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a/n: rewatched the loki series, cried and then wrote this
. . .
By late afternoon, Y/N had reached the conclusion that spending her entire day off inside the apartment with Loki was going to end in one of them committing a crime. Given his general disposition, she had assumed it would be him. Instead, she found herself standing in the kitchen doorway, watching him read on her couch while considering exactly how difficult it would be to get over a chain-link fence in the dark.
Loki had claimed the living room as though he had always belonged there. He sat in the corner of the couch with one arm stretched across the back cushions, her copy of The Hunger Games open in his other hand. His attention remained fixed on the page, though Y/N suspected he had noticed her watching him almost immediately. He noticed everything. That did not mean he intended to acknowledge it.
Y/N leaned against the doorway. “We should go out tonight.”
Loki turned another page. “No.”
She blinked. “You don’t even know where.”
“I know enough.”
“You know literally nothing.”
“You have proposed an activity with the expression you usually wear immediately before making an unwise decision.”
“I don’t have an expression for that.”
“You do.”
“What does it look like?”
“Much like your normal expression, but more pleased with itself.”
Y/N stared at him. Loki continued reading.
“You’ve been here for days,” she said. “You’ve seen my apartment, the diner, and a grocery store.”
“I have also seen the road connecting those locations.”
“Exactly. You’re practically a local.”
“I have no desire to explore further.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “You went wandering around alone this morning.”
His eyes lifted from the book. The subject of his earlier departure had not been mentioned again since she struck his arm and forced something resembling an apology from him. She had decided not to push him. That did not mean she was above using it against him when convenient.
“I was assessing my circumstances,” he said.
She hummed. “And how’d that go?”
“I returned, did I not?”
“You did.”
“Then the assessment was successful.”
“You figured out you like my couch.”
“I determined that remaining here was practical.”
“Right. Very practical.”
Loki’s eyes narrowed as Y/N pushed away from the doorway and walked into the living room. “I’m not asking you to move out. I’m asking you to leave the apartment for a few hours.”
“I have already left it.”
“You went to a grocery store.”
“A deeply unpleasant institution.”
Y/N stopped in front of him. “Come out with me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I do not know where you intend to take me.”
“That’s the point.”
“That does not inspire confidence.”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I dislike surprises.”
“That’s because you have control issues.”
“I have standards.”
“You’re stranded on Earth and sleeping on a secondhand couch.” Y/N gave him a sweet smile. “Your standards are adjusting.”
His gaze sharpened as he closed the book around one finger. “What exactly are you proposing?”
She hesitated just long enough to make him suspicious. “Nothing dangerous.”
“No.”
“I haven’t even told you.”
“You prefaced it with an assurance that it is not dangerous.”
That caught his attention. His expression did not change dramatically, but the book lowered slightly.
Y/N noticed. “See?”
“I see nothing.”
“You’re interested now.”
“I am determining the severity of your stupidity.”
“Sure.” She dropped onto the opposite end of the couch and turned toward him. “There’s an abandoned drive-in theater outside town. It shut down a few years ago. Nobody uses it anymore.”
“Then why would we go?”
“Because it’s cool.”
“That is not a reason.”
“It’s private. You can see the stars. There’s an old concession building we can climb onto, and the screen is still standing.”
“You propose visiting a ruined theater to look at the sky.”
“…When you say it like that, you make everything sound depressing.”
“I merely repeated your plan.”
“There’s a fence.”
“Of course there is.”
“We’d have to climb it.”
His eyes flicked toward her. Y/N attempted not to look too pleased.
“And entering the property is forbidden?” he asked.
“Technically.”
“Meaning?”
“There are signs.”
“What do the signs say?”
“No trespassing.”
Loki slowly closed the book.
Y/N pointed at him. “Ha.”
“What?”
“You’re interested.”
“I remain unconvinced.”
“But you put the book down.”
“I finished the chapter.”
“You’re such a liar.”
His expression became cool. “I have no need to trespass upon abandoned Midgardian property for entertainment.”
“You’re the god of mischief.”
“I am a prince of Asgard.”
“Who is also the god of mischief.”
“A title your people have attached to me without understanding its significance.”
“And now you’re objecting to mischief.”
“I am objecting to wasting my evening in a decaying structure.”
“Chicken.”
Silence.
Loki’s gaze sharpened while Y/N folded her arms.
He spoke very carefully. “What did you call me?”
“Chicken.”
“I heard the word. I am questioning your reason for using it.”
“Because you’re scared.”
“I am not scared.”
“You’re scared of climbing a fence.”
“I have fallen between realms.”
“But a chain-link fence is where you draw the line.”
“I could cross it without touching it.”
“Then come prove it.”
“I have nothing to prove to you.”
Y/N tilted her head and began flapping her elbows. “Bawk.”
Loki stared at her.
She did it again. “Bawk, bawk.”
His face went completely still. Y/N had learned that this was usually more dangerous than anger. “Stop that.”
“Bawk.”
“I warn you—”
“Bawk, bawk, bawk.”
“You sound deranged.”
She tucked her hands beneath her arms and leaned forward, making the most obnoxious chicken noise she could manage. “Baaaawk.”
Green light flickered over Loki’s fingers.
Y/N stopped. For one brief second, she wondered whether he was actually going to turn her into something. Then the magic faded.
“You would risk your dignity merely to provoke me?” he asked.
“What dignity?”
His eyes narrowed. Y/N resumed flapping her arms.
Loki stood.
The sudden movement made her fall silent. He looked down at her with the grave offense of a king who had just been challenged before his entire court.
“I have faced armies,” he said.
Y/N nodded solemnly. “But not chickens.”
“I have stood against creatures that would reduce you to ash.”
“Did they have feathers?”
“I ruled Asgard.”
“And now you’re afraid of a fence.”
“I’m not afraid of a fence.”
“Then you’re coming?”
“No.”
Y/N inhaled. “Baw—”
“I will accompany you.”
She grinned.
“You will never make that sound in my presence again.”
“I make no promises.”
“You will.”
“Maybe.”
His eyes flashed.
She rolled her eyes with a small smile. “Fine. I won’t.”
“Your expression suggests otherwise.”
“You said I only have two expressions.”
“I said your foolish one resembles the other.”
“You pay a lot of attention to my face.”
“That is not what I said.”
Y/N stood from the couch before he could turn the argument around on her. “We should leave after dark.”
“How far away is it?”
“About thirty minutes.”
“And what are we expected to do there?”
“Commit crimes.”
Loki’s mouth almost curved. “You are remarkably pleased with yourself.”
“I’ve never trespassed with a Norse god before.”
“You speak as though this is an honor bestowed upon me.”
“It is.” She started toward her bedroom. “I’m changing. Wear something dark.”
Loki looked down at the clothes he already wore. The black shirt and dark jeans were hardly conspicuous, but apparently they did not meet his standards. “Why?” he called after her.
“So nobody sees us.”
“If I did not wish to be seen, they would not see me.”
“Still. Dress for the occasion.”
“You are assigning attire to criminal activity?”
“It’s part of the experience.”
Y/N disappeared into her room and closed the door. Loki remained standing beside the couch, staring after her.
From behind the door, she called, “No suits!”
“I do not require your guidance.”
“Bawk.”
The green glow came instantly.
By the time Y/N emerged from her room fifteen minutes later, Loki had changed.
She stopped in the hallway.
His hair was no longer falling to his shoulders in the loose waves she had become accustomed to. The sides had been swept back neatly, leaving the longer strands at the nape of his neck. It changed his face in a way she had not expected, drawing attention to the sharp line of his cheekbones and the pale blue-green of his eyes.
His clothing was darker than before: a black shirt buttoned completely to the collar beneath a fitted black jacket, black trousers, black shoes. Every part of the outfit was perfectly tailored, severe and understated, as though he were not preparing to trespass but attend the funeral of whoever caught them doing it.
Y/N stared.
Loki adjusted one cuff. “You said dark.”
“I also said casual.”
“This is casual.”
“For what? An assassination?”
“That would require different attire.”
She did not know whether he was joking. Probably not.
Loki looked her over in return. Y/N had changed into dark jeans, worn sneakers, and a black hooded sweatshirt over a tank top. Her hair had been pulled back, though several strands already framed her face. A backpack hung from one shoulder.
His gaze lingered on it. “What have you brought?”
“Stuff.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Snacks. Water. A blanket. Flashlight.”
“And the flowers?”
Y/N smiled.
Loki closed his eyes briefly. “You intend to intoxicate yourself while trespassing.”
“I intend to have fun while trespassing.”
“You appear to require considerable assistance to enjoy your own company.”
“That’s why I’m bringing you.”
His eyes opened.
Y/N’s smile faltered slightly. The words had escaped before she considered how they might sound.
Loki studied her. Then his expression shifted into something smug enough to make her regret the accidental sincerity. “So you admit my company improves the evening.”
“No,” she said quickly.
“You just did.”
“Nu-uh. I said I needed assistance.”
“My assistance.”
“For climbing.”
“You claimed I feared the fence.”
“I was manipulating you.”
“I’m aware.”
“You still agreed.”
“I wished to silence you.”
“Bawk.”
Loki stepped toward her.
Y/N immediately backed toward the front door, laughing. “All right. I’m done.”
“You were warned.”
“I said I was done.”
“Your promises lack value.”
“I’m grabbing my keys.”
She reached blindly toward the ceramic bowl beside the door. Loki stopped close enough that she had to tip her head back to look at him. For a moment, neither moved.
Then Y/N found the keys and held them between their faces. “Road trip.”
Loki looked at the keys. “This hardly constitutes a journey.”
“You haven’t been in the car for thirty minutes with my music.”
“I endured it yesterday.”
“That was the radio. Tonight, I got an aux cord so I control the music.”
His expression darkened.
Y/N opened the door. “You can stay here.”
Loki followed her into the hallway. “I have already agreed to accompany you.”
“Because you’re brave?”
“Because your judgment cannot be trusted without supervision.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
They descended the exterior stairs together. The evening air had cooled, though the pavement still held the day’s heat. The sky above the apartment complex had begun to turn violet, the last of the sunlight fading behind distant buildings.
Y/N’s car sat beneath one of the lamps in the parking lot. It was old enough to have acquired several unexplained rattles but new enough that she still trusted it to survive thirty minutes outside town. The paint had faded along the roof, and one of the rear windows only worked when it felt like it.
Loki stopped beside the passenger door and examined the vehicle.
Y/N unlocked it. “Don’t start.”
“I have said nothing.”
“I’ve lived with you for almost a week. I know your faces and expressions.”
“I was under the impression you admired my face.”
She looked at him. “Shut up before I throw my shoe at you.”
“Volatile.”
Y/N opened the driver’s door and tossed her backpack into the back seat. “You’re lucky you’re riding in this one.”
Loki glanced across the roof at her. “You possess another?”
“Used to.”
“What became of it?”
“I gave it to Matt.”
The faint amusement left his face. “Your former lover.”
“My ex-boyfriend, yes.”
“You gave him a vehicle?”
“It was old.”
“This one appears old.”
“Not this kind of old.”
She climbed inside. Loki opened his door but remained standing outside.
“What kind of vehicle was it?”
“A motorcycle.”
His hand stilled on the door.
Y/N was too busy shoving a collection of receipts and fast-food napkins out of the cup holder to notice the sudden interest in his face.
“A motorcycle,” Loki repeated.
“Yeah.”
“The two-wheeled machine?”
She glanced at him. “You know what a motorcycle is?”
“I observed several during my walk.”
“And?”
“They appeared considerably less offensive than this.”
Y/N looked around her car. “My car is fine.”
“Your door handle moves when touched.”
“It’s supposed to.”
“Not in that direction.”
“Get in and don’t insult Betty.”
“You have named the machine.”
“Sit. Loki.”
Loki lowered himself into the passenger seat. His knees were immediately too close to the dashboard. He looked down.
Y/N sighed. “There’s a lever under the seat.”
“I do not require assistance.”
“Then move it yourself.”
He reached beneath the seat. It slid backward so suddenly that his body jerked with it.
Y/N burst out laughing.
Loki slowly turned toward her. “Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are visibly shaking.”
She faced forward and put the key into the ignition. “You should’ve seen your face.”
“I have no desire to.”
“Terrified of a car seat.”
“I was startled by your crude machinery.”
“Bawk.”
Loki’s hand shot out and caught her wrist before she could start flapping her arm.
Y/N laughed harder. His fingers closed around her gently but firmly.
“You made an agreement,” he said.
“I said I was done inside the apartment.”
“You did not establish a location.”
“Then I found a loophole.”
“That’s my role.”
“You don’t own loopholes.”
“I do tonight.”
For a moment, his hand remained around her wrist. The laughter faded, leaving Y/N suddenly aware of the warmth of his fingers against her skin.
Loki appeared to notice it at the same time.
His grip loosened.
Y/N pulled her hand back and started the engine. The car coughed twice before turning over.
Loki looked at the dashboard. “You entrusted your life to this?”
“She’s reliable.”
A warning light glowed beside the speedometer.
His eyes moved toward it. “What does the red symbol indicate?”
“Nothing important.”
“It resembles an oil vessel.”
“It’s dramatic.”
“The vehicle is dramatic?”
“It learned from you.”
Loki looked unconvinced.
Y/N reached for the radio. “Seat belt.”
“I do not require—”
“Seat belt.”
“I am considerably more durable than this machine.”
“I’m not getting pulled over because the god of mischief refuses to wear a seat belt.”
“The officer would not remember the encounter.”
“We’re trying not to commit crimes until we get there.”
Loki pulled the belt across his chest with visible contempt. It clicked into place.
Y/N smiled. “See? Was that so difficult?”
“Yes.”
She shifted the car into reverse. As they pulled from the parking space, Loki looked out through the window, his attention briefly following a motorcycle as it passed on the road beyond the complex.
Y/N did not notice. She was busy stabbing the end of the aux cord into her phone.
But Loki watched the machine until it disappeared from sight.
A motorcycle.
A possession she had given away to a man she did not wish to return to.
It was a minor detail. Entirely irrelevant. And yet he stored it away with the same care he gave every useful piece of information.
Y/N smiled once the aux cord clicked in place. Music erupted through the speakers at a volume loud enough to make Loki flinch.
She immediately began singing along. Badly.
Loki looked at her. “This journey may be more dangerous than the trespassing.”
She grinned and turned the volume higher. “You agreed to come.”
“You deceived me.”
“I called you chicken.”
“A mistake you will not repeat.”
Y/N glanced at him as they turned onto the darkening road. “Bawk.”
Loki reached for the volume knob.
She slapped his hand away.
The car carried them beyond the city lights and toward the open desert, their argument disappearing into the music as night settled over Midgard.
. . .
They reached the drive-in a little after nine.
By then, the road had thinned into darkness, the city lights shrinking behind them until there was nothing but desert on either side of the car and the occasional flash of Y/N’s headlights catching dust, weeds, and rusted road signs.
Loki had spent most of the drive criticizing her music. Not because he disliked all of it, Y/N was beginning to suspect, but because he seemed physically incapable of experiencing anything new without first insulting it.
“This singer sounds wounded.”
“She’s emotional.”
“She sounds as though someone has trapped her in the instrument.”
“That’s called passion.”
“It is called distress.”
Y/N turned the volume up.
Loki turned his head toward her slowly.
She smiled at the road. “If you touch my radio, I’m making chicken noises again.”
“You promised not to.”
“I lied.”
“Poorly.”
“You still came.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but he did not argue.
The abandoned drive-in appeared ahead of them as a huge, dark rectangle against the night sky. The screen still stood, though one corner had peeled back from years of wind and weather. The old ticket booth sat near the entrance, glass broken, paint faded, its roof sagging slightly to one side. A chain-link fence wrapped around the property, warning signs hanging crooked from the metal.
Y/N pulled off the road and parked behind a cluster of overgrown brush. For a moment, she simply stared.
Loki glanced at her. “You have gone quiet.”
“I haven’t been here in years.”
“You said it was abandoned.”
“It is.”
“And yet you are surprised to find it neglected?”
“I’m not surprised. It’s just…” She trailed off, fingers still resting on the wheel. “Different.”
He looked through the windshield at the dark shape of the screen. “Places decay when mortals leave them behind.”
“Thanks. Very comforting.”
“It was an observation.”
“Your observations are depressing.”
“You mean they’re accurate.”
Y/N killed the engine and reached into the back seat for her backpack and skateboard. Loki opened his door and stepped out, his dark clothing nearly disappearing into the night except where moonlight caught the sharp edges of his jacket and the pale line of his face.
She locked the car, then started toward the fence. The dry grass crackled beneath her sneakers. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote yipped, answered by another farther away. Loki followed at an unhurried pace.
Y/N stopped several feet from the fence and looked around. The lot beyond it was empty. Old speaker posts stood in uneven rows like metal grave markers. Weeds had pushed up through the cracked pavement. The concession building sat near the center of the lot, boxy and weather-stained, with the projection room above it facing the screen.
She scanned the corners of the property. “No cameras,” she whispered.
Loki looked down at her. “Are you frightened?”
“No.”
“You are whispering.”
“Because we’re trespassing.”
“An activity you insisted upon.”
“I’m being careful.”
“You spent the evening making animal noises at me because I questioned the wisdom of this plan.” His mouth curved. “Now you hesitate at the threshold.”
“I am not hesitating.”
“You appear to be.”
“I’m checking for security.”
“Of course.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I have said nothing.”
She continued staring at him, already knowing something was coming.
His smile sharpened. “Perhaps it is you who is…” He paused, as though searching for the word and finding it distasteful. “Chicken.”
Y/N went completely still.
Without answering, she tossed her backpack over the fence. It landed on the other side with a dull thud.
Loki’s eyebrows lifted.
Y/N wedged the skateboard beneath one arm, grabbed the chain-link, and started climbing.
The fence rattled loudly beneath her weight.
Loki looked around the empty lot. “Subtle.”
“Shut up.”
“You are doing exceptionally well.”
“I said shut up.”
“I believe that is what you said to me earlier, is it not? Bawk?”
Y/N climbed faster out of spite.
She made it to the top, swung one leg over, then immediately regretted every choice that had led her there. The fence wobbled. The metal dug into her palms. Her sneaker slipped against the chain-link.
“Shit—”
She lost her footing.
Before she could fall, hands caught her around the waist.
Not from behind the fence.
From the other side.
Y/N looked down.
Loki stood beneath her, already inside the drive-in, his grip firm at her waist as though catching trespassing college students off fences was an ordinary part of his evening.
She stared at him. “How did you—”
“Magic.”
“You couldn’t have mentioned that before I climbed?”
“You were proving your courage.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you do not.”
He lifted her down as though she weighed nothing, setting her carefully on the cracked pavement. For a second, his hands remained at her waist.
Y/N’s breath caught before she could stop it.
Loki noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second, then returned to her eyes with infuriating calm.
“You nearly fell.”
“You distracted me.”
“I stood quietly.”
“You existed smugly.”
“That is hardly my fault.”
Y/N pulled away and grabbed her backpack off the ground. “Come on.”
She dropped the skateboard beneath her foot and pushed off before he could reply. The wheels clattered loudly over the uneven pavement as she skated between the old speaker posts. Loki followed without hurrying, his steps smooth and soundless compared to the rough scrape of her board.
Y/N coasted toward the concession building, hopping off before the cracked curb and catching the board with one hand. “This place used to be packed on weekends,” she said, approaching the side door. “People would bring blankets, snacks, sneak in drinks. Half the time nobody even watched the movie.”
“Then what was the purpose of coming?”
She gave him a look over her shoulder.
Loki blinked once. “Ah.”
“Yeah. Ah.”
The side door was locked, but loose in the frame. Y/N shoved her shoulder against it. Nothing. She tried again.
Still nothing.
Loki stepped beside her. “Allow me.”
“If you say something dramatic—”
He touched two fingers to the lock. Green light flickered. The door clicked.
Y/N stared at it. “…That would’ve been helpful at the fence too.”
“You seemed determined.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Yes.”
At least he admitted it.
Inside, the concession building smelled like dust, old popcorn grease, and sunbaked wood. Y/N clicked on her flashlight and swept it across the room. The counter was still there, though warped and stained. A broken popcorn machine sat in the corner. Old menu boards hung crooked above the register.
Loki looked around with faint disdain. “This was where mortals purchased food?”
“Movie snacks.”
“It appears unsanitary.”
“It’s been abandoned for years.”
“Then why are you touching things?”
Y/N ignored him and found the narrow staircase leading upstairs.
The projection room was even dustier than the concession stand. Metal shelves lined the walls. Old film canisters sat stacked in corners. The projector remained in place, massive and rusted but not entirely broken.
Y/N’s face lit up. “Oh, no way.”
Loki stood in the doorway. “You know how to operate this?”
“Not really.”
“That’s not encouraging.”
“I used to mess with it when I was younger.”
“You broke into this place as a child?”
“Teenager.” She moved toward the projector, wiping dust from one of the reels. “There used to be old films up here. Most of them were ruined.”
“And you intend to show one?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Should I stand at a distance?”
“Probably.”
She found a canister with a label peeling from the side.
Her eyes widened. “No freaking way.”
Loki leaned closer. “What is it?”
“Jaws.”
He looked unimpressed. “That means nothing to me.”
“It’s a movie about a giant shark eating people. They loved playing this all the time.”
“Why would anyone watch that willingly?”
“Because it’s good.”
“You find aquatic murder entertaining.”
“Like you didn’t read Twilight.”
“That was anthropological research.”
“It was Team Jacob research.”
His eyes narrowed.
Y/N grinned and turned back to the projector.
It took nearly twenty minutes to get anything working. Loki complained through most of it, though he still followed every instruction she gave him. Hold the flashlight. Lift that. No, not with magic. Okay, actually yes, with magic. Don’t melt anything. Stop judging the equipment.
At last, the projector shuddered to life. The beam shot through the dusty glass window and stretched across the empty lot.
Outside, the massive screen flickered.
Y/N gasped and hurried down the stairs.
Loki followed her out onto the pavement as the movie appeared in faded color across the old drive-in screen. The image jumped and scratched. The sound crackled from a speaker near the building, warped but understandable.
Y/N dropped her backpack near the hood of an abandoned car and climbed onto it. “Come on.”
Loki looked at the car. “You wish to sit on this?”
“It’s abandoned.”
“It is rusting.”
“Then don’t lick it.”
He gave her a deeply offended look.
She patted the space beside her.
After a moment of obvious internal suffering, Loki climbed onto the hood and sat with far more dignity than the situation deserved.
The film was already partway through. Y/N leaned back on her hands, smiling at the screen.
Loki watched in silence at first.
Then the shark appeared briefly.
He turned slowly toward her. “This is the creature?”
“Yeah.”
“It looks false.”
“It’s from the seventies.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It was scary at the time.”
“It barely moves.”
“Can you just enjoy it?”
“I was told this involved a giant shark eating people. I expected more.”
“Shush.”
They watched until the film cut suddenly. The reel slapped loosely in the projector room above them, and the screen went white.
Y/N sighed. “Guess that’s all that survived.”
“A mercy.”
“You liked it.”
“I did not.”
“You asked three questions about shark behavior.”
“Because the film was inaccurate.”
“You were invested.”
“I was concerned by the stupidity of the sailors.”
Y/N laughed and slid off the car hood.
The blank screen glowed pale in the darkness.
She stared at it for a moment, then glanced at Loki. “Can you put something up there?”
He looked at her. “Put something?”
“With your magic.”
“You wish me to perform tricks upon a ruined screen?”
“I want to see what you can do.”
“My magic is not a novelty.”
“I know.” Her voice softened enough to make him pause. “I just want to see.”
Loki studied her, suspicion briefly returning to his face.
Then he stood.
The night air seemed to still around him.
He lifted one hand.
Green light curled around his fingers, thin and elegant, like threads being pulled from the dark.
The blank movie screen shimmered.
Then it changed.
Y/N stopped breathing.
Gold rose across the screen first. Not flat color, not a picture, but light. Towers stretched upward in impossible lines, gleaming beneath a sky unlike any she had ever seen. A city unfolded before her in layers of bronze and gold, built into mountains and cliffs, surrounded by water that caught the sun like glass.
Asgard.
Not mythology. Not a word in a book.
A real place.
Y/N stepped closer to the screen.
The illusion widened until it no longer felt confined to the drive-in. The cracked pavement beneath her feet faded into polished stone. The rusted speaker posts became distant pillars. The desert air turned cool and bright with sea wind that could not truly be there.
She could see a palace rising over everything, tall enough to make the old drive-in screen feel like a window cut into another world.
There was no smugness in his answer. No correction. No speech about how Midgard could never compare.
Just yes.
Y/N turned back toward the shining city. “Is this where you lived?”
“The palace is there.”
He pointed, and the illusion shifted, drawing her gaze toward the tallest structure.
“And the bridge?”
For a moment, he did not answer.
Then the image changed again.
A long bridge stretched over the water, luminous even in illusion, leading from the city toward a distant observatory. It looked like something made from captured starlight.
Y/N’s voice dropped. “That’s the…Bifrost.”
“What remains of it in my memory.”
She glanced at him.
He had gone still, his face lit faintly by the gold of his own magic.
“You miss it.”
His jaw tightened. “It is my home.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It is not.”
Y/N did not push.
Instead, she opened her backpack and pulled out a joint tucked inside a small plastic case.
Loki noticed immediately. “You brought the flowers.”
“I told you I did.”
“You are going to smoke while looking upon Asgard?”
“I feel like that’s exactly when someone should smoke.”
“That’s an absurd statement.”
She sat back on the abandoned car hood and lit the end. The first inhale made the ember glow orange in the dark. She held it for a moment, then exhaled toward the side so the smoke drifted away from him.
Loki watched with guarded curiosity.
Y/N held it out. “You sure?”
“I declined before.”
“You can decline again.”
His eyes moved from the joint to the illusion of Asgard. Then back to her.
After a long moment, he took it between two fingers.
He held it like something both beneath him and potentially poisonous.
Y/N smiled. “Okay. Small inhale.”
“I understand the concept.”
“Do you?”
“I breathe constantly.”
“That’s literally not the same thing.”
Loki brought it to his lips.
He inhaled.
Then immediately swallowed wrong.
Smoke escaped sharply through his nose. His eyes widened. He coughed once, then again, harder.
Y/N slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Do…not laugh,” he choked.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m emotionally supporting you.”
“You have poisoned me.”
“I smoked it too. You smoked wrong.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did. You swallowed it.”
“That is not an instruction one gives after the fact.”
“I said small inhale.”
“I took a small inhale.”
“You tried to defeat it.”
“It attacked me.”
Y/N finally laughed.
Loki glared at her through watery eyes, which only made it worse.
She reached for the joint.
He held it away from her.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Trying again.”
“You hated it.”
“I disliked being ambushed.”
“By weed?”
“By your poor explanation.”
“Fine. Don’t swallow it. Pull it into your mouth, then breathe it in. Slowly.”
Loki looked profoundly insulted by needing guidance on breathing, but he tried again.
This time, he managed it.
He exhaled more smoothly, though his expression remained severe.
“Well?” she asked.
“It tastes like burning leaves.”
“It kind of is.”
“And this brings you pleasure?”
“Give it a minute.”
He took another cautious drag.
Then another.
Y/N watched him closely. “I don’t even know if it’ll affect you.”
“Why would it not?”
“You heal almost instantly and you’re not human.”
“I am capable of being affected by substances.”
“Have you been high before?”
“No.”
She blinked. “Never?”
“Wine and several other drinks at home are considerably stronger than anything found here, but this particular form of intoxication is new.”
“So I got the god of mischief high for the first time.”
His gaze sharpened. “Do not phrase it that way.”
“I absolutely will.”
“I forbid it.”
“You can’t forbid me from saying things.”
“I can.”
“You can try.”
A few minutes passed.
At first, Loki seemed unchanged.
Then his posture shifted. Only slightly.
The usual rigid set of his shoulders loosened. His head tipped back against the windshield of the abandoned car. His eyes remained on the illusion of Asgard, but the sharpness in them softened into something distant and almost curious.
Y/N leaned closer. “Do you feel anything?”
“No.”
“You answered too fast.”
“I answered accurately.”
“Look at me.”
He did.
His pupils were wider.
Y/N smiled slowly. “Oh, it worked.”
“It has done nothing.”
“You’re high.”
“I am not.”
“You’re calmer.”
“I was already calm.”
“Calmer than you have been this past week.”
“Your Midgardian items cause me stress.”
She laughed and took the joint back.
Loki watched the smoke curl around her fingers.
“It’s strange,” he said after a moment.
“What is?”
“The silence.”
Y/N looked around the abandoned lot. “It’s always quiet out here.”
“No. Not that.” He lifted his hand slightly, and the illusion above them shimmered. “My thoughts.”
Y/N’s smile softened. “Oh.”
Loki seemed to realize what he had admitted and immediately looked annoyed. “It’s not unpleasant.”
“That’s good.”
“I did not say I enjoyed it.”
“You kind of did.”
“I said it wasn’t unpleasant.”
“That’s Loki for ‘I’m having a great time.’”
“I do not have a separate language.”
“You do. It’s called denial.”
He turned his head toward her.
For a few seconds, he simply looked at her.
The joint glowed between her fingers.
“What else can you do?” she asked, partly because his attention had become too intense.
“With magic?”
“Yeah.”
“Many things.”
“Specific.”
“Illusions. Concealment. Duplication. Alteration of appearance. Small enchantments. Larger ones, under the right conditions.”
“Duplication?”
Loki’s expression grew faintly smug again.
That was her only warning.
Green light flashed.
Suddenly, another Loki sat on her other side.
Y/N yelped and nearly dropped the joint.
The duplicate smiled.
Then another appeared on the hood of the car. Another leaned against the speaker post. Another sat on the ground in front of her with his legs stretched out, looking bored.
Y/N stared.
There were five of him.
All watching her with varying degrees of amusement.
“Oh, hell no.”
The Loki beside her lifted an eyebrow. “You asked.”
“This is deeply unsettling.”
One of the duplicates leaned forward. “Is it?”
Another said, “She appears impressed.”
“I am not impressed.”
The one by the speaker post tilted his head. “She is.”
Y/N turned in a circle, pointing the joint at all of them. “Stop ganging up on me, assholes.”
The real Loki’s mouth curved. “How do you know which of us is real?”
She looked at the Loki beside her. Then at the others.
The one closest to her seemed too still. Too aware. Too pleased in a way that felt heavier than the rest.
She reached out and poked his arm.
Solid.
“This one.”
The duplicates vanished.
Loki looked down at where she had touched him. “You’re learning.”
“You’re smug.”
“I’m correct.”
“You’re high and correct. Dangerous combination.”
He lifted one hand again.
This time, the screen changed into moving constellations.
Stars rearranged themselves into shapes Y/N did not recognize, symbols and stories drawn in light.
Loki explained some of them. Not in the grand way he usually explained things, but slower. Easier. He told her which constellations children in Asgard learned first, which ones sailors used, which ones Thor always misnamed because he had never paid attention during lessons.
Y/N listened with her knees pulled up beneath her chin.
At some point, the joint burned down too low to continue.
At some point after that, the illusion of Asgard softened until the city faded into stars.
Loki sat close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
She did not move away.
“Can you make anything?” she asked quietly.
“Within reason.”
“Define reason.”
“Not a living soul. Not true matter from nothing. Not permanence without effort.”
“Could you make me look like someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Could you make yourself look like anyone?”
“Yes.”
“That feels dangerous.”
“It often is.”
She turned toward him.
His face was very close.
Closer than she realized.
The stars from his illusion moved across his features, casting green-gold light over his cheekbones, his mouth, the line of his jaw. His hair had come slightly loose from where it had been swept back, dark strands falling near his face.
Y/N’s gaze dropped before she could stop it.
Loki noticed.
His eyes lowered to her mouth.
Neither of them spoke.
The entire drive-in seemed to go still around them.
Y/N could feel the warmth of him beside her. The faint scent of smoke on his clothes. The electric hum of his magic lingering in the air.
“You’re staring,” he said softly.
“So are you.”
“I know.”
Her breath caught.
Loki leaned closer.
Not quickly.
Not carelessly.
Slow enough that she could have moved away.
She did not.
Their noses nearly brushed. His mouth hovered just above hers, close enough that she could feel the shape of his breath.
Then light swept across the lot.
Y/N jerked back. “Oh, shit.”
Loki’s eyes sharpened at once.
A flashlight beam moved between the old speaker posts.
A man’s voice called from somewhere near the fence. “Anybody in here?”
Y/N grabbed Loki’s sleeve and yanked him off the car hood.
They dropped behind the abandoned car, crouching low against the cracked pavement.
Loki opened his mouth.
Y/N slapped a hand over it.
He went very still.
The flashlight beam skimmed over the hood above them.
Y/N’s heart pounded so hard she was sure the security guard would hear it.
Loki’s eyes remained on hers over the top of her hand.
Annoyingly calm.
Too calm.
The footsteps grew closer.
Y/N pressed herself lower, her shoulder against Loki’s chest, one hand still covering his mouth.
The guard walked past the car.
His flashlight passed directly over them.
And kept going.
Y/N froze.
The light should have found them. It should have landed on her black hoodie, Loki’s polished shoes, the backpack sitting near the tire.
Instead, it moved over empty pavement.
She looked at Loki.
His eyes glinted green.
He had made them invisible.
The guard stopped a few feet away, muttered something under his breath, and continued toward the concession building.
Y/N waited until his footsteps faded.
Then she slowly removed her hand from Loki’s mouth. “You could’ve led with that.”
His voice was low, amused. “You appeared to have matters under control.”
“I covered your mouth. You were going to say something.”
“I was going to inform you that I had already hidden us.”
She stared at him.
His gaze flicked to her mouth again.
The almost-kiss hung between them, sharper now in the cramped space behind the car.
Y/N became aware that she was practically pressed against him.
Loki seemed aware too.
Neither of them moved for several seconds.
Then the guard’s flashlight flashed again near the projection room.
Y/N grabbed her backpack with one hand and Loki’s wrist with the other. “We need to go.”
“Now you wish to flee?”
“Yes.”
“Chicken.”
She glared at him.
He smiled.
The invisibility shimmered around them as they moved through the abandoned lot, crouched and hurried, Loki far too elegant for someone sneaking away from a security guard at an abandoned drive-in theater.
At the fence, Y/N turned toward him. “You are not making me climb that again.”
“I would not dream of it.”
Green light curled around them.
The world folded.
A second later, they stood outside the fence beside her car.
Y/N stumbled slightly.
Loki caught her by the waist again.
She looked up at him.
His hands stayed there.
The security guard’s flashlight moved in the distance beyond the fence, unaware of them.
Y/N whispered, “That was cheating.”
“That was magic.”
“Same thing.”
“You requested mischief.”
Her mouth curved despite herself. “I did.”
“And?”
She glanced back at the old screen, now blank beneath the stars.
Then she looked at Loki.
His face was still close. His hands were still warm at her waist. The almost-kiss still waited between them like unfinished business.
Y/N swallowed. “Not bad for a chicken.”
Loki’s smile vanished.
She grinned and bolted for the driver’s side before he could respond.
Behind her, his voice followed, low and dangerous and deeply offended.
“Y/N.”
She laughed as she unlocked the car. “Come on, god of mischief.”
He got in.
As Y/N started the engine and pulled back onto the empty road, neither of them mentioned what had almost happened behind the abandoned car.
But Loki’s illusion of Asgard still lingered faintly in her mind.
And Loki, staring out the window with smoke still warm in his chest and her laughter filling the car, found himself thinking that Midgard was perhaps not entirely without beauty.
Not the ordinary silence of an apartment before the rest of the building had properly stirred. Pipes still groaned somewhere behind the walls. A neighbor’s television murmured faintly through the ceiling. Cars passed along the road outside.
This silence felt different.
Empty.
Y/N remained beneath her blankets, staring at the wall while her mind slowly caught up with being awake.
She had gone to bed later than she meant to.
After the grocery store, Loki had spent nearly an hour criticizing everything she purchased despite eating some of it once they returned. He had accused frozen pizza of being an insult to bread, cheese, and dignity, then consumed four slices while insisting hunger should not be mistaken for approval.
They had argued over what qualified as cleaning. He had tried reorganizing her cabinets according to what he called logic, which apparently meant putting everything she used daily on shelves she could barely reach. She had made him put it back. He had refused. She had threatened to revoke his couch privileges.
Eventually, he had returned the mugs to their original shelf with the expression of a king negotiating surrender.
Normal.
Or as normal as anything had been since she found a bleeding god in the desert.
Y/N rolled over and looked at the clock.
9:32.
She groaned. Her body seemed determined to disrespect every opportunity she gave it to sleep late.
She pulled the blankets over her head.
From the living room came nothing.
No page turning. No irritated commentary about her literature. No cabinet doors opening and closing because Loki had once again decided her kitchen required improvement.
Y/N lowered the blanket. “Loki?”
Nothing.
Maybe he was sleeping. It seemed unlikely. She had never seen him properly sleep. She had seen him sitting with his eyes closed once, but when she asked if he had been asleep, he acted as if she had accused him of fainting.
Y/N pushed herself upright. “Loki?”
Still nothing.
She slid out of bed, pulled on the sweatpants she had left on the floor, and opened her bedroom door.
The couch was empty.
The blanket she had given him was folded neatly against the armrest. Her copy of The Hunger Games rested on top of it, closed around the scrap of paper she had given him as a bookmark.
The living room was spotless.
Y/N stepped farther into the apartment.
The kitchen was empty too. The dishes from the night before had been washed and arranged beside the sink. The groceries had been put away. Even the bag of chips she had left open on the counter had been folded shut.
His conjured coat was gone from the chair. So were the boots he had left near the door.
Y/N looked at the ceramic bowl where she kept her keys.
Her apartment key remained inside it.
For a moment, she simply stood there.
Then she checked the bathroom, despite knowing he was not there. She glanced through the blinds and scanned the parking lot below.
No Loki.
He had left.
The realization should not have surprised her.
He was healed. He had made that painfully clear, even while lying about mysterious injuries in other places. He was not obligated to stay because she had offered him a couch and a poorly defined housekeeping arrangement.
He had been talking about leaving since the moment he woke.
Apparently, he had finally decided to prove he could.
Y/N returned to the living room and picked up the folded blanket.
For some reason, the careful way he had left it bothered her more than if he had thrown it on the floor. There was no mess to suggest he had left in a hurry. No unfinished drink. No book abandoned open. Nothing that implied he planned to return.
He had cleaned up after himself and disappeared.
Like a considerate hallucination.
Y/N sat on the couch. “Well,” she murmured, her voice too loud in the apartment. “At least I know I wasn’t crazy.”
She looked around.
The apartment seemed smaller without him.
That was ridiculous. He had only been there for a few days, and most of that time had been spent insulting her, questioning her decisions, and behaving as though every piece of furniture had personally offended him.
Her life had existed before Loki. It could go back to normal now.
She could leave her bong on the coffee table without being lectured about poisoning her lungs. She could walk around naked shamelessly. She could sleep without wondering whether an alien prince was standing in her doorway to verify she had not secretly begun plotting against him.
She would not have to buy twice as much food. She would not have to explain television. She would not have to hear the phrase “on Asgard” every time she did something differently than he preferred.
Normal sounded good.
Y/N leaned back against the couch. “Good,” she said, though there was no one there to hear it. “That’s good.”
Her eyes drifted toward The Hunger Games.
He had finished it. She could tell from the bookmark tucked neatly near the final pages.
He had not given her his opinion yet.
That annoyed her.
He had spent the entire evening interrupting the movie to criticize its plot, but somehow managed to leave before telling her whether he liked her favorite book.
Maybe he hated it. He probably had a speech prepared about the incompetence of President Snow and the political instability of Panem. Maybe he had found Katniss reckless.
He seemed to think every woman in fiction was reckless.
Y/N set the book down harder than necessary.
“He could’ve said goodbye.”
The quiet gave her no answer.
She pulled her legs onto the couch and rested her head against the cushion.
It should not have mattered. They were strangers.
A few days ago, she had not known him. She had been working shifts, going to class, coming home to an apartment she could barely afford and rarely had the energy to clean.
She had been fine.
Lonely sometimes, perhaps, but fine.
There had always been noise available when she wanted it. Television. Music. Neighbors arguing. Customers demanding coffee refills. Coworkers complaining about schedules.
Noise was not the same thing as company.
Loki had been company.
Difficult, infuriating company, but company nonetheless.
He filled the apartment without trying. He questioned everything she said. He watched her as though every mundane action required analysis. When she spoke, he listened, even when he pretended not to.
Without him, she became suddenly aware of how often she came home to no one.
Y/N pressed her cheek into the cushion. “That’s dramatic,” she muttered.
She had known him for barely two days. He was not her friend. He probably did not even consider Midgardians worthy of friendship.
He was a displaced prince who had needed a place to recover.
Now he had recovered.
That was all.
She reached for the blanket, pulled it over herself, and turned onto her side.
She had woken too early anyway.
By the time she fell asleep again, the sunlight had shifted across the living-room floor.
. . .
Loki had intended to leave permanently.
That had been the purpose when he stepped through the apartment door before sunrise. He had taken nothing that did not belong to him. He had folded the blanket, returned the book, and left the key where she would find it.
He had even cleaned the kitchen, though he refused to acknowledge the impulse as sentimentality.
It was merely proper.
A prince did not abandon a residence in disorder.
He certainly did not owe a Midgardian woman an explanation.
She had offered him shelter because he was injured. He was no longer injured. Their arrangement had therefore reached its natural conclusion.
He had no reason to remain.
The thought sustained him through the first several streets.
Midgard was crude, but not impossible to navigate. He had observed enough during their visit to the market to understand the basic exchange of currency. Shelter and food could be acquired through magic if necessary. Clothing posed no difficulty. Human beings were remarkably easy to deceive.
He did not need her.
His pride repeated the assurance with every step.
He did not need her apartment, her food, or the strange warmth of being expected somewhere.
He had survived the void. He had survived truths far more devastating than being stranded on an unfamiliar realm.
Surely, he could survive without one mortal woman telling him which dishes needed washing.
By midday, he had reached the busier edge of the city. The sun hung high and merciless over the pavement. Vehicles moved in streams around him. Mortals hurried past without noticing anything beyond their own destinations.
No one looked twice at him.
Under ordinary circumstances, invisibility might have been useful.
Instead, it made the realm feel even more foreign.
He had no Midgardian identification. No currency he could use without drawing attention. No understanding of its laws beyond Y/N’s occasional warnings. No allies. No access to the Bifrost.
Magic could conceal all of those deficiencies, but every solution created another obstacle.
He could compel a mortal to offer him shelter. He could steal money. He could disguise himself, fabricate a history, and build a place in this world from lies.
He had done more difficult things.
Yet each possibility felt hollow.
A room taken through enchantment would not be his. Food stolen from a stranger’s kitchen would not come with Y/N telling him he had eaten an unreasonable number of eggs. A manipulated host would not argue with him over fictional vampires or place her favorite books in his hands because she thought he might be bored.
Loki stopped beneath the thin shade of a closed storefront.
The realization irritated him profoundly.
She had helped him without coercion. No bargain had been required. No spell. No title.
She had known nothing of who he was when she dragged him from the desert. Even after learning his name, she had not bowed. She had not feared him. She had touched his arm merely to determine whether he was real, then ordered him to wash coffee cups.
Another Midgardian might help him, given sufficient deception.
But they would not help him.
They would help the person he pretended to be.
Y/N had met him bloodied, arrogant, suspicious, and half-naked beneath her blanket.
She had chosen to help anyway.
Loki looked back in the direction he had come from.
Returning would be humiliating.
He had left without speaking to her. She would know he had failed to find a better alternative. She would smile in that irritatingly perceptive way and pretend not to understand precisely what had brought him back.
She might tell him to say thank you.
The thought nearly convinced him to continue walking.
Nearly.
He remained beneath the awning for several minutes, staring out at a realm that contained billions of people and not one he knew beyond her.
Then he turned around.
The apartment door was locked.
Loki paused with his hand on the knob. He had left the key behind, which meant he had to use magic on the lock. Green shimmer faded from his fingers as he quietly stepped inside.
The apartment was silent.
For one brief, unwelcome moment, he wondered whether she had gone searching for him.
Then he saw her.
Y/N was asleep on the couch, curled on her side with one arm tucked beneath her head. The blanket he had folded that morning had slipped partly to the floor, tangled around her legs. Her copy of The Hunger Games rested near her hand.
Loki closed the door without a sound.
There was no sign she had prepared to leave. Her shoes remained by the couch. Her bag still hung from the back of the kitchen chair.
She had simply fallen asleep there.
On his couch, some part of him supplied before he could correct it.
Her couch.
She shifted slightly, her brow drawing together as though troubled by something in her sleep.
Loki’s gaze moved through the apartment. It was exactly as he had left it, yet it felt different now. Smaller. Quieter.
Her belongings occupied nearly every surface. Books, notes, abandoned clothing, photographs, chipped dishes. Proof of a life that should have made the apartment feel full.
It did not.
He remembered what she had said the night before.
You don’t have anyone here.
He had treated it as an insult.
Now, looking at her alone on the couch, he understood.
She had not recognized his loneliness through pity. She had recognized it because it resembled her own.
Y/N hid hers more skillfully. She covered it with work, school, jokes, and exhaustion so constant she treated it like part of her personality. She filled silence with music and left the television playing even when she was not watching it.
She had opened her home to him too readily.
Not because she was foolish.
Not entirely.
Because, for a few days, there had been another voice in the rooms.
Loki crossed the living room and crouched beside the couch. He lifted the fallen blanket.
The fabric was thin, worn in places, and hardly worthy of a royal guest. She had apologized for it when she first gave it to him, as if the quality mattered more than the fact that she had noticed he was cold.
He drew it carefully over her shoulders.
Y/N stirred.
Loki froze.
Her fingers curled into the edge of the blanket, pulling it closer without waking.
He watched the tension leave her face.
There was space beside her on the couch, but he did not take it.
Instead, he lowered himself to the floor with his back against the cushions. He told himself it was because sitting beside her might wake her.
That was the only reason.
The room stayed quiet.
Loki looked toward the window, where sunlight cut through the blinds in thin golden lines.
He had no plan. No path home. No certainty that Asgard searched for him or believed him dead. No idea what he would do when remaining here became impossible.
But for the first time since releasing his grip above the void, uncertainty did not feel quite the same as falling.
Behind him, Y/N shifted closer to the back of the couch.
Her hand slipped over the edge of the cushion and came to rest near his shoulder.
Not touching.
Almost.
Loki glanced at it.
He could move.
He did not.
“You are a terribly poor judge of character,” he murmured, knowing she could not hear him.
Y/N breathed softly against the pillow.
Loki rested his head against the couch.
He had returned because this realm offered him no better option. Because another Midgardian might not help him. Because leaving without a destination was impractical.
All of those explanations were true.
None of them were the whole truth.
He looked down at the worn blanket wrapped around her.
She was better at hiding it than he was.
But she was lonely too.
And perhaps, for the moment, neither of them had to be.
. . .
Y/N woke slowly to the unfamiliar weight of a hand near her shoulder.
For one disoriented second, she thought she had fallen asleep in bed with one arm hanging over the edge.
Then she felt the couch beneath her. The blanket pulled around her. Something warm resting close enough that the backs of her fingers brushed dark hair.
Her eyes opened.
Loki was asleep on the floor.
He sat with his back against the couch, head tilted slightly to one side, one shoulder pressed into the cushion near her hip. His arms were folded loosely across his chest, though the posture lacked its usual severity. In sleep, all the careful tension had left his face.
He looked younger.
Not harmless. She doubted Loki could ever look entirely harmless. But less like a prince waiting for betrayal and more like someone who had finally become too exhausted to keep expecting it.
Y/N remained still.
Relief arrived first, sudden enough that she had to take a slow breath.
He had come back.
She had not realized how badly she wanted that until she saw him there, asleep beside the couch as though he had never left.
The happiness that followed was quieter and significantly more embarrassing.
Y/N looked toward the front door. His boots had returned. So had the long dark coat he had conjured, now laid over the back of the kitchen chair. There was no explanation. No note. No grand announcement.
He had simply come home.
Not home, she corrected.
Her apartment. His temporary residence. A place he tolerated because the rest of Midgard was apparently worse.
Still, he had come back.
Y/N let her fingertips drift almost imperceptibly against the ends of his hair.
Soft.
Of course it was. A man that dramatic would have annoyingly good hair.
She withdrew her hand before he could wake and catch her doing something that would give him material for the next several years.
Her copy of The Hunger Games sat on the floor beside him. He must have picked it up after returning, though it remained closed.
Maybe he had intended to read.
Maybe he had only meant to sit beside her for a moment.
Y/N smiled faintly.
Then someone knocked on the door.
The sound cracked through the apartment.
Loki woke instantly. His eyes opened sharp and alert, the softness vanishing so quickly Y/N almost wondered whether she had imagined it. Green light flickered briefly over his hand before he seemed to remember where he was.
Y/N jerked upright, the blanket tangling around her waist.
Another knock followed.
“Hold on,” she called, voice rough from sleep.
Loki looked up at her. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You weren’t expecting anyone?”
“No.”
His attention shifted to the door with immediate suspicion.
Y/N stood, still half asleep, hair falling across her face and one cheek creased from the couch cushion.
She looked down at him. “When did you get back?”
He rose smoothly, avoiding the question. “Someone is at your door.”
“I noticed.”
The knock came again, more impatient this time.
Y/N frowned. “Stay here.”
Loki’s eyebrows lifted. “You presume to command me?”
“I’m not having you threaten the landlord.”
“If the man arrives uninvited and pounds upon your door—”
“It might not be the landlord.”
“That hardly improves matters.”
Y/N glanced through the peephole.
Her stomach sank. “Oh, God.”
Loki stepped closer. “What?”
“My ex.”
His expression sharpened. “The owner of the clothing you offered me?”
“Yes.”
“The man whose possessions remain in your room?”
“In a box. Because he never came to pick them up.”
Another knock.
“Y/N,” a man called through the door. “I know you’re home. Your car’s outside.”
Loki’s eyes narrowed. “He sounds unpleasant.”
“You haven’t even met him.”
“I have heard enough.”
Y/N rubbed both hands over her face. Her ex had been texting for weeks about the box. Never consistently enough to arrange a real time, only enough to remain a minor inconvenience she could not entirely remove from her life.
Apparently today was the day he had finally decided to retrieve it.
“Just stay back,” she whispered.
“I see no reason—”
“Because I don’t need you turning him into a frog.”
Loki looked offended. “That is an embarrassingly unimaginative use of magic.”
“Exactly why you’re staying back.”
She opened the door.
Matt stood outside in jeans, an old band shirt, and the same expression he always wore when he wanted something but did not want to seem like he cared.
His eyes moved over her sleep clothes. “Were you asleep?”
“It’s my day off.”
“It’s almost noon.”
“So?”
He shrugged like the answer confirmed something unflattering. “I came for my stuff.”
“Yeah. I figured.”
Y/N kept one hand on the door, not opening it wide enough for him to step inside.
Matt looked over her shoulder. “Can I come in?”
“No. I’ll get the box.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“I used to live here.”
“And now you don’t.”
Behind her, Loki’s mouth almost curved.
Matt noticed. His attention shifted past Y/N, and his expression changed.
Loki stood in the living room, shirt slightly rumpled from sleeping on the floor, dark trousers making it very obvious he had spent the night.
Matt looked back at her. “Who’s that?”
“No one you need to worry about.”
“Is that the guy?”
“What guy?”
“My friend saw you at the grocery store yesterday. Said you were walking around with some tall guy dressed like he was going to a funeral.”
From behind her came a cool voice. “I was not dressed for a funeral.”
Matt looked past her again.
Loki stepped into clearer view.
Green magic swept over him so subtly Y/N nearly missed it. The shimmer ran from his shoulders downward, replacing the rumpled shirt and trousers with dark jeans, a fitted black shirt, and boots. Simple clothes, but on him they looked far too intentional.
His hair settled neatly around his shoulders.
The smugness remained entirely his own.
Matt’s expression tightened. “You were with him?”
Y/N folded her arms. “I don’t see why that matters.”
“I’m just asking.”
“No, you’re not.”
He looked between them. “So you’re dating now?”
There was something in his tone she recognized immediately. Not heartbreak. Not jealousy in any flattering sense. Possession. The irritation of someone who did not want her anymore but disliked the possibility that someone else might.
Y/N knew where this would go if she let it.
He would ask if it was serious. Make some comment about how quickly she moved on, despite being the one who ended things. Then, once he reassured himself she was still emotionally available, he would suggest they talk.
She was not doing it again.
Y/N glanced at Loki.
His gaze stayed fixed on Matt, cool and measuring.
She made the decision before she could overthink it. “Yes,” she said. “I’m dating him.”
Loki’s eyes flicked toward her for only a fraction of a second.
Matt blinked. “You’re dating?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I’m just surprised.”
“Why?”
He gave a short laugh. “No reason.”
Y/N felt her irritation rise.
Beside her, Loki stepped closer. His hand settled at her waist.
Y/N went rigid.
He did not look at her. The touch was confident but not tight, his palm resting against her side as though it belonged there.
Matt noticed.
Of course he did.
Loki’s expression softened into something charming enough to be dangerous. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”
Matt looked at the hand on Y/N’s waist. “Apparently not.”
“Loki.” He said the name without offering his hand.
Matt hesitated. “Matt.”
Loki inclined his head as though receiving the name of a minor servant. “Matthew.”
“It’s Matt.”
“Of course.”
Y/N bit the inside of her cheek.
Matt looked at her. “How long has this been going on?”
Before she could answer, Loki said, “Long enough.”
Y/N looked up at him.
There was a glint in his eyes.
He knew she was lying.
Worse, he was enjoying it.
Matt’s jaw tightened. “You moved on pretty fast.”
“You broke up with me four months ago,” Y/N said.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You just did.”
“I didn’t know you were already serious with someone.”
Loki looked down at Y/N with a degree of practiced affection that would have been convincing even if she had not felt the heat of his hand through her shirt.
“Serious?” he repeated.
Y/N gave him a warning look.
He ignored it. “I suppose that depends upon how one defines the word.”
Matt’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Loki’s smile deepened. “It means she has become quite accustomed to sharing her bed.”
Y/N elbowed him lightly.
His hand remained at her waist.
Matt looked between them. “You live here?”
“Presently.”
“Temporarily,” Y/N added quickly.
Loki glanced down at her. “We shall see.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Matt noticed. “So you’re staying with her?”
“She finds it difficult to sleep without me. She prefers that I do.”
Y/N almost choked.
Matt’s eyebrows rose.
Loki continued smoothly. “Though she does have a habit of becoming argumentative.”
Y/N turned her head slowly toward him.
Matt stared at them.
Y/N could feel heat climbing into her cheeks. “That’s not—”
“Fortunately,” Loki said, drawing her half a step closer, “I have found taking her to bed generally improves her disposition.”
Heat rushed into her face.
Matt looked like he regretted every question he had ever asked.
Y/N stepped on Loki’s boot.
Hard.
Loki did not flinch. His smile sharpened as his hand slid to the small of her back. “She does not work today,” he added, eyes returning to Matt. “And I had intended to make use of the opportunity before she finds another reason to test my patience.”
Y/N’s jaw dropped.
“Right,” Matt muttered. “Okay. I didn’t need to know that.”
“And yet you asked whether our attachment was serious.”
“I didn’t ask for details.”
“I believed the details might clarify matters.”
“They don’t.”
“How unfortunate.”
Y/N glared up at Loki.
He looked down at her with false innocence.
Matt cleared his throat. “Can I just get my box?”
“Yes,” Y/N said quickly. “Wait here.”
