:)

***

It’s ski season, bitches.

The perfect time to spend the next few months amongst the snowy mountains of Vermont, tucked away at a resort that looked like it belonged on a postcard.

How cute.

It honestly couldn't have come at a better time. Life was in a bit of a spiral for you. Well, more than a bit.

After finishing university, the plan kind of… evaporated. You were hit with the desperate need to do something before real adulthood kicked in. The mountains were calling to you. Or to be more clear, Golden Ridge Resort.

Plus, finding yourself at a ski resort instead of stuck at home had a sort of romantic notion to it. 

The plan was simple: you’d work your ass off, save some money, and help out rich people on holiday, like the summer you spent working as a golf caddie, but hopefully with fewer creeps and no heatstroke.

And honestly? You’d been killing it so far.

You were likeable, competent, and good at pleasing even the most “difficult” customers, which made management love you. 

Hence why they gave you the biggest fish in the pond.

Luke Castellan. Pro snowboarder, tabloid sweetheart, son of Hermes, and all-around golden boy.

“He’s a VVIP. You know what that means, right?” your manager, Quinn, explained, her voice a little shaky from her fifth cup of coffee. She's been going through it since you arrived, a bad breakup you presumed from the way she'd be on the verge of tears when she so much as saw a couple hold hands.

From the way she narrowed her eyes at you, it was clear that if you fucked this up, you might just be out of a job. Goodbye free lift passes, goodbye ski season romance.

“I understand.”

“I’ll be candid. If anything goes wrong, the press will be all over us and you know...” her voice cracks.

You didn't need to hear the end of the sentence. You could hear the implication “You’re fucked,” from a mile away. 

But you'd be fine, right? He's your age, and from the way people talked about him, not only was he a snowboarding god, but he was also supposedly the sweetest guy alive. Seriously, you’d think he was the best thing since sliced bread the way people gushed over him.

“I got this,” you told her with forced confidence. “Luke Castellan is about to get five-star customer service. He won’t know what hit him.”

The rest of the day is the usual. Running errands, helping guests find their way around, and making polite, small talk that all sounds the same by this point.

By the time you get back to your room, it’s late, and you’re already getting ready for bed. Your electric toothbrush whirs loudly as you stare at your reflection, exhausted. Even now, you can still feel a crick in your neck from one of the guests, Mrs Rowan, making you lug her luggage up, down and all around. 

She didn't even tip.

Finally… silence. 

Before you got here, you didn't realise how much you loved it. But you finally had it, it was wrapping you in its warm embrace, practically lulling you to sleep already.

At least for two seconds.

There’s a loud knock on your door, almost hard enough to put a hole in it, and a familiar voice yelling your name.

“I’m coming!”

You walk over, half tripping on a discarded hoodie (you really need to clean this place up), and throw the door open.

“Luke Castellan?!” is the first thing you hear as your friend, Bridget, staying across the hall, barrels her way inside. 

Hello to you too.

“You’re the fifth person to react like that,” you say, mumbling through the foamy toothpaste still in your mouth. You rush back to the bathroom and spit it out. “What’s the big deal?”

You turn to her and have to squint at the way she's glowing at the thought of this guy, smiling from ear to ear.

You've never seen her face move like that, not even when the cute ski lift operator told her she had “nice edges”. You still don't know what that means.

“He’s Luke Castellan.”

“Not an explanation,” you retort, bending down to pick up a stray sock here and there. You didn't want to seem like even more of a slob.

“Snowboarding sensation? Olympic hopeful? National team? Two-time world champion—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard—”

“Super hot,” she adds, flopping back onto your unmade bed, “dreamy and cocky but like in a fun way, y'know?”

She grabs one of your pillows and holds it to her chest, tucking it under her chin. With a sigh, she rolls over to face you, “I'm so jealous.”

“Is this all you came over to do? Gush over him? And lay on my bed?” you chuckle. As much as you enjoy her shenanigans, you didn't necessarily need a meeting with the head of Luke's fan club.

“Well, yes. And to warn you,” she says as she shoots up from the bed. In an instant, she's standing in front of you, dead serious. 

“I know he’s pretty, but you can't fall in love with him, no matter how much you’ll want to. I don't want you to get hurt.” She lays a hand on your shoulder like she’s delivering a prophecy.

You chuckle at her dramatic tone, reaching over to mess up her hair. “I think I’ll be fine.”

If only you knew.

***

From the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, you are abuzz with nervous energy.

The air is cold, smacking you in the face repeatedly as you wait for his car to arrive, but you maintain your smile. A little wind won't stop you. 

Though as time ticks by, you start to feel the toll of last night starting to take effect.

It was anything but easy. 

Bridget stayed up with you all night, telling you all the ins and outs of Luke's life. 

“Why do I need to know what his favourite Pop Tart is?” You moaned, half asleep, cuddled up in your covers, as Bridget shoved her laptop in your face. 

“So you can anticipate his needs. And here I thought you were a professional.”

You zoned out about ten minutes in and fell asleep to the sound of commentators singing his praises and cheering fans.

So, now you were tired as hell and waiting out in the cold, looking more like an ice sculpture than a human woman.

You turn your head to see inside the chalet, imagining the heating, that beautiful rush of warm air surrounding you. You deserved that.

Management would have hell to pay if they're any later than they already are. You have half a mind to go inside and lie on the couch until they get there, but you can't.

You were going to be the first point of contact for him and his friends. 

First impressions are important, and it’s hard to come back from a bad one. 

You needed to prove to him that you were the best chalet host the mountain had to offer, and if the tips from your last guests were an indication, you were. 

Just then, before you freeze to death, you see a car approaching, and you immediately perk up as you get into the zone. 

You repeat to yourself your three rules: Smile. Flirt. Get that money.

You’d have them eating out of the palm of your hand by the end of the week and raking in enough cash to finance your eurosummer, you just knew it. 

The white Jeep comes to a stop, parked right in front of you. 

Showtime.

The sound of chatter and laughter as he and his friends exit the car fills the air. They were loud as hell, but you expected that. Normally, the more personable the guests, the more generous they are with their cash.

Very promising. Very promising indeed.

You scan through the faces, and then your heart skips a beat.

With parted lips, the air in your lungs escapes with a surprised puff.

He's fucking beautiful.

All you can think about is how he looks just as good as he did in the pictures that may as well be tattooed on your brain. Maybe even better. Dark hair, broad shoulders and a pretty nose, the kind of face that belongs on a billboard.

Rule number four, apparently:

Do not fall for the client.

But at the end of the day, you’re a professional. You cannot be swayed by just a pretty smile. He is a guest first and foremost.  

You walk up with your best customer service smile plastered on your face and a winning attitude. Your shoes slip a little on the snow, but you quickly regain your footing. You curse yourself only to realise they were still chatting and didn’t see. 

First impression was still intact. 

You're almost there, pep very much in your step, but before you can even get out a word, Luke lays his eyes on you. Like a robot, he scans you and picks an automatic response. 

“Yes, I’m his son. No, I can’t get you an autograph,” he drawls, already annoyed.

Then he spins back around as if he hadn’t just ruined your day in a matter of seconds. Just what about you screamed groupie?

Not to worry, you could fix this. It was just a simple misunderstanding, one you had to rectify. You shake off the confusion and regain your smile. 

“Oh, that’s not—”

“Snowboarding fan then?” he interrupts, glancing back at you. Without waiting for an answer, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen, biting off the lid and scrawling his signature across your forehead with a Sharpie.

“Did you just—?”

“You’re welcome. Though I must say stalking me to my chalet is a scary amount of dedication.”

You're not sure if you're pissed he drew on your forehead and called you a stalker, or the fact that you just stood there and took it. If you were anywhere, you would've taken that pen and shoved it up his—

You let out a deep, clarifying breath.

Another rule to add: No maiming or killing the guests.

He pats your shoulder far too casually, like you’re a sad, abandoned puppy in the rain or something, before turning back to his friends. “Wasn’t the chalet host supposed to meet us here?”

“You just signed her forehead,” you huff. For the moment… fuck customer service. That’s permanent ink plastered on your skin. He’ll be lucky if you don’t commit a crime against him before the end of his stay here. 

“Welcome to Golden Ridge,” You try to resist, but again you remind yourself of the no doubt giant Luke on your head, “...dick.”

You mutter it under your breath, but he has ears like a bat, apparently.

“Sorry?”

You clear your throat, fight back the evil smirk and put on your kindest voice.

“May I show you and your companions around your chalet? The porters will be just around to collect your bags for you.”

“By all means, lead the way,” he replies.

You open the doors and welcome them inside, fighting off the distaste you already have for Luke. With a shimmy, you take off your jacket and hold it in your arms. Maybe you could squeeze that instead of his neck. 

He takes off his designer sunglasses because, of course, and as he leans in, he reads your name off the nametag.

“Pretty name.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You don’t know if the sir had its intended effect, because it sounds like you’re being forced to chew wood.

Golden boy, my ass.

He has the audacity to poke your forehead. “Might want to get a picture of that before it wears off, or if it wears off.”

In this moment, you try your very hardest to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he's making it pretty hard. Clearly, this guy doesn’t have any survival instincts. You must reiterate, in any other place, at any other time, this would lead to a hospital visit. 

You take a breath to calm yourself, but it does fuck all. 

“Don’t poke me.”

You swat his hand away, then immediately poke his forehead back.

How does he like it?

“Hey,” he laughs, genuinely surprised at your little retaliation. “What happened to service with a smile?”

“I can do that, but that doesn't automatically mean I take shit from guys like you.”

You step closer, holding his gaze and add a contentious, “Sir.”

That certainly didn't make things any better, but if you back down now, you’d never live it down. At this point, it’s a stand-off on principle, and if it meant your ski adventure ended a little early, then… fuck it.

“Well, many girls like guys like me.”

“Your girlfriend likes guys that are rude?”

He kisses his teeth, eyebrows furrowing just slightly. The comment lands, you can tell, but he tries to laugh it off.

“Well, I happened to have just broken up with my girlfriend,” he says, voice light but eyes not quite matching, a slightly pained smile tugging at his mouth.

Now, any rational human being would’ve backed off.

But no.

He wrote his name on your head. With a permanent marker. At this point, you’ll bring this up until the day you die. 

“Must’ve been your glowing personality,” you mutter.

A couple of his friends snicker behind him, and the flash of annoyance that crosses his face is delicious.

Payback. 

It may be a small victory, but you’ll take it.

“Shall we get onto the tour?” you add sweetly.

He exhales through his nose, then gestures forward. “Let’s.”

You lead him through the chalet, boots thudding softly against polished wood floors. You've always thought it's one of the nicest ones at Golden Ridge. 

It's rustic but elegant, like something out of a Hallmark Christmas movie… not that you watch those.

The air smells faintly of pine and cedar. Massive windows frame endless white slopes outside, sunlight glinting off untouched powder. It looks soft enough to dive in, that's for sure.

“I think you'll find it's pretty perfect,” you explain, slipping back into professional mode. “You wake up in the mountains, step outside, and you’re not far from the lifts with all the snow you can muster.”

Luke’s gaze drifts around, taking it in. He's not impressed exactly, but appreciative.

You stop near the master bedroom and gesture. “This is your primary suite. It overlooks the whole resort and has a private balcony, fireplace and heated floors. You know, the works.”

He steps past you into the room, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. Something about it felt intentional, but that might just be that incessant voice in your head cooking shit up. Nevertheless, heat sparks up your arm before you can stop it. 

“Not bad,” he says, looking around but acutely aware of how close you were. 

“High praise,” you reply dryly.

He turns and leans back against a wall to observe you yet again.

“You know, for someone who hates me, you’re doing a very thorough job.”

You meet his eyes, refusing to look away. “It’s called professionalism. Plus, I don't even know you well enough to hate you.”

“But you’re getting there?”

“With each passing moment.”

In the few minutes since you’ve met, you’ve already clocked a few things about Luke Castellan.

He’s observant. Doesn’t shy away from eye contact, prefers to hold it, actually, longer than most people would. 

You can’t tell if it’s confidence or if he’s trying to intimidate you a little. 

Maybe a bit of both. 

And he definitely has a habit of standing just a bit too close, like personal space is more of a suggestion than anything else.

“And as my chalet host,” he continues, glancing around the room, “you’ll be doing all the cleaning, shopping, cooking…”

“Exactly.”

“So we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter under your breath.

“Hm?”

“Undoubtedly,” you correct without missing a beat. “Your wish is my command.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, the dangerous kind that means he’s about to be annoying on purpose.

“In that case,” he says, ticking items off on his fingers, “I want a five-course dinner, truffle risotto, a bottle of something expensive… and a frozen sculpture of me.”

“Frozen sculpture?”

“Did I stutter?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You said my wish is your command.”

You fold your arms, taken aback by this gross injustice. Who does he think he is? 

“That's true, but don't forget I control your access to your food and what goes into it.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“You don't know what I'm capable of.”

The two of you stand there, sparks going off between the two of you. There’s hate in the air.

Yeah.

You were definitely getting there.

***

You're fucked.

The big fish you were supposed to make exuberant tips off of for the next month or so hated you, especially after that ‘glowing personality’ comment.

And you hated him just the same.

He was serious about that frozen sculpture, even made a comment to your boss about your “subpar” performance when you couldn't get one for him.

Thankfully, you get a brief but necessary reprieve from Luke as he and his friends all hit the slopes. 

You're stewing over a hot chocolate in your staff break room as Bridget does the majority of your panicking for you. She's talking so fast, you don't even know how she's finding time to breathe.

“I told you all of this the night before you met him!”

“At 2 am, as I was falling asleep, after showing me countless interviews and footage from his competitions and fan edits. You can't blame me for not taking it all in.”

You rub your eyes, resting your head in your hands.

“Plus, I thought it’d be an easy assignment. The tabloids make him out to be an angel. Why the fuck would I need to know about his love life?”

You were so naive. Oh, how you missed that version of you from yesterday. She was so young, so happy, so innocent. 

“His breakup with his ex was huge! How could you not have seen it? They were everywhere!”

Bridget brandishes her phone like a sword, typing away before handing it to you.

You scroll, seeing article after article: “Luke Castellan and Girlfriend Call It Quits After Three Years?!” and “Snowboarding’s Golden Boy Goes Solo After Messy Split.”

No wonder why he was offended.

“I’m sure it will blow over. We’re both adults.”

“For both your sake and mine, I hope it does.”

You look up from her phone with a curious look. “For your sake?”

“I need you to make amends with him so you can make an introduction. Help a girl out,” she whines, before picking a marshmallow from your hot chocolate.

“Trust me, he’s not as nice as he looks.”

***

You show up at his chalet, jaw set, ready to give him your best fake apology and get this over with.

You were tasked with accompanying him to an interview taking place on the mountain. Somehow, you’ve gone from chalet host to assistant. But he’s Luke Castellan; his word is worth gold. 

“Took you long enough,” he drawls, opening the door just enough to lean against the frame. You’ve come to hate it when he does that. 

“You’re my chalet host, and yet you were nowhere to be found. I have places to be, chop chop.”

“Dick.”

“What was that?”

You step closer, invading his space on purpose just the way he loves to do to you. “Dickhead. Did you get that?”

Guess that's a no on the apology.

He holds your gaze, almost as if he refuses to give you the satisfaction of looking away. “Loud and clear.”

“Perfect.”

He dumps his supplies on you, leaving you waddling to catch up to him. 

“Don't fall behind.”

***

As the two of you travel to the slopes, you sneak a glance or two at him… sure, it's not surprising that he has fans. Sharp jawline, pretty lips—

The thought practically punches you in the face, and you look away quickly, the cold nipping at your nose, making you snuggle into your jacket a little more.

“See something you like?”

You grumble into your jacket. You were hoping he didn't see you, but you could never be so lucky. 

“I was looking past you, not at you.”

“...funny. People would pay to be this close to me.”

Is he always like this? Or is it just you?

“Well, I know nothing about snowboarding, so all your little medals and trophies mean nothing to me.”

“That's obvious.”

“Good. So don’t even try it.”

The words echo for a moment, and in those fleeting seconds of silence, you realise you made a grave mistake. 

“Try what? Hitting on you?”

When you don't respond, he comes to a stop. The idea is horrifically funny to him. He pauses to laugh and even slaps his knee. 

That’s overkill. You’re a pretty girl. Anyone would be lucky to hit on you.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, coming down from his laughing fit as he wipes a tear from his eye. “Thanks for the laugh though. I needed it.”

With that, he speeds up, leaving you in the dust, or more appropriately, snow. No doubt, when you eventually get there, he’ll complain to you about not walking fast enough.

You pause, looking up at the sky, pale and blue, a snowflake here and there sprinkling down towards you, landing in your hair and on your eyelashes.

“Will someone please save me from Luke Castellan?”

The only response you get is Luke yelling back at you, “Hurry up!”

He doesn’t even turn around, just lifts a hand in a lazy wave like he knows you’re glaring holes into the back of his head.

When you finally catch up, slightly out of breath and significantly more murderous, Luke glances over at you, absolutely delighted. 

“Are you always this slow?”

“No. I just got distracted by contemplating how I'd fake my death.”

“Tempting, I bet,” he says. “But then who’d make me dinner?”

***

He’s really good. 

Media trained to a T, a natural in front of the camera, answering every question with that easy charm that seems to just ooze out of him. 

You might need to steal some of that.

The wind tousles his hair, lifting the dark strands just enough to look cinematic. Like he was shot on film, if that makes any sense. You twiddle your fingers as he leans in attentively when the interviewer speaks, nodding along like he actually enjoys this sort of thing.

His laugh carries over the snow and tickles the tips of your ears as he jokes about his Olympic prospects.

“Are you saying that I’m your pick for gold next year?” he asks with a cheeky grin.

The interviewer gives a slightly disconcerting hyena laugh back in response. “Well, I’m not not saying that, but—”

You grumble under your breath, shifting your weight in the snow. The annoyance at seeing him so… beloved has formed a special place in your heart. This ugly, simmering thing that bubbles in your chest whenever you so much as see him happy. At least the hate is keeping you warm, your glare hot enough to melt a neat little crater in the snow beneath your boots.

The interview wraps with handshakes and bright smiles, the crew moving quickly to reset.

Then you hear the director call out, “We’re going to need some b-roll of you walking around.”

Luke nods easily, already stepping away from the cameras and toward you.

You school your expression into something neutral and hold out his gloves and jacket as he approaches, like you’re his human closet. He takes them, fingers brushing yours long enough for that heat to shoot up your body again. You can only wonder if this is going to happen every time you touch him. 

“Well, don’t you look happy?” he teases.

The audacity. 

“I’m sorry I'm not smiling so hard that it hurts. Maybe it’s because watching you flirt with a camera crew isn’t the best use of my time. I’m your chalet host, keyword being chalet. Why the ever living fuck am I out here helping you lug around equipment?”

He slips on one glove, watching you rile yourself up. He didn't even have to do anything. You're like his own personal form of entertainment. “Jealous?”

“Of the camera?”

“Of all the attention I’m getting.”

“Luke, I’d rather eat snow,” you reply decidedly, and you’d do it too to prove a point. 

“That can be arranged.”

Before you can follow up with a “What the fuck did you just say to me?”, the director jogs over, eyes bouncing between the two of you and your petty squabble.

“Actually, this is great. You two know each other, right?” she asks, bright with inspiration, already building the shot in her head. 

“No,” you sputter. 

“Yes,” Luke says at the exact same time.

She blinks at your conflicting responses but decides not to think about it too hard. “...Okay? We, uh, just need a few shots of Luke, well, being Luke. Walking, talking, laughing—”

“We don’t laugh together,” you cut in.

Luke’s hand lands lightly at the small of your back, steering you forward before you can disappear on him with some vague excuse. “She means we laugh constantly.”

Your spine goes rigid.

The director beams at the pair of you. “Amazing. Just head down the path and pretend we’re not here.”

Pretend they’re not there?

Pretend Luke’s hand isn’t still on you?

Pretend that heat didn't travel up your spine as soon as he touched you?

You totally could do that.

The cameras get in position, and the two of you start walking. You are not a natural on camera. Your face is frozen, and each step you take looks robotic or like you're being held up by strings. Either way it ain't good.

“This is supposed to look natural. You know what that word means, right?” Luke murmurs under his breath, leaning close enough that his shoulder knocks yours. “Try not to look like you want to stab me.”

“I do want to stab you.”

“Yeah, but make it look cute like you normally do.”

You let out a laugh, just a tiny one, before you can stop it. You cannot deny that you do look cute even when making threats, it’s simply the truth. Unfortunately, you can’t fault the man for being honest. 

His eyes light up in victory, he’d gotten you to crack. “Just like that. I knew you could do it.”

“Don't patronise me and this doesn’t mean you’ve won.”

“It definitely means I won. I got you on camera cheesing at one of my jokes.”

From behind, the director calls, “This is great! Keep talking!”

You mutter, “If this ends up in an ad, I’m suing. It’s misrepresenting me, making me look like I enjoy your company.”

“You do,” he says quietly. “Deep down.”

You turn to snap back at him, but he’s already looking at you, wind catching in his hair again. In a strange and horrible turn of events, you can’t even think of anything to say back. You’re completely silenced by how dashing he looks in his snowboarding gear.

The second the director goes to check the shots, you look away from him immediately. Not a word passes between the two of you, but you feel restless. You can feel those warm, brown eyes of his scanning you again. Probably thinking of new and inventive ways to torture you. 

“Great job! I think we have enough there. Lastly, we just need some shots of you doing what you do best,” she announces.

“Great,” he replies, his voice husky. From the direction of his voice, you can tell he didn’t turn from you, even as the crew moved around him. You don’t know why that makes you feel so… antsy. Like you needed to go and run ten miles just to chase the feeling away. 

Then, finally, he steps back.

You watch him walk away, and this time your eyes feel a little less capable of melting snow and more like you’re the one in danger of melting.

You get a moment to breathe and rid those thoughts from your mind as the cameras scramble into position as he gets on the lift up the mountain. You twiddle your thumbs and will yourself to think of anything else. But no matter what, your mind seems to drift back to him.

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there, just lost in a Luke daydream, when you see him in the distance. 

He curves his way down the slopes, like it’s second nature, and you bet it is. It’s one thing watching a highlight reel, but seeing it in person…damn.

You bite at your lip as you try your damnest not to coo over him. 

Though… some would call it art what he’s able to do on a snowboard. You might even say so, well, only in your head. 

He launches off a small lip, twisting in midair and landing without breaking a sweat.

The director beside you lets out a breathy, “He’s insane.”

You fold your arms tighter, as you look at him, slicing through white powder with the sun at his back, utterly transfixed despite your best efforts. “You have no idea.”

Your heart is even hammering like you just did the run yourself. Your lips part, a little puff of air floating into the sky, like they did the moment you first laid eyes on him. How can someone so awful do something so beautiful?

Luke reaches the bottom and unclips, smiling like he hadn’t just stolen the air straight from your lungs.

The director gives him the ok and he’s basically done for the day. He walks towards you and lifts both arms in a silent ‘well?’

“Were you impressed?” he asks when you don’t take the bait. You sway, your arms wrapped around yourself, feigning nonchalance. It's not like you didn't want to be nice to him, it's simply that your brain would not allow it. And who are you to argue with your brain? It calls all the shots. 

“You’re talented or whatever,” you mumble. It’s almost unintelligible, but that is the most your brain will allow. Anything nicer and you'd shut down altogether.

For once, instead of teasing you further, he just laughs, “That’s good enough for me.”

You blink at him like pigs have just taken flight over the mountain. 

But naturally, the universe corrects itself immediately.

The second you start to think he’s being almost… pleasant, Luke drops his board into your arms with zero warning, followed by his helmet and gloves for good measure. 

You stagger under the sudden weight, struggling to balance everything in your arms. “What the—”

“I have to thank the crew and all that and do some media stuff,” he says breezily, already backing away. “You have to grab the rest of the gear.”

Your eye twitches.

“And,” he adds, pointing a finger at you like a child, “I’m starving, so get started on dinner as soon as you get back.”

There he is.

The devil you know.

You stare at him, burdened with enough equipment to qualify as a pack mule. “Did you just use me as a human coat rack?”

He walks backwards through the snow, with a bright grin, “You’re doing amazing.”

Before you can hurl a helmet at his head, one of the production assistants calls his name, and he jogs toward them.

You stand there, loaded down with his things, seething.

“Unbelievable.”

You should've told him he was shit out there.

***

You’re really good.

Pride fills your heart as you plate what is, objectively, a masterpiece.

Once you cooled off from dealing with Luke all afternoon, you got to work in the kitchen, and dinner looks pretty damn good if you do say so yourself.

Perfectly seared scallops. Buttery potatoes. Roasted vegetables glazed and sparkling under the warm dining lights. Times like these make you wonder why you're not on MasterChef.

You carry the dishes out one by one, setting them in front of Luke and his friends.

“Enjoy.”

At least his friends didn’t hate you or flirt with you. If there were four Lukes at this table, you’d simply pass away on the spot.

Chris whistles low, taking in the visual delight you've laid out in front of them. “Damn. You made all this?”

“Yes,” you say, trying not to sound too smug, but it comes through anyway. 

Luke leans back in his chair, looking between the plate and you with exaggerated suspicion. “You’re trying to poison me, aren’t you?”

“If I were, you’d already be dead.”

A chorus of laughs spreads around the room, much to his chagrin. You start cracking open the crab legs at the table, keeping an eye on his reaction to your food.

He picks up his fork and takes a bite. You hate yourself a little for watching so closely. Even though you hate the man, you still wanted him to like it. 

