🔥Hellfire🔥

You, his girl, who even when he was gone, left him a sweet voicemail. Who made your little 2 bedroom Apartment a home. You, who made Toji give a damn about himself. You had blocked him, so there was no chance in him trying to call. And no, it didn’t take him two days for him to realize how much you mattered to him. It didn’t take an empty apartment.

It’s that he made you worry, and then he made you feel like your feeling were fickle and unnecessary. When, at the very least, you two were family. The closest and realest either one of you was going to get to it.

Truth be told, the man could’ve just up and found you. Made a couple calls and found you within a couple hours. But the older man knows it would just piss you off further, push you even further away.

So he waited around the place like a fucking dog. Eyes flicking to the front for every time he heard your neighbors or the delivery guy pass. The ashtray filled with cigarette buds, and it’s funny, he could almost hear you giving him hell as he took the ashtray to the balcony so the apartment doesn’t smell like cigarette smoke. The way your roll your eyes and shove his face away while he has that dumb ass smirk on his lips.

God, he missed you.

You, on the other hand, had been couch hopping. Told them there was a neighbor you were avoiding after doing something embarrassing. Not that you had been ignoring the man you’d been seeing. Of course you missed the man, you’d grown so accustomed to him being around that when he was gone it didn’t make any sense. And when he came back, you were never sure if he saw you as a joke. Just something that was around because it was convenient.

You wanted that older man to miss you like you did him, even if it was a little bit of the pain, the worry that filled you while he was away.

You caved when you realized you needed to at least pop buy your home and get some clothes or something. Maybe Toji wouldn’t be there, at some soba spot not to far away. You didn’t know if you had the heart to face Toji. Feign the stable girl you convinced everyone else you were.

You could feel the tension completely filling the space as soon as the door shut behind you. The TV was low, the faucet in the kitchen dripping, the light on the end table’s low hue illuminating the dark living room.

You rounded the corner, pausing your movements when you got in Toji’s full vision, his green eyes glued on you from the couch. An unlit cigarette is hanging from his lips. He puts it down slowly, as if that will be the thing to make a run.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You can feel your heart beating, shifting from foot to foot, clearing your throat, averting your eyes from his dark green eyes. “I’ll be quick, just grabbing a few things.”

Toji’s eyes soften, gently tugging with his voice, “[+].”

“What?” You griped, cocking an eyebrow, “you gonna lecture me for bein gone?”

“I got the right to?” He gets up from the couch, tossing the remote to the side. Toji sighs, running his fingers through his jet black strands, searching for the right words to say. But no matter how many times he’s racked his brain since you’ve been gone, it’s like he can’t collect the right words to apologize. He’s never been good at it.

He finally speaks after a moment, “…About the other day-“

“—I was… being needy, ‘m sorry.” And the words come out like you’re forcing them out. Hesitant, like you’ve made the decision on your own without properly thinking it through.

“That ain’t what I said [+].”

“But you’re thinkin it.”

He opens his mouth to say something, jaw ticking. But he knows better, knows how you like to push when you so desperately want to be wanted. Want to be someone’s first choice, not to be brushed to the side, like hes done.

The older man lets out an airy snicker, inching closer to you, “Leavin you for so long without tellin you ‘nd then acting like it was nothing- it wasn’t right. I was being stupid doll, and I’m sorry.”

He has you backed up into the kitchen island, his large figure towering over you. The man closes you in between his arms as he leans on the counter, bending down to get face to face with you, his muscles flexing from the small movement. His eyes search yours, his deep voice getting softer, full of sincerity— 

“I’d never thought you were needy but Jesus, baby, if this is needy I should be spoilin you more. Tell me how much you want ‘f me, how you need me 24-7– I don’t care. I’d never get tired of you, can never get enough of you, my precious girl.”

Your shoulder slump at that, eyes glossed over, bottom lip trembling, you hiccup, “Don’t- ugh! don’t make me feel like shit for caring Toji.” You sob.

And he nods, taking your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with the pads for his thumbs, “I know kid, I know, ‘M sorry.”

Even if he apologized a thousand times it wouldn’t be enough, not right now when he’s had you running around in his mind for since he’s been gone, since you left.

He leaves a soft kiss on your lips, brushing your top with his thumb. “You forgive me doll? Hm?”

You don’t have the energy to say anything, leaning into his touch. He kisses you once more, then another, and another— each kiss getting longer, more desperate. His calloused hands going from your face slowly down your body, to the side of your hips. You wrap your arms around his neck, yearning for more, more, more—

“I got you mama, I got you.” The green eyed monster murmured against your lips, lifting you off your feet and toward the couch.

And it’s in no shape or form slow and sweet foreplay, it’s longing, yanking off different articles of clothes that end up scattered to the floor like this is the last time. Or maybe it feels like the first time, like you want to be closer than ever before. Hearts almost bursting so fast, clawing at Tojis scarred back as he thrusts two fingers into your hole.

He works them in and out of you, watching how your breath hitches and the way your face gets screwed up when he pumps his curls his digits inside you. He thrusts them inside your sopping pussy relentlessly, you can feel the cool metal of the ring he wears brushing your folds with every thrust.

“Fuuck- anh- right there!”

“Here?” He purrs, brushing against that spongy spot. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, like he hasn’t gotten every inch of your memorized.

“Come on, tell me what you need baby, need your words.”

You keen, bucking your hips into his hands, as you feel the butterflies in your stomach start to build. “Just- ahh- Toj-“

“Just Toji? Just me? That’s not a hard fix heh-“ he looks down, finding your plumped bud beneath the hood, rubbing small circle with his thumb. “But it’s not what you really want.”

You whine, whining and humping against him, “Shit- don’t- ack- don’t be an asshole Toji.”

The older man nibbles at your skin, sure to leave a little love bite, making shivers roll down his spine, “Then don’t be a fuckin brat, tell me what you need.”

You keen at the sensation, bucking your hips into his hand, “Wanna- aah- wanna cum! Please make me cum!”

Toji hums, head falling to your stomach and watching as his fingers disappear into you, over and over, faster than before, he plants a tender kiss on your hips, “Gooood girl.”

You toppled over with that, pulsing around his fingers as you gripped down on his shoulders. Toji is salvationing at the feel of you around his fingers, pulling them out and sucking them clean like they’re his last meal. Can’t help but yank you forward to suck your pretty little clit. Tongue running up and down your folds with vigor.

“Shit, ‘s sensitive!”

“I knooow, your poor poor cunt.” he condescendingly coo’s, lapping you up till your “clean” but you just get messier. You manage to pull away, plopping down on the couch beside him. You shiverly, eyes trailing from his hard on that’s held in his sweatpants, slowly up his abs give him a sultry look, “Come on Toji.”

Jesus, it makes something else in his head tick, pulling down his sweats just enough for his cock to spring out, smacking against his abs. The older man flips you onto your stomach without a second thought, dragging you to him by your ankles. He slowly eases himself inside you, the burn of him stretching you out so much yet so perfect.

His breath hitches, gripping the globe of your ass as he begins to move. “ Fuuuck mama you- hck- you don’t know how loooong I’ve missed you. Missed this.”

You moan, looking back at him and biting your lip, “Just this?”

He rolls his eyes, giving your ass a harsh smack, he grips onto your shirt, using it as leverage to slam you back on his cock while he fits into your slippery wet entrance. “Such a stubborn fuckin girl, Jesus- would’ve gotten back so much sooner hadn’t it been for Shiu. Hah- it was supposed to be a two month job.”

You’re head is spinning, not just from the information Toji’s giving you, but the way his length keeps rubbing inside your gummy walls, you claw at the cushion beneath you, “Wha-“

“—Think f’me kid, I needed to get back t’you fast. You think a regular assassin would’ve finished so fuckin fast? Couldnt- damn it- couldnt get you off my mind. Missed that silly laugh of yours, and those pretty brown eyes on me. Shit- the way you tell shit to me straight. Haaad to come back and make sure my kid was alright, hah- make sure you didn’t forget.”

“Forget?” You slur out.

The end of Toji’s lips where his scar lays twitches, eyes low from watching your ass ripple against hips then back to that stupidly gorgeous screwed up face. His grip on your waist tightens, sure to bruise and he he hums, “That I love you.”

And he finally, gives you all of his cock, bottoming out completely, his strawberry red tip nudging your sweet spot you. Your toes curl, pulsing around him and letting out a broken sob as you cum.

But he’s not stopping, eyes closing in ecstasy as you tighten around him. But he’s not stopping, giving yout frantic thrust after thrust, his cum filled balls ‘thwack, thwack, thwack’ against your cunt. His hair sticking to his forehead, sweat slowly beginning to glisten on the both of your skin.

The older man’s jaw clenched when he slips out, Roughly turning you onto your side and pushing both of your knees to your shoulder with his hand. Toji’s tip making such a mess as he smacks it onto your entrance. He hisses, “Shit, baby- gotta take this- fuck, need you to- take it, take me.”

Like he had to tell you, like he didn’t pound into you without a second thought. Feeling his cock even better, deeper from this angle— practically dropping it in your sore pussy from above, the weight of him on you is perfect. Toji groans, muscles flexing as he rolls his hips into you.

“Greedy fuckin pussy doll, practically made for me. Only I can fuck you like this- love you like this.”

You stupidly nod, jaw slack and only able to let out half of the words you want to say through sobs and moans, “I do too, I love- hnngh- I love- shiiit Toji!” It’s music to his ears.

You try to contain yourself, holding yourself, and pulling at your t-shirt. Toji snickers, bending down to your face, yout legs now over one of his shoulders he tsks, “Hold onto your old man kid, just like you always do. I got you.”

