There were the nerds, always bent over textbooks or notebooks, murmuring formulas to each other or sketching comics in the margins. Foreign exchange students, bright, loud, and curious, swapping stories in accents you could hardly understand. Jocks, confident and brash, tossing footballs or lingering in the gym like they owned the place. Artsy kids, always painting, scribbling, or plotting some dramatic project in the shadows. Socs, as some called them, rich kids with more Volkswagens than you could count, perfect hair and perfect attitudes.

And then, there were the greasers — Louis and his crew — lounging on corners, bikes and leather jackets blending into the summer heat, doing any and every pointless thing they could think of, just to be dicks.

You didn't think much of him at first. Just another leather-jacketed wiseguy with slicked-back hair and a comb over. He was a pig like the others, hooting and hollering every time a girl came their way. But when you passed, he was yelling alright—hell, he was the loudest one.

Of course he'd make a scene. You're gorgeous. Neat, put together, with a mug on your face that reminded him of his mother. He whistles, leaning away from his car to get a better look. Like a mutt in heat, watching some pretty purebred leave him in the dust. Your long skirt swished against your legs, your MaryJane's polished nicely, and the sunlight caught the gloss of your hair in a way that made him lose track of his own thoughts for a second.

“You good, Lou?” one of the guys asked, Danny, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Yeah, I'm alright. She's just a real looker is all.” That was an understatement. You were perfect.

And he wanted you. Badly. By that summer, he'd have you, too.

He had already mapped it out in his head. The smiles, the laughs, the way your brow furrowed when he teased you, the sound of your voice when you cursed him out.

But who would've known he'd strike so early.

Never in your high school career did you think you'd end up talking to him. But here you were, sitting on the curb outside the movies, a couple miles from home, with the man of the hour leaning against the wall, grin in place.

"Whatcha doin’ out here, all dressed up, huh?" he asked, voice lazy with that slight Italian drawl, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. “Need someone to sweep ya off your feet, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m waiting on my friends. No thanks.”

“Alllright…” he said, dragging the word like it weighed nothing, grinning as he plopped down beside you uninvited. “Guess we’re waitin’ then.”

You looked at him, pushing your hair from your face. There was no way this was happening You were already bored out of your mind, and entertaining another dumbass wasn't on your agenda. Not until Monday, when you had to, anyway.

You sighed through your nose, glancing at him from the corners of your eyes. The sun glinted off his hair, his jacket creased just so, and for a moment you almost forgot to roll your eyes.

He was oddly...attractive. Skin a warm honey color, smooth and scarless. Shockingly enough. His eyes stood out the most: long lashes brushing cinnamon-colored irises. There was some mild heterochromia in the left one, green just brushing around the edges. He wasn't too tall or too short—probably around 5'10½, lean but not stalky. And with all the stupid things he gets into, maybe there was something promising beneath his shirt.

“Louis Marino,” he smiled, one dimple light brushing his cheek, another one, deeper beneath the corners of his mouth. “How ’bout I take you out on a date, sometime?”

You snort.

"Hell no."

...

Well, that didn’t last long. Clearly, you ended up going anyway—not just once, but several times, all through junior year. You spent it with a fool who had just as many manners as your younger brother. But somehow, despite it all, you still liked him.

By the time senior year rolled around, things hadn’t changed much. You were still strict with your academics, focused and meticulous, and Louis was still loud, reckless, and impossible to ignore. A constant headache with a grin.

Summer faded, the hallways filled again, and life went on, just the way it always did around you. Just this time, you weren't alone.

Louis had become a fixture you couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard you tried. The loud jokes, the reckless stunts, the way he’d lean against a wall like he owned the world — it all followed him everywhere, and somehow, you ended up right in the center of it. He wasn’t just a boy from school anymore; he was your boy, your chaos, your constant headache.

And now…here he was, ignoring every boundary you’d set, just like always.

He wasn’t supposed to be in your room again. You told him that last time — after he left ash on your notebook and nearly smashed your lamp trying to “fix” it. But there he was, sitting at the foot of your bed like he paid rent, leather jacket creasing your clean sheets, grinning like you were the punchline to some joke only he got.

You should’ve kicked him out the second he started rifling through your drawers, asking if you still kept that photo of the two of you from sophomore year. You didn’t answer. You knew better—Louis didn’t ask questions he didn’t already know the answer to. He just liked hearing you squirm.