“That’s really good,” he admits, his eyes fluttering closed for a second. From that alone, you knew it really hit the spot.

A self-satisfied smirk works its way onto your face.

“I might just have to take you home with me,” he adds flippantly.

What?

The crab leg soars from your carving fork straight into his face. It even makes a distinct smacking sound. A sound that will haunt your dreams.

There’s a stunned silence as it bounces off his cheek and lands in his lap.

Your soul leaves your body.

“I’m—” you choke on air. “That was an accident.”

He stares at you as the butter sauce slowly slides down his jaw. Yet another image you will never get out of your head.  “You hit me with a crab leg.”

“Accidentally. And I know you don't think that but it was a genuine mistake. I swear on like everything.”

Luke wipes his face with a napkin, eyes locked on you, like he's about to curse you and your family for generations to come.

“Good to know, that you resort to violence when complimented.”

“That was not a compliment,” you shoot back, mortified.

The one time he decides to say something nice to you, this happens. Must be a sign. “I didn't mean anything bad by it. I just meant that you're talented.”

“Talented?”

“Until you hit me with a crab leg, that is.”

You open your mouth but seeing the way he's death gripping his fork makes you think otherwise. You'd argue later, it's not even a question at this point. When he’d cooled off and forgotten how it felt to be slapped by a crab. Or since it was a crab leg… kicked?

“I’m just gonna…”

You gesture behind you, already taking steps back to make a strategic retreat.

“I think that's best.”

You walk away briskly, determined to disappear but not before throwing out a quick, “Enjoy your crab!”

***

The next few days, he's intent on making your life just that little bit more difficult. 

It starts small.

A text asking for protein bars.

Then, as soon as you get back, he sends you back out again because, apparently, you bought the wrong brand. Then again, because he “forgot” to mention he also needs electrolyte packets, fancy coffee beans, and some absurdly specific face wash that can apparently only be found in one overpriced boutique in town.

He’s a little nightmare. 

Always complaining you forgot something, even though he absolutely did not ask for it the first time, and even leaving passive-aggressive little notes on the fridge like:

You forgot the almond milk… again. 

and

Athletes need snacks. Are you trying to starve me?  ಠ⁠︵⁠ಠ

You'd rip the sticky notes off one by one, even taking special care to rip up the ones with those stupid little faces he'd draw.

All over a stupid crab leg.

“You are actually insane!” you shout, trudging back into the chalet with three shopping bags cutting into your fingers and snow melting into your socks.

Luke is in the kitchen when you stomp in, perched on the counter like a smug housecat, casually eating the expensive trail mix he specifically made you go buy.

“Did you buy dark chocolate?”

You stare at him and grit your teeth, “You did not ask for dark chocolate.”

Then, very deliberately, drop the bags onto the floor with a violent thud.

“I must have forgotten to tell you, my bad. You need to go get it.”

“You sent me across the town for a face wash. I had to take two buses and walk for twenty minutes through the snow, and now you want me to get chocolate? I’m going to kill you and it will not be swift nor will it be painless. I can promise you that, Luke.”

“It’s winter. My skin gets dry.”

“You are a professional athlete, not a Victorian lady.”

“Victorian ladies didn’t have brand deals, did they? I need to look good and if I need you to help me do that, then so be it, right?”

There’s no use arguing with the man, so you leave the kitchen in a huff. If you knew this was going to happen, you would’ve hit him with more than just a crab leg. 

The morning ends with you feeling like you’ve had a ton of bricks thrown at you but it’s over. And finally, after all being put through the wringer, you were ready to do what you came here to do. 

Snowboarding. 

You’re suited up in borrowed confidence and waterproof gear that makes you look like a marshmallow, but… snowboarding is absolutely not as easy as it looks.

You knew you’d be falling most of the day, but this was hell. You're not quite sure if you've ever fallen this much in your entire life. Golden Ridge offers free lessons, which you took in stride during your first few weeks here. 

All that progress has been thrown out the window.

You hit the snow again with a muffled oof, but tell yourself it’s character development. Surely you’ll be better off in the end. 

When you flop onto the ground for what must be the millionth time, face down in the snow and mortified, you hear the soft crunch of boots behind you, and a familiar voice, just as annoying as ever.

“You alright down there? Thought I saw my favourite employee face-plant.”

“I’m off the clock,” you grumble into the snow. “Leave me alone.”

You turn your head and see him looking down at you with a smirk. His face looks like that so often that it is truly a wonder it hasn’t gotten stuck like that. 

“Ah. Free to call me a dick without repercussions, I see.”

“I’ll call you a dick regardless of the repercussions.”

He laughs outright, crouching beside you, and offers a hand. As soon as you see it, you know you're not taking it. You'd never give him the satisfaction, in fact, you might just stay on the ground until the sun sets. That's how much you're willing to dig your heels in about this.

“Need help?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Yup. The day I accept help from the likes of you is the day a snake can tap dance.”

You try to stand, and immediately fall over again. Maybe you should just stay down here, melt into nonexistence.

“Looks like Bambi needs some help.”

Your head snaps up. 

What did he just—?

“Call me that again, and you’ll need help. From an ambulance.”

“Is that a threat? You’ve been getting awfully comfortable insulting me.”

You unclip your board and stand to full height. “You have made it perfectly clear that you’re intent on being an asshole to me, so what’s the use? This is our dynamic now.”

“If that's how it's going to be. Fine.”

***

A series of failed attempts has you feeling like you've been tossed down a flight of stairs. But progress is being made, little by little. In the past twenty minutes, you've only fallen three times. A vast improvement in your eyes. 

Though as you take in a deep breath of the cool air with a sense of accomplishment, you see him approaching.

How dare he look all cool on his snowboard?

He finishes up his run with a flawless landing, a spray of snow at you just to be a dick.

As soon as it happens, you march up to him before you can talk yourself out of it.

“Trying to impress me?” you snap, interrupting his laughing with his friends. “Or piss me off?”

He takes off his goggles, snow-damp curls falling into his eyes, and you have to resist the urge to stare.

Guys like him can't be cute and talented. Pick one.

“Oh, please, as if I need to try.”

“Right, right. You're Luke Castellan, snowboarder extraordinaire.”

“You're saying it as if it's not true. How many gold medals do you have again?” he teases, grinning like he knows exactly how annoying he is.

“So you can do spinny things on a board, who cares?” you shrug, unimpressed.

“Spinny things?”

“You know what I mean. Flips and shit.”

“Flips and shit. Well put.”

Titling up your chin at him, in what can only be described as an act of hubris, you say, “I could do what you do.”

“Is that right?” He chuckles, indulging you. He finds it makes this more fun when he does.

“I’ll go on that big slope over there. No problem,” you comment flippantly, standing a little taller than usual. 

“You wouldn't.”

“Try me.”

***

A few minutes later, you’re on the ski lift, absolutely bricking it.

The seat jerks beneath you as it carries you higher, the mountain opening up below in an endless spread of white and pine. Cold wind cuts across your face, and Luke is entirely too relaxed beside you, like he can feel the anxiety coming off of you in waves. 

He stretches his arm along the back of the lift seat behind you, close enough to feel without technically touching.

“You shouldn’t be on this hill, you know?” he says casually.

He glances down at the slope below, then back at you, quite literally shaking in your boots. “This run’s a little advanced for… whatever it is you’ve been doing down there.”

“Whatever it is I’ve been doing?”

“Oh, you want me to say it? You’ve been falling over…a lot. Listen, you can take the lift back down—”

“No, no. I got this,” you say quickly, waving him off the second the lift slows. “Snowboarding isn’t as hard as it seems. I won’t die or anything.”

Famous last words.

The ski lift jerks to a stop, and you waddle off the chair, shuffle toward the top of the run and feel your stomach immediately drop. 

The slope stretches below you in a terrifying sheet of white, far steeper than it had looked from the bottom.

This is going to lead to your untimely doom. You can see your gravestone now. 

“Died trying to prove a point.”

“This was a mistake,” you mutter to yourself. 

Were you really going to end up killing yourself over him?

You crouch down, reaching for your binding to unclip your front foot—

And then a gust of wind whips across the ridge, and your body follows it. 

You go shooting down the mountain, panic taking over as your life flashes before your eyes. You scream out the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Luke!”

He moves fast like a shadow over water.

One second, you’re careening downhill, the next his arms are wrapped around you, turning his body so he takes the impact, shielding you from the ground as you hit the snow hard.

“Fuck!” you groan, breath knocked clean out of you.

You blink repeatedly to make sure you haven't died.

You roll over and see Luke underneath you. Eyebrows scrunched up as he adjusts himself on the ground, his hands still firmly around you. The brown flecks in his eyes catch the light as he looks at you. 

Were they always that brown?

“Are you going to lie on me all day?” he asks, breathless.

You smack his chest, though you doubt he feels it through the padding of his jacket. “Shut up.”

“What did I do? You’re the one using me as your futon,” he chuckles.

He shifts, sitting up slowly, and winces, just a little. It's small, but you catch it.

“Are you okay?” you ask, suddenly serious.

“I’m good.”

He’s lying, you can tell. Why he’d want to protect your feelings, you have no idea.

“Thank you for saving me.”

You mean it. He might be the worst, but he did swoop in to save you without hesitation.

He pokes you playfully in the side. “Stay on the bunny hill… Bambi.”

***

The next day, he hasn’t called on you. Not bothered or pestered, which is something he really is quite good at. He’d have a career in it if he weren’t already such an established snowboarder. 

It’s unnatural or unnerving might be more accurate. Like watching a horror movie and expecting a jumpscare only for it to never come. 

You cooked breakfast, and he didn't show up. His friends went out snowboarding, and he didn't join them.

So when you went back to the main resort, you were on autopilot, and Bridget noticed. 

“You still with us?”

“He’s alright… right?”

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about? And here I thought you hated him.”

“I do!” you reply in an instant. “Just because I hate the man doesn’t mean I wish him bodily harm. Or at least not too much harm. Just a simple smack on the head or occasional stubbed toe would suffice.”

“If you’re so worried, why don’t you go back and see him? I’m sure he’ll be glad to see a pretty face.”

She squeezes your cheek, like a grandma would, with a cheeky little smile.

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Just go!”

***

The boys are still out on the slopes.

You step into the chalet, shrugging off your jacket  and gloves, the sudden quiet almost jarring. 

You’re so used to the noise by now. Raucous laughter echoing through the halls, music coming from someone’s speaker, Chris inevitably sprawled in front of the TV with a controller in hand while Luke yells at him for losing.

But now?

Nothing.

Just the faint crackle of the main fireplace and the creak of settling wood.

You round the corner toward the kitchen, and there he is.

The pain in your ass that’s been evading you all day and yet somehow still occupying far too much of your brain.

Luke.

He’s standing at the kitchen counter, shirtless, head tipped back as he gulps water straight from the bottle. One swallow after another, throat bobbing, a stray drop escaping and sliding down the length of his neck.

You’re this close to passing out. 

Noticing your awkward presence, lurking at the edge of the kitchen, he turns toward you, and you brace yourself for whatever horrific injury has been keeping him cooped up in the chalet.

Then you blink.

“A pinky cast?”

That is… not what you were expecting.

At all.

In fact, it kind of pisses you off.

You’ve been worrying up and down about him all day, wondering if he broke a wrist, twisted his ankle or cracked a rib, and it’s only his fucking pinky?

Luke glances at the tiny cast like he forgot it existed. “And a dislocated shoulder,” he adds, rolling the other one experimentally. “But that’ll set back in a few hours.”

“A pinky and a shoulder?”

“Mm.”

“That’s what’s been keeping you inside?”

He lowers the water bottle slowly, already catching your tone. “You sound disappointed.”

Disappointed? That’s not the half of it. 

“I was worried sick about you! I thought that you got injured and then you wouldn't be able to compete anymore, and I would've ruined your whole career—’

“Worried sick?” he interrupts, ”Strong words for someone who hates me.”

“I still hate you, in fact, I might hate you even more because of that stupid pinky cast!”

You cross the room, then smack his arm, and he winces. A pang of worry shoots through you as you pause in legitimate concern. 

Which shoulder did he dislocate again?

Before you can descend into a flurry of apologies, he snaps out of his faux hurt with a cheeky grin. He had you. “Aww, you care so much about me—”

“Fuck you, I'm leaving.”

You storm out of the room and out of the chalet entirely, and he follows after you, keeping up with you with long strides.

He stops at the front door, opening it wider, calling out as he watches your pissed-off form retreat into the snow.

“Wait up, you don't wanna sign the cast?”

And you answer with a middle finger.

Customer service at its finest.

The rest of Luke’s afternoon is spent out on the slopes with his friends, screwing around despite the doctor saying to lay off.

But his mind keeps drifting.

Back to you.

If he was being honest, ever since the breakup, he’s been… off. Less focused. More restless. Like he’s constantly trying to outrun something sitting just behind his ribs.

And then you showed up.

Annoying, sharp and immune to his usual charm.

Weird.

“She’s weird,” he says, shaking snow out of his hair as they unclip their boards near the lift.

“The chalet girl? Weird how?” Chris asks.

Luke shrugs, “Just… weird.”

Which is unhelpful, and he knows it.

Weird how you don’t fawn over him. Weird how you argue back. Weird how you look at him like you’re trying to figure him out instead of impressing him.

Weird how he notices when you’re not around.

Chris smirks at him and his far-off expression. It can only mean one thing. “You like her.”

Luke scoffs immediately at the thought. Him like you? Perhaps he liked to bother you, but that was the extent of it. “We’ve known her for what? A few weeks?”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “And you’ve talked about her at least twelve times today.”

“That’s not—That’s not true,” Luke sputters out with a frown, knowing damn well he’s brought up how stupid you looked, face-planting all over the mountain. 

In the background, Connor snorts, “It’s absolutely true.”

Luke flips him off, but there’s no heat behind it.

Chris grins wider, “You should invite her to the party tonight.”

Luke hesitates, biting his lip as he looks down at his hands. Which, frankly, answers the question for everyone.

“Holy shit, you’re nervous,” Travis chimes.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re thinking,” Chris corrects. “Which is worse.”

Luke exhales through his nose, gaze drifting down the mountain toward the chalet.

Toward you.

“…She’ll probably say no,” he mutters.

***

You're lying down on your bed, feeling stupid that you cared so much. They went out for dinner that night, so you were free! No cooking, no dishes and no verbal sparring with Luke. 

You feel the life seep back into your body as you slip into your bed, in the cosiest pyjamas you packed. 

This was the dream.

Now you're perfectly content and ready to drift off with a stomach full of snacks and a cheesy romcom playing in the background. 

The only thing you’re missing is a bottle of wine.

Peace can only last so long, though. With a buzz, your hand stills on your laptop’s trackpad. You fumble for your phone, hidden beneath your pillows.

The notification ruins your mood in an instant. It was the Devil's spawn himself with a one-word text.

Luke: “Bambi.” 7:45 PM

You type out a response, careful not to get so mad that you put a hole through the screen. 

“I’m not working right now, so leave me alone.” 7:45 PM

You pat yourself on the back for your response. Short, sweet (well, sweeter than what you were thinking), and calm.

Luke: “I'm having a party tonight. You should stop by.” 7:46 PM

“I already have plans.” 7:46 PM

You wait for a response, nervously glancing between your laptop and your phone. It's not a lie. You do have plans. They just feature you, popcorn and all the romcom goodness you can possibly muster.

Luke: “What plans?” 7:48 PM

“I’m going out tonight.” 7:48 PM

Perhaps that would get him off your back. You sit up straighter, the situation already getting you a little on edge. He doesn't text back for a while, and what was supposed to be a relaxing night is ruined. The whole time, you watch your phone as you wait, the scroll you were about to do through movie after movie is put on hold for now.

Did he believe your story? Or was he trying to come up with a way to convince you to ditch your “plans”? Or the better question: since when do you care what he thinks?

Luke: Your roommate begs to differ. 7:52 PM

Your phone drops from your hands into your lap.

Betrayal of the highest order.

You spring up out of bed and storm over to Bridget’s room, murder on your mind. Or at the very least a stern talking to.

The door flies open, and you're met with Bridget's nervous smile.

“What the fuck?”

She fumbles over her words for a moment before coming out with, “I’m sorry, he's very convincing.”

“What exactly did you tell him?”

“That you were home, watching a movie in your Hello Kitty pyjamas.”

You pick up one of her pillows and smack her with it before she can dive for cover.

“Seriously? And why did you tell him about my pyjamas? That's so unnecessary!”

“I'm sorry. I got nervous. I mean, he is Luke Castellan.”

She shuffles to the edge of her bed and stands up, making her way over to you. However, she does maintain a safe distance, like you're a wild animal capable of striking at any moment. 

“But I only told him what you were really up to because he invited you to a party and you said no. Are you insane?”

“Bridget, I'm not going.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No. I'm. Not.”

“Why not?”

You throw your hands up as if it should be obvious. “I get enough of Luke all day, every day. I deserve to be left alone for one night. Actually, why don't you go in my place?”

“I would but…”

She twiddles her fingers coyly.

“But?”

“Ski-lift guy is coming over.”

Shaking your head, you let out a sigh. Of course, she'd do this to you. Still maintaining a safe distance, she goes through her closet and pulls out something.

Before you can question her, she hands it to you with a smile, screaming, forgive me.

“You can borrow this tonight.”

“I said, I'm not—”

“You'd look good on it. And maybe you can let loose, go pursue that ski romance.”

“I'm not going. End of story.”

***

Long story short, you end up at the party. Bridget's tactics included crying, begging, and even a little blackmail.

So, unless you wanted a picture of you in your Hello Kitty PJs sent straight to Luke, you had to go to this stupid ass party, in his stupid ass chalet, in these stupid ass clothes Bridget lent you. 

Though you did have to admit, you were kind of a vision in blue.

Even before you walk up, you can hear the party from a mile away. And the second you see the chalet, it’s livelier than you’ve ever seen it. The party spilt out of the house with a few stragglers chatting by the door, which is brave in these temperatures. People out here are built different, you suppose.

You wade through the crowd and make it inside, looking around for your tormentor, thinking maybe if you showed your face, he’d let you disappear. 

“You made it.”

Your head swivels around, and Luke’s there. Unfortunately, he found you before you could find him and somehow, over the blaring music and the millions of conversations happening all around you, you heard his voice loud and clear. 

Or rather, you felt it. The warm tone of his voice is like fingers running up and down your spine before settling in the small of your back. 

You hate how your body would react to him. Whether it was a touch or his voice, it threw you out of sorts. 

“Hello,” you say simply, taking in the surroundings, like a lost bird. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re a little more dressed up than you usually are or the fact that it’s so damn loud i here, but you can’t seem to focus on anything. 

“No Hello Kitty PJs? Such a shame, I was looking forward to seeing them,” he teases.

You shove him lightly and grumble at him, the nervousness seeming to fade in an instant. “I’d sooner kill you than be in my pyjamas in front of you, freak.”

“There’s the little smartass I’ve been missing. Come on, let’s get some drinks.”

***

“You’re such a frat-boy,” you comment as you watch him play beer pong. You’ve been standing here for a good four minutes, watching him chop it up with his boys as he plays, chirping them when they miss, the little (slutty) gold chain around his neck glinting under the lights. 

Total frat boy behaviour. 

“Gamma Phi Theta, treasurer,” he smirks, confirming your suspicions before taking another swig from his water bottle.

“Treasurer?” you question. “I would’ve thought you’d want to be running the show.”

“Busy winning championships to be doing all that. Plus, the treasurer controls the money.”

He glances at you sideways, “And therefore has all the power.”

He throws another ball, sinking it into his opponent’s cup with ease.

“But I thought the president gets all the girls.”

He looks over at you for a split second, just out of the corner of his eye, then cracks a small smile. “Already had one at the time.”

One of Luke’s cups gets sunk. He picks it up and drinks, never breaking eye contact with you.

And all you can think is, “What the fuck is his problem?”

“Come here,” he says quietly. “I wanna show you something.”

He slips past his friend’s shoulder on the way out, tossing over his shoulder, “Sub in for me, yeah?”

He leads you out to the balcony, and the door closes behind you both. Suddenly, it’s just the two of you. No crowd or noise to distract from all this tension. 

A few quiet moments pass, and you’re buzzing in anticipation. Wondering if he'll make the first move or you.

“I know all the constellations,” Luke says, looking thoughtfully up at the stars. 

If you hadn't met him before tonight, this would've worked on you. 

But he wrote on your forehead, and the North never forgets.

“Is this what you do?” you scoff. “Chat a girl up, then take her out to see the stars? Name all the constellations, maybe even make one up to name after her?”

“Is that what you fantasise about?” he asks, turning his head toward you.

“Shut up.”

“No, no. I’m happy to indulge your fantasies. Do you want me to start naming them?”

He was having entirely too much fun delighting in your embarrassment.

“Shut up!”

You huff, turning away, looking out over the balcony at the rear of the chalet, the music from the party behind you muffled by the cold night air.

You shiver a little, and before you can comment on how cold it is out here, he’s already moving. Wordlessly, he slips off his jumper and pulls it over your head.

“I didn’t need it,” you huff out, even though you definitely did. You were about to turn into an icicle without it.

He gives you a knowing smile, crossing his now bare arms. And although you’d never admit it, your eyes linger on his arms a second longer than necessary.

Can’t blame a girl for appreciating nice biceps.

“Sure, you didn’t,” he replies in a way that makes you nibble at your bottom lip.

The two of you stand there for a moment, quiet and too close for your mind to shut up about it.

He was public enemy number one! Why didn't your heart seem to know that?

“So…” you say, voice softer now, eyes flicking from him to the sky above. Just because you made fun of his little routine doesn’t mean you wouldn’t let him do it.

It’s purely for entertainment purposes. Obviously.

“So?”

“Point out the constellations to me.”

He doesn't hesitate.

“You see the North Star?”

Your eyes scan the sky, and it all looks the same to you. Not that you can focus anyway. 

“No.”

You feel his hands hovering over your shoulders before he asks, and you know you’re going to say yes. 

“May I?”

You nod, and he steps in behind you, gently guiding you into position. You feel the heat of his chest at your back, the light brush of his chin near your temple.

Carefully, his fingers travel up your arm to point at the star; the movement sends a quiet shiver through you.

“—and if you connect it to that star, you’ll see Orion,” he says, voice full of wonder, guiding your arm to connect the dots with him. “Next to that is Taurus, here, I’ll show you.”

He keeps talking, explaining paths and patterns. You can’t see his face, but you can feel him, every breath, every little shift of his body.

It’s infuriating.

It’s…

“Beautiful,” you whisper, genuinely in awe.

“One of the few things that we get to sleep under every night but somehow still manage to miss.”

“Why do you know so much about this stuff?” you ask quietly.

“My mom…” he starts, then falters. “She used to bring me out to my treehouse and show me all the constellations. Told me all the stories behind them.” 

He pauses, a deep breath leaving his lungs. “It’s… hard to forget things like that.”

You hadn’t heard him talk like that ever.

In your little Luke Castellan deep dive, you noticed it before, how he never really talked about his family in interviews. 

Deflecting anything and everything related to his parents like a media-trained dog.

But this is real. Might be one of the first real things you've learnt about him.

You glance back at him thoughtfully as if parsing through the responses in your brain. “She sounds like she’s pretty special.”

“Yeah. She was.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s something you can’t fully explain at the moment, probably due to the soft, tingly buzz of alcohol that was starting to take hold.

You wrap your arms around yourself, the soft chill of the air still penetrating your shirt. You glance at him, just standing there in his tank top, all broad shoulders and muscle, looking unfairly like a Greek god, but you digress.

“Aren’t you cold?” you ask.

“Occupational hazard.”

You scoff at his nonchalance. “That’s not an answer.”

He smiles, small and genuine this time. “I’m used to it.”

Something about the way he says it makes your chest ache just a little. You step closer without thinking, tugging the jumper tighter around yourself.

“Well,” you mutter, “I don’t have your superhuman tolerance.”

“Good thing I do. Otherwise, you, Bambi, would be an icicle.”

“Oh, please, it's not that cold.”

“So, do you want me to take my jumper back—?” He reaches towards you, and you turn away from his hands, snuggling into the fabric more. 

“No, no, I didn't say that. Just…”

You turn back around slowly, his hands now safely far away from the only thing keeping you cosy. 

“Shut up,” you finish, not quite having had enough time to think of a clever response. 

Instead, you set your eyes back up at the night sky; maybe they could help you out a bit. 

“So did it work?” he asks, interrupting your conversation with the moon.  You pretend to yourself for a moment, theatrically stroking your chin, which did get a small chuckle out of him. 

“Not quite. You forgot to name a constellation after me,” you tease.

“That would be if I were trying to hook up with you.”

“So you’re not trying to hook up with me?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then what are you doing?”

The space between you is palpable. It’s freezing outside, but your body feels hot, like you’ve been standing too close to a furnace. He’s too close again, crowding you without touching. You find yourself thinking only of him, of what’s going on behind those pretty brown eyes.

He looks away for half a second, like he’s reconsidering, then his gaze snaps back to yours.

“I’m trying to do to you what you’ve been doing to me.”

“And what have I been doing to you?”

He leans in, just close enough for your lips to start to tingle. 

“Driving me crazy.”

“I, uh…”

He’s done it. After all this time of putting you through the wringer, he’s finally rendered you speechless. You’re standing outside, but somehow it doesn’t feel like there’s enough air. 

“I need to…” You gesture vaguely behind you, and he doesn’t stop you, instead giving you a smile that says, “Be my guest”.