Your trembling arms wrap around his broad shoulders, Toji giving you a filthy French kiss as he slams into you. Sucking your tongue and holding you in his big tattooed arms. You gasp, lips smacking as you pull away, you smack at his back for some avail, “I-I’m gonna cum! Wait- Fuck-“

“Can fuckin feel it, milk my cock baby.”

You swear you see white as you cum, body writhed in his arms. Toji let’s out a wragged noise against your shoulder, cock twitching inside your guts. He yanks himself out, milky white cum falling onto your stomach.

Your eyes widen when you feel Tojis hardened cockhead smearing your cum together.

“Toji—“

He gives your a sleezy smirk, opening your legs and slowly rutting his cock through your folds,

“But doll- we gotta make up for lost time.”

Tiny black dress, high slit, thin straps, glossy lips. Anklet with diamonds that catch the light. Close enough to slutty for this crowd, expensive enough to say owned. You walk in on his arm and every guard in the place looks once at you to figure out what tier he’s buying from, because men who can afford you can afford crates.

The dealer is there already. Thick chain, thicker accent. He’s got two men standing behind him, one with a concealed subgun, both paying attention. He clocks you, then Ghost, and smiles like this deal is already good.

“My friend,” he booms over the music. “You made it.”

Ghost claps wrists with him, casual. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The dealer’s gaze slides past him to you. “And you brought… gift.”

Ghost’s hand lands on your hip, proprietary. “Not a gift,” he corrects, amused. “Mine.”

The dealer nods in approval. “Woman who knows who she belongs to is good for business.”

You lean into Ghost, smile at the dealer with a flutter of your eyes. “I belong to whoever pays for the shoes.”

Laughter all around.

They take the corner booth, a half moon sofa sunk into shadows, low table in front, bottle service already waiting. It’s tight on purpose, forcing bodies close, forcing guards to stand a little off. Good for concealing hands. Good for selling intimacy.

Ghost sits with his back to the wall like always, legs spread. You slide across the leather and straight into his lap without waiting for an invitation, because that’s the role: eager, comfortable, unbothered. His hand is on you immediately, palm broad on your thigh, thumb drawing circles like it’s muscle memory

The dealer notices, and far from being offended, he looks pleased. This is exactly the kind of thing he expects: indulgent men with bimbo women. Cops don’t do this. Undercover agents don’t do this. People who are afraid of being reported don’t do this.

This sells it.

“You have good life,” the dealer says, settling back. “Good money, good woman. Very nice.”

“Good product, too, I hope,” Ghost drawls, rolling right into business. “You said last week you could move six crates, M5SF, no marks.”

“Six, yes. Maybe eight.” The dealer waves for the better bottle. “We are flexible.”

While he talks, Ghost’s hand slides higher on your thigh.

You don’t bat him away. You open for him, knee tilting, dress parting, so he can fit his fingers under the slit. Your arm loops lazily around his shoulder, your nails trail the back of his neck, and you keep your eyes on Ghost like nothing unusual is happening.

The dealer smiles in that oily, approving way men like him do when they see pretty, pliable women.

“You have good taste,” the dealer says, clearly impressed. “Not just weapons, eh?”

Ghost’s hand comes to your hip, wide, possessive. He pulls you further onto his lap so your ass is fully on him, not dainty perching. “Only bring the best,” he says. “Can’t show up to places like this empty handed.”

You laugh, stroking the collar of his shirt. “He’s sweet sometimes.”

“Only sometimes,” Ghost hums. His hand disappears under your dress. You feel his fingertips brush the inside of your thigh, hot on cool skin. “When she’s earned it.”

The dealer loves that. “Woman must earn, yes. Too many girls these days, they want for free.” He waves to the server; a bottle appears. “Drink.”

You do, slow and sensual, letting your throat work as you swallow. The dealer watches. Ghost watches him watching.

Then Ghost’s hand slid higher.

Up the inside of your thigh, fingers curving in where the skin is softest, right to the crease of your hip. You didn’t stiffen. You melted, knees tipping open like you wanted him there.

The dealer’s eyes light up.

That was the tell.

If you’d pulled away, if Ghost had gotten flustered, if either of you had broken character? He would’ve looked twice. But here you were, in his private booth, in his dangerous little den, letting a man touch you without shame.

Undercover agents don’t do that.

Ghost knew it. You knew it. And the dealer and his guards all know it.

The dealer laughs, delighted. “This is good girl.”

Ghost chuckles like yeah, look at what I’ve got, and then because the dealer is enjoying it, he goes further.

He adjusts you, two hands now, bracketing your waist, lifting you a few inches and twisting you so you’re straddling him more than sitting. Your dress rides up until your lace panties peak out from under it. Your ass nestles against his groin. His chest at your back. Arm around your middle. He looks like a king in a den of criminals with his favorite toy on his lap.

“Your route,” Ghost says, eyes never leaving the dealer even as his fingertips slide over your panties, “comes in through Constanța or Varna?”

“Constanța,” the dealer says, watching his hand now like it’s entertainment. “But we move manifest in Moldova.”

Ghost nods, file that. At the same time, his thumb presses right between your thighs, over lace, slow circles that push heat into your belly. You inhale, the tiniest breath, and he feels it.

He smirks against your hair. “This one, she gets bored when we talk business,” he tells the dealer, like he’s sharing a joke. “Need to keep her occupied.”

The dealer straight up grins. “Ah. Young people,” he said to no one, spreading his hands. “Why to wait, da?”

Ghost takes that as full permission.

His right hand slides under the hem of your dress.

You didn’t even pretend to stop him. Instead you arched, giving him more space, settling your heels on either side of his legs so your knees are wide and obscene. Your hand finds the back of his neck and squeezed, making sure your body language said: I like this. I want this.

Two fingers part you, slow and possessive, like he’s showing you off right here in front of a man who might sell him an anti aircraft launcher.

“Ahh,” the dealer says, like it’s a good wine. “This is real. I like this. Means you are not scared.”

Ghost’s mouth is right by your ear, voice pitched low for you and for him: “You hear that?” he murmurs, fingers slowly circling your clit now that he’s got you wet. “He likes it. Be good for him.”

“You’re enjoying this,” you manage, keeping your eyes on the dealer, lips parted in a moan.

“I am,” Ghost admits, not even pretending otherwise. “Why shouldn’t I?”

The dealer takes a sip of his drink and sits back, amused, watching. One of his guards smirks. The other pointedly looked, but no one moved to stop it.

It sold the cover perfectly.

“Your routes,” Ghost said, palming your cunt and making you whine. “You said through Constanța.”

“Yes. We have man at port. He… accommodating.”

“Need to make sure he stays that way.” Ghost’s hooked two fingers in the elastic and tugged. “You don’t want attention on these boats.”

The dealer nodded, talking about a cousin, gesturing with the bottle while Ghost gripped your panties and ripped.

You inhaled.

It was not a shy inhale. It was the kind of breath a woman takes when she’s about to get exactly what she wants. You even roll your hips once, a small, slow grind into his hand, just to make sure the dealer saw.

His eyes flicker down, clocking it and he laughed, delighted. “She cannot wait, your girl.”

Ghost grins under the mask. “Would you?”

“Nyet.” The dealer raises his glass. “Please. Enjoy. Makes me very happy to see good partnership.”

There. That’s what you were both aiming for. Partnership. Real, horny, can’t-keep-hands-off-each-other partnership. No way a cop would do this on op, not at this level, not with a target inches away.

Ghost rewards you.

“Spread f’me,” he murmurs into your hair.

You spread.

Knees wider. Dress higher. Heat slick against his fingers. Cunt glistening under the club lights.

He didn’t go fast. He wanted the dealer to see. He wanted it to be obvious: this wasn’t a quick grope; this was a man fingerfucking his girl in a club because he could. He drew two fingers slow through your folds, gathered slick, circling your clit with his thumb in little, lazy motions. You sighed, soft, head tipping back onto his shoulder.

“Good, yeah?” he said, loud enough for the table.

“Mmhmm.”

The dealer chucks. “She is like cat.”

“She’s worse at home,” Ghost said, and your laugh was real.

He slid one finger in, deep and curling. Your whole body responded. You grabbed his thigh; your nails dug. He used his other arm, the one around your waist, to hold you firm, to keep you writhing on him and not sliding all over the booth.

“Relax,” he mutters, lips at your ear. “Let me in.”

You did. Muscles slackening, thighs trembling. He slid the second finger in to join the first, stretching you, pressing his knuckles down with each slow thrust. You squeezed him and tipped your head back towards the ceiling, swallowing a moan.

The dealer leans forward, genuinely entertained. “You spoil her.”

“She lets me,” Ghost said. “That’s why I keep her.”

“Smart man.” The dealer flickered a look to his guards. “You see? A man who knows how to keep woman loyal, he knows how to keep crew loyal.”

Ghost’s thumb sped up.

You were already wet from the danger, from the bass, from him. The club’s heat made everything slippery, shiny. Sensation ran up your spine. He was angling just right, hitting that front wall, and you had to clamp your hand over your own mouth for a second.

He pulled it down.

“Let him hear,” he murmured. “Make him believe it.”

So you did.

A small, breathy moan, warm and fucked.

The dealer chuckled. “You are good girl,” he said to you. “He buy you bigger diamonds, da?”

You nod, because why not. “If he doesn’t, I’ll steal them.”

“Опа.” He claps once. “I like her.”

Ghost’s fingers don’t stop, even as he shifts the conversation back to the deal. His cock hard under you; you could feel it against your ass, thick and hot even through his trousers.

So you helped.

You rocked your hips down, grinding onto him as his fingers fucked you, turning it into a whole body motion: up on his hand, down on his cock. His breath stuttered. He tightened his arm around your waist and whispered, “Behave.”