He stretched out like he owned the place, kicking off his scruffed-up boots and tossing them somewhere near your desk. The smell of motor oil and cologne settled into the air—cheap, warm, and familiar. He wasn’t supposed to fit here, not between your neat stacks of books and color-coded notes, but somehow he did. He always did.

Now he’s sprawled out on your comforter, one arm thrown over his eyes, mumbling something about “dying of boredom” like a kid denied candy. You being the sweet treat, of course. You told him to shut up. He didn’t. He never does. You roll your eyes, muttering, “Then die already,” as you flip another page of your notes. The faint hum of the fan overhead barely competes with the racket he makes just by existing.

And that’s how it starts.

He snakes his hands around his throat, loosely, before collapsing onto the sheets with a lazy thud. He gags, closes his eyes, before peering at you lazily beneath his lashes. “Dead enough for ya’, sweet cheeks?”

Your lips twist into a scowl. “Dead enough would be you actually dying, ya’ pig!” you shout, snatching up a clean, leather-bound notebook from the nightstand and hurling it at his head like a freshly trained quarterback.

He snags it mid-air, peering at you over the top. You curse under your breath, just your fucking luck.

“This all you got? Man, [Name], you're startin’ to throw like a girl,” he teases. Lazily, he thumbs through the pages, eyes tracing your careful penmanship, then snorting at the whimsical swirls and ridiculous sketches scattered along the sides.

“Ugh — Louie! Now I’m really going to kill you,” you scream. You grab a pink, faux-fur pillow and whack it over his messy, brown hair. Again. And again. And one more time, just to make sure the punk remembers it. After a few more blows, you shuffle over to the edge of the bed, leaving him to his laughing fit.

“Boyfriend abuse! Somebody save me, please,” he howls dramatically, shoulders shaking. “I’m gonna call the cops on ya' one of these days, [Name].” And you roll your eyes, just like he hoped for.

You try to shove him off, but he doesn’t budge—he just laughs, low and rough against your shoulder. You can feel it vibrate through you. You roll your eyes again, but your pulse betrays you. “You’re insane, Louis.”

“Yeah, well,” he says easily, brushing a piece of faux fur off your sleeve. “But I’m your insane, ain’t I?”

Then you remember. His friends. The guys who hang around with him, leering, whistling, always trying to get a reaction from you. Your scowl deepens. “Hypocrite, those friends of yours are just the same!” You snap. “Tell your buddies to knock that shit off. Seriously.”

He groans, like he was getting a lecture he didn't want to hear about, flopping backward onto the sheets and dragging you with him. “Louis—!”

Before you can push away, he’s hovering over you, chest pressed to yours, and his lips find your cheek instantly. You tilt your head back, laughing despite yourself at the ridiculous force of it.

Again.

Again.

And again.

Each kiss lands heavier, longer than the last, and you notice how his hands linger a little on your waist, as if keeping you there is the only thing that can settle him. He’s not just being playful—he’s soothing something in himself, something raw and selfish that was only ever noticeable once in awhile.

“‘Kay,” he murmurs between kisses, voice low, teasing, with a hint of needy desperation. “l’m sorry, pretty girl. Don’t be mad, alright?”

You roll your eyes, muttering, “God, you’re ridiculous…” but your laughter slips out anyway. You can feel the warmth of him pressing into you, the weight of him insisting he’s the center of your world, and part of you wants to fight it while another part just melts.

To be honest, you've never had a guy love you this much.

He tilts his head, brushing his lips against your jaw this time, teasing and delicate. “Better?” he asks. His eyes search yours, scanning for any hint that you’re still annoyed, still capable of leaving.

You snort. “For now,” you murmur, “but don’t think this makes you innocent, Louis.”

He chuckles softly, low and reckless, sliding an arm under your back and holding you close, fingers wandering just shy of where they shouldn’t go, teasing the lace like a little punk. “Nothing to worry about. I’d never push you before you’re ready. Not you.”

Your chest hammers against your ribs, hard. This type of stuff never got to you. It was beneath you and a waste of time. But for some reason, you loved it all too much. It felt so nice to be cared for and held for once in your life.

It was warm.

It was new.

It was lov—

“You know… if anyone ever even looked at you like they wanted more than your attention…” He grins, casual, almost cheerful. “…I’d make sure they’d regret it. Forever. No joke.”

You freeze. Your stomach drops.

What the actual fuck?

