Ben’s Slut ;)

Doubles drama

Paparazzi

His to defend

Hands on

Acapulco white party

Under the lights

Sick days with Ben

Jealous, jealous girl

Finding out

Soft launch gone wrong

Day in the life

Could never hate you

Worship you

Friend or foe?

His safe haven

My girl

Best friends brother

All fired up

Caught on camera

Insecure

When in Monte-Carlo

Marked territory

Driving his car

Meeting your family

Drunk in love

Coachella

Third wheeling

Poolside

One time thing

Eyes don’t lie

Diva

Smitten

Hold me

Baby fever

Wink if it’s love

Whipped

Not yours to judge

The morning after

Pyramids

Go home

Play to win

Chose her anyway

Current boyfriend

What’s on my phone

Bahamas Getaway

Hands to yourself

Always been that girl

What an odd thing to say

First time

Second serve

Out of place

Off-limits

Let them watch

Fault lines

Left side of the bed

Breakpoint

Running back to you

Whatever she wants

All mine

Hands on

Slow morning

The exception

With You

Walk it off

Morning after

Enemy territory

Pierced

Height difference

Off-season vlog

Line of sight

Riled up

TikTok viral

Party girl

After the break

Tanning

Florida heat

Unbothered

Surprise

Missed me?

Off season

Other au masterlist

Tennis player!reader au

His lips part. “Baby—” “No seriously,” you cut in, voice quiet but sharp, “what were you doing out there? Because that wasn’t tennis. That was you handing him points for free like it was Christmas morning.” Ben drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “I know I played like shit—”

“Oh, I’m glad you know,” you say, taking one step closer, eyes holding his. “Because I was starting to think we watched two different matches.” Every other girlfriend in the hallway is babying her boyfriend—hugging them, patting their backs, telling them they’ll do better next time.

But Ben’s eyes soften. Barely. Because he doesn’t want coddling. He hates pity. And you? You’re the only one who’s not afraid to say what actually needs to be said.You glance down at his racquet bag. “And what was that forehand shank in the second set? I thought you’d been practising that all week.”

He actually laughs. Breathless, annoyed, but grateful. “You’re really not gonna let up, huh?” “Nope,” you say. “Not when you can actually do better. Not when I know you.” He steps closer, towering over you, frustrated but needy in the way only he ever lets you see. “Come here.” You refuse to move. “Why?” “So I don’t lose my mind,” he mutters.

You let him cup your face, his forehead dropping to yours, sweat and all. He breathes you in like he needs air. And with your hands sliding up the front of his shirt, gripping lightly at the fabric, you whisper: “You’re allowed to be pissed. You’re allowed to be upset. But you’re not allowed to sulk like a child. Fix it. Learn from it. And then go destroy the next guy.”

His eyes flutter shut like your words hit exactly where they needed to. “God, I love you,” he mumbles. “You’re the only one who talks to me like this.” “Because you need it.” You chuckle,lightly punching his chest. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “I do.”

-

The post-match interview room is packed. You’re watching from the side, arms still crossed, expression still unimpressed. Ben sits behind the mic, shoulders broad under a loose shirt, hair freshly washed, jaw clean but tense. A reporter asks, “Ben, tough loss today. How are you feeling mentally? Do you have the support you need around you?”

Ben glances sideways. Straight at you. His brows lift slightly, like he’s half-checking that you’re still there, still keeping him honest. Then he speaks. “Yeah, I’ve got the right support,” he says. “Especially from my girlfriend.” There are a few smiles in the room—they’re expecting something sweet.

Ben leans into the mic. “She doesn’t baby me. She doesn’t sugar-coat anything. I think the first thing she said to me was that I played like shit.” A quiet wave of laughter ripples through the reporters. But Ben isn’t joking. His expression stays dead serious. “And honestly?” he continues, fingers tapping lightly on the table.

“That’s exactly what I need. I don’t want pity. I don’t want someone telling me I did great when I didn’t. She keeps me accountable. She tells me the truth even when it stings. Makes me better. Keeps me sharp.” You crack a smile. Ben looks over at you again, softer this time. “She keeps me on my toes,” he says. “Every damn day.”

The interview wraps. Cameras shut off. Ben stands, pushes through the small crowd of staff and media, and comes straight to you. “Still mad at me?” he asks, voice low, brushing a thumb over the side of your waist. “Ask me that after you stop double-faulting like a twelve-year-old,” you say.

“I should not be doing this right now,” you murmured against his mouth, breathless, voice already trembling. “And yet,” he muttered, trailing his tongue down your jaw, “you haven’t told me to stop.” His hands were under your robe now—fingertips sliding across the silky fabric of your lingerie, your barely-there runway look leaving little to the imagination.

He groaned softly when he felt how warm you were through the sheer lace. You tilted your head back, eyes fluttering shut as he licked a stripe up your neck, right below your ear. “You’re gonna make me walk the runway with weak knees, Ben.” He chuckled, low and raspy. “Good. Let ‘em all know who did it.” God, he was cocky. But so were you.

And fuck, you liked it when he got like this—rough around the edges, eyes half-lidded, voice dipped in velvet and heat. Something about being backstage, behind all the glitz and flashing cameras, had him a little unhinged. A little hungry.

You gasped when he pressed his body fully into yours, pinning you to the wall, his hard-on pressing right between your thighs. “Oh my—” “Shh,” he whispered, brushing your hair out of your face like he was handling something delicate—an illusion he shattered the moment he slipped a hand between your legs and dragged his fingers up the thin panel of your thong.

“You’re soaked,” he breathed, pupils blown wide as his fingers dipped beneath the lace. “You want this as bad as I do.”You couldn’t even argue. Your hips bucked into his hand, needy and impatient, as his fingers slipped between your folds, teasing your entrance. “Don’t tease,” you whined, clutching the collar of his hoodie. “You have five minutes, tops.”

He leaned in and kissed you hard—like he was claiming you. Tongue deep, teeth grazing your bottom lip, the kind of kiss that left you breathless and aching. Then, with one quick tug, your thong was pushed to the side and his sweatpants were shoved low enough for him to free himself—thick and hot in his fist as he gave himself a few rough strokes.

“You’re mine, baby,” he murmured against your lips. “All that walking, all those flashing lights—they’re gonna be looking at you like art, and only I get to ruin the masterpiece.” You whimpered as he lifted one of your legs, hooking it around his waist. The tip of him slid against your entrance once, twice—and then he pushed in with one long, slow thrust, filling you to the hilt.