“Make me,” you whispered back, eyes still on the dealer like nothing was happening.

his thumb did exactly that.

He rubbed your clit harder, faster, tight circles. You hissed. Your thighs began to shake. He pressed his mouth to your shoulder and said, “Come for me.”

“In front of-”

“Yes.”

The dealer was pouring another glass, talking about moving crates onto trucks, gesturing with a cigar. He looked up at you, smirked, and said, “Is okay, красавица. You are safe here. Enjoy.”

That was it. That was the final nail in the “not cops” coffin. No undercover would come on command while target smiled at her.

You let go.

It hit fast, heat flooding low, muscles clenching around Ghost’s fingers, cunt tightening, thighs trembling. Your mouth dropped open; a soft, helpless sound came out. His hand didn’t stop, just eased you through, working you gently, praising in your ear.

“Good girl. That’s you. That’s my mess. That’s it. Gorgeous.”

Your body sagged against him when it was done. He pulled his fingers out slow, wet, and without even trying to hide it, he licked them, eyes on the dealer.

The dealer barked a laugh. “Ah! He really likes you.”

Ghost licked the last of you off his fingers. “S’good,” he said, like that explained everything.

“You are welcome here,” the dealer said, suddenly very, very sure. “Anytime. You and your girl. We do good business.”

“Think we will,” Ghost said. He let his hand rest high on your thigh, possessive, not bothering to fix your dress right away. “Think we will.”

You turned your head and kissed his jaw, slow, lazy, like you were blissed out and sated and had never once in your life worn a wire.

Tonight, you were exactly what they thought you were: pretty, obedient, fucked on your man’s fingers in a room full of criminals.

It's Monday. Again. This day used to be Rafe's long day at the office, just Mondays.

All days are Mondays now, apparently. You weren't informed of it, no one notified you, it just started happening and you couldn't have a voice in it.

Rafe groans, because he's still tired after a weekend of trying to disconnect with your family. He spent most of his time on his phone every time the kids weren't all over him. Yesterday had been rough for you two, no fight had happened but he felt the anger and disappointment in your eyes every time he picked up a call.

There was a point where you didn't even flinch anymore. You just... didn't care.

He unwrapped his arm from around your waist and the weight that's lifted from you it's more than just his arm. You don't open your eyes to catch a last glimpse, you haven't done it in a long time now, you don't know if he had noticed.

You don't move, you just concentrate in your breathing, not on the perfectly quiet steps he has mastered over the years of getting ready in the dark while you were still asleep. Like always, he locks himself in the bathroom, washes his face, his teeth. You don't remember his bathroom routine that much, it's been a minute since you saw him doing it.

You only go back to sleep once he leaves the room, he makes sure to be extra careful on closing the door. He knows he ended the night on your last nerve and he's staying there.

Rafe makes his way downstairs, passing over the kids room while he tied his tie around his neck with a perfect robotism, he doesn't look down to make sure it's well done, he knows it is.

He checks on Olivia, asleep. He checks on Parker, asleep.

He sighed, rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes with one of his hand, the other slipped to his back pocket for his phone. He used to keep it in the front, until he caught that faint frown you’d make every time the rectangular outline broke the line of his pants. You never said a word about it, but he noticed. So, he changed it.

He makes coffee first, like every single morning while he checks his messages. Unread emails flood the screen—offers, follow-ups, contracts, reminders. Numbers and names, money and motion, calendar packed with even more things to take care of. His kind of thing. He leans against the counter, waiting. The coffee dripped slow and steady, exactly what he hasn't been in a long time, it feels almost like it's on purpose.

The thought of it already makes him roll his eyes. He puts the phone down on the marble and the screen fades to black.

Then, silence.

The house is quiet, too quiet. He used to have so much noise around him and he loved it. Kids running around, laughing, fighting at times, you yelling at them to keep them at ease and him wrapping an arm around you to keep you from running behind them.

It's not like the house doesn't have that anymore, it's just that by the time he's around, it doesn't. Kids asleep for the night or mornings (like now) where they have another hour of dreams.

He glanced toward the hallway. The walls were lined with frames, perfectly spaced and organized by you, a collection of faces frozen in moments he can’t get back. You, the kids, his arm around all of you. He’d picked that wall himself, said it made the place feel warm. Now it just stared back at him and he doesn't know what to say to it.

But, like always. Time is money and he can't afford to waste it, so his nostalgia leaves as fast as it appeared.

He was out the door at 6:50 am.

By the time you woke up, the sun had the decency of being out. It's still the soft version of it, not as yellow as it is at noon. It's already 8:00 am and the kids need to be on the car, seat belts on by 8:55.

And it's a kind of dance you are a professional at. You've been over the steps over and over again, usually it changes when the kids start to get older, normally it gets easier (or harder, depending on how you view it) but for the past school year, you've done it all on your own without counting Rafe almost in any single morning.

So, you made it your choreography. Your steps, your break, your waiting times, your turns and pirouettes. You are a beautiful ballerina at this point, almost two months before school ends and you get dragged into the long days of summer where no entertainment seems to be enough for anyone.

You go to Parker's first, he's already pretty fast at getting dressed in his own. You need to wake him up delicately. Just like Rafe, he's not a morning person and has even the same character, short and temperamental. You decided you can take a few extra minutes of your morning on just waking up Parker in order to avoid a tantrum.

Once he's up, eyes barely open and head still hanging on his shoulder with tiredness, you go over to Olivia's room.

She's much different, not exactly a morning person either but she does need the extra energy to start day or else she'll just mop around like a plant. You tickle her, kiss her cheek, shake her arm a little bit and she's eyes wide open with a soft smile on her face already.

Beautiful.

Both of them sit on the couch with their breakfasts, the only one actually talking is Olivia. She has this thing where she has to tell everyone her most recent dream with full details that she invents right on the spot to fill the empty voids she can't remember.

Parker just... nods. He doesn't have the energy to do anything about it right now.

Breakfast is done, so are that snacks on their backpacks. You take your time on doing Olivia's hair.

At 8:55? You're already on the road, your boy tries to catch up on some more sleep, but the chatting between you and Olivia stop him from it.

"Miss Glinda—" Her name is not actually Glinda but Olivia is never able to remember her actual name. "Said we were going to, uhm... draw people."

"Today?" You asked, attentively listening while you take a turn.

"I don't know." She shrugged, freeing herself from the responsibility of knowing the full information. "She just said it."

You laughed, they always make you disconnect from the tensions inside of you, the conversations that were had or the ones that weren't with Rafe that always pull your strings just a little bit much. These kids make you forget that.

Rafe has been at the office for a while now. When he arrived, the building hummed with quiet precision— screens lighting up, shoes clicking across marble floors, the low murmur of ambition echoing down the hall.

He didn't stopped to greet anyone. Almost never does, it's not like he owns it to anyone there. Just nodded, the kind of polite acknowledgment that said I’m already thinking about something else.

His office is on the top floor, where he is at right now, glass walls that had big curtains whenever he needed a fucking minute, which was quite often lately.

The island spitting out behind him, he can see a lot. He's at the center of Outer Banks, after all. It's always a busy street, not like in summer season, you can barely walk when the heat has finally landed. Tourists and students on summer vacation invade the whole place.

Rafe looked behind him, it was magical how almost every window in every house or building had a view to the beach.

But even with the skyline stretching open before him, he keeps looking at his reflection in the glass, he has a frown almost all that time now. He used to like this view, the kids love the beach, you love it. Now it just reminds him how far he’s standing from home.

He pushes the thought to the back of his head, he convinced himself to make those intrusive feelings an afterthought. He doesn't have time for them, not right now.

"Mr. Cameron?" His assistant’s voice cuts in from the doorway. "You’ve got the Henderson call in five."

He nods once. "Yeah. I’ll be there."

She leaves, and the silence folds back around him, all knowing.

He leans back in his chair, jaw tight, eyes dragging once more over the skyline.

He’s built something solid, unshakable—offices, deals, numbers, a name that carries weight.

And for what.

He gets up, grabs his phone and walks out of his office, doing the same thing he always does: anxiously rubs the wedding band resting on his finger, the one that hasn't moved for almost ten years.

Back at home, you're doing the same thing. Same gesture.

The laptop hums quietly in front of you— the same one that holds years of your work, the one you finally decided to dust off and come back to. It wasn’t just about missing music; it was about the pull of it, that quiet anticipation that meant soon, you’d have to start moving again. Work.

You bite the inside of your cheek, glance at the time. Almost eleven. He should be free at some point. You know that around noon he gets a lunch break he never actually takes, but that’s when he usually answers—briefly, distractedly, but still, he answers.

Swallowing your discomfort, you type.

You: heyy, when are u coming home today?

It was simple. Also casual enough to avoid the bitter feeling you get on your mouth every single time you have to ask. You haven't had a consistent answer in months.

You know he won't text you back now. He never does. You could call him— you used to. Back when it was an excuse to hear his voice, to make him pause for a minute in the middle of his day.

But you don’t call anymore. You’re not even sure if he’d pick up.

You stare at the screen a second longer, watching the message hang there— blue bubble, no response. It’s nothing new, but it still hits the same way every time: ignored.

You close the laptop halfway, just to dull its glow. The house is still. Too still. Even the fridge hum sounds too loud.

You get up and go to refill your coffee because it has gone cold already. You turn the machine at the same time you watch the old one go down the drain, you pick up in every little thing that could resemble freedom and relief in your life, just to keep going.

You take a sip, lean against the counter, glance at the clock. Eleven-twenty. You tell yourself not to check your phone, but you do anyway. Still nothing.