She started to step away, but Loki’s hand held her in place for one extra second. Not forcefully. Just long enough to make the implication worse.
Then he released her.
Y/N hurried to her bedroom before Loki could say anything else that required her to move to another state.
She found the box shoved into the corner of her closet. Old shirts, video games, cables, and several things Matt had claimed were important enough to keep but not important enough to retrieve for months.
By the time she returned, Loki and Matt stood in complete silence. Matt looked uncomfortable.
Loki looked delighted.
Y/N set the box down just inside the doorway. “There.”
Matt lifted it, glancing between them. “Guess I’ll leave you two to it.”
Loki inclined his head. “A wise decision.”
Y/N’s face burned.
Matt took one step away, then paused. “You still have my number, right?”
Y/N stared at him. “For what?”
“In case there’s anything else of mine.”
“There isn’t.”
“Or if you ever…” His eyes flicked toward Loki. “Want to talk.”
Loki’s smile disappeared.
Y/N caught the shift immediately. The amusement drained from his face, replaced by something colder.
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
Matt shrugged, trying too hard to seem casual. “Okay. Whatever.”
Before he could turn away, Loki spoke.
“I assure you, Matthew, she has little reason to seek conversation with you.”
Matt looked at him. “And why’s that?”
Loki’s hand settled once more at the small of Y/N’s back, drawing her against his side.
“Because when she calls for a man from her bed,” he said smoothly, “it is my name she uses.”
Y/N’s entire face burned. “Loki.”
He did not look at her.
Matt shifted the box in his arms. “Right.”
“And should she find herself unable to sleep,” Loki continued, thumb moving slowly against her back, “I am more than capable of occupying her until morning.”
Y/N dug her fingers into his wrist. “That’s enough.”
Loki glanced down at her, full of false innocence. “Is it?”
Matt looked like he regretted coming at all. “Okay. Whatever.”
He started down the walkway.
Loki moved closer to the door. “And Matthew.”
Matt turned.
Loki rested one hand against the frame above Y/N’s head.
“If you discover some further possession you have conveniently forgotten, send another to retrieve it. I would hate for your interruptions to become a recurring inconvenience.”
Matt stared at him. “Is that a threat?”
Loki smiled. “No. Merely a warning that Y/N and I value our privacy. Particularly in the bedroom.”
Y/N grabbed his wrist before he could make it worse. “Bye, Matt.”
She shut the door in his face.
The lock clicked into place.
For several seconds, silence filled the apartment.
Y/N remained facing the door. Loki stood directly behind her. She could practically feel the satisfaction radiating off him.
Slowly, she turned.
He raised one eyebrow. “Your performance lacked commitment.”
Y/N hit him in the arm.
Hard.
Loki looked down at the spot. “What was that for?”
“You know exactly what that was for.”
“I assisted you.”
“You told my ex I call your name from bed.”
“I corrected his misunderstanding.”
“You invented an entirely new misunderstanding.”
“It proved considerably more convincing.”
“You also told him you straighten me out by taking me to bed.”
“I believe my wording was more refined.”
“My point still stands.”
Loki regarded her calmly. “He appeared unconvinced by your initial declaration.”
“I said you were my boyfriend!”
“You said it with all the confidence of someone confessing to theft.”
“I was put on the spot.”
“You looked at me as though praying I might salvage your deception.”
“And you did.”
“Immediately.”
“Then you could’ve stopped after putting your arm around me.”
“He continued questioning you.”
“He would’ve stopped.”
“He did stop.”
“Because you emotionally scarred him.”
Loki looked puzzled. “I merely established that our relationship was intimate.”
“You implied we practically live in my bedroom.”
“I believe I implied considerably more than that.”
“I noticed!”
“And Matthew ceased entertaining the notion that you might welcome his return.”
Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it. “That is not the point.”
“It appears to have been.”
She threw both hands into the air. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet your former lover left under no illusion that you were unavailable.”
Y/N stared at him. “You enjoyed that.”
A slow smile appeared. “I confess, there was a certain satisfaction.”
“I hate you.”
“No.” He said it with such quiet certainty that she blinked. “You are simply embarrassed.”
“I am absolutely embarrassed.”
“You blushed before I made the bedroom remark.”
“I blushed because you kept touching me.”
“You requested that I appear convincing.”
“I did not request psychological warfare.”
“I adapted to the audience.”
“He needed boundaries.”
“Exactly. I provided them.”
“You told him if I can’t sleep, you occupy me until morning.”
Loki tilted his head. “He seemed to understand.”
Y/N buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God.”
When she looked up, Loki was still watching her with maddening composure.
“So,” she said.
“So?”
“If that was your idea of pretending to be someone’s boyfriend…”
“Yes?”
“You’re insane.”
“I have been informed of that before.”
“You overcommitted.”
“I committed appropriately.”
“You committed enough for three relationships.”
His smile widened.
Y/N sighed. “If I ever ask you to help me lie again…”
“You won’t.”
“I won’t.”
“You will recall today’s success.”
“I’ll recall today’s humiliation.”
“The outcome was favorable.”
“I should hit you again.”
“You have already struck me twice.”
“I can make it three.”
“I would advise against it.”
“Why?”
His amusement sharpened into something far more deliberate. “Matthew may still be close enough to hear.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
Loki stepped nearer, not enough to touch her, but enough that she had to tilt her head back.
“I have already established certain expectations.”
“That is not my problem.”
“It becomes your problem if you continue challenging me.”
She pointed a finger at his chest. “Don’t you dare.”
His gaze dropped to her hand, then slowly returned to her face. “Darling,” he murmured, “you have spent the past several minutes insisting I exaggerated.”
“You did.”
“Then perhaps I ought to provide you with a more informed basis for comparison.”
Her finger curled slightly against his shirt.
Loki noticed.
Of course he did.
Y/N recovered quickly and pushed at his chest, though he barely moved. “You’re bluffing.”
“…Am I?”
“Yes.”
His hand settled lightly around her wrist before she could withdraw it. He did not pull her closer. He simply held her there, her palm against his chest, while his thumb moved once over the inside of her wrist.
“You seem remarkably certain.”
“Because you only do this when you know I won’t feed into it.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “And yet you continue standing here.”
“I live here.”
“You could step away.”
“So could you.”
“I have no desire to.”
The answer came too smoothly.
Too quickly.
Y/N’s breath caught despite herself.
Loki leaned closer, his voice lowering. “I told Matthew that taking you to bed improves your disposition.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.” His eyes moved briefly to her mouth. “But I dislike leaving a deception unsupported.”
Heat rushed through her face. Y/N immediately tried to pull her hand free.
Loki let her.
He knew he had won the moment she backed away.
“You’re impossible,” she muttered.
“And you are retreating.”
“I’m not retreating.”
Y/N hit his arm again.
This time, he caught her wrist.
“And that,” she said, “was for leaving.”
The amusement vanished.
Loki’s fingers remained wrapped loosely around her wrist.
Y/N looked down at his hand, then back at him. “You left without saying anything.”
“I had no obligation to announce my departure.”
“No. You didn’t.”
The quiet response seemed to unsettle him more than anger would have.
Y/N pulled her hand free. “I knew you were going to leave eventually. I just thought you might say goodbye first.”
Loki’s jaw tightened. “I believed remaining here served no purpose.”
“And then?”
He looked away.
Y/N waited.
He could have lied. She saw the impulse in his face. Instead, he said, “I reconsidered.”
“Why?”
“Midgard is more inconvenient than anticipated.”
She folded her arms. “That’s your answer?”
“It is true.”
“You came back because Earth is inconvenient?”
“Among other reasons.”
“What other reasons?”
His gaze returned to hers. “You are asking a great many questions for someone who struck me multiple times upon my return.”
“You deserved it.”
“I returned of my own will.”
“After leaving while I was asleep.”
“You were not asleep when I departed.”
“No, I was in bed. There’s a difference.”
“I saw no need to wake you.”
“You didn’t want me to talk you out of it.”
“I would not have been persuaded.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Loki went silent.
Y/N’s expression softened despite herself.
He had returned. That mattered more than the fact that he had left, though she was not ready to make it quite that easy.
“I’m glad you came back,” she said.
His face became carefully blank. “I didn’t return for your approval.”
“I know.”
“Nor because I require your companionship.”
“Sure.”
“I determined that our existing arrangement remains the most practical option.”
“You clean, I give you a couch.”
“Precisely.”
“And groceries.”
“Yes.”
“And books.”
“If you insist.”
Y/N nodded gravely. “Very practical.”
“It is.”
“Nothing emotional about it.”
“None.”
“You just happened to come back and sit beside me while I slept.”
Loki’s eyes narrowed. “I did not sit beside you.”
“You were on the floor.”
“A distinction you acknowledged.”
Y/N smiled.
Loki’s expression became suspicious. “Do not.”
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me as though you believe you have discovered something.”
“I discovered you’re secretly nice.”
“I will leave again.”
“No, you won’t.”
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Loki became still.
Y/N’s smile faded.
Neither spoke.
Then Loki stepped closer. “You appear remarkably certain.”
She should have made a joke.
Instead, she answered honestly. “You came back once.”
Something unreadable moved through his eyes. “You should not assume I will make a habit of it.”
“Then don’t leave.”
His gaze dropped briefly toward her mouth. The movement was so much quicker than the last time, she nearly missed it.
Then his expression shifted back into smug amusement. “But then your former lover may return and discover our earlier claims were false.”
Y/N’s eyes widened. “Don’t start.”
“We have an entire day free, apparently.”
“Loki.”
“He seemed quite persuaded by the prospect.”
“He left because you were making him uncomfortable.”
“As intended.”
“You made me uncomfortable.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Did I?”
She hated how easily he heard the weakness in that sentence.
Y/N pointed toward the kitchen. “Go clean something.”
“I cleaned the entire apartment before leaving.”
“Then do it again.”
“There is nothing to clean.”
“Find something.”
Loki leaned slightly closer. “I was under the impression we had plans.”
Her cheeks heated again. “Not yet.”
She shoved him away by the chest.
Loki laughed.
It was the first time she had heard the sound fully. Not the quiet, smug breath he gave when amused, but an actual laugh. Warm, surprised, and far too pleased with himself.
Y/N hated how happy it made her to hear it.
“You are the worst fake boyfriend I’ve ever had,” she said.
His laughter softened into a grin. “I convinced him.”
“You traumatized him.”
“Then I was exceptionally effective.”
She shook her head and turned toward the kitchen.
Behind her, Loki said, “Y/N.”
She glanced back.
For once, he looked almost hesitant. “I did not intend for my departure to cause you distress.”
It was not an apology.
Not quite.
But from him, it sounded close.
Y/N studied him. “Say sorry and move on from the conversation.”
His mouth tightened.
She waited.
Loki exhaled slowly. “I am sorry.”
The words were quieter than his performance at the door had been.
Y/N smiled. “Thank you.”
“You will not demand that again.”
“We’ll see.”
His expression darkened, but there was no real anger in it.
Y/N continued into the kitchen. “And just so we’re clear, you’re not actually my boyfriend.”
Loki followed her. “No.”
“And we’re not having sex today.”
“I am aware.”
“Or often.”
“Of course.”
“Or ever.”
That made him pause.
Y/N opened the refrigerator and pretended not to notice.
When Loki spoke again, his voice was smooth. “You seem unusually determined to clarify that possibility.”
She kept her head inside the refrigerator. “I’m determining nothing.”
“Then perhaps you ought to stop mentioning it.”
“I’m making sure you understand.”
“I understood the first time.”
“Good.”
“Though your repeated insistence does invite curiosity.”
Y/N shut the refrigerator and turned around. “There is nothing to be curious about.”
Loki stood on the other side of the kitchen, watching her with that infuriating expression. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I sound annoyed.”
“You do.”
“Then stop flirting with me.”
His eyebrows rose. “I was unaware I had begun.”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
His gaze moved over her face with deliberate slowness. “Then why are you still entertaining the conversation?”
“I’m not.”
“You continue answering.”
“Because you won’t stop talking.”
“I could.”
“Please do.”
Loki took one step closer. “But then I would be deprived of watching you pretend not to enjoy this.”
Y/N grabbed the nearest dish towel and threw it at him.
He caught it easily.
“Just clean something.”
Loki looked down at the towel. “You are retreating again.”
“I’m standing in my kitchen.”
“You have placed a counter between us.”
“Strategically.”
His smile returned.
Y/N pointed toward the sink. “Dishes.”
“There are no dishes.”
“Then dirty one and wash it.”
“That seems inefficient.”
“Figure it out.”
She turned away before he could see her smile.
Behind her, Loki’s voice carried through the kitchen, low and amused. “You are remarkably poor at resisting me.”
Y/N opened a cabinet harder than necessary. “You’re not my boyfriend.”
“No.”
“You’re not taking me to bed.”
“Not today, apparently.”
She froze. Then slowly turned her head.
Loki stood drying an already clean cup with the dish towel, looking entirely innocent.
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
He smiled. “Your instructions were to clean something.”
synapse: after discovering henry’s hidden artistic side, y/n asks him to sketch her, leading to a deeply intimate portrait and a lesson in trust she won’t soon forget
a/n: this was requested and honestly…i liked writing this more than i thought…plus i get more likes when i write smut so…thanks pervs…jk im writing this shit so id be a hypocrite, i love you all

. . .
The shower was already running when Y/N woke.
For several seconds, she stayed exactly where she was, eyes closed and cheek pressed into Henry’s pillow, listening to the steady rush of water from the bathroom. Morning light filtered through the curtains in pale stripes, catching on the rumpled sheets and the trail of clothes they had abandoned across the room sometime after returning from the bar.
Her head felt pleasantly heavy rather than painful.
Her body, however, had several opinions about the night before.
Y/N shifted beneath the blankets and immediately became aware that she was naked.
That, on its own, wasn’t particularly surprising.
The marks were.
She pushed herself upright, letting the sheet fall to her waist, and looked down. Faint bruises and darker hickeys scattered across her collarbone, breasts and the curve of one shoulder. Another sat low near her hip, half hidden by the blanket.
Y/N touched the one nearest her throat and smiled despite herself.
The shower continued behind the closed bathroom door.
Henry had apparently decided to let her sleep.
She leaned over the edge of the bed, searching for something to wear, but the nearest article of clothing was one of his socks and her dress was still somewhere near the door. Her jacket had been draped over a chair, and her underwear had somehow ended up beside the nightstand.
Y/N reached for Henry’s shirt instead.
As she pulled it on, something dark beneath the chair caught her attention.
The small leather notebook.
She went still.
Henry had tucked it partly beneath his satchel, as though he had meant to put it away properly and then become distracted. She recognized it immediately from the beach, the notebook he had closed the moment she tried to see what he was doing.
Not yet.
That had been his answer when she asked to look.
Y/N glanced toward the bathroom. The water was still running. She should leave it alone. She knew that. Henry had asked her not to read it yet, and despite her occasional disregard for rules, she understood the difference between playful secrecy and an actual boundary.
She stared at the notebook for another few seconds. Then reached down and picked it up. “This is terrible,” she whispered.
The leather was soft from use, the edges slightly worn. There was no name on the cover, no label suggesting it held anything important.
Y/N sat cross-legged against the headboard and opened it carefully.
The first few pages contained notes.
Fragments of sentences. Quotations. Observations written in Henry’s precise handwriting. A list of books he meant to reread. A description of the ocean in winter. Several lines about a student in one of his classes who apparently misunderstood symbolism with such confidence that Henry had written, There is something almost admirable in being this wrong.
Y/N covered her mouth to smother a laugh.
Then the sketches began. A coffee cup abandoned beside an open book. A pair of hands folded in someone’s lap.
The corner of a classroom with afternoon light stretching across empty desks.
A tree outside his apartment window, its branches bare and angular.
They weren’t perfect in the polished, trained sense. Some lines had been redrawn several times, shadows smudged by the side of his hand. But they were thoughtful. Patient. He noticed the same details on paper that he noticed in people.
Y/N turned another page.
A woman sat at a desk with her head bent over a notebook, hair falling forward as she wrote. Her face wasn’t visible.
Y/N recognized herself anyway.
On the next page, the same woman stood beside a window, one hand holding a mug near her mouth. Another showed only the curve of her cheek and the loose shape of her hair against a pillow.
There were more.
Her legs tucked beneath her on Henry’s couch.
Her hand resting over an open book.
The back of her head in the passenger seat of his car.
A quick sketch of her laughing, mouth open and eyes nearly closed.
Some were unfinished. Some were only a collection of lines suggesting her shape. Several had no face at all, as though he had captured her from memory rather than while she sat in front of him.
Then she found the beach.
Y/N stopped turning pages.
There she was, seated with her knees drawn toward her chest, hair being carried sideways by the wind while the sunset stretched behind her. He had made the horizon only a few soft lines, leaving most of the detail for her. In the lower corner, he had written the date.
June 21, 1987. Beneath it, in smaller letters: The Golden Hour.
Y/N’s expression softened.
She traced the edge of the page without touching the drawing itself.
The bathroom door opened.
She looked up.
Henry stepped into the room with a towel secured around his waist, another in his hands as he dried his hair. Steam followed him through the doorway. He saw the notebook immediately. His hands stopped.
Y/N froze with one finger still holding the page open.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Henry lowered the towel. “I asked you not to read that.”
There was no anger in his voice.
That somehow made the guilt worse. Y/N closed the notebook halfway. “I know.”
“And you decided to anyway.”
“I was curious.”
“I gathered.”
She looked down at the cover. “I’m sorry.”
Henry remained near the bathroom door, studying her carefully.
Y/N didn’t attempt to make a joke or defend herself. “You said not yet. I should’ve listened.”
The tension in his face eased slightly, though he still looked disappointed. “You should have.”
“I know.”
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath him, but he didn’t reach for the notebook.
Y/N held it out. “I didn’t read everything.”
“That isn’t particularly reassuring.”
“I stopped when you came out.”
His eyebrow lifted.
She winced. “That sounded worse.”
“It did.”
Henry finally took the notebook from her, closing it fully before resting it against his knee.
Y/N watched his thumb move over the worn leather. “How long have you done this?”
“Sketched?”
She nodded.
“Since I was young.”
“I’ve known you for almost a year…”
“Ten months.”
“Ten months,” she repeated. “And you never once mentioned that you draw.”
“It didn’t seem important.”
“There are entire pages of me.”
Henry looked toward the notebook instead of her. “You’re often nearby.”
“That isn’t why.”
His silence confirmed it.
Y/N leaned closer, Henry’s shirt slipping slightly from one shoulder. “You draw me when I’m not looking.”
“Usually.”
“Why?”
He considered the question before answering. “Because you’re different when you don’t know you’re being observed.”
Her expression softened. “Different how?”
“Quieter.”
“That’s rude.”
“It wasn’t criticism.”
She waited.
Henry looked at her then. “You stop performing.”
Y/N’s smile faded into something more vulnerable.
He continued carefully. “You aren’t trying to make anyone laugh. You aren’t anticipating what they expect from you. You simply exist.”
Her gaze dropped to the notebook in his hands. “And that’s how you see me?”
“It’s one way.”
She reached toward the cover but stopped short of touching it. “The beach drawing was beautiful.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You reached that page?”
“I did.”
“That was the one I intended to show you eventually.”
“When?”
“I hadn’t decided.”
“When I was older?”
“That was the working plan.”
She let out a sigh. “I’m sorry.”
Henry looked at her for another moment, then placed the notebook beside him. “I know.”
It wasn’t forgiveness exactly, but it was close enough that she let out a breath.
Her attention shifted back to the sketches. “Do you only draw?”
“No.”
“There’s more?”
“I paint occasionally.”
Y/N stared at him. “You paint?”
“Sometimes.”
“With actual paint?”
Henry gave her a dry look. “That is generally how it’s done.”
“You have secret artistic talents.”
“They aren’t secret.”
“I didn’t know about them.”
“You never asked whether I painted.”
“Because normal people volunteer information like that.”
“Do they?”
“Yes. They say things like, ‘I teach literature, I’m emotionally unavailable, and sometimes I paint.’”
Henry’s mouth twitched. “I’ve never described myself that way.”
“You should. It’s more you.”
He reached out and adjusted the open collar of his shirt where it had slipped from her shoulder, though the movement only exposed another mark along her neck. His eyes settled on it.
Y/N caught him looking. “You did that.”
“I’m aware.”
“You left evidence everywhere.”
“You weren’t objecting last night.”
“I was drunk.”
“Not that drunk.”
She smiled slowly. “No. Not that drunk.”
Henry’s hand lingered near her collarbone before he drew it away.
Y/N looked at the notebook again.
Then at him.
“Sketch me.”
He studied her face. “I already do.”
“No.” She shifted, sitting a little straighter. “Properly.”
“What does properly mean?”
She held his gaze. “Nude.”
Henry went very still. The shower continued dripping faintly behind him, water striking tile at irregular intervals. “You want me to draw you nude?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see myself the way you see me.”
Something in his expression changed.
The request had clearly caught his attention, but he didn’t immediately accept. His gaze moved over her, not hungrily, despite the marks and the shirt covering almost nothing, but thoughtfully.
“You understand it would require sitting still.”
“I can sit still.”
“You can’t finish a cup of coffee without changing positions four times.”
“…I’ll be motivated.”
“It could take an hour.”
“I’ll survive.”
Henry leaned one hand against the mattress. “And you won’t become uncomfortable knowing I’m studying you?”
Y/N smiled softly. “You already know every inch of me.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No,” she agreed. “It’s more intimate.”
Henry held her gaze.
She could almost see him weighing the idea, separating desire from trust, deciding whether she was asking because she genuinely wanted it or because the novelty appealed to her.
Y/N reached for his hand and placed it against her bare knee. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Will you?”
His thumb moved once over her skin. “Later.”
Her face brightened. “Today?”
“This afternoon.”
“Here?”
“If the light is good.”
Y/N glanced toward the windows. “You sound like an actual artist.”
“I warned you it would take time.”
“I’ll pose beautifully.”
“You’ll complain after ten minutes.”
“Fifteen.”
“Generous.”
She leaned in and kissed him, smiling against his mouth. “You’ll make me look pretty.”
Henry pulled back just enough to look at her. “That won’t require much effort.”
For once, Y/N didn’t answer with a joke. She simply smiled, softer than before, and rested her forehead against his.
The notebook remained closed beside them.
But the promise of a new page waited between them for later.
. . .
By the time they returned to the inn, the afternoon light had turned soft and golden, spilling through the windows in long warm stripes.
Y/N disappeared into the bathroom almost immediately, announcing that she needed to wash the salt from her skin and fix whatever the wind had done to her hair.
Henry waited until the door closed behind her.
Then he opened his satchel.
The preparation was far more deliberate than she probably expected.
He removed the smaller notebook first and set it aside, followed by several larger sheets of heavy drawing paper that had been protected between two thin boards. Beneath them was a narrow wooden case containing pencils arranged by softness, each worn to a different length through years of use.
There were charcoal sticks wrapped in paper, a kneaded eraser, a small sharpener and several paintbrushes tied together with a strip of faded cloth.
Henry laid everything across the desk with quiet care.
The brushes were older than most of the supplies, their wooden handles stained near the metal from repeated use. He ran his thumb over the bristles of one before setting it down beside a small travel tin of graphite and watercolors.
He had packed them without expecting to use them.
Or perhaps with the private hope that he might.
The light near the bed wasn’t quite right.
Henry crossed the room and pulled the curtains farther apart, allowing the afternoon sun to spill more fully across the floor. He moved the chair near the window, shifted the small table several inches and turned one of the lamps away so its shade wouldn’t cast a sharp shadow over the mattress.
Then he stood back and assessed the room.
The bed would work. The sheets were pale enough to reflect the light, and the wall behind it was plain, leaving nothing to compete with her shape.
He removed his jacket, folded it over the back of the chair and rolled his sleeves neatly to his elbows. By the time the bathroom door opened, he was seated with one ankle resting over the opposite knee, a sheet of paper secured against a drawing board in his lap.
Y/N stepped into the room wearing nothing but the inn’s white robe.
Her hair was still slightly damp, falling loose around her shoulders, and the robe had been tied carelessly enough that one side had already begun to slip lower than the other.
She stopped when she saw the room.
The furniture had been rearranged. Henry’s supplies were spread neatly across the desk. The curtains had been opened wide enough that the bed looked almost staged beneath the warm afternoon light.
Y/N glanced from the paper to the pencils, then finally to Henry. “You were serious.”
“I told you I was.”
“I thought you owned one pencil and that little notebook.”
“That would make larger work difficult.”
She crossed farther into the room, examining the brushes. “You brought paint on vacation?”
“I brought options.”
“Were you planning to secretly paint landscapes while I slept?”
“I hadn’t ruled it out.”
Y/N picked up one of the brushes and studied it before placing it exactly where she had found it. “You look very professional.”
Henry watched her instead of answering.
The robe was slipping again. She noticed where his eyes had settled and smiled. “Should I stand somewhere?”
“Not yet.”
“Do I get instructions?”
“Several.”
“That sounds promising.”
Henry’s mouth moved faintly, though his expression remained focused. “The light is best on the bed.”
Y/N turned toward it. “Of course it is.”
“You requested this.”
“I’m not complaining.”
She reached for the belt of the robe.
Henry’s gaze followed the movement.
Y/N untied it slowly, not as a performance, though she was fully aware he was watching. The fabric parted, revealing her in pieces before she pushed it from her shoulders and allowed it to drop around her feet.
She stood naked in the afternoon light.
Henry said nothing. The pencil remained motionless between his fingers.
Y/N had seen him look at her with desire before. She knew the intensity of his attention when they were alone, knew the weight of his gaze when he wanted her. This was different. He looked at her as though she were already something on the page.
His attention moved slowly from the damp ends of her hair to the curve of her shoulders, the marks still fading along her collarbone and the natural line of her waist. He didn’t rush. He seemed to be memorizing where the light touched her and where it softened into shadow.
Y/N shifted beneath the attention, suddenly more self-conscious than she had expected. “You’re staring.”
“I need to.”
“That doesn’t make it less intimidating.”
Henry adjusted the paper against his knee and crossed one leg over the other. “Lie back.”
The calm instruction sent a quiet warmth through her.
Y/N stepped out of the fallen robe and climbed onto the bed, settling against the pillows. “Like this?”
Henry studied her position. “Not quite.”
She rested on her back, one arm beside her and the other across her stomach. “That helpful?”
“Move your left arm above your head.”
She did.
“Comfortable?”
“So far.”
“Turn slightly toward the window.”
Y/N shifted onto one hip.
Henry’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “Too far. Come back a little.”
She adjusted again. “Here?”
“Stay.”
He leaned forward, looking at her from a slightly different angle.
Y/N fought the urge to fidget.
Henry pointed gently with the end of his pencil. “Bend your right knee.”
She drew it upward, allowing the other leg to remain extended along the sheets.
“Let it fall outward slightly.”
Her knee lowered toward the mattress.
Henry was silent again.
The pose left her open without feeling deliberately provocative, her body resting naturally against the rumpled sheets while one arm framed her face. Her damp hair spread over the pillow, and the sunlight fell across the length of her torso before fading near her legs.
Henry looked at the arrangement for another long moment.
Then he stood.
Y/N watched him approach. “Did I already fail?”
“You’re too tense.”
“I’m lying naked while you study me.”
“I noticed.”
He stopped beside the bed and gently adjusted the angle of her wrist, allowing her hand to rest more loosely above her head. His fingers moved to her other arm, lifting it away from her stomach and placing it along her side. “Don’t hide yourself.”
Y/N looked up at him. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“You were doing it instinctively.”
His voice held no judgment.
Henry moved one strand of hair away from her mouth and spread it more naturally over the pillow. Then he stepped back and returned to the chair.
Y/N exhaled slowly, allowing her muscles to loosen into the mattress. “Better?”
“Much.”
“You sound pleased.”
“I am.”
He chose a pencil from the wooden case, sharpened it once over the small wastebasket and placed the point against the paper.
The first marks were light.
Henry began with the line of her body rather than her face, blocking in the angle of her shoulders, the bend of her knee and the length of her resting leg. His hand moved with a confidence she had never seen from him before, pausing only when he looked up to compare the page with the woman before him.
Y/N watched him for the first several minutes.
His brow drew together slightly whenever he concentrated. He occasionally adjusted his glasses with the back of his wrist rather than removing his hand from the pencil. Every few strokes, he changed the pressure, deepening one line while leaving another almost invisible.
“You’ve done this before,” she said.
Henry’s eyes remained on the paper. “I told you I had.”
“I thought you meant flowers. Buildings. Tragic trees.”
“I’ve drawn people.”
“Women?”
His pencil paused.
Y/N smiled faintly. “That pause answered me.”
“I took figure-drawing classes when I was younger.”
“Were they naked?”
“That is generally what figure drawing involves.”
She tried not to react.
Henry looked up. “Are you jealous of models I drew more than a decade ago?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m curious.”
“You’re jealous.”
Y/N turned her face toward the window. “Keep drawing.”
The corner of his mouth lifted before he returned to the page. “Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You just moved your head.”
“You accused me of jealousy.”
“And you proved the accusation by changing the pose.”
She returned her face to its previous angle, though she could no longer hide her smile. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’m enjoying several aspects of it.”
The words were mild. The look that followed was not.
Y/N felt warmth spread beneath her skin and forced herself to remain where he had placed her.
Henry continued sketching.
The room settled into a quiet rhythm: pencil moving over paper, waves beyond the window, the occasional rustle of sheets whenever Y/N breathed too deeply or resisted another urge to shift.
After several minutes, she asked, “What are you drawing first?”
“The whole figure.”
“And then?”
“Details.”
“My face?”
“Eventually.”
“My hickeys?”
Henry glanced at the marks near her collarbone. “They’re part of you today.”
“You sound like you’re documenting a historical event.”
“In a sense, I am.”
She looked at him more carefully. “You’re going to date it.”
“I date most of my work.”
“And title it?”
“Perhaps.”
“What are you going to call this one?”
Henry lowered his gaze to the page. “I haven’t decided.”
Y/N smiled. “The Star Student.”
“No.”
“Afternoon Study.”
“No.”
“Professor’s Favorite.”
His pencil stopped again.
She grinned.
Henry looked over the top of his glasses. “You’ll have to remain still considerably longer if you keep interrupting.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fact.”
Y/N settled deeper into the pillows, pleased with herself. “I’ll behave.”
“I doubt that.”
But he resumed drawing, his expression softening as the lines before him slowly became her.
Not a perfected version. Not the carefully arranged woman printed on the costume package or some imagined ideal.
Her.
The slight softness of her stomach where it relaxed against the sheets. The faint pressure marks left by the pillow beneath her shoulder. The dark traces of the night before fading across her skin. The way one foot naturally curved inward when she wasn’t thinking about it.
Henry captured each detail without apology.
Y/N watched him until her eyes began to grow heavy beneath the warmth of the room.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he said quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You closed your eyes.”
“I was resting them.”
“Keep them open.”
She opened them and found him watching her. For a moment, the pencil remained still.
Y/N smiled softly. “Like this?”
Henry’s gaze stayed on her face before lowering to the page once more.
“Exactly like that.”
Henry continued working in silence, the pencil moving in soft, controlled strokes while the afternoon light shifted almost imperceptibly across the bed.
Y/N tried to remain exactly as he had positioned her. She really did. But the room was warm, the sheets were comfortable, and the steady scrape of graphite against paper had begun to lull her into the same heavy calm she felt whenever Henry read beside her.
Her eyelids lowered.
“Don’t fall asleep.”
“I’m not asleep,” she murmured without opening them.
“You’re drifting.”
“I’m posing peacefully.”
“You’re losing the expression.”
That made one eye open. “What expression?”
Henry glanced up from the paper. “The one I want.”
“That is incredibly vague.”
“You know the one.”
“I really don’t.”
He studied her face, waiting as though she might understand if given another moment.
She didn’t. Y/N lifted her brows. “Are you going to explain, or am I supposed to read your mind?”
Henry adjusted the drawing board against his leg. He looked entirely composed when he answered, his voice as blunt and matter-of-fact as though he were correcting her posture.
“The expression you give me when you want me to fuck you.”
Y/N went completely still. For one long second, even her breathing seemed to stop.
Henry held her gaze without the slightest hint of embarrassment.
“You could have said that less shamelessly,” she said softly.
“I could have.”
“But you chose not to.”
“It was the clearest description.”
Heat crept across her face despite the fact that she was already lying naked in front of him.
Henry lowered his eyes to the paper again. “You asked.”
“I asked what expression you meant. I didn’t expect—”
“Y/N.”
She stopped.
His pencil waited above the page. “Give me the expression.”
The instruction settled between them, quiet and unhurried. Y/N looked at him. Not at the sketchbook or the pencils arranged beside him. At him.
She let her body relax into the mattress again, her bent knee falling a little more naturally outward. Her eyes softened, though her attention remained fixed on his face. The faint amusement in her expression faded into something slower and warmer, her lips parting just enough to change the entire mood of the pose.
It was the look she gave him from across his desk when she wanted him distracted. The look she gave him from his bed when she was pretending not to ask for anything. The look that always said she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
Henry’s gaze sharpened. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That expression.”
The pencil touched the paper again.
Y/N maintained it as long as she could, though the awareness of being studied made it far more difficult now. Henry’s attention moved repeatedly between her face and the drawing, capturing the slight heaviness of her eyes, the looseness of her mouth and whatever else he saw there that she could never see in herself.
“You’re very demanding when you draw,” she murmured.
“You asked me to do this properly.”
“I didn’t realize properly involved being verbally attacked.”
“You recovered.”
“Barely.”
Henry continued shading the line beneath her cheekbone. “Hold still.”
She obeyed, though her mouth threatened to curve into a smile.
Several more minutes passed.
The mood in the room had changed without either of them moving closer. It no longer felt like simple observation. The look he had asked for lingered between them, and every time he lifted his eyes from the paper, Y/N felt it deepen.
She eventually broke the silence. “Are you going to let me see it when you finish?”
“Perhaps.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“You weren’t supposed to see the others.”
The reminder pulled a little of the playfulness from her expression. “I apologized.”
“You did.”
“And you forgave me.”
“I accepted the apology.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly. “That sounds ominously specific.”
Henry changed pencils, selecting one with a softer point. “I still plan to punish you for looking through my notebook without permission.”
Her breath caught. He said it without looking at her. Without explaining what he meant.
His attention remained fixed on the page as he deepened a shadow near the bend of her waist, his expression calm enough to make the words feel even more deliberate.
Y/N watched him carefully. “Punish me how?”
Henry said nothing.
The pencil continued moving.
“Henry.”
He looked up only long enough to assess her position. “Your shoulder moved.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
“Are you going to give me one?”
“No.”
There was no cruelty in his voice, only certainty.
Y/N stared at him, trying to read something in his face, but he had already returned his full attention to the drawing. Whatever he was planning, he had no intention of satisfying her curiosity now.
The silence stretched.
Graphite whispered over paper.
Outside, the ocean moved steadily beyond the window.
Y/N remained where he had placed her, no longer remotely sleepy, holding the expression he had asked for while Henry calmly sketched every detail and left the promise of punishment hanging unanswered in the warm afternoon air.
. . .
Henry worked for several minutes after Y/N assumed he must have finished. The final changes were almost imperceptible: a darker line beneath her hair, the faintest shadow near her waist, a softened edge where the afternoon light dissolved into the sheets. At last, his pencil stopped.
He studied the page one final time before setting the drawing board carefully on the desk, well beyond the reach of careless hands.
Y/N let out the breath she felt as though she had been holding for an hour. "Am I released?"
"For the moment."
"That sounds suspicious." She lowered her arm from above her head and pushed herself upright, stretching the stiffness from her shoulders. Her feet had barely reached the edge of the mattress when Henry crossed the distance between them.
One hand closed around her hip. He pushed her back against the bed.
Y/N landed among the pillows with a startled breath, her damp hair spreading around her as Henry braced one hand beside her head. The quiet concentration he had worn while sketching was gone.
His gaze had darkened.
When he spoke, his voice dropped several octaves-low, controlled and unmistakably possessive. The voice he reserved for locked doors and whispered instructions. Y/N knew it instantly.
"Did you think I was going to let you go that easily?"
Her pulse stumbled. "You finished the drawing."
"I did."
"So technically-"
"That was not your punishment."
The last of her teasing caught in her throat.
Henry's hand tightened at her waist, keeping her where he had put her. "You went through something private after I asked you not to."
"I said I was sorry."
"You did."
"And you forgave me."
"I accepted your apology." His gaze moved slowly over her face. "That does not mean I forgot."
Y/N swallowed, trying to hold onto the last of her bravado. "You were very calm about it earlier."
"I was drawing."
"And now?"
Henry leaned closer until his breath brushed her mouth. "Now I'm finished."
The answer sent a shiver through her.
She curled her fingers into the front of his shirt, partly to pull him nearer and partly because she needed something to hold onto. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm enjoying the fact that you finally understand I was serious."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the drawing on the desk. "Am I at least allowed to see it first?"
"No."
"Henry-"
"You've already looked at enough things that weren't offered to you.”
The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself.
"That was almost clever."
"Almost?"
Y/N smiled up at him. "You're usually sharper than that."
His gaze darkened further, though the faintest trace of amusement moved at the corner of his mouth. "And you're still testing me."
"Maybe I want to see how serious you are."
Henry's hand slid from her waist to her wrist, pressing it gently but firmly into the mattress beside her head. "You already know."
Her breath caught, but she didn't look away.
"That expression again," he murmured.
"What expression?"
"The one you gave me while I was drawing you."
Y/N's smile softened into something slower, more deliberate. "This one?"
Henry held her gaze for a beat before lowering his mouth close to hers. "Exactly."
The last thread of Henry's restraint gave way.
He kissed her roughly, swallowing the startled sound that escaped her as his hand tightened at her waist.
The careful distance he had maintained while drawing her disappeared completely, replaced by the possessive certainty she had been provoking since the moment she opened his notebook.
Y/N dragged him closer, arching beneath him as the drawing, the open curtains and the forgotten afternoon ceased to matter.
Henry's mouth left hers only long enough for his voice to fall against her skin. "Next time I ask you to wait," he murmured,
"you wait."
Henry's words hung in the air between them, a command wrapped in the low rumble of his voice.
Y/N's fingers trembled against his chest.
She knew that tone. Knew what it meant when his voice dropped like that, when the last trace of the professor, the artist, the patient lover faded into something rawer.
Before she could respond, Henry's mouth claimed hers again.
This kiss was different from the one before. Slower. More deliberate. His tongue swept across her lower lip before he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "Don't move."
He said it simply, as if the matter were already settled, and then he pushed himself off the bed.
Y/N watched him cross to the desk.
Her breath came shallow as she tracked his movements, the way his fingers brushed past the drawing, past his notebook, settling instead on the paintbrush she had noticed earlier. The one with the long, smooth wooden handle. The one he used for detail work.
Her stomach tightened.
He turned back, holding it loosely between his fingers, and the sight of it in his hand sent a rush of heat through her that she hadn't expected.
When he reached the bed again, he didn't climb on immediately. Instead, he stood at the edge, looking down at her with that dark, focused gaze.
"The headboard."
Y/N blinked. "What?"
"Both hands." His voice was quiet, unhurried. "Reach up and hold the slats. You're not allowed to touch me."
Her pulse hammered. "Henry—"
"Y/N." He said her name gently, but the weight behind it left no room for argument. "If you want to find out how serious I am, that's how this works. You hold on. You don't move your hands. And you don't touch me."
She held his gaze for a long moment.
Then slowly, deliberately, she reached up and curled her fingers around the wooden slats of the headboard.
Something in Henry's expression shifted. Approval. Hunger. A flicker of something darker that made her thighs press together.
"Good girl."
He lowered himself onto the bed, settling between her spread legs, the paintbrush still in his hand. He didn't rush. He dragged the tip of the wooden handle down her sternum, over her ribs, across the soft curve of her stomach, following the path his pencil had traced such a short time ago.
The wood was smooth. Cool. Unfamiliar.
Y/N's breath caught.
His gaze lifted to hers. "Tell me if it's too much."
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Henry lowered his hand, and she felt the blunt tip of the brush press against her inner thigh. A slow, unhurried stroke up her skin. Another. Closer.
When the wood finally touched her, sliding through the wetness he had drawn from her earlier, Y/N gasped.
It was nothing like his fingers. Nothing like his mouth. The brush was smooth and unyielding, an object that carried no warmth, no hesitation. It was just hard wood and her own slick heat, and the contrast made her hips twitch involuntarily.
"Look at you," Henry murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He dragged the brush slowly upward, parting her folds with a precision that made her ache. "Taking something so foreign so easily."
She wanted to say something. To deflect with a quip or a tease.
But he pressed the wooden handle deeper, and the words dissolved into a sharp, trembling exhale.
Her grip on the headboard tightened.
He moved the brush in slow, shallow circles, watching her face the entire time. Watching her lips part. Watching her chest rise and fall. Watching the way her knuckles went white against the slats.
"You're beautiful like this." His voice was low, almost reverent. "Spread open for me. Holding on. Taking whatever I give you."
Y/N bit her lip.
The wood pushed deeper, and she felt herself stretch around it in a way that was strange and unfamiliar and undeniably good. Her hips rolled instinctively, seeking more pressure, more depth.
Henry gave it to her.
Slowly. Deliberately. He fucked her with the brush in long, measured strokes, the wooden handle sliding in and out of her with a wet sound that filled the quiet room. The angle shifted each time he withdrew, each time he pushed back in, finding new places inside her that made her gasp.
Her thighs trembled.
The brush was harder, smoother, and the lack of sensation in it, the fact that it couldn't feel her, made her hyperaware of every inch of it inside her.
Her breathing turned ragged.
"Please," she heard herself say, the word escaping before she could stop it. "Henry, I—"
"I know."
He didn't speed up. Didn't change the rhythm.
He kept the pace exactly where it was, slow, deep, relentless. The brush slid into her again and again, and the wooden handle grew slick with her, catching the afternoon light as he worked it in and out of her body.
Y/N's head fell back.
The heat coiled low in her belly, building with each stroke, each rotation of his wrist. She felt herself climbing toward something bright and inevitable, her muscles clenching around the smooth wood, her hips lifting to meet each thrust.
"Almost," she gasped. "Henry, I'm—"
He stopped.
The brush slid out of her in one smooth motion, leaving her empty and clenching around nothing.
Y/N's eyes flew open.
Henry sat back, the paintbrush held loosely in his fingers, slick with her. His gaze was dark, patient, utterly in control.
"I didn't say you could come."
The cuffs came from somewhere she hadn't seen him reach.
The leather was smooth against her wrists, dark red, almost black in the dimming light. Padded on the inside. Small silver buckles that caught the afternoon glow as Henry fastened each one with deliberate care. The connecting strap between them was short. Her hands, still gripping the headboard slats, were now bound to them.
Y/N tested the restraint instinctively. The leather held firm.
Henry's fingers brushed her cheek before the blindfold descended, soft fabric, dark silk, pressed gently over her eyes and tied at the back of her head.
The world vanished.
Her breath quickened.
"Can you see anything?" His voice came from somewhere above her, calm and quiet.
"No."
"Good."
The bed dipped as he moved. She heard the soft thud of something being set down, the rustle of fabric, and then she felt his hands on her body.
He didn't speak. He touched her the way he had drawn her earlier, slowly, deliberately, as if memorizing every inch by feel alone. His fingers traced her collarbone. The curve of her ribs. The sensitive dip of her waist.
She flinched when he reached her hip.
He didn't stop.
The touch continued downward, over her thigh, her knee, her calf. When he reached her ankle, he lifted her leg and bent it, positioning her foot flat against the mattress. Then her other leg, arranged the same way.
She was spread open for him, sightless and bound, unable to see what he was doing or where he would touch her next.
The anticipation made her ache.
Something cold settled against her throat. Metal.
Y/N's breath caught as Henry fastened the collar around her neck. She remembered seeing the collar when they went to the misleading Cape Cod “toy store”.
She felt him tug the ring gently, testing the connection, and the collar pressed against her throat in response.
"Breathe," he murmured.
She hadn't realized she'd stopped.
The leather of the cuffs creaked as she adjusted her grip on the headboard. The blindfold pressed warm against her eyes. The collar sat heavy around her neck, and the ring at its center felt like a handle waiting to be used.
Henry's hands left her. She heard the unmistakable sound of his belt unbuckling. The rasp of his zipper. The soft thud of his pants hitting the floor.
Then the bed shifted again, and she felt the warmth of him settling above her chest.
His skin against her breasts. The weight of him.
"Open your mouth."
She did.
The head of his cock touched her lips, and she understood.
He guided himself between her breasts, sliding through the slick heat of her skin, and the angle brought him to her mouth with each thrust. She parted her lips, let the tip brush against her tongue, tasted herself on him from earlier.
His hand found the ring at her throat. He pulled. The collar tightened, pressing against her windpipe, a brief, sharp pressure that made her gasp and clench around nothing.
"Don't move."
She hadn't been moving.
But she understood now. The ring wasn't just for decoration. It was a leash. A reminder. A way to correct her without a single word.
He thrust again, slow and deep between her breasts, and the head of his cock slid across her tongue. She licked him, tasted him, felt the tremor run through his thighs.
The ring tightened again.
This time she had been moving, just slightly, just enough to press her tongue against him. The correction was immediate.
She went still.
"Good."
He set a rhythm. Slow, deliberate strokes between her breasts, each one ending with the head of his cock brushing her lips, her tongue, the heat of her mouth. The ring at her throat tightened whenever she forgot herself, whenever she arched her back, whenever her hips shifted, whenever she tried to meet his movement with any of her own.
Each correction made her wetter.
The leather bit into her wrists. The blindfold trapped her in darkness. The collar marked her as his. And she lay there, spread open, bound, blind, taking him between her breasts and into her mouth whenever he chose to give it.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice strained. "So perfect like this. Taking what I give you. Not asking for anything."
She wanted to ask. Wanted to beg.
But she held still.
His rhythm quickened. His breathing grew heavier. The hand on the ring pulled tighter, and she felt him pulse against her tongue, felt the heat building in him, the tension coiling—
He pulled back.
The absence of him was sudden and complete.
She heard him breathe above her, felt the bed shift as he moved. Then his voice, low and rough, close to her ear: "Tell me what you want."
Her throat was dry. "I want you to fuck me."
"Ask properly."
She swallowed. The leather pressed against her wrists. The collar sat heavy around her neck. "Please. Henry. Please fuck me."
He didn't answer immediately.
She felt his hand slide down her stomach, between her legs. Two fingers slipped inside her without warning, and she gasped at the sudden fullness.
"You're soaked."
"Yes."
He withdrew his fingers, and she heard him bring them to his mouth.
"I want to hear you say it again."
"Please, Henry. Please fuck me."
The head of his cock pressed against her entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling her with a deliberate, torturous patience that made her thighs tremble.
He bottomed out and held still. "Again."
"Please. Please fuck me, Henry. I need you to—"
He started moving.
The rhythm was punishing from the first stroke. Deep and hard, each thrust driving the air from her lungs, the headboard creaking above her bound wrists. The ring at her throat swayed with every impact, brushing against her skin, reminding her of everything she couldn't do.
She couldn't touch him. Couldn't see him. Couldn't move her hands. She could only lie there, spread open, bound, blind, and take everything he gave her.
The heat built fast. Her hips tried to rise, tried to meet his thrusts, but the cuffs held her in place. She was pinned, helpless, completely at his mercy.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, Henry, I'm close—"
He slowed.
Just enough to keep her teetering on the edge, just enough to make her desperate.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me—take these off—I want to hold you—"
His thrusts didn't stop.
"Please, Henry. Please. I just want to touch you. I want to feel you. Please take the blindfold off. Please let me—"
"No."
The word was gentle. Final.
"This is your punishment."
He drove into her harder, faster, and the heat in her belly coiled tighter, brighter, building toward something she couldn't stop.
"Henry—"
"You’re lucky I’m even letting you come."
That sentence in his voice broke her.
She came with a cry that was half sob, her body arching against the cuffs, her legs trembling around his hips. The pleasure tore through her, wave after wave, and she felt him follow, felt him pulse inside her, felt his weight press down as he groaned against her throat.
He stayed there, breathing hard, the ring of the collar cool against his lips.
After a long moment, he reached up and loosened the strap. The blindfold slipped free.
She blinked against the light, her vision blurry, her wrists still bound, her body still trembling.
Henry's face swam into focus above her.
He was still inside her. Still watching her with that dark, possessive gaze.
"Good girl."
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and almost tender, and then he reached for the buckles at her wrists.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and almost tender, and then reached for the buckles at her wrists.
The leather loosened one cuff at a time. Henry eased them away carefully, watching her face for any flicker of discomfort before setting them on the nightstand. His thumbs moved over the faint impressions left around her wrists, massaging warmth back into the skin.
Y/N exhaled shakily and let her arms fall against the sheets. “I think you made your point.”
“I intended to.”
His voice had lost its earlier severity. What remained was lower, quieter, the private tenderness that always followed when he had finished demanding something from her.
She watched him unfasten the cuffs at her ankles next. “Am I forgiven?”
Henry paused with one hand around her calf. “You apologized before.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
He lifted his gaze to hers. The darkness in it had softened, replaced by something more thoughtful.
“Yes,” he said at last. “You’re forgiven.”
Y/N relaxed visibly into the mattress. “Completely?”
“Provided you don’t mistake forgiveness for permission to do it again.”
“I won’t.”
Henry gave her a look.
She amended, “I’ll try very hard not to.”
“That was nearly convincing.”
“I mean it.” Her expression turned more serious as she reached for him. “I shouldn’t have opened it after you asked me not to. Even if I loved what I found.”
Henry let her draw him closer until he sat beside her, one hand braced near her hip. “Curiosity isn’t an excuse.”
“I know.”
“And if there is something I’m not ready to show you—”
“I wait.”
His thumb brushed across the inside of her wrist. “You wait.”
Y/N nodded, then turned her hand over and caught his fingers in hers. For several seconds, she simply looked at him.
His hair had fallen out of place. His breathing had only just begun to steady, and the severe control he carried so naturally had been stripped down into something far more human.
Something that belonged only to her.
“I love you,” she said.
The words were quiet, without teasing or expectation.
Henry’s expression shifted. His fingers tightened around hers before he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I love you too.”
She smiled tiredly. “Even when I’m nosy?”
“Despite an extensive list of character flaws.”
“That sounded less romantic than mine.”
“I’m tired.”
“Excuses.”
Henry’s mouth curved as he leaned down and kissed her, gentler this time. “Stay there.”
Y/N looked around at the tangled sheets. “I wasn’t planning an escape.”
He stood and crossed toward the desk.
The drawing remained where he had left it, protected beneath a clean sheet of paper. Henry hesitated before lifting the cover, his back turned toward her as he studied it again.
Y/N pushed herself upright against the pillows, pulling part of the sheet over herself. “Are you finally letting me see it?”
“This was always intended for you.”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually has arrived.”
He lifted the drawing board and returned to the bed, sitting beside her before placing it carefully across her lap.
Y/N went silent.
The woman on the page was unmistakably her, but not in the way she usually saw herself.
Henry had drawn every softness without trying to conceal or correct it. The relaxed curve of her stomach, the fullness of her thighs, the slight bend of one knee against the sheets. Her hair spread across the pillow in loose, uneven waves, framing a face that appeared both vulnerable and entirely at ease.
Even the faint marks along her neck and collarbone were there, rendered with delicate shadows instead of shame.
But it was the expression that held her.
Her eyes were heavy and fixed on something beyond the edge of the page. Her lips were parted slightly, her face caught between trust, desire and the private amusement she always felt when she knew she had Henry’s complete attention.
She looked beautiful. Not perfected. I Not made smaller or smoother or more delicate.
Just beautiful.
Y/N touched the blank margin, careful not to let her fingers reach the graphite. “Is that really how I looked?”
“It’s how you looked to me.”
Her throat tightened.
In the lower corner, beneath the final sweep of the sheet, Henry had written in his precise hand: June 24, 1987 and beneath it: Unguarded.
Y/N read the title twice.
“Unguarded,” she whispered.
Henry’s gaze remained on the drawing. “You asked to see yourself as I see you.”
“And that’s what you see?”
“When you’re with me.” His eyes lifted to hers. “When you stop trying to be clever or fearless for everyone else.”
She swallowed. “I was still being clever.”
“Less successfully than usual.”
A soft laugh escaped her, though her eyes had begun to sting.
Henry noticed immediately. “You don’t like it.”
“I love it.”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m allowed to love something enough to cry over it.”
He reached up and wiped beneath her eye with his thumb. “You’re impossible.”
Y/N leaned against his shoulder, still holding the drawing carefully across her lap. “You made me look like art.”
Henry turned his face toward her hair. “You were already art. I only recorded it on paper.”
That earned another quiet, unsteady laugh. She looked down at the title once more. “Can I keep it?”
“It belongs to you.”
“Not hidden in your notebook?”
“No.”
She smiled and curled closer to him. “Good.”
Henry wrapped an arm around her, careful not to disturb the paper.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The red cuffs remained forgotten on the nightstand, the afternoon light fading slowly across the room as Y/N studied the version of herself Henry had placed on the page, not merely naked, but known.
And this time, he had offered it to her willingly.
synapse: y/n brings loki to work at the diner, where burnt coffee, rude customers, and one act of unwanted attention push the prince of asgard to his limit
a/n: i published my loki imagine just three days ago and it immediately got so many likes, thank you! so in return i hotboxed under my blanket and wrote this for three hours at one a.m.
. . .
Y/N woke to sunlight burning directly across her face.
She groaned, rolled toward the wall and pulled the blanket over her head.
For several blissful seconds, she forgot everything. The diner. The flash in the sky. The crater. The unconscious man tied to her skateboard. The naked god standing in her kitchen.
Her eyes opened beneath the blanket. “Oh, shit.”
Y/N threw it aside and sat up too quickly. The room tilted. She braced one hand against the mattress until the dizziness passed, then grabbed her phone from the nightstand.
12:08 p.m.
She had slept for nearly seven hours. More importantly, she had willingly slept for nearly seven hours with a self-proclaimed god loose in her apartment.
A god who had threatened to turn her into something unpleasant. A god who could stop objects in midair. A god who, unless she had hallucinated from exhaustion, possessed absolutely no sense of modesty.
Y/N listened.
The apartment was quiet. No crashing furniture. No screams from the neighbors. No ominous chanting.
She slipped out of bed and opened the bedroom door cautiously. “Loki?”
No answer.
Y/N stepped into the hallway.
The bathroom door stood open. His armor was no longer spread across the floor where she had left it to dry. The towels had been folded and stacked beside the bathtub.
She continued toward the living room. Then stopped.
Her apartment was clean.
Not simply cleaner than she remembered.
Clean.
The throw blankets had been folded into neat squares over the back of the couch. Her discarded shoes had been paired beside the wall. The pile of textbooks on the coffee table had been arranged from largest to smallest, with her loose papers stacked beneath them. Even the abandoned laundry basket had disappeared.
Y/N looked slowly around the room. The empty mugs from earlier were gone. The cushions had been straightened. The floor had been swept. Her laptop sat closed in the center of the table with its charger carefully wound beside it.
“What the hell?”
“You’re awake.”
Y/N spun around.
Loki sat near the window in the armchair, one ankle resting across the opposite knee. He had managed to put on most of his repaired clothing, though the heavier armor remained absent. The black and green layers fit closely around him, the fresh stitches visible near one shoulder and along his side. He held one of her textbooks open in his lap.
The sight of him there, dressed, composed and entirely at ease made the events of the previous night feel even more surreal.
“You…cleaned.”