“I’ll see you around, Bambi.”

You don’t trust yourself to respond right away. At this point, there’s no telling what you’d do. 

Instead, you turn to walk back inside, still wearing his jumper, pulse racing. But just before you cross the threshold from your private world on the balcony back to the party, under your breath, you mutter, “I told you not to call me that.”

As soon as you re-enter the chalet, it feels like you’ve just come back from an out-of-body experience, but also like you left something important out on that balcony under the stars.

You couldn't think anymore. 

You didn’t want to. 

So what else should you do but drink?

***

Okay, maybe you shouldn’t drink.

You’re a lightweight. This has been well documented. The staff party from when you first arrived had you crying under a table, holding a bottle of tequila to your chest like it’s the One Ring.

And yet, here you are.

Singing on a coffee table, one foot dangerously close to a spilt drink, job be damned.

“And another thing,” you slur, pointing dramatically across the room, “Luke Castellan is—”

“Oh no,” he mutters from below, already rubbing his face.

“—such a dick,” you finish triumphantly. “So fucking smug, you wouldn't believe. He made me trek all the way to fucking—I don’t even know where for face cream! Total ass— hic asshole, I’ll tell you that for free.”

There’s laughter around you as you start to recount other Luke incidents.  “Get me more protein bars should be the name of his memoir, the little rat—”

Luke sighs, then steps forward because as much as he enjoys your little comedy routine, he knows he needs to get you home.

“You’ve had enough. I think it’s time we get you to bed.”

“How. Rude. I was telling a story.”

“I mean it.”

“Fine then… catch me!”

Before he can stop you, you leap off the table straight into his arms. He barely stumbles as his arms lock around you. Drunk you likes that very much. 

“I’m lucky you’re so strong,” you mumble, far too close to his neck.

“You’re impossible.”

You tug at the new jumper he’d just put on, frowning dramatically. “No!”

“What's wrong?” he asks at the whine you just let out. You sounded like you just lost your dog.

“It’s a shame you put this on. I miss your biceps.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No way! I didn't notice, Sherlock,” you snip back. With a solemn groan, you lean against him like he's the only thing keeping you together, which he probably is. You're about as stable as a house of cards right now. “Mr Deductive Reasoning thinks I'm drunk. Smartest guy in the world.”

You were giving him emotional whiplash. Complimenting his biceps one second, insulting him the next.

He carefully adjusts his grip as he carries you away. “Tell me all about it tomorrow.”

The two of you make the long and harrowing journey back to staff housing, harrowing only because you are involved.

After insisting, very loudly, that you can walk on your own, you wiggle out of Luke’s arms and immediately start stumbling around.

Not the best idea your drunken brain could’ve come up with. You’re officially a liability.

You’ve fallen over at least fifty times tonight, and you’ve been getting distracted every five seconds, attempting cartwheels, and now actively trying to climb a tree.

“Aha! Nature's ladder,” you announce, before running and attaching yourself to the bark like a spider.

“You can’t climb a tree like this,” Luke admonishes, hands on his hips like a disappointed dad.

“I can do anything!” you proclaim as you almost immediately lose your footing. Luke jolts forward and catches you by the waist without even thinking.

You blink up at him, eyes wide, lips parted, before a mischievous little grin finds its way onto your face. 

Luke was not as amused.

“Aww,” you grin up at him. “Lukey cares about little ol’ me.”

He crouches down and says, very impatiently, “Get on my back, hurry up.”

“Nuh-uh. Today’s my day off, buddy,” you shoot back, though you don’t move.“You don't get to order me around.”

“Either you get on my back, or I drag you behind me.”

In even your drunken state, you know you should take his threats seriously.

Even in this state, you didn’t particularly want to test him too much, so you flop onto his back, while still giving him the appropriate level of sass. As he stands to full height, you slap his shoulder lightly.

“Onward, steed!” you yell.

“I’m not your horse,” he protests, though already moving forward.

“Don't drop me, you dick!” you yell as you jostle a little on his back.

“You call me a dick more than my actual name.”

“Both 4-letter words.”

***

Bridget's up late, humming as she retrieves the cookie dough she made from the fridge. The ski-lift guy has left her in good spirits, that's for sure. What’ll one scoop hurt? Or maybe two? Or three? Or—?

She’s interrupted by the sound of the door opening, followed by you complaining about something. Or at least she assumes you’re complaining, but it’s all a drunken, garbled mess by the time it comes out of your mouth. 

And who is carrying you but—

“Luke Castellan,” Bridget gasps, dropping her phone. “You’re Luke Castellan and… you’re carrying my roommate home? What happened to her?”

“She got carried away taking shots. She's completely drunk off her ass.”

“Shut up, I'm so not drunk. I’m like…tipsy or…”

Hiccup.

“Can you get me some water?” Luke says, ignoring you and your inability to finish a sentence.

“Yeah, of course!”

Bridget throws open the fridge, bypassing the cookie dough and handing him a water bottle.

“Where’s her room?”

“First door on the right.”

He walks there and dumps her on the bed. Not the softest landing at all, but he makes up for it by being so gentle in taking off her shoes.

“Look at you being all sweet. I didn't know you could do that.”

Though you had to admit, it suited him.

“I just don’t want you to get your wet shoes on your bed.”

He’s careful in the way he touches you, even brushing little bits of debris from your tree-climbing attempts out of your hair.

Then afterwards, you dare to lie in bed, all tucked in and satisfied like the cat that got the cream, not thinking about the hangover that's going to kick your ass tomorrow. 

“Y’know, I thought you were a dick when we first met.”

“And now?”

“You’re still a dick. But now I know you know about the stars and shit.” You gesture vaguely upward, nearly smacking yourself in the face. “Pretty cool stuff, Lukey.”

“You better not start calling me that.”

“Revenge is sweet.”

Your eyes slip shut. You've gotten to the phase where you're too drunk to keep your eyes open.

“Enjoy your revenge,” Luke muses, patting your head. He thought you almost looked cute like this, so soft and—

Hell no. Now he knows he has to go. 

As he stands up, you reach out, sitting up a little too fast for how drunk you are, and grab his jumper. 

“Almost…”

Hiccup.

“Don't want you to leave.”

There’s no way you’ll let him leave alive, if the death grip you had on his jumper was any indication. 

 “How about this? I'll stay until you fall asleep.”

You give him a bright smile, settling back into your covers. You relinquished your hold on his jumper when he sat down next to you, but only because you were trying to get the real prize…his hand.

Your hand slips into his, tracing along each ridge and curve as you start to let your body relax.

“Good,” you mumble, having no idea what you’ve just done to him. 

***

You have been forsaken.

This is a hangover from hell. 

Your head is ringing so bad, it’s like you can hear your thoughts from another life.

The door swings open to reveal Bridget ready to take care of your hangover.

You mumble something vaguely human, a soft thank you, before pressing your face deeper into the pillow.

“Yeah, that’s about what you sounded like last night too,” Bridget sighs.

You crack one eye open just enough to glare at her. “Water,” you croak, reaching blindly. She places the bottle into your hand like she’s done this a hundred times before. “What happened to me?”

“Well, all I know is that Luke Castellan brought you home last night. Quite literally carrying you.”

“Ugh,” you groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Please stop saying his full name. We don’t know any other Lukes.”

“But he’s Luke—”

“I know!”

The memory hits in fragments. Standing on tables, trying to climb trees, your head resting on his shoulder as you nuzzle into his cologne.

He'll never let you live this down.

Begrudgingly, the hangover finally starting to subside, you make your way over to his chalet.

It’s around two in the afternoon when you reach his door and knock.

Nothing.

You hesitate, then try the handle. It opens easily.

“Luke?”

As you step inside, you're pleasantly surprised. It looks like there was never a party last night. Everything’s spotless, and you’re just thankful you weren’t on cleanup duty. 

You wander through the chalet, curiosity getting the better of you as you slide open the back doors, and immediately lose your mind. 

Luke is sitting in the hot tub, head tilted back, eyes closed. Water runs lazily down his neck, catching on his collarbone, his arms resting along the edge, muscles relaxed and infuriatingly perfect.

Steam curls into the cold air off his body like the world is telling you how hot he is. 

If you had pearls, you’d be clutching them.

You clear your throat far too loudly.

He startles slightly, then opens his eyes, and a slow grin spreads across his face. It makes you feel uncharacteristically nervous to have him looking at you like this. Maybe the constellation talk did do a number on you…or maybe it’s body. But it’s definitely one of the two. 

“Enjoying the view?” he asks casually.

You snap your gaze upward like you’ve been burned. “I—absolutely not.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You plant your hands on your hips, trying very hard not to notice the way water drips down his arms. “You left your door open.”

“And yet,” he says, settling back again, “you stayed.”

“It's my job.”

He notices the less-than-perky look on your face. “So is little Bambi over her hangover?”

“Don't patronise me.”

Ah, there was the Luke you loved to hate. 

“Jump in. Take a load off.”

“...you're kidding.”

“Is it illegal to spend some time with me in a hot tub?” he asks sweetly. You're surprised he isn't fluttering his eyelashes at you.

You did have to admit, it looks inviting. He’s sitting there, hair curly and slightly damp. There's even a fire in his eyes as he looks you up and down. 

“Not illegal, but I'm not supposed to “fraternise with the guests” like this. I could lose my job, Castellan.”

“Willing to risk it?”

“Even if I were, I don't have a swimsuit. And before you suggest it, I would never get undressed in front of you.”

“I wasn't going to ask you to do that. I'm a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes hard. “A gentleman. Sure.”

“Just climb in with your clothes on.”

You look between him and the water. 

“You're kidding.”

Maybe it's the hangover that’s making you feel weak.

Damn him. Damn the cold. Damn, the way your muscles creak with every second you hesitate.

You kick off your boots and lower yourself in, biting back a sound as the heat sinks into you, loosening everything all at once. The relief is immediate, traitorous. Though you could do without the sensory nightmare that is your shirt clinging to your skin. 

Grin and bear it.

Luke watches you with open amusement. “See? Doctor Castellan prescribes hydrotherapy.”

“Don’t get smug,” you mutter, sinking back until the water laps at your shoulders. “I’m still on duty.”

You sit still, stewing in embarrassment.

“This is ridiculous.”

“It is, I didn't think you'd actually do it.”

The annoyance reaches its height when he tells you that.

“Then why did you tell me to?” you frown, your head snapping towards him.

“To see how good you are at following orders and you passed with flying colours,” he remarks, as he threads his fingers through the water. 

He deserves to drown for that.

“You’re such an asshole!”

You keep trying to get water in his eyes with a burning passion.

“Hey—hey!” Luke splutters, laughter breaking through his protests as he shields his face. “That’s assault. On a national treasure, mind you.”

“National treasure, my ass,” you scoff. That kind of self-absorption deserves to be punished. You splash him again, not giving up until he relents. 

He yelps, then retaliates, water sloshing over the edge as the hot tub becomes a battlefield. “Okay—okay, truce!” he laughs. “Damn, you’re vicious.”

You settle down and cross your arms, “You started it.”

“Fair,” he concedes, holding up his hands in surrender, still smiling like he’s won something anyway.

He runs his hands through his hair, and you almost lose it. 

You close your eyes, taking deep, clarifying breaths. You know you hate him. It’s a fact, but seeing him like that, running his fingers through his hair like a fucking model, almost makes you want to reconsider. 

“I’m going to kill you,” you mutter under your breath.

“What did I do now?”

“You exist. That's enough to piss me off.”

He's attractive, but that's it.

You just needed to remind yourself of that.

The sound of the hot tub bubbling takes over, and a truce is formed. Though you can see him dying to ask you something.

“What is it?”

“What brought you to Golden Ridge?”

“It's been how many weeks, and now you're deciding to ask?”

“Indulge me.”

You let out a sigh, leaning your head back against the edge of the tub.

“Thought it would be fun. I'd get to live somewhere new and earn money. The cooking side of things seemed cool, and I don't know…”

There's something more, but you trail off.

“What else?” He asks, shifting closer to you.

“I don’t want to give you more ammo.”

“I won’t make fun of you over whatever it is you say next,” he says, immediately poking you in the side. “I have plenty of other things to make fun of you for.”

You elbow him away and take a deep, clarifying breath, bracing yourself. “I’m here partially to meet someone,” you wince, already regretting this, “a ski romance sounded… fun.”

“More like unrealistic.”

He dismisses it instantly, no laughter, but somehow that almost stings more.

“Fuck off and let me dream.”

“I’m having trouble connecting the dots.” Then, he adds, curious despite himself, “Why here exactly?”

You gesture vaguely at the mountains, the snow-lit resting. “It’s romantic! The cold, the chalets, the whole thing. They’ll whisk me away and stuff.”

“Oh, really? And have you managed to find this mystery person to whisk you away?”

“Don’t piss me off.”

Luke tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he didn’t expect to enjoy. “What book did you read that in?”

You scowl at him, not appreciating his tone. You wouldn't expect the likes of him to understand anyway. “Several books… and movies, but honestly, it's none of your business.”

He leans back, arms stretched along the rim of the tub, eyes flicking up to the sky.

“You know, romance is usually better when you’re not trying to force it,” he says casually, like he's spouting out wisdom.

“And how would you know?”

There it was again. You were practically tapping dancing on a frozen lake at this point. From your interactions with Luke, you had learned that family and his ex were particular soft spots, but that mouth of yours always found a way to get yourself into trouble. 

“You’re kinda 0 for 1 on relationships,” you add, doubling down like a fool, as if he doesn’t have the power to make your life a living hell if he wanted to.

For a split second, you brace yourself, ready for the onslaught of insults he was going to unleash upon you. But it never comes; instead… he laughs. Not offended, just amused with you as he often is.

“Not quite, I had a girlfriend in 6th grade.” He tilts his head, faux-serious. “Got pretty serious.”

“0 for 2, then?”

He snorts, bumping your shoulder with his. “Shut up.”

You glance at him, surprised to find his smile softer now, eyes crinkled at the corners. It’s almost cute. Almost.

He may be handsome, but you will never forget who the enemy is. 

You step out of the hot tub dripping and regretting getting in fully dressed in the first place. That was the Luke effect in full force. He made you do things that were unbearably out of character.

“Uh, Luke?” 

“Yeah?”

“A change of clothes would be nice,” you comment as you wring out a sleeve.

“Yes, ma’am.”

***

It smells like him.

Against your better judgment, you snuggle deeper into the shirt Luke lent you.

It swallows you whole.

The sleeves extend past your fingertips, soft with wear and carrying the faint scent of detergent, cold mountain air and a hint of cinnamon, you think. 

You catch your reflection in the mirror and pause, biting your lip, deep in thought. Sweatpants cinched tight with the drawstring, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder slightly, Gamma Phi Theta stretched across the faded fabric. You feel as ridiculous as it looks, and yet…

There’s no denying you may like the way it feels to be wearing it. You tilt your head at yourself in the mirror, a smile working its way onto your face.

But before you start twirling around, you get back the sense you were so gravely missing.

Slapping your face, you tell yourself, “Get a grip,” and hope that’s enough to do the trick. 

Shortly after leaving his bedroom, you waltz downstairs in Luke’s borrowed clothes, trying very hard to act normal about it.

From the top of the staircase, you spot the top of his head immediately. Luke’s sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, lazily scrolling while the TV plays in the background. He looks relaxed for once, hair still damp from a shower, glasses perched low on his nose.

Glasses.

Fuck.

You make a beeline for the couch, and his attention lifts to you before you reach it. So you speed up, practically throwing yourself onto the couch, lying down dramatically like a deflated balloon before he can say anything. 

“What? You’re not going to give me a preview?” he jokes, peeling his eyes away from his phone. 

“You can see me.”

You sweep one arm vaguely over yourself and hope that satisfies him.

He stands up and promptly takes both your hands in his.

“But I want to see you.”

With a yelp, you’re pulled to your feet and sent stumbling directly into him. 

His eyes travel slowly over you, up and down, taking in the oversized shirt, the sleeves hanging past your fingers, the drawstring of the sweatpants tied too tight around your waist, and it’s unbearable. Like you’re standing under a heat lamp… in the desert… surrounded by a ring of fire. That tingly feeling that happens when you’re around Luke crawls into your bones again, strange enough to make you briefly wonder if you should go to the hospital.

Luke hums thoughtfully, “Maybe I should be your stylist from now on.”

You retort, “Absolutely not.”

You would’ve shoved him, or maybe you would’ve hit him right in the chest. But somewhere in the chaos, his grip slid from your hands to your wrists, holding them loosely in front of him like you’re his teddy bear. 

“Looks better on you anyway,” he says quietly. 

You look up at him, blinking in complete disbelief. He shouldn’t be saying shit like that. And those slutty little glasses of his should not make him look cute. The thought unnerves you, your heart in your mouth and your brain in your feet. 

The two of you just stand there staring at each other like you can’t bear to look away. But for the first time, he seems just as flustered as you. The slight tension in his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple jumped in his throat when his eyes flicked down to your lips.

He clears his throat, pacing once across the room like he’s trying to physically walk off whatever just happened. He swings his arms loosely, stretches his shoulders, runs a hand through his hair in a deeply unconvincing attempt to look casual. 

It was nice being able to throw Luke off his game for once. The scoreboard was not quite even but you were catching up. 

“Do you want to go snowboarding?” he asks suddenly, glancing over his shoulder at you, hand still tangled in his hair.

The question hits you so out of nowhere your brain briefly stalls.

“Uh… when?” you ask, clearing the embarrassing amount of tension out of your throat.

“Now."

***

You look out at the endless snow in front of you and then turn your head to the psycho next to you. 

“If this is some elaborate plan to laugh at me when I fall on my ass, just know I’ll be taking you down with me.”

Luke snorts, breath fogging in the air as he adjusts his gloves. “Relax. I’m a generous teacher.”

“That’s not the word I’d use.”

He shoots you a sideways look, all lazy confidence and irritating charm. “You’re saying you don’t trust me?”

You step onto the packed snow and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. The board wobbles beneath your boots. “I trust you exactly as far as I can throw you. Which, in this weather, is not far.”

“Good. Keeps things interesting.”

The wind howls down the slope, and for a moment the world narrows to white peaks and rushing cold. Luke moves ahead of you, then glances back at your nervous and trembling form.

“Hey,” he calls. “Eyes on the board, not on me.”

“You wish.”

He laughs, and something in your chest twists in a way you don’t quite like. It's too bright, like staring into the fucking sun. The lock you had on your heart when it came to Luke was about to come undone if you weren't careful.

Still… as he reaches out a gloved hand toward you, steady and sure, you hesitate only a second before taking it.

“You can trust me. I broke my pinky for you, remember?”

“Exactly. I caused you to break your pinky! What if this is some elaborate ruse to take revenge on me? Maybe you want to break my pinky too, or—”

He cups your face, the cool material of his gloves squashing your cheeks together. You bet you look like a chipmunk.

“Calm down.”

“Fine,” you mumble against his gloves. “Now let go of my face before I lose it.”

A grin flashes across his mouth before he finally steps back, hands lifting in surrender. Over the next few runs, he coaches you through it. And he’s actually good at teaching. 

Patient in a way you didn’t expect. Guiding you through turns, showing you how to shift your weight properly, steadying you every time you wobble too hard. Every now and then his hand brushes your waist or your shoulder as he corrects your stance, and every single time your brain briefly stops functioning.

“Look where you want to go,” he calls from beside you.

“I want to go home.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Little by little, you stop falling quite so much. Your legs stop feeling like newborn deer limbs and the mountain becomes slightly less terrifying.

“This is such a rush!” you yell back to him. A fond smile spreads across Luke’s face. The way you completely lit up made it feel like the sun itself was snowboarding down the moment. 

“I’m doing it!” you yell, exhilarated as you glide down the slope. “I’m—!”

As you flop over and the wind gets knocked clean out of you. You let out a small “oof” as  snow sprays up around your face, cold and powdery, leaving you staring at the pale blue sky.

You hear the soft crunch of boots and wince as you sit up. To your surprise instead of Luke, you see a kid standing over you, helmet crooked, cheeks red from the cold. He sniffs loudly, wipes his nose on his glove, and grimaces. 

“Lady,” he says bluntly, “you kinda suck.”

Who does this little rat think he is?

“So do you, kid.”

“Whoa, whoa—be nice,” Luke cuts in, already moving between you and the child, like he knows what you’re capable of. 

“Tell that to him,” you mutter as Luke gently pulls you up and ushers you a few steps away, leaving the kid laughing behind you. After you're situated, he steps back over to the kid. You don't hear the conversation, just a few exchanged words and a loud gasp when the kid realises who he is. The interaction is about as wholesome as they come, the kid is practically hopping from one foot to the other as he asks for an autograph. Luke whips out a pen and signs the side of his helmet without hesitation, the sparkle in that boy's eyes bright enough to rival the snow around you.

A few moments later, he trudges back through the snow toward you.

“He insults me, and you give him an autograph.”

“Come on, he’s harmless,” Luke says with a laugh. “Plus, I told him to be nice to people from now on. Fifty-fifty chance he actually listens.”

You huff, but there's no real argument to be made. Besides, it doesn't exactly hurt seeing Luke be good with kids.

“Deal with that stuff often?” you ask. “Little kids running up to you screaming, ‘You’re my hero!’?”

He chuckles lightly, leaning on his board and looking out across the slope. “Sometimes. Kids are usually the brave ones. Adults tend to pretend they don't recognise me until they're standing two feet away, asking for a photo.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah. But it’s all good. It’s the curse of being a national treasure. Plus, I don’t mind. I like being someone that people can look up to. I even used to give snowboarding lessons back home.” His expression softens slightly around the edges. “Don’t have as much free time anymore, but when I do, I stop by the lodge and help out.”

“You?”

Mr Get-Me-My-Face-Wash?

“Hard to believe, I know,” he smirks. “But I’m not completely evil.”

He gestures back toward the slope, where an instructor is patiently guiding the kid into position. “Sometimes you just need a guiding hand, I like being able to do that for people. I needed that when I was a kid.” 

You follow his gaze and find yourself smiling. 

Huh, there’s the golden boy.

Luke looks back at you, catching the shift in your expression. “What?”

“Oh, uh, nothing, I was just wondering…”

You look up, trying to pluck anything to say out of the sky when it hits you. 

“Hey, do you want to go to the north trail instead? It’s more private, less crowded…” You glare back toward the child still watching you from uphill. “And I don’t want to be accosted by any more children.”

“Understandable. Lead the way.”

So the two of you head further out, the trail narrowing as you move deeper into the trees, the noise from the resort fading until it’s just the crunch of snow and the occasional gust of wind stirring the pines above you. Then, in the distance, Luke spots a cabin tucked between the trees. It’s small and rustic, so small in fact it almost blends into the snow and trees surrounding it.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Oh, that’s one of the old staff cabins. Mostly for emergencies and bad weather now.”

Luke raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And sometimes the staff go there to…” You hesitate.

“Hook up?” he supplies immediately.

“What? No! Get your head out of the gutter!” you sputter. “I meant, like, chill between shifts or warm up or whatever. But, it is pretty isolated.”

“Interesting. So the fact that you brought me out here has nothing to do with the cabin. ”

“You’re insufferable. I literally didn’t even point it out. You did.”

“I don’t know… I think you want to make out with me.”

“I don’t!”

"The lady doth protest too much.”

You shove him hard enough for him to topple over into the snow. The usual “serves him right” jumps out in you promptly, followed by a smidge of guilt. 

A cloud of air leaves your mouth in a sigh. “Sorry, I—”

Before you can finish your apology, his hands shoot out and grasp yours, pulling you to the ground with him.

“Asshole!” you yell at him. You’ve been in this position before. Your hands on his chest, body pressed against his, an ungodly amount of eye contact. “I hate you.”

“Aw, I hate you more.”

He then proceeds to put a snowball down the back of your jacket like an asshole.

***

You had no reason to be ordering so many things. Well, no good reason.

You’d order the most random snacks, stationery, even a single roll of tape, just to see him again, the bike messenger of your dreams, at your dorm in under fifteen minutes.

It was worth the ridiculous delivery fee, which, on a student budget, wasn’t something to be taken lightly. But for a few minutes of awkward small talk and that crooked smile? Totally worth it.

Lochlan had never had a part-time job… least of all one that risked him getting run over every five minutes.

But he liked it, the danger, the rush, the wind in his hair. It was unlike anything he'd done before. His life before his family lost it all was comfortable, to say the very least, a life of luxury, coddled by wealth. But this felt good, real. No one to tell him what to do, no one expecting anything from him except to deliver.

Not to mention, he’d get to see you again.

You had bought copious amounts of random things, all through the same bike messenger company, and he’d always jump at the opportunity to be the one delivering your stuff.

“I believe this is yours,” he says, handing over the package with a smile that seems to linger just a second longer than necessary.

“Yeah, thanks,” you reply, your voice betraying you as you fight to hide just how excited you are to see him again. Your heart beats a little faster, but you try to stay cool.

“If you’ll sign here,” he adds, his fingers brushing against yours as you take the pen.

As you sign, you glance up at him, curiosity piqued.

“Busy day?” you ask, trying to keep things light.

“Yeah, I’m trying to juggle deliveries and papers… not to mention my Econ homework,” he replies, a slight sigh escaping him as he shifts on his feet.

“Econ 202?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re in the same class!” You exclaim, as if it’s some big revelation, and it surprises you too. You had noticed him in your class a week in, sitting in the front, taking notes diligently. You couldn’t help but admire him from afar. A face that cute deserves to be stared at a little. Who cares if that’s all you’re doing instead of actually listening to the lecture? It’s a worthy sacrifice.

