˗ˏˋ ♡ breezy ♡ ˎˊ˗

"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.

You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.

"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."

"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."

Oh. That John Tucker.

"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.

"Isn't that a big coincidence?"

"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"

"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."

"Mom — what, that's not really —"

"She's probably not even going to use it."

She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.

What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.

He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.

Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.

"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."

"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.

"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."

He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"

You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.

"He's right," you said.

"He's a traitor," Tucker said.

You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.

You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.

Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.

"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"

"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."

"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."

He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

You looked back down at the onion.

Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.

"Not a word," you said.

"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.

The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.

party saturday, be here, i made a playlist

You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?

yourself and good energy

You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.

what time

nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud

That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.

You thought about it the entire rest of the week.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.

You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.

You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.

It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.

You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.

Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.

"You look great," he said, holding the door open.

"You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"

"Tucker."

"What."

"We're not cooking. There are already people here."

He looked genuinely confused. "So?"

You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.

Dean wasn't in the kitchen.

You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.

Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."

"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.

"I'm a guest," you said.

"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.

You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.

Dean appeared sometime around ten.

He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.

So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.

You went to find Tucker.

The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.

Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party

You typed back: fine. dean's here.

Three seconds.

oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.

maybe

that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do

You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.

The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.

You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.

The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.

You told it to shut up.

It had a point though.

You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.

You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.

"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."

Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.

"I've been talking to people," you said.

"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."

"Maybe I just like that side of the room."

He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.

"You've been doing that for a year," he said.

"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.

"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."

The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.

You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.

"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.

Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.

"Yeah," he said.

He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.

The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.

He didn't kiss you right away.

That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.

"You made me wait a long time," he said.

"You could have said something sooner," you said.

"I said something tonight."

"Barely."

Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.

"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.

He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.

"Take your jacket off," he said.

You did.

He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.

"Good," he said, like that meant something.

Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.

He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.

"There it is," he murmured.

"Shut up," you said.

"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.

He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.

"Dean —"

"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."

He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.

"Dean."

"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.

"You're so —"

"Tell me."

You told him.

"Please"

The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.

He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.

"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."

"Dean —"

"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."

"That's your fault," you managed.

"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."

When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.

He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.

"Don't," you said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.

You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.

You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.

"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.

"Yeah," you said.

He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.

It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.

"Months," he said again. Quieter now.

"I know," you said. "I know."

When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.

You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.

You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.

You met his eyes in the mirror.

"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.

Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"

You turned around. "What kind of thing?"

He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.

"Right," you said simply.

Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.

You unlocked the door.

"Hey," Dean said.

You looked back.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."

You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.

Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.

You took it.

"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.

"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."

"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."

"Tucker."

"It's in the pot on the back burner."

You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.

"Thank you," you said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."

You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

Tucker handed you a chip.

You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.

Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.

Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"

"Made it myself," Tucker said.

"You absolutely did not."

Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

"It's your house," you said.

He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."

"I know," you said.

Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.

It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.

It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?

The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.

You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.

i know. yes or no.

fine.

The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.

You sat in the middle of the couch.

He pulled up the movie without comment.

It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.

Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.

The movie ended and neither of you moved.

He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.

You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.

Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.

You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.

That was how it started.

By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.

You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.

He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?

You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.

Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.

You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.

"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.

"I didn't say that."

"You described a situationship."

"I described two people who spend time together."

"With benefits."

"Occasionally."

She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"

You said nothing.

"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"

You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."

Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.

The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.

The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.

"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."

"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"

"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."

The room went quiet.

"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."

Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Okay," you said.

The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.

The first sign was the texts.

Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.

You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.

You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.

You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.

But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.

You went over on a Thursday.

Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.

You looked at him for a moment.

"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."

"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.

"I want you to say what's actually happening."

He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.

"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.

You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."

"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."

"Okay," you said.

He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.

"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"

"I never called it anything," you said.

"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."

The room was very quiet.

You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.

"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."

He opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."

"Hey —"

"Good night, Dean."

You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.

You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.

You texted Anna: you were right.

She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.

"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.

"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."

The hard part came later, at midnight.

You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.

You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.

You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.

The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.

Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.

You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.

"What is that," you said.

"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"

"Tucker."

"I know."

You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.

"It's salvageable," you said.

He exhaled. "I knew it."

"Get me the garlic."

You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.

Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"

"We're collaborating," Tucker said.

Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.

Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.

"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.

"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"

"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.

You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.

"Smells good," Dean said.

You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.

Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.

"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.

"I can see that," Dean said.

Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"

"I know," you said, drying the pan.

You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.

When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."

"Noted," Tucker said.

You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.

Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.

Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.

"She labeled it," Dean said.

"She always labels it," Tucker said.

Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."

"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."

He couldn't focus in class the next morning.

The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.

Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.

He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —

You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.

You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.

You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He'd said that. He'd actually said that.