He makes you anxious. You hate it. You’re already anxious enough without him. You've always lived with anxiety and Rafe knows it, for the past year it has started to turn exhausting for everyone in the house, not just you anymore. The tiredness of keeping still makes you so restless you naturally chase whatever that can keep you occupied.

It's intense, you know it.

You try to work. Open a file, let the first few notes play. They sound foreign, like someone else wrote them. You listen, adjust a chord, delete it, try again. The rhythm doesn’t come. It sounds so bad.

Your phone lights up on the desk, and your heart jumps too quickly. But it's not him and it's just a simple but painful reminder.

You exhale, long and quiet.

There’s a certain kind of tired that doesn’t come from doing too much—it comes from waiting, waiting and waiting.

You sit back, fingers tracing the keyboard absently. You think about calling him, about breaking that rule you made for yourself weeks ago: don’t chase the silence.

By the time you finally forget about your phone, it’s already noon and you have to pick up the kids soon. The music’s still looping—soft, repetitive, like something to hold on to. You’ve settled into the rhythm of pretending not to wait.

Then the vibration breaks through the room, small but sharp. You freeze. You reach for it too quickly, already hating yourself for the way your pulse jumps but you can't help it.

Rafe: Hey baby

Might be late. Got a meeting at 4. Don’t wait up.

Yeah, you never do anyways.

Three sentences. No punctuation, no softness. You read it twice anyway, like maybe you missed something hidden between the words. You didn’t.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, ready to type something—anything—but what’s left to say? Every answer feels pathetic.

So you don’t send anything. You just let the screen fade back to black.

You think about how it used to sound when he called you in the middle of the day— his voice low, the soft background noise of his office, the way he’d say your name, honey dripping, eager to see you again.

Now it’s just three sentences.

He sends the text and stares at it for a second before locking his phone. It’s easier that way—short, clean, detached. Fuck, when did he start needing to sound detach from his wife? But at the same time it is easier. Easier than saying I don’t know when I’ll stop working. He knows you hate excuses, so he might as well tell you the truth: he's got work.

The office hums around him in a way that used to be overwhelming when he wasn't the one in charge of everything. People moving, doors opening and closing, voices low and clipped. Deals being made. Money moving.

He should feel proud. He does, sometimes. Just not today.

Everything has been harder since Rafe finally got the company all to himself almost two years ago. He's finally the boss, the goddamn CEO he always dreamt of being, taking after his father. But this job just takes, takes and it takes. The position he's in now it's obviously more demanding, everyone needs him at all times. Or maybe his employees are fucking stupid, he has no idea at this point.

Sure, even more money ends up in his pocket, he knows it's not a problem you have at home. The problem at home isn't even there at all, and that's him.

The reflection of himself in the computer is almost too much. It's tired but all pulled together in a neat and expensive suit. The kind of man that gets things done, except he doesn't know how to fix the one thing that actually matters: his marriage.

But it's not like he can do something about it right now, he thinks. He doesn't have the time to even breathe before he gets another scheduled call.

The day slips away without you really noticing, today is one of those lucky days, where you don't think about it too much. One moment it’s morning light pouring through the kitchen, and the next, the sky outside is already beginning to fade.

Five p.m.

And you know damn well he’s still in that meeting. Probably hasn’t even looked at his phone. Probably won’t for a while, you already know it.

The kids are home, shoes kicked off near the door, snacks already half-eaten on the counter. Parker’s talking about soccer again—his new team, the one he joined a few months ago after Rafe took him to a soccer match and ended up fascinated. You nod, smile, ask the right questions, you keep your mind here, where it matters, where you're needed.

Olivia’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open, tongue poking out in concentration. She's also in art classes, another teacher she calls Miss Glinda, whose real name is actually Lisa, introduced last week.

You tell her it’s beautiful, and it is, but you can’t quite shake the ache in your chest that you're the only one seeing it.

By six, the house quiets again. Parker’s at practice, Olivia’s in her room humming softly as she plays. You clean the kitchen even though it doesn’t need cleaning. Reorganize a drawer. Fold a few shirts that didn’t need folding.

Seven-thirty comes and you hop up on the car again with Olivia to pick up her brother from practice. The sky outside bruises purple, the air heavy with that end-of-day stillness and you get caught on with how beautiful it is.

By eight-twenty, you pull into the driveway, headlights brushing against the front of the house, it's already dark outside. Olivia’s half-asleep in the backseat, clutching her stuffed animal. Parker’s sweaty and content, still chattering about how his team finally won a match in practice.

You look up and see the porch light’s on. His car’s already there.

Your heart dips— somewhere between relief and dread. You weren’t expecting him to be home this early, though eight-twenty hardly counts as early anymore.

You're tired of taking whatever you can get.

You unlock the door with your elbow, balancing Parker’s gear bag that's heavy with his water bottle, his shoes, the keys, Olivia’s teddy and a dozen small pieces of your life that somehow always end up in your hands.

You're overloaded, you don't have space anymore.

The house smells faintly like his cologne and the coffee he makes too late in the day already. You're already infected by him and you haven't even seen him.

He’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, a glass of water in one hand, phone in the other like always. The overhead light makes him look tired, sharper around the edges.

He looks up when you walk in, hearing the commotion. “Where were you?”

It’s not rude. Just… blank. But still, it stings. It somehow makes it worse.

You blink, stunned and also predictable as you set the bags down. “Parker had practice.” You sighed tiredly, looking around.

He frowns slightly, like he’s trying to remember. He looks at the calendar in the fridge, a useless magnet. “Right. On Mondays?” You *know* he doesn't remember even tho he's the one who took him to his first practice.

“Since February." You answer quietly, too obvious, and you hate how small your voice sounds.

Parker runs past you, dumping his hoodie by the door, already yelling something about needing another snack. Olivia trails behind, dragging her jacket, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“You should’ve told me you’d be out.” He says again, not looking up from the fridge this time.

"Didn't think I had to." You said flatly. You drop your keys into the bowl by the counter. “You were in meetings all day, didn’t want to bother you.” You hide your indifference under caring, as if you still fucking care he spends the entire day on meetings.

“That’s not—” He sighs, straightens, looking away from the fridge. “I’m not saying you bother me.”

“Didn’t say you did.” You walked past him to the living room.

Rafe's eyes follow you, he doesn't what this form of your body language means. Sure, you're tired but he doesn't have the ability to read you that well anymore and the tone in your voice is pissing him off.

The air shifts, just slightly. Olivia’s humming somewhere down the hall, Parker’s asking for yogurt from the pantry before he runs off to his room again. The house sounds alive again, but it doesn’t feel like it.

Rafe leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “I just like knowing where you guys are. That’s all.” He scratched the back of his neck, same gesture every time he doesn't know what to do with you, what's the right thing to say.

You nod, slowly as you try to come up with an answer that is good enough to stop an argument. “You could, if you asked sometimes.” But it's impossible.

His jaw tightens and he frowns, not liking what he's hearing. He doesn’t answer right away and he won't admit how thrown off he is by the comment. “I do ask.”

You internally groan as you walk over to the dining table, pausing before you can reach for your laptop. “About work.” You tell him. “About schedules, meetings, new listings. Not about us.” You swallow the imminent need of start screaming at him.

He looks at you then, eyes tired and unreadable. Maybe he turned like that to match you, he hasn't been able to understand you in so long. “That’s not fair.” He exhaled, shaking his head.

You chuckled softly, humourlessly and in disbelief that he's the one telling you this. "It never is, Rafe." You said before turning around. *What a victim he is, huh*.

He exhales, quiet, steady. Runs a hand down his face like he’s trying to decide if it’s worth saying what’s in his head. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.” He tries to explain, to remind you he hasn't forgotten about you he's just busy.

“I know,” You say quickly, cutting him off before the familiar list starts—calls, clients, deadlines, numbers. You know it all. “You always do.” Your voice has been getting totally good at touching irony but never really using it. "But so do I."

There’s a silence that sits between you—soft, fragile, like glass. You both keep your voices low, careful not to alert the kids, but it’s not really about them. It’s about everything you’ve been avoiding breaking and it's turning unsustainable.

He noticed your hand, the way it reaches out eagerly to grab your laptop, the one resting with a promise inside of it. "You're working again?" He asked, rising a brow, not daring to get closer.

You look behind you, getting the device on your hands. "Trying to." You said shortly, looking like you've been caught red handed on your attempts of getting yourself back on your feet.

As if he could ever say something bad about it. Or anything at all, really.

"That's good." He nodded without adding anything further. Polite, practiced— it sounds like a line in a script he keeps failing to deliver.

The silence stretches, but it’s not comfortable. It’s full of all the things you used to say without thinking —how was your day, you look tired, I missed you— now replaced by the kind of small talk that doesn’t touch anything real.

Rafe cleared his throat again, still from his place on the kitchen.

You repeat his action, walking over to where he is, laptop in hand and leaving it on the kitchen island so you can refill Parker's bottle and put it back in the fridge.

He stops you before you can do anything else, you guys hadn't even greeted each other since you stepped inside. Wrapping a consistent arm around your waist, he pulls you closer. "Hey." He said quietly, crunching down to catch your eyes, in that way that says let's calm down.

You look up at him, hand naturally coming to rest on his chest when he pulled you closer. You don't exhale the air of exhaustion when you lock eyes. "Hey." You whisper. And you don't pull him away either when he leans down to give you a kiss because you did miss him. The problem is, you always do, you're used to it.

A kiss would normally pump your energy up again after such a long day. It would make you want to keep up and stay up with him. It doesn't really work this time around.

"I'll... make dinner." He said in the same quite and guilty way.

You nod, touching his nose with yours for a moment before leaving him alone for shower time.