Your head fell back with a gasp. “Fuck—Ben—” “Yeah,” he growled, hips snapping forward again. “Say my name, baby. Let me hear it.” He was rougher than usual—gripping your thigh with bruising force, thrusting deep and hard as the music vibrated through the walls and the world outside your little corner kept spinning.

Models passed by just feet away, stylists adjusting gowns and heels and headpieces, completely unaware of the filth happening behind the curtain. The thrill of it only made it worse. Hotter. Wetter. Each thrust hit that spot inside you just right, and his free hand snaked down to rub your clit in tight, fast circles. You were already close—he knew your body too well.

“Ben,” you moaned, burying your face in his shoulder. “I’m gonna come—” “Go ahead,” he murmured, sweat dripping down his temple. “Give it to me, baby.” You shattered around him with a muffled cry, hips trembling, your whole body tightening as he kept thrusting through it, chasing his own high.

He came just a moment later, with a groan buried in your neck, his rhythm faltering as he spilled inside you, cock pulsing deep. His hips slowed, rocking gently as he rode the last waves of pleasure, both of you breathless and slick with heat. Silence fell between you for a beat, save for the thump of the bass and the murmur of voices nearby.

“Ben,” you said, voice raspy. “I walk in three minutes.” He smirked, brushing a hand over your now-mussed hair, tucking your robe closed again. “You’ll glow. Promise.” “Asshole.” “Mine.” He helped you straighten up, smoothing the fabric over your hips, then pressed a soft kiss to your cheek—so different from the feral way he’d just fucked you moments ago.

Three days of “off season Ben” had turned him into something softer, warmer, needier. He wasn’t doing interviews or waking up before sunrise for training. He was just touching you every time you passed him. Pulling you onto his lap.

Kissing your shoulder for no reason other than he wanted to. Staring at you like the sun existed purely to light you for him. You leaned over the railing, watching the water shift below you. Your bikini straps warmed under the sun. The air tasted like salt.

Somewhere behind you, you felt his eyes. A low whistle drifted across the deck. “You keep leanin’ over like that and I’m gonna forget how to breathe,” Ben said, voice slow and lazy, like warm honey. “C’mere.” You turned, letting your smile tug at the corner of your mouth.

“You could walk over here.” He shook his head without moving a muscle. “Baby, I’m relaxed. You gotta come get me.” You walked toward him, your steps quiet on the sun-warmed deck. The second you got close, his hands slid around your hips, palms spread wide, fingers squeezing like he’d been waiting all morning to get you close again.

He tilted his face up toward you, eyes half-lidded, mouth soft. “I could live like this,” he murmured. “Just you, this water, and no one askin’ me to hit a forehand.” “You’re dramatic.” “You’re beautiful.” He said it so casually you felt it everywhere.

His hands skimmed your thighs, slow and a little greedy, and he pulled you forward until your knees brushed the lounger. There was no world where you didn’t end up on him. He wanted you close and he wanted you now. So you climbed into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, your body settling against his as if the space was designed for it.

The yacht rocked gently beneath you, just enough to push you a little closer every time it swayed. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs stroking slow circles that made heat pool under your ribs. His sunglasses slid down his nose and he pushed them off, wanting nothing between you and his eyes.

“You know what I dreamed about?” he asked, voice quiet. “What?” “You. Sun on your skin. Your hair like this. You sittin’ exactly where you are right now.” He squeezed your hips. “Me touchin’ you whenever I want.” Your breath softened.

His hands slipped to the backs of your thighs, fingers brushing the place where your skin was warmest. “Ben.” “Yeah baby.” “You’re staring.” He smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve been staring since we got on this boat.”

The air shifted. Like you’d drifted into a different kind of quiet. More intimate than either of you said out loud. He leaned in and kissed your shoulder, slow and lingering, letting his lips stay pressed there like he was tasting you, memorising you, making up for every day he couldn’t have you this close.

“You know what I love about bein’ out here?” His voice dropped even lower. “No cameras. No people. No noise. Just you.” His fingers skimmed up your sides, tracing the lines of your bikini, the lines of your body, the lines he knew by heart.

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the faint stubble he only kept during off season. He leaned into the touch instantly, his eyes slipping half-closed like you’d just given him something he needed. “You’re so clingy,” you teased softly.

“Only with you.” The wind lifted your hair. The deck creaked softly. His hand slid to the small of your back, guiding you in until your noses brushed. His breath warmed your mouth. “Kiss me,” he said, quiet and certain. You did. His lips moved with a slow, deep insistence, not rushed, not hungry, just intimate.

The kind of kiss you only gave someone when you loved the way they existed. His hands held your waist like he could feel your heartbeat through your skin, and every soft sound you made pulled him closer until your chest pressed to his.

He kissed you until your fingers curled into his shoulders. Until the yacht swayed under you and you barely noticed. Until everything felt warm. He pulled back just enough to breathe against your lips. “Come inside with me.” Your breath hitched. “Ben…”

“Or we can stay out here.” His smile brushed your mouth. “I don’t mind takin’ my time in the sun.” You felt it low and warm. “Inside,” you whispered. He stood in one easy motion, lifting you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist without thought.

He held you like it was nothing, one hand under your thighs, the other holding the back of your neck, kissing your shoulder as he walked toward the cabin. “You have no idea,” he murmured, voice warm against your skin, “how long I’ve been waiting to get you alone like this.”

She laughed at something Ben said, reached out and lightly touched his forearm. Your eyebrow twitched. Then your jaw clenched harder. She was old enough to know better and still young enough to try. Ben saw you before she did. His eyes flicking up over her shoulder, locking on yours with that unreadable spark.

A knowing spark. The kind that said I know you’re about to lose it. She finally turned, giving you a sugary sweet smile. “Oh! Didn’t see you there.” You didn’t return it. “Yeah. Clearly.” A beat. She turned back to Ben, talking again, voice soft and giggly like she was auditioning to be his personal groupie.

You didn’t hear a word she said; you just saw Ben nod politely, saw her keep touching his arm, saw her brushing her hair behind her ear like a schoolgirl. When she finally walked away—with one last little glance back at Ben—you exhaled sharply and muttered, “I don’t trust her.”

Ben blinked, pushing himself off the table, standing in front of you. “Who, her?” You gave him a look like this was the dumbest question in the world. “Yes, her. Obviously. Who else was just practically drooling on your shoes?” His lips pulled into that slow, teasing smile.

“Yeah…” He tilted his head, crossing his arms. “I think you’re a little jealous.” Your head jerked back like he’d slapped you with a fish. “Jealous? No.” Ben snorted. Actually snorted. “Sure. Right. Totally not jealous.” “I’m not,” you snapped back, dropping your racquet bag with a thud.