He stared at his laptop screen.

You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.

And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.

Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.

Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.

He wrote something down without reading it.

The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.

You don't belong here.

He closed his laptop. Opened it again.

You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.

He was not fine.

That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.

Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.

He picked up his pen. Put it down.

Wait.

He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.

The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.

You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.

He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.

You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.

Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.

He started noticing everything.

The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.

He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.

He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.

He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.

He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —

That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.

He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.

He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."

"She didn't do anything," Dean said.

A pause. "Then tell me what you did."

Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."

"And?"

"And she's fine."

"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"

"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.

Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."

"What."

"You absolute idiot."

January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.

You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.

Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."

"I know," Dean said.

Logan looked at him. "Just saying."

"I know," Dean said again.

Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.

He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.

You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.

He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.

It was a random Wednesday in late January.

Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.

Tucker's laugh. And then yours.

He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.

"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.

"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"

"I was recovering, there's a difference—"

"There is no difference, the result was the same—"

Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.

He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.

You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.

"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."

"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.

"See," Tucker said to you.

"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."

Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.

An hour later you started putting your coat on.

"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."

"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."

"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."

"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.

"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.

"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.

You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.

Tucker looked up from his phone.

The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.

"She forgot her mug," Dean said.

"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.

Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.

"She said bye to you first," he said.

Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Tucker —"

"I'm not doing this, Dean."

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."

From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.

Dean looked at the door.

"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.

Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.

He lasted four days.

Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.

He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.

He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.

He threw one.

It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.

He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.

The window opened.

You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.

"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."

"I need to talk to you."

"It's eleven o'clock."

"I know. You weren't answering my texts."

You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."

"You didn't answer."

"I was asleep."

"Can I come up?"

The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."

"There's a trellis."

You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."

"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."

You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.

You didn't close the window.

"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."

He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.

Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.

You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.

"I need to say something," he said.

"Okay."

"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."

"I'm not stopping you," you said.

He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.

He took a breath.

"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.

You waited.

"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."

The room was quiet.

"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"

"Dean," you said.

He stopped.

You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.

"I know," you said quietly.

He blinked. "You —"

"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."

He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."

"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."

He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."

You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.

"I know," you said again. Softer this time.

"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."

You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.

"Come here," you said.

He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.

His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.

You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.

"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.

You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.

He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.

"Hi," he said, quietly.

The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."

He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.

"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.

"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."

You exhaled like something releasing.

It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.

When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.

When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.

Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.

Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.

"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.

"Small rocks."

"You hit Anna's window first."

"She didn't see me."

"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."

You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.

He pressed his mouth to your hair.

"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."

You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."

"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"Not a complaint."

You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.

"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.

Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.

"He's known for months."

"I know."

"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"

Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."

"You're not."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not."

A beat.

"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.

Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"

"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."

"I'm going to kill Garrett too."

"You're really not."

"No," he said. "I'm really not."

You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said.

On cue, Langdon strides in, surveying the room with his cold, vacant doctor-stare. When his eyes land on you, they crinkle at the edges. Not with joy, but in mockery. He approaches, tutting and saying your name. 

“We have got to stop meeting like this.” In one deft movement, he pulls back your lanyard and takes another look at the patient. Standing behind you, his breath fans against your neck. “Hold compressions,” Robby orders.

It takes a few more rounds but finally, the patient starts awake and you shudder with relief. You snatch your badge out of Langdon’s hands and he nods, giving you a mock-salute. 

“You're welcome.”

Shaking your head and biting back a laugh, you ignore him all the way to the lockers. “You’re lucky it’s the end of our shift.” 

“Oh yeah, and why’s that?” 

“Because,” you say, opening your locker’s door right in his face and shutting it with a snap. “If I had to be around you any longer, you’d be sitting in one of those beds.” 

“Ouch,” he teases, rubbing an imaginary wound over his heart. Your eyes linger on his fingers, on the dainty little beads of his daughter’s friendship bracelet. That final detail makes you shake your head, and walk a little faster away from the building.

“Somebody chasing you?” Langdon has to jog to keep up with you, hands in his pockets. 

“Sort of,” you answer, leaping over a suspicious puddle. Langdon glares back at it as if he means to give it a stern talking to. You chuckle. “You know, I think I can make it to the bus stop on my own.” 

“Sure, but then you'd have to go without my riveting conversation.” Even when he barely gets a laugh, Langdon remains undeterred. “So, what’s the rush?”

You grimace. “Have you always been so nosy?” 

“Have you always been so secretive?” 

“Touche, Clark Kent.” 

He grins at the nickname but continues shooting expectant glances. 

“If you must know.” You’re forced to pause at a traffic light, jabbing the button with your elbow. “I’ve got a bus to catch.”

“That doesn’t really answer the question, you get the same bus everyday.”

“Which you know, because…?” 