And as if he heard you, Louis only laughs softly, that reckless, sunny laugh that somehow makes your chest tighten. But now, for the wrong reasons. “What? Can’t a guy love you a little…intensely?”

His lips brush yours, feather-light, like he’s daring you to react. He presses several quick, teasing kisses to your lips, tasting every bit of strawberry chapstick smoothed over them. He settles for resting his head on the crown of your head, leaving you breathless, unnerved, and mentally screaming that you are officially too old for this shit.

Yeah. Seriously. What the fuck.

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

𖹭

CHAPTER XXXX, 13:30PM

My, my, what a pretty girl you are. Birthed and bathed in wealth that the lower class would kill for. Soft, glass-like skin that could make all the girls kick and scream with envy. Talented, as though you were gifted by the heavens themselves, a divine being amongst all others. Your mom, for she was a woman of faith, proclaimed you as God's favorite creation as well we her own. And at some point, you began to believe her words.

God's Creation. God's Favorite. Everyone's favorite, she said.

So, what the actual fuck was happening right now?

The faceless, shadowy figures in the background were slowly gaining distinct features, their expressions becoming eerily human. The game world, once surreal and empty, was shifting, revealing a more tangible reality. What had been mere background noise now had identity, as if the boundaries between the game and reality were beginning to blur.

“C'mon, [Name],” He chuckles halfheartedly. “A little dirt never hurt anyone.”

A little? Was he fucking with you right now?

A little wasn't the clumps of mud hugging your scalp. Nor was it the dirt that absolutely ruined your neatly pampered skin. It wasn't the muck that stained and streaked the beautiful plaid of your uniform skirt. Not even, the crud and filth that soiled your stockings — seeping all the way to your Mary Jane's. A little didn't hurt your pride the way this did.

Your eye twitched. So what was so damn funny? "How could you say—"

A sickly-sweet, grating giggle had stopped your speech, cutting through your seething anger like nails on a chalkboard. You could almost hear the background music shifting into a jarring, high-pitched tune, like some in-game character had triggered an event that was beyond your control. But when was anything ever in your control?

"Kyaa~! Nanase-kun, you're so bad!" The girl giggled, covering her mouth with her perfectly manicured fingers, eyes sparkling like he’d just told the joke of the century. "I swear, you always make everything so fun! Poor [Name]-chan, though~" she added, not sounding the least bit sympathetic as she threw you a fleeting glance before turning her attention right back to Aohei, as if you were nothing more than background noise.

But the real target of your rage wasn’t her. It wasn’t even the other filthy rich assholes standing next to her. No, it was Aohei. The boy you had grown up with, the one who, for as long as you could remember, had been there by your side.

Who was he? Glad you asked, honestly!

Aohei, the golden boy of Nanase Global—a name that made everyone in Tokyo bend the knee. A family that practically owned everything. Hotels. Fashion lines. Tech companies. Entertainment empires. If it had a name, it had money flowing into its coffers from the Nanase family. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if even the designer of your ruined Mary Janes answered to his father’s empire.

And yet, despite all of that, despite all that privilege, Aohei was standing there laughing. Laughing with them. The same obnoxious, clueless, no-name delinquents who thought it was hilarious to drag you down into the mud, as though you were some sort of joke. You didn’t think Aohei had the ability to be this cruel—this thoughtless. And yet, here he was, smiling his ass off. Barely. Fucking. Concerned.

Maybe he didn’t realize the severity of the situation. Maybe he thought this was all just some lighthearted fun. Maybe his stupid fucking trust-fund brain had short-circuited for a moment. Maybe you let his leash run a little looser than you should've.

Dumb, stupid dog. Dumb, Dumb dog!

"Aohei, take me home right fucking now!"

Your voice came out slow, each syllable dripping with barely contained rage. Your hands clenched into fists so tight your nails dug into your palms, a sharp sting against your already frayed patience. And if you looked at this fool for one more second, you swore you’d pop a blood vessel.

His laughter stopped almost immediately. You could hear the shift in the air. "Eh? What’s the matter?" he asked, sounding...confused.

His voice triggered an odd sensation in your chest—almost like a glitch in a game when something didn’t quite align.

You stare at him, incredulous—was he seriously asking that? With a sharp breath, you fish your phone out of your purse, fingers already dancing over the screen, ready to call someone—anyone—who could save you from this nightmare. You bite your tongue, swallowing every ''unladylike" — foul-mouthed profanity ready to spill from your glossed lips.