Dinner goes by in a blur for you, you don't really talk. It doesn't pass as fast for Rafe, he tries to keep up with whatever tired and half-asleep things the kids eagerly tell him about their day. His eyes keep drifting back to you every single time they tell him something he didn't know about.

He does the dishes, the least he can do on the few hours he actually spends at home and before you even know it, you hear the particular door of his at home office being closed, probably locking himself up with the intention of checking on a few last emails, paperwork, texts before bed.

You're downstairs, remembering to ask Rafe to come with you on Wednesday to take the kids to have their blood drawn for a test, just their Vitamin levels, just a routine check.

You're already in your head anticipating how the conversation is going to go when you ask him while you start preparing the kids' backpacks for the next day.

It’s muscle memory at this point: check the notebooks, refill the pencil cases, tuck away their snack money. You take your time with it, it's not like Rafe is waiting for you in bed.

There it was, the drawing Olivia mentioned they were going to do this morning.

'Family' was the title with messy handwriting and orange pencil.

And underneath it, the picture: you and her in the center, hands joined. Parker on your other side, smiling with his wild little hair sticking up. And then —off to the left, small, distant— Rafe. A briefcase in his hand. Not touching anyone.

It looks almost like a punishment of your reality the more you look at it.

Your heart drops so fast it almost feels like guilt. You blink at it once, then again, as if maybe the lines will rearrange themselves if you just give them time, if someone tried hard enough.

They don’t.

Before you can think too hard about it, you reach for Parker’s. His drawing is messier, his colors darker, bold strokes that fill the page. But there’s no sign of Rafe at all and your heart quickens.

Just you. Him and Olivia. The house. The dog that died two summers ago.

Oh, shit.

You press your lips together, your throat tight.

You knew this was coming, in some quiet part of you. But seeing it drawn by the kids: seeing the distance in color and space, how Parker doesn't even count Rafe anymore, that’s what hurts the most.

You close the books and lean against the table, palms flat against the wood, eyes unfocused.

What are you supposed to do now?

You take a deep breath at the same time you take the drawings with you. You make your way upstairs, shaky and scared to ask for more as you walked.

You don't knock, you don't wait for him to answer, he never will if you do.

You just open his door, barging inside because you also own this place. This office, so Rafe and calculated thoughts still belongs to the house. You can be here.

"Rafe—" You say and before you get another word he cuts you off.

He was on the phone, walking around the office as he gesticulated with his hand but he stops just for a moment when he sees you. He lowers the phone, pressing it against his shoulder as he gives you his pleading eyes. "Baby, I'm on the phone, I'll be there—" He starts to promise.

"Rafe, I need to talk to you—" You start with indignation.

"Baby—"

"Rafe!"

He sighed, putting his phone up to his ear again as he muttered some "I'll call you back." to whoever he was talking to. No, you won't you wanted to say.

"What?” He asks, bracing himself against his desk, flipping through papers that don’t need to be touched— anything to avoid your eyes.

You decide to give him a chance, the last one. You ran out of them a long time ago, but this is Rafe we're talking about here. Of course you would get chances out of your ass just for the sake of your marriage.

You swallow, hands shaking as you grip the drawings you're hiding behind your back. "I need you to come with me to the hospital in Wednesday. The twins are getting their blood tested—"

"I can't go on Wednesday." He immediately says, and he says it with such a natural and immediate reaction. He hasn't even touched you that fast in weeks.

You exhale, trying to make it through the sentence. "Well, make time, I need you there—"

"I can't." He repeated as if you hadn't listened. "I got a meeting with the Spanish investors—"

"Then move it." You demand.

"I can't move it—"

"Well, I can't go on my own, Parker's gonna faint—" You tried to explain. Your boy, as energetic and fast he is, he's also terrified of needles. The only time he was ever conscious when he was vaccinated, he fainted. Just like Rafe would.

"He doesn't faint—"

"Yes, he does, you know this!" You voice came out with frustration.

He immediately remembered. Of course he does. The first time Parker fainted during a vaccine, Rafe had been the one to catch him before he hit the floor. He’d laughed about it later, about how his son inherited that from him of all things.

Now, he just runs a hand through his hair and mutters, eyes blinking with exhaustion. “Right. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, ashamed.

The silence that follows is sharp enough to hurt. You can still hear the faint buzz of his phone on the desk, another call lighting up the screen and you've never been so close to kill him. Does the damn thing never gives it a rest?

He doesn’t look at you when he says, quieter now, because he knows it's not what you eat to hear. “I’ll see if I can move it.” You want immediate solutions.

You don’t believe him, and he knows it.

“Don’t see, Rafe. Just do it.” Your voice cracked with the frustration you've been trying to hide behind a mask for almost two years, and you can't make it stick to your skin for much longer.

He finally lifts his gaze— tired, distant, but still your husband somewhere under all that static. “I said I’ll try, okay?”

But you're so tired of just trying, you haven't been trying to do anything on your own for months now, you just did it, no excuses because there's no space for it.

You scoffed, patience running so thin is cracking beneath your ribs, attempting to escape and slap him. "I'm supposed to deal with a fainted kid and the other one crying because she thinks her brother is dead—" It seemed so dramatic but that's literally what happens. Olivia doesn't understand the difference between fainting and dying yet.

Goddamn it, he can't deal with your planning and you're anxious anticipation right now. His heart always clenches when he sees you drowned in it but he really can't do it right now. "Why are you always thinking the worst is gonna happen? Why are you so dramatic—"

"I'm not fucking dramatic, it's what happens every single time—" You sigh and cut your own sentence before finishing it. You decided that you're not going to protect him from the truth anymore.

So, with a trembling hand, you pull the drawings from behind you, slamming them harshly on the desk as you clench your jaw. You put the reality in front of him like betting in poker, it all means something.

He frowns, confused, until his eyes land on them. He sees Olivia's drawing first, his face twitches with something that resembles an early grief and he doesn't even know it.

He then sees Parker’s— you, Olivia, the house.

No Rafe.

He stares at them, jaw clenching, throat working hard like he’s swallowing down something bitter. “What is this supposed to be?” He finally asks, his voice quiet and defensive like someone is setting him up for failure.

“This...” You start, voice tight as an elastic as you try not to let go and let the tone hit him like a whip. “...is what our kids see when they think of family.”

He looks up, anger flashing just under the surface at what you just said. “Don’t put that on me—”

“I’m not putting anything on you, Rafe. You did this yourself.” You said with no regrets, without mincing words for the first time in months. It feels fucking relieving.

He runs a hand through his hair, steps back and shakes his head, incapable of actually admitting on what the kids have done because of him. “You think I don’t care? You think I’m not doing everything I can for them—for you?”

You shake your head. “You’re doing everything for a version of us that doesn’t even exist anymore, Rafe." You won't let him twist your arm in this.

“That’s not fair.”

“No.” You swallow while regaining energy to continue, voice quiet but steady now. “What’s not fair is them growing up thinking their dad’s a stranger.”

He looks at you— the kind of look that’s both furious and scared, the one that always came before he tried to talk you down. “Don’t do this right now, okay? Not over some drawings—”

You laugh under your breath, sharp and broken. “It’s not about drawings, Rafe. It’s about everything else in our lives." You can't believe that Rafe, your Rafe, is saying all this denial bullshit. The man who is always recognized for being upfront and straight to the point can't handle it when they do the same to him.

"They're kids." He tried to take some pressure off it so he can have some common ground with you. "You're reading too much into it—"

"Rafe, this is what they see." You got close and grabbed Parker's drawing, moving it in front of his face like mocking. As if he was a goddamn bull and you were holding a red flag. His jaw clenches at the gesture. "You stopped coming to dinner, you stopped being here on weekends, you're on your fucking phone all the time."

"Because I'm working!" He snapped at you, desperate to make you see his side of the story the more he noticed you drifting away from him in a way he has never experimented before. "Can't you fucking see it? I'm trying to make it all work for us—" He gestured the entire place.

You know, you know how hard it has been having to manage an entire empire all by himself after his father was the one commanding everything for so long. You know it's not easy, you know he drowns in help and responsibility sometimes. You know how hard he works.

But you would've never expected your family to be the one losing in all of this.

"Us?!" You asked with indignation. "You don't even see us anymore! When was the last time we actually did something?!" You yelled at him, throat flexing with effort the more agitated you get with this conversation.

"Fine, I'll move the fucking meeting!" He gave up, sighing as his face fells with exhaustion. You saw the way his shoulders slumped, completely surrendered.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hot tears blurring your vision the way rain does with car windows, making it impossible to see. "No, you know what, don't cancel anything, just—"

This isn't what you wanted. Not like this, you don't want Rafe making it look like cancelling a meeting is a sacrifice in trade of taking care of his responsibilities as a father. You hate the way it makes you look like you're asking for too much, as if this isn't what he promised and vowed to when you got married.

It seemed like so long ago.

Rafe gave up, body sagging with defeat after your words. He doesn't know what to do to make you happy. He knows he's been absent, he's very conscious of it but how else is he going to start fixing what he did if you don't let him?

There's some things that can't be fixed.

"Then what do you want, please tell me, because—"

"I want a divorce."

It makes you nauseous, the words come out of you like a protective reflex. Like coughing, your body trying to clear the way when something irritates you so you can breathe.

This is like that. Your throat closed and you try to control your chest, you have years of singing lessons all for this moment. You know how to control your lungs... but fuck, it's impossible right now.

Rafe goes still. He can't move, those are the forbidden words, something he promised to never say or ask for. It's the closest thing he ever felt to a heart attack but the one thing attacking him was heartbreak. Sharp and direct, knowing exactly where to go to once it's aimed.

Then, you see the surrender on his body, the way he collapses momentarily with a helpless expression. He can't say he didn't see it coming.

But he would be a fucking loser if he doesn't try to make you stay.