His eyes returned to the page. “I restored a small degree of order.”
“You cleaned my whole apartment…”
“I found continued exposure to its condition intolerable.”
Y/N stared at him.
Loki turned another page. “You live like a Midgardian slob.”
Her mouth dropped open. “A what?”
“A slob.”
“I know what you said.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Y/N crossed the room and smacked him lightly on the upper arm.
Loki looked down at the place she had struck.
Then slowly up at her.
The expression on his face suggested no one had dared do such a thing in several centuries. “You struck me.”
“You called me a slob.”
“It was an observation.”
“It was rude.”
“It was the truth.”
She raised her hand again.
Loki caught her wrist before she could hit him, his fingers closing around it with effortless speed.
Y/N froze.
His grip was not painful.
If anything, it was remarkably careful.
Loki glanced from her hand to her face. “You have a troubling habit of assaulting those who could destroy you.”
“You have a troubling habit of insulting the person letting you sleep on her couch.”
“I did not sleep.”
“That explains why you reorganized my books like a serial killer.”
“They were arranged without regard for subject, size or language.”
“They were arranged by where I dropped them.”
“Precisely.”
Y/N tugged her wrist.
Loki released it immediately.
She rubbed the spot more from awareness of his touch than discomfort.
Then a thought struck her.
Her eyes widened.
“Wait.”
Loki watched as she turned toward the television stand. “What?”
“Did you touch my bag?”
“Which bag?”
“The little plastic one.”
“That does not narrow the possibilities.”
“The one with the funny-smelling flowers.”
His brow furrowed.
Y/N hurried across the room and dropped onto her knees beside the low wooden stand supporting the television. She reached beneath it, fingers feeling along the hidden space between the bottom shelf and the wall.
Nothing.
Her stomach dropped. “No, no, no.”
She leaned farther down, nearly pressing her cheek against the carpet.
Loki closed the textbook. “What have you lost?”
“My weed.”
“Your what?”
“My bag.”
“You have several.”
“The flowers, Loki.”
“I found no flowers.”
“They don’t look like regular flowers. They’re dried and green and kind of—” Her fingers brushed plastic. “Oh, thank God.” She glanced Loki. “Or Gods…”
Y/N dragged the small bag from its hiding place and held it against her chest.
Loki stared at it.
She quickly checked that it was still sealed and that the contents appeared untouched.
Everything was there.
She released a breath.
“You hid vegetation beneath your viewing apparatus?” Loki asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s illegal.”
Loki’s expression changed from confusion to interest. “You conceal forbidden substances inside your home.”
“It sounds worse when you say it like that.”
“What purpose do these flowers serve?”
Y/N tucked the bag back beneath the television stand. “They help me relax.”
“You consume them?”
“Sometimes.”
“By eating them?”
“No.”
“You brew them?”
“…Not usually.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then how?”
Y/N stood and brushed the dust from her knees. “I smoke them.”
Loki was silent for a moment. “You set the plant aflame.”
“Basically.”
“And inhale the fumes?”
“Yeah.”
“Intentionally?”
“Yes, Loki.”
He leaned back in the chair, considering this new information. “Midgardians are even stranger than I believed.”
“You’re the one who fell out of space.”
“That was not intentional.”
“Neither was me needing stress relief during college.”
Y/N wandered into the kitchen, opening cabinets as she went.
Her stomach felt hollow, and the scent of the eggs she had made earlier lingered faintly in the room.
She checked the refrigerator. There was not much to work with. Bread. Cheese. Half a package of deli turkey. A tomato that needed to be used before it became a biological hazard. Grilled sandwiches, then.
Loki appeared in the kitchen doorway behind her.
She looked over her shoulder. “You’re moving better.”
“I am recovering.”
“Your ribs?”
“Satisfactory.”
“That means they hurt.”
“It means they are satisfactory.”
Y/N retrieved a frying pan. “Sit down before you fall down.”
“I have already explained that I do not fall.”
“You fell through the sky.”
His expression darkened.
She winced. “Right. Sensitive subject. Sorry.”
Loki moved toward the small table but did not sit. Instead, he watched as she laid slices of bread on the counter. “What are you preparing?”
“Lunch.”
“It is barely morning.”
“It’s noon.”
“That is an absurd hour to rise.”
“I worked all night rescuing a dramatic alien.”
“God.”
“Alien god.”
“Do not call me that.”
Y/N placed cheese over the bread. “You’re from another planet.”
“Asgard is not a planet in the crude manner you understand such things.”
“Different world, realm, floating space kingdom. Alien enough.”
Loki looked offended by every option.
Y/N added turkey to one sandwich. “…Do gods eat turkey?”
“Do you possess anything more substantial?”
“No.”
“Then apparently we do.”
She smiled and assembled the second sandwich.
Loki’s gaze drifted back toward the living room. “These forbidden flowers…”
Y/N sighed. “What about them?”
“They’re meant to help you relax?”
“Yes, they can help you relax or help you deal with pain.”
“They help with pain?”
“They can.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. They make your body relax. Everything feels less intense.”
“They alter the mind.”
“Yes.”
“Like wine.”
“…Kind of, but different.”
“More potent?”
“Depends.”
“Dangerous?”
“It can be if you’re stupid, but it’s not like you’re going to drop dead from smoking a little.”
“You hid it as though possession invites execution.”
“It doesn’t. I could get arrested, though.”
“For possessing a plant.”
“Welcome to America.”
Loki considered that with visible disdain.
“Your rulers forbid it, yet you keep it within your dwelling.”
“Quietly.”
“You admitted its existence to me.”
“You already know I dragged a stranger home from the desert. I think we’ve skipped the normal trust-building process.”
She buttered one side of each sandwich and placed them in the pan.
One landed slightly crooked.
Loki’s eyebrows rose.
“Elegant.”
“Shut up.”
His mouth curved faintly.
Y/N looked at him over her shoulder. It was the first time she had seen him appear genuinely relaxed. Only slightly, and only for a moment, but the sharpness around his eyes had eased.
He noticed her watching and the expression vanished. “Why do you look at me so?”
“I’m checking whether you’re about to pass out.”
“A transparent falsehood.”
“You ask too many questions.”
“And you avoid half of them.”
“I answer all of them.”
“With simplicity intended to make further inquiry difficult.”
“That’s because most things aren’t as complicated as you want them to be.”
“Everything is complicated.”
“Grilled cheese isn’t.”
Loki glanced toward the pan. “You have added flesh to it.”
“Turkey.”
“Therefore, it is no longer merely grilled cheese.”
Y/N stared at him. “You’ve been awake for less than a day, and you’re already correcting my sandwich terminology.”
“It required correction.”
She plated the food and slid one toward him.
Loki finally sat.
He inspected the sandwich.
Y/N sat across from him and picked up her own. “You eat it with your hands.”
“I had gathered as much.”
“Just making sure, Your Highness.”
He lifted it with obvious reluctance and took a bite.
Y/N waited.
Loki chewed.
His expression remained carefully neutral.
“Well?”
“It is adequate.”
“You like it.”
“I said it was adequate.”
“You ate half of it in one bite.”
He ignored her and took another.
Y/N smiled into her sandwich.
For a few minutes, they ate in relative silence.
Then Loki spoke again. “Would the flowers affect me?”
Y/N looked up. “What?”
“Your illicit vegetation.”
“I don’t know.”
“You claimed it’s meant to relax and eases pain.”
“In humans.”
“I resemble one closely enough.”
“You also fell through space, caught a towel with your mind and called yourself a god.”
“All accurate.”
“So I’m not using you as a science experiment.”
His eyes narrowed. “I require no protection from your minor mortal intoxicants.”
“Last night, you couldn’t walk across the room without holding onto something.”
“I was injured.”
“You’re still injured.”
“I am significantly improved.”
Y/N studied him.
He did look better, but there was still strain around his mouth whenever he shifted. The bandage beneath his clothes pulled slightly across his ribs.
“If the pain gets bad again,” she said, “maybe I’ll let you try some.”
Loki’s eyebrows lifted. “You will let me?”
“It’s my weed.”
“You presume authority over what I place within my own body.”
“No. I presume authority over whether you smoke my limited supply.”
His gaze sharpened with amusement. “You would deny a prince relief?”
“If the prince is annoying, yes.”
“I could just simply take it.”
“You’d have to find the hiding spot again.”
“I watched you retrieve it.”
Y/N stopped chewing.
Loki smiled.
Slowly.
Smugly.
“You said you didn’t touch it.”
“I did not.”
“But you know where it is.”
“I possess eyes.”
She pointed at him with the remaining half of her sandwich. “You better leave it alone.”
“I have no desire to inhale burning shrubbery.”
“Good.”
“…Unless curiosity compels me.”
“Loki.”
“Or pain.”
“You don’t even know how to smoke.”
“A skill I am certain I could master.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
He took another bite of his sandwich, looking unbearably pleased with himself.
“You know,” she said, “I liked you better when you were unconscious.”
“A lie.”
“See? This is why people hit you.”
“So far, only you.”
“Give it time.”
Loki regarded her across the table.
The apartment was bright with midday sun now, and the tension that had filled it hours earlier had faded into something stranger.
Not comfort.
Not yet.
But the beginnings of familiarity.
He had cleaned while she slept.
She had woken and made him lunch.
He insulted her home.
She threatened to withhold illegal flowers.
It was absurdly domestic for two people who had met beside a crater less than twelve hours earlier.
Y/N finished her sandwich and stood to rinse her plate.
Behind her, Loki spoke. “Why keep something that places you at risk?”
She turned on the faucet. “Because I like it.”
“That is your entire justification?”
“…Uh-huh. Pretty much.”
“No elaborate philosophy?”
“Nope.”
“No rebellion against your rulers?”
“I’m not starting a revolution, Loki. I just like getting high sometimes.”
He appeared disappointed by the lack of deeper meaning.
Y/N glanced back at him. “You really do make everything complicated.”
“And you make everything simple.”
“Someone has to.”
Their eyes met.
For a moment, Loki said nothing.
Then his attention lowered to the sandwich still in his hand.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Perhaps someone does.”
“Exactly.”
. . .
Y/N had exactly forty-three minutes before she needed to leave for work.
Which should have been plenty of time.
It was not.
She stood in front of her bathroom mirror with a toothbrush between her teeth, attempting to pull her hair into something resembling an intentional style while Loki occupied the hallway directly outside the door.
“Do you always prepare for labor with such urgency?” he asked.
Y/N spat toothpaste into the sink.
“I overslept.”
“You rose at midday.”
“I work late.”
“You also slept late.”
“Thank you for explaining how sleep works.”
Loki leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms folded across his chest. He had put his repaired clothing back on, though he had left most of the armor stacked neatly beside the couch.
The dark fabric and leather made him look slightly less out of place than the full green-and-gold armor had, but only slightly.
He still looked like he had wandered out of a medieval war and into a second-floor apartment in New Mexico.
Y/N wiped her mouth and reached for her makeup bag.
Loki watched her pull out a tube of mascara. “What is that?”
“Makeup.”
“For what purpose?”
“To look less tired.”
“You remain tired.”
“Yes, but now people might not know.”
He considered that. “So it’s deception.”
“It’s mascara.”
“A cosmetic deception.”
Y/N twisted around to look at him. “Do you have to classify everything I do as some form of manipulation?”
“You conceal exhaustion by altering your appearance.”
“I’m putting black stuff on my eyelashes, Loki. I’m not overthrowing a government.”
“Not with that attitude.”
She stared at him for a moment.
Then she turned back to the mirror before he could see her smile.
It was strange how quickly his presence had begun to feel less alarming.
Not normal.
There was nothing normal about having a god watching her get ready for a closing shift.
But familiar, somehow.
He had been in her home for less than a day and already behaved as though every decision she made required examination.
Y/N applied mascara to one eye.
Loki continued watching.
Y/N lowered the mascara in her hand. “You’re making me nervous.”
“I have done nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I am observing.”
“That’s staring.”
His reflection regarded hers in the mirror. “You alter only the area surrounding your eyes.”
“I’m going to work, not a wedding.”
“What has marriage to do with it?”
“Nothing. It means I’m not doing full makeup.”
“And your employers require this?”
“No.”
“Then why bother?”
Y/N lowered the mascara wand. “Because I like how it looks.”
He seemed almost disappointed by the uncomplicated answer. “That’s all?”
“That is all.”
His gaze remained on her reflection. “It is pleasing.”
Her hand stopped.
Y/N looked at him through the mirror.
Loki’s expression revealed nothing. He had delivered the compliment as though offering an objective assessment of the weather.
“What?”
“The darkening around your eyes,” he said. “It suits you.”
“Oh.” She turned back toward the sink, suddenly more interested in returning the mascara to its tube than necessary. “Thanks.”
Loki tilted his head slightly, studying the warmth rising in her cheeks.
Y/N immediately changed the subject.
“So, about tonight.”
His expression sharpened.
“You’re welcome to stay here while I’m at work.”
“I require no permission.”
“You do when it’s my apartment.”
His lips pressed together.
Y/N stepped around him and returned to her bedroom. Loki followed as far as the doorway while she pulled on her diner uniform shirt.
“You can stay,” she continued, buttoning it, “or you can leave. I’m not holding you prisoner.”
“We established that I am presently unable to depart this realm.”
“I meant the apartment.”
“I am aware.”
She tucked the shirt into her pants and glanced toward him. “But there are rules.”
Loki’s brow lifted. “You propose rules for me?”
“Yes.”
“A prince of Asgard.”
“A prince of Asgard who is sleeping on my couch.”
His expression cooled.
Y/N began counting on her fingers. “You’re not allowed to touch my weed.”
“I have no interest in your foul-smelling vegetation.”
“You were asking a lot of questions about it.”
“Curiosity is not desire.”
“Good. Then leaving it alone should be easy.”
She lifted a second finger. “And you’re not allowed past the kitchen entryway.”
Loki stared at her.
“What?”
“Kitchen, living room and bathroom are fine. My bedroom is off-limits.”
“You left me unattended in your dwelling, yet fear I may enter one particular chamber?”
“I don’t fear it. I’m telling you not to.”
“What do you conceal there?”
“My stuff.”
“A compelling mystery.”
“It isn’t a mystery. It’s clothes, homework and laundry.”
“Then why prohibit entry?”
“Because it’s private.”
Loki’s expression remained unreadable.
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “…You already went in there, didn’t you?”
His silence answered her.
Her mouth fell open. “You did.”
“I sought to determine whether you had been truthful.”
“You opened my door while I was sleeping?”
“You might have been plotting against me.”
“I was unconscious.”
“Yes. I discovered that.”
Y/N stared at him in disbelief. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”
“It appeared unnecessary.”
She grabbed a hairbrush from her dresser and pointed it at him. “No bedroom.”
“I have already seen it.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to go back.”
“I could enter without your knowledge.”
“You could also not be creepy.”
The word seemed to offend him more than any threat had. “I was not being creepy.”
“You watched me sleep.”
“I confirmed that you slept.”
“From the doorway?”
Loki hesitated for half a second.
Y/N’s eyes widened.
“You came inside?”
“I took several steps.”
“Loki!”
“You were unharmed.”
“That’s not the point!”
“It is very much the point.”
She lifted the hairbrush as though considering throwing it.
Loki’s eyes flicked toward it. “Do not.”
“You’d catch it.”
“I would.”
“That would somehow make me angrier.”
Y/N set it down with deliberate care. “No weed. No bedroom. Don’t answer the door, don’t touch the stove, and don’t use my phone to call another realm.”
“Your device is incapable of such communication.”
“Good. One less concern.”
Loki remained in the doorway while she gathered her purse and searched for her keys. “And if I elect not to remain here?”
Y/N looked up. “Then come with me.”
“To the establishment where you serve food?”
“The diner.”
“I recall.”
“You’d have to sit there for several hours, though.”
“I have endured longer periods in less dignified locations.”
“Great. Then you can keep me company.”
His gaze sharpened slightly at the words.
Y/N did not notice. She was too busy searching beneath a stack of papers.
“Where are my keys?”
“Beside the entry.”
She stopped. “How do you know?”
“I placed them there.”
“Of course you did.”
She walked into the living room and found them centered neatly on the small table beside the door.
Loki followed.
Y/N glanced over his repaired Asgardian clothing.
“You can’t wear that.”
His expression turned dangerous. “Why not?”
“Because everyone will stare at you.”
“They already do.”
“More than usual.”
“That is hardly my concern.”
“It becomes my concern when my manager thinks I brought a fantasy convention performer to work.”
Loki looked down at himself. “These are the garments of Asgardian royalty.”
“And they’re very nice.”
“Nice?”
“Beautiful. Majestic. Extremely prince-like.”
He eyed her suspiciously.
“But you’ll look insane in a roadside diner.”
His mouth tightened.
Y/N opened the small closet by the front door and searched through several jackets. “I might still have some of my ex-boyfriend’s clothes.”
Silence fell behind her.
Y/N continued digging. “He left a box here after we broke up. I told him to pick it up, but he never—”
“You intend for me to wear another man’s castoffs?”
She glanced back.
Loki stood perfectly still.
There was something almost affronted in his expression.
“They’re just clothes.”
“They belonged to a man who shared your affections.”
“Past tense.”
“That alters little.”
“It alters the entire situation.”
“I will not wear them.”
Y/N shrugged and turned back toward the closet. “Then stay here.”
“I did not say I would remain.”
“You can’t go to work dressed like that.”
“Your realm places an astonishing amount of importance upon unremarkable fabric.”
“Says the man offended by the idea of wearing jeans.”
“I’m offended by the idea of wearing his jeans.”
The emphasis was unmistakable.
Y/N slowly looked over her shoulder. “Are you jealous of a guy you’ve never met?”
Loki’s expression became glacial. “Don’t be absurd.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I possess no reason to envy a Midgardian foolish enough to lose your favor.”
The words landed between them.
Y/N blinked.
Loki appeared to realize what he had said at the same moment she did.
His posture stiffened.
She tried not to smile. “That almost sounded like another compliment.”
“It was an insult directed toward him.”
“Sure.”
“I will not wear his clothes.”
“Then what are you going to wear?”
Loki looked at her for a long moment.
Then green light shimmered across his body.
Y/N stumbled backward into the closet door.
The magic moved over him like water, dissolving the repaired Asgardian layers and replacing them piece by piece.
Dark trousers appeared first, fitted cleanly through the legs. A pale striped dress shirt formed over his chest, buttoned neatly to the throat beneath a black tie. A patterned scarf settled around his neck before a long, dark overcoat swept over his shoulders.
The glow faded.
Loki stood before her dressed as though he belonged in an expensive office in some colder, more sophisticated city.
His hair had changed too, no longer hanging loose around his shoulders. It was swept back neatly, leaving his sharp features fully exposed.
Y/N forgot what she had been saying.
The outfit should have looked too formal for a diner.
Instead, it made him look effortlessly elegant.
The coat broadened his shoulders, while the fitted shirt and trousers emphasized the lean lines of his body. The scarf gave the entire appearance something polished and strangely modern without making him look ordinary.
Nothing could make Loki look ordinary.
He adjusted one cuff.
“This should satisfy your realm’s arbitrary expectations.”
Y/N continued staring.
His gaze lifted to hers.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“A lie.”
She looked him over again before she could stop herself.
The dark coat.
The narrow tie.
The pale shirt against his skin.
The sharp sweep of his hair.
He looked less like someone she had dragged from a crater and more like the sort of man who walked into a room already knowing everyone would turn to look.
And they would.
They absolutely would.
“You look…” Y/N stopped.
Loki’s eyebrows rose. “I look?”
“…Normal.”
His eyes narrowed. “That was poorly delivered.”
“No, I mean—” She gestured toward him. “You look good.”
A trace of satisfaction entered his expression. “I am aware.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you are.”
“You were staring.”
“I was checking the clothes.”
“With your mouth open.”
Y/N immediately closed it. “It was not.”
Loki stepped closer.
It was only one step, but the small living room suddenly felt much smaller.
His eyes moved over her face, openly amused now. “You find this form pleasing.”
“This form?”
“The attire.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?”
“Appropriate.”
“You called it good moments ago.”
“I changed my mind.”
“No, you became embarrassed.”
“I am not embarrassed.”
His gaze dipped briefly toward the color in her cheeks. “You are.”
Y/N grabbed her purse from the table and pushed past him.
“We’re going to be late.”
“I was unaware gods were required to obey your work schedule.”
“You are when you’re riding in my car.”
Loki followed her toward the door, looking far too pleased with himself.
Y/N unlocked it and stepped onto the landing.
Behind her, he paused. “You have neglected one matter.”
She turned. “What?”
“Your restrictions.”
“What about them?”
“If I accompany you, I cannot violate them.”
“That’s the point.”
“Then perhaps your insistence upon my presence was a calculated maneuver.”
She stared at him. “I gave you two choices.”
“And clearly preferred one.”
“I did not.”
Loki stepped outside and pulled the apartment door closed behind him.
“You offered another man’s clothing knowing I would refuse.”
“I didn’t know you’d get weirdly territorial.”
“I am not territorial.”
“You called his clothes castoffs like they personally offended your bloodline.”
“They did.”
Y/N locked the door.
When she looked up, Loki was standing beside her beneath the harsh afternoon sun, dressed in his dark coat as though the New Mexico heat had no authority over him.
She gave him another involuntary once-over.
He caught it immediately. “Again.”
“Walk.”
Loki smiled. It was small, smug and infuriatingly attractive.
Y/N headed toward the stairs before he could see her smiling too.
. . .
By the time the afternoon rush began, Loki had decided that the diner was an insult to nearly every one of his senses. The coffee smelled burnt. The lights hummed overhead. The vinyl seats stuck faintly to the backs of his thighs. And the small metal bell beside the register made an irritating chime every time someone struck it, despite the fact that Y/N was almost always standing close enough to hear them speak.
He sat on the counter near the register with one polished shoe resting against the cabinet beneath him, looking far too elegant for the faded diner around him.
Y/N placed a white ceramic mug beside his hand and filled it from the coffee pot. “Here.”
Loki glanced down at the black liquid. “This is the same substance you consumed last night.”
“Technically.”
“It smells worse.”
“That’s because this pot’s been sitting for an hour.”
His expression sharpened with distaste. “Then why have you offered it to me?”
“Because you’ve been asking what every single thing is, and I’m trying to keep you occupied.”
Loki lifted the mug by its handle, inspecting it before taking a cautious sip. His face immediately tightened.
Y/N laughed. “You don’t have to drink it.”
“This is coffee?”
“Diner coffee.”
“That distinction appears significant.”
“It is.”
He took another sip anyway.
Y/N reached beneath the counter for a stack of clean menus. “And do not smash the cup when you’re finished.”
Loki slowly looked at her. “Why would I smash it?”
“You already did it at my apartment.”
“That vessel was empty.”
“So?”
“In Asgard, one casts down the cup and calls for another.”
Y/N stared at him. “You threw my favorite mug on the floor.”
“You had several.”
“It said World’s Okayest Student.”
“I spared you further humiliation.”
She slapped a menu against his knee. “Do not smash this one.”
Loki glanced at the mug. “And if I desire another?”
“You ask.”
His mouth twisted. “Simply ask?”
“Yes.”
“No dramatic declaration?”
“No.”
“No raised voice?”
“No.”
“No destruction?”
“Definitely no destruction.”
He appeared almost disappointed. “…Well, that’s no fun.”
Y/N pointed at him. “You say, ‘May I have another cup of coffee, please?’”
Loki regarded her with the wounded dignity of a king being taught table manners by a child. “I am familiar with courtesy.”
“You nearly threw a knife at my toaster last night.”
“It startled me.”
“It popped bread.”
“Without warning.”
She shook her head and walked away before he could defend himself further.
Loki watched her cross the diner. She moved quickly between the tables, pouring coffee, collecting plates and offering the same bright smile to every person who entered, regardless of whether they deserved it.
Most did not.
A man at the counter complained that his eggs were not over easy. Y/N apologized and sent them back. A woman in the corner snapped her fingers at her for more syrup. Y/N brought it without comment. A family allowed their child to scatter crackers across the floor, then left without attempting to gather them. Y/N swept them up.
Loki’s irritation grew with every interaction. They spoke to her as though her presence was beneath acknowledgment, yet expected immediate obedience from her.
And she continued smiling.
When she passed the counter again, Loki caught her wrist lightly. “Why do you permit them to speak to you in this manner?”
She followed his gaze toward the man still complaining about his replacement egg. “Because I’m working.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“It does here.”
“They behave as though you belong to them.”
“They’re customers.”
“That word does not improve them.”
Y/N pulled her wrist free and gathered a fresh pot of coffee. “They pay for food. I bring it to them. At the end of the week, I get money.”
“You endure disrespect for coin?”
“Pretty much.”
Loki frowned. “Your realm is poorly arranged.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You could refuse.”
“And then I could get fired.”
“Then your employer is a fool.”
“My employer likes customers more than employees.”
“Another fool.”
She smiled. “Agreed.”
Loki watched her refill a cup. “What would occur if you simply commanded them to leave?”
“I don’t command anyone.”
“That is evident.”
Y/N gave him a look. “You’ve been here an hour. Try not to overthrow capitalism before dinner.”
“I know not what that is.”
“Good. Stay innocent.”
She walked away again.
Loki’s attention followed her despite himself. She looked tired. Still, she remembered every order. She asked an elderly couple whether they wanted more coffee before they had to call for her. She carried a heavy tray for another server who had briefly stopped by. She laughed when a child offered her a crayon drawing as payment.
The ease with which she offered kindness to strangers was as baffling as it had been the night before. Perhaps more so.
Loki had assumed her mercy toward him had been an exception born of unusual circumstances. Watching her now, he began to understand that it was simply how she moved through the world.
She helped because someone needed help. She smiled because hostility would cost her more energy. She endured because, as she had said, she needed the money.
Loki disliked that last part immensely.
The bell above the front door chimed.
A man entered alone and chose a booth near the back. He was perhaps twice Y/N’s age, broad through the shoulders and wearing a dusty work shirt with the sleeves cut away. His gaze found Y/N almost immediately.
Loki noticed.
Y/N approached with a menu. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Coffee.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Just you, sweetheart.”
Y/N’s smile tightened, though it did not disappear. “I’ll bring the coffee.”
Loki lowered his mug.
The man watched her walk away. Not idly. His eyes remained fixed on her in a manner Loki recognized immediately.
Possessive without cause. Hungry without invitation.
When Y/N returned with the coffee, the man knocked a wrapped fork from the edge of the table. It landed near her feet.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
Y/N bent to pick it up. The man leaned sideways in the booth, openly staring at her backside.
Loki’s fingers tightened around the mug.
Y/N placed the silverware back on the table. “Anything else?”
“Not right now.”
She turned away.
The man waited until she had taken three steps, then swept a napkin from the table. It fluttered to the floor. “Miss?”
Y/N stopped.
He pointed downward. “Dropped something.”
Loki’s expression went cold.
Y/N looked at the napkin. Then at the man. She knew. That much was obvious. But she walked back anyway, crouched and picked it up without comment.
The man grinned as she straightened.
Loki set his mug down. Carefully. He had been explicitly instructed not to smash it.
Y/N returned to the counter and shoved the napkin into the trash.
“You’re aware,” Loki said.
She wiped down the coffee pot. “Of what?”
“Do not insult me.”
She sighed. “Just ignore him.”
“He is intentionally dropping objects so that he may observe you.”
“I know.”
“And yet you comply.”
“He’s going to leave eventually.”
“That’s not sufficient.”
“It has to be. For now.”
Loki looked toward the booth. The man was still staring.
“No,” Loki said quietly. “It does not.”
Y/N pointed the cleaning cloth at him. “Do not do anything.”
“I have done nothing.”
“That’s why I’m saying it now.”
“He’s an idiot, not an enemy soldier.”
Loki’s eyes remained on the man. “The distinction appears narrow to me.”
“Loki.”
He looked back at her.
“Stay here.”
The command made one eyebrow rise. “I beg your pardon?”
She sighed. “Please stay here.”
The addition appeared to satisfy him only marginally.
Y/N picked up a pitcher of water and returned to the floor. Loki watched.
The man found another reason to call her over moments later. Ketchup this time, despite there already being a bottle at the end of his table.
Y/N brought him another.
He smiled up at her. “You got a boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
Loki’s gaze sharpened.
“Pretty girl like you?” the man continued.
“I’m busy, sir.”
“I can see that.”
His eyes traveled down her body again. Y/N stepped away from the table.
As she passed him, the man lifted his hand and struck her backside.
The sound carried across the diner.
Y/N froze.
So did Loki.
For one perfect second, the entire room seemed to stop.
Y/N turned slowly.
The man laughed, raising both hands. “Come on. Just playing around.”
Loki slid from the counter. Not even flinching from the pain in his side from standing.
There was no dramatic motion. No visible magic. One moment he was seated near the register. The next, he was walking across the diner with such deliberate calm that the absence of anger in his face became far more frightening than rage would have been.
Y/N saw him approaching. “Loki.”
He did not stop.
The man glanced past her. “What’s his problem?”
Loki stepped beside Y/N. Up close, he seemed taller than he had from the counter. The dark coat sharpened the line of his shoulders, and the fluorescent lights caught the green of his eyes.
“You will remove your hand,” Loki said.
The man looked down at his own lap, confused. “From what?”
“From your body.”
Y/N’s eyes widened. “Loki.”
The man laughed uneasily. “What the hell is this?”
“You touched her without permission.”
“Relax, Dracula. It was a joke.”
Loki leaned slightly closer. Nothing in his posture appeared hurried. That made it worse.
“I have heard jokes,” he said. “They are generally intended to inspire amusement.”
The man’s smile faded. “Back off.”
Loki’s gaze dropped briefly to the man’s hand. “I could remove the offending limb. I have several blades to choose from—“
Y/N grabbed Loki’s sleeve. “No.”
The man shoved himself upright in the booth. “Did he just threaten me?”
“Yes,” Y/N said. “But he’s leaving.”
“I am doing no such thing.”
She tugged his arm. “Loki, go sit down.”
His head turned slowly toward her. The look he gave her might have frightened armies.
Y/N did not release him. “Now.”
“He struck you.”
“I know.”
“And you would have me ignore it.”
“I would have you not dismember a customer during my shift.”
“He is fortunate that is all I proposed.”
The man stood. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Loki turned back toward him.
Y/N stepped directly between them. “Nope.”
His gaze dropped to her. She placed one hand against his chest and pushed. Loki did not move. Naturally. But he looked down at her hand as though the contact itself had surprised him.
“Go sit at the counter,” she said.
“He has not apologized.”
“He’s not going to.”
“Then I will provide encouragement.”
“No magic,” she whispered to him.
“I require none. Just a blade will do.”
Behind her, the man scoffed.
Y/N felt Loki’s body tense beneath her palm. She pressed more firmly against his chest and lowered her voice. “Please.”
That stopped him.
Not immediately.
His eyes remained fixed over her shoulder, cold with the promise of consequences. Then his attention returned to her face.
“You ask me to tolerate this.”
“I’m asking you not to make it worse for me.”
The anger in his expression shifted. Not vanished. Shifted. He understood the distinction.
If he hurt the man, Y/N would be blamed. She could lose the money she needed. Perhaps the employment itself.
Loki looked once more at the customer. “You will not touch her again.”
The man rolled his eyes, though he did not seem willing to answer.
Loki took one step forward.
Y/N pushed both hands against his chest. “Loki. Seat. Counter.”
His jaw tightened.
“Now.”
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Loki allowed her to guide him backward.
It was not obedience, he told himself.
It was a strategic withdrawal made solely because she had requested it.
Y/N kept a hand around his arm until they reached the register. “Sit.”
He looked at the counter stool. Then at her. “I am not an animal to be commanded.”
“Then stop acting like a guard dog.”
“That man placed his hand upon you.”
“I noticed.”
“And you expect no consequence.”
“I expect him to tip badly and die alone.”
Loki stared at her.
Y/N lowered her voice. “I appreciate that you wanted to defend me.”
“Defend you? I intended to punish him.”
“That’s still defending me.”
“It is not.”
“Yeah-huh.”
He looked back toward the booth. The man had returned to his coffee, though he now kept both hands clearly visible on the table.
Y/N nudged Loki toward the stool. He finally sat.
She picked up his mug. It was empty. “You finished this.”
“I did.”
“And you didn’t smash it.”
His eyes moved to hers. “I exercised remarkable restraint.”
“You really did.”
Y/N lifted the coffee pot. “Would you like another?”
Loki glanced toward the rude customer one final time. Then back at her. His expression remained severe, but when he spoke, the words were controlled. “May I have another cup of coffee, please?”
Y/N smiled. “See? You’re learning.”
She poured it for him.
Loki watched her replace the pot. “He should consider himself fortunate.”
“He should.”
“Had you not intervened—”
“I know.”
“…I would not have killed him.”
“…Probably.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Loki.”
“What?”
“You don’t sound convincing. At all.”
He wrapped one hand around the warm mug. “I would merely have ensured he remembered the encounter.”
“How?”
Loki took a sip.
Y/N waited.
His eyes gleamed above the rim.
“Drink your coffee,” she said.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
Across the diner, the customer signaled for his check. He did not ask Y/N to pick up anything else.
Y/N left Loki at the counter with a pointed look. “Behave.”
Loki lifted the mug toward her in a gesture of solemn agreement. “I have done nothing.”
“Yet.” She narrowed her eyes at him before turning away to carry the customer’s check toward the register.
Loki waited until her back was turned.
The man in the booth was muttering beneath his breath as he dug through his wallet, casting irritated glances toward the counter. His coffee sat near the edge of the table.
Still steaming.
Loki’s fingers shifted subtly around his own mug. A faint ripple of green passed between them, invisible to every mortal eye in the diner.
The man’s cup tipped.
Hot coffee poured directly into his lap.
He gave a strangled shout and shot upright, knocking his knees against the underside of the table. “What the hell?”
Coffee streamed from his jeans and spread across the vinyl seat before splashing onto the tile below.
Y/N spun around from the register. “Oh, my God.”
The man stumbled out of the booth, swearing loudly as he tried to brush the scalding liquid from his pants. His boot landed directly in the puddle.
The sole slipped.
His arms flew outward.
For one brief, magnificent moment, he remained suspended between standing and falling, his face twisted in horrified realization.
Then he hit the floor.
Hard.
The crash rattled the table.
Y/N pressed both lips together.
Loki took a slow drink of coffee.
The man groaned and rolled onto his side, clutching the edge of the booth as he attempted to drag himself upright. “What is wrong with this place?”
Loki’s gaze remained fixed on the window. A deeply satisfied smile curved across his mouth.
Y/N hurried over, though she made no attempt to conceal how little sympathy she felt. “Are you okay?”
“Does it look like I’m okay?”
“It looks like you spilled your coffee.”
“I didn’t spill it. It just fell over!”
Loki’s smile widened behind his cup.
Y/N glanced toward him.
He immediately smoothed his expression into one of innocent disinterest.
She looked back at the customer. “Cups don’t usually do that on their own.”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
The man managed to stand, keeping one hand pressed against the table for balance. His face was red from pain and humiliation, while the front of his jeans was soaked dark.
Y/N retrieved a stack of napkins from the neighboring table and offered them.
He snatched them from her hand. “I’m not paying for that coffee.”
“I’ll take it off the check.”
“And I want to speak to your manager.”
“They’re not here.”
“Of course they’re not.”
The man roughly wiped at his pants, then shoved several bills onto the table. He had left enough for the meal.
No tip.
Naturally.
He limped toward the exit, muttering about lawsuits.
As he passed the counter, Loki inclined his head. “Do take care.”
The man stopped. He looked at Loki’s composed face, then at the coffee in his hand. Something suspicious flickered across his expression. “You.”
Loki raised one eyebrow. “I?”
“You did something.”
“With your coffee?”
“My coffee.”
Loki looked toward the abandoned booth before chuckling. “…Your clumsiness is hardly my responsibility.”
“I wasn’t clumsy!”
“Your current position suggests otherwise.”
The man stepped toward him.
Y/N immediately moved between them again. “Okay. You’re leaving.”
“I want him out too.”
“You don’t own the diner and he didn’t do anything.”
Loki’s eyes slid toward her.
Y/N avoided meeting them.
The man pointed at Loki. “He was staring at me.”
“I assure you,” Loki said, “there was little worth observing.”
Y/N covered a cough with her fist.
The customer glared at both of them before storming toward the door. His wet shoes squeaked across the floor with every step.
The bell above the entrance gave one final cheerful chime as he shoved it open and disappeared into the parking lot.
Y/N watched through the window until he climbed into his truck. Then she turned slowly toward Loki.
He sat exactly where she had left him, holding his cup with both hands as though he had spent the entire incident peacefully enjoying his drink.
She walked back to the counter. “What did you do?”
Loki looked up at her. “I have been sitting here.”
“Not what I asked.”
“I drank my coffee.”
“Loki.”
“It remains as unpleasant as the first.”
She planted both palms on the counter. “Did you knock his cup over?”
His green eyes widened with expertly manufactured offense. “From here?”
“You do magic.”
“So you have repeatedly observed.”
“And then he happened to slip.”
“Well that was because the floor was wet.”
“…Because his coffee spilled.”
“A sequence of unfortunate events.”
Y/N stared at him.
He met her gaze without flinching.
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She saw it. “You did.”
“I have admitted nothing.”
“You look way too pleased with yourself.”
Loki took another sip. “The man received an important lesson regarding unwanted advances and proper balance.”
Y/N shook her head.
She should have been angry. He had used magic in the middle of her workplace after she explicitly told him not to make the situation worse. The customer could complain. Her manager could review the incident. Something could have gone wrong.
But then she remembered the hand striking her backside.
The laughter afterward.
Just playing around.
Her annoyance weakened. “Did you burn him?”
“Nothing lasting.”
“Did you make him fall?”
“I merely allowed gravity to complete what his own incompetence began.”
“That means yes.”
“It means your realm possesses reliable natural laws.”
Y/N stared at him for another second. Then she picked up a cleaning cloth and headed toward the spill.
“Okay, well, I’m not cleaning the whole thing alone.”
Loki looked toward the puddle. “You cannot possibly expect—”
“You caused it.”
“Allegedly.”
“Bring the mop.”
“I am a prince.”
“And I’m a Midgardian slob. Get the mop.”
His eyes narrowed.
Y/N held his gaze.
Eventually, Loki slipped down from the counter with a look of profound offense. “…Where is this instrument?”
“Supply closet beside the bathrooms.”
He walked away with the stiff dignity of someone marching toward an execution.
Y/N waited until he disappeared around the corner before allowing herself to smile.
The guy had deserved it. Maybe not the hot coffee. Maybe not the fall. But something.
A few minutes later, Loki returned carrying the mop as though it were a weapon too primitive to deserve his touch.
Y/N took it from him. “Thank you.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“I defended your honor.”
“You spilled coffee on a creep.”
“A distinction without consequence.”
She crouched to gather the fallen cup.
Loki stood beside her, watching the diner door through which the man had departed.
Defended her honor.
The phrase lingered.
A memory surfaced before he could dismiss it.
Asgard. After he had just killed Laufey. Thor standing in front of him, changed by his brief exile to Earth. Softer, Loki had thought. Weakened by sentiment and mortal affection.
He remembered circling his brother with cruel amusement, eager to find the source of that transformation.
What happened to you on Earth that turned you so soft? Don’t tell me it was that woman.
Thor’s silence had been answer enough.
Oh! It was! Well, maybe, when we’re finished here, I’ll pay her a visit myself!
At the time, Loki had enjoyed the threat for what it did to Thor’s face. He had regarded his brother’s attachment to a Midgardian woman as another weakness, proof that Thor had lost the resolve required of a king.
And now Loki stood in a roadside diner, dressed in Midgardian clothes, holding cleaning supplies because a mortal woman had commanded him to do so.
Worse, he felt satisfied.
Not merely because the man had been humiliated.
Because Y/N had been defended.
Her pride restored in the smallest possible measure.
Loki’s mouth flattened.
The realization was deeply inconvenient.
Y/N rose with the broken pieces of napkin holder in one hand. “You’re doing the face again.”
His attention returned to her. “What face?”
“The one where you disappear into your own head and get mad at whatever you find there.”
“I am not angry.”
“Brooding, then.”
“I do not brood.”
She glanced at his dark coat, swept-back hair and severe expression. “You’re dressed like the physical embodiment of brooding. You’re a brooder.”
Loki took the mop from her with more force than necessary. “Attend to your duties.”
She smiled. “Yes, Your Highness.”
He pushed the mop through the puddle, sending a thin wave of coffee across the tile.
Y/N watched him struggle with the handle. “You’ve never used one of those, have you?”
“I understand the concept.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“The instrument is poorly designed.”
“Let me—”
“I said I understand.”
“Loki. You’re holding it upside down.”
Loki looked at the mop. Then at her.
Y/N bit the inside of her cheek.
He silently turned it around.
She walked away before she laughed in his face.
Loki watched her return to the counter, smiling to herself as she reached for the coffee pot. His irritation should have returned.
Instead, he found himself watching the easy movement of her shoulders, the looseness that had replaced the tension from earlier.
She knew what he had done.
She had chosen not to condemn him for it.
Perhaps Thor’s softness had not been weakness after all.
The thought was intolerable.
Loki shoved the mop across the floor with unnecessary force.
Still, when Y/N glanced back at him and smiled, he smiled too.
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synapse: y/n wins a fear factor coin through the pain auction but the real risk comes from the growing attraction she and johnny
pairing: johnny knoxville x female reader
contains: age gap (reader is 21, johnny is 54), mild injuries, flirting, cunnilingus, oral sex (female receiving)
. . .
The coal mine had been converted into something between a game-show studio and a torture chamber.
Steel beams stretched toward the high ceiling, intersecting beneath rows of grimy windows that allowed late-afternoon sunlight to spill across the concrete. Rusted machinery and elevated walkways remained from when the building had still been operational, but production had installed bleachers, cameras, lights, and several ominous workstations around the open floor.
Above Johnny’s podium, an enormous arrow outlined in bulbs pointed toward a faded sign reading PAIN AUCTION.
Y/N sat among the remaining contestants, rubbing her palms against her thighs while Ethan stood at the electrical station across the room.
He had won the first item by bidding getting electrocuted ten seconds at one hundred volts.
Johnny stood beside the equipment in a deep burgundy suit, a crisp white shirt beneath it and a black tie patterned with small white dots. His silver hair was swept upward, black-framed glasses sitting across his face while he watched Ethan grip the two metal prongs.
Y/N should have been focused on her friend being electrocuted.
Instead, an unhelpful part of her brain kept returning to how obscenely good Johnny looked in that suit.
It was difficult to reconcile the composed game-show host standing before them with the man who had been disheveled in her bed the night before, glasses abandoned on her nightstand and silver hair tangled beneath her fingers.
Johnny caught her looking.
Only briefly.
His eyes met hers from behind his glasses, and the faintest smirk touched his mouth before he redirected his attention toward Ethan.
Then the electricity continued.
The voltage slowly climbed high. From ten volts to twenty to thirty…
Ethan’s entire body seized.
His arms shook violently as he struggled to maintain his grip, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut while some of the contestants shouted encouragement from the bleachers.
The ten seconds felt much longer from where Y/N was sitting.
Then Johnny announced he was reaching one hundred volts.
Ethan screamed. Loudly.
Y/N flinched. That finally tore her attention away from Johnny.
It was a horrific sound to hear. Pure pain.
When the machine finally shut off, Ethan released the prongs and stumbled backward. Contestants clapped for Ethan as Johnny awarded him the thick plastic Fear Factor coin guaranteeing his safety from elimination, dropping it in his pocket.
Ethan returned to the bleachers looking pale.
“That was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my entire life,” Ethan said, dropping down beside Y/N, his hands still trembling. “Oh my God.”
Y/N caught one of his wrists before he could hide his shaking fingers against his thighs.
“You did it, though.”
“I can still feel it in my teeth.”
“…You didn’t die though.”
He let out a soft laugh as held up the coin with an unsteady hand. “But I got my Fear Factor coin.”
“You earned it.”
Ethan leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Do not bid on anything electrical.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“But get a coin.”
“That was the plan.”
He nodded and dropped his head into his hands.
Y/N looked toward Johnny when he returned to the wooden podium and picked up the gavel.
Goddamn, he looked hot in that suit.
He struck the podium once, commanding everyone’s attention.
“Our next item up for bid is hot melted wax,” Johnny said. “You will bid on the amount of times you have hot melted wax poured on you by a ladle.”
“Oh, my gosh. That sucks,” Blake said from behind her.
The contestants exchanged uneasy looks.
Across the floor, a production assistant removed the lid from a heated metal container. A long ladle rested inside it, surrounded by tall white candles melted into thick, uneven shapes.
“It will be dipped on your bare arms, legs, and tummy,” Johnny continued. “So let’s start the bidding at two ladles.”
Y/N raised her paddle.
So did Blake, Zach, Rob, Lance, Chelsea, and Jayleen.
Ethan turned toward her sharply. “What are you doing?”
“Bidding.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“You just watched me get electrocuted!”
“Wax isn’t electricity.”
“It’s hot wax. That sounds worse.”
Y/N shrugged, still holding her paddle above her head. “I’ve had a bikini wax before.”
“They don’t pour it on you with a soup ladle.”
Johnny’s gaze moved across the raised paddles before pausing on Y/N. “We have lots of people with two ladles. Do we have three ladles?”
Every paddle shot up again.
Y/N kept hers raised without hesitation.
Johnny noticed.
His brows lifted slightly above the frames of his glasses, but his expression remained professionally neutral for the cameras.
“Do we have a four?”
Rob, Lance, and Jayleen dropped out.
Only Chelsea, Blake, Zach, and Y/N remained.
Y/N felt Ethan staring at the side of her face.
“You’re not serious,” he muttered.
“Completely.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m not going home.”
“You could wait for something less painful.”
She glanced toward the board displaying the remaining possible items: hot peppers, needles, ice water, a bug zapper, and snake bites.
Nothing up there looked especially appealing.
Besides, six ladles of hot wax meant one challenge, one coin, and guaranteed safety. She wouldn’t have to gamble against the others during elimination.
More importantly, Johnny would be the one holding the ladle.
Perhaps her priorities had become slightly corrupted.
“Do we have five ladles?” Johnny called.
Chelsea lowered her paddle.
Then Zach did the same.
Blake’s remained in the air beside Y/N’s.
A murmur went through the contestants.
Johnny looked between them.
Y/N met his eyes across the floor, refusing to betray any nerves.
The corner of his mouth moved.
“Oh,” he said. “Interesting. Six ladles?”
Blake’s paddle immediately dropped into his lap.
Y/N kept hers raised.
Ethan exhaled a curse beside her.
Johnny stared directly at her now.
“Y/N going once…”
He raised the gavel.
She smiled sweetly.
“Twice…”
The gavel hovered above the podium.
Johnny’s gaze lingered on her for one extra beat, as though offering her a silent opportunity to reconsider.
Y/N didn’t move.
“Three times! Sold!” The gavel struck the wood. “The hot melted wax to Y/N. Come on up, beautiful!”
The contestants clapped and shouted as Y/N lowered her paddle.
Ethan stared at her. “Six?”
“Blake would’ve gone for five.”
“Good luck. You got this.”
She squeezed his shoulder before stepping away from the bleachers.
Johnny watched her approach, one hand resting against the podium.
“Six ladles,” he said a bit quieter when she reached him.
“You counted.”
“I’m trying to decide whether you’re brave or dumb.”
Y/N smiled. “…If you’re gonna be dumb, better be tough.”
His eyes held hers as he smiled slightly at that.
A smile. Not his damn cocky smirk.
“Damn. Wise words.”
“Yeah, I heard them from somewhere.”
For one dangerous second, neither of them appeared to remember the cameras.
Then Johnny cleared his throat and gestured toward the table. “Take your shirt off and lie down.”
Y/N’s eyebrows rose. “Buying me dinner first would’ve been polite.”
Johnny looked down, pressing his lips together as though trying not to encourage her. “We fed you pizza last night.”
“That counts?”
“I brought wings too, didn’t I?”
“Fine. I’m convinced.”
Y/N grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head, leaving herself in her bra and shorts.
The room felt cooler against her newly exposed skin. She folded the shirt and placed it on a nearby chair before climbing onto the table.
Johnny’s gaze flickered over her.
Quick.
Professional enough that nobody watching would necessarily notice.
Y/N noticed.
She lay flat on her back, extending her arms along either side of her body while a production assistant adjusted her position. Her bare legs remained straight, her shirtless stomach exposed beneath the overhead lights.
Johnny moved behind the wax station and took hold of the long metal ladle.
The white wax shifted thickly as he stirred it, steam barely visible beneath the studio lights. He lifted the ladle once, watched the excess drip back into the heater, then glanced toward Y/N stretched out across the padded table.
Her arms rested along either side of her body. Her bare legs extended toward the end of the table, and the removal of her shirt had left her stomach completely exposed beneath the lights.
Johnny’s eyes traveled over her once.
Quickly enough to pass as checking her positioning.
Slowly enough that she noticed.
“Things are heating up,” he announced. “All right, here we go.”
Y/N watched him bring the first full ladle toward her right arm.
“Joke’s on you, Knoxville. This is my kink—”
The hot wax poured across her skin.
“—oh, shit!”
Her entire arm tensed as the thick line of wax traveled from beneath her shoulder toward her wrist.
Laughter broke out across the bleachers.
Johnny’s mouth split into a wide grin.
“Well, that sentence took a turn.”
Y/N sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “It was supposed to sound hotter than that.”
“It sounded pretty hot from here.”
Johnny dipped the ladle back into the heater before she could answer. He stirred it once, watching her carefully from the corner of his eye.
“You good?”
It sounded casual.
Only Y/N recognized the actual question underneath it.
She flexed her fingers against the table and nodded. “Keep going.”
“That’s what we like to hear.”
Johnny lifted the second ladle and moved toward her left arm.
“Number two.”
The wax spilled down her skin.
Y/N inhaled sharply, her shoulders lifting before she forced them back against the table.
“God—”
“There she is.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“You’re smiling.”
Johnny looked directly toward one of the cameras while grinning. “I have no idea what she’s talking about.”
Y/N laughed breathlessly, although it came out closer to a wince.
He returned to the heater.
There was no dramatic hesitation or offer to let her quit. She had bid six, and Knoxville understood better than most people that once someone committed to doing something painful and stupid, the best thing he could do was help them finish it.
But before raising the third ladle, his gaze met hers again.
Still with me?
She gave him the smallest nod.
Johnny carried on as though nothing had passed between them.
“Moving down to the legs.”
“Oh, good,” Y/N muttered. “I was worried this might become pleasant.”
“Can’t have that on Fear Factor.”
He poured the third ladle along her fleft thigh.
Y/N’s head fell back. “Oh, fuck me—”
Johnny’s eyebrows shot upward. “Careful, now.”
Her eyes snapped toward him. “That wasn’t an invitation. Yet.”
“Good. We’re busy.”
Y/N stared at Johnny.
The bastard looked completely composed behind the black frames of his glasses, but she saw the satisfaction tugging at one corner of his mouth.
Only she knew why that particular choice of words amused him so much.
Johnny returned with the fourth ladle. “Right leg.”
“You’re very thorough.”
“They pay me by the ladle.”
The wax streamed across her opposite thigh.
Y/N cried out, fingers digging into the padding as the hot sting spread across her skin. “Okay…fuck…that one sucked.”
Johnny grinned, but his eyes moved over her face, checking the color in her cheeks and the steadiness of her breathing. He didn’t ask whether she wanted to stop. He knew she didn’t.
Instead, he tapped the metal ladle lightly against the edge of the heater.
“Four down, two to go.”
Y/N tested her arms and immediately felt the hardened wax resisting the movement. “I can’t feel half my body.”
“That’ll save you money on anesthesia.”
“Do you rehearse these?”
“No, ma’am. This is natural talent.”
Johnny filled the fifth ladle.
When he returned to the table, he positioned himself beside her exposed stomach.
Y/N watched the wax swaying near the rim.
“That seems like an unnecessary amount.”
“You bid on it.”
“I was trying to impress a guy.”
“Sounds handsome.”
“Debatable.”
Johnny laughed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a little excited…”
“Of course you are,” Y/N panted.
“For the coin…”
“Sure, Knoxville. That’s what you mean.”
He looked at her over the top of his glasses, his grin broadening.
“It’s going on the tummy…once!”
The wax hit beneath her ribs.
Y/N’s body jerked against the table. “Fuck!”
Her stomach contracted instinctively beneath the heavy heat, but the hardened wax across her limbs kept her from curling inward.
He leaned closer as he returned the empty ladle to the heater. “Breathe, sweetheart.”
The word was quiet enough to get lost beneath the contestants cheering her on.
Y/N inhaled shakily through her nose. “That one felt personal.”
“You didn’t compliment my suit.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“In my head.”
He laughed as he filled the ladle one last time.
The room grew louder as the contestants realized she was almost finished.
“One more, Y/N!”
“Come on!”
“You’ve got it!”
Ethan leaned forward on the bleachers, clapping his still-unsteady hands together.
Johnny returned to her side. “And that last one!”
He tipped the ladle.
The final pour landed across the other side of her stomach.
Y/N cried out, her head falling back against the table as her entire body tightened. Her toes curled, hands balled into fists, and for several seconds she could only breathe through the sharp wave of heat.
Johnny emptied the ladle and immediately set it aside. “That’s six!”
The coal mine erupted into applause.
Y/N released a long, trembling breath, body sinking into the table as the wax cooled and hardened across her skin.
Johnny clapped along with the contestants as he crossed toward the podium.
“That was six ladles of hot wax, folks. She didn’t move, she didn’t quit, and somehow she still found time to sexually harass the host.”
Y/N lifted her head. “You loved it.”
He retrieved the thick plastic Fear Factor coin and returned to her.
“There you go, gorgeous. A Fear Factor coin.”
Johnny held it out above her.
Y/N tried lifting her arm.
The hardened wax pulled tightly across her skin, preventing her from raising it more than a few inches. She let it fall back against the table with a frustrated exhale.
Y/N lifted her head from the table and opened her mouth.
Johnny’s grin changed immediately.
No surprise.
No question.
Just instant, unmistakable understanding.
He stepped closer and lowered the coin toward her lips.
Y/N kept her eyes locked on his as he slid the edge between her teeth. She bit down slowly, taking it from him without breaking eye contact.
Johnny didn’t release it right away.
His fingers remained on the opposite side of the coin, leaving them connected by the thick piece of plastic between her mouth and his hand.
The cheering around them blurred.
His gaze dropped to her lips wrapped around the edge.
Something hotter flickered behind his glasses.
Then he let go.
Y/N sat upright carefully, the wax cracking over her stomach as she moved. She kept the coin clenched between her teeth, smiling around it while the contestants clapped and shouted.
Johnny remained beside the table.
His eyes followed her mouth again before sweeping over the hardened trails of wax covering her arms, legs, and stomach.
He gave a low, approving whistle. “That’s one way to collect your winnings.”
Y/N removed the coin from between her teeth. “My hands were busy.”
“I noticed.”
The answer came too quickly.
Her smile widened.
She swung her legs over the edge of the table but couldn’t lift her arms enough to balance herself properly. Johnny reached out and took hold of her waist, steadying her before she could slip.
The gesture looked entirely practical for the cameras.
Only Y/N felt the way his fingers tightened briefly against her sides.
“Easy,” he murmured.
“I thought you liked watching me suffer.”
“I like watching you win.”
The words were low and gone almost as soon as he said them.
Then Knoxville released her, stepping back into his host persona with a bright clap of his hands. “Somebody help our wax figure back to the bleachers!”
Ethan hurried down while laughing. “You kicked ass.”
