude.

He turned to face you fully, and up close, his presence was even more overwhelming. He was dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than your monthly rent, his hair perfectly styled, his blue eyes seemingly able to see right through you.

"Your performance was... adequate," he said, his voice low and smooth. "But I think you're holding back."

"I don't know what you mean," you replied, though you did. You had felt off since you first noticed him watching.

Rafe leaned closer, his cologne—a mix of sandalwood and something that screamed rich—flooding your senses. "Hmmm, I know you’re a smart girl. I know you do.”

"Are you just going to watch?" you asked, your voice betraying a slight tremor that made you internally curse. You tried to recover your usual swagger, shifting your hips and bracing a hand against the velvet wall. "I can see you staring at my tits."

Heat flooded your cheeks as you began to move, your body swaying to the distant music from the main floor. You tried to focus, to slip into the professional persona you usually wore so easily, but his eyes kept distracting you. A slow, wicked smirk finally broke across Rafe’s handsome face. It wasn't a gentle expression; it was the look of a predator who knew he’d already won, and he absolutely didn't deny it. Instead, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, letting it fall open as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The sudden proximity made your breath hitch.

As you turned, your back facing him, hear a dark chuckle. "I am staring," he murmured, his deep voice cutting through the thumping bass of the club music. "I mean, can you blame me? They’re magnificent." 

Your breath hitched as his eyes slid down to your thigh, the sight making you feel phantom-squeezing of the soft flesh there. "And your thighs... been imagining them wrapped around my waist since you first stepped on stage."

You turned back to face him, trying to regain control of the situation. "Mr. Cameron, there are rules about—"

"Rules?" he chuckled, a dark, delicious sound that made your core clench. "Y’think I care about rules? Come here.”

His confidence was overwhelming, the kind of absolute certainty that came from a lifetime of never being denied anything. You found yourself faltering again, your usual stripper bravado deserting you completely. 

It wasn't a request. Your thighs felt heavy, almost liquid, as you took the two steps toward him. You straddled his lap, the expensive fabric of his trousers a stark contrast against your bare skin. You meant to grind against him, to take control of the interaction like you always did, but the moment your hands rested on his broad shoulders, he gripped your hips. His fingers dug in, bruisingly tight, staking a claim that sent a shockwave of heat straight to your core.

"Why are you being so shy?" he asked, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "It's not like I haven't already seen all of you." You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs. You looked down, suddenly unable to hold his intense gaze. Rafe chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that vibrated against your chest. He tilted your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look at him. Before you could form a coherent response, he was standing, pulling you up with him. His grip was firm but not painful, leaving no room for argument.

"You're... distracting," you breathed out, honesty slipping past your defenses before you could stop it.

"Good," Rafe growled. He slid his hands down to the meat of your ass, lifting you slightly just to come down harder against the thick, rigid length hidden beneath his trousers. You let out a soft whimpering gasp, your head dropping onto his shoulder. He owned you in this moment, and the terrifying part was how badly you wanted him to.

He leaned into your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as his teeth grazed your earlobe. He didn't care that there were other people in the club, or that you were supposed to be working. His possessiveness was a suffocating, intoxicating wave.

"Dressing room, now," he commanded, his voice dropping to a tone that brokered no refusal. You didn't even think about arguing. Your knees were weak, your core was aching, and as he led you toward the back hallway, you knew you were completely at his mercy.

The walk to the dressing room felt endless, his hand possessively on the small of your back as he guided you through the crowded club. Employees and patrons alike stared, but no one dared question the man who owned half the city.

Once inside the privacy of the dressing room, he locked the door behind you. The space was small, cluttered with makeup and costumes, but suddenly it felt charged with an electricity that made your skin hum.

"Turn around," he ordered, and you found yourself obeying without question.

He stepped behind you, his body pressing against yours as his hands roamed freely. "You're even more beautiful up close," he murmured, his lips tracing the line of your shoulder. "Knew you would be."

Your reflection in the mirror showed a version of yourself you barely recognized, flushed and breathless, eyes dark with desire. This wasn't supposed to happen. You were the one in control, the one teasing and denying. But with Rafe, all your carefully constructed defences were crumbling.

"I want to see all of you," he said, his fingers deftly untying the strings of your outfit, the non-existent constraint finally being lifted. "Every inch."

As the fabric fell away, leaving you exposed before him, you expected to feel vulnerable, ashamed. Instead, a thrill ran through you as his eyes raked over your naked form, appreciative and hungry.

"God, you’re perfect," he breathed, turning you to face him. "Absolutely perfect."

His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was nothing like you expected—possessive, demanding, yet somehow tender. His hands explored every curve and hollow of your body, learning your shape as if memorizing it.

You were lost in sensation, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that surprised you. Years of performing, of pretending desire for strangers, had never prepared you for this—the real thing, overwhelming and all-consuming.

When he finally lifted you onto the vanity, spreading your legs to stand between them, you were already aching with need. "I've wanted this since I first saw you dance," he admitted, his voice rough with desire. "Watching y’ move, knowing I had to have you."