Before you could press send, Aohei’s voice rang out in a panicked shout, his hand reaching for you. "Hey, [nickname], don’t call anyone," he begged, visibly nervous. "I’ll take you home, okay?"

You could feel the tension in the air. Aohei's voice, now slightly higher-pitched, almost like a character breaking from his usual persona. You swore you could see the “affection meter” rising in the corner of your vision. This was an event you hadn't expected, but you were now forced to deal with the aftermath.

His hand wrapped around your wrist. Not to restrain you, but to pull you closer—just enough so he can see your face. His grip is warm, hesitant, as if afraid you'll slip away entirely, and when he shifts, dirt smudges against his pristine slacks, but he doesn’t seem to care. His golden eyes search yours, wide and desperate, drinking you in like he needed to memorize every detail.

For just a second, the warmth of his touch had soothed you, or rather her, whoever she was. But you barely registered the sensation before you jerked your arm away with a force that could’ve snapped a lesser person’s wrist. You glared at him.

Your voice came out ragged. "Don’t touch me." It was almost a breathless plea, as if there was too much going on inside of you. Too much to even vocalize. You stumbled to your feet, biting back a yelp when a sharp, shooting pain stung your knee—only to realize there was now a nasty purple-ish hue creeping up the top of your knee. Perfect.

You slowly pulled down your ruined stockings, each tug making you feel more and more like you were living in some twisted, never-ending nightmare. "Fuck," you hissed at the pain in your knee, glaring at the growing bruise, then straightened your shoulders. "I’ll be at the car. Don’t make me wait."

A system alert blinked before your eyes—

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀WARNING ⚠

“Careful, your actions have consequences.”

“Any drastic decisions could change the story.ᐟ”

"Bite me," you scoff, closing your phone shut.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the group whispering, their eyes flickering between you and Aohei. There were the girls, squealing for his attention, the guys hyping him up, throwing out plans for the night—drinks, basketball, whatever the hell they did to get their kicks. It was all so... predictable. You knew how they’d react. Aohei had always been the life of the party, the golden boy, always so easy to be around. They’d gladly throw your name in the gutter if it meant keeping him around just a little longer.

It felt like the game was taunting you now—like your actions didn’t matter, like you were just a piece to be manipulated by the other characters.

The what was the fucking point in being the damn protagonist?

You phone pinged softly once more. Quiet yet unbearably shrill, a sound you've grown used to, regrettably so.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀CLOSE TAB: yes or no

REMINDER.ᐟ REMINDER.ᐟ PLEASE CHECK.ᐟ

“A dog will always come running to his owner. Remember that, player one. ”

You blinked at the words, almost like a coded message in a game. It sent a chill down your spine, the words feeling like a directive—an eerie reminder that you couldn’t escape what was happening. Your avatar might have been stuck in the game, but could Aohei have been a part of that too?

You didn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, you turned on your heel, making your way toward the car with all the anger in your chest, each step a stab of fury. The weight of the mud squelching against your shoes seemed to deepen your frustration. You didn’t wait for Aohei to catch up—of course he would.

“Wait, wait, [Name]—!" His breathless voice caught behind you, laced with guilt and panic, but you were too far gone. "I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t laughing at you, okay? Just... stupid jokes. I can make it up to—!"

The wind carried his words to you, distorted, like the sound had been slowed down in some game cutscene. His voice shook the air, making you feel the weight of each word, but you didn’t care.

You put your hand up, silencing his senseless rambling. You slide into the passenger seat, slamming the door harder than necessary, right in his stupid, pretty face. The satisfying thud is the only thing that feels remotely in your control right now.

Aohei quickly followed, slipping into the driver’s seat. His usual sunny smile was now nowhere to be seen. Instead, his face was full of something darker, something that almost seemed like self-loathing.

"I’ll take you home. You’ll be cleaned up in no time, I swear," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

You crossed your arms, glaring out of the window as your heart thudded erratically in your chest. "You think a shower’s going to fix this? You let them humiliate me, Aohei."

Aohei’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. His jaw ticked in that rare show of tension. You couldn’t even bear to look at him. You knew that look. It was always the same, ever since you were kids—the look of a lovesick puppy. He was just trying to fix things with that stupid grin of his, his soft, golden eyes sparkling with the same desperate affection.