His face goes blank for a moment, you finally reseted him like you wanted. He takes a second to decide if he heard you right or not. "You don't mean that." He said quietly.

"I do."

Oh, those words were used against him now, huh. I do, I do, I do.

"(Y/N)—" He takes a step closer, searching for the eyes that have drove him crazy for almost fourteen years now. He doesn't want to stop seeing them.

You step back, putting a hand between you while you shake your head, the tears falling on your cheeks are unstoppable now. "I can't do this anymore." You said in a little voice, defeated. "I can't keep pretending."

"We're not pretending anything, we're married." Rafe reminded you, voice straining with pain, he could barely talk. "You're my wife."

"Well, you haven't been treating me like one." You said, eyes looking up at him. The glistening in them reflect the image of the current Rafe, the one he turned himself into.

You sigh, closing your eyes for a second in disbelief of what you just said. This is Rafe, which is also the reason you can't take it from him anymore. He wasn't supposed to ever do this to you. He was supposed to be the one that would never, ever hurt you. Yet, here he is.

"I want a divorce." You repeated, words mean and foreign, acting like a slap on both of your faces. "I'll call a lawyer." You turned around, walking away from the cursed office as you left him stunned on his feet.

He stood there, just a glimpse of his despair. No words, no sounds. Just... nothing.

He snapped out of his trance a moment later, you were already reaching the next floor, the one that led to your room. He hurried, he felt like a doctor running in the ER, trying to stop a heart from crashing. He never thought it would be his.

“Wait—hey, hey.” Rafe calls after you, his footsteps quick on the stairs as he sees your figure more away from him. “Can you just stop for a second?”

You don’t. You head straight for your room, pulling open the door as you walked inside of it. You want to sink in your bed and cry until you're dehydrated.

“Rafe, I said everything I needed to say.” You tried not to keep crying.

He comes up behind you, voice rough. “No, you didn’t. You threw a grenade in my face and walked away.” He complains, demanding you to change your mind.

“I didn’t throw anything. I told you the truth.”

He catches your wrist when you move past him, not hard— just enough to make you stop. “You can’t just say you want a divorce out of nowhere.”

“It’s not out of nowhere." You shoot back, pulling free. “You just didn’t want to see it coming.” This wasn't the first time you thought about it, the idea has being flowing around you, haunting you like a chore in the middle of the night.

That's the problem, he's not surprised. He is stunned that you really dare to ask him for one.

He exhales, frustrated while he attempts to get closer. “Come on, baby, don’t do this.” He's begging for you, his entire body aches in pain at the idea of not having you with him.

“Don’t call me that." You set the painful boundary. You can't have him talking to you like that in the middle of an emotional tsunami.

He moves closer anyway, his hand finding your waist like the instinct he had for over a decade. “You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. You’ll feel different tomorrow.” He tried to convince both of you, knowing it's a lie.

You shake your head, eyes wet but steady. “No, Rafe. Don't try to turn this around on me being emotional or something—" You gasp for air. "Tomorrow you’ll be gone again and I'll have to take care of everything again!" You pointed at him accusingly as you followed the beat of your heart, the one that was telling you to keep going with this. This is... what you need.

That lands, a bomb straight to his chest. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop for half a second before he tries to recover. “You think I don’t hate that? You think I don’t know I’m not around enough?”

“Then fix it!”

“I’m trying!" He says again, louder this time. “What the hell do you want me to do? Quit everything?”

“I want you to show up!”

Rafe tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you closer to him as he tries to hold onto the last seconds of you in his arms. He knows it's ending. It has been for a while. He's tired too. "I get it. You're angry—" But he still fights a lost battle.

You push his hand off. “I’m not angry, Rafe. I’m done.” You make it clear, your voice doesn't wave with nerves now.

He grabs your face then, both hands against your cheeks, desperate, eyes glassy. “Look at me." He begs to see your eyes. He hates that the resentment in them has never been so clear, it was always a shadow, a single touch. Your eyes are full of it now. "You... love me." He says with pain. The mere idea destroys him. "Alright? I know you do, you love me. You don't walk away from that."

"And what about me?" The pain that threats to kill your voice is almost too much to handle. "When do I get to feel loved? I haven't felt it in months, years!"

"I love you! I never stopped, I swear." His voice cracks for the first time, the desperation on proving his love is so strong he can barely control it himself. "Don't leave me. Just let me fix it. Give me a week, I'll be here."

"I don't have a week!" You snapped at him, heart pounding with misunderstanding. "Don't you get it? I'm done. I'm done with your disappearing, I'm done with your excuses. I don't have any more space for them. I've ran out of it." And fuck, you actually feel cruel for claiming what you want, what you deserve.

"Don't fucking do this." He tries to use that tone, the corporative one. As if that could ever work with you.

“I already did.” Your voice is calm, final. The second he tried to twist it, tried to scare you into staying, you knew— it’s over.

“Find somewhere else to stay tonight.” You give him a deadline, an ultimatum, the kind of line that leaves no room for negotiation. Anything that marks the end, you take it.

"We already know you're fucking good at it."

Just like that.

You don’t look back. And you surely don’t argue. You simply turn and walk out of the bedroom— not out of his life entirely, but to the guest room. Enough distance to give him the time to leave the house tonight.

His heart drops.

Rafe lost. Not a deal, not a game.

He lost you.

You started dancing with Soap, or, maybe on him was more accurate. Your hips rolled against his in a way that made Ghost's jaw clench. Soap's hands found your waist, then your hips, grinding you back against him as you both moved to the music. Then you arched, head falling back against Soap's shoulder, the column of your throat exposed to strobing lights...

Ghost should look away.

He didn't.

Soap caught his eye over you shoulder and the bastard had the audacity to wink. Then he was murmuring something in your ear, and you turned, following Soap's gaze until you locked eyes with Ghost across the crowded floor.

The smile you gave him was dangerous and Ghost felt his throat go dry.

Soap tugged you through the crowd, and Ghost straightened, suddenly very aware of how his heart had kicked up beneath his shirt. They emerged from the press of bodies, Soap still moving to the music, still holding onto you.

"LT!" Soap had to shout over the music. "Look what I found!"

You turned that smile on Ghost, swaying your hips. "Your friend doesn't dance?"

"Ghost dinnae do much o’ anythin’ fun," Soap said, but his eyes were bright with challenge. "Bit o’ a statue, this one."

"That's a shame." You stepped closer, close enough that Ghost could smell your perfume over the club's haze of smoke and sweat. "I think he wants to, though."

Ghost's eyes narrowed. "That right?"

"Mhm," You reached out, fingertips grazing his forearm. "Just needs the right incentive."

Soap moved behind you, hands on your hips again, chin hooking over your shoulders as he grinned at Ghost. "Come on, LT. Live a little."

It was the combination of your eyes on him, Soap's challenge, and the heat under his collar that made Ghost abandon his post at the bar. He moved into your space and you lit up like he'd given you exact what you wanted.

The three of you found a rhythm, something slower than the frenetic energy around you. You faced Ghost, back pressed to Soap's chest, creating a line of heat between them with you in the center. Ghost's hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing a strip of skin where your shirt had ridden up.

Soap's hands covered his, pressing them more firmly against you as your rolled your hips. The movement brought you flush against Ghost and he exhaled hard through his nose.

"Steamin' Jesus," Soap muttered, his accent thickening. "She feels good, doesn't she, LT?"

Ghost couldn't respond, too focused on the way you were moving, the way Soap's hands slid up from your waist to your ribcage, hand brushing the underside of your breasts through your shirt. You gasped, the sound somehow audible enough over the music, and Ghost felt it in his cock.

You reached up, one hand sliding into Soap's mohawk, the other curling around the back of Ghost's neck, pulling them both closer. The position arched you between them, and when you ground down, Ghost felt his cock thicken while Soap groaned behind you.

"Fuck, bonnie," Soap's voice was rough. His hands grew bolder, one splaying across your stomach, the other sliding up to cup your breast as he mouthed at your neck. "Yer perfect like this."

Ghost watched Soap's hand move, watched your lips part on a moan, and something hot and possessive unfurled in his chest. His grip on your waist tightened, holding you steady as Soap worked you over, as you writhed between them.

The song changed, something darker and heavier, and you turned your head, catching Soap's mouth in a kiss that Ghost could see was all tongue and teeth. Soap's hand slid lower, fingers dipping just beneath your waistband and you whimpered into his mouth.

Ghost's vision tunneled. The club, the crowd- all of it fell away except for this, the three of you moving together.

When you finally broke away from Soap, gasping for air, your eyes found Ghost. They were dark, pupils blown wide, and your lips were swollen from Soap's attention.

"Need a drink," Ghost bit out, because he needed distance before he did something monumentally stupid like kissing you in the middle of this club.

"Aye, good idea," Soap was breathless. "We'll grab a booth."

Ghost nodded once and extracted himself, pushing himself through the crowd and back to the bar. He could still feel the ghost of your body against his, still smell your perfume. He ordered three whiskeys and tried to get his head straight.

When he returned to the booth ten minutes later, drinks in hand, he wasn't surprised by what he found.

Soap had pulled you into his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips, his hands under your shirt, rucking it up as you kissed him like you were trying to crawl into his skin. Soap was grinding you down onto his lap, hips rolling, and Ghost could hear you whimper as the hard line of his bulge ground against your cunt. Ghost's mouth went dry.

He slid into the booth beside you, setting the drinks down with a thunk that neither of your noticed.

You were making small, desperate sounds into Soap's mouth, hands fisted into his shirt, and Soap- bloody hell- was filthy about it. Hands gripping your ass, controlling the movements, making you ride him through your clothes as he groaned in encouragement.