“Maybe we could study together sometime,” you suggest, a little shy but still hopeful. It didn’t seem like the worst idea. Just you and him sitting on your bed, studying, falling in love over your no doubt many shared interests and BOOM, he’s your fiancé. 

…or something like that.

Your fingers twiddle nervously as you keep your gaze on his, hoping he doesn’t catch the flutter of excitement in your chest.

“I’d really like that,” he replies. You note the emphasis on “really” and probably read into it a little too much. But there’s a flicker in his eyes, like maybe he’s feeling the same thing.

“Great!” You beam, the nervousness momentarily forgotten as you take out a receipt from your wallet to write your number down. “Do you have a—?” 

“You’re still holding my one.”

You look down at your hand and see it right there. You’ve never felt more dumb. “Right, of course. I just—My brain stopped working.”

In a rush, scribble down your number quickly and hand him the slip of paper, trying not to seem too eager. “Text me… if you want.”

Lochlan takes it carefully, like it’s something precious. He looks at the number for a moment, then tucks it gently into his pocket.

“I will,” he says. “I promise.”

He smiles at you one last time before he gets back on his noble steed (his bike) to continue deliveries.

“Oh, wait, you forgot your pen—” you start to say, reaching out to grab his attention, but before you can finish, he looks behind you, not noticing the car reversing.

It happens in slow motion, you see the car’s rear lights flash, the tyres squealing as it collides into him, sending him flying over the hood with a thud.

“Holy shit!” you scream, your heart dropping into your stomach.

You run toward him, panic surging through you, each step feeling like it takes forever. When you reach him, you stop dead in your tracks. For a moment, you think he’s dead, the way he folded to the ground like a damn lawn chair. His face is pale, and he isn’t moving.

“Lochlan!” You shout, and when you get no answer, you whip out your phone to call for an ambulance. No cute boy was dying on your watch. Once you get them on the line, you look over and hear him groaning. 

He’s not dead!

“Stay there, I’m calling for an ambulance, okay?”

“...Don’t want to be alone.”

So you nod, take his hand, holding it gently in your own. And when the ambulance arrives, you climb into the back with him and hope that he doesn’t have any brain damage.

***

Today wasn’t supposed to be like this. You hate the hospital on a good day, but the fact that the guy you’re hardcore crushing on had had his brain possibly turned to scrambled eggs is making things ten times worse.

You stand at the edge of the room, picking at your nails nervously as you have been for the past fifteen minutes. Very much acting as his own personal gargoyle. 

If it’s any consolation, he’s pretty when he sleeps.

“Shut up,” you mutter to yourself. Creepy thoughts weren’t useful ones. You go back to picking at your nails when you notice his fingers twitch against the stiff white hospital blanket.

Your head snaps up so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. 

He’s not in a coma!

“Lochlan?” you say carefully, stepping closer to the bed. “Hey.”

Slowly, painfully slowly, he starts to wake up. His face pinches like even opening his eyes hurts. A quiet groan leaves him as he shifts against the pillows.

“Oh, thank fuck.”

You fumble for the call button with clumsy hands and press it hard enough that it nearly sticks. “He’s awake,” you blurt out the second a nurse passes by the room. “Can you get the doctor?”

Within moments, a woman in pale blue scrubs enters, clipboard tucked against her chest, her calm expression a complete contrast to yours.

“Good afternoon,” she says gently as she walks over. “Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

“What happened to me?” Lochlan asks groggily, voice rough with sleep, but still kinda cute, you’ve got to say. He squints at the fluorescent lights overhead and sits up a little, letting out a sigh of discomfort.

The doctor glances at his chart. “Lochlan Ratliff. You were involved in a car accident earlier today. You sustained no major injuries, but your head took a pretty serious hit. We’ve been monitoring you for signs of a concussion and memory impairment.”

He nods slowly at the information, though it’s hard to tell how much of it is actually registering. Then his gaze drifts past the doctor and lands on you.

You might be imagining it, but you swear his eyes light up a little when he sees you.

The doctor notices immediately and asks, “Do you remember who this is?”

Lochlan studies you carefully, brow furrowing like he’s trying to pull your name from somewhere deep in his head. Smiling nervously, you give him a tiny wave before immediately regretting it and dropping your hand back to your side.

Don’t be awkward. Don’t be awkward.

“Yeah,” he says, like the answer is obvious. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Your jaw drops instantly.

It takes everything you have not to yell What?! directly in his face.

Instead, you inhale sharply and force yourself to stay calm. Barely.

“I’m your…?” You laugh once in disbelief. “Oh no, this isn’t—”

Before you can finish, the doctor gently guides you out into the hallway and pulls the door mostly shut behind her. Your stomach twists, and the little dance her tightly knit brows are doing does absolutely nothing to soothe you. 

“Is he okay?” you ask immediately.

“We think he’s experiencing some temporary memory loss,” she says carefully. “Head injuries can sometimes cause the brain to fill in gaps with information that feels emotionally familiar to the patient.”

“Emotionally familiar?”

“He recognised you, which is a good sign. But if correcting him suddenly causes distress, we risk worsening the confusion or triggering further neurological stress. Right now, we want to keep him calm and stable while we evaluate how severe the memory loss is.”

You stare at the door to his room, and the thought of having to do this for who knows how long makes you want to throw yourself in a blender. 

“So…” you say slowly, horrified. “You’re telling me I’m not supposed to tell him I’m not actually his girlfriend?”

The doctor gives you an apologetic look.

“At least not immediately. His condition needs to stabilise.”

“This is your advice as a medical professional?”

“I’m afraid so.”

***

After the doctor’s warning, you stayed.

Mostly because every time you tried to leave, Lochlan looked at you with puppy dog eyes and asked where you were going. You ended up leaving and coming back with hot chocolate and snacks for him. Those pretty eyes of his were dangerous. 

So you sat beside his bed for hours while machines beeped steadily around you. At some point, the tension in your body finally gave out. Your head drifted down beside his arm, your fingers still loosely tangled with his, and exhaustion pulled you under.

You wake to the sharp sound of heels clicking against tile and voices following immediately after.

“I demand to know why nobody called us sooner.”

Your eyes fly open.

Lifting your head from where it had been resting against Lochlan’s mattress, your blurry vision lands on a woman decked out in designer, though out of season, clothes from head to toe. Pearls, a silk scarf, and big ass sunglasses despite being indoors. Behind her stands a tired-looking man rubbing at his temple while two younger people hover nearby, who you presume are his siblings. 

The doctor stands near the foot of the bed, maintaining the strained patience of someone two seconds from retirement.

“I understand your concern, but we got a hold of you as soon as we could. You’ll be happy to know that Lochlan is stable. But… he appears to be suffering from possible retrograde amnesia and short-term memory disruption due to the accident.”

“Amnesia?!” Victoria gasps dramatically, clutching at her chest.

The room erupts instantly, and you wince at the sound. 

“What do you mean by amnesia?”

“How fast can you fix this?”

“How serious was the crash?”

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

It’s abject chaos, and you want to go home. 

Your vision fully clears just in time for panic to set in. His family is here. You’re so screwed, like monumentally screwed. It’s one thing to fake being his girlfriend if his family were normal, but this? 

Maybe it’s not too late to sneak out. Maybe if you army-crawled behind the chair, you could sneak out the door and—

“Who is this?” Saxon interrupts sharply, and the room quiets just enough for him to point directly at you. 

Every eye turns to you.

If only someone would strike you down right now. That might just be less painful. 

“I’m…” you start weakly. You clear your throat needlessly and wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead. 

This is your last chance. You could tell the truth right now. Explain everything. End this before it snowballs into your untimely doom.

Then, from the hospital bed behind you, Lochlan practically declares, “She’s my girlfriend.”

Your eyes widen slowly as Lochlan reaches for your hand. His fingers slide between yours like it’s second nature. It does feel natural.

“I know it’s weird,” he says, looking between you and his family. “I know I don’t remember everything completely, but… I know I have feelings for her.”

“When I look at you, I feel good.”

He kisses the back of your hand and smiles at you softly. It’s enough to make your heart melt. Maybe going through this bullshit wouldn’t be so awful if it made Lochlan smile at you like this.

Nobody speaks, but Victoria looks moments away from fainting directly onto the hospital floor. And Timothy looks like this somehow became one more problem on an already terrible day.

“I’ll leave you all to it,” the doctor says quickly and getting out of this shit storm, no doubt to head straight into another one, but clearly anything would be better than this. 

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you. Though obviously, I wish it were under better circumstances. Nothing like meeting your boyfriend’s family at his hospital bed, am I right?” you joke. But like most things today, it falls completely flat.

As you look at Lochlan’s family, all different levels of pissed off and stressed, with a nervous smile, you wonder just how you’ll be able to swing this. 

“Absolutely not,” Victoria utters. 

This was going to be hell. 

***

Something’s missing. 

You’ve been bent over your stove for the past hour, tweaking your take on the classic Béarnaise sauce, but it’s missing something. 

Something you think you may never find. 

With a deep sigh, you look around at the Béarnaise sauce graveyard you’re in.

You had to get this right. 

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re under immense pressure, not just from yourself, and the expectations you’ve built up in your own mind. Maybe that’s why nothing makes sense right now. 

You take another spoonful, tasting, letting it coat your tongue, thinking that maybe this time, something will click. But no. 

It still feels hollow.

You stare at the pan, at the slow swirl of butter and egg and vinegar, and feel like giving up. 

Before you can continue to beat yourself up looking for answers, you hear the familiar squeak of the kitchen door. 

There stands Lois, hands on her hips, like she knows you’ve been driving yourself into the ground.

“You okay?” she asks, concerned. Without which you would have kept spiralling, or be found under a pile of dirty pans and half-finished sauces.

“I can’t cook. I’m a fraud.”

“I’m sure you’re being dramatic.”

“Am not. This stupid sauce is missing something,” you reply with a pout. You grab a fresh spoon, handing it to her. “Try it. It’s supposed to go with the porterhouse.”

She takes the spoon, blows on it slightly, and tastes, her expression softening instantly. That small look of satisfaction, that’s why you got into cooking. To make people happy.

“I may not have your highly trained palate, but I think it tastes delicious.”

“You’re too kind,” you mutter with a light giggle. You knew she’d say that, though it doesn’t bring you closer to what you're missing.

It’s not just the Béarnaise, it’s most of the menu. The restaurant has been steady, reliable to a fault, a well-oiled machine; you have a brigade of talented chefs who execute every dish with precision, though some of this place’s joie de vivre has gone. 

That fresh spark is fading, and ideas are starting to feel recycled.

You knew that it was bound to happen, but only three years in? The stress of it was starting to gobble you up, feet first. If you didn’t shake things up, business would slow to a crawl. 

You just knew it, it's a fickle business that thrives on innovation. But you could get it back, you just needed to keep trying, keep pushing, keep—

You hear a shuffle in the main restaurant and look towards the door.

“Is someone else here?” you ask inquisitively.

“Sorry, I brought my coworker with me. We were on our way to a café to work on an article when I thought I should drop by and check on you.”

“You’re not going to a café. Let me cook for you and your friend,” you demand, practically decided on the matter.

“I couldn’t—”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Aren’t you under enough pressure?”

“It’ll be good practice. You could be my little guinea pigs.”

Lois hesitates, studying your face, as if she’s trying to calculate how many hours of sleep you’ve gotten from a single look. 

“You sure about that?”

You wipe your hands on a towel, already reaching for a fresh pan, ready to cook your heart out.

“I need this. Just something simple, y’know. Cooking for friends.”

“Alright,” she says, a small smile breaking through. “But if I get food poisoning, I’m writing about it.”

“Very funny.”

***

Clark waits by one of the tables, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. When Lois asked if they could drop by her friend’s restaurant, he agreed.

“She’ll probably be cooking herself into a coma right about now,” she told him.

It’s a beautiful place, intimate without feeling too small. He can’t believe he hadn’t come across it sooner. From the softly painted mural of the sky at sunset stretching across the ceiling to the polished wood of the tables and bar. It felt warm, lived-in even.

His ears perk up when you start to speak.

“I can’t cook. I’m a fraud,” he hears you lament.

Your voice…there's something about it. Clark feels his heart skip a beat. He's only heard you speak once, but it's like a hit of dopamine.

He tunes back in to hear Lois compliment your cooking.

“You’re too kind,” you say in response, followed by a soft giggle. Clark feels the tips of his ears start to turn a soft pink.

He wasn’t trying to listen. Really. But his super hearing didn’t seem to want to turn itself off all of a sudden. Complete coincidence. 

Though it doesn't hurt that the tones of your voice float through his head like a melody. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding on something private.

He tunes the rest of the conversation out, focusing on the traffic outside and the light rain just starting to hit the pavement. 

Lois exits the kitchen and makes her way over, weaving easily between the tables. “My friend says we can stay and write here if you want.”

“Oh, uh, how kind of her.”

“Yeah, she’ll cook for us too, and before you try and protest, I’ve already tried to convince her not to, but she’s as stubborn as a mule.”

They settle down at a table, the cutlery neatly aligned and cute placemats matching the mural above them. 

He listens in again and hears your little mutterings to yourself, “Where did I put the shallots?” and “I need to put an order in for more tarragon…”

“Where are you?” Lois asks teasingly as she waves a hand in front of his face. Had he gotten caught swooning over a person he hadn’t even met yet?

“Just thinking, is all.”

It’s not a complete lie, just a lie by omission. 

With a deep breath like you’ve been running all over your kitchen, you step out into the main dining room area. Clark hears your footsteps before he sees you, light and swift. 

You come into view with a smile like sunshine, and it’s like he forgets to breathe. 

“You must be Clark. Forgive me for trapping you in my restaurant, but now that you’re here, I refuse to let either of you leave hungry.”

For a second, he just… stares.

Then, as if remembering how words work, he straightens, nearly knocking his knee against the table in the process.

“Oh—no, it’s fine,” he says quickly, fumbling with his glasses again, a faint flush still clinging to his ears. “Better than fine. Great.”

Lois snorts under her breath.

“You should’ve heard her five minutes ago,” she adds, leaning back in her chair. “On the brink of a total meltdown.”

“Lois,” you warn, though there’s no real bite to it.

You turn your attention back to Clark. “So what sort of food do you like?”

“I’ll take whatever you recommend.”

You pause for a moment to look him over and attempt to read his mind. With a soft hum, you note his slightly hunched posture, his kind blue eyes behind his glasses, the way he seems both confident and yet a little unsure of where to put his hands.

An interesting case.

“You probably wouldn’t like something super avant-garde, so I’ll leave the molecular gastronomy alone. How about something warm and comforting? You’re a real home-cooked meal kind of guy, right?”

“Right on the money.”

“I can work with that. Any allergies I need to be aware of? I don’t want to kill you, talk about a bad first impression,” you chuckle nervously.

“No allergies I know of.”

You give him a nod, already filing things away. “And the usual for you, Lois?”

“You know me so well.”

“Well…you’re such a Metropolis girl. Your order isn’t that hard to figure out.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Lois calls after you, only a little offended, as you walk away toward the kitchen.

Clark follows you with his eyes until you disappear behind those silver doors.

And without meaning to, he's counting down the minutes until he can see you again.

***

You cooked up a little storm in there. A carrot or two may have gone flying, but it was fun, though, no pressure of trying to be the most inventive chef Metropolis has ever seen. 

You lay the plates in front of them, that small pit of dread in your stomach as you debate whether they’ll like it or not. It sucks how your perfectionism can’t seem to let you go, or maybe it’s just a bout of imposter syndrome, or even better, a wonderful mix of both.

Though judging by the look on Clark’s face, you have nothing to worry about. 

“It’s a pan-seared chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, roasted corn, and a tarragon beurre blanc. Comfort food but dressed up a bit. I hope you like it, Clark. Now, dig in and be honest.”

“This looks amazing,” he says earnestly, his eyes wide with a kind of quiet wonder. 

“It’s nothing that crazy,” you downplay instantly.

“Well, I wish you could see what I see.”

“Ah,” you squawk in lieu of an actual response. Though you soothe yourself, knowing that if anyone else had experienced the downright heart-melting look he gave you, they’d be reduced to the speech capabilities of a bird too.

You give them a curt nod before disappearing into the back as quickly as you can. As soon as you enter the threshold of the kitchen, you press your back against the door. Then proceed to slide down it. 

Why didn’t Lois tell you the friend she brought was so… handsome and sweet?

After much deliberation, you call her the next day to find out more about this classically handsome man.

The phone trolls for a few moments before she picks up with a tired “hello”.

“Lois, what the fuck?”

“What did I do?” she groans, no doubt running a hand through her hair. You're constantly stressing her out like this.

“Be honest with me.”

“Always.”

“Clark.”

“...Uh huh?”

“Are you tapping that?”

There’s a beat of silence so complete you can practically hear her blinking through the phone.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Come on! You said you’d be honest with me.”

“He’s single. Happy now?”

You kick the air in your kitchen like it personally offended you, grinning despite yourself.

“…very.”

“Is that the only reason you called me?”

“Uh… no? I wanted to check in on my best friend—”

“You’re so transparent,” she cuts in, amused. “Go back to cooking and daydreaming about Kent.”

“That’s not—”

The line goes dead mid-protest. You stare at your phone for a second, then lower it slowly.

“…Rude,” you mutter. 

You glance back toward your stove and a smile blooms on your face. You had every reason to celebrate. 

He’s single. 

***

He really wants to see you again. 

You’ve stayed in his mind for the past few days; whenever his mind was idle, it would all somehow circle back to you. Your nervous monologuing in the kitchen as you cooked, the soft laugh you tried to hide behind your hand, the way your heart skipped a beat when he complimented your food. His might have even skipped a beat too in response.

He’s even gone by your restaurant for dinner… more than once.

“Any exciting plans tonight, Clark?” Jimmy asks, spinning slightly in his chair.

“I think I might drop by Sky Avenue,” he muses casually.

“Wouldn’t this be the fourth time you’ve been there this week?” Jimmy asks with a raised brow, every thought clear as day.

He thinks he’s crazy and maybe he’s right. 

“It's a nice restaurant.”

Admittedly, he’s never been the type to frequent the same place over and over, but there’s just something about the food you make. It’s like one bite could transport him somewhere completely new, somewhere where the sun always shines and the air smells of roses; somewhere closer to you.

“You should join me. The food there is really good. Lois can vouch for it.”

“Uh huh. The food,” Jimmy grins.

Clark exhales through his nose, already regretting opening his mouth.

“Yes, Jimmy. The food.”

“Right,” Jimmy says, unconvinced. “And I suppose the chef has nothing to do with it?”

Clark doesn’t answer right away. He just fumbles with his tie a little, loosening it unnecessarily.

“…She’s talented.”

Jimmy laughs at his coy response; he’s more obvious than he thought. Turns out, when it comes to you, Clark can't hide a thing. “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”

“I do not.”

“You’ve been there three times in one week, and you want to go a fourth.”

“It’s a nice restaurant,” he asserts again.

***

The two of them sit by the window, the restaurant bustling, the sound of good conversation and the smell of good food in the air. 

It’s strange just how at ease Clark feels here, like he’s seeing into a world you’ve created for others to enjoy.

“So it's not about a girl?” Jimmy asks, still unconvinced.

“No.” 

A moment passes as he sees your face flash in your mind. Bright with golden backlighting that most certainly wasn’t there in real life. Or maybe you could just do that, he wouldn't put it past you.

“Not necessarily.” 

Clark takes a deep breath as your laugh rings in his mind. Maybe he does have it bad. 

“Not entirely.”

Before Clark can defend himself any further—

“Clark. You’re back!”

He startles slightly, looking up, genuinely surprised. He didn’t even hear you walk up.

Where’s his super-hearing now?

“I hope it’s not an imposition,” he says, standing a little too quickly.

“Not at all,” you reply easily. “Spend all the money you want at my restaurant. Plus, in all honesty, the waitstaff are always happy to see you.”

“They are?”

You tilt your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “It’s always nice to see a handsome face, right?”

That steals the air from Clark’s lungs in an instant.

“And you must be Jimmy. Lois has mentioned you,” you move on, not privy to the mental breakdown you’ve just caused. 

The two of you converse, but he's still caught in the fact that you called him a “handsome face.”

He tries to focus, but then you look at him again, and whatever thought he had just… disappears. He blinks, catching himself, and gently tunes back into the conversation.

“It’s an honour, Clark.”

“What is?” he gulps.

“That my restaurant is your…coup de coeur.”

“Coup de cœur?”

“It's like…”

You tap your chin as you try to find the words, your eyes widening when you finally do.

“It's like you have a crush on my restaurant.”

“That's a good way to put it.” He smiles but thinks what he’d dare not say out loud, “Not just the restaurant.”

***

You're still buzzing from seeing Clark last night. You had heard that he's been by, but you've always been too in the weeds to go out and say hi.

And he looked just as good as you remembered, like the kind of guy you'd end up in a whirlwind romance with. Though you might be getting ahead of yourself.

It’s a slow lunch, the usual clientele lining the tables by the windows, lingering over wine and quiet conversation.

When a rumble shakes the floor—

And when there’s a rumble in Metropolis, there’s bound to be property damage.

You step out of the kitchen into the front, eyes darting to the windows just in time to see Superman.

He’s darting through the sky, a streak of red and blue, lifting debris, carrying people to safety.

Though you're afraid, you feel your heart start to calm. He’d keep you safe, you knew that.

Later, when the worst of it has passed, he lands nearby, scanning the area one last time.

You step outside before you can overthink it.

“Uh, Superman?” You squeak as you walk right up to him.

He turns to you with that million-dollar smile, “Yes?”

He can sense him assessing you for any injuries, ready to help at a moment's notice.

“I—”

You pause, head tilting slightly, thinking, or rather, knowing, you heard something. It’s like your chef instincts kicked in, tuned like a sixth sense for anyone hungry in the vicinity.

“I think your stomach just grumbled.”

“My stomach? Impossible.”

Right on cue, another distinct grumble echoes through the air.

“…Wait.” You point at him, already backing toward the door. “Right here. I mean it, okay?”

Before he can respond, you’re gone.

The bell above the door chimes wildly as you rush back out five minutes later, slightly out of breath, a plate balanced carefully in your hands.

“I’m a chef, so you can trust me. This is like top-tier stuff,” you say, holding it out to him. “Slow-roasted beef, toasted brioche, plus my signature herb butter sauce. And forgive me for sounding a little cocky, but it’ll knock the socks off your grandma.”

He laughs, and butterflies flood your chest like they were activated by it.

Something about it feels warm…familiar.

“Thank you.”

“Long day?”

“You have no idea.”

He takes a bite, and you hold your breath. You might just die if he hates it. The guy saves lives, he deserves a decent lunch.

“This is amazing,” he beams.

“My first job was at a sandwich place, so I've had a lot of practice.”

“I should—”

You know what he's going to say, so you stop him in his tracks and put your hand on his.

“No, no, no, it's on the house, Superman. You just stopped the whole street from becoming a pancake; it's the least I can do. Plus, I doubt you have anywhere to put a wallet. Unless there are pockets I can't see.”

“No pockets.”

“Thought so.”

***

You found yourself inspired yet again, ideas bubbling over faster than you could keep up, churning out sandwich after sandwich after Superman’s visit the day prior.

So inspired, in fact, that you found yourself making a sandwich for a certain journalist you couldn’t quite stop thinking about, sending it to the Daily Planet with a note: “Since you like my food so much.”

As you cool down from your lunch service, your phone buzzes. It’s a text back from Clark, with the cutest slightly off-centre picture of him holding the sandwich, a thumbs up taking up half the frame, like he’s just discovered selfies.

You snort at it, typing out a quick, “Don’t let it get cold.”

He’s such a dork.

You feel yourself brimming with ideas nowadays. You can’t stop them; you’re a fountain of inspiration. Everything just makes sense, like it’s just clicking into place. The puzzle in your mind slowly completes itself. Everything that new feeling goes straight into what you’re cooking.

As you bounce ideas off your sous-chef, pacing slightly, hands moving as fast as your thoughts, she chuckles.

“I haven’t seen you this inspired in a while.”

“Yeah, something’s changed, I guess,” you mumble. 

“Or someone?”

“Hm?”

“The super hot guy that’s shown up three or four nights this week?”

You roll your eyes, turning back to your prep for dinner. “It’s nothing.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

You try to ignore the way your lips betray you, curling into a smile so bright that someone could see it from the moon.

***

As if to prove your sous-chef right, Clark’s here again, just stepping in as you clear down. Your head snaps up at the sound of the cars rushing by, becoming muffled as he closes the door behind him.

“Clark?” Your voice jumps an octave, far too excited to hide it. He looks good, almost good enough to eat.

“Hey, I was just in the neighbourhood… I thought I’d visit. Are you busy?"

You blink, then gesture vaguely behind you. “No, I’m just clearing up. About to head out.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Ironically, no. Why? Are you offering?” You chuckle. 

“Maybe?”

Seeing him outside the restaurant?

You know you’d be a fool not to say yes. 

“You’re on.”

***

After a brisk walk, you reach his apartment.

It’s all comfy and lived-in, books and newspapers strewn across his coffee table, a quiet view that overlooks the city skyline, a wide array of ambient lamps glowing softly in the evening light.

“So what are we doing?” you ask, stepping into the kitchen, leaning lightly against the counter, arms crossed.

“We are not doing anything. You’re sitting back as I cook for you.”