“I just don’t like her. Or trust her. Or the way she keeps finding excuses to talk to you. She’s—” “A cougar on the prowl,” Ben cut in, deadpan. You blinked. Then glared. “Ben.” He held up his hands, grinning like a menace.

“What? She kinda is. Don’t look at me like that, babe.” “She’s what, thirty-five?” you said sharply. “And she’s acting like she’s hosting a dating show around you.” Ben stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And you’re mad because…?” You scoffed. “Because she’s annoying.”

“Mhm.” “And fake.” “Mhm.” “And stops you every single time you walk by.” “Mhm.” “And—” your voice cracked with irritation, “—and she thinks she can just… just flirt with you because—” “Because you’re jealous.” You shoved his chest—not hard, but enough to make him lean back with a laugh.

“Ben, shut up.” He absolutely did not shut up. He stepped in again, his hands sliding onto your hips, fingers gripping just enough to make your breath hitch. “I didn’t know you got territorial,” he murmured. “Kinda sexy.”

You rolled your eyes, even though heat was crawling up your neck. “I’m not territorial,” you tried. “I’m logical. She’s—” “Interested?” he offered. “Exactly.” “And I’m not.” You paused. His voice dropped lower. “At all.” You swallowed. He leaned in, nose brushing your cheek.

“And honestly? I liked watching you get all worked up.” You shoved him again, though your cheeks were warm. “You’re pissing me off.” “And you’re cute when you’re jealous.” You groaned. Loudly. “Ben!” He smirked, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Alright, fine,” he said. “Let me make something clear before you implode.” His hands squeezed your hips again, firmer this time, grounding you. “I don’t care how many older players talk to me. Or flirt. Or try whatever,” he murmured. “I’m walking over to you every time.”

Your stomach flipped. “And if she tries again, I’ll handle it,” he added. You raised a brow. “Handle it how?” He grinned wickedly. “Oh, you’ll see.” “Ben.” “What? Maybe I’ll just casually mention my gorgeous girlfriend who gets jealous when cougars start circling.”

“I’m going to kill you.” “Yeah, but at least you won’t be jealous anymore.” You glared, but your hands were already sliding up his chest—traitors—your lips brushing his jaw. “I told you,” you whispered. “I’m not jealous.” He hummed. “Sure, sweetheart.” “I’m not.”

He tilted your chin up with one finger, eyes sparkling. “So if I go over there right now and tell her she looked pretty today—” You grabbed his wrist instantly. He burst into laughter. “Yeah. Not jealous at all.” “Ben Shelton, I swear—” He cut you off with a kiss—warm, familiar, full of that cocky smile he couldn’t hide.

When he pulled back, he whispered. “She could never get to me the way you do.” Your irritation melted into that dangerous, stupid fondness you hated admitting you felt. “Fine,” you breathed. “Maybe I was a tiny bit—” “A tiny bit what?” he teased. You sighed. “Jealous.”

Ben’s been gone—tournaments, travel, training, the whole tennis star schedule. The last time you saw him, he was in your bed, pushing your hair off your face and kissing you slow like he didn’t want to leave. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t think about him tonight.

Not when he wasn’t even supposed to be back yet. Not when you were finally starting to get your head on straight. But as you step into the living room, dropping into the empty couch across from your friends, you feel it. Eyes on you. Heavy. Burning. Familiar. You lift your gaze—and there he is.

Ben, sprawled on the couch opposite you like he owns the whole room, one arm stretched over the backrest, head tilted slightly like he’s amused. His arms were on display from his jersey, showcasing biceps you remember digging your nails into. His curls are a little longer than before.

He looks bigger, somehow—broader from training, more mature. And he’s staring at you. Not subtly. Like he’s drinking every inch of you in. Your breath catches, but you force yourself to look away, pretending to focus on your friend shouting something over the music.

You nod, laugh, say “oh my god, yes,” even though you didn’t hear a single word. Ben doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. Just watches you like you’re the only thing in the entire packed house worth paying attention to. Minutes pass. Or maybe seconds.

You can’t tell—your pulse is too fast, your skin too warm. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him push up from the couch. Slowly. Purposefully. He walks toward you through the crowd, stepping around people, his eyes locked on yours the whole time like you’re pulling him in with a string.

You keep your back straight. You pretend your lungs still work. Your friends are still talking, laughing, unaware. Ben stops right in front of you. He doesn’t speak at first—just looks down at you, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. The one that always said, I know exactly what you’re thinking.

He extends his hand. Palm open. Waiting. You look at it, then up at him. His voice is low, even with the music blasting, “C’mon.” God, you hate how fast your body reacts to him. How your fingers slip into his like they remember the shape already.

He pulls you up—effortless, like you weigh nothing. You barely have time to steady yourself before he leans in, breath warm on your ear, voice rough from yelling over music, “Miss me?” You don’t answer. You don’t have to. You turn to lead him toward the hallway, but the second you take a step—his hand smacks your ass.

Sharp. Possessive. Exactly how he used to do it. Your breath stutters, and you whip your head back just enough to see him grinning down at you, dimples deep, eyes dark. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “you missed me.” You drag him upstairs, ignoring the people on the staircase, ignoring all the stares from people who recognised Ben.

The hallway is dim, quiet except for distant bass. You push open the door of an empty bedroom and step inside. Ben shuts the door behind you with his foot. And before you can turn around—his hands are already on your hips, spinning you to face him. You don’t even get a word out before he kisses you.

Hard. Hungry. Like he’s been starving for weeks. His hands slide up your waist, gripping tight through your dress, thumbs dragging over your ribs until you’re pressed back against the wall. Your fingers tangle in his curls instantly, pulling him closer, swallowing the low groan he lets out against your mouth.

“You look too fuckin’ good,” he mutters between kisses, his voice deeper than you remember. “Walkin’ in here like that—what, you tryin’ to kill me?” You laugh against his lips, breathless. “You weren’t even supposed to be home.” Ben drags his mouth down your jaw, to your neck, his smile brushing your skin.

“Couldn’t stay away.” His hands roam—over your hips, your waist, your thighs—touching you like he’s relearning your body, like he’s memorising it all over again. You tug his jersey and he lets you pull it off, tossing it somewhere you don’t care about, revealing that chiselled chest you’ve dreamed about more than you’ll admit.

He presses against you again, his forehead dropping to yours. “You didn’t say hi.” You smirk. “You didn’t either.” His laugh is low, rough, vibrating against your chest. “Baby, I was busy starin’.” He lifts your leg around his waist, his hand sliding under your dress, fingers gripping tight as he presses his lips to yours again—slower this time, deeper, more intentional.