He pauses beside you, shrugging and looking around as if he expects a passerby to give him a good excuse. “I drive past this stop everyday. You’re hard to miss.”

“Again, I say: nosy.”  

He ignores you, scratching behind his ear. “So, you need a ride.” 

“I can wait for the bus.”

“Or,” he shrugs again, “I can give you a ride.” 

You swallow back the childish joke that’s just itching to jump out and readjust your bag, frowning at the twinge of pain in your shoulder. Langdon doesn’t miss a beat, holding his hand out.

“Let me take that.” 

“I’ve got it.” As you step forwards, he blocks your path, arms held up in surrender. 

“You’re not gonna let me help?”  

You’re not sure why he wants to. The understanding, you thought, was that this friendship runs on a delicate balance of familiarity and professionalism. Joking, jabbing, borderline flirting, is all safe if it’s happening behind the hectic walls of the Pitt. It's a stress tonic, it keeps morale high. What it doesn’t do, is cross any lines. 

Instinctively, your hand shoots up to shoo him away again, but you pause. You do need the ride. Already, tonight’s planned outfit is doomed to be void of accessories and your hair will have to forgo any of the styling options you dreamed up last night. There won’t even be time for a pre-date snack. You groan. 

“Sure,” you say, trying to tamp down the fluttering in your chest. 

Langdon even insists on helping you carry your bag upstairs. He takes your key, opens your front door for you, ushers you inside and offers to make you a tea, coffee, anything you want. 

“So, your date tonight,” Langdon starts, dropping your things on the sofa. “Is he…you know. A boyfriend, or what?” 

While he scoops coffee into a mug, you get to work. As you change, you rush between rooms, frantically, calling over your shoulder or yelling responses to each other. “Never met him. We’ve been set up. My friends think it ‘could be good for me’, or something.”

He waits for the coffee to brew in the living room, standing with his hands braced behind the sofa. “You disagree?” 

“I don’t need a boyfriend.” 

His gaze swivels as you hobble back and forth with curlers in your hair and one heel on. You wave a hand in his direction, decidedly ignoring that, if he wanted to, he could’ve left by now. 

Langdon nods, brow furrowing. “Do you want one?” 

You wave your hands again and keep staunchly quiet. Now, you’re strutting around in both heels, rifling through your sofa cushions to find a lipgloss you could swear was last seen in this room. Langdon watches in polite silence, presumably for as long as he can stand, before asking, “Do you need any help?” 

“I’m fine, Frank. Thank you. Ah ha.” Inexplicably, the lost lipgloss is strewn between an armchair’s fuzzy cushions. You pull it out and stride back to your room. Getting ready at  record speed, you messily unwind the curlers from your hair and flipping your head back and forth. When you leave your room, Langdon is still hanging around and you still have enough time for a budget-saving snack, in case the date is a cheapskate. 

“You want some ramen?” 

He blanches. “Ramen?” 

“I don’t know, something light. In case–” You’re interrupted by your phone buzzing from the sofa. Langdon looks down like it’s calling him names and you pick it up, scrolling frantically. There’s no real reason to be nervous, to be so sure that bad news is coming. Worrying can’t stop it, and it can’t protect you from the sinking disappointment when you open your messages and it’s staring you right in the face.

When you notice Langdon stirring, you cringe away from him. “What?” 

You grimace back at the phone, then roll your eyes. Neither seems to get rid of the weight of rejection, curdling acidic at the base of your throat. You roll your eyes again and force a laugh. “He’s not coming.” 

“What do you mean?”

You hold your phone up absently. “Uh, the guy, my date. He can’t make it or something.”

“Or something,” Langdon deadpans.

Shrugging out more forced nonchalance, you read straight from your phone. “Sorry, have to cancel, my buddy’s having car troubles and I said I’d help him out.”

“Sounds plausible.” 

A sarcastic response of your own sits on the tip of your tongue, but you’re interrupted by the kettle boiling. It’s just a distant, bubbling hiss, but the shock brings a spurt of tears to your eyes. 

“Hey,” Langdon begins. You shake your head and turn away, hands cupping your own face when he immediately starts to follow. 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re crying.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Then turn around.”

You let out a growling sigh. Embarrassed, you face him and shrug, equal parts exasperated and expectant. 

It seems like he’s about to say something but, even when you turn your palms up and raise your eyebrows, he keeps his mouth shut. About twenty minutes ago, this was fun. Now, unreasonable as it may be, you’re starting to feel a little rejected. 

“Why are even you still here?” 

He slowly pushes up from the sofa, blinking rapidly. “I…Do you want me to go?” 

“No.” You groan, hands running down your face. 

“Should I get your coffee?” 

“No, it’s fine.” 