“I have a coin.”
“You didn’t look like you were having.”
“No shit.”
Ethan collected her shirt and carefully draped it over her shoulders before guiding her toward the bleachers.
As she sat down, Y/N glanced back across the open floor.
Johnny had returned to his podium with the gavel in one hand. He looked composed again, burgundy suit straightened, glasses in place, ready to auction off the next form of suffering.
But before striking the podium, his gaze found hers.
Then it lowered briefly toward the coin still held near her mouth.
His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as that crooked Knoxville grin returned.
Y/N smiled and bit the edge of the coin again.
Johnny shook his head once, clearly entertained, then brought the gavel down as he moved back onto the pain auction.
. . .
Chelsea went next.
She bid on eating five habanero peppers and attacked them with the kind of determination that had everyone shouting encouragement before she had even swallowed the second.
By the fifth, her entire face had gone red.
Tears streamed from her eyes as she paced in tight circles, hands hovering uselessly near her mouth. An EMT approached and guided her toward the exit of the mine for fresh air and medical attention.
“She did great,” Y/N said, watching Chelsea disappear through the doorway.
“She’s fighting for her life,” Jayleen replied.
“She can do both.”
Johnny returned to the podium after production confirmed Chelsea was okay.
The next symbol illuminated on the auction board was the tongue beside the lightning bolt.
The bug zapper.
Nearly every paddle went up.
Compared with the needles, snake bites, and tub of ice water still waiting on the board, licking an electric bug zapper seemed almost reasonable.
Lance won the auction at twelve.
He approached the circular station while the others cheered. Bright orange bug zappers surrounded its edge like the petals of some deeply stupid flower, each numbered across the mesh.
Johnny stood beside him, still looking unfairly good in the burgundy suit he’d worn all afternoon. His jacket fit neatly across his shoulders, and his silver hair had somehow remained perfectly disheveled despite hours spent watching people voluntarily hurt themselves.
Y/N shifted carefully on the bleachers.
Most of the wax had been removed, but her skin still felt tight and tender. Every movement reminded her of the six ladles Johnny had poured over her and the way his eyes had followed the coin when she took it from his hand with her teeth.
Lance bent toward the first zapper and stuck out his tongue.
A sharp electrical crack echoed through the mine.
He shot upright.
“Oh. Okay. That was loud.” He stared at the display with considerably less confidence. “Now I’m kind of scared though.”
Johnny grinned. “Only eleven more.”
Lance leaned down again.
Another crack.
Johnny rotated the display, bringing the next zapper into position. Lance followed it, wincing before pressing his tongue against the mesh again.
By the fifth lick, Johnny was no longer looking at the machine.
He was staring at Lance’s tongue.
Lance pulled back with it extended nearly to his chin.
Johnny burst out laughing. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
The contestants erupted.
Y/N laughed along with them, eyes remaining on Johnny as Lance pointed accusingly at him before continuing.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Each zap cracked loudly enough to make Lance flinch, but he kept circling the display while Johnny rotated it for him.
By the eleventh, his eyes were watering and his tongue had probably stopped functioning, but he was still smiling.
Johnny straightened beside him.
“One more and we’ll do it together.”
The room immediately became louder.
Contestants shouted and clapped as Johnny moved around to the opposite side of the station.
Y/N leaned forward and cupped one hand beside her mouth. “Do it with eye contact!”
Johnny’s head turned.
His eyes found hers across the bleachers.
The cameras would make it look as though he were glancing over the entire group in response to the cheering. Only Y/N knew his gaze had landed precisely on her and stayed there.
His smile sharpened.
It wasn’t the broad, ridiculous grin he had been wearing with Lance.
It was the smaller one.
The one he gave her when they were sharing something nobody else in the room understood.
Johnny crouched opposite Lance.
The contestant leaned over the final zapper, tongue already extended.
Johnny lowered himself toward the one facing him.
But instead of looking at Lance, he looked past the circular station.
Straight at Y/N.
Her laughter faded.
The surrounding contestants continued yelling, unaware that Johnny’s attention had narrowed entirely to her.
Lance pressed his tongue against the final racket.
The zap cracked.
Johnny touched his tongue to the mesh of his own.
Another electrical snap rang through the building.
He should have pulled away.
Instead, maintaining eye contact with Y/N, he slowly dragged his tongue down the face of the racket.
Her stomach tightened.
There was nothing accidental about the pace.
Nothing comedic about the way his tongue flattened against the mesh before extending far enough to brush the neighboring zapper.
To everyone else, he was putting on a show.
To Y/N, it felt like a private demonstration.
The contestants lost their minds.
Johnny finally pulled back, still looking toward the bleachers as he straightened. His mouth curved when he saw the expression on Y/N’s face.
She leaned closer to Jayleen without taking her eyes off him.
“The way he licked that kinda turned me on.”
Jayleen followed her stare. “Kinda?”
“I’m trying to preserve what little dignity I have left.”
“You took him upstairs during the party.”
“Shush. Keep your voice down.”
Jayleen laughed into her hand.
Johnny awarded Lance his Fear Factor coin, and Lance practically skipped back to the bleachers, holding it above his head like a championship trophy.
“Twelve,” Y/N said as he sat down. “I’m impressed.”
“My tongue is numb.”
“At least it’s still attached.”
“Barely.”
The cameras followed Lance, zooming in as he described the sensation to Blake next to him.
A producer stepped toward Johnny to discuss the next setup. The primary camera turned with her, leaving him momentarily outside its frame.
Johnny glanced toward Y/N again.
She checked the camera first.
Its lens remained pointed toward Lance.
Good.
Y/N lifted her hand near her mouth, low enough that the contestants in front of her blocked the gesture from view. She locked her index and middle fingers into a tight V, pressed them against her lips, and flicked her tongue between them.
Johnny’s eyebrows rose.
His grin came immediately.
Not stunned this time.
Delighted.
Y/N repeated the motion, slower, letting the tip of her tongue trace between her fingers while she held his gaze.
Johnny glanced toward the camera operator.
Still distracted.
Then he leaned one hand against the bug-zapper station and tilted his head, studying her with open amusement. He slowly ran his tongue across his upper lip, catching the corner before biting lightly against his lower one.
Y/N’s thighs pressed together.
His eyes dropped just enough to notice.
The grin widened.
Johnny lifted two fingers toward his own mouth, mimicking her gesture without fully committing to it. Instead, he tapped them once against his lips and crooked them toward himself in a tiny, unmistakable invitation.
Come here.
Y/N smiled and shook her head.
Not here.
He made a disappointed face that was theatrical enough to be Knoxville but subtle enough that no one else seemed to notice.
Y/N pointed at him, then toward herself, and mouthed: Later.
Johnny’s gaze darkened.
He adjusted the front of his suit jacket, though nothing about the movement hid how pleased he was.
Then he mouthed back: Promise?
Y/N bit her lower lip and nodded once.
A producer called Johnny’s name.
He held her gaze, sending her a wink before returning to the podium.
“All right,” he announced, collecting the gavel. “So far, three of you have Fear Factor coins. Remember, not everyone’s getting on.”
Johnny raised the gavel.
Before striking the podium, he glanced at her over the top of his glasses.
His tongue pressed deliberately against the inside of his cheek.
Y/N gave him her sweetest, most innocent smile.
The gavel came down harder than necessary.
“Let’s sell somebody else a terrible decision.”
. . .
The Pain Auction finally ended with everyone exhausted, sore, and clutching their Fear Factor coins like they had survived a war.
Production called for an hour-long break before filming resumed for the endgame challenge.
The contestants scattered almost immediately. Some headed toward the catering tables. Others found places to sit inside the mine, comparing injuries and complaining loudly about what they had volunteered to endure.
Y/N slipped away from the group.
Her skin still felt tender from the wax, especially along her stomach and thighs, but the worst of the pain had settled into a lingering warmth. She moved carefully through the industrial corridors toward the rear exit, following the dull glow of daylight spilling through the open doors.
Johnny stood outside near the loading area.
Alone.
Or pretending to be.
One hand rested in the pocket of his burgundy trousers while the other held a can of sparkling water. He stared toward the tree line with an exaggerated air of casualness, occasionally glancing back toward the exit as though he weren’t waiting for anyone in particular.
Y/N slowed.
A smile spread across her face.
He didn’t hear her approach over the distant machinery and chatter inside.
She came up behind him and lightly smacked his ass.
Johnny jumped, nearly dropping his drink. “Jesus—”
He spun around.
Y/N stood behind him wearing her sweetest expression. “Looking for someone?”
Johnny stared at her for half a second before laughing. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw that at you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You sound awfully confident.”
“You like me too much.”
His eyes moved over her slowly. “Debatable.”
Y/N stepped closer. “Then why were you standing out here checking the door every ten seconds?”
“I like doors.”
“Knoxville.”
“And fresh air.”
“You were waiting for me.”
He lifted the can to his mouth, hiding the smile threatening to appear.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Y/N reached out and hooked one finger into his tie.
Johnny lowered the drink.
The joking remained in his expression, but his attention sharpened immediately. “You’re a terrible liar,” she murmured.
“And you’ve been sexually harassing the host all afternoon.”
“You poured hot wax all over me.”
“You bid on it.”
“You called me beautiful in front of everyone.”
“I was being supportive.”
“You licked a bug zapper while staring at me.”
“That was for television.”
She pulled lightly on his tie, bringing him closer. “Was this for television too?”
Johnny’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “No cameras out here.”
“Exactly.”
Y/N kissed him.
He responded immediately, one arm circling her waist as he pulled her against him. She smiled into his mouth, pleased by how quickly the last traces of his host persona disappeared once nobody was watching.
Johnny backed her toward the exterior wall beside the open door, careful not to press her too roughly against the metal siding.
His hand settled at her hip.
Y/N slid both arms around his neck and kissed him harder, fingers finding the silver hair at the back of his head. His glasses bumped lightly against her cheek before he tilted his face, deepening the kiss.
“You know,” he murmured against her lips, “you’re supposed to be resting.”
“I am.”
“This doesn’t feel restful.”
“You’re old. Maybe your stamina’s going.”
Johnny pulled back just far enough to look at her. “Is that so?”
Y/N smiled. “Just making an observation.”
His hand tightened at her waist. “You’ve got an awful lot to say for someone who could barely walk after the last time.”
Her cheeks warmed, but she refused to let him win. “You seemed proud of yourself.”
“I was.”
“Cocky.”
“Accurate.”
He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, his lips lingering near her ear.
Y/N’s fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket.
“You looked so hot up there,” she admitted.
“In the suit?”
“In the suit. Holding the gavel. Ordering everybody around.”
Johnny’s laugh was low against her skin.
“And here I thought you were focused on the competition.”
“I can multitask.”
“I noticed.”
She kissed him again, slower now, letting herself enjoy having him pressed against her without cameras or contestants nearby. His thumb traced a small circle over her side, careful of the tender skin beneath her clothes.
“You hurting?” he asked.
“A little.”
His expression shifted, concern briefly overtaking the teasing. “Shouldn’t be climbing all over me, then.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That’s been your answer to everything today.”
“It keeps being true.”
Johnny brushed his knuckles gently along her cheek. “You were good in there.”
“I know.”
“Now you sound like yourself.”
Y/N grinned. “You liked the coin thing.”
He exhaled through his nose, trying unsuccessfully to appear unaffected. “I had no opinion.”
“You held it there.”
“You’re the one who couldn’t use your hands.”
“And you were the one who was staring at my mouth.”
“I was making sure you didn’t swallow it.”
“Very professional.”
“Always.”
Y/N slipped her fingers beneath the knot of his tie and loosened it slightly.
Johnny looked down at her hands. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you relax.”
“I look tense?”
“You looked pretty tense after I did this.”
She raised two fingers between them, forming the same tight V she had made from the bleachers.
Johnny caught her wrist before she could bring them to her mouth.
His grin turned dangerous. “You have any idea how much trouble you’re causing me?”
“That was the idea.”
He pressed a kiss against the inside of her wrist, eyes fixed on hers.
Y/N’s breath caught. “You’re the one who wanted to show off your tongue,” she reminded him.
“I was helping Lance.”
“By dragging it down the zapper like that?”
“I’m a committed host.”
“Show-off.”
“You enjoyed it.”
She leaned closer until their noses nearly touched.
“Very much.”
Johnny’s gaze dropped to her lips again.
Y/N glanced toward the open doorway. Nobody had come outside. The contestants’ voices remained distant, and production appeared occupied with resetting equipment inside.
“We have an hour until filming again,” she said.
“So I’ve heard.”
“And everybody’s distracted.”
“Also true.”
Her fingers moved slowly down the front of his suit jacket.
Johnny watched them descend before catching her hand again. “What are you suggesting, young lady?”
Y/N tilted her head. “You spent all afternoon showing off that tongue.”
His eyebrows rose.
She stepped closer, pressing herself fully against him as she lowered her voice. “I think you owe me a private demonstration.”
Johnny stared at her.
The amused little smile returned first, followed by a slow heat in his eyes that made her stomach tighten.
“Do I?”
“Mhm.”
“And where exactly were you planning on holding this demonstration?”
“…I saw some empty offices upstairs.”
“You’ve been scouting locations?”
“I’m prepared.”
“That’s concerning.”
“You followed me upstairs last time.”
“And look what happened.”
“Exactly.”
Johnny glanced toward the doorway, checking that they were still alone.
Then he looked back at her. “We’re supposed to be back in an hour.”
“I don’t need the whole hour.”
His laugh came out rougher than before. “That confidence is going to get you in trouble.”
Y/N took hold of his tie again and began walking backward toward the door.
“Are you coming?”
Johnny allowed himself to be pulled one step.
Then another.
“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping as he followed her inside, “you’re going to be the one coming.”
The way he said that made her stomach tighten and thighs clench briefly together.
. . .
The office door had barely clicked shut before Johnny had her against the wall.
Y/N’s breath caught as the cool metal pressed into her back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body crowding into hers. One of his hands landed beside her head while the other closed around her waist, careful of the tender skin beneath the remnants of wax but firm enough to pull her flush against him.
“So much for taking a break,” he murmured.
“You followed me.”
“You were pulling me by the tie.”
“And you liked it.”
Johnny’s crooked smile appeared for half a second.
Then he kissed her.
There was nothing slow or careful about it this time. His mouth covered hers with all the pent-up tension they had been trading across the mine, the looks over his glasses, the coin between her teeth, his tongue dragging shamelessly across the bug zapper while his eyes stayed fixed on her.
Y/N gripped the lapels of his burgundy jacket and dragged him closer, kissing him back with equal urgency. His glasses bumped against her cheek, and she pushed them higher onto his nose without breaking away.
Johnny laughed against her lips. “Bossy. That’s how I like my women.”
“You’re wasting our hour.”
“We haven’t been in here a minute.”
“Exactly.”
His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, holding her there while his mouth moved over hers again. Y/N hooked her fingers into his silver hair, ruining what little shape it had left after a day of filming.
He made a quiet sound in the back of his throat when she tugged. “There it is,” she whispered.
“What?”
“That noise. Hot.”
Johnny’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “You’re awfully pleased with yourself.”
“I usually am.”
He caught her lower lip between his teeth, pulling lightly before letting it go.
Y/N’s breath hitched.
“Still pleased?” he asked.
“Very.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
His mouth left hers and found the side of her neck.
Y/N’s head tipped back against the wall as he kissed beneath her jaw, slower now, letting his lips linger over every sensitive place he discovered. The scratch of his jaw against her skin sent a shiver down her spine.
Her shirt was still draped uselessly over her shoulders from the wax challenge, leaving her in her bra beneath it. Johnny pushed the loose fabric aside, exposing more of her neck and collarbone.
“Convenient outfit,” he murmured.
“You’re the reason I’m still dressed like this.”
“I poured wax on you. I didn’t hide the rest of your clothes.”
“I couldn’t lift my arms.”
“And yet you managed that little gesture from the bleachers just fine.”
Y/N smiled, breathless. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to.”
His lips moved along her collarbone.
The teasing disappeared from her expression as Johnny kissed lower, his hand sliding up her side with unexpected gentleness. His thumb skimmed the band of her bra before his mouth followed, pressing warm kisses across the exposed curves of her breasts above it.
Y/N’s fingers tightened in his hair. “Johnny.”
He looked up at her through his glasses, mouth still near her chest. “What?”
She swallowed. “Nothing.”
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“Keep going.”
His grin returned.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Johnny’s lips traced the edge of her bra, unhurried and deliberate. Every kiss felt like an answer to the way she had teased him earlier, each one placed with the knowledge that she was trying desperately not to make enough noise for anyone passing outside to hear.
Her breathing became uneven anyway.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
“You weren’t this quiet five minutes ago,” he said against her skin.
“There were people around.”
“And that usually stops you?”
“Not remotely.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Y/N pulled him upright long enough to kiss him again, hungry and impatient. Johnny let her take control for a moment, allowing her to tug his loosened tie and press him back before he caught her wrists gently and pinned them against the wall above her head.
Her pulse jumped beneath his fingers.
Johnny stared at her.
The humor was still there, it always was with him but something darker had settled beneath it.
“You spent all afternoon trying to distract me,” he said.
“I succeeded.”
“Nearly got me fired.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You told me to make eye contact while licking an electric racket.”
“And then you put on a show.”
“Thought you might appreciate the technique.”
Y/N’s gaze dropped to his mouth. “I did.”
Johnny released one wrist and slid his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face toward his.
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “Very much.”
His thumb dragged lightly across her lower lip.
“Then I guess I ought to put my tongue to better use.”
The words sank straight through her.
Y/N’s back pressed harder against the wall as Johnny kissed her once more, deep and slow, before lowering his mouth to her neck again.
He followed the same path downward, her throat, her collarbone, the exposed skin above her bra, taking his time now despite her earlier complaint about wasting the hour.
His hands settled at her hips.
Johnny lowered himself gradually in front of her, his lips trailing over the center of her chest before reaching the soft skin beneath the band of her bra.
Y/N looked down at him.
His silver hair was disheveled from her fingers, his glasses slightly crooked, burgundy suit still perfectly absurd for what he was promising to do in a dusty office hidden inside an abandoned coal mine.
He glanced up at her, reading every thought on her face.
“Still think I was showing off?”
“Yes.”
Johnny smiled against her skin. “Good.”
Then his mouth moved lower, kissing along her stomach toward the tender places where the wax had been, his hands tightening around her hips as he sank to his knees.
Johnny sank lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the center of her stomach, tongue flicking over every spot the wax had touched. His hands slid up her sides and back down again, gripping her hips tight enough to leave faint marks.
He reached the waistband of her shorts and worked the button free with one hand, then dragged the zipper down slow. The denim parted under his fingers. He hooked both thumbs inside and tugged the shorts down her legs, letting them pool at her ankles before she stepped out of them.
Y/N’s breath hitched when his mouth returned, this time brushing over the thin cotton of her underwear. He kissed her through the fabric, slow and deliberate, letting the heat of his breath soak in. His tongue pressed flat against the damp spot growing there, tracing the outline of her folds without pushing the material aside yet.
One hand left her hip and slid upward, cupping her breast over the bra, squeezing firmly, thumb circling the nipple through the lace until it peaked.
“Fuck, you’re already soaked,” he muttered against her, voice low and rough. “Been thinking about this since you had that coin between your teeth?”
She tried to answer but the words melted into a gasp when he hooked a finger under the edge of her underwear and pulled it aside. His mouth sealed over her bare pussy in the next second, tongue dragging from her entrance up to her clit in one long, wet stroke.
Johnny groaned into her, the sound vibrating straight through her core. He licked again, slower this time, circling her clit before sucking it between his lips. His free hand kept groping her breast, fingers kneading and pinching while his tongue worked her open.
He shifted her weight, lifting one of her legs and draping it over his shoulder so he could angle deeper. The new position let him bury his face fully between her thighs, tongue thrusting inside her before returning to her clit with quick, focused flicks.
Y/N’s fingers tangled in his hair, gripping hard. Johnny didn’t let up. He sucked harder, alternating between broad licks and tight suction on her clit while his hand on her breast squeezed in time with the rhythm of his mouth.
“Goddamn, you taste good,” he said against her, voice muffled and filthy. “Come on, baby. Give it to me right here.”
His tongue pressed flat and dragged upward again, then sealed around her clit and sucked steady and relentless. The leg over his shoulder trembled. Her hips rocked forward against his face without her meaning to, chasing the pressure.
Johnny’s hand left her breast long enough to slide down and spread her open wider with two fingers, giving his tongue better access. He licked inside her again, then back up, sucking her clit with wet, obscene sounds that echoed in the quiet office.
She came with a sharp cry, thighs clamping around his head. Johnny held her steady, mouth still working her through it, tongue lapping up every pulse and twitch until her grip on his hair loosened and her leg slid off his shoulder.
He stayed on his knees a moment longer, pressing one last slow kiss to her oversensitive clit before easing her underwear back into place. His hands smoothed up her thighs, then he looked up at her with that crooked grin, lips shiny.
Johnny held her gaze as he rose, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth without an ounce of shame.
Y/N was still pressed against the wall, breathing hard, one hand braced beside her while the other remained tangled loosely in his silver hair.
He looked far too pleased with himself.
“Still think I was showing off?” he asked.
Y/N swallowed, trying to find her voice. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”
“No, ma’am. I just proved myself.”
Johnny stood fully, knees cracking faintly beneath the burgundy suit.
Y/N’s mouth curved. “Careful, old man.”
He caught her around the waist before she could tease him further, pulling her shorts up for her before against him despite the weakness still lingering in her legs.
“That’s awfully brave,” he murmured, “considering you can barely stand.”
“You seem proud of that.”
“Little bit.”
“A little?”
His crooked grin widened. “All right. Very.”
Y/N grabbed his loosened tie and tugged him down into a kiss. Johnny tasted like her and the realization sent another wave of heat through her, though her body hadn’t entirely recovered from the last one.
He kissed her slowly this time, one hand steady at her waist while the other smoothed over her hair.
When they separated, he kept his forehead against hers.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “My world’s a little tilted.”
“That could be the coal mine.”
“It’s not the coal mine.”
Johnny laughed under his breath and kissed the corner of her mouth.
From somewhere outside the office came the metallic crash of equipment being moved, followed by a production assistant calling for someone across the building.
Y/N tightened her grip on his tie. “How much time do we have?”
Johnny checked his watch.
His eyebrows rose. “Less than we used to.”
“That isn’t a number.”
“About twenty minutes.”
“Plenty of time.”
“For you to fix yourself.”
She started to button her shorts again but looked pointedly at his disheveled hair, crooked glasses, and wrinkled suit. “I’m not the only one who needs fixing.”
Johnny glanced down at himself. “Think they’ll notice?”
“You walked in here looking like a game-show host. You’re about to walk out looking like you lost a fight in a supply closet.”
“I won that fight.”
Y/N laughed and pushed his glasses properly into place.
Johnny watched her as she straightened his tie, his hands resting comfortably on her hips.
“You know,” she murmured, “that little bug-zapper demonstration was very educational.”
“Happy to provide a hands-on learning experience.”
“That wasn’t hands-on.”
“No?” His thumb traced the edge of her waist. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Y/N lightly slapped his chest.
He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles, his expression softening for only a second before the familiar mischief returned.
“You’re trouble, sweetheart.”
“And you’re still standing here with me.”
“Best place I’ve been all day.”
The words caught her slightly off guard.
Johnny seemed to realize they had sounded more sincere than intended, because he immediately glanced toward the door and cleared his throat.
“We should get you back before your buddy, Ethan, sends out a search party.”
“Ethan thinks I’m resting.”
“You are.”
Y/N stared at him.
Johnny grinned. “I feel refreshed.”
She shoved him lightly, but he caught her again, kissing her once before finally stepping away.
“Give me five minutes,” he said. “Then come out.”
“So subtle.”
“I’m a professional.”
“Says the one who licked an electric racket while making eye contact with me.”
“Very professionally.”
Johnny reached for the door, then paused and looked back at her.
His gaze traveled over her once, slow, satisfied, and unmistakably hungry despite everything he had already done.
“Later,” he said.
Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “That a promise?”
His grin sharpened.
“Win the next endgame challenge in twenty minutes and find out.”
hi big poppa!! i’ve been seeing on twitter that ur apparently ending after class? i wonder if that’s true or not, because i wasn’t sure if u had said that or somebody else. if it’s true, then i guess it’s the end of an era😞😞 if not, then i guess ill be very very very happy 🤤 #nobodywriteshenrycreelhowudo
Ending means I would have to stop writing for Professor Creel entirely. I don’t plan to. Write imagines, sure or requests, yes. But the only reason why I ended it at chapter twenty four, specifically…I’m trying to publish this into a real book. Without getting sued of course. And if a sequel series is wanted by readers, I could do it.
I’ve also been writing for Professor Creel since November, trying to publish at least once a week since then. You know I’ve put my all into this. This is also a way for me to take a break but also keep writing.
synapse: after falling from the shattered bifrost, a wounded loki awakens in the home of an ordinary midgardian whose simple act of kindness begins to challenge everything he believes about trust, honesty, and humanity
a/n: saw my man in the doomsday trailer and had to write for him
PART TWO is linked here
. . .
By eleven-thirty, Y/N had wiped down every table in the diner twice.
The chairs were flipped upside down over the booths and tables, the coffee machines had been cleaned, and the neon OPEN sign in the front window had been switched off nearly an hour ago. Outside, the empty highway stretched through the desert in both directions, illuminated only by the occasional passing headlights and the pale glow of the moon.
It was the kind of road people used to get somewhere else.
Few ever stopped unless they needed gas, coffee, or a bathroom.
Y/N had been working at the diner long enough to recognize the different types of travelers who came through: exhausted truck drivers, families with screaming children, couples who had clearly been arguing for the past fifty miles and college students attempting road trips in cars that looked one pothole away from collapsing.
Tonight had been unusually quiet.
Her manager had left shortly after closing, trusting Y/N to finish counting the register and lock up. The cook had disappeared through the back door ten minutes after that, leaving behind a cloud of cigarette smoke and a reminder not to forget the lights over the grill.
Now the diner belonged entirely to her.
She had claimed the booth nearest the counter, one leg tucked beneath her as she stared at the open laptop in front of her. A half-finished cup of coffee sat beside it, cold enough that the thin layer of creamer on top had begun to separate.
Three paragraphs remained between her and freedom.
Technically, five pages remained between her and freedom, but she had decided not to think about that.
Y/N leaned closer to the screen, squinting at the sentence she had rewritten four separate times.
The significance of—
She deleted it.
The historical importance of—
Delete.
“This is stupid,” she muttered.
Her professor had given the class two weeks to complete the assignment. Naturally, Y/N had spent thirteen days thinking about starting it and was now attempting to finish the entire thing during closing shifts at the diner.
The cursor blinked mockingly at her.
Y/N reached for her coffee, took one sip, and immediately grimaced.
“Disgusting.”
She drank it again anyway.
A faint rumble rolled somewhere in the distance.
At first, she assumed it was thunder.
The monsoon clouds had been gathering along the horizon since sunset, though they had yet to offer anything beyond a few flashes of lightning and enough humidity to make her hair cling to the back of her neck.
Y/N returned her attention to the laptop.
The significance of Norse mythology—
A blinding streak of light flashed past the diner windows.
She barely had time to lift her head before something struck the earth outside with a tremendous crash.
The windows rattled in their frames.
Silverware clattered inside its plastic trays. Her coffee tipped over, spreading across the table and soaking the corner of her notebook.
Y/N jumped from the booth with a sharp cry.
“What the hell?”
The lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then steadied.
Y/N remained frozen beside the booth, staring through the darkened windows.
For several seconds, there was nothing.
No second impact. No explosion. No vehicle skidding across the pavement.
Only silence.
The coffee continued dripping from the edge of the table and onto the floor.
Y/N slowly closed her laptop before the spreading liquid could reach it. Her pulse beat hard against her throat as she stepped away from the booth.
Maybe a transformer had blown.
Except the diner still had power.
Maybe someone had crashed nearby.
That possibility forced her feet into motion.
She hurried behind the counter and crouched, reaching beneath the register until her fingers closed around the wooden baseball bat her manager kept there.
He had claimed it was for protection.
Y/N had always thought it was more likely to get them sued.
Tonight, however, the weight of it in her hands felt reassuring.
She moved toward the front door and stopped with her fingers wrapped around the lock.
Calling the police would be the sensible thing to do.
She pulled her phone from the pocket of her apron.
No Service.
“Of course.”
She raised it over her head as though six additional inches might convince the nearest tower to acknowledge her existence.
Nothing.
The diner sat in one of those inconvenient dead zones where calls only went through if someone stood near the old vending machines outside and held their phone at exactly the right angle.
Y/N considered remaining inside.
Whatever had happened could wait until she found service.
Then she imagined someone trapped inside a wrecked car while she stood ten yards away debating whether it was safe to investigate.
She swore softly and unlocked the door.
Hot desert air rushed inside.
Y/N tightened both hands around the bat as she stepped into the parking lot. Gravel crunched beneath her sneakers. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, attracting moths and small flying insects that threw shifting shadows across the asphalt.
“Hello?”
No answer.
She looked toward the highway.
The road was empty.
There were no headlights, no tire marks and no wreckage scattered across the pavement. Whatever had caused the impact had come from somewhere else.
Y/N’s eyes shifted toward the stretch of desert behind the diner.
A faint haze of dust hung over the ground.
Beyond the last row of parking spaces, something had carved a shallow trench through the sand and scattered rocks in every direction. Sparse bushes had been flattened along its path.
Y/N stared at it.
“Nope.”
She took one step backward.
Then she heard it.
A low, strained sound coming from somewhere beyond the edge of the parking lot.
It might have been a groan.
The bat lowered slightly in her hands.
“Hello?”
Still no response.
Y/N approached the disturbed ground with careful steps. The diner lights grew dimmer behind her as she followed the shallow trench into the darkness.
Her sneakers sank into the loose sand.
At the end of the trail, a dark shape lay crumpled between two desert shrubs.
Y/N stopped.
It was a person.
A man, she realized as she moved closer. He lay facedown in the sand with one arm bent unnaturally beneath him and long black hair obscuring most of his face.
His clothing caught the moonlight in brief flashes of green, black and gold.
Not clothing, exactly.
Armor.
Y/N’s grip tightened around the baseball bat.
For one absurd moment, she wondered whether the nearby Renaissance festival had started early.
Then she saw the blood.
It stained the side of his face and soaked through torn fabric beneath the metal plating around his shoulders. One of his hands was scraped raw, his fingers still curled as though they had been holding something moments before.
The bat slipped lower.
“Oh, shit.”
Y/N hurried the remaining distance and dropped to her knees beside him.
“Hey.”
She placed the bat within reach and cautiously touched two fingers to the side of his neck.
His skin was cold.
Not cool from the night air. Cold enough to make her instinctively pull her hand back.
Panic shot through her.
Then she felt it.
A pulse.
Slow, but present.
Y/N released a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“Okay. You’re alive.”
The stranger did not respond.
She leaned closer, watching for the movement of his back. His breathing was shallow and uneven, but he was breathing.
That was good.
Breathing meant not dead.
She could work with not dead.
Y/N pulled out her phone again and dialed 911 despite the empty bars in the corner of the screen.
The call immediately failed.
She stood and walked several paces away, raising the phone toward the sky.
“Come on. Come on.”
No service.
She tried closer to the diner.
Nothing.
Near the edge of the highway.
Still nothing.
Y/N looked back at the man lying motionless in the dirt.
The nearest hospital was at least forty minutes away. The nearest place she could reliably make a call was probably the gas station fifteen miles down the road.
She could drive there and call for help.
She could also return to find that he had stopped breathing while she was gone.
“Why did you have to land in the one place without a signal?” she demanded.
The unconscious man offered no explanation.
Y/N paced once across the gravel, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.
She could not lift him.
Even from several feet away, she could tell he was tall. Lean, perhaps, but tall enough that attempting to carry him would end with both of them injured.
Dragging him across the sand would worsen whatever damage he had already suffered.
She stared at him, then at her car parked near the side of the diner.
An idea began to form.
It was not a good idea.
In fact, it was objectively one of the stupidest ideas she had ever entertained.
But it was technically an idea.
Y/N hurried toward her car and yanked open the back door. Fast-food wrappers, textbooks and an emergency sweatshirt occupied the seat. She pushed them aside before opening the trunk.
Her skateboard was buried beneath a reusable grocery bag and a case of bottled water.
She had not used it in months. The scratched deck was covered in faded stickers, and one of the wheels squeaked whenever it turned, but it remained mostly functional.
“Please don’t break,” she whispered, pulling it free.
Y/N carried the skateboard back across the parking lot and into the desert.
The stranger had not moved.
She placed the board beside him and crouched.
“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen.”
He remained unconscious.
“I’m going to get you into my car, drive until I have service and call an ambulance. You’re not going to wake up and murder me.”
Nothing.
Y/N nodded.
“Great. Glad we agree.”
She rolled him carefully onto his back.
His face turned toward her.
Y/N paused.
Despite the blood streaking his temple and the bruises beginning to darken beneath his pale skin, he was—
Well.
He was unfairly attractive.
His features were sharp and almost elegant, from the high curve of his cheekbones to the severe line of his nose. Dark lashes rested against his skin. His long hair spread across the sand around him.
Y/N stared for one second too long.
Then she caught herself.
“Not relevant.”
His armor was unlike anything she had ever seen up close. The gold pieces were scratched and bent, while the green fabric beneath them had been torn in several places. It did not look like plastic or cheap costume metal.
It looked real.
Heavy, too.
That explained part of the problem.
Y/N slid her hands beneath his shoulders and attempted to lift him.
His upper body rose perhaps two inches before her arms began to shake.
“Oh, come on.”
She lowered him again and repositioned the skateboard closer.
The first attempt ended with one of his arms sliding from the board and dropping limply into the sand.
The second ended when the board rolled away from her.
On the third attempt, Y/N wedged one foot behind a wheel, hooked both hands beneath his arms and pulled with everything she had.
His shoulders landed across the deck.
The rest of him did not.
Y/N dropped onto the sand beside him, breathing heavily.
“Fuck. You could’ve been shorter.”
The stranger remained serenely unhelpful.
She climbed back to her feet, grabbed him beneath the arms again and dragged him another few inches onto the board. His legs extended far beyond the end, boots scraping lines through the sand.
It was not dignified.
It was not medically advisable.
It was, however, progress.
Y/N stepped back and examined her work.
His torso rested across the skateboard while his arms hung over either side and his heels remained on the ground.
She pulled off her apron, threaded it beneath his arms and tied it loosely across his chest to keep him from rolling off.
“There.”
He looked like the world’s most elaborate piece of luggage.
Y/N grabbed the front of the skateboard and began pulling.
The wheels sank immediately into the sand.
She stopped.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Y/N moved behind the board and pushed instead. It rolled several inches before catching on a rock and nearly throwing the stranger sideways.
She lunged forward and caught his shoulder.
“Absolutely not. I did not do all this just for you to crack your head open again.”
She dragged the board around the rock and continued.
. . .
Y/N unlocked the apartment with one hand while keeping one foot planted against the skateboard to stop it from rolling backward. Then she dragged him inside, kicked the door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavily.
Her living room was small.
A worn couch occupied one wall, facing a television balanced on a low wooden stand. Books and college papers covered the coffee table. A laundry basket sat abandoned near the hallway, half-filled with clean clothes she had not bothered folding.
It was not the setting in which one expected to receive a mysterious armored man.
It would have to do.
Getting him onto the couch took another ten minutes.
Once he was finally stretched across the cushions, Y/N stood over him with both hands braced against her lower back.
“There.”
He looked uncomfortable.
His legs extended beyond the armrest, and one of the metal pieces at his shoulder pressed awkwardly against his neck.
Y/N frowned.
The armor had to come off.
She hesitated.
Removing someone’s clothing without permission felt wrong.
Leaving blood-soaked material pressed against open injuries also felt wrong.
She crouched beside him and examined the clasps.
“I’m only doing this because I don’t want you to die. Not to be a pervert.”
The armor did not appear designed for easy removal.
Each piece overlapped another, secured with unfamiliar fastenings and narrow strips of dark leather. Y/N began with the gold shoulder plates, testing every buckle until one finally released.
The metal was colder than it should have been.
She placed each piece carefully on the floor beside the coffee table. Beneath the outer armor, the fabric was torn and damp with blood. A long cut ran beneath his ribs, while smaller abrasions covered his shoulders and arms.
Y/N swallowed.
“Okay.”
She found scissors in the kitchen and cut through the fabric where it had stuck to the wounds. When she reached the fitted leather around his waist, she paused again.
There was no way to clean everything properly without removing the rest.
Y/N looked at his face.
His breathing remained steady.
“You’re unconscious,” she reasoned quietly. “This is medical.”
She pointed at him.
“And you do not get to be weird about this later.”
She worked as quickly and respectfully as she could, keeping her eyes on the injuries rather than the man beneath the clothing.
That became more difficult when she discovered he wore nothing beneath the final layer.
Y/N immediately grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and covered his lower half.
“Great.”
She stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“Of course.”
Once her face stopped burning, she returned to the task.
She cleaned the blood from his skin with warm water and the softest cloth she owned. His body was marked with bruises that had already darkened to deep shades of purple and blue, especially along his ribs and shoulders. None of his bones appeared obviously broken, though Y/N knew that meant very little.
His skin remained unnaturally cold.
She placed the back of her hand against his forehead.
No fever.
The opposite, if anything.
Y/N wrapped the worst cuts with gauze and secured the bandages with medical tape. She put antibiotic ointment on the shallower scrapes, covered the torn skin across his knuckles and cleaned the blood from his hairline.
At one point, his brow furrowed beneath her touch.
Y/N froze.
His eyes did not open.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
She finished the wound near his temple more gently.
Afterward, she washed his armor in the bathtub.
The water turned pink, then red, then gradually clear. Up close, the pieces looked even less like a costume. The metal was dense and beautifully worked, carved with patterns too intricate to have been manufactured cheaply. Even damaged, it seemed valuable enough to pay her rent for years.
Y/N left the armor to dry on towels across the bathroom floor.
The cloth and leather beneath it required more work.
Several seams had torn apart during his fall, and one sleeve had nearly separated from the shoulder. Y/N retrieved the small sewing kit she used to repair buttons and uniform hems, then sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch.
The material resisted an ordinary needle.
She broke one attempting to push it through the thicker section.
“You are extremely inconvenient,” she told him.
The stranger did not respond.
She eventually found a heavy needle in the back of the kit and used black thread to close the worst tears. Her stitches were not elegant, but they held. Where the fabric had been too badly damaged, she reinforced it from the inside with pieces cut from an old black shirt.
It took nearly two hours.
By the time she finished, her eyes ached and the sky beyond the windows had begun to lighten at the edges.
Y/N placed the repaired clothing with the rest of the armor in the bathroom. Then she returned to the couch.
The stranger had not moved.
The blanket still covered him from the waist down, though one side had slipped low enough to expose his hip.
Y/N quickly pulled it back into place.
“There. Modesty.”
She added a second blanket over his chest, partly because of how cold he felt and partly because she did not want to walk into the living room later and discover that the first one had fallen away entirely.
She left a glass of water on the coffee table and moved the baseball bat within easy reach of the armchair.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Y/N checked the lock on the front door, then checked it again.
She did not think she could sleep.
Instead, she went into the kitchen and filled a kettle.
Tea seemed like something a normal person would make after finding an unconscious man in a crater.
Tea was calming.
Tea was harmless.
Tea did not ask why there was alien-looking armor drying in her bathroom.
Y/N leaned against the counter while the kettle heated, rubbing both hands over her face.
What was she going to do when he woke?
Ask his name.
Ask what happened.
Ask whether there was anyone she could call.
Then, depending on his answer, either drive him to the hospital or lock herself in the bathroom and climb out the window.
The kettle began to whistle.
She turned off the burner, poured the water over two tea bags and tried not to notice how badly her hands shook. One mug was for her. The other was for him, in case he woke and wanted something warm.
She had just added honey to the second cup when she heard movement in the living room.
A rustle of fabric.
Then silence.
Y/N went still.
The baseball bat was in the other room.
Excellent planning.
She reached for the largest kitchen knife instead.
A floorboard creaked.
Then another.
Slow footsteps approached the kitchen.
Y/N tightened her fingers around the handle.
A tall figure appeared in the doorway.
She looked up.
Her breath caught.
The stranger was awake.
He stood with one hand braced against the frame, dark hair falling loose around his shoulders. The bandage at his temple remained in place, though the one wrapped around his ribs had shifted slightly with his movement.
His eyes were sharp and startlingly green.
They swept across the kitchen in a single, assessing glance before settling on her.
He looked disoriented.
Not frightened.
Not confused in the helpless way she had expected.
He looked like an animal waking inside a trap and calculating how many people stood between him and the exit.
Y/N lowered the knife slightly.
“Hi.”
His gaze dropped to the blade.
Then returned to her face.
“Where am I?”
His voice was low and rough from disuse, but the words carried a precise, commanding weight that made her stand straighter without meaning to.
“My apartment.”
His expression hardened. “What realm?”
Y/N blinked. “New Mexico.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That was not my question.”
She stared at him. “Uh…Earth?”
A slight shift passed over his features.
“Midgard.”
He spoke the word as though confirming something unpleasant.
Y/N studied him more carefully.
He was pale and unsteady, but there was something unmistakably regal in the way he held himself. Even injured and wrapped in bandages, he looked as though he expected the room to accommodate his presence.
He took one step forward.
The movement drew her attention downward.
Y/N immediately turned toward the counter.
“Oh my God.”
The stranger stopped. “What?”
“You’re naked.”
Silence.
Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the tea.
Completely fixed.
She could still see him at the edge of her vision, which was far more than she wanted to see while attempting to have a conversation with him.
“You’re just—” She made a vague gesture with one hand. “You left the blanket.”
The stranger looked down at himself.
There was a pause.
Not embarrassment.
Merely acknowledgment. “As it would seem.”
Y/N glanced at him by accident.
Her gaze dropped.
She immediately snapped it back to his face and then away again.
“Could you please cover yourself?”
“Why?”
The question sounded genuine.
Y/N looked toward the ceiling.
“Because you’re standing naked in my kitchen.”
“I am aware.”
“You weren’t until I said something.”
His mouth tightened. “I was otherwise occupied.”
“With what?”
“Determining where I have been taken.”
“No one took you anywhere.”
His eyes sharpened. “You expect me to believe that I arrived here of my own will?”
“I found you outside my job.”
He watched her in silence.
“You were unconscious,” she continued. “In the desert. You were bleeding, and I couldn’t get service to call an ambulance, so I brought you here.”
She gestured toward the hallway without looking directly at him.
“Your clothes are in the bathroom.”
“My clothes?”
“The armor or whatever.”
His gaze moved over her face, searching for some indication of deception.
“You removed them.”
Y/N’s cheeks warmed again. “They were covered in blood.”
“You disrobed me while I was insensible.”
“To clean your injuries.”
His expression became unreadable.
Y/N finally looked at his face.
Only his face.
“I covered you with a blanket.”
“Which appears to have been of greater concern to you than to me.”
“Yes, because I’m the one being traumatized right now.”
One of his eyebrows lifted.
The reaction was subtle, but unmistakably offended. “You speak boldly for one who claims not to be my captor.”
Y/N stared at him.
“You are naked, bleeding in my apartment and threatening me while butt-naked. I think we’re past formal introductions.”
The corner of his mouth shifted.
Not quite a smile.
More the distant memory of one.
It vanished before she could be certain.
“Where is the latrine?”
“Bathroom? Down the hall. First door on the left.”
He turned.
Y/N accidentally caught another glimpse of him from behind.
She spun back toward the counter so quickly that tea sloshed over the rim of her mug.
“And take the blanket with you!”
He paused in the doorway.
“What blanket?”
“The one on the floor in the living room.”
“I have no need of it.”
“I do.”
He looked over his shoulder at her.
For a moment, his eyes traveled across her face, taking in the flush in her cheeks and the determined way she refused to look below his shoulders.
Something knowing entered his expression.
“You are embarrassed.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“An unusual concern, considering you have already seen me.”
Y/N’s mouth fell open. “For medical reasons.”
“So you claim.”
“I saved your life.”
“That remains to be determined.”
She turned fully toward him then, irritation momentarily overpowering embarrassment.
“You know what? Fine. Walk around naked. I don’t care.”
His eyes flicked downward briefly, following the line of her gaze before it shot back to his face.
“No,” he said softly. “I can see that.”
Y/N grabbed a dish towel and threw it at him.
His hand rose.
The towel stopped in midair.
Y/N froze.
It hovered between them for one impossible second before floating neatly into his waiting palm.
The kitchen fell silent.
Her grip tightened around the knife.
The stranger glanced at the towel as though nothing remarkable had occurred.
Then he looked at her.
Fear must have shown on her face, because his expression changed.
The amusement disappeared.
His shoulders drew back, despite the pain the movement caused him, and the regal coldness returned all at once.
“You would be wise to lower the blade.”
Y/N swallowed. “…You just stopped that in the air.”
“A minor feat.”
“That is not minor.”
“To you, perhaps.”
He stepped toward her.
Y/N raised the knife again.
He stopped.
For the first time since entering the kitchen, he appeared to truly see her, not merely as part of the strange room in which he had awakened, but as the woman who had found him, tended his wounds and was now plainly frightened of what stood before her.
His gaze moved to the bandage wrapped around his hand.
Then to the repaired cut along his side.
“You treated these.”
“Yes.”
“Without knowing what I am.”
“I still don’t know what you are.”
His expression hardened faintly at the wording.
Y/N noticed.
“Who,” she corrected. “I don’t know who you are.”
He studied her for a long moment.
Then, with visible reluctance, he wrapped the dish towel around his waist.
It covered almost nothing.
Y/N stared at it.
“That is a hand towel.”
“You demanded I cover myself.”
“Not with something the size of a napkin.”
His patience visibly thinned.
“I have survived the void between worlds. I will not be scolded over your household linens.”
“Then go get the blanket.”
His eyes flashed.
Y/N pointed down the hallway.
“Or your clothes.”
There was a tense pause.
Then he turned away with what remained of his dignity and walked toward the bathroom, one hand holding the towel closed at his hip.
Y/N waited until he disappeared from sight before setting the knife down.
Her knees felt weak.
She pressed both palms against the counter.
He had caught a towel without touching it.
He had called Earth Midgard.
He had asked which realm he was in.
Y/N looked toward the hallway.
The bathroom door opened.
Then silence.
A moment later, his voice carried through the apartment.
“What have you done to my garments?”
Y/N closed her eyes.
“I cleaned them.”
“You stitched them.”
“They were ripped.”
“With Midgardian thread.”
“It was that or dental floss.”
Another silence.
Then, colder, “Where are the remaining pieces?”
“On the floor beside the bathtub. I didn’t know how they attached.”
The bathroom door opened again.
He emerged wearing only the lower half of his clothing, the repaired leather sitting low on his hips while he carried the torn tunic in one hand.
Y/N made a concentrated effort to focus on the stitching.
His fingers traced one of the repaired seams.
The work looked crude beneath his touch, especially compared to the original construction.
“I know it isn’t perfect,” she said defensively. “The material broke two of my needles.”
His gaze lifted to hers.
“You repaired it yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Y/N frowned. “Because it was damaged.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He continued watching her.
There was suspicion in his face, but something else beneath it. Something less certain.
Y/N gestured toward the second mug on the counter.
“I made tea.”
His eyes shifted toward it.
“You prepared it for me.”
“In case you woke up.”
“You did not know whether I would.”
“No.”
“And yet you prepared it.”
Y/N shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the weight of his attention. “You looked like you needed something warm.”
His expression became distant.
For a fleeting moment, the arrogance slipped.
He looked tired.
Not merely from his injuries, but from something deeper, something that had begun long before he struck the earth outside the diner.
Then the mask returned.
“What is your name?”
“Y/N.”
He repeated it quietly, testing the sound.
She waited.
“And you are?”
His chin lifted.
The change in him was immediate. Even half-dressed and bandaged in a stranger’s kitchen, he gathered himself as though standing before a royal court.
“I am Loki of Asgard.”
Y/N stared at him.
He continued, each title delivered with wounded, practiced pride.
“Son of Odin. Prince of the realm. God of Mischief.”
The kitchen fell silent.
Y/N looked at his repaired clothing.
Then at the unfamiliar armor visible through the open bathroom door.
Then at the man who had stopped a flying towel in midair.
“Oh.”
His eyes narrowed. “That is all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say? I’m processing.”
“You doubt me.”
“I watched you do magic, so I’m trying very hard not to.”
“Magic.” His tone suggested the word was inadequate.
Y/N picked up the second mug and held it out to him. “Tea?”
Loki looked at it as though unsure whether it was an offering or a test.
Then he approached.
He took the mug from her hand, his fingers brushing hers.
His skin remained cold.
Y/N tried not to react.
Loki noticed anyway.
His gaze dropped to their hands.
Then rose slowly to her face.
She withdrew first.
“You should sit down,” she said. “Before you fall down.”
“I do not fall.”
Y/N glanced toward the living room. “You literally fell out of the sky.”
His expression went still.
The remark landed harder than she intended.
His fingers tightened around the mug.
Y/N watched the humor vanish from his face and immediately regretted it.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You know nothing of what occurred.”
His voice had lost its rough amusement. What remained was cold and sharp enough to cut.
“No,” she said carefully. “I don’t.”
He looked away.
For several moments, he said nothing.
The silence felt heavier than anger.
Y/N studied him, noticing the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the kitchen walls.
Whatever had brought him to Earth had not been an accident.
Or, if it had, it was not the part that troubled him most.
She did not ask.
Instead, she nudged the honey closer across the counter.
“It might need more of that.”
Loki glanced down.
His grip on the mug gradually loosened.
“You are a peculiar creature.”
“I get that a lot.”
“You should be afraid of me.”
“I am a little.”
His gaze returned to hers.
The honesty appeared to surprise him.
Y/N folded her arms.
“But you’re hurt, and you haven’t done anything except insult my sewing and refuse to wear a blanket.”
A faint breath escaped him.
Almost a laugh.
“Your sewing is appalling.”
“And yet your clothes aren’t falling apart anymore.”
He examined the repaired seam once more.
“No,” he conceded quietly. “They are not.”
Y/N lifted her own mug.
“Drink your tea, Your Highness.”
Loki’s eyes narrowed at the title, uncertain whether she was mocking him.
She was.
But only a little.
He raised the mug to his lips.
The tea was still hot enough that he paused after the first sip, surprise briefly crossing his face.
Y/N hid a smile behind her own cup.
There, half-dressed in her kitchen with his armor drying beside her bathtub and black thread closing the tears in his princely garments, Loki of Asgard took another cautious drink.
For the first time since waking, he did not look toward the door.
. . .
By the time Loki finished eating, the clock above the stove read 4:57 a.m.
Y/N stared at it for several seconds, as though willing the numbers to rearrange themselves into something less offensive.
They did not.
The remains of his meal sat on the plate in front of him: a smear of egg yolk, one corner of toast and nothing else. For someone who had initially regarded the food as beneath him, Loki had eaten with impressive efficiency.
He had also asked seventeen questions.
Y/N had counted.
Most of them had concerned Midgard, her home, the diner, the glowing box mounted above the stove and why humans stored food in cold cupboards only to heat it again moments later.
Several had concerned her.
Those had been harder to answer.
She gathered the empty dishes from the small table and carried them to the sink.
Behind her, Loki remained seated with his repaired tunic draped around his shoulders but not properly fastened. He looked marginally better than he had an hour earlier. There was more color in his face, and the trembling in his hands had stopped.
He still looked exhausted.
Y/N suspected she looked worse.
She turned on the faucet and rinsed the plate.
“I’m going to bed.”
The chair shifted behind her.
“Now?”
Y/N looked over her shoulder.
“Yes, now.”
His brows drew together faintly.
“You intend to sleep.”
“That’s usually what going to bed means.”
“In my presence.”
She shut off the water. “You can stay on the couch.”
“That was not my concern.”
Y/N dried her hands on a dish towel. “What is your concern?”
Loki studied her as though the answer should have been obvious.
“You know nothing of me.”
“I know.”
“You have admitted that you believe me dangerous.”
“Potentially.”
“I possess abilities you do not understand.”
“Definitely.”
“And still you would render yourself unconscious within the same dwelling.”
Y/N leaned back against the counter.
“I have been awake for almost twenty-four hours.”
“That does not explain your lack of caution.”
“It explains most of it.”
Loki’s expression suggested that it did not.
Y/N rubbed both hands over her face, then pointed vaguely toward the hallway.
“My bedroom is through there. The bathroom is the first door on the left. You already found that. There are extra blankets in the basket by the couch, and the tap water is technically safe, even if it tastes weird.”
“You speak as though I am a guest.”
“You’re not exactly paying rent.”
His gaze sharpened. “Yet you leave me unattended.”
“I’m too tired to supervise a god.”
“You should not require supervision to ensure your own survival.”
Y/N considered that.
“Fair.”
She pushed away from the counter.
“If you do decide to kill me, could you try to do it before my next shift?”
Loki went completely still.
Y/N walked past him toward the living room.
“I have to be back at the diner tomorrow afternoon, and I’d rather not make them find coverage at the last minute.”
His chair scraped sharply against the floor as he stood. “You jest.”
“Mostly.”
“You believe I might murder you, yet your concern is your place of employment?”
“I hate inconveniencing my coworkers.”
“This is absurd.”
“I’ve been told.”
She reached the edge of the living room and bent to retrieve the blanket from the floor, tossing it over the back of the couch.
Loki followed more slowly, one hand briefly bracing against the table before he caught himself.
Y/N pretended not to see.
“I have more questions,” he said.
“I figured.”
“And matters I wish to discuss.”
She looked at him.
There was a strange insistence beneath the words. Not command, exactly. Something closer to reluctance, as though he had only just decided he wanted the conversation to continue and resented time for attempting to end it.
Y/N yawned.
“You seem like a talker.”
His expression tightened.
“I do not talk excessively.”
“You’ve interrogated me about my microwave, my job, college, why people put ice in drinks, and whether the mailman is an official agent of the government.”
“He wears a uniform and enters the grounds of every residence.”
“He delivers coupons.”
“A convenient explanation.”
Y/N smiled tiredly.
“My point stands.”
Loki folded his arms carefully, avoiding the bandage around his ribs.
“You dismiss me.”
“I’m postponing you.”
“You assume I will remain until you wake.”
She stopped.
The apartment fell quiet around them.
The first gray traces of morning had begun to appear through the blinds, striping the carpet and the side of Loki’s face with pale light.
Y/N looked at him for a moment.
There it was again.
That expectation hidden beneath the arrogance.
That everyone eventually left.
Or perhaps that he always did first.
She nodded toward the couch. “You said you can’t leave yet.”
“My circumstances may change.”
“Then they change.”
“And if I am gone?”
“I guess I’ll know you felt better.”
His eyes searched her face.
“You would not pursue me.”
“I don’t even know where Asgard is.”
“That would not prevent some.”
“I also have homework.”
Loki’s mouth flattened, but the answer seemed to settle something in him.
Y/N took another step toward the hallway.
He spoke before she could leave. “You have not answered.”
“Answered what?”
“Whether I may continue my questions.”
“When I’m awake.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You expect me to wait.”
“I believe in you.”
The words came out so casually that Y/N almost missed the way he reacted.
Loki stared at her.
The guarded amusement vanished from his face.
“What did you say?”
“I said I believe in you.”
“You cannot.”
“Why not?”
“You have known me for only hours.”
“True.”
“You know nothing of my character, my history or my intentions.”
“Also true.”
“Then upon what do you base such belief?”