Your fingers trace down his back, nails grazing his skin. He shivers, sucking in a breath like he’s barely keeping himself together. “I thought about you,” he whispers into your mouth, words hot and honest. “Whole damn trip.” Your heart squeezes, but you don’t answer.

You just kiss him harder, pulling him closer until his body is flush against yours, heat surging between you like you never spent a day apart. His voice drops to a whisper, lips brushing your ear, “Let me make up for all the time I was gone.”

Your back hits the wall again, but this time it’s softer, more controlled—Ben’s hands cushioning your hips like he’s reminding himself not to rush. His forehead rests against yours, and his breath fans across your lips, warm and uneven. “God, I missed this,” he murmurs, voice low enough to shiver straight down your spine.

His thumb strokes your cheek, a tender contrast to the heat simmering between you. You barely have time to respond before he’s kissing you again, slower this time—deep, claiming, like he wants to make up for every day he wasn’t here. You fist your hands in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer with a little whimper you hope he didn’t hear.

He heard it. His mouth curves into a smirk against yours. “There she is,” he whispers, lips brushing your lower lip. Your stomach flips. He lifts your other leg around his waist, his hands slipping under your thighs to hold you up like it’s effortless. You gasp as he lifts you, your hips pressing flush against him, heat to heat, his breath catching at the contact.

“Ben…” you breathe. He groans at the sound of his name leaving your lips like that, like a need. “Say it again,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your neck before he kisses the spot he nipped. “Ben.” His grip tightens. He carries you to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress with a careful gentleness that doesn’t match the hunger in his eyes.

He stands over you for a moment—chest rising and falling, curls messy from your fingers, lips swollen from your kisses. His eyes drag over your body like he’s studying you, committing every detail to memory. “You have no idea,” he says quietly, “how many nights I wanted you like this.”

You prop yourself on your elbows, your dress riding up your thighs. “Oh, I think I do.” The corner of your mouth lifts, and that tiny smile does something to him—something sharp, something possessive. His jaw flexes, a muscle ticking like he’s holding back an entire storm.

His body comes over yours, heat rolling off him in waves as he settles between your thighs, the weight of him grounding you, pinning you, claiming the space around you without even touching you fully yet. His hands slide to your hips, fingers curving around the soft skin exposed where your dress has ridden up, his thumbs stroking slow circles like he’s reacquainting himself with you.

His voice is low, rough, a little too honest. “Did you fuck anyone else while I was gone?” You can’t help it—you smile, small and wicked, shaking your head. His eyes darken at the sight, like he was bracing for an answer he didn’t want, and your grin is the only thing that settles him. He leans in closer, breath brushing your cheek.

“Good,” he murmurs. Then his lips ghost over your ear, barely touching, barely there, and his voice drops to a whisper that sinks all the way through you. “Open your legs for me.” You do—eager, aching—and his head falls forward for a second like the sight knocks the air out of him. “Fuck…” he mutters under his breath.

He leans down, kissing your knee, then the inside of your thigh, his lips impossibly soft as they trail slow, torturous lines upward. You feel his breath ghost over you, hot and teasing. You reach for him, your fingers sliding into his curls. “Ben, don’t tease.” He lifts his gaze, eyes dark and blown.

“You walk in downstairs lookin’ like the best thing I’ve seen in months” he murmurs, kissing higher, “and you think I’m not gonna take my time?” Your breath stutters. His mouth finds the spot just below your hip, teeth grazing gently. You choke on a moan. Ben laughs softly against your skin, breath warm.

“There she is…” He pulls you to the edge of the bed, kneeling on the floor like you’re something to worship. He slips his hands under your dress, pushing it up, up—until it pools around your waist. When he sees what you’re wearing underneath, he actually swears. “Baby…” You feel heat rush to your cheeks.

“You like it?” His fingers trace the edge of your panties, slow and reverent. “You wore this out?” His eyes flick to yours. “To a party?” You nod. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.” Ben shakes his head, your thighs still in his palms. “I would’ve flown home early.” You laugh breathlessly—then gasp when he hooks a finger under the thin fabric.

“Ben—” He slides them down your legs in one slow, deliberate motion. He kisses the inside of your knee again, but his voice is all command now. “Lie back.” You do. He spreads your thighs with both hands, his thumbs stroking circles, grounding you even as your heart pounds. When his mouth finally touches you—slow, warm, precise—you arch off the bed instantly, your hand flying into his hair.

Ben groans against you, the vibration making your eyes roll back. “Fuck, I missed the way you taste,” he murmurs, voice muffled by your body. Your hips jerk and he tightens his grip on you, holding you in place as he licks you slowly—long, deep, deliberate strokes that make your toes curl. “Ben… oh my god—”

He looks up at you through his lashes, still working you with his tongue. His eyes burn. “There you go,” he whispers against you. “Let me hear you.” Your thighs start to shake, the pressure building fast, almost too fast. “Ben— I’m gonna—” He pulls you closer, tongue moving firmer, faster, focused. “That’s it, baby. Come on. Come for me.”

And you do—hard, spine arching, thighs trembling around his head as he keeps his mouth on you through every wave of it, groaning like the sound of your moans is driving him insane. When you finally fall back against the bed, breathless, he kisses your inner thigh one last time before standing, his lips glistening, his chest rising and falling like he’s the one undone.

You reach for him, pulling him down by his arms. He kisses you slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Not done,” he whispers against your mouth. “Not even close.” His hand slides under your dress again, fingers teasing your still-sensitive skin.

He’s pacing a little, shifting his weight, looking up at the door every other second like he physically can’t wait another moment. When his eyes land on you at the top of the stairs, his whole face lights up. Like he’s been walking around half-alive since you left and you’re the first breath he’s taken in weeks.

You bite your lip as you walk down the steps slowly, purposely, the warm breeze tugging at your hair. Every step closer, you can feel your smile growing. The soft, stupidly smitten one you only ever get around him. He’s trying to stay composed. He’s failing miserably.

By the time your heels hit the tarmac, he’s already taking a step forward, bouquet trembling just slightly in his hands. You stop right in front of him. Close enough to feel his breath, close enough that he smells like home. You tilt your head, lips curling.“Well,” you say, eyes hidden behind your sunglasses, “I don’t remember ordering the welcoming committee…”

He groans under his breath, already smiling like he can’t help it. “Don’t start. Don’t even start with me, baby.” You pretend to inspect the bouquet, dragging a fingertip across a petal. “These are alright, I guess.” “Alright?” He drops his jaw in disbelief. “I had to carry these through security. People stared at me, like, actually stared. I’m pretty sure a dude took a photo.”