"That's it," Soap panted. "Just like that. Fuck yer gonna make me- "

You pulled back, breathing hard, your lipstick smeared across both your mouth and Soap's. Your eyes were glazed, chest heaving, and then you turned your head and looked at Ghost.

He stared back, content to watch, to let Soap have this. But then you leaned over and your mouth pressed against his mask, right where his lips would be beneath the fabric.

Ghost felt it everywhere.

His hand came up, cupping the back of your head, holding you there as his eyes went dark behind the mask. The want that had been simmering all night ignited into something dangerous.

"Bonnie," Soap's voice was strained. "Don't tease th’ lieutenant unless ye mean it."

You pulled back just enough to whisper. "I mean it."

Ghost's thumb stroked over your cheekbone. "Then we're leaving."

"Yer place or mine?" Soap asked, still grinding you slowly in his lap, unable to stop touching you.

Ghost's eyes never left yours. "Mine. It's closer."

You shivered between them and Ghost felt the moment your weight shifted, pressing more firmly towards him.

"Yeah," you breathed. "Okay."

Soap laughed, burying his face against your neck. "We're fucked, LT. Absolutely fucked."

The cab was a blur of nightlights, Soap a heat at your side, restless hand on your thigh. Ghost is a black star across from you, gaze fixed, breath slow.

Then...

Stairwells. Hall. Door. The click of a deadbolt.

Soap gets there first, greedy, grinning against your mouth as you stumble backwards. Ghost is the counterweight, calm hands at hips, unhooking you on touch at a time. Zipper. Button. The slide of fabric down your spine. Soap keeps your mouth busy while Ghost works, tongue slow and filthy until you're clinging to his shoulders, knees trembling. "Good girl."

The praise lands hot in your belly. Soap hears the sound you make and chuckles, dragging your bra strap down with his teeth. "Aye, like that, do ye?"

"Shut up," Ghost says without heat. His hands frame your ribs under the bra, thumbs skimming the soft at the sides of your breasts, and unhooks you with a single practiced motion, knuckles brushing your shoulders, fingers hot and maddening, and he slides your bra down.

Your spine curves, offering, taking, wanting. No words. Just breath and the kind of low sounds people make when they remember they're animals.

Soap , grinning like the bastard he is, peels your panties down with both hands, and drops to his haunches to see what he's won. "Oh, look at ye," he murmurs reverently, thumb parting you just enough to watch the light catch on your wet cunt. He kisses your hipbone, then lower, one or two little obscene nips that make your hips jerk, and then steps, crowding you forward. "Go on, then LT, show us to yer bedroom."

One hand settles low on your back, heat and pressure, steadying, while the other nudges Soap's shoulder to give ground. He walks you down the hall, eyes on the line of your spine and the set of your shoulders.

His bedroom is clean and dark. He palms the back of your neck and kisses your temple through the mask, a strange warm press that makes your breath hitch. He then steps away to strip: hoodie off, shirt after, the ink on his chest catching the lamplight; belt loose, trousers open. The mask stays. He watches your eyes find it and he tips his head once: not night. Later. Maybe.

Soap is already down to his skin by the time Ghost turns; he unpeels his shirt and drops it, the undercut devil-may-care, scars criss crossing his skin. He gets handsy in the way you've been begging him to since the dancefloor; palming your tits, thumbs brushing against your nipples, grin going feral when you gasp and lean into him. He bends, sucks one into his mouth, teeth just this side of too much, and you moan loud enough to make Ghost's hands flex.

"C'mere," Ghost finally says, voice gone rough. He's on the bed now, sitting back against the headboard, and he reaches you with a calm he doesn't feel. "On me."

Soap guides you, palm at your spine. You crawl up into Ghost's lap, knees astride his thighs, and he settles you there. His hands span your waist, slide up your rib cage, thumbs lifting your breasts so the peaks drag over the lower edge of his mask, nuzzles the fabric over your nipples, breath hot, the rasp of it making you see stars.

"Tease," you breathe, fingers in the elastic at the edge, wishing.

"Earn it," he says, and his hand drops to your waist, rolling you down the length of his cock through his briefs, thick and heavy under the cotton, the drag of it obscene.

You do, God, you do. Rocking, grinding, chasing that friction while Soap climbs on the bed behind you and crowds your back, one hand sliding between your thighs from behind to find you wet and greedy.

"Watch this," he tells Ghost, smug. He rubs your clit slow in mean circles, then slicks two fingers and pushes in to your cunt, knuckle deep with a groan against your shoulder. "Tight wee thing."

Ghost's jaw flexes. He slides a hand under your thighs and opens you wider, tipping your pelvis until Soap's fingers curl and your breath snaps. "There," ghost says, pleased. "Hold that angle."

Soap’s mouth finds the back of your neck, teeth scraping; his free hand palms your breast and rolls the nipple between two fingers while the other hand strokes inside you. Ghost watches your face for the exact moment it goes slack. “There she is,” he murmurs. “Pretty.”

“Need-” you gasp, incoherent for a second when Soap crooks his fingers just right, his thumb catching your clit by accident or design. “Please.”

“Please what?” Ghost asks, dangerous soft.

“Off,” you manage, tugging at his briefs, shameless. “Want you.”

Soap laughs into your skin. “Greedy. Love that.” He eases his fingers out and palms your hip to steady you while Ghost lifts his hips and strips, his cock slapping up against his lower belly, flushed and heavy, slick already from pre that makes your mouth water. He fists himself once, slow.

“Condom?” he asks, defaulting to discipline.

You shake your head, breathless. “On the pill. Clean.”

“Same,” Soap says, wicked and proud. “Tested last month.”

Ghost grunts, the last restraint falling into place as permission. “Lube,” he says, gesturing to the nightstand and Soap’s already got it, slicking his fingers and painting you with a care, circling your clit once to make you stutter, then dragging that slick down, coating you, getting his fingers and your body both ready for the kind of night you’ve all been angling toward since the first look across the club.

“Over him,” Soap orders, delighted to play mouthy second. “Sit nice and slow for the LT.”

Ghost doesn’t need the help, but he lets Soap guide you because you’re smiling, because you’re shaking, because you want the hands. He lines himself up with the blunt head and rests there, heat to heat, then tips your chin so you look at him while he bullies his cock into your cunt.

You sink onto him inch by inch, stretch delicious and awful, a sweet ache that goes bright when your body gives. Ghost holds your hips and holds himself still when you bottom out, the sound he makes wrecked enough to make Soap hiss behind you.

“Good girl,” Ghost says, raw praise like a brand. “Breathe. Look at me.” You do, blinking, smiling, full. He thumbs a stray tear from the corner of your eye and then moves, a slow roll up into you that makes your thighs tremble around him.

Soap’s hand slides down your spine. “Lift,” he coaxes, and when you do he fits behind you, chest to your back, cock hot against your ass, one hand digging under the pillow to fish for the bottle he tossed there on instinct. “We’re gonna be good to ye, aye?”

“Promise,” Ghost says, and you feel the smile under the mask when you choke on a moan.

Soap slicks his fingers again and returns to you from behind, one circling your rim in patient, purposeful passes, the other stroking your clit in counterpoint to Ghost’s thrusts. He keeps the pressure light until your hips stop flinching and start chasing; he presses and you open, your breath going ragged.

“Atta lass,” Soap murmurs, and slides the first finger in.

Your breath shatters; Ghost swears softly, the feel of you clenching around him while Soap opens you. The second finger comes when you moan for it, more slick, more patience, more praise. Ghost’s hand firms at your belly, anchoring you to his cock while Soap works you open, methodical and hungry.

“Good,” Ghost says when he feels the fight leave you, when your body starts to invite. He kisses your jaw through the mask. “You’re doing perfect.”

You tip your hips desperately and Ghost holds you there, rolls, keeps you full while Soap pushes another finger in. That familiar stretch catches, burns, gives, and you keen, nails biting Ghost’s shoulders, tears bright for a second before they turn to laughter on a sob.

Ghost shudders, crushes your hips. “Eyes,” he says, not quite a command, more like a plea. You look. He’s bright and dark at once, pupils blown, jaw tight under the mask, the softest horror at how much he wants you written everywhere he can’t hide. "There."

All that’s left is the first slow set of motions, small rolls to introduce the weight, a greedy slide to confirm the fit, and then the deliberate, inevitable rhythm that makes you forget your own name while two men you met under strobe lights decide every angle of you under a warmer one. Soap’s free hand go everywhere; your tits, your throat, the spot low on your belly where he can feel Ghost move through you. Ghost’s palms never leave you; hip, waist, jaw, your pulse, while he fucks you slow and deep and patient until the begging in your throat turns to instruction without words.

"Christ, feel that?" Ghost's voice saws low under the mask, palms crushing you to him while he grinds in a slow circle that makes your breath skip. "Every time I roll her here- "He does it again, deliberate. "-she flutters around me and squeezes you."

"Aye, she does," Soap groans, forehead to your shoulder, fingers pressing into your lower belly so he can feel it happen. "Tight wee vice. Heat's unreal. You're spoilin' her LT- keep that angle." He tilts your hips a hair with his knuckles and you moan, both men answering with matching, wrecked sounds.

And, like a plan they made ages ago, everything slows and then stops and they both slip free making you whine. Before you can question the loss, Soap is already sliding down the bed, guiding you with warm hands. "On me, bonnie." he coaxes, flat on his back and grinning up at you. Ghost palms your spine and arranges you over his sergeant, lines your cunt up with Soap’s cock, and sinks you down slow onto him.

"Fuck- there she is," Soap whispers when you take him to the root, hands bracketing your waist so he can watch your mouth go pretty for him. "She sits perfect."