You think of arguing, but that thought quickly dies when you think about how distractingly appealing it would be to watch him cook, sleeves rolled up, his forearms flexing as he moves, completely focused on pleasing you, and decide to acquiesce.

“And what are you making for me, Chef?”

“Breakfast for dinner.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say breakfast for dinner?”

“Just sit back and relax.”

“Most days, I skip breakfast, so this will be a nice change of pace.”

“Skipping meals, especially breakfast? That seems illegal for a chef, no?”

“Oh, shut up.”

He leads you to his kitchen island, and you sit, watching him from your perch, chin resting in your hand, eyes following every movement whether you mean to or not.

He makes quick work of clearing space, pulling ingredients together, taking out pans and bowls with an ease that feels almost practised, starting on eggs like he’s done this a thousand times before. Though the thought that he’s made breakfast for someone like this does have you feeling a little jealous. 

“How do you like your eggs?” he asks, interrupting your pouting. 

“Soft-boiled,” you reply, a little too quickly, like you’ve been waiting to be asked.

He moves around the kitchen with quiet confidence, tossing bacon into a pan with a sharp sizzle.

“Why do you come by my restaurant so often?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

“It’s like you said. It’s my coup de cœur.”

“Is it just my food?”

He pauses and turns from the stove to look you in the eyes. It's so distracting that you think they should be registered weapons.

“It’s not just your food.”

You look away, knowing that if you looked any longer, you’d end up a puddle on his floor.

“Someone once told me that cooking is an act of love,” you murmur, almost like you’re letting him in on a secret.

“Yeah?” he asks softly, turning down the bacon as he approaches the kitchen island, leaning across from the other side, bringing himself just a little closer. 

Eye to eye.

"It was a chef I met when I studied in France for a bit. It was this super-intense French kitchen. I felt like throwing myself in a blender half the time."

You chuckle at the memory of the head chef throwing a pan of coq au vin into the trash just as you were completely it after a single look at it. It wasn't funny haha then, and it isn't funny haha now, so maybe the chuckle is a trauma response.

“Fresh out of culinary school, it was like being on a different planet. My French was shit, I barely understood half the orders being shouted at me, but even being what felt like a million miles away, I cooked my way through it. Made the soup that my mother would make me when I got sick, or the ridiculous overloaded grilled cheese sandwich that my dad called a ‘five-star meal’. And after that one bite, it felt like I was right back there with them.”

Even now, you can taste the salty warmth of broth and melted butter on toasted bread, the memory bringing a soft smile to your face.

“And I… held onto that, knowing that they made them because they loved me. And with every dish I make, every dish I eat, I hold the idea that no matter how far away you are, one dish can make you feel right at home. It’s cheesy, I know.”

“I happen to love cheese so…”

“You love cheese?”

“My favourite’s gouda,” he admits, a little sheepish, and you lightly punch his arm.

“Of course it is. So… what's the Kent family speciality?"

“Biscuits and gravy… takes me back to potlucks and Sunday mornings with more food than anyone could reasonably eat.” 

“You'll have to make it for me sometime so I can add it to my mental recipe rolodex.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says like it's a promise.

His hand inches toward yours. You notice him hesitate like he wants to hold it, but isn’t sure if he should.

“Is that why you cook?” he asks.

“I’d say so. I don't know, I just like to take them to places they’ve never been or places they haven’t been in a while, all through food. I find it interesting, like the association of taste and memory…”

“Are we making a memory, right now?”

You nod, your mind wrapped up in a soft haze. “I think so. Breakfast for dinner will always belong to you, Clark Kent.”

Taking the leap, his hand finally closes the distance, and you feel your heart bloom like a red tulip in spring. He toys with your hand, the rings on your fingers, tracing the small scar you got from the first time you tried cutting onions too fast and nicked yourself for it. 

"Cooking is an act of love..." He repeats.

You huff, nudging him lightly with your free hand. “You’re such a dork.” 

"You're the one who said it."

"Yes, yes, that's true but..."

You look up from your intertwined hands, catching his eyes, just as smitten with you as you are with him. "There's just something about you saying it."

Letting out a slow breath, your body visibly relaxing as the moment settles around you.

“Makes it… dorky.”

He chuckles before taking your hand and kissing it lightly, the tenderness of it, sending your heart into overdrive. It was a soft brush of his lips against your hands. Hands which work so hard day after day, to feel him kiss them as if they were something precious, made you feel like you were melting. 

The moment is interrupted as you both hear the bubbling in the background start to get quite ferocious, “The eggs!”

With a rush, you both fumble back over to the stove, nearly bumping into each other in the process.

“The soft-boiled eggs might be slightly hard-boiled now.”

As he lifts the lid off, the steam gets in his face, so, like the kind person you are, you reach for him on instinct. Just a simple, absent-minded gesture.

“Won’t your glasses fog up?”

Without thinking too much about it, you take off his glasses to de-fog them.

Clark doesn’t move.

You don’t even notice that Clark has become a statue as you wipe off his glasses with your sleeve, humming to yourself oh-so innocently. 

Looking back up, you freeze too. 

It's like you’ve both looked at Medusa.

If you weren’t mistaken, Superman was now standing right in front of you, but that can’t possibly be, right? The whole world starts to tilt on its axis as you fumble with Clark’s glasses.

What the fuck is going on?

Slowly, almost mechanically, you put his glasses back on his face. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Internally, you are absolutely not okay.

Out loud, you add, “Though we should probably talk about what I just saw.”

“…Probably.”

“You let me take them off,” you sputter out, trying to rationalise what you just witnessed.

“I didn't see it coming.”

“You're Superman. I’m sure I was practically moving in slow motion.”

“Are you mad? Scared?” he asks carefully. 

“Wait, mad? Scared? Why would I be scared?”

“I can hear your heartbeat.”

“My heart isn't racing because I'm scared. I guess I'm just surprised…”

You twiddle your fingers, toying with your rings, “Excited?”

“Excited?” he repeats back to you, his eyebrows quirked up in confusion. 

“Okay,” you add, slightly breathless. “Maybe a little overwhelmed. This is a lot, you’re a lot. In an amazing and kinda batshit crazy way. I mean…you’re Superman.”

“I’m still me,” he says.

“I know, I know. It's just going to take some or a lot of getting used to, I guess, because, well, holy shit.”

You gesture at him wildly, trying and failing to get your breathing back to normal.

“You’re taking this better than most people.”

“Yeah, well. Most people haven’t had their best customer turn into a superhero while they’re trying not to over boil eggs.”

He laughs at your joke, and you feel yourself ease up. Not only was he a cute journalist, but a superhero?

Jackpot.

“Did you like the sandwich I gave you yesterday…Superman?” you ask as you step into his space, your hand brushing against his.

“Yeah, it was absolutely delicious.”

Like “delicious” was your activation word, you step forward and pull him in by the tie before you can think better of it, pulling him slightly off balance. 

He says your name breathy, almost desperate.  You gulp, fuck, it sounds too good on his lips, those words of his. 

Without delaying for another second, you kiss him like you've been starving for him all your life. 

His hands find your waist, holding onto you as you try to climb him like he’s a tree.

The soft moans that escape his lips only urge you on. If you didn't need to breathe, you never would've let go.

You separate to catch your breath, your eyes locked onto one another. You're both hungry but not for pancakes or hashbrowns.

“So you’re okay with me being Superman?” he asks.

“If the way I just attacked your face is any indication, yes. Now, kiss me before I lose all my nerve.”

Like he's been waiting for it, he pulls you back in, all but melting against you. He kisses you as if his life depends on it, like he never knew it could feel so good.

Behind you, the stove clicks softly as you turn it off without looking.

As if reading your mind, he pulls back just a little bit to murmur in a husky voice, “Jump.”

You follow his order, and he lifts you up into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist. 

“Fuck…” you mumble to yourself.

You could get used to this.

“Bedroom?” He asks, searching your face for any hesitation.

You nod excitedly, “Please.”

The world outside can wait.

***

Morning greets you happily, and you greet it back with a big smile. 

Everything that Clark did to you last night is still fresh in your mind, just thinking about it makes you feel tingly.

You find your face pressed against Clark’s chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively. 

And you must admit, his pecs make good pillows.

You sneak out of bed, successfully not waking him, ready to cook a breakfast to end all breakfasts.

Clark wakes up a while after you to the sound of a busy kitchen.

He follows the noises to see you already cooking and humming to yourself, completely at ease.

In that moment, he wonders to himself if you know just how wonderful you are. It’s like everything you do only makes him fall that much more. 

“Morning,” he drawls, his voice deeper from just waking up. Your head snaps up, pupils dilating the moment you lay eyes on him.

“Good morning to you too.”

He rounds the kitchen island to wrap his arms around you from behind.

“Unfortunately, due to you keeping me up last night, we have to have breakfast for breakfast,” you tell him as you crack an egg.

“I'm sorry,” Clark murmurs against your neck, kissing your skin lightly. He just can't help himself.

"How are you making our eggs today?" He asks as he lifts his head from the crook of your neck.

“I was gonna make us omelettes. How do you normally like them? Scrambled? Poached?”

“Sunny side up.”

“I should've known.”

Among the ingredients spread across his countertop, he notices something he doesn't remember buying.

He looks between you and the bread, “This was not in my pantry.”

You shrug at him, "So what if I snuck out to go buy a baguette? It’s going to taste divine, my bread guy baked it just this morning.”

“Your bread guy?” Clark chuckles, the laugh vibrating against your back.

“Oh yeah, fresh ingredients are my love language. Just you wait until I drag you to a farmer’s market, I'll be bouncing off the damn walls.”

He kisses your cheek lightly.

“It's a date.”

***

A little over a month has passed, and you've fallen head over heels.

Farmer’s market dates have become a routine, Sundays spent perusing stalls as if you’ve always done it.

Of course, Clark has been showing up at the restaurant just as often, sometimes helping carry crates when you don’t ask him to and coming to keep you company when you're up late doing prep.

He even surprised you one night by sliding a bowl of beef noodle soup straight from your favourite restaurant in Taiwan. You had been dreaming of this soup since your trip last year. 

“Did you fly there?” you asked, mouth agape.

“You told me how much you missed it and I—”

Safe to say you didn't let him finish his sentence, practically leaping into his arms and kissing him senseless.

Some nights, you fall asleep at his apartment without meaning to. Just sitting beside him for a moment that turns into hours, your head on his shoulder, as he reads to you.

And now, you’ve never been more inspired. Ideas don’t feel like something you have to force, freeing yourself from the likes of the Bearnaise sauce graveyard.

 Love will do that to a person, you suppose.

The pressure you used to carry like a second spine continues to loosen. You’re not digging yourself into a little hole. Instead, you’re taking it one plate at a time.

Your restaurant is closed, it’s late at night, and you’ve already said goodbye to the last of your staff. You enjoy the kind of quiet that only comes after a full service settles over the dining room, after a job well done. 

You walk out of the kitchen and stop still.

Standing among the empty tables is Clark, a smile blooms on his face the moment you step into view.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had to stop by.”

“You had to.” Looking him over, like he stepped out of your wildest dreams, “With flowers?”

He shifts a little, suddenly a touch sheepish. That dimpled smile appears like it always does when he’s trying to charm you. It works every single time. “Yes. With flowers.”

“I would be insane if I left things the way we have.”

You hold your hands behind your back with an easy smile and an even easier lilt in your step.

“And how have we left things?” you ask with a tilt of your head.

“It has been a month, a wonderful month, and we've never said the words. Never put a label on it.”

You continue to weave through the tables, footsteps soft against the floor, until you’re standing just close enough to feel his heart beating in time with yours or at least imagine it.

The dim amber light spills over his handsome face in a golden wash, like he's stepped straight out of a painting.

Outside, rain begins tapping gently against the windows, a familiar pitter-patter.

“And you want to?”

One more step, your shoes are just short of his.

“Put a label on it?”

“I do, you have no idea how much.” He reaches out and takes your hands in his softly. “If I could be so lucky, I would like to be your boyfriend.”

“I’d like that. A lot.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks without realising it, then leans in and presses a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“Are you going to call me a dork again?”

“It’s a term of endearment, Clark,” you say, smiling as you lean in to kiss his cheek. “You’re my dork… and I’m yours.” 

Then your eyes brighten as if you’ve just remembered something very important. 

“Oh! I have something to show you!”

You pull back just enough to grab a menu from the nearby table and wave it at him with unmistakable pride.

“Now serving breakfast for dinner, once a week.”

“Really?”

“What can I say? You inspired me.”

He wraps his arms around you and picks you up, spinning you around. 

“Clark!” You chuckle before returning to the ground. 

Though you don't get a moment to catch your breath as his lips find your neck, intent on covering every square inch of it with his touch.

“Let's go to my office.”

“I'll follow your lead.

With a smirk, you grab onto his tie and pull him towards the doors at the back. Making things official between the two of you deserves a proper celebration.

***

You hate being a royal.

You’re the princess of a small nation, though your family is slowly but surely losing influence on the world stage, only clinging to their ageing ties to Andor like a drowning man grasping driftwood.

Though you’d describe it less as diplomacy and more as your father flailing around in silk and gold, making fools of your family at every court gathering, living only to appease your allies rather than listening to the pleas of your own people. More jester than king.

So you sat on your royal ass, dragged from banquet to banquet, estate to estate, smiling through hollow conversations while knowing that if push ever came to shove, they’d marry you off to strengthen trading ties or secure soldiers for some border dispute your father was too weak to solve himself.

Now, in Tar Valon, the walls seemed to close in tighter than ever. You didn’t like this place, much preferring Camelyn or even the windswept coasts of Mayene. Though you liked it even less from behind a gilded window.

So you decided to take fate into your own hands tonight.

With anticipation licking at your heels, you feel your heart pounding in your chest. 

The guard detail had been reduced to just one, Brim, you recalled, patrolling outside your room, the rest swept away to some lavish party your parents were attending, celebrating Light knew what this time.

Brim would be easily distracted, thanks to his hopeless affinity for one of your handmaidens. He’d stumble over his own words and fawn like a love-struck fool every time she walked by.

Grabbing your dark cloak from the chair you had carelessly tossed it on earlier that evening, you moved silently across the room.

You tiptoe over to the door to make one last check.

Leaning in, you pressed your ear against the wooden door. You heard faint conversation outside, Brim’s voice drifting through.

“Well, I happened to have two of my regiment asking after me just last month. One might say I am a hot commodity…”

You smile to yourself, “How typical.”

With a deep breath, you fastened the cloak around your shoulders and headed to the window, ready to see what Tar Valon had to offer.

***

Despite your aversion to it, the city was beautiful, you had to give it that.

The sprawling greens climbing the pale stone buildings, the glow of lanternlight reflecting off polished bridges spanning the canals, the distant shimmer of the White Tower standing imposingly in the distance against the night sky, it all felt almost dreamlike.

You look around slowly, taking in everything you can see, locking each detail away in your mind for those moments you wish to disappear into your own thoughts.

It was busy tonight. Some festival, you presumed.

Music drifts through the streets while laughter echoes from crowded taverns. Merchants from near and far shout over one another, eager to snatch every passing coin from passersby before the night ends.

You wander past market stalls, peering at strange trinkets and colourful fabrics with open curiosity.

“What’s this?” you ask, stopping before a cluttered display sparkling beneath hanging lanterns.

The vendor, a wiry woman with too many rings, leans forward excitedly like today is her lucky day.

“It’s sea glass all the way from the distant Aryth Ocean, polished smooth by the tides themselves! Only ten marks, and it can be all yours.”

You picked up the necklace carefully, watching as the pale blue glass glittered softly between your fingers.

Pretty.

Without another thought, you dug into your coin purse, pulling out the requested coins and handing them over, completely unaware of just how badly you were overpaying.

The woman’s grin somehow widened further; any more and you fear she might unhinge her jaw. “You should get a bracelet to go with it, perhaps a charm for a friend!”

“That is quite alright, thank you for the kind offer!” you chirp quickly, stepping away before she could convince you to buy half the stall along with it.

You turn sharply into the flow of people and immediately slam into someone solid.

“My apologies,” you groan, rubbing your head.

“Careful there, my lady.”

When you looked up, you found yourself staring at a young man with a kind grin and pretty eyes. 

Suddenly, it's hard to focus, and you can't remember if that always happened or if it's because of this handsome stranger.

He raises a brow as his eyes land on the necklace nestled in your hand before smirking.

“Burn me, you didn’t actually pay five marks for that, did you?” he asked incredulously.

“Ten, actually,” you corrected proudly. “It's beautiful, is it not? You see, it is all the way from the Aryth Ocean, and I have never travelled that far.”

You twirl it between your fingers, marvelling as it catches the lantern light around you, soft blues reflecting across your skin.

“I am quite afraid neither has this trinket. They probably picked it from the banks of the river this morning and polished it with sand.”

You gasp at his words, your heart sinking in an instant. “You cannot be serious…”

“It might only be worth three coppers. Or even less.”

“I’ve been swindled…” you mutter miserably, looking down at the necklace in defeat. Mere minutes out on your own, and you had already been cheated out of ten marks.

“Well, thank you for informing me, kind stranger,” you sigh, though slightly dejected by your disastrous first purchase.

He tips his head kindly, “Mat.”

You give him your name with a polite curtsey, your subconscious acting before you could stop yourself.

The moment you straighten, you freeze rigidly.

“Nobility?” he asks immediately. 

So much for keeping a low profile.

“N-no…” you lie, though it was about as believable as one would expect. You had never been a good liar. 

From the time you had periodically stolen all of your mother’s jewellery as a child and been caught lying through your teeth about it even as it was spilling out of your pillow case, you had learned you were far better off simply telling the truth. 

At least most of the time.

“You are far too elegant to be anything else,” he says, looking pointedly at the “sea glass” necklace before chuckling. “And too gullible.”

With a huff, you smack his chest lightly, which only made Mat laugh harder.

“May I assist you? Show you around? I would hate for you to get swindled again, my lady.”

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. In fact, I was just headed to the river market, and I assure you I have learnt my lesson, so if you’ll excuse me.”

You turn sharply and start walking with as much confidence as you could muster, though you had absolutely no idea where the river market actually was.

“I do believe you are headed in the wrong direction. Did you realise that?”

Your steps slow, and after a painfully long pause, you pivot back toward Mat with whatever dignity you could salvage.

“Of course, I knew that. I was simply testing you.”

“I see. And did I pass, my lady?” he muses.

“Indeed. Though I could have done without the sarcastic tone.”

He gives you a mock bow before gently taking your hand.

At the contact, your heart skips a beat.

His hands feel warm where yours were cold, his slightly calloused from work or perhaps endless travel, while yours remained soft and delicate from silk gloves and at most a paper cut.

“Mat…” you whisper, the sound nearly lost beneath the festival crowd.

He presses a kiss against your knuckles, and the feeling of his lips there sends sparks racing up your arm straight to your brain.

“I will refrain from being so sarcastic,” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a mischievous little look on his face. “Happy?”

“Quite.”

You turn your head away from him coyly, as though avoiding his gaze might somehow quiet the frantic pounding of your heart. It does nothing of the sort.

He smiles at you like you were entirely adorable without needing to do so much as breathe.

Then he releases your hand and jerks his head toward the lantern-lit streets ahead.

“Let’s go.”

“Where exactly?”

“Trust me.”

***

“You cannot be serious.”

You look around you, the tavern bursting with life as patrons sing loudly and dance across the worn wooden floors without a care in the world.

The man in front of you stands there, his brown eyes shining with mischief, his hand extended patiently for you to take.

“Dance with me. You must,” Mat insists.

“I cannot.”

“I thought all you noble types took dance lessons from the moment you left the womb.”

“Yes, but not like this…”

You glance around at the tavern patrons spinning and stumbling through dances that looked entirely made up as they went along. From friends of many years to strangers in the night, it's a beautiful sight to behold.

It brings a small smile to your face.

There had never been a feast or royal ball you attended that held even an ounce of the warmth filling this room right now. No politics or nobles pretending to enjoy each other’s company while sharpening their metaphorical daggers.

Just people enjoying life and the gift of being alive.

Taking advantage of your distraction, Mat suddenly grabbed your hand and pulled you toward an empty space amongst the dancers.

“Mat!”

He spun you around before you could protest further, laughter escaping him as your cloak flared around you.

“Live a little! I can tell already that you worry far too much.”

“But I do not know the dance.”

“Simply follow my lead. I’m quite the dancer.”

Mat leads you around the crowded tavern floor, and somehow you manage surprisingly well as you avoid stepping on his feet, for the most part.

His hand tilts gently beneath your chin, guiding your head upward until your eyes meet his.

“It’s easier to dance if you look your partner in the eye.”

You wanted to argue, but the protest died on your lips before it could fully form. 

The music wrapped around you like a living thing, fiddles and drums echoing through the tavern while warm lanternlight paints everything amber. Shadows flicker across the walls as patrons spin around you in a pretty blur, the entire room glowing like you're in a dream.

And then there’s the company.

He’s handsome, you realise unwillingly. Far more handsome than any suitor your parents floated your way, and far more charming too.

If Mat were your suitor, he would never bore you to sleep or send you running for the hills, you know that for a fact.

His dark curls bounce with each step the two of you took together, and every joke he'd lean in to whisper in your ear made your pulse stumble embarrassingly in your chest. 

He's so close, close enough you could count his eyelashes and feel his chest pressed against yours. All the sense you have was falling away like sand through open fingers, just from the feeling of his hand on the small of your back.

At this point, you were worse than Brim. 

For the first time in years, you forgot entirely what it meant to be a princess.

The fiddle plays its final note, and a chorus of cheers and claps erupt.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks, and you nod.

***

The two of you walked along one of the gardens bordering the city, quieter than the bustling taverns and festival streets, though a few couples still wandered the winding paths beneath the trees as well.

The path was bathed in silver moonlight, the cool glow highlighting the sharp lines of Mat’s face whenever he glanced your way.

All in all, you listen as he animatedly tells you of all his adventures. “So…you blew a horn once?”

He tuts playfully, “Not just any horn. The Horn of Valere. I practically singlehandedly changed the tide of the Battle of Falme. I even had a painting made. I should show it to you sometime.”

You chuckle and nod, “I would absolutely love to see it. I hope it does you justice.”

Walking backwards ahead of him, you keep your eyes fixed on Mat while he watches you in a way you hadn’t noticed before… or perhaps it was simply the first time you had ever looked back at someone the same way.

“This has been more fun than I’ve had in a long time,” you admit softly.

“What do you normally do day to day then? Aside from stealing the hearts of everyone you encounter.”

“Funny.”

You look upward thoughtfully, scanning your mind for an answer that did not sound unbearably dull.

“I do, well, you know, typical things. Reading, painting, embroidery, pretending to listen to my mother's rants…”

“A woman of many talents,” Mat teases. “I like it.”

“Well, it’s difficult to find excitement in the castle. It can get awfully boring, I'm not even allowed to ride the horses around after the incident—”

“Castle?” he interrupts as if the word just reached his brain.

Your steps falter immediately as you stabilise yourself.

“Sorry?”

“You said castle.”

“Who said what?”

Mat grins, clearly enjoying your panic far too much.

“You said you live in a castle.”

Mat steps closer into your space, brown eyes scanning your face carefully. You had to stop yourself from asking what exactly was so interesting about it.

“You’re not just nobility,” he says slowly. “Are you royalty?”

The fight you put up to stop a scream leaving your throat is a tough one. Your mind goes into defence mode and begins desperately planning escape routes.

Maybe you could scale the garden wall and slip back into the city crowds. Steal a horse if absolutely necessary, you've done it before, and you could do it again.

“Don’t worry,” Mat says quickly, seeing dread written on your face in capital letters. “I won’t tell a soul.”

He crosses his heart theatrically.

“I promise, and I am a man of my word.”

“You better be. Or… or… I’ll send someone after you.”

“You’re threatening me?”

“Yes!” you insist, frowning deeply when his grin only widened further at the prospect. “And don’t look so amused. I am a very serious woman. And as you now know, a princess. Take me seriously.”

Mat looks at you for one long moment before laughter escapes him under his breath.

“Oh, Light help me, you’re terrible at being intimidating,” he mumbles fondly.

He runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a sigh, “I will keep your secret, princess. There's no need to hire an assassin.”

“Good.”

You pause to look him over and tap your foot lightly against the stone underneath you.

“...I happen to like you.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, hush.”

***

The two of you walked back toward the place you were staying, the night still young, not even midnight, though you were heading back to your gilded cage already.

It saddens you to end your little adventure so soon, especially when somewhere out in the city, you were fairly certain your father was already on his second or third round of ale, laughing too loudly at something that probably wasn’t even funny.

You smile up at Mat as he walks beside you, hands loose at his sides, his right one swinging near yours, your fingers brushing every once in a while.

Reluctantly, you slow to a stop near a quiet stretch of lantern-lit street.

“I guess this is me.”

“I guess it is,” he replies, sounding just as unenthused as you.

“Keep this,” you demand, placing the necklace into the palm of his hand. 

“Why would you—?”

“Give it back to me if we meet again one day.”

He nods at the idea and replies, “I’d like that,” as he closes his fingers carefully around it.

“So, I suppose, I will see you then. Whenever that may be,” you say through a sad smile.

“I suppose so.”

With a deep breath, you start to walk towards the window, preparing to scale the walls in a very impressive fashion.

But as you hear his steps start to descend the cobblestone path, you can't help but feel the urge to stop him.

So, listening to your heart for once, you yell, “Wait!”

He turns around to see you running up to him, your eyes full of determination.