As he entered you, slow and deliberate, you gasped at the stretch and fullness of his member. It was different from anything you'd experienced before, something that wasn’t transactional, nor a performance, but something truly real.

"Look at me," he commanded, and your eyes met in the mirror as he began to move, setting a rhythm that quickly had you trembling. "I wanna watch you fall apart for me."

And you did, spectacularly, your body arching against his as waves of pleasure washed over you. His name was a prayer on your lips as you shattered, the intensity of your release leaving you breathless and boneless.

He followed soon after, his grip tightening on your hips as he found his own release, his face buried in the crook of your neck. For a long moment, you stayed like that, tangled together in the aftermath of passion. The club seemed miles away, the world reduced to just the two of you in this small room. When he finally pulled away, he helped you dress with surprising gentleness, his fingers lingering on your skin as if memorizing the feel of you.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "And the night after that."

You nodded, unable to form words as he straightened his suit, once again the composed billionaire you'd first seen. But as he unlocked the door and glanced back at you, those blue eyes held a promise that made your heart race.

You were in trouble, deep, yet thrilling, trouble. As you watched him walk away, you knew with absolute certainty that you wouldn't—couldn't—resist when he returned, already thinking about how you could impress him next time.

taglist: @raf3cam3r0n @bonjourjiminie

“Oh my god,” your fingers tangled in his collar, yanking him down. "Then do something about it."

He did. His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and desperation, and his fingers pushed inside, two of them, rough and insistent. You moaned into the kiss, and he swallowed it, fucking you with his hand while his thumb ground against your clit.

"Been thinking about this," he panted against your lips, "since you destroyed me on the Milton presentation. Watched you walk back to your seat and got so hard I had to sit through the whole Q&A-"

You reached between you, palming him through his khakis, and he groaned, ragged and broken. "Less talking," you whispered, "more, mphf-"

He spun you around, bending you over the table. Papers scattered, your annotated readings, his colour-coded notes, all of it sliding to the floor as he shoved your jeans down and freed himself. You heard the tear of foil, then his hands were gripping your hips, positioning himself.

"Tell me you want it," he demanded, the head of his cock sliding through your wetness, teasing.

"And why the fuck would I do that?" you snarled, pushing back against him.

He slammed into you, deep and thick, and you both groaned. "Hmm," he gritted out, starting to move, hard and punishing. "You can keep hating me. Just like how you can keep taking my cock like this."

The table creaked beneath you, your cheek pressed against cold wood, your nails scoring the surface. He fucked you like he was trying to win something, like every stroke was a point on a scoreboard, his breath hot and ragged in your ear.

When you came, it was sudden yet exactly what you’d needed, your body clamping down on him, your cry muffled against your own arm. He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt, groaning your name like a curse against your shoulder.

After, you lay there panting, sweat cooling on your skin, his notes crumpled beneath your elbows. He pulled out slowly, dealt with the condom, and you both stared at the mess—the scattered papers, the dislodged glasses, the chaos.

You sat up, reaching for your sweater. "I'm still getting that fellowship," you said.

Rafe adjusted his glasses, smirking, already hardening again. "We'll see about that."

taglist: @raf3cam3r0n @bonjourjiminie

"I'm trying," you whispered, though your heart was doing a frantic double-take against your ribs. The way she’d given you her entire attention, but it was never in the same way you’d give to her, because while she was zeroed in on making sure your eyeshadow looked good, you were more focused on her breathing pattern and the gentleness of her hands as she held onto you, wishing it’d been for different reasons. 

The way she always made sure you were her top priority made you wonder if you were the problem for considering if it teetered between platonic or romantic love, or how she’d managed to find a way to slither into your dreams at night, making you wake up flustered and sweating after imagining her head between your thighs as you’d arch off the bed. 

"Okay, look up at the ceiling," Sarah murmured, her fingers cool against your jaw. Her free hand, steady and precise, brought the fine-tipped liquid eyeliner pen toward your face.

You obeyed, staring intently at a dust mote dancing in a sunbeam, but your focus was entirely on her. You could feel the heat radiating off her body. When she leaned in to start the intricate flick of the wing, the soft linen of her tank top brushed against your bare arm. It was a faint, feather-light sensation that felt like a match struck in a dry forest.

"So," Sarah started, her voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone she only used with you. She reached for a pot of gel eyeliner, letting out a small, quiet laugh that vibrated in the air between your faces. Her gaze was focused on your right eyelid, but you could see the playful curve of her mouth. "I have to tell you about yesterday. And you cannot tell Ward, or Topper, or Rafe, or literally anyone."

"My lips are sealed. What did you do?"

"I hung out on the Cut," she said softly, dipping a fine-tipped brush into the black gel. "With the Pogues."

Your eyes snapped open. "Sarah—"

"Ah ah ah! Eyes up, look at the ceiling," she scolded gently, using her thumb to gently pull the skin of your cheek taut. You complied, but your mind was racing. The Cut? The Pogues? Figure Eight girls didn't just drift over to the marsh. "Look, I know. But Topper was being suffocating, and I just... needed to breathe. I ended up on the HMS Pogue. That's what they call their boat. It's basically a floating piece of driftwood, but honestly? It was probably the most amazing thing I’ve been on so far."