“Mmm,” you hum, leaning in an inch, “so dramatic.” He steps that final bit closer, his voice dropping, thick with the kind of longing he’s been drowning in for thirty days. “You gonna keep teasing me,” he murmurs, “or are you gonna come here and hug me like you missed me even half as much as I missed you?”

Your smile finally breaks. Wide. Soft. Uncontrolled. You don’t even take off your sunnies—you just slip your arms around his waist and press yourself into him. And he lets out this sound, low and relieved, like he’s been holding himself together by a thread and you’re the thing stitching him back up.

His arms wrap around you instantly, bouquet crushed awkwardly between you, not that he cares. He buries his face in your neck, inhaling deeply, holding you tighter, tighter still. “God, baby,” he breathes against your skin, voice cracking just a little, “a month is too damn long. Don’t ever leave me that long again.”

You laugh quietly, fingers curling into the back of his shirt. “It was work, Ben.” “Don’t care. Hate it. Hate modelling now.“ You pull back just enough to look at him, pushing your sunglasses to the top of your head so he can see your eyes, see the way they glow just for him. “Missed you,” you whisper.

He lifts one hand, gently cupping your cheek with those impossibly big fingers. “Yeah?” he murmurs, gaze moving between your eyes and your lips. “Show me.” And you do. You lean in, brushing your mouth over his, soft at first—just a greeting, just a hello, just an I’m home.

But Ben immediately deepens it, hand sliding to the back of your head, pulling you closer, kissing you like he’s been starving for it. The tarmac heat rises around you, but he’s warmer. Your fingers curl in his shirt, his lips move against yours in slow, sweet hunger, and the bouquet is practically wilted between you, but neither of you even consider letting go.

When you finally pull back, he’s breathless and smiling like an idiot. “Yeah,” he says, leaning his forehead against yours, “that’s… that’s what I needed.” “You’re cute,” you murmur, brushing your thumb across his jaw. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you snug against his side as he grabs your bag with his free hand.

The silence. The lack of your hands, your laugh, your smell. He missed you so much it fucking ached. So when he finally unlocks your front door, duffel bag dropping at his feet, he’s ready to collapse into your arms.

You’re leaning against the hallway wall, one hip popped, hair down, lips glossed, chest rising in a slow, deliberately steady breath. And you’re wearing black. You looked hot. Ben always mentioned how good you looked in black.

Strappy lace hugging your waist, tiny satin cups lifting your breasts, garters framing your thighs. Ben stops breathing so hard it’s almost funny. His eyes rake over every inch of you, from your bare feet up the length of your legs to the black lace that’s barely holding you together.

“What…” he finally croaks. “What the fuck is this?” “Your welcome-home surprise,” you say, voice soft, teasing, like you don’t already know he’s two seconds from dropping to his knees. He swallows, hard. His throat works like he’s in pain. His gaze goes dark—fast.

“Baby,” he whispers, stepping toward you like he’s scared you might vanish. “You’re… you’re actually trying to kill me.” You brush a piece of hair back from your shoulder. “Champ deserves a trophy, right?” The sound he makes is half-laugh, half-groan. He’s unraveling right in front of you.

He closes the space between you in three strides, one hand finding your waist, the other cupping your jaw as he kisses you. Not soft. Notgentle. Not careful. Messy. Hungry. Desperate in a way two weeks of phone calls could never soothe.

He presses you into the wall, forehead dropping to your shoulder, breath shaking. “Two weeks,” he mutters against your skin. His hands slide down your hips, squeezing like he’s grounding himself. “Two weeks without you and this is what you greet me with?”

“Do you like it?” you ask. He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. And the look he gives you. God. It’s a promise. A threat. A confession. “Baby,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “I’m obsessed.” His hand hooks under your thigh, lifting it around his waist. Your breath hitches.

He smiles—slow, dangerous. “Come here.” He picks you up effortlessly, lips returning to your neck as he carries you to the bedroom. You cling to his shoulders, feeling the hard lines of his muscles through his shirt, the warmth of him, the tension he’s barely controlling.

He sets you on the bed like you’re something delicate, but the second you arch your back just a little, the second that red strap slides down your shoulder, his restraint snaps. He kneels at the edge of the bed. Stares at you like you’re a miracle.

His big hands slide up your calves, slowing at your knees, tracing the garter straps with something close to reverence. “This lingerie…” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the inside of your thigh. “…you knew what it would do to me.” Your fingers slide into his curls. “I hoped.”

He grins into your skin, breath warm. “You didn’t hope. You planned.” His lips trail up your thigh. Higher. Higher. Until his mouth is right over the thin red lace. He looks up at you from between your thighs—eyes dark, blown, hungry. “Baby,” he says quietly, “I’m about to make you forget your own name.”

He hooks his fingers into the lace, pulling it aside just enough—and his mouth is on you, slow at first, teasing, warm. You gasp, back arching, fingers tightening in his hair. He moans. The vibration makes your hips jerk .“You taste better than I remembered,” he mutters, diving back in, tongue flat, deliberate, the perfect pressure that has your thighs trembling.

Your breath breaks into small, desperate sounds. Every time your hips lift. Every time your thighs shake. He tightens his grip and murmurs, “That’s it, baby.“ You’re close embarrassingly fast. Two weeks without him has your body pleading. You’re whining his name, legs shaking around his shoulders.

But right as you’re about to fall apart, he pulls back. You gasp, staring at him, flushed and breathless. “Why—” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking. “Wanna feel you fall apart on me properly.” He climbs over you, kissing your stomach, your ribs, your chest, your collarbone, lips slow and warm and too much.

His hand cups your cheek as he kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You have no idea,” he whispers against your lips, “how much I missed you.” He presses himself against you—hot, hard, ready—and you gasp. “Take it off,” you murmur, tugging at his shirt.

“All of it.” He strips so fast it makes you laugh—shirt over his head, jeans shoved down, briefs discarded. He climbs back over you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head, the other guiding your legs around his waist. “You look unreal,” he whispers, staring down at you in the red.

“Like a dream I’m scared to touch.” “Then touch.” He slides into you slowly—deep, stretching, perfect. His eyes flutter shut, head dropping to your shoulder. “Holy—L baby…” His voice breaks. “You feel so—fuck.” He starts moving, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, pushing deeper, pulling gasps from your mouth.

Your back arches. Your nails dig into his shoulders. “Ben…” That’s all you manage. Just his name. But it’s enough to ruin him. He groans, thrusts harder, faster, kissing your jaw, your neck, the swell of your breasts. Every sound you make drives him crazy. Every whimper has his rhythm stuttering.