 “I’d like something to remember you by too,” you tell him, slightly out of breath from the little run you did and from what you're about to do.

Light, help you.

With the moon as your witness, you reach up, pull him closer and close the gap between your lips.

He freezes just long enough for you to worry that you made a mistake. But before you can pull away and let out a flurry of apologies, he kisses you back.

The shock melts away like snow after the first day of Spring as his hands come up to cup your face. The world melts around the two of you as the kiss deepens, his lips moving against yours like it's second nature.

All you can focus on is him, the way he caresses your cheek softly and how he can't stop himself from smiling into the kiss.

It feels like swimming, or maybe floating. Like letting go of every rule you’d ever been taught about distance and decorum and duty. You never wanted to come back up for air.

When you finally break apart, you already want to go back for more. You have never been this insatiable.

“I don’t want this night to end,” Mat murmurs, his forehead still resting against yours. “Would you want to—?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, before he could even finish asking. “Please, yes.”

You intertwine your fingers with his, and together you start walking back toward wherever he calls home.

For a moment, you glance back at your open window as it gets further and further away. 

Being a princess could wait just a few more hours.

***

Mat Cauthon is the bane of your existence.

He’s been flirting with you since the second you introduced yourself.

Though admittedly, the eyes that met yours were beautiful, you cannot be swayed by a kind word and a handsome face. 

You were an Aes Sedai, a woman of the White Tower, a picture of discipline at that. 

As he rattles on about his supposed luck and daring escapes, he says, “You’re staring, you know,” he comments. “Am I that charming?”

You puff out your chest in an indignant huff. “Not at all. I think I can handle a simple boy from a simple village.” 

Taking your hand in a swift motion, he brings your knuckles to his lips, the soft brush of his lips against your skin, making your heart start to waver. 

Not that you’d ever truly admit that.

Though in honesty, it had been hard to rationalise. You’d spent part of your teens and your young adult life in the White Tower, so attention like this was… new. So was the pitter-patter of your heart and the sudden shallowness of breath you’ve been hit with. 

Is talking to someone supposed to knock all the air out of you? Light, help you. What was happening?

It was foolish. You had been trained better than this, taught to master yourself, to command your emotions, not be ruled by them like some lovestruck novice sneaking glances at a warder-in-training across a training yard.

You yank your hand back, to which he chuckles. An arrogant little sound that pricks at your good sensibilities. 

Just who did he think he was?

“I think you’ll come to find that I am anything but simple,” he tells you, full of what you assumed was unfounded confidence. 

“I highly doubt it.”

***

He would not let you breathe.

He was getting comfortable, more comfortable than you would hope.

Just this morning, as you were rushing to meet with a sister from the Green Ajah, he bumped into you on the way to the training yard.

Catching you by the waist before you could so much as stumble, he beamed down at you. “Light… it seems I’ve been visited by a vision. How did I get so lucky?”

“I am not in the mood,” you grumble as you separate from him. 

This had been at least the third time this week. It seems the Wheel has been conspiring against you, placing him directly in your path, in every corridor and every courtyard. Always smiling, always entirely too pleased with himself, and more than ready to flirt with you.

It was as though he had a sick enjoyment of being rejected.

“You seem rather tense. Are you sure I can’t help?” he asks lightly, falling into step beside you. “I’ve been told I’ve got rather… gifted hands. I’m sure I could relax even the most stubborn of Aes Sedai.”

Impulsively, he reached out and poked the little crease between your brows, the one that had formed from your deepening frown.

“I do not require your services, Mat,” you groan as you swat away his hand like you were shooing away a fly. “Save it for someone who may fall for your charms. Though I’m not entirely certain there’s anyone left, you’ve likely flirted with every woman in Tar Valon.”

“But none interest me in the ways that you do.”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh at that. One thing you had come to almost admire about the man is his propensity for being ridiculous.

“Wouldn’t you rather pursue someone who actually responds to your advances?” you ask. In truth, you hadn’t expected his persistence to last this long. But it was only a matter of time before he gave up, right? 

“What can I say?” he replied with an easy shrug.

You just had to remain strong, you just had to—

He leans in suddenly, your breath catching, your mouth dry in a second. At the drop of a hat, he’s zeroed in on you. As if watching you get more and more flustered and revelling in it. 

His breath tickles your ear as he says, “I’m a glutton for punishment.”

With that, he leaves you. Your facial expression remains unchanged and still, but your heart races, betraying all that you know is right. 

***

Since that day, he only seemed to up the ante.

An accidental touch here, his gaze focused on you, even when someone else is talking. It was driving you mad.

You could barely centre yourself anymore.

One moment you’d be controlling a weave, the threads of the One Power flowing smoothly, then he would pop into your head and your weave would falter, unravelling into nothing.

And it wouldn’t be any image. It would be downright obscene.

You can even see it now. 

In your mind, Mat sits on your bed in one of those shirts he loves to walk around in, the neck of which is so deep he may as well waltz around the Tower shirtless. He’s bathed in the morning light, the golden glow catching on his strong arms and highlighting the dangerous look in his eyes. 

Positively feral. 

He didn’t hesitate to pull you down with him to his bed, kissing everywhere he could reach like a man possessed. Soft gasps, leaving his lips when your fingers find his curls and pull just hard enough to send waves of need through his body. A series of compliments followed, “So beautiful,” and “Light… I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like you,” gracing your ears.

Before looking down at your form pinned beneath you and saying your name. Not like he’s ever said it to you before in real life.

He sounded desperate. 

For your touch, or maybe just your attention. 

He needed it. 

No wonder your weaves kept falling apart. 

This has never happened to you. 

It’s like you’ve been plagued with a sickness called Mat Cauthon and not even a sister of the Yellow Ajah could heal you of this particular ailment. 

You stand in your room now, frustration building, as yet another weave slips through your fingers. 

This was unacceptable.

You inhaled slowly, finding the Source, embracing it, letting it fill you. You were in control, not him, not the traitorous thoughts that loved to invade your mind. 

You. 

The weave formed as you found clarity, only to be suddenly interrupted by you know who. Your door creaks open, and Mat says, “Well, if it isn’t my favourite Aes Sedai.”

You spun toward him, all that pent-up frustration coming out with a screech. “Do you make it a habit to interrupt me, or is this a particular hobby of yours when it comes to me?”

“I’d say it’s a bit of both,” he admitted. “Though in my defence, you make it very easy.”

“What do you want?” you spit as you give up and plop yourself down on one of your chairs. 

It certainly didn’t help that he’s always in your space, always dropping by to bother you, asking you pointless questions just for the chance to ask you more. 

With each passing day, no, with each passing minute, he was becoming a greater headache than before. 

“I was curious. Why don't you have a warder?” he asks as he lounges on your bed as if it’s his own. 

He came here to ask that? You should throw him in a well. 

“I do not have a warder because I do not require one,” you reply, rubbing your eyes tiredly. 

“Oh?”

He gets up from your bed and walks over to you, keeping a close eye on your facial expressions. 

You hate it. 

“None of the Warders in training are quite right for me. I’m sure they’re skilled enough, but to have a Warder is to be a team, to be connected in ways that no one else can understand.” Your voice cools slightly at the thought of someone being privy to your innermost thoughts all the time. “There is no one I trust in such a way.” 

“For example…”

You get up too and step forward, into his personal bubble, not that he seems to mind. That dastardly smirk of his finds its way onto his face. 

“You would not make a fine warder,” you dismiss.

“You wound me.”

“Not as much as you wound me.”

The two of you, as if in a dance, circle one another, feeling out one another’s space, each other’s boundaries. It’s a game of give and take, and Mat loves to take. 

To pull you in with words, to turn you about until you lost your footing, and once he had you, he’ll give you what you’ve been too in your head about to receive. 

It’s like a rope; the harder you resist, the more it binds you to one another. 

You find yourself by his side, but facing away, your eyes set on the window, but not taking in the view. 

“I wound you?”

His voice deepens as he dips his head lower to look at you. It irks you to absolutely no end. As if he wasn’t close enough, now pressed against your side, personal space nothing more than a suggestion to the two of you.

“With your words. Does my being an Aes Sedai mean nothing to you?” you ask as you finally turn to look at him. 

Absentmindedly, you run your fingers along the hem of his shirt, rolling the fabric between your fingers. Completely unaware of how crazy it was driving him.

“I thought I made that clear the moment we met.”

He had. 

The endless flirting, the teasing, he wants you in ways that you’re not sure anyone has ever wanted you.

It’s like you're fighting a battle with yourself, you know very well that you shouldn’t get involved with anyone. 

You know better.

Not to mention it’s Mat Cauthon. You couldn’t think of a worse distraction if you tried. 

But as you stand chest-to-chest, your hand in his shirt, you can’t help but wonder what if?

***

“Patience.”

“You’re not exactly making it easy.”

You're on top of him, warming his cock like you have been for the past thirty minutes. Cam was starting to lose it.

“You have no idea what I want to do to you.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” you smirk, leaning down to nibble at his ear. Even the smallest touch had him arching up into you.

To have you looking like a dream, wearing nothing but one of his jerseys, but not being able to do a thing about it.

Watching as you ignored him half the time, like a complete brat.

You even took a phone call while on his dick.

“Tonight?” you said into the phone, running your hands over his broad shoulders as if testing their strength.

He watched you, giving you his undivided attention.

“No way! Tell me everything,” you gawked and proceeded to listen to their story for a full ten minutes.

Ten minutes of pure torture.

Ten minutes of you rocking your hips every time you felt him start to get comfortable, like you were testing his willpower.

You were temptation in human form.

He'd find himself getting close wherever he saw you smirk at him struggling to keep quiet.

There were a few times when he was less than quiet and your friend on the phone noticed something but you brushed it off with a quick, “It's just the TV. I'll tell Cam to turn it down.”

He swears if his arms weren't sore from training he'd have ripped the headboard clean off if he could’ve. After your little phone call, you didn't give him a reprieve.

Not one second.

You kept only moving just enough to get him riled up just to stop from after.

“Want to touch you, need to,” Cam begs.

“You need to?” You tease, poking at his chest.

He hates just how good it sounds coming from your beautiful lips.

“Just... wanna hold you, fuck—”

His arms strain against the makeshift ropes. He’s pent up and tired and all kinds of pissed off and you love it.

“Aww, are you mad, Cam?”

“Damn right I'm mad,” he growls at you. His whole body feels sensitive, like one movement from you would send the house of cards that was his current state of mind crashing down.

“Let someone else lead for once, QB,” you muse before suddenly starting to roll your hips. It's damn near hypnotic.

His lips part as he exhales a shaky breath, eyes screwed up as you continue to ride the sense out of him. He doesn't know if this is his saving grace or if you've just condemned him.

“Please…” he begs, sounding more desperate than he ever has. A little more and you think you might make him cry.

“Please? Well, aren't you such a gentleman, hm?"

Your hands travel up and down his body, down his pecs, over his abs, each touch like electricity.

An evil little smirk finds its way onto your face, having him at your mercy was like nothing else. It's almost too good, watching him shake and plead with those pretty eyes of his.

“Stop playing around…”

Hearing his words, you slow your pace down, cupping his face.

“When I finally give it to you the way you want it, you're going to be so grateful. There's beauty in waiting, Cam.”

Despite his discipline, the waiting feels more like madness than anything else, but he trusts you to give him what he needs.

He turns his head to kiss your wrist, whispering, “So grateful,” right against your pulse point.

“That's my Cam,” you coo.

He forgets his arms are tied up and straining against the rope again. If his hands were free…

The thought repeats in his head over and over as he longs to hold you tight, feel your curves under his palms. Paint a picture with his fingers that would make you shake and cry, just like you were doing to him right now.

But he couldn't have that yet. He had to endure, he had to be—

“So good for me,” you praise, lips painting his face in kisses. You knew he needed to hear it, needed to know that it was all worth it.

You feel him twitch inside of you, begging for release wordlessly.

He throws his head back as you move faster, the feeling almost too much for him to bear. But he would anyway, because more than anything, more than that burning need of release was his need to please you.

To be good for you.

***

He didn't even get to his desk when Perry called him into his office. He might be late for the fifth time this week, but he had to step in and stop a runaway city bus from ploughing into traffic.

It was unavoidable.

He rushed over, almost tripping over his feet, before he entered.

“Kent,” Perry started, fixing that sharp gaze on him he has become all too accustomed to. 

“I know, I’m late, I—”

Perry turns his monitor toward Clark. “What do you know about her?”

His ready-made excuse went out the window as he looked at the screen and saw you.

He had seen you popping up on social media and in local papers for months now, always paired with the tagline, Love is my business.

“Not a whole lot,” Clark admitted slowly, “but I hear she’s the city’s most sought-after matchmaker. Her clients swear she’s never wrong.”

“Yes,” Perry said, leaning forward, “and I want you to run a story on her. Find out what makes her tick, how she does it. You know, get the human angle.”

“Are you sure I’m the person for the job?” Clark asked, brow furrowing slightly.

“Half the office is buried in the Metropolis mayoral scandal,” Perry cut in. “You’re it, Kent.”

And Clark knew there was no arguing with that.

***

Amoré Co. was a pretty building. Right in the centre of Metropolis and even across from one of Clark’s favourite parks. 

The building itself was an elegant old stone structure, its columns draped in twisting vines that bloomed into soft pastel flowers. Warm afternoon light glimmered off the polished windows, like something out of a dream. Rent must cost an arm and a leg.

Clark paused at the base of the steps, taking it in for a moment before pushing open the heavy glass door.

The moment he crossed the threshold, it felt as if he had stepped into another world.

The city’s noise fell away in an instant. The air was warm, carrying the soft scent of fresh flowers, jasmine, he recognised on second thought.

The place was perfectly curated, down to its very last detail. No wonder it's so popular.

Clark stepped up to the front desk, opening his mouth to introduce himself, only to be cut off by a burst of noise coming from down the hall.

Before he could even process what was happening, the source of the commotion came into view.

You.

You were storming toward the lobby at high speed, face full of frustration as your assistant trailed behind you, looking frazzled. 

And he couldn't help but notice that you're wearing a pair of oversized white wings. The poor thing struggled to keep up, clutching a gold-painted bow in one hand and an arrow tipped with a foam heart in the other.

“It’s just one picture for Instagram!” your assistant pleaded breathlessly, like she had been chasing you for an hour, which he did not doubt was the case.

“The bow and arrow are overkill!” you shot back without slowing down, your voice sharp with indignation.

“It’s thematic!”

“Erin. It’s humiliating! I am running a serious business here, not a circus!” you snapped, practically speed-walking now in a desperate bid to escape both the conversation and any further loss of dignity.

Your focus was entirely on making a clean getaway, which was why you didn’t notice the tall man stepping out from the front desk area until you collided with him, full force.

“Oh—!” The breath whooshed out of you as you stumbled backwards, only to find a pair of strong hands catching you by the elbows before you could fall.

You blinked repeatedly, wondering if you had fallen into a new reality as you teetered on your heels. Your life was well and truly in this man's (firm but gentle) grip.

“Are you alright?” he asked with genuine concern.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.

Your hands had landed against his chest without meaning to, and for some inexplicable reason, you didn’t immediately pull them away. You looked up—and up—and up, finally meeting his gaze.

“Yeah, I’m just…” You trailed off, words evaporating as your mind went completely blank. Everything that had just happened vanished like smoke.

Your feet returned fully to the ground, and you suddenly became hyperaware of how warm and safe his hands felt. “Who are you?”

“Oh. Right.” He adjusted his glasses, “Clark Kent. I believe I have an interview scheduled.”

“Clark Kent,” you repeated slowly, tasting the name on your tongue. Then it clicked. “Oh! The journalist. Right, right—I thought you looked familiar.”

You took a half-step back, smoothing your expression into something professional as best as you could. Can't be caught slipping.

“Follow me,” you said briskly, turning sharply on your heel.

Clark fell into step behind you with that quiet, easy stride of his. Despite his size, he didn’t make a sound. No heavy footfalls, no shuffle of clothing, which, frankly, only unsettled you more.

As you moved through the sleek, carefully curated hallways of Amoré Co., you caught movement out of the corner of your eye.

Erin, your endlessly meddling assistant, had taken out her phone and was sneaking a few candid shots of you and Clark walking together.

You didn’t stop waking, but your voice cut through the air like a whip. “Erin.”

The phone vanished so fast it was almost as if it was never there.

“Yes, boss?” she said innocently, flashing a smile that was all teeth.

“If you post any pictures before I approve them, you’ll be updating your résumé before the end of the day.”

Erin’s grin didn’t falter, not one smidge. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You shot her a look that very clearly said I am not joking, then quickened your pace, Clark easily keeping up beside you.

For a brief moment, you caught Erin’s amused smirk out of the corner of your eye, and you realised with a sinking feeling that she was already mentally writing captions like: Our fearless leader and who? 👀

You shut the office door firmly behind you, cutting off any chance of Erin barging in with a camera, a prop, or some wild idea for “brand engagement.” 

The last thing you needed was your assistant turning this interview into a publicity stunt. An interview you're not quite sure you want to be doing anyway.

Your office was a carefully curated space, just like the rest of the building. 

Every detail, from the soft amber lighting to the single plush chair positioned just a little too low, was designed with intent. Comfort bred complacency, and you were anything but.

You slid gracefully into your seat behind the desk, folding one leg over the other. Clark, meanwhile, lowered himself into the guest chair opposite you. 

It made him look slightly awkward and very much too large for the space. 

Perfect.

You rested your chin on your hand, watching him in silence for a moment.

Already, your instincts were running wild, logging every detail and filing it away for later. His posture was slightly hunched and unguarded, but not careless. His eyes are warm, kind… and yet there was something you couldn't quite put your finger on.

“I’ve read a few of your articles,” you said finally, leaning back in your chair.

Clark’s face lit with genuine interest, his brows lifting slightly. “And what did you think?” he asked, like the answer truly mattered to him.

You tilted your head, considering him. “You’re… quite talented,” you admitted, the words reluctant but honest. He wrote about things that mattered and did it with integrity, you could respect that.

A small, pleased smile curved his lips. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, not liking how easily he disarmed you. “Don’t get too comfortable, Kent. I just like to read up on who I’m dealing with.”

“So you’ve done your homework on me.”

“Of course,” you said smoothly, though a flicker of frustration sparked in your chest. Homework implied you’d learned something useful, but Clark Kent had given you nothing but perfectly ordinary facts. Kansas upbringing. Journalism degree. A job at the Daily Planet.

“But enough about you,” you said, lifting a hand dismissively. “Unfortunately, you’re here to learn about me.”

Clark’s lips curved into an amused smile. “I wouldn’t say it’s all that unfortunate. You’re building a real empire here, after all. People want to know who the woman behind it is.”

“Oh, you mean the enigmatic businesswoman who’s somehow convinced an entire country she can find them the love of their life?”

“Something like that.” His teasing tone made you feel tingly. You're not quite sure how to combat that.

You leaned back slightly, folding your arms. “I don’t know if it’s much of a mystery. I see through all the confusing shit and guide them to love. Even though, in my personal experience, it’s…” You trailed off, catching yourself before you said too much. Though it might already be too late.

Clark tilted his head, studying you with that disarming sincerity of his. “So you believe in love for everyone else, but not for yourself.”

“Yes,” you said simply.

Clark’s brows knit together, but he didn’t interrupt as you continued. “I’m convinced it’s not for me. If it were, I definitely would have found them by now.”

You paused, thinking out loud quizically, “Unless they’re not from this planet.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him crack a smile. “Don’t include that in your article. It’s off the record, okay?”

“I won’t, I won’t. I just find it interesting.”

“That I think the love of my life is probably from outer space?”

“No, well, on second thought, yes, that wasn’t what I was focusing on. I just find it interesting that you’re quiite cynical for a matchmaker,” he said at last.

“I'm not cynical, just realistic. I have to be practical, Kent. Can’t let myself get swept up in the… whimsy of all this “love business”.”

“That’s a shame,” he said softly. “I quite like whimsy.” 

You studied him for a long moment; his response was what you expected from what you had gathered already. He sat there in his slightly rumpled suit, shoulders a little curled in like he was trying to take up less space and not just because of the ridiculous chair you put him in. In his massive hands, the small leather notebook he carried looked absolutely tiny. 

And yet there was something about the picture he painted in your mind. It was charming, though you didn’t want to admit that. 

“Of course you like whimsy.”

You kept looking at him. Longer than you should have, longer than was strictly professional.

At first, you told yourself it was just curiosity, or maybe a simple case of trying to size up a new client, or in this case, a journalist. But deep down, you knew better.

Then it hit you like a ton of bricks.

You couldn’t read him.

Your breath caught, a cold ripple of unease sliding down your spine. It was like sweeping your arm around in the dark for a familiar light switch and finding nothing.

Since you were a kid, you’d lived with this strange, extraordinary gift. The ability to see emotions, if you're putting it simply. 

Everyone's emotional auras, threads of connection between people, were on display for your eyes only. You could see who was compatible, and who might one day fall in love.

It was why you’d built Amoré in the first place. Why you could sit across from two strangers and know if they had a future together. The barista at your favourite café, a soft green glow of calm. The skateboarder you’d watched faceplant in front of your building last week, radiating a bright yellow of embarrassment.

Everyone had a pattern. Everyone except… him.

Clark Kent sat across from you like a blank canvas. 

“Huh,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.

Clark tilted his head, adjusting his glasses slightly. “Is something wrong?”

You froze, forcing a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “No, it’s just… there’s something different about you. Something I can’t… read.”

Your voice wavered, just enough to betray how unsettled you felt. You blinked, thrown completely off your game. You never got knocked off balance like this. And yet here you were, fumbling for an excuse you didn’t have.

“I, uh…” you scratched the back of your neck, looking almost sheepish, a very uncommon look for you. “I’m so sorry to do this, but… could we reschedule? Something’s come up.”

“Oh. Uh—yes, of course,” he said quickly, though he seemed a little worried for you.

“You'll be shadowing me for a while anyway. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“All the time in the world,” he echoes softly, the words sticking in your throat.

“Great.”

As he stands to leave, you sit there in silence, staring at the space he’d occupied.

For the first time since you discovered your gift, you wondered if you’d finally met someone who wasn’t part of your map at all.

***

You can't sleep, and it's all Clark Kent's fault.

Just when you thought you’d finally fall asleep, there he was again, frolicking through your mind. Literally. You had imagined him in a field with a white, billowy shirt and everything.

It had you pacing back and forth in your office like a caged animal. You arrived at work at the crack of dawn and proceeded to drive yourself mad.

In all your time matchmaking and breathing the intricate, impossible web of human emotions, you had never been stumped like this.

This was your job, for goodness sake! 

You took the chaos of emotions and made it make sense. 

But him? Clark Kent was an anomaly. And you hated anomalies.

So you did what you always did: research. The same ritual you’d performed countless times before for countless clients. Background checks, old photographs, school records, the usual. 

“Clark Kent,” you repeat to yourself for possibly the thousandth time, eyes burning from the glow of your laptop screen. “Born and raised in Kansas. Studied journalism at Metropolis University. Works at the Daily Planet…”

You knew all this before you met him, but now it felt like a taunt that you couldn’t find out anything out of the ordinary. Days had passed since you last saw him, and you had gained no new insights into him. Maybe you needed to hire a private investigator. 

A knock at your office door startled you. You blinked and looked up to find Clark himself standing there, a picture of peace, while you were buried under a mess of papers and half-drunk coffee cups. 

You looked at the clock, blinking slowly. 

12:00 PM.

How did that happen?

“Are you okay? You look like—” he began.

“That’s right, I haven’t slept,” you cut in, your voice sharp.

You pushed back from the desk, standing up to give him a piece of your mind. How dare he plague your mind like this? 

“I have spent hours, no, days, trying to understand the… phenomenon that is you. And do you want to know what I came up with?”

“Yes?” He replied, sounding only a little scared.

“Absolutely nothing,” you groan, the lack of sleep evident in your voice. “I have never failed to read someone, not once. People are equations to me. Messy, emotional equations, but solvable nonetheless. But you?”

Your hands shook as you pointed at him, almost accusingly. “With you, there’s nothing. That's literally impossible, Kent!”

You were sure you looked like a mad woman, stark raving mad. Though if you did, Clark didn’t let on.

“Who are you, Clark Kent?” 

The question was more for yourself than for him if you were being honest. You didn’t even know what you would want to hear from him. 

That he was synthetically created in a lab, and that’s why he’s off your radar? That he was actually a figment of your imagination created by sleep deprivation? That you were actually still dreaming right now?

Clark cleared his throat before you could continue digging the hole you were already in. 

I think you should take a break. Get some food to clear your head? I think it’ll do you a whole world of good. My treat.”

He wants to buy you food? The idea startled a laugh out of you. The man who had driven you to madness wanted to buy you food? Though what better way to figure him out than to study him up close. 

…Plus a little food wouldn’t hurt. 

“I’d… I’d like food,” you mumbled, like you were admitting defeat.  

He didn’t press or ask any questions. Instead, he grabbed one of your jackets off the hook and put it over your shoulders. 

“Let’s go.”

***

It was nothing short of a miracle that you’d managed to drag yourself away from your desk. 

And all because Clark Kent had convinced you to get lunch.

You hate to admit it, but you needed this. The simple pleasure of stepping outside, breathing fresh air, and eating something that wasn’t coffee and sheer willpower.

The first bite of the sandwich was heavenly. The kind of perfect combination of flavours that made you wonder why you’d ever let yourself live on takeout salads and protein bars. You closed your eyes briefly, savouring it.