Y/N blinked at him.
“I believe you can wait until I wake up before asking more questions.”
Silence.
Loki’s face changed with the realization.
Y/N pressed her lips together. “Oh.”
He looked deeply offended. “You were not speaking of me.”
“I was speaking of you. Just in a very specific, low-stakes way.”
“You made it sound—”
“More meaningful?”
“I did not say that.”
“You thought I was giving you an emotional affirmation.”
“I thought no such thing.”
His answer came too quickly.
Y/N smiled despite her exhaustion.
“Sure.”
Loki’s jaw tightened.
She pointed at the couch.
“You can do it. A few hours without interrogating me. I believe in you.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You can tell me all about it when I wake up.”
She turned toward the hallway.
“Y/N.”
She glanced back.
Loki stood in the middle of her living room, half-dressed in damaged royal clothing, black thread visible along the seams she had repaired. The dawn light made him look less like a man who had fallen from the sky and more like something the night had reluctantly surrendered.
He seemed poised to ask another question.
Instead, he said, “How long?”
“How long what?”
“Will you sleep?”
Y/N glanced at the clock again.
“Hopefully until noon.”
His expression suggested that six hours was an unreasonable disappearance.
“You’ll survive.”
“That remains to be seen.”
She smiled. “See? You already understand my sense of humor.”
“I do not.”
“You will.”
Y/N continued toward her room.
At the door, she stopped and looked back one final time.
“Oh, and don’t use the stove.”
Loki lifted his chin. “I am not a child.”
“You stared at the toaster like it was going to challenge you to combat.”
“It made a sound without warning.”
“Exactly. No stove. I can’t afford another home.”
She stepped into her room. “And Loki?”
“What?”
“Thanks for not killing me tonight.”
His expression became unreadable.
“You presume restraint on my part—“
“Good night.”
Y/N closed the door before he could answer.
She did not lock it.
Loki remained where she had left him, staring at the thin wooden barrier between them.
A lock would not have stopped him.
They both knew that.
But she had not even tried.
From the other side of the door came the quiet creak of the mattress, the rustle of blankets and, after only a few minutes, silence.
Loki listened.
No hurried breathing.
No attempt to escape through the window.
No weapon being moved beneath a pillow.
She had simply gone to sleep.
He looked toward the front door.
He could not leave.
Not yet.
That was the only reason he remained.
Loki repeated this to himself as he returned to the couch and lowered himself carefully onto it.
The blanket Y/N had offered lay folded over the back. He regarded it with disdain before pulling it across his legs.
On the coffee table sat the glass of water she had prepared earlier, along with two white tablets and a note written on the back of a diner receipt.
For pain. Human dose, so maybe only take one. Please don’t die. I have work.
Loki read it twice.
Then a third time.
A faint, unwilling smile touched his mouth.
“You believe in me,” he murmured.
From the bedroom, Y/N gave a muffled snore.
Loki’s smile disappeared.
He settled deeper into the couch, prepared to wait until she woke.
He lasted eleven minutes before thinking of another question.
Loki lasted thirty minutes.
For the first ten, he sat upright on the couch with the blanket draped across his legs and his attention fixed on the closed bedroom door.
For the next five, he examined the objects scattered across the coffee table.
A stack of textbooks.
Several pens.
A half-empty package of gum.
The note she had left beside the tablets.
He read it once more, though there was nothing within it he had not already understood.
Crude.
Irreverent.
Strangely considerate.
Loki placed the note precisely where he had found it.
Beneath the coffee table, partly hidden by one of her discarded shoes, he found a small red ball. It was rubber, worn smooth in places and small enough to fit comfortably in his palm.
He leaned back against the couch and tossed it toward the ceiling.
The ball rose, slowed, then dropped neatly into his waiting hand.
Again.
Up.
Down.
Catch.
The rhythm occupied him for perhaps another seven minutes.
Then it became insulting.
Loki sent the ball higher, allowing it to nearly touch the ceiling before catching it without looking.
He had endured diplomatic councils that moved faster than this.
He had waited through Thor’s endless speeches, Odin’s silences and entire feasts during which no one said anything of worth. Yet somehow, waiting for one sleeping Midgardian to awaken felt uniquely unreasonable.
She had said noon.
He looked toward the clock.
Barely half an hour had passed.
Absurd.
Loki tossed the ball again.
Perhaps she was not asleep.
The thought arrived quietly.
He caught the ball.
Perhaps the entire display had been a deception.
She had been too calm. Too willing to leave him unattended. Too quick to accept his presence within her home.
No one behaved so carelessly without reason.
She might have retreated to the bedroom to contact someone through another device. She might be recording him. She might be waiting for armed men to arrive.
Midgard possessed organizations devoted to unusual threats. Loki knew enough of the realm to understand that much.
The woman had claimed her device could not reach anyone from the diner.
That did not mean the same was true here.
He glanced toward the narrow hallway.
The apartment remained silent.
Too silent.
Loki threw the ball once more and caught it with sharper force.
She may have been plotting against him from the moment she found him.
The skateboard could have been part of the indignity.
He placed the ball on the table.
Pain pulled beneath his ribs as he stood, but he ignored it. His strength had begun to return, though far more slowly than he would have preferred. The fall through the void had drained him in a way battle never had.
He crossed the living room without sound.
The bedroom door waited at the end of the hallway, closed but not secured.
No lock.
That, too, could have been deliberate.
An invitation designed to convince him she felt safe.
Or a test.
Loki rested his hand against the handle.
He listened.
Nothing.
No whispering.
No movement across the floor.
Only the faint hum of the air conditioner and a quiet, uneven breath from the other side.
He turned the handle slowly.
The door opened without a creak.
The room beyond was dim, lit only by the pale morning light slipping through the blinds. Clothes had been draped over the back of a chair. More books were piled beside the bed, one lying open facedown across the carpet.
A small lamp remained on.
Y/N was asleep.
Truly asleep.
She lay on her side beneath a tangled comforter, one hand tucked beneath her pillow while the other rested loosely against the mattress. Her hair had spread across the pillow in complete disarray, and the exhaustion that had been visible in her face earlier had softened into something peaceful.
There was no phone in her hand.
No weapon nearby.
No concealed accomplice waiting in the shadows.
She had told him she was going to sleep.
Then she had done exactly that.
Loki remained in the doorway.
The simplicity of it unsettled him more than deception might have.
She had been truthful from the moment he woke.
Painfully so.
She did not soften her answers to preserve his pride. She did not flatter him when he offered his titles. She admitted when she feared him and mocked him in the same breath.
She had not pretended that bringing him home was wise.
She had not claimed some noble destiny compelled her.
She had simply found him injured and decided not to leave him there.
Because she did not want bad karma.
Because she did not wish to be an asshole.
Loki nearly scoffed at the memory.
Nearly.
He stepped farther into the room.
Y/N did not stir.
She had no idea he stood there.
No awareness of how vulnerable she had made herself. One movement of his hand and he could silence her before she ever opened her eyes.
The thought brought no satisfaction.
Instead, Loki found himself noticing the faint crease between her brows, as though even in sleep some small concern followed her. The edge of the blanket had slipped from one shoulder, revealing the worn shirt she had changed into before bed.
There was nothing regal about her.
Nothing practiced.
No carefully arranged hair, jeweled gown or painted smile meant to secure favor.
She was simply herself, even when no one was meant to see.
Beautiful.
The word entered his mind without permission.
Loki’s expression tightened.
He looked away from her face.
That was foolish.
She was mortal. Ordinary. Exhausted from a night spent serving strangers and completing scholarly work in a roadside diner.
And yet—
He looked back.
There was something beautiful in the softness of her sleeping face.
More than that, in the honesty of it.
She had no mask.
No performance.
She had seen him injured, confused and stripped of every visible mark of rank, and she had still spoken to him as though he were neither monster nor king.
Only a man who needed help.
Loki disliked how much that pleased him.
Y/N shifted slightly beneath the covers.
He went still.
Her lips parted around a quiet breath. One hand moved across the mattress, searching absently until her fingers caught the edge of the comforter and pulled it closer.
She did not wake.
Loki released a breath through his nose.
He should leave her to rest.
Not because she had asked.
Certainly not because she had said she believed in him.
He simply had no further reason to remain in the doorway.
That was all.
Loki reached for the handle and began to draw the door closed.
Before it shut, Y/N murmured something into the pillow.
He paused.
The words were indistinct.
Then, more clearly—
“No stove.”
Loki stared at her.
She remained asleep.
His eyes narrowed.
Even unconscious, she apparently considered him incapable of navigating her crude cooking apparatus.
A faint smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.
“Insufferable creature,” he whispered.
He closed the door until only a narrow gap remained, leaving enough space for the light from the hallway to reach the room.
Then he returned to the living room.
The red ball still rested on the table.
Loki lowered himself carefully onto the couch and picked it up again.
This time, when he tossed it toward the ceiling, he did so more slowly.
(y/n) and henry visit a sex shop at the cape 🥸🥸 thoughts on that
The Color Red
after class imagine - “the color red”
synapse: a spontaneous night out brings laughter, jealousy, and a possessive reminder that they’re undeniably each other’s
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: domestic fluff, mentions of possible use of bondage, jealousy, possessive
a/n: so after thinking about it, part twenty four is considered the end of after class. i will still write for professor creel unless a second book is actually wanted by you guys. anything past chapter twenty four is gonna be considered an imagine. they’re not gonna be numbered or anything in case you want me to write older y/n and henry like in the future or something.
. . .
Morning came slowly, softened by the hush of the ocean outside and the faint strip of light slipping between the curtains.
Y/N lay half on top of Henry, her cheek resting against his chest and one leg tangled comfortably with his beneath the blankets. His fingers moved through her hair in long, absent strokes, occasionally smoothing it back from her face whenever the breeze from the open window disturbed it.
Neither of them had spoken for several minutes.
There was no need to.
The steady rhythm of his breathing beneath her ear and the quiet scrape of his fingertips against her scalp had almost put her back to sleep when a thought surfaced.
“We only have a week left.”
Henry’s hand slowed before continuing through her hair. “You say that as though we’ve been given a terminal diagnosis.”
“It feels serious.”
“We still have seven days.”
“Exactly. Seven.” She lifted her head enough to look at him. “That’s barely anything.”
“You’ve spent most mornings refusing to leave the bed.”
“That’s part of the adaptation.”
She settled against him again, drawing idle patterns over his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt. Henry’s fingers found the ends of her hair, gently untangling them as she stared toward the brightening window.
“We should go out today,” she said.
“I assumed we would.”
“No, I mean properly go out.”
Henry looked down at her. “I’m going to need a clearer definition.”
“We do something during the day. Something we haven’t done yet.” She propped her chin against his chest, excitement beginning to replace the sleepiness in her face. “And then tonight, we see what the nightlife is like.”
“The nightlife.”
“Yes.”
“On Cape Cod.”
“You say that like everyone here goes inside at sunset and quietly reads maritime history.”
“I suspect a significant number of them do.”
She smiled. “There have to be bars. Music. Dancing. Something.”
“There are bars.”
“I knew it.”
“That wasn’t an endorsement.”
“It sounded like one.”
Henry’s hand moved from her hair to the back of her neck, his thumb brushing lazily beneath her ear. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“A full day.” She began counting against his chest. “Breakfast somewhere that isn’t this room. Then we find something touristy to do. Maybe rent bicycles, go to a museum, take a boat somewhere—”
“You become ambitious when you’re horizontal.”
“I have excellent ideas in bed.”
“I’m aware.”
She narrowed her eyes, though the smile ruined any attempt at sternness. “And then tonight, we dress up and go have drinks.”
Henry studied her for a moment. “Drinks?”
“Something fruity.”
“That doesn’t make the alcohol less alcoholic.”
“It makes it taste less like punishment.”
His fingers resumed their slow path through her hair. “You realize there’s a reasonable chance someone asks for identification.”
Y/N kept her expression perfectly casual. “No one has yet.”
“That wasn’t my point.”
“I look mature.”
Henry gave her a long, skeptical look.
She lifted her head. “I do.”
“You were insulted yesterday because a cashier called you ‘young lady.’”
“That bitch was condescending. Completely different.”
“It was a woman selling saltwater taffy.”
“That bitter lady knew what she was doing.”
Henry’s quiet laugh vibrated beneath her cheek when she lowered her head again. She smiled against his chest and let another moment pass before adding, “Besides, maybe they won’t ask.”
There was no reason to mention the card tucked into the hidden pocket of her wallet.
It had survived parties, liquor stores and exactly one terrifying encounter with a bouncer who had stared at it long enough to make her reconsider every decision she had ever made. Henry did not need to know about it. More importantly, Henry would become unbearably responsible if he did.
She could already imagine the expression.
The silence.
The lecture delivered in that calm voice that somehow made disappointment worse than anger.
No. Better to let the evening unfold naturally.
Henry looked toward the ceiling, considering. “What does ‘nightlife’ involve in your mind?”
“Music. A crowded room. Maybe dancing.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You can stand near me while I dance.”
“That sounds humiliating for both of us.”
“You could hold my drink.”
“Wonderful. I’ve been promoted to furniture.”
“You’d be very attractive furniture.”
He looked back at her. “And how many drinks are you imagining?”
Y/N shrugged with deliberate innocence. “A few.”
“A few is not a number.”
“Two.”
Henry waited.
“…Three,” she amended.
He continued watching her.
“Depending on the size of the glass.”
“I see.”
“I’m on vacation.”
“So you’ve reminded me.”
“And we haven’t gone anywhere at night since we got here.”
“That’s because every time we plan to, you decide pajamas are superior.”
“They usually are.” She shifted higher against him until their faces were closer. “But tonight I want to wear something pretty. I want you to dress like someone’s mysterious older boyfriend, and I want to have one normal night where we go somewhere loud and no one knows you teach me.”
Henry’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.
That was always the part that reached him.
Not the drinks or the music or even the prospect of her dragging him onto a dance floor, but the possibility of being ordinary together in public.
He traced his thumb along the curve beneath her jaw. “Mysterious older boyfriend.”
“Yes.”
“How am I meant to dress for that?”
“Dark shirt. Sleeves rolled. Maybe leave your glasses on.”
“I generally do.”
“Good. They help.”
“With the mystery?”
“With everything.”
His mouth twitched. “And you?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“That usually means the entire room will be covered in clothes within the hour.”
“I need options.”
“You packed for four days.”
“And yet I’ve created a wardrobe.”
“You’ve stolen half of mine.”
“Shared resources.”
Henry sighed, but his hand slid more firmly around her waist, holding her against him. “We can go out tonight.”
Y/N brightened immediately. “Really?”
“Yes, provided we eat first and neither of us does anything catastrophically foolish.”
She leaned closer. “Define catastrophically.”
“No.”
“That’s not a definition.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
She laughed and kissed the center of his chest before resting her chin there again. “You’ll have fun.”
“I believe you’ll have enough fun for both of us.”
“You always say things like that, and then I catch you enjoying yourself.”
“I enjoy watching you.”
The words were quiet enough to remove the joke from them.
Y/N’s smile softened. “Even when I’m embarrassing?”
“Especially then.”
She smiled. “That’s love.”
“That’s patience.”
“Same thing.”
Henry brushed his fingers through her hair once more, but she had already begun mentally planning the day, her energy making it impossible to remain still.
“We should do something outside first,” she said. “Maybe bicycles.”
“I haven’t ridden a bicycle in years.”
“You never forget.”
“That phrase is usually spoken immediately before an injury.”
“Fine. A boat tour.”
“You get seasick.”
“Only sometimes.”
“You became nauseated standing on a dock.”
“It was moving.”
“The dock was not moving.”
“The water around it was. That counts.”
Henry stared at her.
She smiled sweetly. “Museum?”
“Safer.”
“Boring.”
“You suggested it.”
“I was brainstorming.”
“Dangerous activity.”
Y/N pushed herself upright, gathering the blankets around her waist. Her hair fell messily around her shoulders, and Henry watched her squint toward the clock on the nightstand.
“It’s already almost eleven.”
“We woke up late.”
“We’ve been waking up late every day.”
“We’re on vacation.”
She turned back to him, pleased. “You’re learning.”
“I’ve been informed repeatedly.”
Y/N climbed out of bed and stretched, testing the lingering soreness in her muscles. It had faded enough that she no longer felt the need to negotiate another formal ceasefire, though she caught Henry noticing the cautious way she moved.
“I’m fine,” she said before he could ask.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was considering it.”
“Same thing.”
She crossed to her suitcase and crouched in front of it, immediately beginning to pull clothes free. Henry watched one blouse land on the chair, followed by a skirt, a pair of jeans and something black with thin straps.
“I thought we were discussing today’s plans.”
“We are.”
“This appears to be tonight’s wardrobe crisis.”
“It’s never too early to prepare.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I can make decisions hungry.”
“You cannot.”
She glanced back at him. “…You know me so well.”
Henry finally sat up, running one hand over his face before reaching for his glasses. “Breakfast first. Then we’ll find something to occupy the afternoon.”
“And tonight?”
He slid the glasses into place and looked at her over the frames. “Tonight, you may investigate the famously dangerous nightlife of Cape Cod.”
Y/N grinned. “You’re going to regret saying that.”
“I already do.”
She turned back to the suitcase, smiling to herself as her fingers briefly brushed the concealed pocket inside her wallet.
The card was still there.
Just in case.
. . .
The sign outside read Cape Cod Toy Chest in cheerful painted letters, complete with a tiny wooden sailboat beneath the name.
Y/N slowed on the sidewalk and looked up at it. “That sounds cute.”
Henry followed her gaze. “Dangerously so.”
“You think everything is dangerous.”
“I think anything describing itself as a toy chest should be approached with caution.”
She laughed and pulled open the door before he could reconsider.
A small brass bell chimed overhead.
Then both of them stopped.
The shop was narrow and warmly lit, with dark wooden shelves lining the walls and heavy curtains separating a few sections toward the back. There were no stuffed animals, puzzles or handmade wooden trains. Instead, silk blindfolds hung beside feathered accessories, glossy boxes sat stacked beneath handwritten signs, and a mannequin near the counter wore considerably less than either of them had expected.
Y/N stared straight ahead.
Henry quietly let the door fall shut behind them.
Neither spoke for several seconds.
Finally, Y/N glanced toward the sign in the window, as though it might somehow have changed while they entered. “Not the kind of toys I pictured.”
“No,” Henry said, his gaze moving carefully around the room. “The sailboat was misleading.”
A woman behind the counter looked up from a magazine and offered them an entirely unbothered smile. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”
Y/N’s face warmed. “Thank you.”
Henry gave the woman a polite nod, maintaining the composure of a man entering an ordinary bookshop instead of an intimate boutique they had wandered into by mistake.
Y/N leaned closer to him. “We can leave.”
“We could.”
Neither of them moved.
She looked up at him. “You’re curious.”
“I’m assessing.”
“That’s what you said in the record store when you were checking whether anyone would hit on me.”
“It remains a useful word.”
Y/N smiled and wandered toward a shelf of massage oils and candles, pretending to read labels while Henry remained near the entrance. She expected him to follow her or suggest they continue with their original plans.
Instead, he moved farther into the shop.
Slowly.
Quietly.
His expression was controlled, but his attention had sharpened in a way she recognized immediately.
Y/N watched him pass a display of brightly packaged items without giving them more than a cursory glance. He ignored the shelves of novelty gifts, the lingerie arranged by color and the glass case near the register.
Then he reached the back wall.
A discreet black placard read Restraints & Accessories.
Henry stopped.
Y/N’s eyebrows rose.
There were silk ties, soft rope, metal clips and several sets of cuffs arranged along the shelf. Some looked theatrical and flimsy. Others were plainly made to last.
Henry’s gaze settled on a pair of black leather cuffs.
The leather was smooth and dark, with padded interiors and small silver buckles. A short connecting strap rested beneath them.
He reached for the box.
Y/N forgot entirely about the bottle she had been pretending to inspect.
Henry turned the package over in his hands, reading the back with the same concentration he gave annotations in a difficult text. His thumb ran once along the edge of the box before he opened the display flap and examined the leather more closely.
He still hadn’t said a word.
That was what made it worse.
Or better.
Y/N wasn’t sure yet.
Henry lifted his eyes.
Across the shop, their gazes met.
His expression barely changed. There was no teasing smile, no raised eyebrow, no quiet remark designed to make her blush.
Just a long, deliberate look.
The cuffs remained in his hand.
Y/N’s pulse gave one hard, betraying beat.
She looked down at the label she had been reading and discovered she had been holding the bottle upside down.
When she glanced up again, Henry was walking toward her.
He passed slowly, close enough that the sleeve of his shirt brushed her arm. The box stayed at his side, partially hidden against his leg.
Y/N turned to follow him with her eyes. “You found something.”
Henry continued toward the next shelf. “I found several things.”
“But you only picked up one.”
“So far.”
Her mouth opened, then closed.
He stopped several feet away to inspect a row of black silk blindfolds, still refusing to look directly at her.
Y/N set the bottle back on the shelf and approached him. “You’re being unsettlingly quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s usually dangerous.”
“I’ve heard.”
She looked down at the cuffs in his hand. “Are those part of your assessment?”
Henry finally turned his head.
His gaze moved from her face to her wrists, then back again.
“They might be.”
The answer was calm. Almost academic.
It made warmth climb higher beneath her skin.
Y/N folded her arms. “You could ask what I think.”
“I could.”
“But you haven’t.”
“Not yet.”
He stepped past her again, carrying the cuffs with him as though he had every intention of continuing his research before beginning the discussion.
Y/N stared after him.
There was something almost unfair about how composed he looked, dark shirt, sleeves rolled neatly toward his elbows, glasses catching the low shop light while casually holding a pair of leather restraints he had selected without a word.
She caught up with him near the end of the aisle. “Henry.”
“Hm?”
“You cannot pick those up, stare at me like that and then wander away.”
He glanced down at the box. “Apparently I can.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“And?”
He studied her for another quiet second, then leaned slightly closer. His voice dropped enough that only she could hear it.
“I’m deciding whether this is a conversation we should have here.”
Y/N’s eyes flicked toward the woman at the counter, who remained thoroughly absorbed in her magazine.
“She doesn’t care. She works here.”
“That does not mean I intend to discuss you in front of her.”
The possessive restraint beneath the words sent a small shiver along Y/N’s arms.
She looked at the cuffs again. “So you are considering them.”
Henry’s thumb pressed lightly against the corner of the box, remaining silent as those assessing his next words.
Instead, he tucked the box more securely beneath his arm and continued toward the back of the shop, leaving her standing between the shelves with a smile she could no longer hide.
He hadn’t put them back.
That felt like an answer of its own.
Y/N had wandered only a few feet away when a splash of red plaid caught her eye.
She stopped.
The costume hung at the end of the aisle in a glossy plastic package, modeled by a woman wearing a cropped white blouse, a pleated skirt and knee-high socks. Across the top, in looping pink letters, it read:
SWEET & SASSY — THE STAR STUDENT
Y/N stared at it for one long second before a laugh escaped her.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
Henry looked up from the shelf behind her. “What?”
She pulled the package free and held it against herself, angling it so he could see the label. “They made a costume of me.”
Henry’s eyes moved over the packaging once.
Then again, more slowly.
His expression flattened with impressive speed. “Do not purchase that.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “That was cruel, Creel.”
“It also says sassy, which may be the first honest thing on the package.”
Y/N laughed, turning it over to examine the back. “It comes with glasses.”
“You already own glasses.”
“I don’t need them…. And it comes with a ruler.”
Henry gave her a level look. “Put it back.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m standing in an adult shop holding restraints. I think that accusation has lost some credibility.”
That shut her up for half a second.
Only half.
Y/N returned the costume to its hook, still smiling as she turned back toward him. Henry had shifted farther down the display while she was distracted. The leather cuffs were no longer the only thing in his hands.
He was studying a boxed set now.
Through the clear panel, she could see matching wrist and ankle cuffs arranged against dark velvet, along with a padded blindfold and a narrow collar fitted with a metal ring at the front. A short lead clipped beneath it, long enough to pull, to choke.
Y/N’s amusement softened into something quieter.
Henry turned the box over, reading the description on the back. His focus remained on the details, the buckles, lining and adjustable straps, rather than the suggestive photograph printed beside them.
Of course it did.
Even here, he researched.
She stepped closer and looked over his arm. “That one has more than the others.”
“It appears better made.”
“You’re judging craftsmanship now?”
“I don’t intend to buy something designed to break.”
Her eyes moved over the set again, pausing at the collar. “Or something uncomfortable.”
Henry glanced at her. “No,” he agreed.
The answer came immediately, without teasing.
Y/N looked up at him.
His expression had changed just enough to reveal the thought beneath it. The interest was there, unmistakable now, but so was the care.
She lowered her gaze again, pretending to assess the selection with the same seriousness he had.
The set came in black, deep red and white.
Henry still held the black one.
Y/N was quiet long enough that he stopped reading and watched her instead.
She touched one finger to the edge of the package, then nodded toward the shelf. “Get the red.”
Henry didn’t move.
For the first time since he’d picked up the cuffs, some of his careful composure slipped. Not much. Just a brief sharpening in his gaze as he studied her face, making certain he had understood.
“The red,” he repeated.
“It’ll look better.”
“On the shelf?”
Y/N met his eyes. “…Sure.”
The silence between them changed.
The shop’s music continued quietly overhead. Somewhere near the front, the woman behind the counter turned a page in her magazine.
Henry looked down at the black set in his hands, then toward the red box positioned behind it.
Y/N didn’t wait to watch him make the exchange.
She simply stepped around him and continued into the next aisle, as casual as if she had recommended a different edition of a novel.
Behind her, cardboard shifted against cardboard.
She smiled to herself.
The next aisle was lined with bottles, small boxes and neatly organized rows of personal products. Y/N leaned toward the shelf, scanning the labels while trying very hard not to think about the fact that Henry was now carrying a red leather restraint set through a Cape Cod shop because she had told him to.
A moment later, he appeared beside her.
The red box was tucked beneath his arm.
He didn’t mention it.
Neither did she.
Y/N picked up a bottle and examined the label. “There are too many kinds.”
Henry adjusted his glasses. “I imagine they serve different purposes.”
“Thank you, professor.”
“You’re the one staring at them as though there’ll be an examination.” His gaze flicked briefly toward her, then down to the bottle in her hand. “What does that one say?”
She read it, frowned and placed it back. “Too complicated.”
“An exacting standard.”
“I want something simple.”
Henry looked across the shelf. “Water-based.”
Y/N turned toward him. “You know that very quickly.”
“I read.”
“About lubricant?”
“I read labels.”
She smiled. “Right.”
Henry reached past her and selected another bottle, checking the ingredients before handing it over. “This one.”
Y/N studied it. “No fragrance.”
“Probably preferable.”
“No warming sensation.”
“Also preferable.”
She glanced at him over the bottle. “You’re very practical for a man holding a collar.”
Henry’s hand settled briefly at the small of her back, guiding her out of the way as another customer passed behind them. “One of us should be.”
“I told you to get it in red. I was extremely helpful.”
“You were decisive.”
“You like that about me.”
“I like several things about you.”
Y/N’s eyes dropped to the box beneath his arm again. “Apparently.”
Henry took the bottle from her and added it to the small collection in his hands. “Then I suppose we’ve finished assessing.”
Y/N glanced toward the shelf behind him. “Unless you want the star student costume.”
“No.”
“You answered too fast.”
“I’ve already told you not to purchase it.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t like it.”
Henry began walking toward the register. “Put it out of your mind.”
Y/N hurried after him, grinning. “That means you like it.”
“It means I’m not discussing it.”
“In public?”
“Ever.”
She caught his free hand and laced their fingers together. “We’ll see.”
Henry looked down at her, then at the costume display across the shop.
His grip tightened slightly around hers.
“Do not go back for it.”
Y/N smiled sweetly. “I won’t.”
He narrowed his eyes.
She leaned closer. “…Today.”
. . .
By the time they reached the bar, Y/N had transformed the simple idea of “going out for a drink” into an event.
She wore the black dress she had pulled from her suitcase that morning, the one with thin straps and a hem short enough to make Henry look at her twice when she stepped out of the bathroom. Makeup darker than she usually wore during the day, and the silver necklace at her throat caught the light whenever she moved.
Henry had said nothing for several seconds.
Y/N had smiled. “You’re staring.”
“I’m aware.”
“Do I look good?”
Henry’s gaze had moved over her once more, slower this time. “You know you do.”
That had been enough to carry her all the way into town.
The bar sat just off the main strip, close enough to the water that the open windows let in salt air between bursts of music and conversation. Inside, amber lights glowed over dark wood, people crowded around small tables, and a live band played near the back beneath strings of colored bulbs.
It was louder than Henry would have chosen.
Y/N loved it immediately.
She slipped her hand into his as they made their way through the room. “See? Nightlife.”
Henry looked around at the packed tables and raised his voice slightly over the music. “I’ll concede that people are awake.”
“That’s practically enthusiasm from you.”
“I’m trying not to alarm you.”
They found two open stools at the end of the bar. Y/N sat first, crossing one leg over the other while Henry took the seat beside her, his knee brushing hers beneath the counter.
The bartender approached after a minute, setting down two napkins. “What can I get you?”
Y/N glanced at the drink menu written in chalk behind the bar. “Something fruity.”
Henry looked at her. “Very specific.”
“Shush.”
The bartender smiled. “We’ve got a rum punch, piña colada, daiquiris—”
“Strawberry daiquiri,” Y/N decided.
Henry ordered whiskey, neat.
The bartender nodded, then looked at Y/N again. “Can I see some identification?”
There it was.
Henry’s head turned towards her.
Y/N didn’t hesitate.
She reached into her purse, opened her wallet and slid out the card she had carefully avoided mentioning all day. Henry’s eyes followed the movement, his expression neutral until the bartender took the license and glanced between it and her face.
For one long second, Y/N’s heartbeat climbed into her throat.
The bartender looked at the card again.
Then handed it back.
“Thanks.”
Y/N tucked it away with practiced calm.
Henry waited until the bartender turned to make their drinks.
Then he looked at her.
She kept her attention fixed on the shelves of bottles behind the bar. “What?”
“You have a false identification card.”
Y/N turned toward him with an innocent expression. “That sounds so criminal when you say it like that.”
“It is criminal.”
“Technically.”
Henry stared at her.
She leaned an elbow against the bar. “I’m a college student who already smokes the devil’s lettuce. This really shouldn’t surprise you.”
“The phrase ‘devil’s lettuce’ does not make this more reassuring.”
“It makes it charming.”
“It makes it sound as though you were raised by a prohibitionist.”
She smiled. “You’re surprised.”
“I am.”
“You thought I spent every weekend in the library?”
“I know you don’t.”
“Then what did you think I was doing?”
Henry’s expression suggested he was reconsidering several things at once. “Apparently not asking enough questions.”
The bartender placed their drinks in front of them. Y/N thanked him and immediately took a sip, closing her eyes with approval when the cold sweetness hit her tongue.
Henry had not touched his whiskey.
He was still studying her.
Y/N lowered her glass. “What now?”
“Are you hiding anything else from me?”
She laughed. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.” He counted calmly against the bar. “Tattoos. Piercings. An inheritance. A second identity.”
Y/N nearly choked on her drink.
Henry reached for a napkin, handing it to her without looking particularly apologetic.
She dabbed at the corner of her mouth. “First of all, heavy no on the money. I am aggressively broke.”
“That one I believe.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“And second…” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You have seen every inch of my naked body. I think you would know if I had any secret tattoos or piercings.”
Henry’s eyes shifted toward her face.
The surprise was gone now.
Something quieter had replaced it.
“I suppose that’s true.”
“You suppose?”
“I was attempting discretion.”
“In a bar where no one knows us?”
“A habit.”
Y/N smiled and took another sip. “No tattoos. No piercings you don’t know about. No secret trust fund. No hidden husband.”
Henry lifted his glass at that. “Comforting.”
“Although the night is young.”
His gaze sharpened just enough to make her laugh.
“I’m kidding.”
“I know.”
“You checked.”
“I assessed.”
She nudged his knee beneath the bar. “There’s that word again.”
Henry finally took a drink, his expression smoothing as the whiskey settled. “How long have you had it?”
“The ID?”
“Yes.”
“A while.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
He gave her a look over the rim of his glass.
Y/N smiled sweetly. “See? We’re learning from each other.”
“That is not necessarily a good thing.”
She turned on her stool to face him more fully. “You’re not actually angry.”
“No.”
“Disappointed?”
Henry considered before answering. “Surprised. Concerned by your apparent confidence in committing minor crimes.”
“It worked.”
“That does not make it wise.”
“It made the daiquiri possible.”
“That is not the compelling argument you think it is.”
Y/N lifted the glass in a small toast. “To poor judgment.”
Henry looked at her drink, then at her. “To the limited consequences of poor judgment.”
Their glasses touched softly.
Y/N took another sip and smiled as the band shifted into something faster. Around them, the room grew louder, couples moving toward the small dance floor while conversations rose over the music.
“This is good,” she said.
“The drink?”
“The whole thing.”
Henry glanced around. “You enjoy crowded rooms more than I expected.”
“I don’t. I enjoy not having to hide.”
That softened him.
Y/N rested one hand lightly against his thigh beneath the bar, not suggestive, just close. “No one here knows you’re my professor.”
“No.”
“They just think you’re the older man staring at me like he’s trying to decide whether to take me home.”
Henry’s mouth curved. “That decision was made before we arrived.”
Her smile widened. “See? You’re having fun.”
“I’m having a drink.”
“With me.”
“That improves it considerably.”
She turned back toward the band, shoulders beginning to move slightly with the rhythm. Henry watched her for a moment before resting his hand at the small of her back.
Y/N looked over. “You know I’m going to make you dance eventually.”
“I know you’re going to attempt it.”
“And succeed.”
“Optimistic.”
“Confident.”
The bartender passed again, and Y/N lifted her mostly empty glass. “Can I get another?”
Henry glanced at the glass, then at her. “Slowly.”
She looked offended. “I know how to drink.”
“You held a secret.”
“It wasn’t a secret if someone knows and Nancy knew. Also that has nothing to do with pacing.”
“It has everything to do with my faith in your judgment.”
The bartender waited, amused.
Y/N pointed at Henry. “He’s not my father.”
Henry’s expression went still.
The bartender looked between them.
Y/N realized the mistake half a second too late and immediately began laughing.
Henry closed his eyes briefly. “A second daiquiri for her.”
The bartender nodded and walked away, clearly suppressing a smile.
Y/N leaned toward Henry, still laughing. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“I am a little.”
“You’ve just made this evening significantly worse.”
“That is not true.”
“Someone is going to assume things.”
“They already assume things.”
Henry looked down at her dress, then back at her face. “I can’t imagine why.”
Y/N slipped her arm through his and rested her head briefly against his shoulder. “You like me anyway.”
“Against my better judgment.”
She lifted her head. “That’s practically romantic.”
“I thought so.”
The second drink arrived.
Henry kept his whiskey.
And for the next hour, they sat close at the end of the bar, trading sips, teasing each other and watching the room move around them, just another couple out late, with nowhere they needed to be until morning.
By the time Y/N finally pulled Henry onto the dance floor, she had finished enough of her third daiquiri to stop pretending she intended to take no for an answer.
“You promised me nightlife,” she reminded him, both hands wrapped around one of his wrists as she tugged him away from the bar.
“I promised to accompany you into it.”
“That includes dancing.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to that.”
“You came into a bar with live music and a girlfriend wearing this dress.” She gestured toward herself with complete confidence. “You knew what was going to happen.”
Henry glanced down at the black fabric skimming her thighs, then back at her face. “I knew what you hoped would happen.”
“And now it is.”
He allowed himself to be dragged into the crowd with the expression of a man being taken somewhere against his will, though his hand settled at her waist the moment she turned toward him.
Y/N smiled triumphantly. “See? Natural.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’re moving.”
“Only because you are.”
“That still counts.”
The band played something fast and bright, filling the small room with guitar and drums while couples crowded closer together. Y/N moved easily, one hand on Henry’s shoulder, her hips following the rhythm with enough enthusiasm to draw a few glances from nearby tables.
Henry noticed every one of them.
His fingers tightened slightly at her waist.
Y/N looked up at him. “You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Assessing the room.”
“I’m dancing.”
“You’re glaring over my shoulder.”
“I’m looking.”
“At anyone who looks at me.”
Henry drew her a fraction closer. “They’re entitled to look.”
“How generous.”
“I didn’t say I had to enjoy it.”
She laughed and looped both arms around his neck. “There he is.”
“There who is?”
“My hot, mysterious, jealous older boyfriend.”
“You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“I’m having a wonderful night.”
The song slowed into something easier, and the crowd around them shifted. Y/N rested her cheek briefly against his chest, the alcohol leaving her warm and pleasantly light without making the room spin.
Henry’s hand moved along the small of her back. “Still enjoying the famously dangerous nightlife?”
“Very much.”
“You’re going to be insufferable about being right.”
“I already am.”
“That’s true.”
She tilted her head back. “You’re enjoying yourself too.”
Henry looked at her for a quiet moment before conceding, “More than I expected.”
Y/N’s smile softened. She rose on her toes and kissed him, brief but unashamed, right there beneath the dim bar lights where no one knew enough to be shocked by them.
When they finally returned to their stools, she finished the water Henry placed in front of her without complaint.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” she said, slipping from her seat.
“Do you know where it is?”
“I’m tipsy, not helpless.”
“You walked toward the kitchen ten minutes ago.”
“I smelled fries.”
Henry’s expression remained unconvinced.
Y/N leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be back.”
She made her way through the crowd, found the restroom without incident and spent several minutes fixing her lipstick and staring at her reflection with the happy disbelief of someone who had somehow ended up exactly where she wanted to be.
Vacation.
A black dress.
Drinks.
Henry waiting for her at the bar.
She smiled at herself, tucked her lipstick into her purse and stepped back into the noise.
The smile disappeared almost immediately.
Henry was still at the bar.
He was no longer alone.
A woman stood close beside his stool, one manicured hand resting on the wooden counter near his arm. She was attractive, older than Y/N but probably younger than Henry, dressed in a pale blue blouse and fitted white trousers that looked far too expensive for spilled drinks and crowded dance floors.
She leaned closer as she spoke.
Henry sat angled politely away from her, his expression controlled. Even from across the room, Y/N recognized the courteous distance in his posture.
The woman did not.
She laughed at something, touched his sleeve and moved closer still.
Irritation went through Y/N with startling speed.
She crossed the bar before deciding what she planned to say.
Henry saw her coming first.
His gaze lifted over the woman’s shoulder, and something almost amused flickered behind his eyes.
The woman turned just as Y/N reached them.
Y/N slipped directly between her and Henry, planting one hand on the bar. “You need to back off, bitch.”
The woman blinked. “Excuse me?”
“He’s taken.”
Henry’s eyebrows rose slightly.
The woman looked between them, her gaze lingering on Y/N’s age before returning to him. “I didn’t realize.”
“You do now. Bye.”
There was enough edge in Y/N’s voice that the woman stepped back.
Henry rested one hand lightly against Y/N’s waist. “That wasn’t necessary.”
Y/N turned toward him. “She had her hand on you.”
“She approached me. I was handling it.”
“She was doing a terrible job of listening to your body language.”
The woman scoffed beneath her breath.
Y/N’s head snapped back toward her. “Was there something else?”
“No.” The woman picked up her drink, visibly deciding the situation was no longer worth the effort. “Enjoy your evening.”
“I plan to.”
She walked away into the crowd.
“Stupid bitch,” Y/N mumbled as she rolled her eyes and turned back to Henry, still visibly annoyed. “What?”
His hand remained at her waist, thumb moving once over the fabric of her dress. “You called me taken.”
“You are.”
“So emphatically.”
“Would you prefer ambiguity?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
“You insulted her.”
“…I blame the alcohol on that one.”
He gave her a look.
“Settle down. It’s not like I’m ever gonna see her again after this week.”
Henry turned forward back in his seat, elbow resting on the bar.
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You liked that.”
Henry picked up his whiskey and finished what remained. “I didn’t dislike it.”
“You absolutely liked it.”
“I think she understood you.”
“She better have.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. He should have been annoyed by the scene. At school, he would have been horrified by the attention. Here, surrounded by strangers who knew nothing about them, Y/N had claimed him without hesitation or shame.
Something in him had responded to that more strongly than he intended to admit.
He touched two fingers beneath her chin. “Do you want to leave?”
Y/N glanced toward the crowd, then back at him. “Maybe.”
“You’re tired.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You’re leaning against the bar.”
“I’m horny, Henry. There’s a difference.”
Henry smiled. “I’ll get our jackets.”
He disappeared toward the other side of the room, where they had left them over the backs of two chairs near the dance floor.
Y/N turned to the bartender and pulled several bills from her purse. “This is for the drinks.”
The bartender glanced at the money. “You already paid.”
“It’s a tip.”
“That’s generous.”
“I’m celebrating.”
The bartender took it with a grateful smile. “Have a good night.”
“You too.”
“Leaving already?”
The male voice came from too close beside her.
Y/N turned.
A man around her age leaned against the bar, his cheeks flushed and his eyes slightly unfocused. He held a beer loosely in one hand and wore the overconfident smile of someone who had been drinking long enough to mistake persistence for charm.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m heading out.”
“Don’t.” He stepped closer. “Stay for another drink. Please.”
“I’m good.”
“I’ll buy.”
“No, thank you.”
He looked her over without bothering to hide it. “You here alone?”
Y/N stared at him. “You just watched me dancing with someone.”
“Could’ve been anybody.”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
The man glanced in the direction Henry had gone, then smiled dismissively. “That older guy?”
Her expression hardened. “Yes. That older guy.”
“Looks like your brother to me.”
“Well, he’s not.”
“You could do better.”
“I’m already doing better.”
He laughed as though she had made a joke. “Come on. One drink.”
“I said no.”
His hand moved toward her elbow.
He never reached it.
Henry returned without announcing himself.
He carried both jackets over one arm, his face calm and unreadable as he approached. He did not ask what was happening. He did not look directly at the man or offer him the dignity of an argument.
He simply stepped between them, pushing past the stranger as though he were nothing more than an inconvenient piece of furniture, nearly knocking the stranger into the barstool behind him.
Then he bent, wrapped one arm securely around Y/N’s thighs and lifted her over his shoulder.
Y/N gasped. “Henry!”
The room tilted.
Her purse swung against his back as he straightened, one arm locked firmly across the backs of her legs.
The drunk man stared. “What the hell?”
Henry still didn’t look at him.
He took Y/N’s jacket from his other arm and tossed it over the back of her dress, covering where the fabric had ridden up her ass.
Then he carried her toward the door.
Y/N lifted her head enough to look back at the bewildered man. “I told you.”
Henry pushed through the door and stepped into the cool night air.
The noise of the bar dropped behind them.
Y/N began laughing almost immediately.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“Henry.”
“You’ve had enough to drink.”
“That has nothing to do with you carrying me like stolen luggage.”
“You were being bothered.”
“I was handling it.”
He adjusted his hold on her legs and continued down the sidewalk. “So was I.”
“You didn’t even say anything to him.”
“There was nothing worth saying.”
Y/N tried to twist enough to see his face, but from her position she could only see the back of his dark shirt and the line of his shoulders. “You just shoved past him.”
“He was in the way.”
“And then picked me up.”
“You were also in the way.”
She slapped his back lightly. “Liar.”
Henry’s hand lightly came down on her covered ass. “Stop moving.”
She gasped, then giggled. “Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“That was very fast.”
“I’m carrying you home.”
“Because you’re jealous.”
“Because you’re tipsy, wearing impractical shoes and attracting men with poor judgment.”
Y/N grinned, though he couldn’t see it. “You liked when I told that woman you were taken.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“It’s exactly related.”
Henry crossed the road, waiting for a passing car before continuing toward the inn. “You threatened a stranger.”
“I told her to back off.”
“Forcefully.”
“She was flirting with my boyfriend.”
“And the man at the bar?”
“Was flirting with your girlfriend.”
“More aggressively.”
“So you picked me up like a caveman.”
“I removed you from the situation.”
“Over your shoulder.”
“Efficiently.”
Y/N’s laughter softened as she let herself relax against him. The jacket stayed draped over her, held in place by one of his hands whenever the breeze threatened to lift it.
They walked for another minute before she asked, “Are you ever putting me down?”
“When we reach the room.”
“My feet work.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“I can walk.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why—”
“Because I don’t want to.”
The answer quieted her.
Henry kept walking, his pace steady beneath the yellow glow of the streetlamps. There was no embarrassment in him now, no concern that someone might recognize them or question why he had her thrown over his shoulder in the middle of town.
He had simply decided she was leaving with him.
Y/N smiled into the fabric of his shirt.
“You know we’re perfect for each other.”
“That’s a concerning conclusion to draw from tonight.”
“I scared off a woman. You physically carried me away from a man.”
“I didn’t scare anyone.”
“You didn’t have to. You treated him like he didn’t exist.”
“He was drunk.”
“That made it hotter.”
Henry exhaled through his nose. “You need water.”
“And you need to admit you’re possessive.”
“I’ve never denied it.”
Y/N lifted her head again. “You usually call it caution.”
“I’m expanding my vocabulary.”
She laughed and reached down as far as she could, catching his hand where it rested against the backs of her thighs.
Henry turned his palm enough to lace their fingers together, even while carrying her.
Neither of them spoke for the final stretch back to the inn.
Y/N remained draped over his shoulder, her jacket protecting what dignity the dress had left her, while Henry carried her through the quiet Cape night without once slowing or offering to let her down.
Two entirely different reactions to jealousy.
Both unmistakably possessive.
Both, in their own unreasonable way, perfectly matched.
Jesus you needdd to write more for Johnny Knoxville that was the best thing I have ever read 
i was genuinely surprised so many liked the johnny knoxville imagine. i thought maybe ten people would like at most because this wasn’t even towards a general audience but ig tumblr knows ball.
i wasn’t originally going to make a part two but it’s in the works now
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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synapse: a lifelong crush turns into an unforgettable night when y/n joins fear factor: house of fear and discovers johnny knoxville is the host
pairing: johnny knoxville x female reader
contains: age gap (reader is 21, johnny is 54), drinking, flirting, dry humping, penetrating sex
a/n: i rewatched the jackass movies and it made me realize how much ive wanted this man for so long. still do. i just wrote to get my horniness out and publish this
. . .
The house looked even larger from the backyard.
It rose behind them in dark wood, stone, and glass, tucked against thick trees that surrounded the property on nearly every side. Beyond the edge of the patio, the land dropped toward the ocean, blue water stretching so far that Y/N couldn’t tell where it ended and the sky began.
Fourteen contestants stood scattered across the open space, bags still sitting near the doors behind them while cameras circled the group.
Y/N should have been looking at the house.
She should have been thinking about the fact that she would be sleeping there with thirteen strangers, sharing bathrooms, competing in challenges designed to exploit whatever frightened her most, and possibly humiliating herself on national television.
Instead, she was staring at Johnny Knoxville.
Because apparently the universe hated her.
He stood a few feet in front of them, waiting for production to finish setting up. His silver hair was styled upward in that effortlessly messy way that looked far too good on him. Black-framed glasses sat on his face, and he was dressed like someone’s dangerously attractive college professor: white button-up shirt, tie, an argyle sweater vest in shades of purple, blue, and brown, cropped dark trousers, and red Converse.
It shouldn’t have worked.
It worked disgustingly well.
Y/N had prepared herself for heights. Bugs. Tight spaces. Maybe being thrown into dark water with something touching her ankles.
She had not prepared herself to discover that Johnny Knoxville had somehow become even hotter with age.
A damn silver fox.
She’d had a crush on him since she was a kid, ever since watching the first Jackass movie and seeing Steve-O attempt the alligator tightrope stunt. Steve-O had been dangling above live alligators, and somehow her attention had kept drifting toward Knoxville standing nearby, shirtless and grinning like the entire thing was perfectly reasonable.
The crush should have passed.
It had not.
If anything, seeing him standing in front of her now only confirmed one deeply unhelpful truth.
She would still climb that man like a tree.
“What did I get myself into?” the woman standing in front of Y/N whispered.
Y/N’s gaze traveled down Johnny’s outfit before returning to his face.
“You and me both,” she murmured.
The woman glanced back, probably assuming she meant the competition.
Y/N let her.
Someone from production lifted a hand.
Johnny straightened slightly as the cameras began rolling, though the grin never left his face.
“What a handsome bunch. Nice to meet you,” he said. “Welcome to Fear Factor: House of Fear.”
The contestants clapped and cheered.
Y/N joined in, although her applause came a second late because Johnny had started speaking directly toward their side of the group.
“I’m Johnny Knoxville.”
More people clapped.
Y/N bit back a smile.
As though anyone needed the introduction.
“You know, all of you have real reasons behind your biggest terrors,” Johnny continued. “And you all share the same goal, to face down your fears. Some people go to therapy. Some people listen to a self-help podcast.” He looked over the contestants, pausing for effect. “You guys joined Fear Factor. What the hell were you thinking?”
The group laughed.
Y/N laughed too, lowering her head for a moment.
When she looked up again, Johnny was watching her.
Not the group.
Her.
She froze for half a beat.
His expression didn’t change dramatically, but one corner of his mouth pulled upward into something smaller and more private than the grin he gave the cameras.
Y/N held his gaze.
She wasn’t shy. Not really. She had never been the kind of person who immediately looked at the ground when someone attractive noticed her staring.
But this wasn’t just someone attractive.
This was Johnny Knoxville.
And judging by the way his eyes remained on her for another long second, he knew exactly why she had been looking at him.
His smirk deepened.
The bastard.
Y/N lifted an eyebrow, silently challenging him to say something.
Johnny’s attention finally returned to the group, but the amusement remained on his face.
He knew.
That was the problem.
He knew she wanted him, and instead of pretending not to notice for the sake of professionalism, he looked entertained by it.
Y/N briefly considered taking out her phone and searching whether Johnny Knoxville was single.
Then she remembered the cameras.
She could already picture the editors zooming in over her shoulder.
IS JOHNNY KNOXVILLE SINGLE?
Followed by a dramatic sound effect and a confessional interview asking her to explain herself.
No. Absolutely not.
She would wait until she had a bathroom stall and plausible deniability.
Johnny motioned toward a table beside him. Several packages sat on top of it, each covered in black tissue paper and tied with bright yellow-green bows. They came in different shapes and sizes, some small enough to hold in one hand and others requiring both arms.
“Now, I got you some welcome gifts,” he said. “Whoever has a matching gift to yours will be your partner in tonight’s first challenge.”
A nervous murmur moved through the contestants.
“Ah, shit. It’s already a challenge already,” someone said.
One by one, the contestants were called forward.
Johnny personally handed each of them a package. Every time someone tried shaking theirs or asking what was inside, he offered a completely useless response.
“Something cuddly.”
“It’s probably fine.”
“Don’t put your face near it.”
Each answer made the next contestant more nervous.
Y/N watched the pile grow smaller.
She tried not to notice Johnny’s hands whenever he passed out a box.
She failed.
“Y/N.”
Her stomach tightened at the sound of her name in his voice.
She stepped out of line and approached him.
Up close, he was worse.
The cameras did not properly capture the sharpness of his features or the way his blue eyes looked behind those dark frames. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and there was something unfairly attractive about the contrast between his buttoned-up outfit and the well-known fact that this man had willingly launched himself into danger for entertainment.
Johnny picked up a medium-sized package from the table. “So this one’s yours.”
“Lucky me.”
“That’s the spirit.”
He extended it toward her.
Y/N reached out.
Her fingers brushed his.
It should have been nothing.
A brief, accidental touch while exchanging a package.
Except Johnny didn’t immediately move his hand.
Neither did she.
His fingertips rested lightly against hers beneath the box, warm and slightly rough. Y/N raised her eyes to his face and found him already looking at her.
The teasing smile faded just enough to make the moment feel different.
He held her gaze openly, his eyes searching hers through the frames of his glasses. The noise around them blurred beneath the sound of the ocean and the faint rustling of the trees.
His gaze dipped.
Not far.
Just low enough that she knew he had looked at her mouth.
Y/N’s pulse kicked.
She didn’t look away.
If Johnny wanted to play this game in front of fourteen contestants and a full camera crew, she wasn’t going to be the one who folded first.
Her fingers shifted beneath his, the smallest deliberate movement against his skin.
His mouth twitched.
There it was again.
That knowing, crooked smirk.
Y/N slowly took the package from him, letting her fingers drag against his as the weight transferred into her arms.
“Thank you,” she said.
Johnny glanced at the box, then back at her.
“Careful with that.”
“Is that genuine concern?”
“I’m capable of it.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
He laughed under his breath.
Y/N stepped backward, returning to her place beside the other contestants.
She could feel his eyes following her.
She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder until she reached the group. When she finally turned around, Johnny was already reaching for the next package.
But his smile hadn’t gone anywhere.
The contestant beside her leaned closer.
“What the hell was that?”
Y/N kept her expression neutral. “What was what?”
“That whole…” She gestured vaguely between Y/N and Johnny. “Thing.”
“I was accepting a gift.”
“You looked like you were about to accept something else, girl.”
Y/N pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
Johnny looked toward them at exactly the wrong moment.
Or possibly the right one.
His eyes met Y/N’s again.
She looked down at her package before her face betrayed her.
A few minutes later, every contestant was holding one.
Johnny clapped his hands together.
“What are we waiting for? Let’s open them.”
Black tissue paper immediately began flying across the patio.
Y/N pulled the bright bow loose and peeled back the wrapping. Beneath it sat a clear plastic enclosure with ventilation holes across the lid.
Something moved inside.
The contestant beside her screamed and nearly dropped her own box.
Y/N leaned closer.
A snake was coiled neatly inside hers, its patterned body winding around a branch in the enclosure. It raised its head slightly, tongue flicking toward the clear wall.
“Oh,” Y/N said softly. “You’re pretty.”
Around her, the patio dissolved into chaos.
Someone had received rats and was holding the container as far from his body as possible.
A woman shrieked over her box being a large spider.
Another contestant stared in horror at several scorpions skittering beneath a clear lid.
Then someone unveiled a skinned animal head and immediately gagged.
Y/N barely noticed.
She crouched slightly, studying the snake through the plastic.
It was beautiful. Calm, too, despite the noise surrounding it.
“You ain’t scared of that?”
She looked toward the guy standing next to her. He appeared close to her age, with an easy expression that suggested he was trying to remain calm despite whatever he’d found in his own package.
“No,” Y/N said. “I like snakes.”
He looked into her enclosure. “Of course I get partnered with the one person who isn’t traumatized.”
“Partnered?”
He lifted his package. Inside was another snake.
“Matching gifts.”
Y/N smiled. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
“I can think of worse outcomes.” He shifted the box beneath one arm and offered his free hand. “Ethan.”
“Y/N.”
They shook hands.
He seemed nice.
Normal.
Age-appropriate.
Probably exactly the kind of person she should have been paying attention to.
Instead, her gaze wandered back to fifty year old something Johnny.
He stood near the table watching the contestants react to their gifts, laughing at some reactions. When Johnny noticed Y/N calmly examining her snake, his eyebrows lifted.
She smiled at him.
Johnny looked toward the enclosure, then back at her as though mildly impressed.
Y/N gave a small shrug.
Not scared.
His smile broadened. “Our teams for the first challenge are Tyler and Lance, Zach and Rob, Ethan and Y/N, Jayleen and Dida, Danielle and Rodney, Blake and Chelsea, and Damienne and Kristen,” Johnny announced.
Ethan bumped his shoulder gently against hers. “We’ve got this.”
“Obviously.”