“Do you–”

You hold a hand up to silence him, trying to come up with a polite way to get rid of him. It would be easier if he wasn’t looking at you so wide-eyed and eager, if that strand of hair wasn’t hanging over his forehead, so primed to be romantically swept away. If he wasn’t being so nice. 

“What do you need?” he asks, finally. You groan again, shaking your head. 

“A day off,” you joke. Still aiming for nonchalance, you mutter the next one under your breath. “An orgasm. Or two.” 

Langdon’s face drops for a split second, expression buffering. Then, he blinks away his shock. “Let me take you out.”

“What?” 

“You wanna go out, right? If this guy won’t, let me do it.” 

Now it’s your turn to buffer, mouth snapping open and shut aimlessly. 

“I was already gonna be your ride there, right?” You don’t remember agreeing to that, but he’s not done. “I’ll take care of everything. I’m not sure where he was taking you but there’s this Italian place downtown–cliche, I know–you’ll love it.” 

As he talks, he runs a hand through his hair, grabs your handbag off the sofa and takes the first jacket hanging by your front door. He checks that you’re following and gives you a certain, reassuring nod. 

“Fuck that guy, alright? Let’s have the best goddamn night of our lives.”

As you’re pulling into traffic, thick, dark grey clouds threaten the humid kind of rainfall that ruins your hair and makes it hard to breathe. It may also be the tears threatening to fall. Langdon’s sweet, really, but it’s hard not to feel a little guilty. Beside you, he hums and taps the steering wheel, clearly pleased with himself for fixing yet another one of your problems. In truth, he’s only making them worse. Tonight sort of had an express purpose, which his presence makes impossible. You spend the entire car ride sending him awkward glances, hands fidgeting in your lap. At some point, you’re gonna have to tell him to go home. 

He pulls into a parking complex, practically abandoned by the time you get to a floor with availability. Booming thunder rolls in the distance as you stumble out, limbs suddenly gelatine. Langdon has to lend you an arm to keep you steady out of the car park. More thunder, and a swell of nauseating anxiety behind your sternum. Today’s stress–the week’s stress, if you’re honest, the last few month’s–is catching up with you, fast. Irrational apprehension seizes in your gut and you cling to Langdon’s arm. 

“We should go.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

He frowns softly, but doesn’t drop your arm. In fact, as you try pulling away, he only clings harder. “Hey, remember what I said? Don’t let that asshole ruin your night.” 

You shake your head. “It’s not about him.” 

Only, it is. Shaking your head some more, you let out a coarse laugh. You’re a doctor, for christ’s sake. You save lives and even when you can’t, you stare death right in the face. Bad days don’t paralyse you; they can’t. Normally, it’s because you get a little help: from friends, one-off dates or recurring flings, colleagues willing to vent over a few beers. All that, though, is precautionary. You’re not supposed to need help, or much of anything at all. The realisation of anything less is humbling at best. At worst, it’s humiliating and because you can't catch a break, this just has to be the worst case scenario. 

Langdon’s hands are cupped around your cheeks. Palms warm and broad, you only notice you’re crying when he lifts them from your face to rub your shoulders, where goosebumps are sprouting in the sudden chilly breeze. The barrage of questions you’re expecting never comes. Instead, he simply pulls you to his chest, wraps his arms around you and whispers against your temple. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay, I got you.” 

You bite back more tears but your shoulders still shake, though you can’t tell whether it’s your sobbing or a bout of shivers. Langdon runs his hands over your arms again, expression pinched. Rain trickles, then picks up, pattering against the cars at the parking complex's edge. 

“Chilly, huh?” 

“It’s fine, we, uh…” you pull away, gesturing vaguely. “We should…” 

“Go downstairs?”

You shake your head. 

“Go home?” 

“I don’t know, I think…I don’t know.” 

“How about we sit in the car?” he chuckles, “Let you figure it out somewhere warm.” 

Shut in the car, it actually does become a little easier to breathe. Langdon sits beside you, still cooing. 

“Alright, alright. I’m not your daughter.”

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish. “Force of habit.”

It gets quiet and you let it, relishing the steady hum of rainfall and whooshing wind. The longer you sit, the weather only gets more and more intense. Even if you wanted to now, you’re not going anywhere. 

“What are you thinking?” 

“Nothing.” You groan, shoving your face into your hands. “Tonight was supposed to go so differently.” 

“I know, I’m sorry. I really did want to fix things, though.” 

Your posture straightens and you fix him with an almost accusatory stare. “Why?” 

“I don’t know,” he fidgets, “it seemed like you were having a rough day.” 

“And you thought I needed you to fix it?” 

“Is there anyone else?” He asks the question to his hands, left thumb pressing into right palm as he massages his nerves away. 

“I don’t need anyone else.” Your breath hitches. “I don’t need anyone, period.” 

“But you could use someone. We all could, right?” 

“Don’t you have enough of your own shit to worry about?”