God, this hit the spot.

“See?” Clark jests, with a light nudge. “Told you it’s the best sandwich in town.”

“Perhaps,” you allowed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a full victory.

Clark just grinned at you, that quiet, boyish smile that was far too distracting for your own good. Deciding that staring at him would only make things worse, you swept your gaze around the cosy little restaurant instead.

That was when your senses prickled, your Cupid senses, as Erin dubbed them.

The threads in the room shifted, glowing faintly at the edge of your vision. Conversations blurred, footsteps faded, and suddenly you were aware of a moment about to unfold.

“You see that girl over there?” you murmured, tilting your head toward a young woman perched nervously in a café, fiddling with her drink.

Clark followed your gaze, his brow furrowed. “Yeah.”

“Right now, I’ve seen… oh, let’s say a dozen different versions of the same event play out in my mind. Everything hinges on whether she bumps into the guy three seats over.” You sipped your drink like it was nothing extraordinary, though the weight of what you’d just said hung between you.

“And?” Clark prompted carefully.

You smiled faintly. “From what I can see,  they'll have enough similarities to keep them connected, but enough differences to keep things interesting.”

“So you think they’ll… fall in love?” he questions.

“They will,” you said with certainty. “If they talk today, there’s an 86.75% chance they’ll stay together. At least for a couple years.” 

“86.75?” Clark questions the specificity.

“Let's round it up to 87%.”

He stared at you like you were psychic. “How do you…?”

“It’s a secret. If I told you all my secrets, then I’d be out of a job. And without a little mystery…” You let him fill in the blanks. 

Clark leaned forward, hunched like he was sharing a secret or trying not to get caught sneaking a cookie out of the jar. A small smile finds its way onto your face. It's frustratingly endearing. “So, are you going to… intervene?”

“Oh, no. I don’t think I’m meant to intervene. Besides…” You swirled the ice in your glass, the sound sharp in the quiet moment between you. “I’d be out of business if I kept matching people for free.”

As if on cue, the girl stumbled slightly, bumping into the man three seats down. Their eyes met, and just like that, a new thread came to life, visible only to you.

“See? I'm good, right?”

***

“Where are we going now?” Clark asked, falling into step beside you as the two of you boarded the bus.

“Nowhere in particular,” you said lightly, slipping into a window seat. “Clearing my head like you told me to.”

The truth was, you just needed to move. To keep from sitting still long enough to think about him too hard.

Clark sat down next to you, shoulders brushing. The bus rumbled to life, lurching forward as the cityscape rolled past in blurred streaks of light and colour. Evening crowds packed the aisle, voices overlapping in a warm, chaotic hum.

It was… alive in here. Threads were all over the place, silver lines only you could see, stretching between people like spider silk. Some threads were strong, others frayed and just about ready to snap.

Halfway through the ride, an older couple boarded. The man’s hand trembled slightly as he clutched the railing. You and Clark immediately stood to offer your seats. 

“Please,” Clark said with a warm smile. “Sit here.”

The couple thanked you, and as they sat, you felt their bond brush against your senses.

Huh. 

“It’s beyond logic,” you murmured, half to yourself. 

Clark turned, brow furrowed. “What is?”

You gestured subtly toward the couple. “They don’t make sense on paper. From the looks of it, completely different lifestyles and opposing temperaments. By every measurable standard, they shouldn’t work. And yet…” You paused, watching as the man reached for the woman’s hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles like it was a habit. “They fit. Perfectly.”

Clark’s gaze softened at the gesture and your eyes. “That’s beautiful. You make it sound like an art.”

“It is an art,” you admitted. “Though, most days, it feels more like math.”

You noticed his eyes on you, smiling even though you felt he had no reason to be.

“What is it? You want to use it as a quote for the story?”

You let out a big languid sigh, “We shouldn't be focused on me, just the business.”

“Well,” Clark said gently, leaning slightly forward, “the story isn’t just about your business. You are the story.”

You blinked at him, taken aback by the unexpected honesty in his words. For a moment, you felt uncharacteristically exposed.

“There’s not much to tell about me,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. “I mean… I’ve never been in love.” The confession slipped out before you could stop it. “And no one has ever loved me.”

“But… how do you know that?”

“Because if someone loved me, I’d know. Trust me. It’s my job to know.”

He wanted to ask more, to get down to the bottom of this. It was a journalistic instinct, you supposed. 

You shifted gears before he could press further. “What about you? Clark Kent, journalist extraordinaire…” You gave him a sly look. “Superman’s confidant…”

Clark almost choked, adjusting his glasses yet again, a nervous habit you'd noticed. “Confidant? I think not,” he said with a sheepish chuckle, a little too quick to deny it.

You leaned closer, studying his face. “Are you unlucky in love, too?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Want a free consultation?” you teased, your voice playful, though your chest felt strangely tight. Something told you that you wouldn't like setting him up with someone, and not just because you couldn't read him.

He smiled politely and shook his head. “No, I’m… if I find love, I think it’ll happen naturally.”

“Like a meet-cute in a bookstore? Or a fateful meeting after a missed train?” The idea amused you, though it did fit your image of him. Something so… classic, or cliché. “You a hopeless romantic, Kent?”

“Something like that,” he admitted, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

You hesitated, then asked more quietly, “Have you ever been in love before?” Your tone was different now, softer, as if afraid of the answer.

“Something like that,” he said again, but this time there was a weight to it. His gaze shifted, distant, like he was seeing something far away, or someone.

You studied him closely, but there was nothing. No thread. No spark. Just the infuriating emptiness that surrounded him. And yet… the way he looked in that moment made you feel something.

“How did it feel?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reverent. “Like coming up for air after being underwater for a very, very long time.” The words sank in like a wave, washing over you, leaving you breathless. You wished that you could feel what he had felt.

“You’re pretty good with your words,” you mutter, looking down at your feet.

“Well, I am a journalist.”

They’re fast approaching the East side of the city when Clark asks, “Can I take you somewhere?”

***

“How did you even find this place?” you asked. To you, this was a treasure trove, and you were only slightly (very) jealous that you hadn’t found it before him. 

“I was wandering, taking some time to clear my head after a tough day, when I stumbled across this cafe.”

He remembers the day well. He had just saved a collapsing bridge as Superman. He had been stretching himself thin at that time, not taking care of himself the way he knew he should. His parents were fussing over him even on the phone, but he pushed the tiredness aside until he couldn’t anymore. 

He didn’t know what you were going through, not really, but he recognised your exhaustion, the stress. And if he could give you even a fraction of the peace he’d found that day, sitting in a corner with a warm cup and no one asking anything of him, then maybe that would be enough.

“The owners have been here for over ten years. They say a little bit of love goes into every bite,” he continued.

“How romantic.”

The familiar jingle of the door announced your entry into the shop, and the scent hit you immediately. This is heaven. You could practically taste every cookie in the display case just by looking at them.

Clark chuckled softly at you, and it was a sound that made your chest flutter. All sorts of fluffy and just as sweet as the pastries you were gaping at.

“Clark!” a cheerful voice called from the back, cutting through the warm cafe hum. You looked up to see a friendly woman emerging, wiping flour from her hands. Clearly, she knew him well.

“You’ve finally brought your girlfriend by,” she remarked, oh-so incorrectly.

“Oh, no, she’s not—” Clark started, his hands starting to fly about as he tried his best to explain. 

“She’s a real beauty. You are a lucky guy,” she added.

You blinked at them both, scrambling for words. Clark’s girlfriend? Your mind raced faster than your mouth could form a sentence.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Clark said patiently, giving you a reassuring look, “she… uh… she’s a friend.”

The woman behind the counter didn’t look convinced. A cheeky smile played on her lips as she leaned on the counter slightly.

“Did Clark tell you I’m something of a matchmaker?” she asked.

“Oh really?” you replied, eyebrows raised. Maybe you had some competition. 

“Yes,” she continues, tilting her head. “I can tell. I see a spark between the two of you. If you're not dating yet, you will be soon.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at her assertions, but then you looked at Clark to find him looking more tomato than man. You notice the flush creeping up his neck, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. He wore it well. 

“I see couples come through these doors all the time,” she says, all self-assured. “I know chemistry when I see it.”

“How about we just… pick something and buy it?” Clark suggested, struggling to steer the conversation away from the matchmaking remarks. He cast a quick glance at the woman behind the counter, hoping for mercy.

The woman relented, letting him breathe for a moment. Clearly, not wanting Clark to die of embarrassment right there in the cafe.

“What would you like?” he asked, his tone careful, polite, and slightly amused.

Your eyes immediately landed on a giant cookie, the kind that practically radiated warmth and sweetness. Your Cupid senses were telling you there was a thread linking you to that oversized cookie. It’s fate.

“The big cookie,” you said without hesitation. You had your eyes on that beauty, and it was going to be in your stomach no matter what.

Clark melted at that little determined look on your face, not that you saw. He stepped forward and paid for it, regaining his composure.

You both found a small table in the corner of the cafe by the window. Clark slid the cookie onto the table between you, the aroma of chocolate and warm dough filling the air.

“It looks… delicious,” you murmured, practically cooing.

You dug in and munched like it was your only source of joy. This was exactly what you needed. You wonder how he knew. Maybe he could read you in ways you can't read him.

You looked up, crumbs still clinging to the corner of your mouth, only to find Clark already watching you.

“What?” you asked, words slightly muffled by the cookie.

“There’s…” he started, but resorted to gesturing toward your face. You tried to wipe at the crumbs yourself, but you couldn’t quite get all of them.

“May I?” he asked softly.

You nodded, thinking nothing of it. But the moment he touched you, you were done for. 

Your vision of him turned pink, a soft, rosy hue washing over him like sunlight through stained glass. Everything else blurred, images meshing into one except him. He was crystal clear.

Your heart thumped in a way that made your chest ache, and for a moment, all the logic you’ve been nattering on about went POOF.

You had no words for this feeling.

A simple brush of his thumb had you in tatters.

He just smiled, as if he could feel it too, this feeling that you couldn’t name. Or rather, refused to. 

For the first time in your life, you didn’t analyse it. 

You simply felt it.

***

Clark Kent was keeping you up at night, but in a very different way now.

Before, he had been an enigma, a void. You couldn’t see an emotional aura when you looked at him. That blank canvas frustrated you, made your gift feel useless.

But now…

Now, it was as if you had been hit with a wave of roses and sunshine the moment his thumb brushed your face a few days ago. You almost wished you could go back to the blank canvas, instead of the beautiful, rose-hellscape you were living in when you so much as thought of the man. 

The memory lingered in your brain, the slightest whiff of a cookie sending you into a love coma.

You tried to focus, follow your instincts and rationalise the hell out of what was happening to you. But your heart had other ideas. It was being uncooperative and stubborn. Racing at the thought of him, even though you explicitly told it not to. 

To be betrayed by your own heart, how poetic. 

It was… unfamiliar. Undoubtedly terrifying, but in the stillness of the night, when you let your guard down for but a moment, you can admit that it felt…good.

You tried to temper your excitement, to remind yourself that he was just a journalist writing a story about you. In a week, he’d be out of your life, a fleeting curiosity, and you’d return to your orderly world of probabilities.

And yet… something about him refused to be ignored.

It was like being swept off your feet.

***

Lucien knew of you. 

Delta Phi's cutest and shyest member.

Naive to a fault, and far too sweet to be a Delta Phi, right under Caroline’s evil purview.

You had genuinely joined a sorority to make friends, no ulterior motives or thoughts of social climbing and campus domination.

Friendly to your fellow sorority sisters and social rejects alike. He bets you can probably talk to forest animals too. 

Therefore, Lucien steered clear.

A girl like you would get attached far too quickly. There would be no chase, just sex and eventually a girl crying at his door and maybe even vandalising his car. Times like those, he’s almost glad his father took it away.

Though he found you amusing. He wouldn't make a move, but he could admire from afar.

At the “social event” of the year, though there seems to be one every week, he looks around and sees you “ooh-ing” and “ahh-ing” like it’s your first day on earth.

To his surprise, not even half an hour later, you’re dancing on top of a table and singing your heart out while still getting all the words wrong.

All that timidness disappeared with the alcohol.

He looks away for just a second, and when he looks back, he finds you looking right at him, utterly transfixed. The music you were singing along to was forgotten as you shared this unending look.

He approaches the table, and you're grinning down at him as if you’ve just won the lottery.

“I think you should get down from there.”

“But the view is so nice,” you say, looking him dead in the eyes.

He doesn't know if you’re talking about the room or him, but he offers a hand anyway. “I'd hate for you to fall over a nice view.”

You look at his hand like it's made of pure gold before taking it. You climb off the table, just narrowly avoiding an open bottle of tequila.

Inhibitions silenced, you hold onto Lucien, your fingers wrapped up in his shirt.

“Lu…”

Hiccup.

“Lucien…”

You're practically clinging onto him like he's the last life raft on a sinking ship.

“Why don't you like me?” you whine. His eyebrows furrow at your words. He knew you were drunk beyond belief, and drunk words are sober thoughts. Was this really the first thing on your mind? Him?

Instead of answering, he kneels, offering a piggyback, “Come on.”

You gasp dramatically, your face lighting up in an instant. 

“How did you know I love piggyback rides?”

Just like that, the sadness is forgotten, and you're launching yourself onto Lucien's back.

As soon as he starts walking, like a little puppy, you nuzzle against his neck, hints of vanilla and cedar blessing your nose.

“You smell as good as you look. No wonder everyone wants to fuck you.”

Hiccup.

“Excuse me?” he questions, genuinely taken aback.

“All aboard the Belmont express!”

***

The crush you had on Lucien Belmont was something unbearable.

He's always intrigued you. From what you heard, he was quite the charmer and had made out with half of the sorority. But he avoided you. Showed absolutely no interest. And that little nagging feeling in your chest won't let you let it go. 

He was Caroline's stepbrother, and the last thing you wanted to do was get on her radar, let alone her bad side.

You were chosen to be in Delta Phi because of family connections and your mother being an alumna. But if you crossed her, there would be no saving you from the avalanche that would inevitably come your way.

So all you could do was pine from a safe distance, maybe it was a good thing he wasn't interested…but you can't help but wonder what it would be like if he was.

Tonight's no different. You're at the “social event of the year”, though you can't quite tell how it differs from the party you were at last week…

You're happy to be out, but you can't deny your social battery is already starting to run out.

You were shyer than most of the girls here, normally just clinging onto whichever sorority sister was closest and hanging on for dear life before they eventually abandoned you for someone more outgoing.

Your usual buffer was nowhere to be found. And the girls all scattered, leaving you to navigate the chaos alone.

So you wandered aimlessly, looking around, before your eyes landed on the drinks table.

A little liquid courage wouldn't hurt, right?

One drink, then two, then…six?

You lost count, and the alcohol hit you hard. Though not as hard as the first sight of the object of your affections.

He looked too good to be true; the alcohol was giving him a sort of halo. In your drunken state of mind, you wanted to kiss him senseless.

You shake your head. “Caroline would be pissed,” you mutter to yourself. 

To stop yourself from making a bad decision, you drink more, another bad decision. You were already drunk; who could blame you?

It's a hazy, disorienting blur: one second you're nursing a spicy margarita, the next you're dancing on a table…

Your eyes sweep over the crowd, your body feeling light, your mind made of rainbows and bubbles. Then electricity runs through your body the moment you notice Lucien looking at you. 

You can't bring yourself to look away. You wanted to ask him why he wasn't into you.

Maybe it's because you're drunk, or maybe it's because you're free, but you have this urge to get to the bottom of it. 

“I think you should get down from there,” he says.

“But the view is so nice.”

You weren't lying. He looks beautiful under these lights; you could stare at him for hours and not get tired.

“I'd hate for you to fall over a nice view.”

You notice him offering you his hand and you take it.

Is this a dream?

***

You're more of a handful than you look. Despite your purported love for piggyback rides, you refused to stay still. 

He endured you swinging yourself around, saying hi to every random passerby and every tree.

The way you'd go from draping yourself over his shoulder to throwing your whole body backwards like you're trying to take him down with you.

Lucien let out the biggest sigh of relief when he finally got you back to Delta Phi. It was quiet, a few girls who came back early from the party lingered in the kitchen. 

He walked, following your murmured instructions of, “Turn right here…no, wait, left…”

After narrowly avoiding entering the wrong room enters the right one. It's nice, very you. A poster here and there, your bed mostly pillows, a picture of you at your high school graduation on your nightstand, smiling so bright that the sun has competition.

“Why don't you like me? You've never like…hit on me.”

He switches his gaze from the photo to you. You were fighting to keep your eyes open and the pout was back in full force. Though it didn't seem like you were going to let it up quite so easy. He couldn't distract you with a piggyback ride this time.

“Do you want me to hit on you?”

“No!” You blurt out without thinking. Feeling a heaviness in your limbs, you flop back down, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe.”

You were too drunk to lie. 

“Why did you get this drunk?”

“Isn't that what college is for?”

You wobble to your feet and he reaches out to catch you before you can topple over. “Having fun? Taking risks?”

“Forgive me if I don't see you as a big risk taker,” he teases.

“Let me prove you wrong.”

You hold onto his shirt for the second time tonight.

“Stay with me tonight. I want…”

You take a deep breath. “I want to cuddle.”

The way you sag against him, the tension releasing the second you utter your request, is almost pathetic in the most endearing way.

“Cuddle?”

You nod, the look in your eyes earnest and a little pleading. Something about that look made him melt. That’s dangerous, you’re dangerous in ways he didn't expect.

“Fine. As long as you don't hog the covers.”

***

You'll never drink again. That's your first thought as soon as you open your eyes, sunlight in your eyes and a thumping in your head.

You're about to grab a pillow and put it over your head when you feel something or rather someone.

There's an arm sling around your waist, a warm body pressed against your back, 

With all the slowness of a final girl in a horror movie, you turn your head and see something unbelievable.

Lucien. Fucking. Belmont.

If you weren't hungover, you'd be screaming the house down.

Waking up with Lucien in your bed, your mind went to the most logical conclusion.

With a panic, you shake him awake, yelling “Lucien!” over and over again. 

You see him stir, his peaceful face scrunching up as you disturb him in quite a spectacular fashion.

“What time is it?” he grumbles, trying to pry your hands from the death grip they had on his shirt. What the hell was your problem?

“Did we have sex last night?”

He opens his eyes and looks over at you. You looked wild, eyes wide with panic like someone just stole your dog. 

“What?” he mumbles, as he sits up slowly. He did not anticipate being woken up like this. 

“Don't act like you didn't hear me.”

He smiles, far too amused for your liking.

“We did not have sex last night.”

“Oh.”

Guess you got all worked up for nothing. But that didn't explain the cute boy in your bed.

“Then, uh, what happened?”

“I carried you home and you asked me to cuddle with you,” he tells you matter-of-factly.

“No way,” you groan.

You turn your back to him, mortified beyond belief. Maybe if you couldn't see him, he couldn't see you. Maybe you could run and blend into the wall like a chameleon.

Then you start to replay how it must've gone.

You asked him to cuddle with you and he said yes?

Whipping your head around, you stare at him in disbelief. “Why did you agree?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes. Tell me, I can take it.”

You brace yourself for the worst, ready for pity, or some kind of emotional blackmail.

“You're too cute to say no to.”

He smiles and reaches up, brushing back the hair that’s fallen into his eyes.

You feel your heart goes crazy, your smartwatch beeping like you’re doing cardio. Holy fuck… are you having a heart attack?

Before you could get to the bottom of the insane things happening to your heart, there's a knock on the door. 

You nearly jump out of your skin. This morning is too much for a hungover student.

Lucien watches with that damn smug expression, opening his mouth like he's about to respond to the knock, making you cover it. You can instantly feel him smiling against your hand. 

“Yes?” you squeak out, half stumbling toward the door before looking back at him with a silent, ‘Be quiet.’

“Hurry up! Sorority meeting like yesterday. Caroline will skin you if you're late.”

In all the fluster, you completely forgot. 

“I'll be right there!” you call out. You probably look like hell, you have no time to get ready, your head’s about to explode and Casanova's in your bed.

You're not meant for this kind of stress. You hear the steps record from your room and let out a deep, clarifying breath.

First things first, get Lucien the hell out of here.

“You need to sneak out. If anyone sees you here, it'll get back to Caroline, and she'll hang me.”

He stays still, clearly not understanding the gravity of this situation. You pull him up to his feet as he lets out a chuckle. “Take it easy.”

“No time. Out you go.”

You throw open your window wide. You lived on the ground floor; this wasn't a big ask.

“The window?”

“This can't be the first time you've snuck out a girl’s window. I’m begging you, Lucien.”

“Well, who am I to deny your begging?” his voice dips lower on the last word as he smirks, enjoying every bit of how flustered it makes you.

“Just go!”

As you fuss, trying to direct him out of the window, not noticing he’s watching you with interest.

Despite his reservations, there was something about you, something that told him he wouldn't be able to get you out of his head anytime soon.

Maybe he could make an exception, see where this goes.

Before you can start to find your bearings, he kisses your cheek and disappears out the window. He doesn't see the look on your face, but from the distant thud, he can imagine it.

***

John and Bob may have their differences.

Different tempers, different styles. Always trading playful insults and pushing each other’s buttons just to see who’d flinch first. But there was one thing they could agree on.

You were theirs.

There was no question about that. 

They’d gotten closer over the last few months, closer than either of them probably expected. And part of that was because of you.

There was tension, unspoken things hanging in the air whenever all three of you were in the same room. But one thing was clear: they both wanted you. Bad.

Long story short, it involved a misguided game of truth or dare, a few too many shots of tequila, and your bed.

From then on, the three of you had developed a relationship of sorts. It was a little chaotic, but it was right. The team didn’t question it nearly as much as you thought they would. If it works, right?

The downside?

Now you had two boyfriends… who got jealous… often. And not always discreetly.

Even in public at a gala.

At an event like this, you were a natural. 

The way you worked the crowd was smooth and effortless. Everyone who crosses your path leaves absolutely charmed and perhaps a little in love with you. They love to see you shine, and you know how to give them just enough to leave them wanting more.

You’re laughing softly, mid-conversation with Bob by the hors d’oeuvres table, when someone approaches, trying to steal you away. 

“I’m with my friend—” you start, polite but firm.

“It’s fine,” Bob says quickly.

You paused, turning your eyes to him. Just to check. His eyes always told the truth, even when his voice didn’t.

“Are you sure?” you ask quietly, knowing that you’d tell the guy to fuck off in a heartbeat if Bob wanted you to. 

He nods, easygoing, though you didn’t miss the flicker of something beneath it. “I’ll be fine. I’ll have the hors d’oeuvres keep me company.”

You smile at his answer and say, “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Your hand comes to rest on his shoulder, giving it a warm and reassuring squeeze. 

A few minutes later, you return to the champagne tower. Bob’s now joined by John, both of them watching the room like they’re on guard duty. The moment you’re back by their side, they relax, like a weight has been lifted off their shoulders. 

“I’ve done like ten tours of the room,” you sigh, exasperated but glowing from the attention. You could tell a story or two, and people loved to listen; you couldn't help it. 

You’re about to launch into a story about the lady you just met and her penchant for oversharing when the music shifts. A slow, romantic song hums through the room, and you perk up noticeably. 

“Who wants to dance with me?” you grin. Sure, you were tired, but you’d never pass up a chance to dance.

John steps in before Bob can even blink, smoothly taking your hand. Behind your back, he shoots Bob a smug look. However, you do hear a faint, “asshole”, under Bob’s breath. 

The two of you step out onto the dancefloor, lost in your own world, gazing into one another's eyes like the whole room around you disappeared.

You’re perfectly happy dancing with John, his hands steady on your waist. And you can tell from that little smile on his face, he’s been waiting all night to have you in his arms just like this. 

Then, as if the universe had a bone to pick with him, he hears a sudden, irritating voice. 

“Mind if I cut in?”

You glance between John and the stranger. John’s jaw ticks and you see it; it’s hard to miss. He’s not exactly the greatest at hiding his emotions, and his face was practically murderous.

The stranger is already reaching for your hand, almost expectantly.  Despite the no doubt impending consequences, you smile sweetly, take it, and let him whisk you away, much to John’s displeasure.

John stands there for a second, clearly holding back a string of words he probably shouldn’t say. Then, a bit stiffly, he makes his way back to Bob.

Bob’s still at the champagne tower, looking around like none of this is bothering him, but the annoyance that's radiating off of him is impossible to miss.

He lets John sulk for about two seconds before saying, flatly, “Good job.”

For someone supposedly so sweet and innocent, he could be really snarky.

“What did you want me to do?” John mutters, “Hit him with my shield?”

“...maybe.”

Meanwhile, across the dance floor, you’re laughing at something your new dance partner whispers, their hand a little too low on your back. Bob and John watch, hands clenched, as someone else makes you smile.

It’s the kind of sight that makes their blood boil.

The man makes eye contact with you as the song ends, still holding your hand just a second too long. You pull away with a polite smile, but there’s a glint in his eye, like he thinks he’s won something.

He watches you walk away, lingering on your ass after you’ve turned your back.

You return to Bob and John’s side, every step deliberate. Like you know, they saw the whole thing. Sometimes it’s fun to stoke the flames a little. 

They’re both standing there, silent.

Bob’s jaw is clenched just enough to be noticeable. John’s holding his glass a little too tightly, the champagne trembling slightly from the grip.

Neither of them says a word, but their expressions?

Stone.

“You two look like you just watched me commit a felony,” you say, utterly amused.