“During this competition, your fears will be put to the ultimate test,” Johnny continued. “But at the end of it, one of you will walk away with two hundred thousand dollars.”
The contestants erupted into cheers.
Y/N raised one arm, still carefully balancing the snake enclosure against her body.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
That was why she was there.
Not because Johnny Knoxville was hosting.
She hadn’t even known he would be there.
The fact that he kept looking at her like that was merely an unexpected complication.
A very attractive complication wearing an argyle sweater vest and red Converse.
“Get acquainted, go explore the house, get used to the communal bathrooms, which would be my biggest terror,” Johnny said. “I’ll see you at tonight’s challenge. And trust me, it’s going to suck.”
The group laughed and began drifting toward the house, contestants setting the gifts down and introductions overlapping as everyone tried to remember fourteen different names at once.
Ethan walked beside Y/N. “So, what do you think the snakes mean?”
“That maybe tonight will involve snakes.”
“Insightful.”
“I try.”
They reached the open glass doors leading into the house.
Y/N stepped over the threshold, then glanced backward.
Johnny remained on the patio speaking with a producer. He listened for a moment, nodded, and then looked up.
Directly at her.
Caught again.
Y/N should have turned away.
Instead, she let her gaze linger, slowly looking him over from the silver hair to the sweater vest, then back up again.
Johnny’s eyebrows rose.
His mouth curved.
Y/N gave him the faintest smile before disappearing into the house.
Only after she was safely beyond the cameras outside did she pull out her phone.
Ethan glanced at the screen. “You searching the challenge?”
“No.”
“House rules?”
“No. I don’t think those would be online anyway.”
He leaned slightly closer as she opened Google.
Y/N immediately angled the phone against her chest. “Mind your business.”
Ethan held up both hands. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Good.”
He walked ahead, laughing.
Y/N waited until he turned the corner before lowering her phone again.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
Then she typed:
is johnny knoxville single
She stared at the search bar for one second.
Two.
From somewhere outside, Johnny laughed loudly enough for the sound to carry through the open doors.
Y/N pressed search.
. . .
By the time Y/N stepped into the kitchen, Johnny was already holding court near the island.
The house had changed completely in less than an hour.
For five days, the kitchen had been where contestants whispered about alliances, dissected challenges, eating and argued over whose turn it was to clean something. Tonight, half-empty pizza boxes covered the counter. Music played through the speakers in the living room, loud enough that people kept raising their voices without realizing it. Bottles and cans had gathered beside the sink, and someone had abandoned a lime wedge on the floor.
Johnny stood in the middle of it all with a shot glass in one hand.
He had traded the button-down and tie from their first day for a fitted white T-shirt beneath another argyle sweater vest, this one patterned in burgundy, blue, and cream. A dark watch circled his wrist, and his black-framed glasses sat low enough on his nose that he occasionally looked over them when someone said something especially ridiculous.
The silver hair remained.
Unfortunately for Y/N’s self-control, so did everything else.
“Halfway!” Ethan shouted, lifting his glass.
“Halfway,” several people echoed.
Johnny raised his own. “Halfway! So proud of you all.”
They threw back the shots together.
Y/N tipped hers into her mouth and swallowed, the alcohol burning briefly before settling warm in her stomach. Ethan immediately reached for the bottle again, but she placed a hand against his arm.
“Absolutely not.”
He looked offended. “We’re celebrating.”
“You said that before the last two.”
“And I meant it every time.”
“You’ll mean it from the floor in about twenty minutes.”
Johnny laughed from the other side of the island.
Y/N looked up.
His attention was already on her.
It had been like that since he entered the house.
Never constant enough for anyone to call it out, but frequent. A look caught over somebody’s shoulder. A slow smile whenever she made a comment under her breath. His eyes finding her whenever the room erupted into laughter, as though her reaction interested him more than the joke itself.
Y/N had spent five days trying to decide whether she was imagining it.
Tonight, she was becoming increasingly certain she wasn’t.
The Google search had not helped.
She had waited until she was alone on the first night, bathroom door locked and shower running in case anyone came looking for her. What she found had been dangerously encouraging.
Divorced.
Single.
She had stared at the screen for an embarrassing amount of time before closing the page and reminding herself that knowing Johnny Knoxville’s relationship status did not mean anything.
Then he had looked at her during the next challenge like he remembered exactly how her fingers had dragged against his.
It still didn’t mean anything…
Probably.
A production assistant wandered through the kitchen, speaking quietly into a headset. Two camera operators remained near the far wall, but they were mostly capturing wide shots of the party rather than following individual conversations.
Some contestants had already taken advantage of Johnny’s relaxed mood.
Jayleen had sat beside him at the dining table for nearly fifteen minutes, gossiping shamelessly about her hanging out with Rob more.
Johnny seemed to enjoy all of it.
Away from the set pieces and countdowns, he was easier than Y/N expected. Still loud, still quick with a joke, but attentive. He remembered small things people had said days earlier. He asked questions and genuinely listened to the answers.
That somehow made the crush worse.
Y/N slipped away from the kitchen while Ethan and Dida argued over the rules of a drinking game.
The living room was dimmer, illuminated mostly by lamps near the windows and the soft light coming from the kitchen. Beyond the glass doors, the ocean was almost completely black. Moonlight glimmered across the surface whenever the clouds shifted.
Zach sat alone on the far end of the sectional, elbows resting against his knees.
He had been quiet since the afternoon’s challenge.
Nobody had openly blamed him for the loss, but they hadn’t needed to. Zach had a talent for irritating people even when he wasn’t actively trying. He gloated and laughed when other contestants struggled, and occasionally seemed more interested in watching someone fail than in winning himself.
Tonight, however, he looked more defeated than smug.
Y/N lowered herself into an armchair away from him, deciding not to intrude.
She liked people well enough.
She liked being alone more.
The alcohol had left a pleasant warmth beneath her skin, softening the constant alertness the competition demanded. For the first time since arriving, nobody was shouting instructions at her. Nothing was crawling across her hands. She wasn’t waiting for a horn, or concrete to bury her, or Johnny to announce that the challenge was somehow about to become worse.
She allowed her head to rest against the chair.
“Taking a breather?”
Her eyes opened.
Johnny stood beside the chair holding two shot glasses. He nodded toward the empty cushion beside her. “You mind?”
Y/N glanced around the living room as though checking for another person he might have been addressing.
Johnny’s mouth twitched.
“No,” she said. “Go ahead.”
He sat beside her rather than taking the opposite chair.
The cushion dipped beneath his weight, bringing them closer than necessary. Not touching, but near enough that she could smell his cologne beneath the faint scent of alcohol.
He offered her one of the glasses.
“What is it?”
“Something expensive enough that you should pretend to like it.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Y/N accepted the glass.
Their fingers brushed again.
The first time had been in front of fourteen contestants and several cameras. This time there was no package between them and nobody close enough to notice the way Johnny let his fingers linger against hers.
Y/N looked at him.
He looked back, expression maddeningly calm.
“You do that on purpose,” she said.
“Do what?”
“That.”
Johnny glanced down at their hands.
By then, she was holding the glass and he had withdrawn his fingers, but his smile made it clear he understood. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t.”
He lifted his shot. “To making it halfway.”
Y/N raised hers. “To not being eliminated.”
Their glasses clicked.
She took the shot, immediately squeezing her eyes shut as the liquor burned down her throat.
Johnny laughed. “You hate it.”
“It tastes like a house fire.”
“It’s good whiskey.”
“That’s what people say when they’ve spent too much money on bad whiskey.”
He leaned back against the couch, amused. “You always this opinionated?”
“Only when I’m right.”
“That often, huh?”
“Constantly.”
Johnny watched her for a moment, the laughter fading into something quieter.
Without the challenges separating them, it felt different when he looked at her.
More direct.
During filming, every conversation had a purpose. He explained rules. She made some dry comment. He teased her or laughed. Production moved them along.
Here, there was nowhere either of them needed to be.
The music from the kitchen changed, followed by a loud argument over who had chosen the song.
Johnny glanced toward the noise. “How are you doing in here?”
“In the house?”
“In general.”
The sincerity of the question caught her off guard.
Y/N turned the empty shot glass between her fingers. “Better than I expected.”
“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”
“I’m still here.”
“You are.”
“And I’ve only thought about escaping into the woods twice.”
“Those woods aren’t safe.”
“Because of animals?”
“No. Producers.”
She laughed.
Johnny smiled at the sound, studying her closely enough that she became conscious of the warmth in her face.
“You keep to yourself,” he said.
It wasn’t an accusation. Just an observation.
“I like my own company,” she admitted.
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“I talk to people.”
“Mostly Ethan.”
There was something in the way he said the name.
Y/N tilted her head. “You’ve been keeping track?”
“I’m the host. It’s my job to notice things.”
“Is that all it is?”
Johnny looked down at the empty glass in his hand, rolling it between his palms.
When he lifted his eyes again, his expression was playful, but there was a new weight underneath it. “What else would it be?”
“You tell me.”
The space between them seemed to narrow without either of them moving.
Johnny’s gaze traveled across her face.
“I noticed you the first day,” he admitted.
“I noticed.”
“Hard not to.”
“Because I’m such a strong competitor?”
“No.”
She waited.
His mouth curved slowly. “Because you were looking at me like you wanted to eat me alive.”
Y/N felt heat rise into her cheeks, but she refused to retreat. “That doesn’t sound like but… Maybe I did.”
“That happen often?”
“Only when I’m distracted.”
“By what?”
She let her gaze move over him deliberately.
The silver hair.
The glasses.
The argyle vest stretched across his chest.
When she finally met his eyes again, Johnny was no longer pretending not to understand.
“You’re smart, despite all the concussions,” she said. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”
He gave a quiet laugh and leaned a little closer, resting one forearm across his knee. “And you’re how old again?”
“Twenty-one.”
Johnny nodded slowly, his expression changing just enough that she could see him considering the distance between their ages.
“And you know how old I am?”
“I know how Google works. Fifty-something.”
That made him laugh again. “Google me often?”
“Only when necessary.”
“What did you need to know?”
Y/N glanced toward the kitchen.
Everyone remained distracted. Ethan was pouring something into plastic cups while Damienne argued that the proportions were criminal. One of the camera operators had disappeared, and the other was focused on Zach across the room.
She looked back at Johnny. “…Whether you were single or not.”
His eyebrows lifted.
There was no embarrassment left to hide behind now. She had already said it.
Johnny stared at her for a beat, then adjusted his glasses with one finger.
“And what did Google tell you?”
“That you are.”
“Google knows everything.”
“Was it wrong?”
“No.”
The answer came easily.
A pulse of satisfaction moved through her.
Johnny studied her reaction. “You pleased about that?”
“Maybe.”
“Only maybe?”
“I don’t want you getting arrogant.”
“Little late for that, sweetheart.”
Her stomach tightened at the word.
She tried to disguise it by placing her empty glass on the coffee table.
Johnny noticed anyway.
He leaned back, one arm stretching along the top of the couch behind her. He still wasn’t touching her, but the position surrounded her with him.
“So,” he said, “you’re twenty-one, mentioned being a fan for some time.”
She nodded.
“So you’ve been watching me since you were a kid then, huh?”
Y/N winced. “That sounds terrible when you say it like that.”
“That’s why I said it like that.”
“I saw the first Jackass movie when I was younger.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“I survived.”
“Barely, from the look of it.”
She smiled. “I mostly remembered you during the alligator tightrope stunt.”
Johnny’s expression brightened with recognition. “Steve-O’s stunt.”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s when this started?”
She looked him over again. “You were very distracting.”
“Were?”
“Don’t fish for compliments.”
“I don’t have to. You already Googled whether I was single.”
Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head.
Johnny’s eyes settled on her mouth.
The change was subtle, but this time he didn’t disguise it as anything else. His gaze stayed there long enough for the air between them to become heavy.
Y/N wet her lips.
His jaw shifted.
From the kitchen came a burst of cheering as somebody apparently won whatever drinking game had begun.
Neither of them turned toward it.
“You know,” Johnny said quietly, “you’re a lot bolder without the cameras pointed at you.”
“So are you.”
His eyes lifted back to hers. “Am I?”
“You’ve been flirting with me for five days.”
“I thought you were flirting with me.”
“I was.”
“Well, then.” His smile returned. “Glad we cleared that up.”
Y/N leaned slightly toward him. “Would you like to see my room?”
Johnny’s expression stilled.
Not shocked.
Interested.
He glanced briefly toward the kitchen, then back at her. “Is it different from all the other rooms?”
“It has me in it. Possibly more.”
A low laugh escaped him. “That’s a strong sales pitch.”
“I thought so.”
Johnny considered her for only another second before standing. He offered her his hand.
Y/N looked at it, then up at him. “Subtle.”
“I’ve never been accused of that.”
She placed her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet.
His grip remained around hers after she was standing.
Y/N stepped closer, lowering her voice. “We need supplies.”
“Supplies?”
“Something to drink.”
Johnny glanced at the empty glass in his other hand. “Whiskey.”
“Of course.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It suits the whole silver-fox thing.”
He laughed loudly enough that Chelsea glanced toward them from the kitchen.
Y/N immediately released his hand and moved ahead of him.
She crossed into the kitchen as casually as possible, threading between Ethan and Dida while they debated whether somebody had cheated. On the counter sat the bottle Johnny had poured from earlier, amber liquor visible through the glass.
She picked it up.
Ethan noticed. “Where are you going with that?”
“Upstairs.”
“For what?”
Y/N grabbed two clean glasses from beside the sink. “…Hydration.”
“That’s whiskey though—“
“Mind your business, Ethan.”
He looked past her.
Johnny had entered the kitchen behind her, hands tucked into his pockets as he tried and failed to look innocent.
Ethan’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline.
Y/N pointed one of the glasses at him. “Not a word.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs.”
She laughed despite herself.
Across the island, Jayleen followed Ethan’s gaze and spotted Johnny. Her mouth fell open.
Y/N shook her head sharply.
Jayleen covered her grin with her cup but before mouthing, ‘Get it, girl’ to Y/N.
Y/N grinned, turning away.
Johnny stopped beside Y/N. “We getting out of here?”
The ease with which he said it sent another rush of heat through her.
She tucked the whiskey against her side. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
Johnny reached around her and took the bottle from her hands.
His chest brushed lightly against her shoulder as he did. “Lead the way, sweetheart.”
Y/N carried the glasses and slipped from the kitchen, Johnny following close behind.
Nobody stopped them.
The remaining contestants were too distracted or pretending to be.
As she reached the stairs, Y/N glanced back.
Johnny stood one step below her, whiskey bottle hanging loosely from his hand, eyes fixed on her with that same knowing look he’d given her on the first day.
Only now there were no cameras between them.
Y/N smiled and continued upstairs.
. . .
The lock clicked behind them.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Y/N stood with her back against the door, two glasses held loosely between her fingers while Johnny remained a few feet away with the whiskey bottle. The noise from downstairs had dulled to a low, distant thrum beneath the music, laughter, glasses clinking, somebody shouting accusations over a drinking game.
Up here, it felt like another house entirely.
Johnny glanced at the lock, then at her.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, lifting the bottle slightly, “you invited me.”
“No, ma’am.” His eyes moved slowly over her. “Just making sure you’re not planning to tell everybody I broke in.”
“You’re the one holding stolen alcohol.”
“Didn’t you steal it?”
“…I guess I did.”
“Well.” He stepped closer. “Now I’m an accomplice.”
She turned away before he could see exactly how much that voice affected her.
Her bedroom was one of the smaller ones in the house, though it was still far nicer than anything she would have expected from Fear Factor. A wide bed occupied most of the room, covered in white sheets and a dark blanket that had never stayed neatly folded for longer than five minutes. Her suitcase sat open near the dresser. Clothes hung over the back of a chair, and a sweater had been abandoned on the floor that morning.
The sliding glass door at the far end opened onto a narrow balcony overlooking the ocean.
Johnny took in the room as she sat near the head of the bed. “You’ve really made the place your own.”
“You’re judging my mess?”
“I’m impressed. Only took you five days.”
“Competition is exhausting.”
“Sure. Blame us.”
“I do.”
Johnny sat across from her near the foot of the bed, leaving enough space between them to pretend this was still casual.
Y/N handed him a glass.
He poured whiskey into each, considerably less than what they had been drinking downstairs.
“That all I get?” she asked.
“I’m trying to be responsible.”
She stared at him without a word.
Johnny looked down at the bottle. “Yeah. Didn’t sound believable to me either.”
He added another splash to her glass.
“Better.”
They tapped their glasses together and drank.
Y/N managed not to make a face this time, although Johnny’s narrowed eyes suggested he noticed how quickly she reached for the bottle of water on her nightstand afterward.
“You still hate it.”
“I’m developing an appreciation.”
“Liar.”
“I said developing.”
Johnny leaned against the wall behind him, one knee bent slightly on the mattress. Without the noise of the party filling every pause, Y/N became aware of everything, the faint scrape of his glass against his ring, the ocean moving beyond the windows, the way his eyes kept returning to her.
For five days, she had imagined being alone with him.
The reality was somehow worse for her composure.
He wasn’t Johnny Knoxville delivering lines to a camera now. He wasn’t standing at the edge of a challenge, grinning while she tried not to panic.
He was sitting on her bed.
In her locked room, at that.
Holding her gaze like he knew exactly where this was going.
Johnny took another drink. “So,” he said, “what did you bring me up here to show me?”
Y/N gestured around them. “My room.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Have you?”
“I’m seeing it now. Bed. Suitcase. Questionable housekeeping.”
“You’re very observant.”
“It’s part of the job.”
“There’s that excuse again.”
His smile appeared slowly. “You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you notice things.”
“Like what?”
Y/N set her glass on the bedside table. “The way I look at you.”
Johnny’s eyes followed the movement of her hand before returning to her face.
“Well, you made that obvious. You don’t exactly hide it.”
“I did on the first day.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Well, I tried.”
“That, I believe.”
She laughed softly.
Johnny lowered his own glass, holding it between both hands. “How long has this been going on?”
“My crush on you?”
“Your apparent inability to control yourself around the argyle?”
“It isn’t the argyle,” she said with a small chuckle.
“Shame. Thought I’d finally found my secret weapon.”
Y/N let her gaze linger on the vest stretched across his chest. “Well…It isn’t hurting.”
Johnny chuckled, but the sound faded when she didn’t look away.
“A long time,” she admitted. “I’ve had…a huge crush on you for a long time.”
“How long?”
She tucked one leg beneath herself. “You were my first celebrity crush.”
His eyebrows rose over the frames of his glasses. “First?”
“First real one.”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned.”
“You should be flattered.”
“That depends on how young you were.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making anything weird. Time did that for me.”
She rolled her eyes, though she was smiling.
“I saw the first Jackass movie when I was a kid. On TV. The alligator tightrope stunt, of course, was what made my crush bad on you.”
“Poor Steve-O nearly gets eaten, and you drooling over me?”
“Shirtless. Laughing at other’s expense. You were standing there looking hot.”
“That’s cold.”
“I’ve always respected Steve-O’s sacrifice…of nearly getting his ass bitten off.”
Johnny laughed, shaking his head.
Y/N watched him for a moment, warmth blooming in her chest alongside the alcohol. She had heard that laugh through televisions, laptops, and headphones for years. Hearing it because of something she said felt strangely intimate.
“I’ve seen almost everything you’ve done,” she continued.
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It might be.”
“Even the bad stuff?”
“Especially the bad stuff. All your work.”
He placed a hand against his chest. “Let’s just say I don’t have bad projects…what’s considered the ‘bad stuff’?”
She grinned. “I’ve seen Desert Blue.”
Johnny stared at her.
The amusement left his expression for a second, replaced by genuine surprise. “No, you haven’t.”
“I have.”
“Where?”
“Internet Archive.”
He looked almost offended. “You dug that shit up?”
“It’s hardly anywhere.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“I liked it.”
“You don’t have to lie to get me into bed. I’m already sitting on it.”
Y/N’s breath caught.
Johnny’s expression remained innocent, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
She recovered quickly. “That was smooth.”
“I have my moments.”
“And for the record, I wasn’t lying.”
He studied her more closely. “You actually went looking for it?”
“I told you. I’ve seen everything.”
“Why?”
The question was teasing, but there was something sincere underneath it.
Y/N looked down at her hands.
“Because you’re kind of a legend to me.”
Johnny went quiet.
She hadn’t intended for it to sound so earnest. The alcohol had loosened something in her, stripping away the sarcastic defenses she normally used whenever a conversation got too personal.
“You’ve done all this insane shit,” she continued, looking at him again. “You’ve been thrown off things, hit by things, bitten, launched into walls, roller skated in a buffalo herd and somehow you’ve always made it funny. You made being fearless look possible, even when you obviously weren’t fearless.”
“That’s generous.”
“It’s true.”
Johnny’s gaze softened. “You know most of it hurt like hell, right?”
“I know.”
“And a lot of it was incredibly stupid.”
“I know that too.”
“Just checking.”
Y/N smiled. “Still legendary.”
He adjusted his glasses, looking briefly toward the balcony. “You’re going to give an old man an ego.”
“You already have one.”
He let out a low laugh at that.
“And you’re not old.”
Johnny looked back at her. “You’re twenty-one.”
“And?”
“And that makes everyone look old.”
“Not everyone looks as good as you do.”
He exhaled a low laugh. “You really came prepared tonight.”
“I’ve been preparing for years.”
The words settled between them.
Johnny held her gaze.
Y/N felt the air in the room shift, the playful rhythm slowing into something heavier.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Years?”
She should have laughed it off.
Instead, she decided she had already come too far to pretend. And the alcohol was loosening her lips way more than she normally would’ve preferred.
“Desert Blue was the first thing I ever watched that made me…” She hesitated, feeling heat crawl up her neck.
Johnny went very still.
The house seemed impossibly quiet despite the party continuing downstairs.
His eyebrows lifted slowly. “Made you…what?”
“I don’t know if I wanna say. You know what I mean.”
“I might but I’d like to hear you say it.”
“Of course you would.”
A grin tugged at his mouth, but his eyes remained fixed on hers.
Y/N reached for her whiskey and took a small drink, mostly to give herself something to do.
“It was the first thing I ever watched that made me masterbate,” she said.
Johnny’s lips parted.
For once, she had genuinely surprised him. The knowledge sent a rush of confidence through her.
“You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
“Because of me?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. You had erotic scenes.”
“How old were you?”
“Old enough,” she said firmly. “And before you start, I’m twenty-one now, I’m…mostly sober enough to know exactly what I’m saying, and I invited you into my locked bedroom.”
His expression changed.
The grin remained, but it was no longer playful in quite the same way.
Johnny set his glass carefully on the nightstand. “You thought this through.”
“For about half my life.”
“Hell of a compliment.”
“It wasn’t meant to be subtle.”
“No.” His gaze traveled down her body and slowly returned to her face. “I’m starting to notice that.”
Y/N moved closer across the mattress.
Only a few inches.
Enough that their knees nearly touched.
“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” she said quietly.
Johnny’s eyes dropped to the narrow space between them. Then back to her. “You sure this isn’t just the idea of me? This fantasy you might have?”
“I’ve spent five days around you.”
“That’s not very long.”
“Long enough to know you flirt with me when the cameras are on, watch me when you think I’m not looking, and followed me upstairs carrying a bottle of whiskey.”
“Maybe I’m friendly.”
“You’re not this friendly with the other girl contestants.”
Johnny laughed under his breath. “No, ma’am.”
Y/N reached out and lightly touched the edge of his sweater vest, smoothing one of the burgundy diamonds beneath her fingers.
His gaze followed her hand.
“You’re really wearing this while trying to seduce me?” she asked.
“Trying?”
She looked up.
Johnny had leaned closer without her noticing.
His face was only inches from hers now, close enough that she could see the pale blue of his eyes behind the lenses and feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
“You’re awfully confident,” she whispered.
“You invited me here.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I like hearing it.”
His hand rose, but he stopped before touching her.
The hesitation surprised her.
“Y/N.”
The way he said her name was quieter than before.
More serious.
“You’re sure?”
She understood everything inside the question.
The alcohol. Their ages. The fact that he was the host and she was still a contestant. The possibility that morning might make all of this more complicated than it felt tonight.
Y/N placed her hand over his and guided it to her waist.
“I’m sure.”
Johnny’s fingers tightened gently against her.
“Tell me if that changes.”
“It won’t.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth again.
“How long?”
She leaned forward until her lips nearly brushed his.
“Long enough.”
Johnny closed the remaining distance.
The first kiss was almost careful.
His mouth moved against hers slowly, as though giving her one final opportunity to reconsider. Y/N’s hand slid from his vest to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his silver hair as she kissed him harder.
That careful restraint disappeared.
Johnny’s other hand settled at her waist and pulled her toward him. Her knee slipped between his as the space separating them vanished, the mattress shifting beneath their combined weight.
He tasted faintly of whiskey.
Y/N had imagined this too many times to count, but none of those fantasies had captured the warmth of his hand beneath the hem of her shirt or the sound he made when she lightly tugged his hair.
His glasses pressed awkwardly between them.
She broke the kiss only long enough to pull them from his face and place them beside the abandoned drinks.
Johnny watched her do it, breathing a little harder than before.
“Bossy,” he murmured.
“You like it.”
His smile was crooked and breathless.
“I might find it hot.”
Y/N climbed onto his lap.
His hands immediately found her hips, steadying her as she settled over him. The position brought her above him, giving her the chance to look down at the man who had occupied her thoughts for years.
Johnny tipped his head back. “There’s that look again.”
“What look?”
“The one you gave me on the first day.”
Y/N ran her fingers through his hair, remembering the exact thought she had when meeting him…because she told Jayleen that later when talking with her.
“I was thinking I would still climb you like a tree.”
“That sounds about right.”
She shifted in his lap, just enough to make his smile tighten.
“And how badly I wanted you to fuck me.”
The teasing expression on his face changed.
Not completely.
Johnny Knoxville still looked amused, still looked entertained by her audacity, but something hotter sharpened beneath it. His eyes moved over her face as though he was deciding whether she understood exactly what she was doing to him.
Y/N leaned closer.
“Still do,” she whispered. “Even older.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Even older?”
She traced the edge of his sweater vest with one finger, following the burgundy diamond down his chest.
“Just because the wrapper is wrinkled doesn’t mean the candy ain’t sweet.”
Johnny stared at her.
Then a laugh broke out of him, low and incredulous, his head falling back as his grip tightened around her. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
Y/N smiled, pleased with herself. “What?”
“You really came up here planning to seduce me with insults?”
“That wasn’t an insult.” She lowered her mouth toward his ear. “I called you sweet.”
“And wrinkled.”
Her lips brushed the shell of his ear when she answered.
“I could always taste you and confirm.”
Johnny went still beneath her.
The laughter vanished.
Y/N felt the precise moment the joke stopped being a joke.
His hand slid slowly up her back, broad and warm through the fabric of her shirt, until his fingers rested between her shoulder blades. He pulled her closer, forcing her to brace one hand against his chest.
“You’ve got a dangerous little mouth on you,” he murmured.
She looked down at him. “You keep staring at it.”
“Hard not to.”
“Then stop talking.”
Johnny’s gaze dropped to her lips.
Johnny kissed her deeply, one hand sliding up her back while the other remained firm against her hip. Y/N pressed closer, all the years of wanting him narrowing into the heat between them and the increasingly desperate movement of his mouth against hers.
When they finally separated, both of them were breathing hard.
Johnny rested his forehead against hers.
“Still think I’m a legend?”
Y/N smiled, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
His hands tightened around her.
“Well, sweetheart,” he said, turning them over against the mattress, “I guess I’d better convince you.”
Johnny’s mouth claimed hers again before she could answer, the kiss deeper now, slower, the kind that made her toes curl. His tongue slid against hers in long, deliberate strokes while his hands stayed firm at her waist, holding her exactly where he wanted her.
She shifted in his lap without breaking the kiss, knees bracketing his hips, and began to rock.
The first slow grind dragged the heat of her pussy down over the growing bulge in his jeans.
She felt him twitch beneath her, thickening with every pass. Johnny groaned into her mouth, fingers tightening on her hips as she rolled again, pressing down harder so the seam of her shorts rubbed directly over his cock.
He was getting harder by the second, the denim stretching tight as his length filled out beneath her.
“Oh, fuck…”
Y/N kept the rhythm steady, grinding in slow circles that made her clit throb and his breathing turn ragged. His cock swelled hot and solid under her, pushing up insistently, and every time she dragged herself along it she could feel how much bigger he was getting.
Johnny’s hands slid under her shirt, palms rough and warm as they traveled up her back, then around to cup her tits through her bra. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, teasing them stiff while she rocked harder.
He broke the kiss just long enough to yank her shirt up and off, tossing it aside. His mouth found her neck, sucking and biting as his fingers worked her bra clasp open. The straps slid down her arms and he pulled the bra away, leaving her bare.
She gasped, growing wetter by his actions. “Oh fuck.”
Johnny leaned in immediately, sucking one nipple into his mouth with a low sound of approval. His tongue flicked over the stiff peak while his hands gripped her ass, pulling her down harder against his cock.
She moaned, rocking faster, feeling every thick inch of him straining beneath her.
Johnny’s cock was fully hard now, a rigid line trapped under the denim, pulsing every time she ground over it. She could feel the heat of him through her thin shorts, the way the head pressed against her with each roll of her hips.
He released her nipple with a wet sound and kissed her again, deeper, hungrier, while his hands moved to her waistband.
He shoved her shorts and panties down together, lifting her just enough to peel them off her legs before settling her back down. Now her bare pussy pressed directly against the rough fabric covering his cock, slick and hot.
She rocked again, dragging her wet folds along the thick outline of him.
Johnny hissed, hips jerking up to meet her. “Fuck, Y/N… you’re soaked. Is this everything you’ve wanted?” His voice was low, strained.
Gasping for air, breathless, too focused on the pleasure to give a verbal answer. She nodded.
He reached between them, fingers sliding through her folds to feel how wet she was as he kissed her again. “So fucking wet…”
Her hands went to his belt, yanking it open. Johnny helped, lifting his hips so she could shove his jeans and boxers down just far enough. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head already glistening.
She wrapped her hand around it, stroking slow while she rocked her bare pussy along the length, coating him in her slick.
Every pass made them both moan. She rubbed her clit against the head, circling it, feeling him pulse in her grip.
Johnny’s breathing turned ragged. He kissed her harder, tongue deep, while she kept stroking and grinding. “That’s it, grind on my dick like that.”
Then he moved. In one smooth motion he flipped them, laying her back against the mattress and settling between her thighs.
His cock pressed against her entrance, thick and hot. He kissed her again, slow and deep, while he reached down and lined himself up. The head nudged her open, parting her slick lips.
“Last chance,” he whispered against her lips. “I can stop now.”
Her knees braced against his hips, pressing him closer.
“I’ve been wanting this forever. Don’t fucking stop now,” she pleaded, rocking her hips up.
With that, he pushed in inch by inch, stretching her around him until he was buried to the hilt.
They both gasped at the fullness. Johnny stayed still for a long moment, letting her adjust, forehead pressed to hers.
Then he started moving, long, deep thrusts that dragged his cock almost all the way out before sinking back in. Every stroke hit deep, making her walls clench around him.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he fucked her harder, hips snapping against hers in a steady, relentless rhythm.
The bed creaked under them. Skin slapped skin. Johnny’s mouth found her neck, biting and sucking while he pounded into her.
Her breasts bounced with every thrust and he leaned down to suck a nipple again, teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out.
She clawed at his back, moaning loud as the pleasure built slow and hot inside her.
“Harder,” she begged, “Please fuck me harder, Johnny…”
And he gave it to her, fucking her deep and rough, the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out filling the room.
“Yeah…take it, Y/N. Take every inch. Daddy’s gotcha…”
Her pussy squeezed him tight at his words, getting closer with every thrust. Johnny’s breathing turned ragged, his rhythm faltering as he got near the edge too.
“Come for me,” he growled against her ear, his hand wrapping around her neck gently, thumb tracing the line of her throat. “Come on my cock, Y/N.”
She shattered. Her orgasm hit hard, walls pulsing around him, back arching as she cried out.
Johnny fucked her through it, thrusts turning sloppy until he buried himself deep and came with a groan, burying his face in her neck, pumping hot cum inside her in thick spurts.
They stayed locked together, breathing hard, his cock still twitching inside her. He kissed her slow and deep, forehead pressed to hers, sweat-slick skin sliding together.
For several seconds, Y/N couldn’t do anything except lie beneath him and try to remember how breathing worked.
The music downstairs still pulsed through the floorboards. Someone shouted over a drinking game, followed by a chorus of laughter. The party had continued without them, completely unaware that Y/N’s entire understanding of reality had just been rearranged on top of her white bedsheets.
Johnny’s mouth brushed hers once more, gentler than before.
“You all right?” he asked quietly.
Y/N blinked up at him.
His silver hair was completely ruined from her hands. His face was flushed, his glasses abandoned somewhere near the whiskey bottle, and the smug little curve of his mouth suggested he already knew the answer.
“No,” she whispered.
A flicker of concern crossed his expression. “No?”
“You just ruined every man I’m ever going to meet after you.”
Johnny’s laugh rumbled against her before he lowered his face into the curve of her neck. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m serious.”
“That’s a hell of a burden to put on an old man.”
Y/N wrapped her arms around him, still unwilling to let him move. “I told you the candy was sweet.”
He groaned against her skin. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
Johnny lifted his head, smiling down at her. “You’re trouble.”
“And yet you followed me upstairs.”
“You made a compelling argument.”
“My room has me in it?”
“That was the one.”
His thumb swept lazily across her cheek, wiping away a strand of hair stuck there. The tenderness of the gesture almost affected her more than everything that had come before it.
For years, Johnny Knoxville had existed behind screens, laughing through stunts, delivering some outrageous introduction or grinning while chaos exploded around him. She had imagined his hands, his mouth, his voice in private.
She had never imagined him looking at her like this afterward.
“You really watched Desert Blue on the Internet Archive?” he asked.
Y/N stared at him. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
“I’m still processing it.”
“I’m dedicated.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m horny and I’m on Fear Factor. That was already established.”
Johnny laughed again and kissed her forehead.
Then, to her immediate disappointment, he began pushing himself upright, pulling his cock out of her.
Y/N tightened her arms around his biceps at the sensation. “Where are you going?”
“Believe me, sweetheart, I’d love to stay right here.”
“Then stay.”
“That’s tempting.”
He sat at the edge of the bed and reached for his clothes.
Y/N watched his back as he pulled his shirt on, admiring the view with absolutely no shame. “You came here to party with us. The party is downstairs.”
“I did come to party.”
“Exactly.”
Johnny glanced back at her while straightening his shirt. “I also came here because you people have an Endgame challenge tonight.”
Y/N’s stomach sank. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“You brought us alcohol before a challenge?”
“Not enough to get anyone drunk.” His smile returned. “Just enough to make you all think you were safe.”
“That is evil.”
“It’s television.”
She dropped back against the pillow with a groan. “I knew this was too nice.”
“Always trust your instincts.”
“My instincts told me to drag you upstairs.”
“And look how well that worked out.”
Y/N threw a pillow at him.
Johnny caught it against his chest, laughing, before dropping it beside her.
“What’s the challenge, Knoxville?” she asked.
“Can’t tell you.”
“I think what just happened earns me a hint.”
“That would be favoritism.”
“You’ve already shown me plenty of favoritism.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Have I?”
“My legs aren’t working.”
Johnny looked far too satisfied with himself. “That sounds like a personal problem, sweetheart.”
“You caused the problem.”
“And now I have to go downstairs and cause several more.”
He found his glasses near the nightstand and slid them back onto his face. His hair remained disheveled, and the vest was wrinkled from her hands.
Y/N sat up, pulling the sheet around herself.
“You can’t go downstairs looking like that.”
Johnny looked down at himself. “Like what?”
“Like you just had sex.”
“Well, that is what happened.”
“Nobody else needs confirmation.”
“They’re probably not stupid.”
“Ethan saw us leave together.”
“He seems like a bright kid.”
“And Jayleen definitely knows.”
Johnny stepped closer to the bed. “You embarrassed?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Y/N reached up and attempted to smooth his hair, though it only made several silver strands stick out in different directions.
“I just don’t want this turning into something for the cameras.”
His teasing expression softened. “It won’t come from me.”
She searched his face, reassured by the sincerity there. “Okay.”
Johnny bent and kissed her, slow enough that she almost pulled him back onto the mattress.
He seemed to recognize the danger too, because he broke away with a quiet laugh, his hand squeezing her ass once. “Get dressed.”
“You’re incredibly bossy now.”
“I have to announce a challenge.”
“And I need at least ten minutes to recover from you.”
“You’ve got five.”
“You’re terrible.”
“That’s what they pay me for.”
Johnny picked up the whiskey bottle and carried it toward the dresser. Y/N climbed out of bed, gathering her discarded clothes while trying not to stumble. She could feel him watching her.
She looked over her shoulder. “Enjoying the view, old man?”
“I’m trying to decide whether I have time to make another very, very bad decision.”
Her pulse jumped despite her exhaustion. “You do.”
“I really don’t.”
“Coward.”
Johnny laughed and turned his back, granting her at least the illusion of privacy while she dressed.
Y/N pulled on her clothes and tried to fix her hair using the mirror above the dresser. Her reflection looked thoroughly incriminating. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen, and no amount of finger-combing made her look like she had simply been upstairs having a quiet conversation.
Johnny appeared behind her in the mirror, adjusting the hem of his sweater vest.
“You ready?”
“Absolutely not.”
“That’s generally the correct attitude before one of our challenges.”
She turned to face him. “Are you coming back tonight?”
The question left her more softly than she intended.
Johnny paused.
For the first time since getting out of bed, the joking eased from his expression. He came closer and rested his hands lightly at her waist.
“Not tonight.”
Y/N tried not to look disappointed. “Because of the challenge?”
“Because after the challenge, production’s going to have me running around until late, and you’re going to need whatever sleep you can get.”
“So that’s a no.”
“For tonight.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “And tomorrow?”
Johnny’s thumb moved against her waist.
“Tomorrow might be a different story.”
“Might?”
“I can’t make promises when you could could be eliminated.”
“You think I’ll lose?”
“I think tonight’s going to suck.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He leaned closer, lips brushing hers without fully kissing her.
“Make it through tonight,” he murmured. “Then we’ll talk about tomorrow.”
Y/N caught the front of his vest before he could step back. “You’d better come upstairs.”
Johnny glanced down at her hand and then into her eyes. “That an invitation?”
“It’s a warning.”
His grin returned, slow and wicked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He kissed her one last time, quick but deep enough to leave her wanting more, then moved toward the door.
Y/N followed, catching his wrist before he unlocked it. “Wait.”
She straightened his glasses and smoothed the collar of his shirt. Johnny remained still, watching her fuss over him with quiet amusement.
“You still look guilty,” she said.
“So do you.”
“I live here. I can hide.”
“I have to stand in front of everyone.”
“Good luck.”
Johnny unlocked the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. “Give me two minutes before you come down.”
“Why?”
“So it doesn’t look suspicious.”
Y/N glanced at the bed, the discarded shot glasses and the sheets that looked as if they’d survived one of the challenges.
“It’s going to look suspicious anyway.”
He opened the door a crack and checked the hallway.
Before slipping out, he looked back at her. “Two minutes, sweetheart.”
Y/N leaned against the doorframe. “See you downstairs, Knoxville.”
His gaze dragged over her once more.. “Try to look scared when I announce the challenge.”
“I’m more afraid you won’t come back tomorrow.”
Johnny’s smirk deepened. “That’s one fear I might be able to help you with.”
Then he disappeared into the hallway, leaving Y/N alone with trembling legs, a ruined bed, and exactly two minutes to pretend Johnny Knoxville hadn’t just rocked her entire world.
synapse: a quiet day in town becomes one neither of them will ever forget
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: domestic fluff, humor
a/n: im trying to decide the future of this series. do you actually want this to eventually end like an actual book or keep it like this for imagines at this point? what do we think?
. . .
The first thing Y/N noticed when she woke was that the room was bright.
The second was that she had somehow managed to steal nearly all of the blankets during the night.
The third—
She stretched.
Immediately regretted it.
A long, dramatic groan escaped her as she dropped back onto the pillow.
Beside her, Henry opened one eye. “Good morning.”
Y/N continued staring at the ceiling. “I have an announcement.”
“I’m listening.”
She turned her head toward him with complete seriousness. “I need us to take a very… very… very small break from sex.”
The corner of Henry’s mouth lifted as he studied her. “How small?”
She pinched her fingers together until there was barely a sliver of space between them. “This small.”
“I’ll admit, that’s smaller than I expected.”
“My body has officially filed a complaint.”
“I was under the impression you were enjoying yourself.”
“I was.” She pointed accusingly at him. “And now I’m paying for it.”
Henry let out a quiet laugh as he sat up against the headboard. “Then I’ll respect the complaint.”
“You sound like you’re negotiating with a union.”
“I’m trying to keep the peace.”
“It is a very serious grievance.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
She tried stretching again, much more cautiously this time. “Everything still works.”
“Comforting.”
“It just…” She searched for the right word before settling on, “…objects.”
“I’m sorry you’re sore.”
Y/N looked over at him, smiling despite herself. “I know. And I appreciate that. But I think my muscles deserve a vacation too.”
“I think that’s reasonable.”
“Good.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Because this isn’t me rejecting you.”
“I never thought it was.”
“It’s just…” She laughed softly. “I’ve discovered there are consequences to making very enthusiastic decisions several nights in a row.”
Henry’s smile widened. “A lesson well learned.”
“For about forty-eight hours.”
“Only forty-eight?”
“I’m making no promises beyond that.”
“I appreciate the honesty.”
A comfortable silence settled over the room. Outside, gulls drifted somewhere beyond the window while the curtains stirred lazily in the ocean breeze.
Y/N rolled onto her side to face him. “So… what are we doing today?”
Henry considered it for a moment. “We’ve spent enough time hiding in this room.”
She grinned. “You mean besides nearly getting arrested in the laundry room?”
“I’d rather retire that story.”
“I don’t.”
“I suspected as much.”
She laughed. “That poor cleaning lady.”
“I’m fairly certain we’ve become one of her stories.”
“‘You’ll never believe what I walked in on at work today…’” Y/N shook her head, still smiling.
Henry rubbed a hand over his face, unable to hide his own amusement anymore. “Thank you for bringing it up again.”
“My pleasure.”
“What I’d actually like,” he continued, “is a day with nowhere we have to be.”
She brightened immediately. “Just wandering?”
“Just wandering.”
“We’ve already conquered the bookstore.”
“We have.”
“So today…” She sat up a little too quickly, paused, then recovered with as much dignity as possible. “We find a record store.”
“I had a feeling that was coming.”
“And coffee.”
“Naturally.”
“Lunch.”
“That seems wise.”
“And maybe we sit on a bench somewhere for an hour.”
Henry looked out toward the water before meeting her eyes again. “That sounds like a very good day.”
“It sounds normal.”
“It does.”
She smiled, softer now. “I think that’s my favorite part.”
“So do I.”
They sat quietly for another minute, watching the ocean through the open curtains, neither of them in any hurry to leave the room.
Finally, Y/N slipped out of bed and stood carefully. This time there was no dramatic groan, only a slight stiffness she could live with.
Henry watched her with quiet satisfaction.
She caught the look immediately. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked hopeful.”
“I looked optimistic.”
“You looked like a man already counting down my forty-eight-hour recovery.”
Henry’s smile turned unmistakably guilty.
Y/N laughed, shook her head, and crossed toward her suitcase. “I should probably put on pants before we explore Cape Cod.”
“I think the town would appreciate that.”
“You’ve become very practical.”
“I’m spending time with you.”
She looked back over her shoulder with a grin.
. . .
The record shop announced itself before they even reached it.
Music spilled through the open doorway, mixing with the ocean breeze and the chatter of tourists wandering Main Street. The hand-painted sign above the entrance had faded with years in the sun, and the front windows were crowded with posters, album sleeves, and handwritten signs advertising used records.
Y/N smiled immediately.
Henry noticed before she’d even spoken.
“I take it we’re stopping.”
She slipped her hand into his. “We have to.”
“I suspected as much.”
The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside.
The air smelled faintly of old cardboard, vinyl, and dust warmed by the afternoon sun. Rows of wooden bins stretched across the little shop, each packed tightly with albums waiting to be flipped through.
Y/N’s eyes lit up.
“This…” she breathed. “This is dangerous.”
“For your wallet?”
“For my self-control.”
Henry smiled to himself and let her drift naturally toward the pop section while he wandered more slowly through jazz and classical, occasionally pulling out an album simply because the cover caught his attention.
After a few minutes, he glanced across the shop.
Y/N was exactly where he’d expected.
Completely absorbed.
She stood with one hip against the record bin, tongue caught lightly between her teeth as she flipped through album after album with careful fingers.
Every so often she’d stop, pull one free, study the artwork, then slide it back before continuing her search.
Henry watched her for another moment before returning to his own browsing.
“You know,” Y/N called a minute later, “one of these days I’m going to run out of money because of music.”
“I imagine there are worse financial decisions.”
“There definitely are.”
She pulled out another album.
Then another.
Then—
“Oh.”
Henry looked over.
She was holding Thriller.
The familiar cover made her smile immediately.
“I already own you,” she murmured to the album before carefully returning it to its place.
Henry wandered over, curious.
“You’ve memorized that record.”
“I practically have.” She laughed quietly. “I could probably tell you the order of every song without looking.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I could also tell you all the songs from his Off The Wall record.” She continued flipping through the records. “I can’t wait until he releases another album.”
Henry leaned casually against the next record bin.
“Planning ahead?”
She looked at him with complete seriousness.
“When Michael Jackson releases new music…” She pointed dramatically with the edge of another album sleeve. “…I’m kicking ass for that record.”
Henry couldn’t help smiling. “Is that so?”
“I’m not even kidding.”
“I never assumed you were.”
She crossed her arms around the album she was holding.
“I’ll be first in line.”
“You’ll attempt to be.”
“I’ll succeed.”
“I admire your confidence.”
“You should.”
She slipped the record back into place before adding, almost to herself, “I just know it’s going to be incredible.”
Henry watched her excitement with quiet amusement.
There was something undeniably charming about seeing her this animated over something so simple.
No overthinking.
No fear.
Just anticipation.
He reached over and brushed his fingers lightly against the back of her hand.
“I’m going next door for a few minutes.”
Y/N looked up.
“Okay.”
Henry’s eyes drifted around the shop almost absentmindedly.
A few customers browsed quietly near the back.
An older couple examined a stack of jazz records.
A teenager argued with his friend over which album to buy.
No one seemed particularly interested in Y/N.
Still…
His gaze lingered just a moment longer before returning to her.
She caught it immediately.
“…Did you just check to make sure no one was about to hit on me?”
Henry looked almost offended.
“I assessed the room.”
“You assessed the room.”
“I did.”
She folded her arms, smiling wider by the second.
“You are unbelievable.”
“I’d rather not leave you alone if someone appears likely to mistake confidence for opportunity.”
Y/N stepped closer until only a foot separated them.
“You know,” she said softly, “that’s ridiculously attractive.”
Henry sighed with the quiet resignation of a man who knew she was about to tease him.
“I’ll only be next door.”
“I know.”
She reached up and straightened the collar of his shirt for no reason other than wanting an excuse to touch him. “I’ll behave.”
“I’m counting on it.”
She smiled innocently. “I’ll even stay inside.”
“I appreciate your cooperation.”
“I make no promises about buying records.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
That made her grin.
Henry leaned down and kissed her forehead before stepping toward the door.
Just before leaving, he glanced back one more time.
Y/N caught him.
Again.
She laughed under her breath.
“You checked.”
“I did.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The jealousy.”
Henry rested one hand on the doorframe.
“I prefer to think of it as caution.”
She tilted her head.
“I prefer my version.”
“I gathered.”
The bell jingled as he stepped out into the afternoon.
Y/N watched him disappear into the shop next door before turning back toward the rows of records, smiling to herself.
“He totally checked,” she whispered, unable to stop grinning as she resumed flipping through the albums.
. . .
Henry disappeared into the shop next door.
Y/N watched him through the window until he disappeared between the aisles before looking down at the small paper bag in her hand.
One record.
That was all she’d allowed herself.
She smiled to herself.
One had somehow become two.
She wandered a little farther down Main Street until she found an empty bench overlooking the harbor. It sat beneath a cluster of hydrangeas, shaded from the afternoon sun, with a weathered wooden fence separating the sidewalk from the water below.
Perfect.
She set the record bag beside her feet, slipped The Bloody Chamber from her tote, and tucked her sunglasses higher on her nose.
“If Henry asks,” she murmured as she opened to her bookmark, “this is educational.”
She managed all of two pages before the bench shifted beneath another person’s weight.
Not close enough to crowd her.
Just enough to share the bench.
Without looking up from the page, she smiled politely.
“Hi.”
“Hello.”
The voice was soft.
Easy.
Gentle enough that it immediately put her at ease.
She kept reading another sentence before glancing sideways.
The man looked to be around his late twenties. Dark curls peeked out beneath a black cap pulled low over his forehead, and a pair of large aviator sunglasses hid most of his face. He wore a loose red button-up over a black T-shirt, dark jeans, and comfortable loafers that looked more practical than fashionable.
If anything, he looked like someone trying very hard not to be noticed.
She offered another polite smile before returning to her book. “Nice day.”
“It is.”
For a minute, neither of them spoke.
The harbor creaked softly beneath the breeze.
Gulls drifted overhead.
Someone laughed somewhere farther down Main Street.
Finally he asked, “You from here?”
Y/N laughed lightly. “No. Thank God. I’m on vacation.”
That earned a quiet laugh. “With your family?”
She smiled to herself. “No.”
“A boyfriend?”
“My…boyfriend.” The word still felt a little strange and wonderfully normal all at once. “He’s next door pretending not to buy more books.”
“That sounds specific.”
“It is.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He has a system.”
“Oh?”
“If he says he’s ‘just looking,’ we’re leaving with at least three books.”
That made him laugh.
“I think everyone has something they’re guilty of.”
“I definitely do.”
He nodded toward the novel resting in her lap. “Good book?”
“So far, I love it.”
“What’s it about?”
She thought for a moment.
“It’s fairy tales…”
“Oh, I love fairy tales,” he said immediately.
“…if fairy tales had therapists.”
He laughed harder that time.
“I’ve never heard anyone describe a book like that.”
“I don’t think the author would appreciate my review.”
“I think she’d probably enjoy it.”
Y/N smiled.
“Maybe.”
He looked toward the record bag by her feet.
“You bought music too?”
“I did.”
“Anything good?”
“The answer depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking.”
She reached into the bag and pulled out the records.
“The Smiths.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Good choice.”
“It was the last one…” She flipped the second sleeve around proudly. “Prince’s Purple Rain.”
His smile remained.
But there was the tiniest pause. “Hm.”
Y/N caught it immediately. “What?”
He shrugged with a small smile.
“Not really for me.”
She laughed. “Fair enough.”
“But…” he added, “…good musician.”
“I knew there was something diplomatic about that answer.”
“I tried.”
“I appreciate the effort.”
He chuckled quietly. “What kind of music do you usually listen to?”
“A little bit of everything.”
“That’s the safe answer.”
“It is.”
“So what’s the real answer?”
Y/N sighed dramatically. “The real answer is that I’m hopelessly obsessed with Michael Jackson.”
“Obsessed?”
“My roommate says it’s an addiction.”
“And what do you call it?”
“A healthy relationship.”
That made him laugh into his hand. “I see.”
“My boyfriend thinks it’s funny.”
“What does he think is funny?”
“That I told him there’s exactly one man in the entire world he could lose me to.”
The man tilted his head.
“And who would that be?”
Y/N looked at him as though the answer should have been painfully obvious.
“Michael Jackson.”
He smiled. “And is that true?”
She nodded without hesitation. “Unfortunately for my boyfriend.”
The smile grew warmer. “He sounds patient.”
“He pretends to be.”
“Pretends?”
“Oh, he’s definitely jealous.”
“Really?”
“In a very attractive way.”
That earned another laugh. “So you’ve warned him?”
“I have.”
“And he’s accepted his fate?”
“I think he’s hoping the odds stay in his favor.”
“I imagine they will.”
They sat quietly for another minute.
It wasn’t uncomfortable.
Just… peaceful.
The stranger looked out over the water.
“What else do you like to do?”
Y/N tucked one leg beneath the other.
“I read.” He nodded. “I write.” Another nod. “Don’t tell anyone but I smoke a little weed.”
He laughed. “I appreciate the honesty.”
“And apparently I buy too many books and records.”
“Those aren’t terrible habits.”
“I’ve had worse.”
He smiled. “I believe that.”
She looked over at him properly for the first time.
“You?”
He thought for a moment.
“I like quiet.”
“I can see that.”
“I like creating things.”
“What kind of things?”
His smile turned almost shy. “A little of everything.”
“You sound mysterious.”
“I’ve been told.”
“I don’t trust mysterious people.”
“You trusted me enough to sit here.”
“I also trusted you because you’re wearing loafers.”
He blinked. “…my loafers? What’s wrong with my loafers?”
“Nothing.” She chuckled. “They’re trustworthy shoes.”
He looked down at them before laughing.
“I’ve never heard that before.”
“As a kid, I learned early that you can tell a lot about someone by their shoes.”
Michael smiled. “Is that right?”
She nodded matter-of-factly. “It’s not scientific. It’s just something I do.”
“So…” He looked down at his loafers. “What do these say?”
Y/N considered them seriously, as though they were giving sworn testimony. “They’re practical.”
“Practical.”
“Mhm. They’re nice enough that you care how you look, but comfortable enough that you expect to be walking all day. That tells me you don’t need attention from strangers.”
He listened without interrupting.
“You also don’t strike me as someone who’s trying to impress anybody.” She shrugged. “I’d guess you’re pretty humble.”
His smile softened.
“You think shoes can tell you all that?”
“No.” She laughed. “The person wearing them does. Shoes are just…the first clue.”
He glanced down at them again.
“And if I’d been wearing expensive dress shoes?”
“I’d think you had somewhere important to be.”
“Sneakers?”
“You either like being comfortable…” She smiled. “…or you’re planning to run from responsibility.”
That earned a quiet laugh. “You’re pretty good.”
“I’m observant.”
Another easy silence settled between them.
The kind that only happened when two strangers unexpectedly enjoyed each other’s company.
Eventually he spoke again. “You seem happy?”
The question surprised her.
She looked toward the shop where Henry had disappeared.
“I am.”
“What changed?”
She smiled to herself.
“I met someone who makes ordinary days feel… important.”
He nodded slowly. “I think that’s a rare thing.”
“I think so too.”
He looked down for a moment before standing.
“I should let you get back to your book.”
“And I should probably find my boyfriend before he assumes I wandered into another bookstore.”
He smiled. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your vacation.”
“You too.”
He hesitated. Then, quietly, he said, “Thank you.”
She looked up. “For what?”
“For treating me like…” He searched for the words before settling on, “…just another person.”
Y/N frowned slightly.
“Weren’t you?”
A genuine smile spread across his face. “Today… I got to be.”
She shrugged easily.
“Everybody deserves a day off.”
For just a second, he simply looked at her.
Then he nodded.
“I think you’re right.”
With one last smile, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Y/N watched him go before opening her book again.
She read the same paragraph.
Twice.
Then three times.
She blinked.
Lowered the book into her lap.
“…I know that voice.”
And that laugh…
She’s heard that laugh in enough interviews she had watched on TV.
She frowned toward the crowd.
Her sunglasses came off.
Slowly.
“…No.”
Her heart lurched.
“No, no, no…”
She stood so fast the bench scraped loudly against the sidewalk.