“You’re mine,” he breathes against your ear. “You hear me? All mine.” You tug his hair, pulling him closer. “Then show me.” He does. Hard. Deep. Rhythmic and desperate, like he’s been dreaming about this every night he was away. Your legs tighten around him. You’re shaking. You’re right there. And he knows.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, kissing your forehead as his hips slam into yours “Come for me. I’ve got you. Let go.” Your vision goes white. Your back arches off the bed. You’re moaning his name like a mantra. Ben follows with a deep groan, burying his face in your neck, body shuddering as he falls apart with you.

Always his side. Always leaning just a bit too far forward. Always smiling a bit too long at him. “Would you like another drink, Mr. Shelton?” she asks, giving him that soft, sugary tone she hasn’t used once with you. Her eyes barely flick to your legs draped over Ben’s lap and even then, she doesn’t look bothered.

Ben’s brows tick upward. “I’m good, thank you,” he says politely, then squeezes your knee like he’s trying not to laugh. You shoot him a look. He gives you one back, boyish, entertained. When she finally walks away, you cross your arms. “She’s really doing the most,” you mutter.

Ben grins immediately. “Oh yeah?” “She’s barely talked to me. Everything’s for you. Everything’s ‘Can I get you this? Do you need that?’” You mimic her voice, sickly sweet and sugary enough to make you cringe. “It’s annoying.” Ben’s teeth flash white as he bites his lip, obviously enjoying this way too much.

“Baby…” “What?” “You’re cute when you’re jealous.” “I’m not jealous,” you snap, which only makes him grin harder. He leans back in the seat, stretching his long legs, looking entirely too proud of himself. “Well, to be fair,” he says, shrugging one shoulder casually, “this trip is under my name.”

Your head snaps toward him. “And I’m your girlfriend, Ben!” His grin widens—slow, smug, dimples deepening like he’s been waiting for you to say that exact sentence. “Exactly,” he says, tapping your knee again. “So what’re you worried about?” “I’m not worried,” you lie.

“I’m just… annoyed. There’s a difference.” Ben hums like he doesn’t believe you for a second. “Mhm.” “You mad?” he teases, low enough for only you to hear. His hand slides up your thigh. You roll your eyes, which only fuels him more. Before you can respond, she’s suddenly back.

“Mr. Shelton,” she says, stepping right beside him—and right in front of you—without an ounce of awareness. “I just wanted to check if the temperature is comfortable for you?” You stare at her. You stare harder when she angles her body toward Ben like you’re invisible.

Ben lifts his head, slowly, deliberately, resting it against the seat while his hand stays on your thigh. “It’s perfect,” he says. Then, with a small smirk, he adds, “My girlfriend’s comfortable too. Thanks for asking.” The attendant blinks, flustered.

“O-of course. Let me know if you need anything,” she says, but her voice is tighter this time. She backs away quickly, and Ben watches her go before turning back to you. Your arms cross tighter. “She wasn’t asking about me.” “No,” Ben admits, dragging his palm up your thigh again, “but you should’ve seen the look on your face.”

“Don’t,” you warn. He laughs—a low, deep sound—and gently tugs you closer, your legs falling fully across his lap now. “You’re cute when you’re jealous,” he murmurs, leaning in, his lips brushing your cheek. “I like it.” You try not to react, but he kisses your jaw, slow, warm, teasing.

“She kept interrupting me,” you say, annoyance slipping through your voice. “I know,” he says, tracing circles on the inside of your thigh with maddening slowness. “But you know I only look at you.” Your breath hitches, and he hears it—that stupid smirk instantly growing.

“And,” he adds, voice dropping, “I like when you get all possessive of me.” You almost say something back—something sharp, something that tells him to stop smiling at you like that—but then the attendant appears again, holding a tray.

“I brought some fruit if you wanted—” Ben doesn’t even look at the tray. “We’re good,” he says, not breaking eye contact with you. Her lips part like she’s going to offer something else, but your eyes meet hers, firm, cold, unbothered now, and she retreats.

When the cabin door clicks shut behind her, Ben lets out a breathy laugh, amused to his core. “You scared her off,” he says proudly. “Good,” you mutter. His hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward his until your breath mingles with his. “You’re mine,” he says softly.

“And I’m yours. She can flirt all she wants, she doesn’t get me all worked up like you do.” Your stomach flips. “And seeing you mad because you want me all to yourself?” he whispers, lips finally brushing yours. “That’s hot as hell.” You’re about to kiss him when the plane dips slightly with turbulence.

You fall forward into his chest, and he wraps his arms tightly around your waist, laughing into your neck as he holds you there. “Mmm,” he hums against your skin. “See? Even the plane’s trying to get you closer to me.” “You’re annoying,” you mumble, but you’re already melting into him.

Ben stops dead in the middle of the living room. His eyes drag up you slowly—slow, shameless, appreciative. Calves, thighs, hips, the curve of your waist, the thin straps hugging your shoulders. There’s no attempt to hide it. His jaw tightens just slightly, like he forgot what he was about to say.

“Hey,” you say lightly, walking toward him. No response. You tilt your head, smile curling. “You gonna say hi or just stare?” He exhales a quiet laugh as you reach him, setting his bag down before you even notice. You lean up on your toes, kiss him once and the second your lips touch, his hand finds you.

Warm. Familiar. Settling on your ass like it’s instinct. You hum against his mouth, pulling back just enough to grin. “Missed you.” “Yeah,” he says, thumb pressing in slightly like he can’t help himself. “That’s obvious.” You pull back just enough to look at him, lifting the watermelon.

“Want some?” He grins, that lazy, boyish grin that still does stupid things to you, and leans down to take a bite straight from your hand. Juice runs down his thumb; you swipe it with your finger without thinking, and his eyes flick to the movement. You watch him chew. “So, how was training today?”

“Tough,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “Serve was off at first, dad was on my ass about my footwork, and—” While he’s talking, his free hand moves. Casual. Almost absent-minded. His fingers hook into the thin string of your bikini bottom at your hip, tugging it outward just slightly.

You feel the cool air for half a second before he lets it snap back against your skin. A quick, sharp little nip that makes you suck in a breath. Ben breaks into laughter immediately—low, delighted, completely unapologetic—as he squeezes your butt once more for good measure.

You smack his chest lightly. “Ben.” “I’m listening,” he says, grin wide, squeezing your butt once, twice, like punctuation before finally letting go. “Promise.” You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “You’re so annoying.” “Mm,” he hums. “You love it.” You take another bite of watermelon, then point toward the hallway with it.