“Don’t you?” 

By now your shoulders and thighs are pressed together, both of you somehow shifted to the middle seat. You look up at Langdon, his pale blue eyes darting around your face. 

“So, I could use you.” 

“Yeah.” His hand is on your thigh and you don’t remember leaning closer, but his heartbeat beats urgently against your shoulder. “You could.” 

Without allowing yourself a second of rational thought, you lean even closer. A single movement of reckless abandon and your lips are smashing into Langdon’s, his arm curling around your waist and pulling you into his lap. 

“Is this a good idea?” you whisper into his mouth.

“Does it feel good?” 

You nod, rolling your hips onto his.

“Then let's think about it later.” 

He cups your face and kisses you again, softer this time, his tongue gently pushing through your lips. His hands caress a grounding pressure into your body. First on your thighs, then your back, then the back of your head as you grind into each other. You’re already desperate for him to undress you, but can’t tell how hard he is until he groans into your mouth, hips stuttering. 

“God, you know–I never thought it would happen like this.” 

Appalled, you pull away. “You’ve thought about this?” 

Langdon only pulls you back with more pressure. His kisses trail from your jaw to your neck. “All the time. Can I take this off?” He gently tugs on your dress, then shakes his head and slides his hands up your skirt instead. “Actually, keep it on. No sense in you getting all dressed up for nothing.”

You run your hands over his chest and his breath catches when your fingers hit his nipples. His hips grind further upwards, as if it hasn’t occurred to him he can fuck you for real. You send his question back at him, tugging on his jeans’ zipper and he groans. 

“Uh–I can’t.”  

“Why?” 

“I don’t, uh…” He gestures around the car, then at his crotch. 

“No condoms?” Avoiding eye contact, he nods. You giggle, grabbing his wrists to move his hands further up your skirt, when his fingers graze your underwear, you lean in. “I guess you’ll just have to practise some self control then, huh?” 

You urge him to slide off your underwear and you unzip his jeans. Pulling him free from his boxers makes his jaw hang open and his hands clench around you absently. 

“What–fuck–what do you like?” he asks, as you pump him up and down slowly. 

“Well, for a start, this.” You tease his tip against you, dragging him through your increasing wetness as he watches, jaw still slack. When his hips start to jut forward, you open your legs wider and press against him, so that he’s as wrapped up as possible without being inside you. Langdon’s breath hitches and his hips roll automatically, chasing more of your warmth. 

“Yeah? Just this?” He bites his lip and watches as you grind on his tip, then sink down to his balls, always sliding on just enough of his shaft to drive him crazy. “You want anything else? Want me to play with your tits?” 

You moan and he takes the hint, rubbing one nipple with his thumb and kneading around the other, getting torturously close, then massaging in the opposite direction. 

“Does that feel good? Want anything else?”

All you can do is whimper as his tip catches on your clit. You bite down on your lip, hips still working frantically, chasing as much of him as you can get. Langdon’s arms wrap around you more tightly and he bucks into you, straining with the effort of staying on the outside. 

“Shit, that’s it, right there. Fuck, you’re so wet, I–fuck–I could do this all day.” 

Still biting back moans, you bury your face against his neck and he tuts. “No, no, don’t do that.” He cups your face and brings it level with his, looking you straight in the eyes with his thumb catching your lip. “Lemme hear you baby, come on. Tell me how it feels.” 

You whine. “It feels good.” 

“Yeah?” 

Your back arches as you try to press even closer against him and you nod through another whimpering moan. 

“That’s it,” he coos. “Good girl. Take whatever you want. Whatever you need.” 

The more he keeps talking, the more empty you feel between your legs. You need him to fill you, to rock his hips into you until there’s no room inside you for this bad day, your hectic job and the way it shreds your nerves. Nothing but him. 

You aren’t sure how to tell him any of this, so you roll into him slower. Grabbing his face to give him deep, messy kisses, you let his tip slide further and further into you until he pulls back. 

“Are you sure?” Though his voice is full of apprehension, his eyes are blown wide and eager. 

“I need you,” you say against his face, hips never stopping. 

“Shit,” he moans, “yeah, okay, I’ll–fuck, yeah. Whatever you want.”

As you sink down onto him, he holds your hips in a steady grip, letting off a constant stream of reassurances. 

“I’ve got you, beautiful, just like that.” When he’s all the way in, he gets a little less coherent, but far more insistent. “That’s it, you’re–Oh, fuck. Fuck baby, just like that. Use me, baby, take whatever you want from me, I’m all yours.” 

Thick and hard, he fills you perfectly. As you ride him, a dragging pleasure builds, spreading like a fever down your thighs, up your back. It heats your face and draws long, whining moans from between your lips, panting interrupted only by you crying out Langdon’s name while he offers more encouragement. 

“Feels good?”