A strange, tight knot formed in your stomach. "Amazing how?"

"Just... the energy," Sarah sighed, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she carefully drew a sharp wing on your outer eyelid. "They don't care about who your family is or how much money is in your bank account. And John B... he’s the one who runs the place, basically. He took me out on the marsh. He’s just so entirely unfiltered. He looked me dead in the eye and told me I was sheltered, but then he showed me this secret surf spot, and we talked for hours. He’s incredibly charming in this completely reckless, messy way."

The knot in your stomach hardened into a cold, heavy lump of jealousy. You knew of him, of course. The boy with the messy hair and the unbuttoned shirts who lived on the edge of the water. Hearing Sarah talk about him with that breathless, captivated look in her eyes felt like a physical blow as your mind raced in circles about whether she liked him or not. If you’d completely lost the one person you’d yearned for to someone who’d wooed her effortlessly. The thought of Sarah being pulled away from you, not just by a boy, but by a completely different world, made you feel entirely hollow.

"Sounds like you had a great date," you said, unable to stop the sudden, sharp edge from bleeding into your voice.

Sarah paused, the eyeliner brush hovering centimetres from your face. She blinked, looking down at you, her expression shifting from excitement to confusion. "A date? No, babes, it wasn't a date."

"You just said he was charming and reckless, and you spent hours alone together," you muttered, looking down at your lap, suddenly feeling very small in your designer sundress.

"Yeah, because he's a character," Sarah said softly. She set the brush down on the vanity, the click of the plastic loud in the quiet room. She stepped closer, sliding into the narrow space between your knees. The fabric of her linen shorts brushed against your bare thighs, sending a jolt of pure static electricity straight up your spine.

She reached out, her fingers gently cupping your chin to force you to look up at her. Her hazel eyes were wide, searching yours.

"I'm not interested in John B like that, silly," Sarah murmured, her voice dropping an octave. Her thumb brushed lightly against your jawline, a slow, deliberate caress that made your breath hitch. "He's great, but... he's not my type."

Your gaze dropped to her mouth, entirely involuntary. The air between you grew thick, heavy with a sudden, suffocating heat. Sarah’s eyes flicked down to your lips, too, her thumb pausing its movement on your skin. The silence stretched, pulsing with a raw, agonizing tension. For a second, just one second, it felt like she was leaning in. Like she was going to bridge the agonizingly small gap between you.

Then, Sarah swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she pulled her hand back, clearing her throat to break the spell.

"Anyway," she said, her voice slightly breathless as she picked up a highlighter palette. "The reason I'm telling you all this is because I want you to come with me next time."

“What? To the Cut?” You blinked, trying to ground yourself. "Sarah, I don't think—"

"Think about it," she interrupted, leaning back in, her face inches from yours as she dusted a shimmering champagne powder onto your cheekbones. "You hate it here. You’ve told me a thousand times you feel like an alien at the country club. You don't fit into the Figure Eight mold anymore than I do."

She was right. You loathed the stiff dinners, the fake smiles, the unspoken rules of the wealthy elite. You always felt like you were wearing a costume.

"They'd hate me," you whispered. "I'm just... Topper's girlfriend's best friend. I'm a kook. They’d shun me for literally everything I am."

"They won't hate you," Sarah insisted, her gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest ache. She set the palette down and leaned her hands on your shoulders, her thumbs kneading the soft skin near your collarbones. "They’re fun, and it’s so freeing over there. Like you truly get to be whoever you want to be.”

Contemplation took over you as you pondered on the thought of whether you’d be doing yourself more harm than good, seeing Sarah having fun with someone while you sat in the back, knowing you’d never get the chance to be that person. Sarah continued, trying to break the silence, “I'll be right there with you. I want you there. It doesn't feel right experiencing something that real without you. I need you there."

Something that real.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You looked at Sarah, at the fierce, protective warmth in her eyes, at the way she held onto you like you were the only anchor she had left in this town. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to tell her that you didn't care about the Pogues or the Kooks, that the only place you ever felt like you fit in was right here, trapped in her orbit.

"Okay," you breathed out, the word a tiny surrender against the space between you. "I'll go."

A brilliant, radiant smile broke across Sarah's face. "Good," she whispered.

She didn't move away immediately. Her hands lingered on your shoulders, her thumbs tracing small circles against your skin, both of you caught in the sweet, terrifying pull of everything you weren't saying. Finally, she patted your shoulder and stepped back, grabbing a hand mirror and pressing it into your palm.

"Now look," Sarah said, a playful flush on her cheeks. "Tell me I'm the best makeup artist on the island."

You looked into the mirror, your reflection glowing, the sharp wing accentuating your eyes perfectly. But when you looked up, you caught Sarah staring at you in the reflection, her expression soft, longing, and entirely uncovered.

"You're the best," you said softly, looking right at her through the glass. "By far."