“Oh my God.”
People glanced over.
She didn’t notice.
“Michael Jackson.”
Silence.
Then—
“I JUST TOLD MICHAEL JACKSON I’M NOT SINGLE.”
Her hands flew to her face.
“I told Michael Jackson the only man I’d leave Henry for…”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“…TO MICHAEL JACKSON.”
“Oh my God.”
She snatched up her records, shoved The Bloody Chamber into her tote, and bolted down Main Street.
Not jogged.
Ran.
She nearly collided with an elderly couple, apologized breathlessly, ducked around a family of tourists, and finally spotted Henry stepping out of the neighboring bookstore with a paper bag tucked under one arm.
He frowned immediately. “What happened?”
Y/N grabbed both of his forearms.
“I just talked to Michael Jackson.”
Henry blinked.
“…What?”
“I just talked to Michael Jackson!”
He pressed his palm gently to her forehead. “Are you all right?”
She pushed his hand away lightly. “I’m not crazy. I know it was him.”
She was almost bouncing now.
“I sat on the bench and there was this man and we were talking and I didn’t really look at him because I was reading and then he left and I sat there for five minutes before it hit me that I knew his voice and—”
Henry’s expression changed.
Recognition.
Memory.
He looked at her for a long second before saying very evenly,
“The one man in the world.”
Y/N pointed at him.
“Do not start.”
“The one man,” he continued with remarkable composure, “you assured me I could lose you to.”
“Yes!”
“And?”
“I blew it!”
Henry’s mouth twitched.
“It wasn’t funny.”
“It is… a little.”
“I told Michael Jackson I wasn’t single.”
“Loyal.”
“I did not need to be loyal to Michael Jackson, Henry!”
He was trying.
Really trying.
Not to smile.
Y/N dragged both hands over her face.
“Oh my God…”
Henry rested the bookstore bag against his leg.
“What exactly did you tell him?”
“You want the details?”
“I feel invested now.”
“I told him I liked reading, writing, smoking a little, buying records, and then I told him the only man I’d leave you for was Michael Jackson.”
Henry nodded thoughtfully.
“To Michael Jackson.”
“Yes.”
“And then informed Michael Jackson you had a boyfriend.”
“Yes.”
He considered that for exactly one second. “…Devastating.”
Y/N made a noise somewhere between a groan and a scream.
Henry finally gave up trying to stay composed.
He laughed.
Not loudly.
Just warmly enough that she couldn’t even be offended.
She pointed accusingly at him.
“I hate you.”
“No,” he said, reaching for her hand, “I don’t think you do.”
She sighed dramatically.
“…Not at this exact moment.”
Henry intertwined his fingers with hers and smiled.
“It helps me.”
“What helps you?”
“You told him you weren’t single.”
She looked at him in disbelief.
“That is somehow your takeaway?”
“It is.”
She groaned again, dropping her forehead onto his shoulder.
“I fumbled Michael Jackson.”
Henry’s hand settled at the back of her neck.
“I think you’ll recover.”
“…Eventually.”
“I’ll help.”
She looked up at him. “How?”
He smiled with quiet satisfaction. “I’ll remind you for the rest of our lives.”
Y/N stared at him. “…You’re evil.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She couldn’t help laughing.
And somehow, despite the fact she’d unknowingly told Michael Jackson she was taken, despite the embarrassment that would undoubtedly haunt her forever…
Walking away hand in hand with Henry suddenly didn’t feel like she’d made the wrong choice at all.
Henry had barely finished laughing when Y/N abruptly stopped walking.
He looked down at her. “…What?”
“I need to make a phone call.”
Before he could ask another question, she’d already spotted the pay phone across the street.
She pointed dramatically. “Stay there.”
Then she took off running.
Henry watched her weave through pedestrians before disappearing into the little phone booth on the corner. He smiled to himself, leaning casually against a nearby storefront.
She was absolutely calling Nancy.
Y/N dug a quarter from her pocket and shoved it into the slot, immediately dialing the Wheeler household phone.
The phone rang twice.
Three times.
Then—
“Hello?”
“Nancy.”
“…Y/N?”
“Nancy Wheeler.”
There was a pause.
“…What happened?”
“I just talked to Michael Jackson.”
Silence.
“…Come again?”
“I. Just. Talked. To. Michael. Jackson.”
“…You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking!”
“What?”
“I still can’t believe it!”
“You’re sure it was Michael Jackson? The Michael Jackson?”
“I’m one hundred fucking percent positive,” Y/N replied as she pressed her forehead against the glass of the booth. “I was sitting on a bench reading, okay? This guy sits next to me, we start talking, he’s really nice, we’re talking about books and music and then I tell him—”
She stopped.
Nancy knew that pause. “…What did you tell him?”
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.
“I told him the only man I’d ever leave Henry for was Michael Jackson.”
Silence.
Then Nancy inhaled so sharply Y/N thought she’d dropped the phone.
“You told—”
“TO MICHAEL JACKSON.”
Nancy exploded. “No!”
“YES!”
“No!”
“YES!”
“Oh my God!”
“I KNOW!” Y/N whined.
Nancy burst into laughter so hard Y/N had to hold the receiver away from her ear.
“I am never going to recover from this.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Nancy!”
“I’m trying—” She clearly wasn’t. “I am genuinely trying.”
“You’re laughing.”
“Because this is the funniest thing that has ever happened to you.”
“It is not.”
“It absolutely is.”
Y/N sighed dramatically. “I also told him I wasn’t single.”
Nancy laughed even harder. “Oh, Henry is never letting you live this down.”
“He already isn’t.”
From somewhere else in the house, another voice suddenly cut through the line.
“…Wait, hold on. Who talked to Michael Jackson?”
Nancy’s head whipped around.
“Michael!”
“…What?”
“Get off the phone!”
“I was already on it!”
“You were listening!”
“I wasn’t trying to!”
“You literally answered!”
“I wanted to know who talked to Michael Jackson!”
“Get off, asshole!”
“Nancy!” Y/N interrupted, laughing now despite herself.
Nancy groaned loudly. “Mike was listening on the upstairs phone.”
“I gathered.”
“I swear to God…”
His voice cut through again through the phone. “Was it the real Michael Jackson? It probably wasn’t—“
“MIKE!” Nancy shouted.
“I’M HANGING UP!”
“I CAN HEAR YOU!”
“GOOD!”
Y/N couldn’t stop smiling. “I’ll let you deal with that.”
Nancy sighed. “…I hate my brother.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” Nancy admitted. “Unfortunately, I don’t.”
Another pause.
Then Nancy’s voice softened. “…You really talked to him?”
“I really did.”
“What was he like?”
Y/N looked out through the glass of the booth. “…Normal.”
Nancy was quiet.
“He just…wanted someone to talk to.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“He was really nice.”
“I’m glad.”
“So am I.”
Nancy smiled through the phone.
“…Have fun with Henry.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“He already called me loyal.”
Nancy laughed again. “I’ll see you in July.”
“I’ll see ya.”
Nancy grinned. “Not if I see you first.”
Y/N smiled, recognizing the reference immediately.
“Bye, Chris.”
“Gordie.”
They hung up.
Henry was exactly where she’d left him.
Hands in his pockets.
Watching people wander down Main Street.
The moment she stepped out of the booth, he looked over. “So?”
Y/N slipped her hand into his as naturally as breathing.
“Nancy laughed at me.”
“I expected as much.”
“Her brother was listening on another phone.”
Henry blinked.
“…Another phone.”
“It was a whole thing.”
“I’ll assume Nancy handled it.”
“She yelled at him.”
“That also sounds expected.”
Y/N sighed dramatically as they resumed walking.
“I’m never telling another human being I have a celebrity crush.”
Henry squeezed her hand lightly.
“A wise decision.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“I’ll admit…” He glanced sideways at her, unable to completely hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “…more than I probably should.”
She bumped his shoulder. “I can’t believe this happened.”
“I can.”
“You can?”
“You have a remarkable talent for finding yourself in improbable situations.”
“I do not.”
“You accidentally met Michael Jackson.”
“…That’s one.”
“You nearly got us caught in a laundry room.”
She pointed at him.
“That was a team effort.”
“I’ll concede partial responsibility.”
She laughed. “I hate how calm you are.”
“I’ve had time to process it.”
“You had five minutes.”
“I used them efficiently.”
They walked another block before spotting a little café tucked between two shops.
The smell of fresh coffee drifted out the open door.
Y/N slowed. “Caffeine?”
Henry followed her gaze.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice.”
“It noticed me first.”
“That seems likely.”
They stepped inside, joining the short line at the counter.
When it was their turn, the young barista smiled brightly.
“Name for the order?”
Before Y/N could answer—
Henry said, with complete composure,
“Michael.”
Silence.
Y/N turned.
Very.
Very.
Slowly.
Henry didn’t even look at her.
The barista simply nodded and wrote it on the cup. “Great. Michael.”
Y/N stared at him in utter disbelief. “…You’re sleeping on the couch.”
“I don’t believe our room has one.”
“Then you’ll sleep on the floor.”
Henry folded the receipt into his pocket. “I suspect you’ll change your mind.”
She looked at him. “That sounded incredibly smug.”
“It wasn’t intended to.”
Despite herself, she laughed.
She hated that she laughed.
But she did.
And judging by the unmistakable satisfaction in Henry’s smile, he knew she’d never be able to think about Michael Jackson again without remembering the afternoon she unknowingly turned him down… and the professor who planned to lovingly tease her about it for years to come.
. . .
The beach had emptied by evening.
Families packed up coolers and towels, children were called back toward the boardwalk, and the endless chatter of the afternoon gave way to little more than waves folding over themselves.
The sky had begun its slow transformation, blue melting into streaks of amber, rose, and lavender as the sun drifted toward the horizon.
Y/N had kicked off her sandals somewhere behind them.
Now she sat with her knees drawn loosely to her chest, bare feet buried in the cool sand, watching the ocean as though she could sit there until morning and never grow tired of it.
“I think this is my favorite place we’ve been,” she said quietly.
Henry looked up from beside her. “Even after the record shop?”
She smiled. “The record shop was wonderful.”
“And?”
“This…” She gestured toward the horizon. “This feels like something I’ll remember when I’m eighty.”
Henry followed her gaze. “I hope so.”
Neither of them spoke after that.
They didn’t have to.
The waves filled every silence comfortably.
After a few minutes, Henry reached into the canvas satchel he’d brought with him and pulled out a small leather notebook.
Y/N noticed from the corner of her eye. “What are you writing?”
“Nothing.”
She turned immediately. “That is the least convincing answer you’ve ever given me.”
Henry opened the notebook on his knee.
“I’m not writing.”
“You literally have a notebook.”
“I do.”
“And a pencil.”
“I brought both.”
“So you’re doing something.”
His mouth twitched. “I am. Just not writing.”
Y/N leaned sideways, trying to peek.
Henry calmly angled the notebook away.
She gasped. “You’re hidden it.”
“I am.”
“I don’t like secrets.”
“You like mysteries.”
“I like solving mysteries.”
“I know.”
She pouted for approximately three seconds before giving up and turning back toward the ocean.
“Fine.”
Henry waited until she settled again.
Then he looked at her instead of the page.
The breeze moved loose strands of her hair across her cheek.
She didn’t notice.
The sunset reflected in her eyes.
She didn’t notice that either.
She was completely absorbed by the horizon, chin resting lightly against one knee, a faint smile lingering on her face as though simply existing beside the ocean was enough.
Henry lowered his eyes to the notebook.
His pencil moved quietly.
Not quickly.
Carefully.
He wasn’t an artist.
Not really.
But he could manage enough lines to remember the way someone looked.
The curve of her shoulders.
The wind lifting her hair.
The way she always tucked one foot beneath the other when she forgot anyone was watching.
She rested her chin on her knees again. “I just like knowing you’re there.”
Henry’s pencil stopped.
Only for a second.
Then he continued sketching.
The page slowly filled with something that looked enough like her to make him smile despite himself.
When he finished, he sat quietly for another moment.
Then, in the lower corner of the page, he wrote neatly:
June 1987
He paused.
Thought for another second.
Then added a title beneath it.
Golden Hour.
He looked at it.
No.
Not quite.
He drew one careful line through the title.
Underneath, he wrote instead:
Home.
His thumb rested against the edge of the paper.
Y/N finally turned toward him. “What are you smiling at?”
Henry closed the notebook before she could see.
“Nothing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You definitely smiled.”
“I might have.”
“What were you doing?”
He slid the notebook back into the satchel.
“Making a note.”
She leaned against his shoulder. “Can I read it?”
“Not yet.”
“When?”
He looked out toward the sun as it finally touched the water. “When you’re older.”
She frowned. “How much older?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“That’s rude.”
“It might be.”
“You hate me.”
“Never.”
She watched him for another second before sighing dramatically.
“You know…”
“Hm?”
“I would’ve picked you.”
Henry turned his head.
She was still looking at the horizon.
Not at him.
She said it so quietly he almost thought he’d imagined it.
“Even if I’d known who he was.”
The waves rolled onto the shore.
Somewhere farther down the beach, a gull cried once before taking flight.
Henry looked at her for a long moment.
Then he reached over and quietly took her hand.
His fingers laced through hers as naturally as they always seemed to.
“I know,” he said.
She looked down at their joined hands and smiled.
“I just wanted you to know.”
“I did.”
“You weren’t worried?”
Henry looked back toward the fading sunset.
“Not after the way you talked about me.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t call me your professor.”
She blinked. “You called me your boyfriend.”
Y/N smiled to herself. “I liked saying it.”
“So did I.”
The sun disappeared beneath the horizon.
Neither of them moved.
There would be other sunsets.
Other vacations.
Other beaches.
But years from now, when Henry opened that little leather notebook and found the sketch tucked between pages of lectures and quotations, he knew he wouldn’t remember the colors of the sky first.
He’d remember the girl who never realized she was being watched because she had already decided she was home.
join me in death - part three “do i creep you out?”
synapse: henry’s quiet obsession with y/n grows as he finally sees her face to face once again
pairing: henry creel x carrie white inspired!reader
contains: psychic powers, dark romance, psychic connection, slow-burn
. . .
Henry disposed of the spider before morning inspection.
He did it carefully.
Not because he was afraid of the dead thing. Not because the sight of it unsettled him in any ordinary way. Henry had never shared other people’s disgust for small, crawling creatures. They were honest in their hunger. Honest in their patience. Honest in the way they survived by understanding where to hide.
No.
He removed it because it was evidence.
The laboratory made evidence out of everything.
A bloodied tissue. A restless night. A child refusing breakfast. A cracked lightbulb. A trembling hand. A question asked at the wrong time.
Brenner had built an empire out of noticing what others missed.
Henry knew better than to leave him an offering.
He sat on the edge of his narrow bed in the gray hour before the lights fully came on, staring down at the spider curled against the white sheet near his pillow. Its legs had drawn inward during death, folded delicately beneath it like a secret. It looked smaller than it should have. Harmless. Almost pitiful.
That irritated him.
Slowly, Henry reached for it.
The moment his fingertip brushed its body, Y/N’s voice returned.
Come back to the glass, Henry.
His hand stilled.
The room around him was silent except for the whisper of the vent overhead. The walls were bare. The floor was clean. The door remained closed. No one stood in the corner. No one watched from behind the glass.
Still, he could hear her.
Not as sound.
As memory.
As pressure.
As something that had slipped into him while he slept and left its shape behind.
Henry closed his fingers around the dead spider.
Careful.
Gentle.
Then he rose.
He wrapped it in a square of tissue from the metal dispenser near the sink, folded the tissue twice, and carried it to the waste bin at the end of the hall. The cameras watched him pass. They always did. Henry kept his pace even, his posture loose, his face arranged into the mild emptiness that made adults comfortable.
A quiet orderly taking out a bit of trash.
Nothing more.
He dropped the tissue into the bin.
For a moment, his hand hovered above it.
He thought of the spider in his palm in 1958. The way it had walked across his lifeline while Y/N moved beneath the streetlights covered in blood. The way it had fled when he looked away. The way her voice had found the memory and turned it over in his mind like a blade.
It ran from you too.
Henry lowered his hand.
The bin lid swung shut.
By the time the morning lights brightened overhead, his room looked untouched.
So did he.
That was the important part.
He washed his hands. He dressed. He smoothed his hair. He buttoned his white uniform with the same care as always, each button slipped through its hole in perfect order. In the mirror above the sink, his reflection stared back at him with a pale, composed face.
Peter Ballard looked well rested.
Henry Creel had not slept at all.
He smiled faintly at the distinction.
Then the smile vanished.
Routine began.
He carried breakfast trays to the children’s wing. He stood beside doors while nurses checked vitals. He changed soiled linens. He collected empty cups. He guided one little boy away from the rainbow room after the child dissolved into tears over a failed exercise and tried to hide his bloody nose against Henry’s sleeve.
Henry let him.
The boy’s fingers clung to him for three seconds too long.
“Easy,” Henry murmured.
The boy sniffled and looked up at him with wet, frightened eyes.
Henry looked back.
For a moment, the boy’s face blurred.
Not into Y/N’s.
That would have been too simple.
Instead, Henry saw the shape of the cage around them both. The child’s shaved head. The numbered tattoo at his wrist. The clean hallway. The armed guard at the corner pretending not to listen. The cameras tucked into high places like metal insects.
The laboratory called this care.
Training.
Progress.
Henry felt the old contempt rise in him, cold and smooth.
Then, beneath it, another thought.
Y/N had no number.
Y/N had no place in the rainbow room.
Y/N had not been raised in Brenner’s little garden of stolen children.
She had been planted somewhere darker.
Something earlier.
Something Brenner had never managed to make pretty.
The boy tugged at his sleeve.
“Peter?”
Henry blinked.
The child stared at him.
Henry realized he had stopped walking.
Only for a second.
Not long enough for most people to notice.
Long enough for the camera.
Long enough for Brenner, if he had been watching.
Henry resumed his pace.
“Yes,” he said softly. “We’re going.”
The rest of the morning unfolded in fragments.
A doctor asked him for gauze.
He brought the wrong size.
A nurse requested the blue folder from the observation desk.
He handed her the red one.
A child laughed in the common room, high and sudden, and Henry’s hand tightened around the clipboard he was carrying hard enough to bend one corner before he caught himself.
Small errors.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing anyone else would gather into a pattern.
But Henry felt each one like a needle under the skin.
His thoughts kept circling back to the west wing.
The door.
The glass.
Her palm pressed to the other side.
Her voice inside his skull, saying his name as if she had always known it.
Henry.
No one in the laboratory called him that.
No one alive was meant to.
The name had been buried beneath blood, beneath Brenner, beneath years of discipline and suppression. Yet she had reached into him and found it with the ease of someone drawing a thread from cloth.
He should have been angry.
Part of him was.
But anger required a boundary to have been crossed.
Henry was not certain, anymore, that he had not invited her in.
The thought followed him into the observation room.
He was wiping down the table when Brenner entered.
Henry knew it was him before he heard his voice. The air changed around Brenner. Not physically. Nothing so obvious. But rooms seemed to grow straighter when he stepped into them. People corrected their posture. Children swallowed their tears. Orderlies remembered they had hands and did not know where to put them.
Henry did not turn at once.
He finished dragging the cloth across the metal surface in one smooth line.
“Peter.”
Only then did he look up.
“Doctor.”
Brenner stood near the doorway with a folder tucked beneath one arm. His expression was pleasant, but Henry had known him too long to mistake pleasant for kind.
“You have been difficult to find this morning.”
Henry folded the cloth once. “I was assisting in the children’s wing.”
“So I’m told.”
Brenner stepped farther into the room.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Henry placed the cloth beside the sink. “Was there something you needed, sir?”
Brenner did not answer immediately.
Instead, he looked around the room. The clean table. The ordered instruments. The electrodes coiled precisely. The chairs aligned exactly as they should be. Nothing out of place now.
Henry knew better than to follow his gaze too quickly.
A guilty man watched what another man noticed.
An innocent one waited.
So Henry waited.
Brenner finally turned his eyes back to him. “You seem distracted.”
The words were gentle.
That made them more dangerous.
Henry kept his face calm. “Do I?”
“A little.”
“I apologize.”
“There is no need to apologize.” Brenner smiled faintly. “Distraction is not a moral failing. It is simply information.”
Henry lowered his gaze in the proper manner. “I’ll be more mindful.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Brenner walked toward the observation desk and set his folder down. His fingers rested on top of it, long and clean and still.
“Did you sleep well?”
There it was.
Henry felt something inside him go quiet.
He thought of the dead spider wrapped in tissue. Thought of Y/N’s voice sliding through the dark. Thought of the cracked glass in the dream and the smell of smoke filling his lungs.
“Yes, sir.”
Brenner watched him.
Henry met his eyes for exactly one second, then looked away. Not too fast. Not too slow.
The performance of obedience required balance.
“Any disturbances?”
“No.”
“No unusual dreams?”
Henry’s hand remained loose at his side.
“No, sir.”
Brenner’s expression did not change, but the room seemed to narrow.
“Hm.”
It was a small sound.
Henry hated small sounds from him.
They meant Brenner had placed something on a shelf in his mind and would return to it later.
“You made several minor mistakes today,” Brenner said. “Nothing serious. A folder. Gauze. A delayed escort.”
Henry said nothing.
“It would be unlike you if it continued.”
“It won’t.”
“No,” Brenner agreed. “I don’t imagine it will.”
The conversation should have ended there.
It did not.
Brenner opened the folder and glanced down at the top page, though Henry suspected he had already read it before entering the room.
“I have reassigned you for the remainder of the afternoon.”
Henry’s eyes lifted.
Only slightly.
Brenner noticed.
Of course he did.
“You’ll assist Dr. Ellis with inventory in the east storage rooms.”
“The east wing?”
“Yes.”
Henry’s face remained blank.
The east wing was as far from Y/N’s corridor as Brenner could send him without removing him from the building entirely.
“I understand.”
“Good.”
Brenner closed the folder.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Brenner stepped closer.
Not enough to threaten.
Enough to remind Henry that threats did not require raised voices.
“You are valuable here, Peter,” he said. “When you are focused.”
Henry looked at him.
There was a time when words like that might have sounded like praise.
He had been very young then.
“Yes, Doctor.”
Brenner studied him for another beat.
“See that you remain so.”
Henry nodded once.
Brenner left the room.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Henry stood alone in the clean white quiet, listening to the fading sound of Brenner’s footsteps in the hall.
East storage.
Away from the west wing.
Away from the door.
Away from her.
For several seconds, Henry did not move.
Then he picked up the cloth and folded it again. Once. Twice. Three times. Perfect edges. Perfect order. A task completed exactly as expected.
His face was calm.
His hands were steady.
But inside his mind, behind every practiced wall, Y/N’s voice remained.
Soft.
Certain.
Waiting.
Come back to the glass, Henry.
Henry looked toward the closed door.
And thought, with a quietness that felt almost like devotion:
I will.
. . .
By late afternoon, Henry returned to the west wing.
He had not meant to go directly.
That was what he told himself at first.
There had been opportunities for delay. Empty linen carts to return. Inventory sheets to sign. A cracked glass vial in the east storage room that Dr. Ellis had complained about for nearly ten minutes as though the fracture had personally offended him. Henry had completed every task with the same quiet precision expected of Peter Ballard.
Then he had left.
Not quickly.
Never quickly.
He moved through the laboratory with the unhurried calm of someone who belonged wherever he happened to be. That was the trick to passing unnoticed. One did not sneak. Sneaking invited suspicion. One walked as though every door had opened for them before and would continue to do so because the world had never thought to question it.
The hallway outside the west wing was dimmer than the others.
Henry noticed that now.
He wondered if the lowered light was for her or for them. Perhaps the doctors preferred not to see too clearly what they had kept at the end of the corridor for twenty years. Perhaps dimness made cruelty easier to file away under containment.
He carried nothing this time.
No tray.
No linens.
No useful excuse.
Only his hands folded neatly in front of him and the quiet, persistent pull at the base of his skull.
Come back to the glass, Henry.
Her voice had stayed with him all day.
Brenner had noticed distraction.
He had not noticed devotion.
Not yet.
Henry reached the final door and stopped.
For several seconds, he did not look through the panel.
He simply stood there, listening.
The west wing had its own kind of silence. It was not the same as emptiness. It had weight. It pressed against the ears. Behind other doors in the laboratory, there were always sounds: children breathing in sleep, doctors turning pages, machines ticking and humming through their measurements.
Behind hers, there was nothing.
No, Henry thought.
Not nothing.
Waiting.
He stepped closer to the glass.
Y/N was already there.
Not standing this time.
She sat on the floor near the door, knees drawn loosely toward her chest, one shoulder resting against the wall. Her head was turned toward the panel as though she had been looking at it long before he arrived. The dull light inside her room caught along the side of her face, leaving the rest shadowed.
Her eyes found his at once.
Henry felt the recognition like a hand closing around his wrist.
“You knew I’d come,” he said quietly.
The glass swallowed most of his voice, but her expression shifted.
Only slightly.
Enough.
Her lips moved.
Henry leaned closer.
I knew you would try not to.
The words were silent, shaped behind the glass, but he understood them.
A faint, unwilling amusement touched his mouth.
Then it disappeared.
“You were in my head.”
Y/N watched him.
No denial.
No apology.
The smallest tilt of her head suggested she was waiting for him to decide whether he minded.
Henry should have minded.
People did not enter him. Not without consequence. Not without invitation. His mind was the one place Brenner had not truly conquered, despite the device buried in his neck, despite the years of correction, despite all the careful names placed over him like bandages.
Peter.
Orderly.
Subject.
Son.
Monster.
Henry had always kept something separate.
And she had found it.
“How did you know my name?”
Y/N’s gaze dropped briefly, not to his uniform, but beneath it. Through it. Past it.
When she looked up again, her mouth formed the answer.
You hide it badly.
The words were almost cruel.
Almost tender.
Henry stared at her.
Then, from the far end of the hall, footsteps approached.
Two sets.
Women’s shoes against polished tile.
Y/N heard them before Henry turned his head. He saw it in the change in her face, not fear exactly, but a closing. A door shutting behind her eyes.
Henry stepped slightly away from the glass.
Not far.
Enough that he no longer looked like a man caught worshipping at a sealed door.
Two nurses rounded the corner with clipboards tucked beneath their arms. They were talking too softly for official conversation and too carelessly for secrecy.
“I’m telling you, I hate this hall,” one of them muttered.
“You hate every hall.”
“Not like this one.”
The second nurse gave a breathless little laugh. “Don’t tell me you believe all that nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” The first lowered her voice, though not enough. “Hale still doesn’t know what day it is.”
“That wasn’t her.”
“That’s what they said.”
Henry kept his face calm.
Y/N remained still behind the glass.
The nurses slowed when they saw him.
“Peter,” the second one greeted, relieved in the way people often were when they mistook his silence for gentleness. “You startled us.”
“My apologies.”
The first nurse looked toward Y/N’s door, then quickly away.
“You shouldn’t be standing here.”
Henry smiled faintly. “Neither should you, if the rumors are to be believed.”
The second nurse laughed.
The first did not.
“We were just saying,” the second continued, emboldened by his mildness, “it’s ridiculous how dramatic people are about her. She’s been locked away for years.”
“She’s locked away for a reason,” the first nurse said.
Y/N’s eyes remained on them through the glass.
Neither woman seemed to notice.
Or perhaps they noticed and preferred to pretend they did not.
People often did that with things that frightened them.
The second nurse leaned closer to her companion, but her voice carried. “My mother went to Hawkins High. She said everyone knew it wasn’t electrical. Not really.”
Henry’s attention sharpened.
The first nurse shot her a warning look.
“What? Everyone knows the story. Seriously. People were crushed by light fixtures and the fire—“
“Not everyone needs to repeat it outside her door.”
The second nurse glanced toward the glass then, but only for a second. Her lip curled in nervous distaste. “She can hear?”
The first nurse’s hand tightened on her clipboard. “Lower your voice.”
“Oh, please. What is she going to do? She’s behind a door.”
Y/N did not move.
Henry looked at her.
Only at her.
The second nurse shifted her weight, continuing with a whisper that was not a whisper at all.
“My mother said she was always strange. Even before the dance. Creepy little thing. No friends. No sense. Walked around school like she was waiting for someone to feel sorry for her.”
The first nurse said her name sharply.
But the second nurse had already found the thrill of cruelty.
It was an old sound.
Henry knew it from Hawkins High.
“She killed seventy-four people, and they still kept her alive. I don’t understand it.” She made a small, disgusted noise. “I heard she lured half of them in somehow. Boys especially. Girls like that always want attention.”
The hallway seemed to grow colder.
Henry’s gaze flicked back to Y/N.
Her face had not changed.
That was the first sign.
No flinch. No tears. No visible anger. Nothing anyone could point to afterward and call a warning.
She only looked at the nurse.
Not wildly.
Not violently.
With the stillness of a thing that had listened to people talk about her for twenty years and had finally grown tired of being mistaken for deaf.
The second nurse laughed once, breathy and mean.
“Well, she got attention, didn’t she?”
Crack.
Both heels snapped at the exact same time.
The sound cut through the hallway like bone breaking.
The second nurse pitched sideways with a startled cry, her ankle twisting beneath her as she slammed into the wall. Her clipboard flew from her hands. Papers scattered across the floor in a white burst.
The first nurse lurched forward, catching herself on the metal railing before she could fall completely. Her shoe gave way beneath her, the broken heel skittering across the tile and stopping near Henry’s foot.
For one suspended second, no one spoke.
Then the second nurse gasped, “What was that?”
The first stared down at her ruined shoes, then at the broken heel near Henry, then toward the door.
Y/N was still seated behind the glass.
Exactly as before.
Her hands rested loosely around her knees.
Her face was calm.
The first nurse went pale.
“Did she—”
“Don’t,” the second whispered, though the word shook.
Henry looked down at the broken heel by his shoe.
Then at the nurses.
The first one turned on him, eyes wide. “Did you see that?”
Henry lifted his gaze.
He could have said yes.
He could have stepped aside, reported the incident, let Brenner turn it into another note in her file. Evidence of instability. Evidence of danger. Evidence that she heard too much, reached too far, deserved another lock on the door and less light in the room.
He could have done what he had done in 1958.
Watch.
Remain still.
Let the world decide she was the monster and comfort itself with the simplicity of that.
Instead, Henry’s expression softened into polite confusion.
“See what?”
The first nurse stared at him.
“The shoes,” she snapped. “Our shoes.”
Henry looked at the broken heels as though noticing them for the first time.
“They appear defective.”
“Defective?” the second nurse repeated, breathless and humiliated, one hand braced against the wall.
“It happens,” Henry said.
His voice was calm enough to make the lie sound boring.
The first nurse looked from him to the glass panel.
Y/N did not blink.
Henry bent and picked up the clipboard from the floor. He gathered the scattered papers with patient, graceful hands, aligning the edges before offering them back.
The nurse took them automatically.
Her fingers trembled.
“You should report to medical,” Henry said.
The second nurse let out a shaky laugh that had no humor in it. “For broken shoes?”
“For the fall.”
The first nurse swallowed. Her gaze flickered again toward the room.
Then she looked away.
Fear was useful that way. It made cowards practical.
“Come on,” she muttered.
The second nurse limped after her, one hand on the wall, the other gripping her clipboard too tightly. Their shoes dragged awkwardly against the floor, no longer sharp and precise but uneven, ridiculous, stripped of all their earlier confidence.
Henry watched them go.
Neither woman laughed now.
When their footsteps faded around the corner, the west wing settled back into silence.
Henry remained facing the empty hall for a moment longer.
Then he turned back to the glass.
Y/N had not moved.
But something in her eyes had changed.
There was no gratitude there. Henry had not expected any. Gratitude was too clean a word for what had passed between them. It was not thanks.
It was recognition.
She had seen him choose.
Small as it was.
Quiet as it was.
He had seen what she did, and he had lied.
Henry stepped closer to the panel.
“You heard them,” he said.
Y/N’s mouth moved.
I hear everyone.
The words landed more heavily than he expected.
Henry looked past her into the room. The narrow bed. The blank walls. The empty corners. No books. No radio. No window. Nothing to soften the hours. Nothing to distract from voices passing by, from doctors discussing her like a specimen, from nurses whispering ghost stories while pretending she was not still alive behind the door.
Isolation, he realized, was not silence for her.
It was being forced to listen to a world that refused to speak to her.
His jaw tightened. “You could have hurt them worse.”
Y/N’s eyes lifted to his.
For the first time, the faintest curve touched her mouth.
Not a smile.
Something darker.
I know.
A slow breath moved through him.
The answer should have disturbed him.
Instead, it satisfied something precise and cruel inside his chest.
Control.
That was what Brenner had said she lacked.
Henry looked at the broken scuff marks on the tile where the nurses had stumbled, then back to her quiet hands resting around her knees.
“They say you have no control.”
Y/N’s expression emptied again.
Her lips parted.
They say many things.
Henry almost smiled.
“Yes,” he said softly. “They do.”
Y/N held his gaze.
Then her hand lifted.
The motion was slow enough to be deliberate. Careful enough not to trigger the camera as sudden agitation. She placed her palm against the inside of the glass, exactly where she had before.
Henry looked at it.
The hallway was empty.
For now.
He knew there were cameras. He knew Brenner watched recordings. He knew every second spent here threaded a noose more tightly around his own throat.
Still, he lifted his hand.
This time, he did not hesitate as long.
His palm met the glass opposite hers.
Cold first.
Always cold.
Then the faint pressure beneath it, like something breathing through the barrier.
Y/N’s eyes did not leave his.
“Why didn’t you?” he asked quietly.
She tilted her head.
“Why didn’t you hurt them worse?”
For a long moment, she only watched him.
Then the answer came, not through her mouth but through the place in him where she had spoken before.
Soft.
Clear.
Terrible in its gentleness.
You were watching.
Henry went very still.
The words opened in him like a wound.
In 1958, he had watched and done nothing.
In 1978, his watching had changed the shape of what happened.
Not enough.
Not yet.
But something.
Y/N’s palm remained against his through the glass.
Henry looked at her, at the woman the laboratory had tried to bury alive, at the girl Hawkins had turned into a legend because it could not bear the thought of what it had done to her.
“They should be careful what they say about you,” he murmured.
Y/N’s gaze sharpened.
This time, when her voice entered him, it carried the faintest trace of amusement.
No.
Henry’s brow shifted slightly.
Her fingers spread against the glass.
They should be careful when they think I am not listening.
For the first time that day, Henry smiled.
Small.
Private.
Meant only for her.
Behind the glass, Y/N watched it appear.
And did not look away.
Henry lowered his hand first.
It took more effort than it should have.
The glass had gone warm beneath his palm, though he knew that was impossible. The corridor was cold. The room was cold. Everything in Hawkins Laboratory had been designed to leech warmth from the living and replace it with function.
Still, when he pulled away, his skin felt the absence of her.
Y/N’s hand remained against the glass.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Henry could feel the camera watching from the corner of the hall. Its little red light blinked with patient indifference, recording his posture, the angle of his shoulders, the fact that he had lingered too long outside a door he had no reason to approach.
Brenner would see it eventually.
Henry knew that.
And still he found himself looking at the lock.
It sat beneath the narrow window, metal and simple in appearance, though the mechanism was more complex than it seemed. Reinforced from the outside. Controlled by key and code. Protected not because the room itself was valuable, but because everyone feared what might cross the threshold if it opened.
Henry’s gaze rested on it.
A thought came to him.
Quiet.
Precise.
Open it.
Not now, of course.
Not with cameras above him and nurses limping somewhere down the hall and Brenner’s attention already beginning to turn in his direction. Henry was not foolish. He understood timing. He understood patience. Spiders did not survive by rushing toward the first tremor in the web.
But the thought remained.
Open it.
Step inside.
No more glass.
No more watching.
The idea moved through him with a force that almost resembled hunger.
On the other side of the door, Y/N’s eyes dropped to the lock too.
Henry looked up sharply.
She knew.
Of course she knew.
She had felt the thought the moment it formed. Not all of it, perhaps. Not the shape of a plan. But enough. The wanting. The temptation. The thin, dangerous line inside him that had begun to bend toward her.
Her fingers curled slightly against the glass.
Not asking.
Not pleading.
Waiting.
That was worse.
Henry stepped back.
The distance felt unnatural the moment he created it.
“I should go,” he said.
Y/N did not answer.
Her expression did not change, but something in her stillness altered. It became heavier. The silence around her gathered close again, wrapping itself around her shoulders like the dull gray clothing the laboratory had given her.
Henry wanted, absurdly, to tell her it was not abandonment.
Absurd because she would not believe him.
More absurd because he was not certain it was true.
He had left her once before.
A blood-soaked girl under streetlights, walking away while he stayed in the grass with an empty palm.
This was not the same.
He told himself that as he took another step back.
This was not the same.
He had lied for her. He had returned. He had pressed his hand to the glass. Small things, perhaps, but not nothing.
Not nothing.
Y/N watched him as though she could hear every weak defense he offered himself.
Henry straightened his uniform.
The movement restored him to himself, or at least to the version of himself the laboratory recognized. Peter Ballard. Quiet orderly. Pale hands. Mild eyes. A man who belonged to locked doors only as someone who passed trays through them.
His gaze flicked once more to the lock.
Then to her.
“I’ll come back.”
The words were barely above a whisper.
He had said them before.
This time, they sounded less like reassurance and more like a promise he had made to himself.
Y/N’s hand slid slowly down the glass.
Not dramatically.
Not in despair.
Just enough that her palm left a faint print behind, blurred and ghostlike beneath the hallway light.
Henry turned.
He walked away at an even pace.
No hurry.
No hesitation anyone else could see.
The west wing stretched long and white ahead of him, but every step felt like resistance against something pulling at his spine. He could feel her behind him. Not touching his mind this time, not speaking inside him, but present all the same.
Watching.
Y/N remained at the glass until he reached the bend in the corridor.
She could not help it.
Her eyes followed the clean line of his uniform, the careful control in his shoulders, the pale hair catching briefly beneath the fluorescent light. He moved like a man who had made himself into a locked room and swallowed the key.
But she had felt it.
That small fracture in him.
That want.
For one moment, when his eyes had gone to the lock, Y/N had felt the shape of his thought as clearly as if he had pressed it into her hands.
Open it.
The word had moved through him like sin.
Like prayer.
Like both.
Her fingers hovered near the glass where his palm had been.
The warmth was already fading.
She stared after him until he disappeared around the corner.
Only then did she let her hand fall completely.
The corridor outside emptied.
The silence returned.
But it did not feel the same now.
Not entirely.
Because somewhere beyond the white walls and the cameras and the locks built to hold her, Henry Creel was walking away with part of him still standing at her door.
And for the first time in twenty years, Y/N wondered what would happen if someone came back.
Not to watch.
To open.
. . .
The incident report reached Dr. Brenner before dinner.
It was placed neatly on his desk by a nervous assistant who did not linger after delivering it. Brenner watched the young man leave, then lowered his eyes to the file.
Minor staff injury.
West wing corridor.
Two nurses.
No subject contact.
No breach.
No witnesses of significance.
Brenner read the report once without expression.
Then again.
On the third reading, his attention settled on one line.
Both staff members reported simultaneous structural failure of footwear.
For several seconds, Brenner simply stared at the page.
Then he closed the folder.
The security room was colder than the rest of the laboratory. It had no windows, only monitors stacked in careful rows, each one showing a different angle of white corridors, locked rooms, sleeping children, empty corners, doors that did not open without permission.
Hawkins Laboratory watched everything.
That was the point.
The guard at the desk straightened when Brenner entered.
“Doctor.”
“Leave us.”
The guard hesitated for half a second, then stood.
“Yes, sir.”
When the door closed behind him, Brenner sat in front of the monitors and entered the proper time code.
The west wing corridor flickered onto the screen.
Grainy.
Gray.
Silent.
There was the door at the end of the hall.
There was the small glass panel.
There was Peter Ballard standing outside of it.
Brenner leaned back in his chair.
For a moment, he did not move.
Peter stood too close to the door.
Not dramatically. Not enough for an ordinary observer to call it wrong. His posture was composed. His hands were neat. His face was mild and empty, the face he wore so well that most of the staff had stopped wondering what lived beneath it.
But Brenner had raised monsters in clean rooms.
He knew stillness had meaning.
On the screen, Peter looked through the glass.
Project Liminal sat beyond it, visible only in fragments through the narrow panel. A pale face. A shoulder. The suggestion of eyes turned toward him.
Brenner watched.
The footage continued.
Two nurses entered the hallway.
Brenner saw their mouths move, though the corridor camera captured no audio. He watched one of them gesture carelessly toward the door. He watched the other glance at the glass and then away, as if fear embarrassed her.
Project Liminal did not move.
Peter did.
Only slightly.
His head turned toward the nurses.
Then back to her.
Brenner’s fingers rested motionless on the edge of the desk.
The nurses continued speaking.
One laughed.
Then both women fell.
The break was sudden. Almost elegant in its precision.
One heel snapped.
Then the other.
No visible object struck them. No door opened. No hand reached from the panel. Project Liminal remained seated inside her room, still as an icon behind glass.
Brenner rewound the footage.
He watched again.
The nurses spoke.
Project Liminal sat.
Peter watched her.
The heels snapped.
The nurses fell.
Again.
Brenner rewound.
This time, he did not look at the nurses.
He looked only at Project Liminal.
Her body gave almost nothing away. No grand gesture. No flare of rage. No convulsion. No loss of control. She did not throw herself at the door or scream until the lights burst, as she had in earlier years. She did not claw at herself. She did not pray. She did not weep.
She sat.
She listened.
She answered.
Brenner’s expression did not change, but something behind his eyes sharpened.
Controlled.
That was new.
Or perhaps not new.
Perhaps merely hidden.
He rewound the footage again.
This time, he watched Peter.
Peter did not flinch when the nurses fell.
Not enough.
One of the nurses turned to him. Her mouth moved quickly, fear making her words wide and obvious. A question.
Did you see that?
Brenner did not need sound to understand.
On the monitor, Peter looked at the broken heels.
Then at the nurses.
Then, with perfect calm, he lied.
Brenner knew he lied.
He knew it with the certainty of a man recognizing a skill he himself had perfected. There was no confusion in Peter’s face. No genuine surprise. No instinctive glance toward the camera. Only that smooth, empty politeness, offered like a cloth laid over a stain.
The nurses left.
Peter turned back to the glass.
Brenner sat forward.
On the screen, Peter stepped closer to the door.
Project Liminal lifted her hand.
Peter hesitated.
Then he lifted his own.
Their palms met on opposite sides of the glass.
Brenner watched the image without blinking.
The camera angle was poor, but it was enough.
More than enough.
Peter Ballard, who did not touch without purpose.
Project Liminal, who had not reached for another person without consequence in years.
Both of them still.
Both of them separated by one pane of reinforced glass and twenty years of careful isolation.
Brenner paused the footage.
The frozen image filled the monitor.
Peter outside.
Liminal inside.
Hand to hand.
Not touching.
Almost.
The room hummed around Brenner.
He looked at the image for a long time.
Then he rewound farther.
He watched Peter arrive.
Watched Liminal already waiting.
That detail interested him most.
She had been facing the door before Peter reached it.
Before his shadow fell over the panel.
Before any sound should have alerted her.
Brenner replayed those few seconds three times.
On the fourth, he allowed himself the faintest breath of amusement.
“So,” he said softly.
The monitor gave no answer.
For years, Project Liminal had resisted structure. Punishment provoked her. Kindness confused her. Isolation quieted her but did not improve her. She had remained a problem without a clean solution, an early anomaly kept not because she was useful, but because destroying her would have meant admitting fear.
Brenner disliked admitting fear.
So she had remained contained.
Observed.
Limited.
A dangerous artifact from a less disciplined era of his work.
And Peter…
Peter had been disciplined too well.
Or so Brenner had thought.
The device in his neck had made him manageable. His role had made him useful. His manners had made him invisible to those too foolish to understand that invisibility was not the same as harmlessness.
Yet here they were.
The first failure and the first success.
Facing one another through glass.
Brenner pressed play.
On the screen, Peter lowered his hand and stepped back. He looked once toward the lock. Project Liminal’s head turned, following his gaze.
Brenner paused the footage again.
There.
That was the moment.
Not the broken heels.
Not the lie.
Not even the touch against glass.
The lock.
Peter had looked at it.
And she had noticed.
Brenner’s face remained calm, but his hand tightened slightly around the edge of the desk.
Interest was one thing.
Pity, another.
But temptation was dangerous.
He watched Peter leave the hallway.
Project Liminal remained at the glass until he disappeared.
Brenner did not like the way she watched him go.
It was not the blank stare she gave doctors.
Not the predatory stillness that made nurses lower their voices.
Not the dissociative emptiness that followed certain tests.
This was attention.
Specific.
Chosen.
Brenner leaned back.
The footage continued until the hallway emptied completely.
Only then did he turn off the monitor.
Darkness filled the screen, reflecting his face back at him.
For the first time in nearly twenty years, Project Liminal had reached outward with restraint.
Not at random.
Not in panic.
Not because someone had cornered her with scripture or pain.
She had reached because Peter was watching.
And Peter, more concerning still, had allowed himself to be reached.
Brenner stood.
By the time he returned to his office, the decision had already arranged itself into something clean and clinical.
Not punishment.
Not yet.
Punishment would only teach them to hide better.
No, this required observation under controlled pressure.
A measured provocation.
A test.
Brenner opened a drawer and withdrew a blank assessment form. At the top, in his precise handwriting, he wrote:
PROJECT LIMINAL — RESPONSE EVALUATION
Then, beneath it:
Variable introduced: Peter Ballard
He paused, pen hovering over the page.
After a moment, he added one more line.
Determine whether attachment increases control…
The pen tip rested against the paper.
Brenner’s eyes lifted toward the dark window of his office, where his own reflection looked back at him, pale and composed.
Then he finished the sentence.
…or removes it.
He set the pen down.
Outside his office, the laboratory continued humming.
Children slept.
Orderlies walked their routes.
At the end of the west wing, Project Liminal sat alone behind her locked door.
For now.
Brenner closed the file.
“Let’s see what you do,” he murmured.
Whether he meant her or Peter, even he did not bother to decide.
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terms of employment- part two “conflict of interest”
synapse: his fascination with the college student he hired is becoming impossible to hide, and even harder to control
pairing: jeon jae-jun x female reader
contains: age gap, dark romance, power imbalance, suggestive fantasies, sexual tension, masterbation
a/n: the sequel no one asked for but part one did ok
. . .
The store was silent and bathed in the ethereal glow of the security lights. Long after closing, Y/N was still there, the quiet hum of the air conditioner the only sound as she meticulously scanned barcodes and logged inventory into the tablet. Her task took her to the evening wear section, and one dress in particular caught her eye. It was a deep sapphire silk, simple in its cut but breathtaking in its elegance, the kind of dress that felt like it belonged on a red carpet, not in a shop.
A mischievous impulse, born of exhaustion and the quiet solitude of the empty store, took hold. She glanced around.
She was completely alone. With a quick glance at her watch, she figured she had a few more minutes. Snatching the dress from its hanger, she slipped into the large, luxurious dressing room at the back, pulling the heavy velvet curtain closed behind her.
What she didn't know was that Jae-jun had entered through the private back entrance, his own keycard disabling the silent alarm. He was on his way to his office when he saw the light on in the dressing room and heard the faint rustle of fabric. Peeking through a nearly imperceptible gap in the curtain's edge, he froze.
Y/N had already unzipped her uniform dress and let it pool at her feet. She stood in her simple, white lace underwear, completely unaware of the audience she had.
Jae-jun's breath hitched as his eyes roamed over the soft curve of her spine, the delicate slope of her shoulders, the gentle swell of her hips. He watched, mesmerized, as she stepped into the sapphire silk and pulled it up, her movements clumsy but endearing. She struggled with the side zipper for a moment before giving up, leaving it partly undone and revealing a tantalizing sliver of her back.
She turned to the mirror, her eyes lighting up as she saw her reflection. She ran her hands over the smooth fabric, a small, private smile on her lips. She spun once, the silk swirling around her legs like water. On a whim, she grabbed a matching clutch from the shelf inside the room and held it, striking a playful pose, completely lost in the moment of fantasy.
That was when Jae-jun decided to make his presence known.
He pushed the curtain aside with a soft, deliberate sound. "It looks good on you."
Y/N gasped, spinning around, her face flooding with a deep, horrified crimson. "Mr. Jeon! I-I'm so sorry! I wasn't thinking, I just… I'll take it off right now, I shouldn't have—" Her words tumbled out in a panicked rush.
He held up a hand, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. "Relax." His gaze was intense, taking in every inch of her in the dress. "It suits you…But you didn't even zip it up properly."
Before she could protest, he was inside the room with her, the space suddenly feeling impossibly intimate and crowded. He gently took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face the mirror. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt his fingers brush against the bare skin of her back, finding the cool metal of the zipper.
He pulled it up with agonizing slowness, his knuckles grazing her spine, sending a shiver down her body that had nothing to do with the cold. The fabric tightened against her form, molding perfectly to her figure. His hands lingered at her waist for a moment before he met her eyes in the mirror.
"You have a beautiful figure," he murmured, his voice a low, possessive rasp. "This dress was made for you."
Y/N stared at their reflection in the mirror, his tall, powerful frame behind her, her smaller one encased in silk, his hands still resting possessively at her waist. It was a portrait of power and submission, and it terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.
He leaned in closer, his lips near her ear. "A dress like this… it's for someone special," he said. "Someone who shows their worth." He straightened up, his hands leaving her waist and leaving a sudden, cold void in their wake. "Work hard. Prove you belong here. And maybe, eventually, I'll gift it to you."
Without another word, he turned and walked out, pulling the curtain closed behind him.
Y/N stood frozen in front of the mirror for a long moment, her heart hammering against her ribs. The dress felt like a second skin, a brand. She carefully, reverently, slipped out of it and hung it back on the hanger, her hands trembling slightly as she zipped the uniform dress back up, the feeling of his touch still burning on her skin.
Y/N emerged from the dressing room, the heavy velvet curtain falling shut behind her with a soft thud. The sapphire silk was back on its hanger, and she was once again in the plain gray uniform. The air in the quiet store felt charged, the ghost of his touch still lingering on her skin. She kept her eyes down, focusing on the practical task of gathering her bag and shutting down the inventory tablet. She just needed to get out of there.
Jae-jun was leaning against the counter, exactly where he'd been before, but the energy radiating from him was completely different. He watched her in silence, his gaze heavy and unreadable as she packed up her things.
"It's late," he said, his voice breaking the tense quiet. "You shouldn't be going home by yourself."
Y/N slung her tote bag over her shoulder, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "I'll be fine, thank you. I have a ride."
He pushed off the counter, a smooth, fluid motion. "I can take you. It's no trouble."
The offer hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. It wasn't just an offer; it was a claim. Y/N felt a surge of defiance, a need to establish a boundary, any boundary.
"That's okay," she said, a little too quickly. "My boyfriend is picking me up."
The word "boyfriend" hit him like a physical blow. Jae-jun's friendly, concerned expression vanished instantly. His eyes, which had been warm with possessive interest, hardened into chips of ice. A muscle in his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and a dangerous, jealous glint flashed through them. It was a look of pure, unadulterated territoriality, the way a wolf might eye a rival encroaching on its kill. But Y/N, focused on her own escape, didn't see it. She just saw her boss standing there.
Just then, the sharp flash of headlights swept across the storefront as a car pulled up to the curb. The sound of its engine was a welcome relief.
"That's him now," Y/N said, her voice bright with relief. She offered him a tight, polite bow. "Goodnight, Mr. Jeon. Thank you again."
She turned and hurried toward the front doors, eager for the sanctuary of the car and the normalcy it represented.
Jae-jun didn't return the farewell. He simply watched her go, his expression unreadable. Then, with a silent, predatory grace, he followed her. He didn't say a word as he trailed a few steps behind, his hands shoved into his pockets. He wasn't walking her out for her safety. He was walking out to inspect the competition.
Y/N pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night air, immediately going to the passenger side of a modest, well-kept sedan. A young man with a kind, open face got out and smiled, kissing her on the cheek before taking her bag. It was a simple, sweet gesture of affection.
Jae-jun stood in the shadows of the store's entrance, his hands clenched into fists in his pockets. He watched them, the easy familiarity, the comfortable smiles, the simple, genuine affection between them.
He sized up the boyfriend: average height, unremarkable clothes, a gentle demeanor. He was nothing. He was a placeholder, a nobody. And yet, he had something Jae-jun wanted.
Y/N got into the car, giving a final wave to her boss before the door closed. As the sedan pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic, Jae-jun remained standing there, his eyes following the taillights until they disappeared into the city glow. The friendly facade was long gone. In its place was a cold, calculating resolve.
. . .
The familiar comfort of her bedroom did little to soothe the restlessness thrumming beneath Y/N's skin. She had showered, changed into her softest pajamas, and tried to lose herself in a textbook, but the words blurred into meaningless shapes. Her mind was a broken record, replaying the scene at the shop over and over.
The way Jae-jun had looked at her.
It wasn't just a glance; it was a physical act. She could still feel the weight of his eyes on her, the heat of them as they traced the exposed skin of her stomach, the predatory intensity that made her feel simultaneously like prey and the most coveted thing in the world. Her body flushed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
Then came the other memory, sharper and more invasive: the dressing room. The ghost of his fingers on her bare back, zipping up the silk dress. The possessive way his hands had lingered at her waist. The low murmur of his voice in her ear, "You have a beautiful figure."
A jolt of arousal, hot and sharp, shot through her. She squeezed her thighs together, a wave of shame immediately following. This was wrong. This was her boss, a man who was manipulative and dangerous. She had a boyfriend, a kind, sweet boyfriend who cared about her.
She needed to get control of herself. Pushing the textbook aside, she lay back on her bed, closing her eyes and forcing herself to think of her boyfriend. She imagined his gentle hands, his soft kisses, the comfortable warmth of his body next to hers. Her own hand drifted down, slipping beneath the waistband of her pajama bottoms. She tried to picture his face, to summon the familiar, safe affection she felt for him.
But the image wouldn't hold. It flickered and dissolved, replaced by another.
Jae-jun's face.
His dark, possessive eyes. His sharp, knowing smirk. The memory of his touch was suddenly more vivid than her own. The shame fought a losing battle against the tide of desire. Her body didn't care about right or wrong; it only craved the intensity he made her feel.
She gave in. Her mind, now completely under his spell, constructed a new scene. It wasn't her bedroom anymore. It was his office. The leather couch she had seen in the corner, the one he looked so at home on.
In her fantasy, she was straddling him, her hands braced on his strong shoulders as she rode him hard and fast. He was still fully dressed in his expensive suit, a picture of powerful control, while she was lost to pleasure, her head thrown back. He wasn't saying anything, just watching her with that same hungry, possessive gaze, his hands gripping her hips, dictating the rhythm, claiming her with every thrust. The thought of his raw power, of being completely at his mercy, sent her spiraling over the edge.
A soft gasp escaped her lips as her body trembled with the force of her orgasm. The pleasure was intense, immediate, and left her breathless and shaking.
But as the waves of sensation receded, a cold dread washed over her.
She opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling of her own room, the fantasy evaporating and leaving a bitter taste in its mouth. The arousal was gone, replaced by a profound sense of self-betrayal. She had just pleasured herself to the thought of her dangerous, possessive boss, using the memory of her boyfriend's kindness as a disposable stepping stone to get there.
And the terrifying part was, a dark, treacherous part of her couldn't wait to see him again.
. . .