Ghost reaches for the lube, slicking his hand. “Mine first,” he says mildly, and you feel his smile more than see it. “You can have whatever’s left.”

“Rude,” Soap mutters cheerfully and then laughs when Ghost’s free hand closes on the back of his neck, lazy and possessive.

“You’ll live.” The bottle chuffs; cold slick kisses the crease below your tailbone. Ghost’s thumb paints it low, patient, indecent. “Breathe.”

You exhale. He circles your rim with one finger, small and sure, the pressure a cue as much as a tease. Your hips try to chase. His hand tightens on your belly again.

“That’s it,” he says. “Let me in.”

Soap keeps you busy at the front, grinding up into you, bullying his cock against the place that shortens your breath while he watches your face like a lit fuse. “Hear him?” he coaxes, accent going soft and dirty. “He’s bein’ nice about it. For now.”

Ghost presses. The slick and Soap’s prep making it easy; he doesn’t take that for granted. One finger seats, then two with time and more lube, careful, unhurried. He tests, curls, waits out each flutter until your body stops arguing and starts asking.

“Good girl,” he says, voice going rough around the edges as your ring gives and his fingers sink to the second knuckle. The praise lands like heat. Soap bites your lower lip and groans when your hips jump into his hand.

“Still,” Ghost says, and Soap goes still as Ghost’s cock nudges slick along your ass smearing lube and gathering your mess as he guides himself, head pushing soft at your opening, the blunt pressure turning to a slow, greedy slide until the stretch catches your breath, a slow seat of thick heat past the ring his fingers taught, a stretch that borders on pain and then isn’t, and then is something worse that you’d die for. The sound you make isn’t pretty, Ghost is thick and the stretch is obscene around both of them. Soap curses and tilts his chin up so he can watch your face as Ghost sinks deeper- one breath, two, Christ- until his hips are snug to you and your body is full in a way that turns the world to radio hiss.

“Look at you,” Soap says, reverent and ruined, pupils blown. “Full o’ us.”

Ghost’s mouth finds the hinge of your jaw through the mask, exhale hot. “There,” he says, pleased like a craftsman admiring his joinery. “Let it settle.”

He holds. That’s the worst best part- time, the quiet, the feel of two pulses thudding in you while your brain climbs back into your body and finds it… changed. Wider. Hotter. Held.

“Good,” Ghost approves, the word a brand and a promise. His hand spreads across your lower belly where Soap sits inside you and presses, feeling the shape of him through your wall. “Breathe round it.”

You do. Soap groans, fists a hand in the sheets, and laughs a little, helpless. “Jesus Mary, she’s squeezin’-”

It’s small at first; no drag, just pressure, the tiniest rock to introduce motion to a system already loaded. Soap keeps still, hands on your hips, mouth on your tongue, a dirty little moan in your mouth when Ghost draws back an inch and pushes in an inch and the sensation ricochets through both of you like a fault line shifting.

“Fuck- ” Soap chokes, eyes squeezed shut a second, then open because he wants to see. “Oh, that’s- right there, lass- Jesus.”

Ghost increases by degrees. He sets a shallow pulse that your body starts to anticipate, a tide, then a stroke, then something that deserves the name fuck. Soap matches on the off beat so you’re always being held by one of them while the other moves, always filled, always ground on. Full and used.

“Breathe,” Ghost reminds you when your lashes flutter. His hand slides from your belly to your throat, warm weight under your jaw, not choking, guiding. “Open your mouth. Good girl.”

“Talk to me,” Soap begs, fretless. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Too much,” you gasp, which is a lie and the truth. “So- good- oh, God- don’t stop.”

“Never,” Soap swears, hips starting a small, helpless lift he tries to rein in, fails, and Ghost lets him because you whimper when they both move together. “Jesus, look at ye- she’s takin’ us- ”

“Eyes,” Ghost says, and you find his in the shadow of the mask, lighter than you expect; brighter; all on you. “That’s it. Show me when you go.”

They change the angle like they planned it. Ghost tilts your chin and your pelvis follows; Soap hooks a hand behind your knee and opens you that fraction more. The head of his cock drags over the spot that empties your lungs. Ghost holds you down on both of them and rocks in tight, ruthless circles that grind that same spot from behind. Your hands scrabble and find, one fumbling for Soap’s hair, the other catching Ghost’s wrist at your throat like a promise.

“Sweetheart,” Ghost says, voice frayed and fond as rope. “Now.”

You come in clenching pulses that they feel with you- Soap’s head thrown back, mouth open in a soundless prayer, Ghost snarling a quiet “fuck me” into your shoulder like he’s surprised at himself. They do something worse: they keep moving through it. Small, disciplined strokes. Lazy circles. Praise. “Good.” “There you go.” “That’s it.”

When you can breathe again, Soap laughs brokenly and pins your waist. “Again,” he says, wrecked. “Want to see ye shake.”

“She can have what she earns,” Ghost says, and his hand leaves your throat to find your clit, two fingers finding a rhythm that turns your bones to wires. “Ride him.”

You do. You shift the work to your thighs and take them, sliding up just enough to feel the drag of both cocks inside you and down just enough to hear them swear in different accents. Your noise is obscene and you couldn’t stop making it if you tried. Soap braces his feet and meets you with tiny upthrusts that punch the breath from you; Ghost pins your hip with one hand and rubs you down with the other, mouth at your ear, voice filth. “Open. That’s it. Take it. Christ, you’re- look at you.”

You’re babbling- names, please, don’t stop, anything- and they’re past talking in full sentences. Soap’s a litany of aye-aye-fuck-aye and good girl and there, God, there. Ghost falls into command and plea mashed together: hold it- take it- yes- open. When you start to shake again, Soap slides a palm under the small of your back and arches you to him, nipples brushing his chest; Ghost spreads his knees wider and anchors you harder to his hips, and the sound you make is new.

“Atta girl,” Soap says, like a prayer and a punchline. “Gimme that.”

You shatter prettier the second time- less panic, more surrender, a long, wrecked noise that turns into laughter and then into tears you didn’t mean to shed. Ghost hisses through his teeth like the sight of it hurts him. He kisses your cheek through the cloth anyway.

Soap breaks first. You feel it: the hitch, the tremble, the way his thighs go iron under yours. “Inside?” he begs, eyes on yours.

“Inside,” you say, shameless, and Ghost’s hand at your throat tightens just enough to make you hear him when he says, “Breathe.”

Soap’s finish is messy and unguarded; he buries his cock to the hilt and holds, thick heat spilling in pulses you can feel around Ghost, around his fingers, everywhere. He groans your name like confession and laughs at himself, wrecked and grateful. Ghost rides you both through it, relentless, rubbing you hard and tight until Soap’s groans turn to helpless noise and you’re whining please like a song.

“Swap,” Ghost orders wearily, and Soap grins up at you, still inside, and nods like a man offered another drink he shouldn’t take. He slips out with a wet slide that makes you both swear. Ghost pulls you off his lap by the hips and hands you down to Soap’s chest, rolling you into missionary without losing his place. Soap’s spent cock drags along your belly and he kisses you, open and dopey.

“Hi,” he says, stupidly happy.

“Hi,” you say, and then Ghost is back, kneeling between your thighs, mask shadow turning his eyes to something you could fall into. He lifts your calves to his shoulders and folds you in half, lining himself up again, slick everywhere now, lube and spit and Soap’s heat- their mess, your mess- and pushes back into your ass in one long, devastating stroke that makes all three of you swear like sailors.

He sets a deep, rolling pace, thrusts that grind you into Soap’s chest with every stroke. Soap palms your tits, pinches your nipples, mouths your jaw and tells you you’re gorgeous and filthy and perfect while his other hand slides down to rub where Ghost’s fingers left you wanting, easy and sure. It’s obscene how fast it builds when they work you like that- one owning your body from the inside, the other owning your focus with his mouth and hands.

“Eyes on me,” Ghost says, and you look. “Give it to me. Now.”

You do. You let the third roll over you and take everything- pressure, heat, the glide of palms and bodies, the weight of them pinning you to the bed and you break with a sob that tastes like relief. Ghost curses, short and vicious, and goes, finally, finally: thrusts turn ragged, hand flattening over your belly like he can pour himself into you and keep it there by will alone. He buries hard, holds, and spends, groan punched into the mask, eyes locked on yours while he comes.

After, it’s quiet and breath and heat and stupid little laughs. Ghost is still for a long, necessary minute, palms braced at your hips like he’s holding you together while you both come down. Soap pets your hair with the mindless devotion of a happy dog, kissing the sweaty corner of your mouth and murmuring nonsense praise into your cheek.

“Water,” Ghost says at last, voice rubbed raw. He eases out slow, careful even now and you make a noise you’ll deny later. He strips the glove off his right hand on the way to the table, tips a bottle to your lips, steady, patient. Soap props you with a forearm and drinks after you, then tips it back to you with a grin.

You all breathe. The AC hums like it’s about to die. Somewhere, the fridge kicks on. In here, there’s only the heat of three bodies and the way it eases.

“You okay?” Ghost asks, not leaving the bed until you nod. His hand is on your knee, thumb drawing idle circles like he’s still timing your pulse.

“Yeah,” you say, voice threadbare and satisfied. “More than okay.”

Ghost huffs a laugh, tips your chin with two fingers, and kisses the corner of your mouth through the cloth- dry, quick, devastating. “You were perfect,” he tells you.

Soap’s grin is feral. “Knew the second I saw ye, you’d like bein’ spoiled.” He kisses your shoulder, then adds, properly sheepish, “Gonna need about… two minutes… then I’ll be a menace again.”

You groan. They laugh. The bed settles under the combined weight of disaster and relief, and you let yourself float in the warm, stupid joy of it.