John hums, two seconds from forming a full-on pout. “Didn’t realise dancing involved you two being quite so close.”

“It was a waltz, how else did you want me to dance?”

“Just… can we talk for a second? In private?” Bob asks.

***

“So… what do my favourite superheroes want?” you ask, voice sweet as you relish the moment. 

They’ve cornered you in a broom closet, looking like two unhappy puppies, shoulders tense, eyes doing that thing where they can’t meet yours for too long.

“We just want to talk,” Bob says, dancing around the issue like it's not painfully obvious.

But they can’t hide anything from you. Not for long.

You narrow your eyes, your smile slowly stretching across your face like the sun coming out after a storm.

“Oh, I see what’s going on here,” you muse, wagging your finger at them. 

They both freeze, and you’re so utterly pleased with yourself you can’t hide it. 

“You want me,” you continue, closing the distance between you and them, practically purring with each word you say, “all to yourselves.”

“I could feel your eyes on me. Following me around the room all night, undressing me every chance you got.”

Seeing them tense up a little, as if fighting the need to take you right now, you lean in close enough that they can smell the perfume they helped you pick out.

“You didn’t bring me in here to talk, did you?”

John flashes a handsome smile, and you know you’re in for it. “We didn’t.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Bob pulls you in and kisses you deeply before John can. He’s been dying to get his hands on you since he saw you on that dancefloor, no—since before you left the tower.  The moment you showed them what you were planning to wear to the gala, they practically melted into the floor. 

You looked good enough to eat. 

You hold onto him, fingers tangled in his shirt and practically holding on for dear life as you kiss him back. You rarely see him this worked up, practically growling into your kiss, declaring you as theirs, but you don’t hate it. 

Quite the opposite. 

Not to be outdone, John presses in behind you, holding your waist real tight. You don’t even try to hide the desperate groan you let out as you feel the light brush of his lips against the nape of your neck. 

As they lavish you in kisses, their hands exploring every part of your body, you feel your knees buckle. The only thing keeping you up at this point is their bodies. They have you sandwiched between them, body to body, skin to skin. You can’t think of a better place to be. Maybe you need to make them jealous more often. 

Bob pulls back from the kiss, eyes dark and full of wanting.

“No one can touch like we do,” Bob states like it’s a fact. 

“No one can,” you agree, struggling to catch your breath, head not just in the clouds but the stars. 

“And no one else is allowed to, understood?” John adds, toying with your clothes, as if saying it wouldn’t be long until they were a puddle on the floor at your feet.

“Understood.”

***

After a long talk, you all emerge from the broom closet, trying to smooth out your clothes and not look nearly as wrecked as you feel.

John follows, tie loosened. Bob's behind him, hair a complete mess. Your legs are definitely not cooperating the way they should.

Yelena’s the first to spot you.

You all try to play it cool, and your attempts to act normal are in full effect. Casual smiles, fake small talk, pretending like you weren’t just fucking a few feet away. 

She doesn’t even need five seconds.

Her eyes flick between you: John’s crooked tie, Bob’s messy hair, your buckling legs.

“In public?” Yelena groans disapprovingly, arms crossed like a disappointed parent. “We can’t take you anywhere.”

***

You can’t breathe. 

Just five minutes ago, you were under Cam, screaming his name into a pillow. Your hips rolling back to meet his thrusts, your voice raw as you gripped the covers.

You rarely saw him like that, so focused, so hungry.

He had just finished training, sweat still clinging to his skin, when he stepped into the room where you sat curled up with a book.

“Cam—”

You didn’t even have time to process the look in his eyes before he pulled you up and pinned you against the wall, lips attacking the sensitive spot behind your ear.

You didn’t register the other presence in the doorway until Isaiah’s voice cut through the moment.

 “Mind if I cut in?” he asked.

Cam’s jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he turned toward him.

It was clear that something had happened at training that you weren’t privy to. Something that had Cam wound tight, restless, and made him want to fuck you senseless.

Zay was probably playing on his nerves, pushing buttons he knew damn well existed, just to see how far Cam would go. 

Instead of responding, Cam just stared, his expression unreadable, the faint curl of his lip the only hint of what he was thinking. Zay settled into the chair across from the bed, self-satisfied as hell.

It was this silent war of looks between them that you couldn’t decipher, each glance loaded with challenge, leaving you caught somewhere in the middle.

Cam focuses back on you, as hungry as ever. He looks you up and down, ultimately deciding you had far too much on, his fingers slipping under your shirt. “Need to get these off you.”

He wasn't playing around the second he got you naked. 

“Bend over.”

The sound of his order sent shivers through your body. You bent over the bed, your breath catching as he closed the distance and pushed inside of you.

The only thing you were capable of was mewling as he stretched you out with his thick fingers, teasing patterns that made your knees weak.

“Such a stubborn little thing,” he mocked.

“Give it to me,” you gasped, your voice trembling, full of need. Unable to hold back anymore, you felt his cock teasing your entrance. Almost giving you what you want, only to take it right back.

"Don't be like that, Cam."

"Like what?" he asked, with a smirk.

Every touch, every movement, made your heart pound like a drum, leaving you shaking and lost in the heat between you, caught entirely in him.

"Give it to me," you whine petulantly.

You could be such a brat sometimes, though it was one of the things he loves about you. Plus, he loved putting you in your place.

He slapped your ass, the sound loud and sharp, the pain turning to pleasure almost in an instant.

"Ask nicely," he ordered, and from the way he was looking at you, you knew he meant business.

You look back at him with doe eyes, the brat in you gone in an instant. "Please fuck me, Cam. I'll be so good for you."

He reached out, tilted your chin up and gave you a million-dollar smile. "Better."

Without warning, he sank his cock into you, the sound that left your throat bouncing off the wall. Your body arched instinctively, a gasp escaping as he consumes your every thought. Covering your body in marks, from nibbles on your collarbone to that weak part on the back of your neck.

“Cam,” you cried into the sheets, the fabric clenched tight between your fingers. 

And even if you can’t see him, you know he has a grin plastered across his face. You can hear it in the way he says, “Good girl.”

By the time he was done with you, fucking you silly, your body was trembling, your mind hazy, and every nerve ending singing.

You couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

Then it was Isaiah's turn.

And now, you can't breathe.

Each breath you try to take is cut short by the hand wrapped around your throat.

Your eyes travel up the hand clasped around your throat and land on Isaiah.

"Hey—” Cam interjects.

Right, in the midst of all the chaos, you had almost forgotten your boyfriend was right there watching you slut yourself out for his hero.

Cam’s surely about to rip you away from him, when you realise that Isaiah had stopped moving, your hips start moving in response. As if they had a life of their own, still rolling, needy for any friction you can get.

"Look at that, she's desperate for it."

Your legs squeeze around his waist, like you're trying to trap him there.

"See that? She doesn't want soft, she wants a champ. Don't you?"

"Y... es...," you reply with the air you have left in your lungs.

Putting your legs on his shoulders, folding you in half. It's like he knew just how to drive you crazy.

“What’s that?” he croons, in a patronising tone, “Use your words, baby. I know you can.”

“So…good.”

Though good wasn't accurate. You couldn't quite put into words how he was making you feel. As if to make things worse, he places your head in Cam's lap as Isaiah continues to fuck you. 

"M'sorry, Cam,” you whimper between moans. You didn't sound all that sorry, but you were.

Even if you were revelling in the sting as Isaiah's hips smacking your ass as he rails you, and focusing on the sound of it ringing in your ears, you were sorry.

You push up onto your hands so your head now rests on Cam's shoulder. 

Your tits jostling with each thrust, your fingers pawing at your boyfriend’s chest like you're searching for forgiveness.

It's driving Cam mad, the constant noise coming from your lips. 

The only things you can seem to say are “Isaiah” and “Zay”, sounding more needy, like each time you say his name, you're begging to keep his attention.

Cam loosens the grip Isaiah had in your hair and replaces it with his own. 

You looked absolutely wrecked, eyes a little watery. Usually, he liked that look on you. Looking so fucked out of your mind after he's done with you, but still finding the energy to beg for more. 

But as Cam’s eyes travel upward and the sounds of Isaiah's hips slamming into yours fade back in, so does that all-consuming jealousy.

“Eyes on me,” he demands, before kissing you deeply. It wasn't like before; it was clear he wanted to consume you. To steal not just your breath but your mind.

Sandwiched between them as Cam starts rubbing on your clit. It almost knocks the air out of your lungs, his thumb moving in a circle, adding pressure just to watch you squeal.

Rubbing away any logical thought, driving you deeper and deeper into an ecstasy like no other.

“Cameron…”

Your voice is jumping up higher and higher. High-pitched screams and gasps leave your lips as tears prick at your eyes.

Your mind is in two places at once, attention divided, sending your body into overdrive.

"Fuck… Zay…” 

All the while, he can feel your nails digging into his thighs. Leaving marks on him as you whine another man's name. That made something burn in Cam’s chest, like a fire he couldn't put out.

“This is how a real man fucks.”

Cam looks up at him, Isaiah looking back with that all-knowing smirk, practically daring him to do something.

"Who's the greatest?" He asks you.

"You are."

"See? Even your girl knows it."

***

It was an accident.

Aspen takes a deep breath to centre himself.

His Royal “pain-in-the-ass” would be awake soon, and he needed to be ready when he did.

Though his mind refuses to let him settle. 

He can't help it, that heat rushing to his face, the prickly feeling of his hair standing on end.

The door opens, and there he is, in all his royal glory. 

“Good morning.” Maxon’s voice is sweet, if not a bit shaky. But after last night—

With a bow of his head, Aspen attempts to shake off the thought.

Though as soon as he steps inside the bedroom, flashes of the night prior come to the forefront of his mind like an assault on the senses. 

The room is now immaculate, no more sheets strewn about the floors or decorative pillows discarded halfway across the room.

“Morning,” Aspen finally replies, snapping himself out of the stupor he was in.

With no hesitation, Aspen reaches forward and adjusts his tie, knowing they are just below the collar are the marks he left there.

Maxon's eyes spoke louder than his words could. They were practically screaming just like his were. Replaying every moment from last night in high definition. 

Aspen's not an idiot, he can put two and two together.

***

Last night, despite their best efforts, was unforgettable.

Aspen can remember it as clear as day, the struggle to remain composed in front of everyone. He knew the moment he had him alone, there was no stopping whatever came out of his mouth. 

In fact, the second the door to Maxon's room slipped shut, he picked a fight with him.

“It all comes so easy to you,” he spat.

Maxon stops fussing with his cufflinks for a moment, looking over his shoulder. 

He was no fool; he could feel the heat coming from Aspen. He was incensed. 

A fire he couldn't put out, unless he preferred to get scorched.

“What are you talking about?” Maxon replied, resuming his toying with his cufflinks. One after the other, tossing them onto his bed, keeping his eyes downcast. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. Everything about you, from your upbringing to your perfectly curated image, people fall over themselves for you.”

A loud sigh left the prince's body as he shook his head. They had gone round and round on this subject. From the moment Aspen came into his employ, his very presence prickled him. With him, it was always one step forward, three steps back.

“I thought we had gotten past this,” Maxon said, his voice full of the tiredness he had tried to mask all day.

“After your speech at dinner? You may be my prince, but you don’t get to act like you understand what it’s like out there.”

By this point, Aspen wasn’t even sure if he was really mad at Maxon or at himself; the castle system was built to make people like Maxon shine while everyone else scraped and clawed their way up.

But every time Aspen thought about the Selection, or saw how they lived in the palace, it irked him, prodded at his pride like a red-hot poker.

“You stand there talking about unity amongst the castes, about opportunity,” Aspen continued, voice rising, “You’ve never had to give up on someone you love just so that they can have a better life.”

Those words made the blonde finally turn around, abandoning all princely attributes. His tie was loosened, hair fell into its usual curls in a wild fashion.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t care,” Maxon snapped back at him. “You think I wanted this crown? You think I asked to be born into this?”

“No,” Aspen said bitterly. “But you never had to fight it either.”

Maxon sees it, he sees it as clear as day. The unsaid words were clear in the rise and fall of his chest and the shake of his clenched fist. 

“This isn't about her, is it?”

Aspen's breath stutters for a moment, the rise and fall Maxon has fixated on getting that little bit faster. A constant rhythm was disrupted at the one mention of her.

“I didn't say anything about America.”

“You didn't have to.”

“It’s not about her.”

Their chests press together.

“Then enlighten me,” Maxon challenges. “It’s not about America, but I know it’s more than just your position with me because I'm royalty. What is it?”

“You’re so clueless, every single thing about you drives me crazy. The way you talk, the way you smile, how you like your eggs in the morning, it's maddening. I just can’t get you out of my head.”

Aspen backed him toward the wall, and Maxon realised he was the one losing control, unable to think straight.

“Aspen—”

His eyes are blown wide with shock. Though Aspen noted he’s not scared. 

The quick rise and fall of Maxon’s chest and the nervous lick of his lips said something very different. It was a look of anticipation, a spark of something too dangerous to speak out loud.

No one could just touch the prince like this, no one dared cross that invisible line, and yet here he was, being manhandled like he was just another boy and not the future king.

Aspen’s fingers were curled in the front of Maxon’s shirt before he realised he’d grabbed him, knuckles white, pulse pounding in his ears.

“Just…” Aspen started, the word coming out brash and frustrated.

He was too wrapped up in how Maxon smells like something sweet and flowery, too focused on his lips, too hazy to think about the consequences. 

“Just shut up,” he mumbled, voice soft before crashing their lips together.

It has been too long since he's kissed anyone like this, if ever. 

The brush of his lips beckoned him closer like a doomed sailor to a siren. He was well and truly enchanted, caught under his spell.

The swipe of his tongue on his bottom lip made his eyes clench shut tighter; it felt too right.

There was no time for thinking. Thinking would lead to stopping, and that was the last thing either of them wanted.

Aspen tugged him in by his tie, his grip tight as he kissed every thought out of his head. They separated, breathing heavily but hungry to go back for more.

This was a new look for Maxon, dazed and looking absolutely fucked despite only been kissed.

“Just one night.”

“Just one night,” Maxon said back to him.

Maxon's hands travelled up the other man's torso and under his shirt. “How are you feeling tonight?”

Aspen paused for a moment to think of an answer, the silence stretching out as he bathed in Maxon's hesitation. 

One of Maxon’s many flaws, he wears his emotions on his sleeve, shows his hand too easily, and offers his neck to those wishing to sink their teeth in.

“I’m feeling…” he started, taking in the sight of the prince below him. 

“Intentional.”

Aspen didn't miss the ripple of his throat as he gulped.

‘I guess he’s feeling intentional too,’ Aspen muses to himself.

He couldn't deny that he's enjoying it. Teasing and touching him where no one else has.

He tossed him onto the bed, kissing wherever he could touch, kissing his way up his thighs, sloppy and wet, one kiss fading into another.

A breathy gasp left his lips, sounding something like, “Aspen, please”. 

It was downright sinful.

He could feel that burning in his chest rising, like a fire that cannot be put out. 

Moving from his thighs up his body, Aspen starts marking him up as he belongs to him. It's an addictive feeling, watching him completely fall apart with a chorus of whines.

Maxon even relents when he feels Aspen's fingers in his hair, tugging his hair back. Giving it all to him, all for him.

The guard's hand hovered over Maxon's hard cock, but he stopped him.

“Don't. I want to cum untouched.”

The words sounded scandalous coming from such a pretty mouth.

He moved his hand away with a cheeky smirk on his face, “Yes, Your Highness.”

By the end of the night, they had Maxon’s back arching off the bed, on display for him like a sculpture from an art gallery. 

A work of art depicting heaven's prettiest angel, the only thing Maxon was missing was a pair of wings.

***

The whole day after, Aspen finds himself breathing in the air where Maxon had been. 

It smells sweet.

He remembers it from last night. Smelling it on his clothes. Pressing the fabric to his face first thing this morning, chasing the scent before tossing the shirt aside in shame. He had to get his act together.

After a day of appearances in front of the cameras, watching Maxon flit from here to there, all perfect hair and smiles, it was finally over.

Aspen escorts him back to his room, perhaps a little closer than necessary. Sure, it was his job to protect him, but from the outside, it might have looked less like security and more like a leash.

The door closes, and Maxon says, “Lavender.”

“What?” Aspen mumbles, still half lost in the scent.

“My shampoo.”

Before he can even bluster his way through an excuse—

“You like it,” Maxon says, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “I can tell.”

He steps closer. The boldness is unfamiliar, as if that night they spent together had awakened something in him.

Aspen takes the opportunity and catches his tie and pulls him in.

“You keep doing that,” the blonde remarks.

“Would you prefer I pull you in by your hair?”

Maxon’s lips part in surprise, and the reaction draws a quiet chuckle from Aspen.

Aspen doesn’t let go. He simply turns and leads him toward the bathroom, stepping into the shower fully clothed.

He turns on the water, splashing them both, their clothes starting to stick to their skin.

“Hey—what are you doing?” Maxon asks, startled.

“They’ll be doing patrols for the next hour,” Aspen says quietly. “The water will mask the sound.”

“The sound? Are you planning on….?” Maxon questions.

Aspen answers by pressing him back against the glass, not giving him a chance to settle or to think too much about it.

“Take off your trousers.”

“You could've told me to do that before you dragged me into the shower and drenched me,” Macon grumbles with a cute pout.

“I'm impatient. You've been driving me mad all day. You and that lavender shampoo.”

“My apologies, Officer Leger.”

“Brat.”

Their wet clothes find themselves strewn about the bathroom floor, the steam of the hot water fogging up the glass.

“You're shaking,” Aspen mumbles right against the skin under his ear. 

“Don't…don't do that.”

“Why not?” he asks as he pulls his hips flush against his.

‘You'll drive me mad.”

“I haven’t done that already?” Aspen asks, clearly toying with him.

Suddenly, his hand wraps around his cock, making Maxon gasp.

“Now you have.”

Within seconds, he has the prince bucking into his hand with reckless thrusts like a man possessed.

“Slow down,” Aspen demands, his voice leaving no room for arguing back.

“But—”

“Slow…” A kiss to his temple. “Down…”

It's a welcome order as Maxon finds himself slowing his thrusts to what Aspen seems fit.

“Aspen…” His voice is pleading, breath unsteady as steam surrounds them.

Maxon throws his head back, control slipping away from him like water through outstretched fingers.

He's taking everything he's got and then some, but there is no fear. In fact, he feels loose, the pleasure building in his body with no end seemingly in sight.

“You're shaking,” the guard repeats, his lips pressed against his neck, the vibrations almost making him beg for mercy.  The only thing Maxon can do is reply with a pathetic mewl. 

He's too hot, too good, too close. It's taking everything in him not to finish right now, to let rope after rope of cum paint his hand.

Aspen's holding his heart captive. But the way Maxon's looking at him through his wet eyelashes, he is a willing hostage.

***

Maxon can't focus on anything. He's been walking through each day completely out of his own body, simply gazing through the eyes of someone else. 

Bogged down by that feeling of his whole world being foggy and being unable to see through it.

It's so hard to focus. Harder than it should be.

It may not look like it, but he's in an absolute state. 

Day after day, girl and girl and yet he can still feel him.

It's like he's in his lungs. 

Stealing his air before he can get to it. Leaving him breathless even when he's not around.

Living in every word, in every empty space, in every breath. 

“Maxon?” Kriss asks. He blinks quickly, snapping back to his senses. 

The world fades back in; he looks down to see Kriss staring up at him with worried eyes, eyebrows knitted together as she lays a hand on his shoulder.

The sound of the crew chattering and equipment being packed away hums in the background. The filming has just finished, and the palace hall is slowly returning to its usual quiet.

Putting on a smile he’s practised in the mirror a thousand times, he squeezes her hand, hoping it looks reassuring.

“I’m fine. I just need some air.”

He walks out of the room and keeps walking. He had only intended to step out into the hallway, but as the sounds of voices and footsteps faded, his heart felt lighter, his thoughts less suffocating.

Before he knew it, he was in the palace gardens. The smell of damp earth and roses filled his nose, mixing with the crisp night air. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain murmured and a tree snored.

Nothing like nature to cool the fire burning in his soul.

There were few places where he could actually stop and think. Places where the crown felt distant, where he could just be Maxon instead of the prince. 

He used to be able to do that in his bedroom, before the incident.

Now every time he lays his head on his pillow, all he can feel is Aspen's body above his, his hair tickling his cheek as he nips at his skin, the pressure of his hands interlacing with his pinning him to the sheets.

Sometimes he swears he can smell Aspen's scent on his blankets, slowly but surely driving him mad.

Though he can't help, furling his fingers into them and pulling them to his nose, curling his body into them, as if pretending they were his arms.

He knew his duty. He knew what was expected of him, and he was more than prepared to go through with it. 

Do The Selection, find a wife, secure the future of his kingdom, and give the people the fairytale they wanted. That had always been the plan.

But then there was him. This complication, this outlier.

Someone who didn’t even like him all that much didn’t bend or soften around him the way everyone else did. But still managed to make him feel things no one else ever had.

Maxon unbuttons his collar and grips at his shirt, as if loosening the fabric might alleviate the tightness in his chest. 

He casts his eyes upward toward the stars as if they had any answers for him. But alas, they remain quiet, preferring instead to observe.

“You look lost.”

The voice, of course, belonged to the subject of all his inner turmoil.

Through all the confusion, there are days he wishes he could forget that voice forever and nights he wishes it would lull him to sleep.

Maxon doesn’t turn right away.

“It's my palace, how can I be lost?”

Aspen’s footsteps crunch softly on the gravel as he comes closer. He humours him with a chuckle, sliding up next to him. “You know that's not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Maxon asks, finally looking at him. 

He regrets it.

As soon as his eyes landed on him, his heart started beating twice as fast. There’s no other way to describe him. 

He looked beautiful. 

Dark hair bathed in moonlight, sharp features softened by silver light, it’s enough to make him question everything.

It’s useless at this point. Just something to fill the space, the silence. Asking questions he already knows the answers to.

Maxon can see him hesitate. Maybe he doesn’t want to give the obvious answer either.

He toys with the collar of his uniform and instead answers with a non-committal, “I meant you looked like you were in your own head. I saw you walk out in a hurry.”

“I needed air. Alone.”

The words were pointed, a quiet dismissal. 

But Aspen didn’t listen; he never does.

“I can’t leave you alone.” The words land heavier than they should. “I’m your personal guard, remember?”

“I can’t forget,” the blonde replies. He wishes he could, that he was just a nameless face with whom he had pleasant small talk and the occasional argument from day to day. But he was nothing of the sort; he was something else entirely.

As if to prove his point, Aspen steps forward, close enough that Maxon can feel the warmth of him. 

“You won’t let me. Always so… close.”

The prince’s words are breathy and weak. One touch from Aspen and he might shatter.

“Too close for comfort?” Aspen’s brow lifts, but he doesn’t step back.

“Rather, too close for me to think straight. As you once said, it's maddening.”

The irony is not lost on him. To be in the same position as Aspen was, if not worse. It's not just maddening, it's electrifying like a fuse has been lit, and with every kiss, every touch, he's one step closer to exploding. 

One step closer to saying damn to tradition and convention, to admitting to himself, it's more than just sex.

Even the smallest things set him off now, something as simple as the moonlight dancing in his eyes, or the dimple on his cheek.

“Are you feeling intentional tonight?” Maxon asks. Maybe he couldn't say it out loud, but this he could do. Let their bodies do the talking instead.

“Quite.”

His hands grip Maxon's waist, longing to feel the skin underneath. To watch as he travels under his touch, falls apart until he is no longer a prince but merely a man.

“And what are your intentions with me, Aspen?”

He smiles, leaning closer, their lips practically touching.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

They walk back to his room in silence, two paces apart, though buzzing with excitement.

They reach the room, and Maxon finds his back pressed against the door in an instant, air being stolen from his lungs with a kiss yet again. 

It's messy and desperate, clothes being tossed aside, tangled limbs crashing onto the bed. They need this in ways they can't explain.

It's different this time. 

Between gasps and whispered moans, a language neither of them has ever spoken comes easily, as if they’ve always known it.

For the first time, Maxon knows what it feels like to be understood.

***

“Do you want to stay?” Maxon asks.

The question pierces Aspen's mind, bringing him down to earth, suddenly aware of everything, every sensation.

He's wrapped up in sheets of silk, the smell of Mason's lavender shampoo presses against his cheek.

He looks down at the Prince to see the prettiest eyes looking back at him.

He doesn't hide it well. 

He's never been able to.

If you know what to look for, you can read his mind.

It's in the eyes, and Aspen's learnt to read them. Like a map to his soul.

“I can't,” Aspen replies.

As night would soon shift to day, the throes of passion they found themselves entangled in would fade away like things often do. He can feel the memories melting away, already sinking deeper and deeper into the sea of his mind until it is more fantasy than reality.

“I understand.”

“Will we…?” Maxon starts but doesn't finish. The end of that question is trivial; they both know what he was trying to ask. If he wants to do this again. If they will do this again.

“We shouldn't.”

“But will we?”

Aspen opens his mouth to answer, but closes it shortly after. 

His throat was now dry with fear, all the words snatched from his mouth. He's never been much of an orator, preferring to act rather than speak. 

He knows that no matter what he says, whether it is yes or no, it wouldn't be the right thing.

So Aspen cups his face, gently and with intention, and kisses his cheek.

His lips stay there for a moment and linger long after they're gone.

“Goodnight, Maxon.”

And Maxon lets him go despite how badly he wants him to stay.