Bread and butter. The kind of shit you could hit in your sleep. The ball clipped the tape and dropped lifelessly onto your side. Your jaw clenched. You stared at it for half a second. That stupid, pathetic little ball rolling away like it wasn’t the reason your whole match was falling apart.

You marched forward, snatched it up, tossed it to the ball kid with a tight, irritated flick of your wrist, and launched your racquet across the court. Full force. Skidding. Clattering. A sharp, violent crack as it bounced off the acrylic and slid toward the doubles alley.

The crowd let out a collective murmur. You didn’t care. You stood there, chest heaving, hands on your hips as you turned toward your box eyes blazing. Ben straightened slightly, knowing that look, that storm brewing behind your eyes. You threw your arms up in defeat.

“What am I supposed to do!” And Ben… oh Ben. Instead of pretending he wasn’t the target, instead of offering sympathy. He lifted his hands. And gave the calm-down gesture. That infuriating little palm down, relax motion that made something in you snap.

You stared at him, mouth falling open. He knew before it even happened. He saw the explosion in your eyes a second too late. You walked to the side of the court, grabbed your racquet by the throat, held it up toward the box, and offered it to him. Palms out. Arms extended.

Voice loud enough that the nearest mics probably caught it. “You wanna play? Come down here then.” Ben’s eyes went wide, then he slapped a hand over his face, dissolving into incredulous laughter. He leaned back in his seat, shaking his head, cheeks flushed with secondhand embarrassment and definite attraction.

Dangerous attraction. Every time you got like this, fiery, competitive, pissed at the world, that boy had to physically stop himself from climbing over the railings and kissing you silent. Ben loved seeing you in this mood. Low-key terrified. Full-on intimidated. Absolutely turned on.

Your coach stared straight ahead pretending this was normal. Your physio held his lips together to hide a laugh. Ben just dragged his hand slowly down his face, muttering, “Lord help me, she’s gonna kill me one day.” You stomped back to the baseline, still vibrating like a shaken soda can.

-

At changeover between sets, you sat down, yanking your towel over your shoulders, chugging water. You didn’t look at your box. Except you absolutely looked at your box. Straight at him. Ben was already watching you. And the second your eyes met, he raised his eyebrows

Really? You good? You done losing your mind or what? You narrowed your eyes so hard he almost physically leaned back. Your voice came out low, muttered under your breath but definitely pointed toward the box. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down again.” Ben’s lips twitched.

He tried—he really tried—to hide the smile, but his dimples betrayed him instantly. He mouthed “I love you.” You glared. He mouthed again, slower, cockier this time “Still love you.” You rolled your eyes so dramatically the camera caught the whole thing.

Ben sat back, smirking now, biting his thumb with that stupid boyish grin, because God, if there was anything hotter than you annihilating opponents, it was you losing your temper at him. He whispered to your coach, barely audible. “She’s gonna rip me a new one later.” Coach snorted. “Oh yeah. But you like it.” Ben didn’t deny it.

-

When you were called back to the court, you stood, still glaring at your box. Ben lifted both hands in surrender. You shook your head, a tiny unwilling smile forming despite yourself. And that was all he needed. Because now you were fired up again.

Then he freezes. And goes dead silent. “Are you—” His voice cracks. “Are you kidding me right now?” You jump a little, whipping your head around. “Ben?!” He’s standing there, wide-eyed, jaw dropped, backpack slung over one shoulder, posture somewhere between outraged boyfriend and feral man trying not to stare.

“What,” you say, completely unfazed, chin propped on your wrist, “are you doing home so early?” “what am I doing here?” He points aggressively toward you, toward the pool, toward your upper body. “What are you doing here like this in your backyard?!” You lift your sunglasses slowly, lazily, just to tease him.

“Uh… tanning?” He runs a hand over his face. “Baby. You… with you tits out?” “Yeah,” you say nonchalantly, lying your head back down and closing your eyes again. “Because tops make tan lines.” Ben stares. Hard. You can practically hear his heartbeat from ten metres away.

He steps closer, voice lowering like he’s afraid your neighbours might hear. “What if someone sees you?!” You snort. “Who? The Birds?” “Your neighbours!” “Ben,” you laugh, “the fence is literally two metres high.” He’s pacing now, hands on his hips, talking more with his hands than his mouth.

“People can be tall! What if… I dunno… one of them has, like, a ladder or—” “A ladder?” you repeat, fighting a smile. “You think someone’s just wandering around with a ladder hoping to catch a glimpse of me tanning?” He shoots you a look—half protective, half please stop laughing at me, this is serious.

“This is not funny,” he insists, though his lips twitch like he knows he’s lost this argument already. “I walk in here and—and you’re just out here—” He gestures helplessly. You finally roll onto your back, still very much topless, and his soul nearly leaves his body. “Baby—” His voice drops an octave.

“You cannot do that. I’m… I’m trying to be mad right now.” You grin up at him, stretching a little just to torment him. “You could just sit with me. Keep watch. Bodyguard duties.” He groans, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re gonna kill me.” “You love me.” “Yeah, but I’d like to survive the week!”

You laugh, eyes closing again as you soak up the sun. “Ben, babe, relax. No one can see. And I hate tan lines. They ruin all my dresses.” He crouches down beside you, shadow falling over your stomach. “Baby,” he mutters, tone softer now, “I’m just… protective. You know that.” “I know,” you murmur, reaching out to touch his knee.

“And it’s cute.” He scoffs. “It’s not cute. It’s basic survival. You’re out here looking like—like—” He waves his hands dramatically. “A prize someone could just… steal.” You peek at him from behind your sunnies. “You think I’m a prize?” He gives you that lazy half-smile, the one that melts every bone in your body.

“You know damn well you are.” You hum. “Then come lay with me.” Ben hesitates then gives in, collapsing onto the towel beside you with a dramatic sigh. He lies on his side, propping himself up on an elbow. Of course he can’t just relax—he keeps looking over at the fence every thirty seconds like a hawk.

“Ben,” you murmur, “if someone jumps my two-metre fence to spy on me, I think we have bigger issues here.” He grumbles something unintelligible, still scanning the perimeter. You roll onto your side, facing him, lips brushing his shoulder. “You could kiss me, you know.”

His eyes flick down to your chest, then back up instantly like he’s trying very, very hard to be respectful. “I’m trying to decide if I should put you inside first,” he whispers, tone rough. “Or?” you tease. “Or if I should kiss you right here and deal with the consequences later.” You smile against him. “I vote the second option.”

He gives up then—finally—and leans in, kissing you slow, warm, careful. His hand finds your waist, thumb brushing dangerously close to bare skin. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs. “And you’re dramatic,” you shoot back. He groans, flopping onto his back beside you.