The low, pulsing bass of the upscale club was a familiar backdrop to their toxic reunion. Jae-jun sat in the VIP booth, one arm draped along the back of the plush velvet seat, but his attention was miles away. He held his phone low, the screen's glow illuminating his face in the dim light. He wasn't listening to Yeon-jin's self-important story about a rival broadcaster, nor was he watching Sa-ra stare blankly at the swirling ice in her glass. He was scrolling through Y/N's Instagram.
He was completely mesmerized. A picture of her laughing with a friend at a cafe, sunlight in her hair. A selfie from her bed, her face fresh and makeup-free. A photo of the book she was reading, propped up on a simple, floral bedspread. Each image was a window into a world so pure, so normal, that it felt like another planet. He was so engrossed, a small, unconscious smile playing on his lips, that he didn't notice the eyes on him.
"What's so fascinating over there, Jae-jun?" Hye-jeong's voice was laced with syrupy mockery as she leaned across the table, trying to peek at his screen. "You look like a teenager with his first crush."
Jae-jun's head snapped up, his smile vanishing as he quickly placed his phone face down on the table. "Don't be ridiculous. Just checking business."
"Business?" Sa-ra drawled, her voice raspy from disuse. She leaned forward, her eyes unnervingly sharp. "Let me see." Without waiting for an answer, she snatched the phone. Jae-jun tensed, but didn't stop her. Sa-ra navigated to the app he was just on. Her brow furrowed as she scrolled. "Who is this child?"
"She's not a child," Jae-jun said, his voice low and warning.
Sa-ra let out a dry, cackling laugh. "She looks like she should be in high school." She squinted, tapping on a photo to see the details. "Wait... 'Nineteen'? She's nineteen?" She looked from the phone to Jae-jun, her expression a mixture of disgust and amusement. "Jae-jun, you're thirty-five. When you were sixteen, getting drunk and pretending you owned the world, she was just being born." She leaned back, delivering the final blow with a cruel smirk. "If you'd met her two years ago, you'd be a criminal. She'd still be illegal."
Yeon-jin, who had been observing with a bored air, finally picked up her martini glass, swirling the olive. A slow, venomous smile touched her lips. "Illegal or not, I never figured you to be so lonely, Jae-jun. Settling for a child. Is that what it's come to? Can't find a woman your own age who'll have you?"
Jae-jun's face was a mask of cold fury. He held out his hand to Sa-ra. "Give it back."
Sa-ra dropped the phone into his palm with a clatter. "Just looking out for you. Don't want to see your name in the papers for the wrong reason."
He ignored her, his eyes locking with Yeon-jin's. The playful teasing was gone, replaced by the old, simmering hatred between them. "At least I don't have to trap a man with a baby that isn't his to feel loved," he shot back, his voice dangerously quiet.
The air in the booth froze. Yeon-jin's smile tightened, her eyes flashing with murder. Hye-jeong and Sa-ra shrunk back, knowing they had crossed a line.
But Jae-jun didn't care. He picked up his phone, his thumb stroking the dark screen where Y/N's face had been just moments before. All he could think about was her. And in that moment, the opinions of the three toxic women in front of him mattered less than nothing. They were just ghosts from his past, and she was his future.
. . .
The last customer had left, and the quiet hum of Siesta Luxury at closing time was a familiar comfort to Y/N. She was just finishing the final wipe-down of the glass counters when she saw it. A large, cream-colored shopping bag from the store was sitting on the main counter, right where she couldn't miss it. Her name was written on a small, attached card in Jae-jun's sharp, confident script.
With a hesitant hand, she peeked inside. Nestled in tissue paper was the sapphire silk dress. The one from the dressing room. Her breath caught in her throat. He was actually gifting it to her. The memory of his promise, "Prove you belong here. And maybe, eventually, I'll gift it to you," came flooding back. Had she already proven herself?
The soft click of his office door made her jump. Jae-jun emerged, his eyes finding her instantly. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips as he saw her standing by the counter, staring into the bag.
"I see you found it," he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble.
"Mr. Jeon... I... I don't know what to say," she stammered, her heart thudding. "Thank you. It's too much."
"It's not too much," he dismissed, walking closer until he stood beside her. "It's a reward for good work." He gestured toward the dressing rooms. "Go on. Try it on. We need to make sure it fits perfectly. In case any adjustments are needed."
The phrasing was clinical, but his eyes were anything but. Trapped by a combination of gratitude and his undeniable authority, Y/N could only nod. She took the bag and disappeared into the back.
She emerged a few minutes later, the silk clinging to her form, the zipper still undone halfway up her back. She felt exposed and vulnerable under the bright store lights.
Jae-jun was waiting. He didn't say a word, just closed the distance between them. His hands were on her in an instant, turning her away from him. One hand rested possessively on her hip while the other found the zipper. He slowly, deliberately pulled it up, his knuckles grazing the length of her spine, making her shiver.
"Looks good," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "But the shoulders..." His hands came up to her shoulders, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there. "A little loose." His fingers trailed down her arms, a feigned adjustment that was purely an excuse to touch her. "And the waist..." He slid his hands around to her front, his palms flat against her stomach, pulling her back flush against his chest for a moment. "We need to make sure it's snug right here."
Y/N's breath hitched, her body rigid with a mixture of fear and a terrifying, unwelcome thrill. He finally let her go, only to step in front of her. His eyes were dark, intense, and fixed on hers. He slowly raised a hand, his index finger tracing a deliberate path down her collarbone, then down the delicate slope between her breasts. The touch was feather-light but burned like a brand.
His finger stopped at the V-neck of the dress, and he hooked it inside the fabric, gripping the top of the dress. With a firm tug, he pulled her hard against him. Their bodies collided, and she could feel it, thick and insistent, pressing against her through his trousers.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "Do you have any idea what I want to do to you in this dress?" His voice was a raw, possessive growl. "I want to fuck you on every surface in this store. I want to rip this silk right off your body and hear you scream my name."
His other hand began a slow, torturous journey down her body, over her hip, down her thigh, claiming her with every inch. Y/N's mind went blank, her body betraying her, arching into his touch despite the screaming voice in her head telling her to run.
The moment shattered.
The chime of the front door cut through the thick, charged air. "Y/N? Are you ready? I'm here to pick you up!"
It was her boyfriend's voice. Cheerful, innocent, and a world away from the dark, dangerous reality she was currently lost in.
Jae-jun froze, his entire body tensing. He pulled back just enough to look over her head toward the door, his expression one of pure, unadulterated fury. The possessive heat in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by a cold, murderous rage. He didn't let her go. His grip on the dress tightened, a silent warning.
Y/N gasped, finally snapping out of her trance. She pushed against his chest, and he let her go with a reluctance that was palpable. "I have to go," she whispered, her voice trembling.
She didn't wait for a reply. She fled from him, from the intoxicating terror he represented, and ran toward the one person in the world who represented safety.
"I'll be just a moment!" Y/N called out, her voice tight and high-pitched. She didn't dare look at her boyfriend's face as she fled, her feet carrying her back to the sanctuary of the dressing room. She needed air, space, a moment to process the seismic shock of what had just happened.
Her boyfriend, Ji-hoon, stood by the entrance, a patient smile on his face. He glanced around the boutique, impressed by its sleek, expensive design but feeling slightly out of place. He heard footsteps and turned as Jae-jun strolled out from the back.
Jae-jun was a master of transformation. In the ten seconds Y/N had been gone, he had rearranged his entire persona. The raw, predatory lust was gone, replaced by a calm, almost paternal authority. He looked like nothing more than a hard-working boss finishing up a late night. He extended a hand as he approached Ji-hoon.
"You must be here for Y/N," he said, his voice smooth and friendly. "I'm Jeon Jae-jun. I'm her boss."
Ji-hoon shook his hand, the grip firm but not overpowering. "Ji-hoon. It's nice to meet you. Thanks for looking out for her."
"It's my pleasure," Jae-jun said, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Honestly, she's been a godsend. In the short time she's been here, she's become one of our best assets. Incredible instincts, a real head for business. She's wasted in a classroom, if you don't mind my saying." He paused, letting the words hang in the air before delivering the final, subtle blow. "She has a very bright future ahead of her. She's a girl who's destined for... bigger things."
The implication was clear, a verbal landmine laid with surgical precision. Bigger things than you. Ji-hoon's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He was silent, a knot of confusion and quiet offense tightening in his gut. This wasn't just a compliment; it felt like a dismissal. He didn't understand the game being played, but he could feel the condescension.
Just then, Y/N emerged from the dressing room, now back in her uniform. She looked pale and flustered, her eyes avoiding everyone. Jae-jun's gaze immediately locked onto her, the friendly mask melting away for a split second, replaced by the same intense, possessive heat from moments before.
It was a flicker, but Ji-hoon saw it.
He saw the way Jae-jun's eyes tracked her every movement, like a wolf watching a lamb that had strayed from the flock.
Something primal and protective stirred in Ji-hoon. He didn't know what was going on, but he knew he didn't like this man. He didn't like the way he looked at his girlfriend.
Stepping forward, Ji-hoon closed the distance to Y/N. "Ready to go, honey?" he asked, his voice overly bright.
Before she could answer, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. It wasn't their usual gentle peck; it was a firm, deliberate kiss, a public declaration. His lips pressed against hers with a clear, unspoken message: She's mine.
Y/N froze, her hands flying to his chest in surprise. A hot wave of embarrassment washed over her. A kiss like this, here, in front of her boss, felt aggressive and out of place. She gently pushed him away, her cheeks burning. "Ji-hoon, not here," she whispered, shooting a panicked, apologetic glance toward Jae-jun.
Jae-jun stood by the counter, his expression unreadable. He offered no reaction, no change in his posture. But his eyes were cold, flat, and dangerous. He had witnessed the challenge, and he had filed it away.
"We should go," Y/N said quickly, grabbing Ji-hoon's hand and pulling him toward the door, desperate to escape suffocating tension of the boutique.
"Goodnight, Mr. Jeon," Ji-hoon called back over his shoulder, a forced cheerfulness in his voice.
Jae-jun gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. As the door chimed shut behind them, he remained standing in the silent, empty store. The friendly facade was gone, replaced by a chilling certainty. The game wasn't just about desire anymore. It was about ownership. And Ji-hoon had just made it a competition.
synapse: on their extended cape cod vacation, henry and y/n settle into the quiet comforts of everyday life and discovering that the ordinary moments together are just as intimate as the extraordinary ones
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: fluff, penetrative sex, suggestive themes, food play, fingering, cunnilingus, age gap relationship dynamics
. . .
Henry came back balancing a tray in one hand and coffee in the other, nudging the door open with his shoulder.
Y/N, who had not moved from her nest of sheets and pillows except to roll halfway onto her stomach and groan once at the effort, lifted her head just enough to look at him.
He was wearing his glasses again, the stubble still there exactly as instructed, and there was something unfairly attractive about the sight of him returning with breakfast like this, hair still a little messy, sleeves rolled, sunlight at his back, carrying coffee as if he had always belonged in mornings with her.
Y/N smiled sleepily. “You came back.”
“I said I would.”
He shut the door with his foot and crossed to the little table by the window, setting the tray down with more care than the moment probably required. Coffee. Toast. Something with eggs for himself. Something sweeter for her, because apparently he had decided she was too sore and pathetic this morning to be trusted with respectable breakfast choices.
Y/N watched him through half-lidded eyes and said, “You look very domestic.”
Henry glanced at her as he picked up the ibuprofen bottle beside the tray. “You say that like it’s an accusation.”
“It’s definitely an observation.”
He came to the bed first with the water and ibuprofen, because he was, annoyingly, practical in the right order. Y/N pushed herself up onto one elbow with a grimace, took the pills from him, and swallowed them down.
Henry noticed the grimace immediately.
“That bad,” he said.
Y/N looked up at him over the rim of the water glass. “I’ve already told you I’ve been through something.”
“That is still an exaggeration.”
She handed him the glass back. “No, that’s memory.”
Henry’s mouth twitched. He set the glass down on the nightstand and then leaned over her just enough to brush his hand lightly down her side, like he couldn’t quite stop touching her even when doing something as ordinary as bringing her coffee.
Y/N caught his wrist and looked at him. “You’re not sorry at all.”
Henry considered that for one beat. “No.”
She laughed softly and let go of him.
He brought her coffee next, which improved the entire room instantly. Y/N took the mug with both hands and inhaled like it was medicinal, then sank back against the pillows while Henry moved to sit on the edge of the bed with his own cup.
For a while, they just stayed like that.
The room was warm with late morning light now, the curtains shifting faintly in the breeze from the cracked window. The ocean made itself known in soft sounds from outside, gulls, wind, the far hush of the water and neither of them seemed in any hurry to do anything about the day.
Y/N took a sip of coffee and sighed. “Okay. I can almost imagine standing.”
“Ambitious.”
“Don’t push it.”
Henry picked up a piece of toast from the tray and broke it absently in half. “Are you planning to move before noon?”
Y/N stared at her cup. “That feels personal.”
“It’s a practical question.”
“Then practically, yes.” She looked at him. “Emotionally, I’d like to stay here for the rest of my life.”
Henry glanced around the room once. “That would eventually become expensive.”
Y/N smiled. “See? There you go again. Ruining romance with math.”
“I’m not ruining anything.”
He handed her the plate he’d clearly meant for her, and Y/N shifted carefully enough to take it without making a fool of herself. The effort still showed on her face.
Henry noticed, because of course he did.
“This is why,” he said calmly, “you should have stretched.”
Y/N looked at him in open offense. “You cannot keep saying that like it was an available option.”
“It was.”
“It was not.”
“You lacked foresight.”
“I lacked functioning legs.”
That got a short, quiet laugh out of him, and Y/N smiled despite herself.
She took a bite, then another, and let the room settle around them. There was something almost shockingly nice about it, the tray between them, their coffee, the lazy silence, the fact that neither of them had to be anywhere. In Boston, even their mornings had always felt borrowed. Here, time just sat with them, open and unbothered.
Henry leaned back against the headboard after a minute, one leg stretched out, his coffee resting in his hand. Y/N watched him over her cup.
“What?” he said without looking at her.
“You know exactly what.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do.”
Henry turned his head at that, brows lifting slightly over the tops of his glasses.
Y/N let her eyes drift pointedly over him. “You came back with coffee. You left the stubble. You look very husband-shaped right now.”
Henry stared at her.
Then, with complete seriousness, “That is a very strange phrase.”
Y/N smiled into her cup. “And yet you know what it means.”
He went quiet for just a second too long, which told her more than the answer would have.
So she changed the subject before either of them had to say something too real too early in the day.
“What are we doing today?”
Henry glanced toward the window. “Nothing quickly.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“It is for the next hour in your condition.”
Y/N nodded, accepting that. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”
She finished another few bites while Henry reached for one of the books from the chair beside the bed, one of the ones they’d bought the day before. He turned it over in his hand before opening it, and Y/N watched him settle more fully into the headboard.
“You’re reading already,” she said.
“I’m sitting here.”
“With a book.”
“Yes.”
“That’s reading behavior.”
“It is book-adjacent behavior.”
Y/N laughed softly and looked toward the stack on the chair herself. “Maybe later you can tell me what I should start first.”
“You know what you should start first.”
“Probably.” She smiled. “But I like hearing you say it.”
Henry glanced at her. “You’re exhausting.”
“And lovable.”
He didn’t answer that.
Which, as usual, was answer enough.
The room fell quiet again after that, the easy, domestic kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty. Y/N drank her coffee. Henry pretended to read and occasionally failed because she caught him looking at her over the page. Her legs were slowly becoming more trustworthy. The ibuprofen was beginning to do its job. Somewhere below them, a door shut and then laughter drifted up from outside.
After a while, Y/N set her empty cup aside and carefully stretched one leg out under the sheet. It still wasn’t elegant, but it was survivable.
Henry watched the movement. “Improving.”
“Barely.”
“But improving.”
She looked at him. “You sound proud.”
“I sound observational.”
“No, you sound proud that I’m recovering enough to do it all over again.”
His gaze stayed on her for one beat too long.
Then he turned a page. “You’re imagining things.”
Y/N smiled lazily and settled deeper into the pillows.
Maybe she was.
Or maybe the whole point of mornings like this, slow, soft, vacation-still, with breakfast on the bed and books waiting and nowhere to be, was that imagining things had become a lot easier now that they were finally allowed to live in the same hour together.
Henry lowered the book just enough to watch her move toward the open bag near the chair.
Y/N crouched, winced, then glared at the bag like it had personally betrayed her. She pawed through the clothes she’d packed, one dress, one casual top, one pair of shorts, the bikini, underthings, another dress she’d already worn—
Then she stopped.
“Oh no.”
Henry didn’t even pretend not to enjoy the drama in that. “What?”
Y/N straightened slowly, holding up one of the very few unworn things left like evidence in a trial. “I packed for a few days.”
Henry looked at her over the top of the book. “Yes.”
“We are here for two weeks.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him. “Do you hear the problem?”
“I do.”
Y/N looked down into the bag again, then around the room as if more clothes might materialize out of stress. “I have no choice.”
Henry’s brows lifted slightly. “No choice? For?”
She turned toward him with the full gravity of someone about to make a difficult but necessary wartime decision. “I’m going to have to steal one of your shirts.”
That got him.
Not enough to laugh. Enough to look pleased.
“Steal?”
“Yes.”
“They’re already in your possession half the time.”
“I’m trying to make a point.”
Henry shut the book and set it beside him. “What is the point?”
“That I was not emotionally prepared for practical vacation consequences.”
He watched her with quiet amusement while she crossed to the chair where he’d draped yesterday’s clean clothes, her fingers already reaching for one of his shirts.
Y/N pulled it free and held it up in front of herself.
Too big. Perfect.
She looked back at him. “This is mine now.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes. It is.”
“You have a flexible understanding of ownership.”
“I have a beautiful understanding of survival.”
Henry’s gaze moved over her where she stood in the middle of the room holding his shirt and very obviously planning her entire day around comfort and theft.
Then his eyes narrowed just slightly.
“You’re doing laundry.”
Y/N’s face fell.
“Oh, I hate that you’re right.”
“You packed badly.”
“You extended the trip in secret.”
“Yes.”
“So this is your fault too.”
“That’s not how cause and effect works.”
Y/N pulled the shirt over her head anyway, and the effect on Henry was immediate and exactly what she knew it would be. The cotton swallowed her up in all the right ways, too long in the hem, too broad in the shoulders, sleeves falling past where her arms naturally ended.
She pushed her hair out from under the collar and looked at him with a little false innocence.
“Well?”
Henry stared at her for one long second.
Then: “You’re still doing laundry.”
Y/N sighed deeply. “You have no poetry in you.”
“No, I have clean clothes.”
She made a face and looked back down into the suitcase, mentally counting what could still be worn and what absolutely could not.
The answer was not encouraging.
Then she frowned and glanced over at his things too, the shirt he’d just worn, the trousers draped over the chair, the steadily shrinking pile of clean options on his side of the room.
Y/N pointed at him. “You know you’re mostly out of clean clothes too.”
Henry looked mildly offended by the phrasing. “Mostly.”
“Yes, mostly.” She folded her arms. “So I’ll wash your clothes too, but you’re going to have to fold them yourself.”
That made his mouth twitch. “How generous.”
“I’m serious. I’ll wash. You fold.”
Henry leaned back against the headboard, far too calm. “You’ve assigned yourself labor and me the easier task.”
“Yes.”
“That seems unbalanced.”
“Folding is the physical labor. I just dump it in the machine and let it do the work.”
He gave her a long look and, annoyingly, seemed to accept that as fair.
Y/N looked from the clothes in her arms to him, then to the room around them. “And we need things.”
Henry’s brows lifted. “Things?”
“Yes. Practical things. If we’re actually going to be here for two weeks, we need to stop pretending we’re still just on a little romantic weekend.”
Henry was quiet for a beat.
Because he knew she was right.
She saw the exact moment he accepted it, the same way he accepted anything inconvenient but reasonable, with a kind of dry inward resignation.
Finally he said, “I’ll go into town.”
Y/N smiled immediately. “Look at you. Growth.”
“I’m not growing. I’m being practical.”
“That’s your version of growth.”
Henry ignored that. “What do we need?”
Y/N shifted the pile of laundry against her hip. “Detergent. Probably more toiletries. Snacks. Water. Anything else we realize we forgot because we packed like idiots.”
“You packed like an idiot.”
“We are a team.”
“That is not how blame works.”
“No, but it is how relationships work.”
That got him close to a laugh.
Y/N looked down at the shirt she was wearing, then at the armful of clothes. “I hate this.”
“Laundry.”
“Adulthood.”
Henry picked his book back up. “You’ll look very domestic.”
Y/N turned back to stare at him in open offense. “That is the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“It isn’t even close.”
She narrowed her eyes, but the smile kept trying to happen anyway.
Then she crossed back to the bed just long enough to grab the room key and shift the laundry more securely in her arms.
At the door, she glanced back over her shoulder.
“So it’s settled,” she said. “I’m washing clothes. You’re buying us things. Then you’re folding your own shirts like a grown man.”
Henry didn’t look up from the page for a second. “You make romance sound bleak.”
Y/N smiled. “You’re still taking me to bed later, so I think we’ll survive.”
That got his eyes up.
Immediately.
She grinned, victorious.
Henry looked at her, his shirt on her back, laundry in her arms, entirely too smug for someone about to spend part of the day in an inn laundry room and said, with quiet resignation, “Fine.”
Y/N’s smile brightened. “Good.”
Then she stepped out into the hall with his shirt on her back and a bundle of laundry in her arms, fully aware that there was absolutely no romance in what she was about to do, which, of course, was exactly why it would become romantic the second Henry Creel got involved.
. . .
The laundry room was quiet in the most boring possible way.
Not cozy. Not charming. Just clean tile, humming machines, a little folding table against the wall, and the faint chemical smell of detergent that made the whole place feel like a waiting room for chores.
Y/N stood there in Henry’s shirt, barefoot, with her arms folded and absolutely no patience left for domesticity.
The private washroom at the inn was small, two washers side by side, two dryers next to one of the washers, and enough room to pace if someone felt dramatic.
Which she did.
She had fed quarters into the machines, watched their clothes spin, read three pages of one of the books they’d bought, got distracted, reread the same paragraph twice, and now she was waiting for the wash cycle to finally end like it had personally insulted her.
When the washer buzzed, she looked up immediately.
“Finally.”
She crouched in front of it and started transferring the wet clothes over, one armful at a time, half-focused, half-drifting in the lazy annoyance of the moment. Henry’s shirt shifted against her thighs when she bent over, the hem riding up just enough that if anyone had walked in, they would have gotten far more of a show than the inn had paid for.
Luckily for her or unluckily, depending on perspective, the person who walked in was Henry.
She didn’t hear him at first.
She was still bent at the waist, reaching into the washer for the last few things, when two hands came to her ass, gripping without warning.
Y/N jolted so hard she nearly hit her head on the dryer door.
“Henry—”
He laughed quietly behind her, low and warm, and the sound ran straight down her spine. His hands stayed exactly where they were, gripping firmly before he pulled her back against him.
The front of his body fit solidly against hers.
His mouth found the top of her head, then her hair.
“I came to help,” he murmured.
Y/N exhaled, still half startle and half something much less innocent. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
Henry’s hands moved once, slow and unashamed. “No, I didn’t.”
She tried to keep her voice level and failed slightly. “Did you get what we need?”
Henry kissed her hair again. “I did.”
Y/N turned her head just enough to glance up at him from where she was still half bent against the dryer door. “All of it?”
“Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You remembered everything?”
Henry’s mouth brushed near her temple. “Of course.”
“What’d you get?”
“Detergent. More toothpaste. Water. Snacks. Pain reliever.” His hands slid from her hips to her waist and back again, not really helping his case that he had come here for practical reasons. “I am, as it turns out, husband material.”
That made her laugh softly.
Then Henry’s hand came to her jaw and tilted her face back just enough to kiss him.
Y/N kissed him back immediately, still twisted halfway against him, one wet shirt caught in her hand and forgotten. He tasted like coffee and the outside air and himself, and the sheer unfairness of him saying things like husband material in a laundry room while holding her like this made her knees go weak in a way that was deeply impractical.
When she finally pulled back, she turned fully to face him.
And only then did she notice the paper bag in one hand.
Y/N lifted a brow. “You really did the shopping.”
Henry set the bag down on the folding table beside them. “I said I would.”
She looked past him to the dryers. “You also showed up late.”
Henry glanced at the machines, now fully loaded and turning. “Did I?”
“Yes. The clothes are already in the dryer.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Y/N smiled, but there was a warning in it. “You missed your chance to look useful.”
Henry didn’t seem especially shaken by that.
He looked at the dryers. Then at her. Then at the empty room around them.
“I don’t mind waiting,” he said.
The way he said it made her pulse jump.
Y/N folded her arms. “For what?”
Henry stepped closer, one hand already coming to her hip. “There are some things we could do while we wait.”
That should not have worked on her as instantly as it did.
But then he was touching her like that, slow, sure, not hurried because he didn’t need to be and the laundry room, stupid and sterile a second ago, started feeling dangerously private.
“Henry,” she said, but it came out softer than intended.
His only answer was to pick her up.
Y/N let out a quiet, startled sound as he lifted her and set her down on top of the dryer, the metal warm beneath her thighs. He stepped in between her knees immediately, hands braced on either side of her, gaze moving over her in a way that made the cheap fluorescent room feel suddenly too small for both of them.
The shirt hem had already ridden higher from being picked up.
Henry noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His hands slid beneath the cotton and pushed it slowly higher, not taking it off, just revealing more and more skin as he went. His mouth followed the path downward, one kiss at her stomach, another lower, then another, unhurried and very aware of what each one did to her.
Y/N’s breath caught.
“Henry.”
He ignored the warning in her voice and kissed lower, hands steady at her thighs now. The scrape of stubble and the warmth of his mouth against the inside of her thigh made her inhale sharply enough that she had to grab his shoulders just to remember what room they were in.
When his mouth moved higher still, Y/N caught him by the shoulders and pulled him up with more force than delicacy.
Henry looked at her, calm and not calm at all.
“Anyone could walk in,” she whispered.
His eyes flicked once toward the door, then back to her. “No one’s here.”
“That is not the same thing.”
He leaned in, mouth near hers but not touching. “No one actually uses the laundry room.”
Y/N stared at him.
He was serious.
Which was somehow worse.
She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh and tightened her fingers at the back of his neck. “That is a horrific argument.”
“It’s still an argument.”
Y/N looked toward the door herself, then back at him, still perched on the dryer with his shirt pushed halfway up her thighs and Henry standing between them like he had every intention of testing just how private private really was.
The dryer hummed steadily beside them.
The room stayed empty.
And Henry, clearly encouraged by both of those facts, kissed her again before she could decide whether being sensible was worth the effort.
Henry kissed her with that slow, deliberate patience that made sensible thoughts dissolve before they could fully form. His mouth moved against hers, unhurried, while his hands slid from her hips down to her thighs, spreading them wider where she sat on the dryer.
When he pulled back, his eyes held hers as he lowered himself.
Not rushed. Not asking permission. Just sank to his knees on the linoleum floor like it was the most natural place in the world.
Y/N's breath stuttered.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher. The rough scrape of his unshaven jaw dragged against her sensitive skin, and she had to grip the edge of the dryer to keep from shuddering. His hands found the edge of her panties, simple cotton, nothing special and tugged.
Not off.
Just aside.
The cool air hit her wetness a second before his mouth did.
Henry kissed her like he was greeting something he'd missed. His lips pressed against her folds, soft and warm, and the first drag of his tongue was a slow, savoring lick that made her hips jerk forward. He hummed against her, the vibration sending a shock through her whole body, and did it again.
Slower this time.
Y/N's fingers found his hair, gripping without pulling. "Henry—"
He ignored her, mouthing at her clit with that same methodical attention he gave everything. His tongue circled, dipped lower, came back up with a slick, wet sound that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room. The dryer hummed. The fluorescent lights buzzed. And Henry Creel knelt between her thighs like a man at prayer, licking into her like he had all the time in the world.
She let him have two more passes of that tongue, long, flat strokes that made her thighs tremble before she caught his jaw and pulled him up.
"Henry."
He looked at her, mouth wet, eyes dark. Completely unbothered by being interrupted.
"There's a cleaning lady," Y/N said, voice lower than she meant it to be. "She comes in here. I'm pretty sure."
Henry blinked. "When?"
"I don't know when. Just at some point."
He considered this for a moment, still between her legs, still holding her panties aside. Then his hand moved, not away from her, but to his own waistband.
"That's not a real answer," she whispered.
"It's not a real concern," he replied, and the calm in his voice made her stomach flip.
He undid his pants one-handed. The button slipped free. The zipper rasped loud in the quiet room. Henry reached in, pulled himself out, already hard, already flushed and Y/N's mouth went dry.
He stepped closer, fitting himself against her entrance without pushing. Just let the head of his cock rest there, warm and insistent, while he looked at her.
"Still worried about the cleaning lady?"
"Yes," she hissed.
But she didn't close her legs.
Henry smiled, barely, just a twitch of his mouth and pushed inside.
The stretch was sudden and perfect, a single smooth thrust that seated him halfway. Y/N's head fell back against the dryer drum with a dull thud. He was hot inside her, thick in a way that made her forget what she'd been worried about for a second.
Then he drew back and pushed in again.
The dryer rattled beneath her. Henry's hands gripped her hips, steadying her, setting a rhythm that was quick and deep and absolutely silent except for the wet sounds of their bodies and the rough exhale of his breath against her throat.
Three thrusts.
Four.
Five.
And then—
A key turning in the lock.
Y/N's eyes flew open.
She shoved at his chest, hard. Henry pulled out in the same motion, tucking himself away with a speed that surprised her. She yanked her panties back into place, jumped off the dryer, and had her book in her hands by the time the door swung open.
The cleaning lady stepped in with a plastic laundry cart and stopped just long enough to take in the scene.
Y/N stood by the folding table with a book open in her hands she was very obviously not reading. Henry was near the dryers, one hand braced against the machine like he had definitely always been standing there thinking about fabric softener and nothing else.
The woman’s eyes landed on Henry first.
Of course they did.
Because even flustered, half out of breath, and not remotely where he was supposed to be, Henry still looked like a man who had walked into the wrong room and expected the room to apologize.
Y/N cleared her throat and forced herself not to look anywhere below his face.
The woman blinked once, then twice, then looked toward the shelf of folded linens at the back wall like she had decided, very wisely, that asking questions was not in her pay grade.
“Just need sheets,” she said.
Henry, to his credit, answered in the calmest voice Y/N had ever heard from a man who had been inside her five seconds ago. “Of course.”
Y/N almost choked.
The cleaning lady gave one short nod and crossed the room, pulling down a stack of clean white sheets with the weary professionalism of someone who had absolutely seen worse at an inn by the beach and intended to survive this shift by not acknowledging any of it.
Y/N kept the book open in front of her face and stared at the same sentence without comprehension.
Her heart was still hammering.
Her thighs still felt warm.
The dryer kept turning beside them like it had no idea it had nearly become the soundtrack to a public indecency charge.
Henry stood in impossible silence.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
Not looking at her.
Which was somehow worse than if he had.
The cleaning lady loaded the sheets into her cart, glanced once between them again with the tiniest flicker of suspicion or amusement, Y/N genuinely could not tell and then headed for the door.
Before leaving, she paused just long enough to say, “Dryer runs hot in this one.”
Then she stepped out and shut the door behind her.
Silence.
Heavy, immediate, humiliating silence.
Y/N lowered the book slowly.
Henry looked at the closed door for one second longer, then dragged a hand down his face.
Y/N stared at him.
Then, against her will, a laugh escaped.
It came out small at first. Sharp with nerves.
Then worse.
By the time Henry turned to look at her, she had one hand over her mouth and was trying very hard not to lose her mind entirely.
“You are laughing,” he said.
Y/N nodded helplessly. “She looked at you first.”
Henry’s expression flattened.
“That was so much worse,” she said.
He gave her a look that should have shut her up.
It didn’t.
“She probably thinks you’re some kind of—” Y/N had to stop and breathe because laughing was making it impossible to finish the sentence. “…perverted literature professor.”
Henry stared at her in silence.
Then: “Probably.”
That only made her laugh harder.
He came toward her then, slower now, more composed than she felt he had any right to be. Y/N straightened a little automatically, book still in one hand, the other holding the hem of his shirt down where it had betrayed her earlier.
Henry stopped in front of her and looked down with maddening calm.
“You shoved me.”
Y/N blinked. “A key turned in the lock.”
“Yes.”
“I panicked.”
“Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound offended?”
“Because you shoved me.”
Y/N stared at him for one beat.
Then she laughed again, softer this time. “Oh my God.”
Henry’s mouth twitched, finally betraying him.
There it was.
The faintest fracture in all that composure.
Y/N pointed at him. “You think this is funny.”
“I think,” he said, taking the book out of her hand and setting it aside on the table, “that next time you decide to seduce me in a laundry room, you should make sure we control the lock.”
Her mouth fell open. “I decided?”
Henry lifted a brow.
Y/N crossed her arms. “That is so unfair.”
“You were the one who invited me.”
“You picked me up.”
“Yes.”
She fought a smile and lost.
The dryer thumped steadily beside them.
The room stayed empty.
And now that the panic had passed, all that remained was the absurdity of it and the heat still lingering under her skin from what they hadn’t gotten to finish.
Henry glanced once toward the door, then back at her. “Do you still want to wait for the clothes?”
Y/N looked at him in disbelief. “You cannot possibly be serious.”
“I’m asking.”
“After almost getting caught half-naked on top of a dryer?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him for another second, then shook her head with a laugh. “No. I do not want to be arrested for public indecency by a woman carrying fitted sheets.”
That got a real smile out of him.
Small. Brief. Worth it.
Y/N looked at him and felt herself soften all over again, despite the embarrassment, despite the still-racing pulse, despite the fact that her dignity had probably just been permanently laundered out of her body.
“You are ridiculous,” she said.
“And yet.”
“And yet,” she mimicked softly with a fond smile.
The dryer buzzed a minute later, saving both of them from whatever very poor decision might have followed.
Y/N pulled the clothes out first, warm and smelling like detergent and fresh heat. Henry took over folding without protest, which, honestly, was the least he could do after nearly ruining her ability to ever look a cleaning lady in the eye again.
He folded his own shirts neatly, as promised.
She held up a pair of underwear and looked at him. “I want you to know this is not what I imagined when I pictured vacation romance.”
Henry took the item from her hand with zero expression and folded it anyway. “You lack range.”
Y/N laughed softly and bumped her hip against his.
They finished gathering the laundry together, warm piles stacked into her arms and his.
At the door, Y/N looked back once at the dryers, the folding table, the innocent little room that had nearly become a crime scene.
Then she looked at Henry.
“We’re never doing that in here again.”
Henry opened the door for her. “That sounds definitive.”
“It is definitive.”
He followed her out into the hall with the rest of the folded clothes in his arms, gaze calm and just amused enough to make her suspicious.
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re already thinking of somewhere worse?”
Henry looked down at her. “Because you know me.”
And unfortunately, she did.
. . .
Y/N lay stretched across the bed on her stomach, bare legs kicked up behind her, The Bloody Chamber open in front of her while Henry stood near the dresser putting away the last of the folded laundry.
The room had gone soft with late afternoon light again, all warm gold through the curtains and the faint salt breeze from the cracked window. Clean clothes were stacked in neat, proper piles on his side of the room because Henry apparently folded everything like he expected to be graded on it.
Y/N, on the other hand, had already shoved her share into drawers with far less dignity.
She turned a page and smiled to herself.
Henry glanced over while hanging up one of his shirts. “You’re enjoying it.”
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Very much.”
He shut the drawer and looked at her over his shoulder. “That was quick.”
Y/N propped herself up on her elbows, book still open in front of her. “It’s so good. I knew it would be good, but it’s actually—” She searched for the word and gave up on precision. “It’s delicious.”
Henry’s mouth twitched faintly. “Delicious?”
“Yes.” She looked back down at the page. “The gothic reimagining of fairy tales, the writing, all of it. It’s weird and beautiful and kind of perverse in exactly the right way.”
“That sounds like your review copy.”
“It should be. I’m right.”
Henry slid another shirt onto a hanger, but she could tell from the slight shift in his attention that he was listening more closely now.
Y/N smiled and traced her thumb along the margin. “Listen to this.”
Henry glanced at her but said nothing.
Which was permission enough.
She read aloud, letting herself enjoy the shape of the words as much as the meaning.
“He lay on me; he and his skin of a man, his heavy skin that smelled of wet earth and ancient woods.”
Henry went still for half a second.
Y/N noticed immediately. “Hot,” she said referring to the line.
She smiled into the page and kept going, because now she was enjoying herself too much to stop.
A page later, she read, “He was the master of my destiny, the architect of my desire, and he knew it.”
She hummed to herself after reading it. “Accurate line. Truly relates to my real life.”
That got a reaction too.
Not a big one. Just enough.
Henry shut the drawer a little harder than necessary.
Y/N looked up over the book with far too much innocence. “You all right over there, architect of my desire?”
Henry gave her a look. “Continue.”
That only made her grin.
So she did.
She looked back down and read the next one even more carefully, because she already knew by the first few words that this would be the one to do him in.
“I know how the beast desires me; he wants to eat me, to possess me utterly, to swallow me up.”
Silence. Letting the line speak for its own.
Y/N looked up.
Henry was staring at her now, one hand still resting on the dresser, shirt half-folded and forgotten beside him. The look on his face was so immediate, so perfectly caught between annoyance and hunger, that she had to bite back a smile.
Then he crossed the room.
Not slowly.
Not hurried either.
Just with enough purpose that Y/N’s pulse jumped before he even reached the bed.
He stopped beside her and looked down.
“I’m gonna need you to say that one more time,” he said.
Y/N blinked up at him. “What?”
Henry’s gaze did not move from her face. “But naked.”
That made her laugh, helpless and delighted and not at all surprised.
“I knew one of them would get you.”
Henry took the book from her hands and set it face-down on the bed beside her.
“That was not fair.”
“You say that like I didn’t do it on purpose.”
His hand slid into her hair, fingers curving at the back of her neck as he leaned down and kissed her.
Y/N kissed him back immediately.
It was hot almost at once, no easing into it, no pretending they were going to keep discussing literature like adults. Henry’s mouth was already too intent, one hand braced on the bed beside her while the other found her waist and turned her onto her back with practiced certainty.
When they broke apart, it was only by inches.
Y/N looked up at him, smiling a little breathlessly. “Your libido at your age surprises me.”
Henry’s brows lowered. “At my age?”
“Yes.” She touched his jaw lightly. “You’re old.”
That got him.
His mouth moved against hers again, more punishing than the first kiss.
Y/N laughed softly into it. “See? Sensitive.”
Henry lifted his head just enough to look at her. “I’m not old.”
“You’re not young.”
He stared at her.
Then said, very calmly, “Dangerous line.”
Y/N smiled and touched his cheek again, softer this time. “I like it, though.”
That changed something in his face.
The sharper edge of him eased, just slightly.
She let her hand drift down his chest, then looked up at him more seriously.
“My muscles are still a little sore,” she admitted. “So be gentle.”
Henry’s expression shifted at once, not colder, not less hungry, just more attentive. More careful.
His hand moved to her thigh and stayed there, warm and grounding. “All right.”
Y/N searched his face for even a trace of complaint.
There wasn’t one.
Just that steady focus he always gave her when she said something real in the middle of teasing.
She smiled faintly. “You agree way too easily when I say things like that.”
Henry leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. “That’s because I’m listening.”
That warmed her all over again.
Her fingers slipped into his hair, and she drew him back down to her slowly this time, connecting their lips.
. . .
The room settled into silence again besides their breathless attempts to catch their breath.
Not an awkward silence.
It was a calm kind of silence necessary after ravaging each other like animals.
The ocean drifted through the cracked window in a steady hush, carrying the scent of salt and warm summer air.
Y/N lay comfortably against Henry’s shoulder, absently tracing circles across the back of his hand while The Bloody Chamber remained abandoned somewhere near the foot of the bed.
Henry looked toward it. “I think Angela Carter knew exactly what she was doing.”
Y/N smiled without opening her eyes. “Oh, absolutely.”
“You chose those passages deliberately.”
“I chose beautifully written passages.”
“You chose the ones most likely to derail my afternoon.”
She opened one eye.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Henry gave her the sort of look that said he knew exactly how full of it she was.
She grinned. “You really liked the book, though.”
“I like hearing you talk about books.”
That answer caught her off guard.
She turned her head enough to look at him.
“Really?”
“Obviously. You get excited.”
“I do.”
“You stop trying to sound clever.”
She frowned dramatically. “Don’t insult me. I always sound clever.”
“You certainly try.”
She nudged him with her shoulder.
“That was rude.”
“It was honest.”
“I liked my version better.”
Henry’s smile was small but genuine. “I know.”
She watched him for another moment before reaching over to grab the novel from the bed.
“I think it’s the language,” she said quietly, thumbing through the pages. “It isn’t trying to imitate fairy tales. It feels…older somehow.”
“Like folklore.”
“Exactly.” She brightened. “You get it.”
“I teach literature.”
“You also listen.”
“I try.”
She rested the book on her lap.
“I never really had anyone to talk about books with before.”
Henry looked at her.
“What about Nancy?”
“We recommend books to each other.”
She shrugged.
“But she reads differently than I do.”
“How so?”
“Nancy likes solving books.”
Henry tilted his head.
“And you?”
“I like getting lost.”
That made him smile again.
“I’ve noticed.”
She laughed softly.
“I’ll spend twenty minutes rereading one paragraph if it’s pretty enough.”
“I’ve noticed that too.”
She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t judge me.”
“I’m observing.”
“That’s what professors say when they’re judging people.”
“I’ll remember that.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Both of them looked up.
Y/N glanced at the clock.
“Oh.”
Henry frowned.
“What?”
“Our food.”
He stood and reached for the hotel robe hanging on the back of a chair before slipping it on.
Y/N watched him tie the belt.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you look annoyingly attractive in absolutely everything.”
Henry reached for his wallet.
“I appreciate your continued commitment to objectifying me.”
“I’ll never stop.”
“I’ve gathered.”
He opened the door.
A young employee stood outside balancing two paper bags.
“Dinner delivery.”
Henry thanked him, paid, and accepted the bags before returning inside.
The room immediately filled with the smell of fresh food.
Y/N sat up.
“Oh, that smells amazing.”
Henry unpacked everything onto the little table near the window.
“So,” she said, peering over his shoulder, “what did you order?”
“I took an educated guess.”
He opened the first container.
Her favorite sandwich.
No tomato.
Exactly the way she always ordered it in Boston.
Another container revealed a generous serving of fries.
She stared.
“You love me.”
Henry looked at her with mild amusement.
“I’ve seen you order it enough.”
“How do you know if I suddenly like tomato?”
His gaze lifted to her. “Do you?”
“…No.”
“Exactly.”
She looked down at the sandwich, then back at him.
“You really do know me.”
“I also bought an extra order of fries.”
She blinked.
“…Why?”
“Because you always steal mine after insisting yours are enough.”
Y/N laughed. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I ask politely.”
“You announce you’re ‘just taking one.’”
She smiled sheepishly.
“…Maybe.”
Henry handed her the basket.
“I decided to eliminate the negotiation.”
She accepted it with both hands, looking far more touched than she’d expected to be.
It wasn’t the sandwich.
Or the fries.
It was that he’d been paying attention all along.
She looked up at him.
“You know…” she said quietly, “…I spend a lot of time wondering what you notice.”
Henry met her eyes. “I’m an observer.”
She smiled to herself.
“I think that’s my favorite thing about you.”
He pulled out her chair for her before taking the seat opposite.
“And I think,” he said, “your food is getting cold.”
She picked up a fry and pointed it at him.
“That was almost romantic.”
“It was practical.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Y/N popped the fry into her mouth.
“No,” she said after swallowing. “It’s both.”
For once, Henry didn’t try to argue.
Instead, he simply reached across the table, found her hand resting beside her plate, and laced his fingers through hers while they ate, the evening settling around them with the easy comfort of two people discovering that the quiet moments were becoming just as memorable as the exciting ones.
. . .
It was sometime after two in the morning when the hotel room door clicked open as quietly as possible.
Y/N slipped inside, easing it shut behind her with practiced care.
She had almost made it to the little table by the window before she heard a sleepy voice from the bed.
“…Where’d you go?”
She turned.
Henry was awake, hair thoroughly mussed from sleep, glasses still on the nightstand, squinting toward her in the dim glow of the bedside lamp she’d forgotten to turn off.
“I was trying not to wake you.”
“I noticed.”
She held up a pint triumphantly.
“I wanted ice cream.”
Henry stared.
“You left the room…at two in the morning…for ice cream?”
“I couldn’t sleep and had a craving.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“I understand Nancy now.”
Y/N laughed quietly.
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s a remarkably patient woman.”
“I am not that difficult.”
“You disappeared in the middle of the night.”
“For Cherry Garcia.”
She held up the pint again like it explained everything.
“I got the last one.”
Henry looked at the container.
Then at her.
Then back at the container.
“You sound proud.”
“I am proud.”
She crossed the room and sat in the chair by the window, already peeling the lid off. “I won.”
“There was competition?”
“…There could have been.”
Henry let out a tired sigh that wasn’t nearly as exasperated as he wanted it to sound.
“You should go back to sleep,” she said, digging her spoon into the first bite. “I just wanted something sweet.”
“I don’t have anything important tomorrow.”
“You have vacation.”
“Exactly.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “So I may as well be awake for it.”
Y/N smiled to herself.
A minute later he pulled the other chair beside hers and sat down.
She took another bite.
Henry watched.
Without a word, he reached over and took the spoon from her hand.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“I’d like to see what was worth waking the entire inn over.”
“I did not wake the entire inn.”
“You woke me.”
“Collateral damage.”
He sampled a spoonful.
Thought about it.
Then nodded once.
“…It’s good.”
“I know.”
She took the spoon back.
He took the next bite.
They passed it back and forth between them, talking quietly so they wouldn’t disturb the silence outside. The window was cracked open just enough for the sound of distant waves to drift into the room.
Y/N rested her chin in one hand.
“I like it here.”
“So do I.”
“It doesn’t feel…” She searched for the words. “…hidden.”
Henry was quiet for a moment.
“No.”
“It feels normal.”
“It does.”
She smiled softly. “I like normal.”
“So do I.”
She scooped up another bite but got distracted halfway through, launching into a story about something she’d noticed earlier that day on Main Street.
Henry listened, smiling faintly as she animatedly talked with the spoon in her hand.
Then, mid-sentence—
A small drop of melting ice cream slipped from the edge of the spoon.
It landed against the curve of her collarbone.
She stopped talking.
“…Damn, I was gonna eat that.”
Henry’s eyes followed the tiny streak without thinking.
Y/N looked down.
Then back up at him.
For a long second, neither of them spoke.
Finally, she reached for a napkin on the table.
Henry caught her wrist gently before she could.
She looked at him with a questioning smile.
“You missed a spot,” he murmured.
He leaned in slowly, his gaze never leaving hers as he released her wrist and brought his hand to her jaw instead, tilting her chin just slightly. His mouth hovered over the glistening trail of melted ice cream on her collarbone for a heartbeat before his tongue swept out, warm, deliberate, a single slow stroke from the hollow of her throat to the edge of her shoulder.
He caught the last of the sweetness against her skin, lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss where the drop had been, then drew back just enough to meet her eyes again, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
When he drew back, she was already smiling.
“I had a feeling this was going to stop being about the ice cream.”
“I tried to be civilized.”
“You lasted…” She glanced toward the half eaten pint. “…about six minutes.”
“I think that’s respectable.”
She laughed softly.
“It is.”
She laughed softly. “It is.”
Henry’s smile deepened, but his eyes had already grown darker, the easy humor bleeding into something hungrier. He reached for the spoon still sitting in the half-melted carton, his fingers wrapping around the handle with deliberate slowness.
Y/N’s breath caught as he scooped up a generous amount, soft, glossy, dripping at the edges and held it poised just above her collarbone.
“May I?” he asked, voice low.
She nodded, pulse quickening, unbuttoning the buttons of her shirt.
He tilted the spoon, letting a thick ribbon of melted cherry-and-cream slide from the metal onto her skin, just above the hollow of her throat. It was cold enough to make her gasp, her body tensing as the stripe ran down her sternum, then slipped between the swell of her breasts in a slow, deliberate path. He followed the course with his eyes, watching it glisten against her skin in the dim lamplight.
Then he leaned in.
His tongue touched the start of the trail, just below her collarbone, and dragged upward in one firm, wet stroke, collecting the sweetness, tasting her beneath it. He pulled back just enough to breathe warm air across the damp skin, making her shiver before his mouth dipped lower, following the next stripe downward with slow, methodical laps. When he reached the valley between her breasts, his tongue curled, catching the last of the melt before it could drip further, and he pressed a kiss there, open-mouthed, lingering.
Y/N’s hand came up to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.
“Henry…” she breathed.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he lifted her from the chair as if she were weightless, one arm hooked beneath her knees, the other around her back. The ice cream carton sat forgotten on the table for a heartbeat before he paused, turned, and snagged it with his free hand without ever looking away from her face.
Y/N let out a soft, breathless laugh, but it died in her throat the moment her back met the cool sheets. The mattress dipped under her weight. The lamp beside the bed cast a honeyed glow across his features as he straightened, still holding the carton, and stood at the edge of the mattress, looking down at her like she was something he intended to take his time unwrapping.
She propped herself on her elbows, her nightshirt tangled around her hips. “You’re going to ruin the sheets.”
“I don’t care.” His voice was low, dark, stripped of the sleepy warmth from earlier. “They’re the hotel’s.”
He set the carton on the bedside table, then knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed, his knees pressing into the floor. The position put his face level with her thighs, and she felt a pulse flutter low in her belly as he reached for her ankles and tugged her forward until her hips rested flush against the edge of the mattress.
“Better,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, gripping her panties waistband and tugging them off.
He didn’t rush. He laid his palms flat on her inner thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin, and watched her through the fan of his lashes. The silence stretched, not awkward, but full. The distant crash of waves drifted through the open window. The curtains swayed.
Y/N’s breath came shallow.
“You’re staring,” she whispered.
“I’m admiring.” His thumbs drew wider circles. “I’m deciding.”
“Deciding what?”
“Where to start.”
He let the question hang in the air, then leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the inside of her left knee, a soft, reverent kiss. Then another, an inch higher. And another, moving up the inside of her thigh with a slowness that made her skin prickle with anticipation. Each kiss was warm, deliberate, almost chaste, but his lips lingered, and by the time he reached the crease of her hip, she was already shifting her hips restlessly against the sheets.
He pulled back, looked at the faint sheen of moisture he’d left on her thigh, and smiled.
“Patience,” he said quietly.
Then he reached for the ice cream.
He dipped two fingers into the carton, coming up with a thick, glossy coating of melted cherry and cream. He didn’t spread it wildly. He drew a single, narrow line from the hollow of her knee up the inside of her left thigh, a line so precise it looked painted. The cold hit her skin and she gasped, her whole body jerking at the shock.
He held her thigh steady with his other hand, waiting until she settled before he repeated the line on her right thigh, mirroring the first exactly.
She lay there, legs open, two symmetrical stripes of cold sweetness gleaming in the lamplight, her pulse hammering in her throat.
“Henry…”
“Shh.” He licked his lips. “I’m not done yet.”
He dipped his fingers again, and this time he traced a slow, perfect ring around her clit, a circle of cold cream on the most sensitive part of her. She cried out, her hips bucking, but he kept his touch featherlight, painting the ring twice to make sure it was even, the chill spreading through her folds.
“There,” he said, satisfaction creeping into his voice. “Now I have a map.”
He lowered his head.
He started with her left thigh, pressing his tongue flat against the bottom of the stripe, just above her knee, and dragging it upward in one continuous, wet stroke. He moved with excruciating slowness, savoring every centimeter, the cold cream melting instantly on his warm tongue. He kept his eyes open, watching her face as he licked higher and higher, her breath hitching with every inch. When he reached the top of her thigh, just shy of her center, he paused, pressed his lips to the damp skin, and sucked gently, leaving a faint red mark.
Then he did the same to her right thigh.
The second time, he took even longer. He paused halfway up to swirl his tongue in a lazy circle over the crease of her hip. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin just below her panty line. He breathed warm air over the wet trail, making her shiver, before finally sweeping his tongue to the top and leaving another mark.
By the time he finished both thighs, she was trembling, her fingers twisted in the sheets, her hips unconsciously tilting toward his mouth.
He looked up at her, his lips glistening.
“You’re shaking.”
“I know.”
“You want more.”
It wasn’t a question.
She nodded, unable to form words.
He smiled slowly, then lowered his head to the one spot he had left: the ring of ice cream around her clit.
He didn’t lick it off immediately. He hovered, his breath hot and damp, letting her feel the warmth of his exhale against the cold cream. She whimpered, a raw, desperate sound that seemed to please him.
He let her wait another heartbeat, two, then opened his mouth and dragged the flat of his tongue across the circle in one slow, firm arc.
The sensation was overwhelming: the cold dissolving into heat, the roughness of his tongue against the slick, swollen flesh, the pressure that was just shy of too much. She bucked into his mouth, a broken cry escaping her lips. He didn’t pull back. He licked again, a full circuit this time, cleaning the entire ring, his tongue curving to follow her shape, tasting the mingled cherry and her own wetness that had begun to seep out.
He didn’t stop there.
He set his mouth against her properly, his lips sealing around her clit, and sucked, soft, then harder, pulling her into the warmth of his mouth. She gasped, her hands flying down to grip his hair.
He let her hold him there, let her feel the rhythm of his tongue: slow, methodical circles, alternating between flat and pointed, flicking and sucking, drawing out every trace of sweetness while drinking in her taste.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough against her skin. “You want to know something, sweetheart?”
She nod her head, barely capable of thought.
“You taste better than ice cream.” He licked her again, a long, slow stroke from her entrance to her clit. “I should’ve thought of this sooner.”
She managed to let out a breathless chuckle. “Horn dog—“
He slid two fingers into her without warning, cold from the ice cream, but quickly warming inside her and she arched off the bed, a sharp moan tearing from her throat. He crooked them, finding the spot that made her see stars, and thrust them slowly, deliberately, in time with the strokes of his tongue.
“I’m going to make you come,” he said against her, his breath hot and damp. “And I’m going to taste every second of it.”
He doubled his pace: fingers sliding in and out, curling, pressing, while his tongue worked her clit in tight, steady circles. He varied the speed, fast and light, then deep and slow, then a torturous pause where he simply held her with his mouth closed around her, sucking gently, making her feel the pulse of her own blood against his lips.
The room swam. The waves crashed louder. Her thighs tensed around his head, and she felt the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter in her belly, spreading outward until her whole body was a taut wire waiting to snap.
“Henry…”
“Let go,” he whispered, his tongue flicking once, twice, three times in rapid succession. “I have you.”
She came.
It hit her like a wave, sudden and deep, rolling through her in long, pulsing surges. She cried out, his name, a broken word and her hips ground against his mouth as he stayed with her, never stopping, licking her through every contraction, drawing out the pleasure until she was gasping, oversensitive, collapsing into the sheets.
He gentled his touch, slowing his tongue to soft, soothing licks, pressing a final kiss to her clit before lifting his head.
His chin was slick. His eyes were dark and satisfied.
He crawled up the bed, bracing himself above her, and kissed her, slow, deep, letting her taste herself mixed with cherry.
When he broke away, she was still breathless.
He smiled, soft and possessive.
“Now,” he murmured, “do you want to finish the ice cream?”
She laughed weakly, pulling him down for another kiss.