“Uh huh,” you moan. In response, he moans too. 

“I know, baby, I know.” He moans again, voice breaking as you clench around him. “See how I can make it better? How I can make it–fuck, baby–make it all go away.” 

You moan in agreement. This time, when you lay your head against his shoulder, he lets you. 

“You close, beautiful?” 

You nod and he brings your face closer so he can mutter in your ear. From his ragged breathing it sounds like he’s close, too. 

“Alright, baby,” he says, thrusting up harder into you. “That’s it, right there. Feels so good, doesn’t it?”

All you can do anymore is moan. He nods and brings a hand back to your tits to sloppily circle a thumb over your nipple.

“So you’re gonna come, alright? Come for me, baby, show me how good it feels. Show me–” he grunts, “how good it feels to drain my fucking cock, alright? Lemme feel it, baby, I wanna feel it. Show me how much you like using this thick fucking cock to get off.” 

His voice only gets more hoarse, talking you through your orgasm so fervently, he might as well be begging. 

Your orgasm crests and you don’t even have time to react; it simply ripples through you. Waves of pleasure curl your spine inwards and Langdon’s hands don’t cease on your nipples. He fucks you through it, thrusts haphazard as he reaches his own peak. His moans get breathy and strained as he cums, and when he finally floods you, he wraps his arms around you and stills, buried to the hilt. It takes a while for either of you to get out of the post-sex haze but when you do, problem-solving Langdon is back. 

“Shit, I shouldn’t–I can go to a convenience store right now, I’ll–” 

You giggle, gesturing to the rain still pounding outside. “It’s okay, you’re fine.” 

“Are you sure, I’m so sorry I wasn’t even thinking, I don’t–”

Pussy inspections. Whenever he felt they were necessary. Which was usually when you got home for the day. First off, it’s important to know how Brendon feels about panties. Which is unfavorable. When you’re home, he wants them off. So your inspection, and his feeling about it, depend a lot on how your inspection goes. Brendon doesn’t especially like you in pants, either. But he’s not a barbarian. You can wear whatever you want! He’s not crazy. If you’re in a skirt, like a good girl, your inspection starts one of two ways. Either A) you just got home, so he demands you take your panties off to give to him, or B) he confirms weather you were good already did so already. And why would you ever be bad for your daddy? He’d never catch you disappointing him, you’re his good girl. His best girl. If you’re in pants from being outside? Oh, you can just strip all the way down for him. That’s fine.

Either way. Once you pass the first step, you know how he wants you to present. Hands behind your back, legs shoulder length apart. Sometimes, usually, that’s not enough for him, and he’ll kick your legs apart with one of his feet. It’s deeply humiliating, the way it knocks you down.

He then bends you over with a gentle hand between your shoulder blades and no words. You know by now what he wants. And he’s not cruel, he usually does it over something go you to rest on. The table, the counter, the couch, rarely the bed or your dresser- but usually this happens on the first floor of your house.

Then he takes his time. Staring at your sensitive, fluttering little hole. Checking your reflex’s to made sure you respond to his touch right, stroking your lips, pinching your clit, expanding it and rubbing it to make you cry out and shake, begging your daddy. Pushing a finger in to make sure you’re tight, that no one else has been in his pussy. Pushing that wet finger against your little hole, to check, just incase. Sometimes he toys with you longer than you expected, you don’t question it. Let him pinch and stroke and fondle. But you know that this isn’t for your pleasure.

He doesn’t like bras at home, either. And daddy’s inspections are through, so usually he checks for tits too. But that’s just for your health, of corse. When he orders you to turn around so he can squeeze them, thumb your nipples. The way he states in your eyes as he gently tugs on your nipples at his leisure, groping the heavy weights on your chest.

Then comes your mouth. Ordering it open, and brushing his thumb over your teeth, ensuring your oral health. Ensuring your gag reflex is intact- after all, that exists for a reason, it’s important, baby.

And then he makes a distant sound of satisfaction, nodding that your inspection is over. He approves. You’ve been chaste, and kept yourself for your husband. You redress if you must like nothing happened, usually jumping to happily finally greet your hubby home from work, kissing his cheek and hugging him tight, or talking him though your mall haul. And he smiles in pure bliss. “I missed you too, kitten. Tell me everything about your day.”, he asked, carrying you over to the couch so you can snuggle up while you fill him in.

Inspections are a daily occurrence. You can set your clock to it. Even in those rare miserable instances Brendon travels for a conference, best believe he’ll have you on face time, stripped down and fallowing his orders to present to him.

Spankings. There were two kinds of spankings. Maintenance and punishment.

Maintenance was for your own good, he reminded you. They happened twice a week, before bed. You knew the routine by now. It had never changed. At 9 pm you stripped bare, and bent over Brendon’s knee where he sat on the edge of the bed. He started with his hand. He reminded you that he loved you more than all the stars in the sky, and that this was to remind you of that. That daddy was grounding you, helping you release your stress and anxiety through the pain.