Ice baths together. Breakfast. His stupid jokes. His stupid, beautiful smile. You told yourself not to fall. You fell anyway. How could you not? You round the corner to the media seating area, and freeze when you hear your name. Ben’s sitting with a couple of other American guys.

One of them asks something you don’t quite catch, but then Ben answers, loud enough for you to hear every word. “Me and her? Nah, man, we’re just hooking up.” Your stomach drops. Not a slow fall—more like somebody cut the cord and let it crash. One of the guys laughs. “You sure? You two look kinda… close.”

Ben shrugs, easy, casual, like it’s the weather. “She’s cool. We’re just having fun. And she’s hot. That’s it.” You don’t wait to hear anything else. Your feet move before your brain does, carrying you past the doorway in silence. You keep your eyes on the ground, jaw tight, fingers gripping your bag so hard your nails ache.

But you feel it. His eyes on you. Ben’s head snaps up mid-sentence, his smile fading when he sees your face—more specifically, the way you refuse to look at him. He stands halfway, like he’s about to call your name, but you cut out of the lounge before he can take one more step.

Your chest burns all the way to the locker rooms.

-

You warm up like a woman possessed. Footwork too sharp. Serves too loud. Forehands with that extra punch of anger you don’t normally allow yourself. Your coach notices. “You good?” You nod. Lie. “Yep.” You’re not good. You’re furious. And hurt. And embarrassed.

And stupidly disappointed. By the time you step on court, the only thing keeping you from losing it is the fact that you have one job today: win. And you do. Every winner is a release. Every aggressive return is him—his voice saying just hooking, up his laugh, his stupid, stupid shrug.

By the second set, you’re so dialled in the crowd can feel it. When you hit the final ace to close the match, you don’t celebrate. You don’t smile. You just walk to to the net and shook your opponent’s and chair umpires hand, trying to catch your breath and swallow the lump in your throat.

Whatever. He doesn’t own your emotions. He doesn’t own you. He doesn’t get to hurt you.

-

You push open the door, still buzzing with adrenaline, and the first thing you see is him. Ben’s on the stationary bike, cooling down, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his chest, curls damp against his forehead. But his eyes—God—his eyes lock onto you the second you step inside.

He’s been watching your match. The big screen in front of him is still replaying the final game. “Hey.”You pretend not to hear him, walking past toward the massage tables, dropping your bag with a thud. He tries again, voice lower. “Hey. Can we talk?”

“No.” It’s flat. Sharp. Not like you. But you don’t care. Ben slows the bike, stops pedalling entirely. “I think we should.” “I don’t care what you think.” He winces like you slapped him. “You heard us in the lounge.” You still don’t look at him. “Not really my business, right? We’re just hooking up.”

The words taste poisonous coming out. Ben inhales hard, runs a hand over his face. “That’s not—okay, that’s not what I meant.” “Oh?” You finally turn, eyes cold. “Sounded pretty clear to me.” He swings his leg off the bike, feet hitting the ground with a soft thud. He stands there, chest rising and falling, looking both guilty and frustrated.

“I was trying to get them off my back,” he mutters. “They were being idiots about us, and I didn’t want them talking shit about you.” You scoff. “So calling me a casual hookup is your version of defending me?” “No,” he says immediately, stepping closer. “I said we were hooking up, not that you were a hookup. There’s a difference.”

“Not from where I was standing.” He stops in front of you—close, but not touching. His voice softens, earnest in a way that terrifies you. “I didn’t tell them everything because what’s happening between us is— I don’t even know what to call it, but it’s mine. Ours. And not for them.” Your breath stutters.

Ben swallows, eyes searching yours. “But I’m not just messing around with you. I wouldn’t spend this much time with someone if I didn’t—” he stops himself, jaw tightening. “If I didn’t care.” Your heart twists painfully. “Could’ve fooled me,” you whisper. He steps closer again, so slowly, like you’re a wild animal he’s scared to spook.

“You walked past me like you hated me. That killed me.” His voice cracks, just barely. “I should’ve said it differently. I should’ve grabbed you, pulled you over, told you—” “Told me what?” you challenge, chin lifted. Ben’s eyes drop to your lips, then back to your eyes like he’s deciding whether to risk it.

“That I like you,” he says, quiet but steady. “A lot more than I meant to.” Your stomach flips. He wets his lips. “That I watch your matches even when I’m supposed to be training. That I keep my phone charged because you text late at night. That I sleep like shit when you’re not in my room.”

You blink, stunned. “That I don’t want you thinking you’re just someone I hook up with.” There it is. The thing you wanted and hated that you wanted. You take a slow breath. “Then what am I?” Ben steps close enough for your knees to touch. His voice drops, warm and honest.

“You’re the girl I’m catching feelings for way too fast.” Your throat goes tight, eyes stinging despite yourself. “And I don’t want to screw this up,” he whispers. “So tell me how to fix it.” You don’t know who moves first—him or you—but suddenly he’s holding your waist gently, waiting, giving you time to pull away if you want.

You don’t. Instead, you rest your forehead against his chest, feeling the steady, grounding thud of his heart. He exhales shakily, relief flooding through him as his hand slides up your back. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair.

“I’ll say it right next time. You whisper back, “There better not be a next time.” He laughs softly, kissing the top of your head. “Baby, I’m gonna spend the rest of the week proving there won’t be.” Ben’s arms are still around you, warm and steady, his breath brushing your hair as the noise of the training room fades into nothing.

You pull back first—not because you want to, but because your heart is pounding too hard, too loud, too obvious. He looks down at you like he’s afraid to move too fast now. Gentler than he’s ever looked at you. Your fingers are still curled in the fabric of his shirt. You don’t let go yet.

Ben swallows once, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorising the way you’re looking at him right now—hurt softening into something warmer. Then, quietly, almost cautiously. “Come stay with me tonight.” Your breath catches.

He must see it in your eyes, because he steps closer, hands sliding from your waist to your hips, thumbs brushing the warm skin beneath the hem of your shirt. Not pushing. Just touching. Just asking. “I don’t mean—” he starts, but stops. “I don’t mean we have to do anything. I just… want you there.”

Your chest tightens. He’s never said it like that before. He lifts one hand, tracing his knuckles lightly down your jaw—barely a touch, like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. “You don’t have to go back to your hotel room alone,” he murmurs.

“Not after today. Not when you were hurting because of me.” Your eyes flick up to meet his. He leans his forehead against yours—slow, tender, grounding. His voice drops to a soft rasp. “Stay with me, baby.” Your fingers finally loosen from his shirt only so you can slide them up to the back of his neck, tugging gently at his curls.