First came his hand, alternating between each cheek. Some spanks soft and firm, some hard and fast. 10 to each cheek. And then, five to your pussy. And you were usually so good about it, lacking ego and shame as you opened your legs for him, allowing him access to the sensitive flesh even if it hurt, even if it humiliated you and stung.

Then he moved onto his paddle, a special one of wood and leather you’d picked out together, five hits to each cheek and one blow between your legs to finish you off for the night. Short and fast. And he’d be so proud of you when you were done.

Unless.

Unless you acted up.

Oh, then things are different. See, you know to take your spanking like a good girl. To stay calm on his knee, to breath in and out slowly and steady, you know to ask daddy for his other hand to hold if you’re feeling too overwhelmed (because he’ll always give you it, you’re his fucking wife, he loves you, of corse he’ll hold your hand. He’ll take a break to stroke your hair, to kiss your head and remind you he loves you and you’re a good girl.). You know how to be good and take it. And you know if you do, if you are, when he looks between your legs and sees you got wet like his perfect girl, he’ll reward you for taking it so well.

So because you know better, if you act up there’s consequences.

His spankings are so short. He’s too soft on you, really. So there’s no excuse for insolence.

But if you squirm, and wiggle, and jump away, and fight it? You will be punished.

Those soft and firm spanks from before are gone once he has to get mean with you. And when you’re acting up like this, you both know, it’s because you’re craving that firmer hand. You need the discipline and structure. So he’ll give it.

He holds your back down hard as he adds firm slaps to your ass. And breaks out his horse whip for your pussy. Usually on these nights he has to hold you down with one hand as he spanks you hard, has to force your legs open to abuse your little holes. He’s only satisfied once he breaks you back into being his good girl, tears and sobs and apologies for being bad. That’s when he knows he’s done his job, and he can pull you into his arms, shush and rock you as he insists it’s all okay, all forgiven, and daddy loves you. When you act out, he knows, maybe even subconsciously, you need extra to get the release and rebirth this gives you. Need him to break you down to build you back up.

Punishment spankings are different. Not just on Wednesday and Sunday nights, but when they’re needed. They’re not as soft as maintenance spankings are. They’re intense. There’s different paddles and rules.

Rule one. No moving. No asking daddy to hold your hand, no subtly rubbing against his leg and him pretending to ignore it. This isn’t for anyone pleasure. It’s a punishment. You don’t get the comfort of daddy’s lap for these.

They vary depending on how angry he is and his mood.

Of corse, he knows how to calm down. He wouldn’t actually risk really hurting you in a blond rage.

Brendon’s a good man. And a good husband. You know he’d never hit you anywhere but your bottom. He’s expressed his loud and firm disgust at the idea of any man raising his hand to their wife. He’d never lay a finger on your face that wasn’t gentle and full of adoration. He’d never hurt you. But spanking is different.

Punishment is necessary.

Sometimes he’ll tie your hands behind your back with one of his belts.

Sometimes he’ll tie you to the 4 corners of the bed if you’ve been really bad.

Sometimes he can just expect you to stay in place and take it, those sessions where you know you ere bad.

And your misdeeds vary. And they affect how you’re punished. As does your remorse.

Not wearing panties out of the house, lying by omission, back talk, not taking proper care of yourself, being unkind to him, being unkind to yourself, making bad decisions, forgetting your wedding ring at home. Teasing him at work, touching yourself without permission, pushing stupid fights because you’re hormonal or stressed. All these things have different punishments.

But punishment spankings are hard. They’re can involve his hand, far harsher than normal. They can involve one of his expensive leather belts, making clean lines across your rear. It can be your paddle, harder than usual. Your horse whip, focused on your ass instead of your pussy, painful and mean to the puckered hole.

And satisfied last until he’s satisfied. He can count the amount of times on one hand, but you’ve bled. You’ve cried yourself horse. He’s done when he’s done, or you safe word. And you never have. He needs to be confident he’s broken the rebellious spirit.

He’ll take care of you after, of corse. Lotion and bandages and kisses better and honey green tea.

But only after you’ve gotten the message, and apologized for being a bad girl.

It’s not the only punishment you use. But it’s common.

Another rule in your home is that you sleep naked. It’s pretty obvious isn’t it? After your spankings, you generally went right into bed, so why would you re dress? You never wore pajamas. Maybe if you were traveling Brendon made exceptions, but not at home.

You took your shower, came out in your towel, and put it in the hamper before climbing into bed with your husband. At first the idea was intimidating and embarrassing. Now it was just normal.

Seldom a night goes by where you go to bed without having sex, anyway, so why would you waste the energy on clothes you don’t need?

Brendon bought you two the most amazing marital home. So you have the freedom and privacy for all these kinds of free displays of your body.

Besides from sleeping naked, you also are free to swaim in your swimming pool perfectly bare, too, with the massive trees surrounding your lawn. No tan lines for this girl.

Brendon fucking loves it, coming home to your nude form dozing by the pool tanning (soooo lucky he can see the high SPF beside you) or swimming laps the way god intended.

That privacy also means you two can do whatever you’d like in and beside that pool. And believe me. You have.

You have sex when and where and how Brendon wants. Free use. It’s a negotiated part of your relationship, one which always brings you a little rush. Becuase it’s so fucking nice to feel wanted, especially by your sexy husband. He just can’t keep his hands off of you. How lucky are you?

Brendon’s not greedy. It’s not like he’s interrupting your housework for a blowjob, or bending you over every surface. But sex happens on his terms. You’ve never even imagined having to initiate before. When you get horny before Brendon does, usually a desperate look and some fluttered eyelashes are enough to get him to take you.

Brendon sat on the couch, lazily reading though a case study when he watched you walk across the room in a little sundress. And he stopped you, making a beckoning gesture with his hand wordlessly, placing his iPad down. “What’s up, baby?” You asked, seeming innocent to the effect you were having on him. Heavy ties free in the dresses, nipples pushing the fabric. Skirt so short when you bent down to pick up a fallen piece of paper he saw your glistening folds. You realized quickly what he wanted, as he firmly held your waist, maneuvering you and man handling do you were now laying on the plush, large sectional couch. He pushed your dress up your hips and down your chest, straps falling down your arms to put your goodies on display for him. He unzipped his jeans, pulling out his rock hard cock. He brushed his fingers along your lips to see how wet you were, and of corse you were. You always got so worked up by his strength. He actually enjoyed foreplay a lot. Pleasing you. Making you cum on his fingers and tongue, playing with you. But you didn’t need that right now. He pushed in fast, enjoying the sounds you made in shock. You held your legs open for him before he took over, keeping you in a makeshift mating press. And he kissed as he fucked you, too. Always did, the romantic. Rubbed your clit softly, bringing you to peak before he emptied inside you. Watched his cum drip from you before he helped you up, righting your dress and slapping your ass as you walked away happy and mindless.

Half asleep, you felt his lips on your shoulder. “Sorry, Princess. I’ll be quick” he grunted. And then he was easing into you. You gasped, reaching behind you for him. You just went. And he needed you again. “Relax, relax. Good girl” he muttered. You fell asleep before you could see how the story ended. You woke up with Brendon still inside you.

You’ll settle into bed for the night, and Brendon will roll over to position himself on top of you, stroking your cheeks, saying how much he loves you, caressing and fondling and taking whatever he’d like. He’ll fuck you romantically like a good husband, rating you out, licking you clit, and fuck you steady, slow and deep.

And yes. Of corse, cliche as it is, bending you over the kitchen counter and taking.

And your ass belongs to him, too. Don’t try to fight it. Accept it. He’ll prep you, of corse, but if he wants your ass he’s gonna take it. Using lube to finger you while your bent over his knee, ignoring whines and moans and protests. Sometimes that’s all he wants, to play with your ass. Sometimes, he’ll full on fuck it. Or maybe put a toy in it. He likes to play with how wet you get while he’s in your ass.

Toys are for him, not you. He’ll use them however he wants. Harsh vibrators to make you cum over and over again until your sobbing pulling at the ropes that bind you desperately, but plugs nuzzled in your tiny little princess hole to keep you ready for him. He likes to make you suck on them before he puts them inside you.

Oh. And obviously he cums inside you. Every time. He’s your husband. That’s where his cum belongs, deep in his wife’s pussy. Sometimes he’ll shyly- a shock for Brendon- ask you to pretend you don want it. Only sometimes, rarely. He gets very into it. And so do you, because you love making him happy. “Please, please daddy don’t, don’t cum inside me, please. I don’t want it.” He knows what’s best for you. And what’s best for you it to carry his load every day.

There really isn’t any privacy between you two. Why would you need it?

Brendon loves your bathroom, and the crystal clear glass shower walls. Comes in just to watch you clean yourself sometimes. Often. Only joins on rare occasion. Usually he just likes the show. He tracks your location, all the time. For your safety of corse. Checks your phone. Watches you change. Come to all your doctors appointments. That’s all his right.

And the lack of “privacy”, or boundaries between you is actually a good thing. Seriously! It’s so helpful. For example, when you’re completely exhausted, Brendon can come into the shower, scrub you down, and carry you to bed like the princess you are. And when you get a flat tire, and are scared and lost, he knows exactly where to come save you. And a doctors ear at every appointment you admitted, and your doting husband advocating for you, is truly for the best.