“I didn’t let them. I just... I didn’t realize how bad it was until—" He trailed off, guilt thick in his tone. His eyes were pleading now, searching for some kind of forgiveness, though it wasn’t clear if he was even aware of what he had truly done.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring his attempt at explanation. There it was again, that look. His golden-brown eyes, wide and desperate, flickered toward you every few seconds, even as his hand tightened around the gearshift. Was he... waiting for your permission? For some kind of sign that you wouldn’t push him away for good?

The silence in the car felt suffocating, heavy with a tension you couldn’t shake. With every passing second, Aohei's presence seemed to grow more overwhelming, his devotion more unbearable. His dimples were still there, barely visible when he bit his lip nervously, his shoulder-length hair (styled as a wolf cut) falling just perfectly around his face like some advertisement for a shampoo commercial. The piercings on his ear glinted in the dim light, drawing attention to how meticulously he had crafted his image.

When you pulled up to the gates of your mansion, the weight of the tension in the car was almost unbearable. He didn't speak, not right away. Instead, his voice came out in a low, strained whisper. "I’ll wait here. In case you need anything."

The ‘AFFECTION INCREASED.ᐟ’; banner blinked across your vision. You rolled your eyes. What a mess this all was.

You unbuckled your seatbelt without looking at him. "I don’t."

You could feel his gaze on your back, a weight that burned through your skin. But this time, there was something more to it—something darker. More desperate. A humorless laugh slipped past your lips as you stepped out of the car. You glanced at him one more time, barely a flicker of emotion behind your eyes.

"Macarons," you muttered under your breath. "Bring me my favorite, and I might forgive you."

As you turned away, the door slammed behind you, and Aohei didn’t say a word. You didn’t need to look back to know that he was watching you with those same soft, sickly eyes.

Ha, what kind of stupid game did they have you playing this time?

A dog would always come running to his owner.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀CHAPTER COMPLETE.ᐟ

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀SAVING...

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Yes or No?

final farewell 𖹭.ᐟ Oh, my, we've got quite the interesting predicament. Oh, do tell, what will you do? Trust me, darling, keeping secrets around here never ends well.

Chandeliers dangled high above like crystal-studded stars, throwing soft light around the room. Gilded columns lined the walls, polished up so fine they seemed to look down on everybody else here. Tapestries hung alongside big, expensive-lookin' paintings—probably worth more than his whole ranch. The floor? It was slick as a lake after rain, shiny enough he’d bet a nickel it could trip even the steadiest cowboy.

Then there were the folks. Struttin’ around like proud peacocks, laughin' in polished tones that came off a little too uppity for his taste. Colors swirled around him—reds as bold as a fight, blues like icy temptation—colors he'd never even seen before danced across the floor. Reminded him a little of berries and fresh tomatoes, and just the thought got a chuckle outta him.

He’d never fit into this world, but it didn’t stop him from admirin’ its quirks now and then. Even so, this whole scene was like a country mile from his real life. He was just as sure he’d turn you into a cowgirl one day, but until then, he could appreciate the wonders of what money could do, even if he wouldn’t spend his hard-earned cash like this.

But there was one bright spot in all this: you.

There you were, right in the center of it all, falling into familiar voices and easy laughter. This was your world, and you looked like you belonged in it, talkin' to faces from your past who sized up the man beside you with curious glances. And yet, you smiled at them all—good and bad. Weren't you just the sweetest thing.

The cowboy stands across the ballroom, leaning against the wall, one foot tucked over the other. It's not that he didn't want to greet your folks, but your mama was a spitfire — hammering the two of you with more questions than he can count. He loved her, and your pa too, but he'd rather keep the last piece of his sanity tucked in his belt.

High society folks rubbed him wrong. Spoiled sons and daughters who’d had everything handed to 'em, struttin' through life without a lick of sense about hard work. Obnoxious, entitled, without a care for anyone who hadn’t grown up just like them. Jamie couldn’t stand it.

Yet somehow, out of all the men you coulda chosen, you picked him. What a thief, he thought with a quiet chuckle, his dark gaze never leavin' your face.

Course, he wasn’t all that innocent either—he’d done his damnedest to pull you away from this pampered life, wanted to whisk you off to the country, to his life, his world. And he’d caught you, good and proper. But that didn’t stop him from feelin' that familiar heat, the sharp taste of blood on his tongue from biting back the urge to snap at every wolf eyein' you tonight.

“Don't make a scene,” he murmured to himself like a man clingin' to a thin thread of patience.

He’d be lyin’ if he said he didn’t want you all to himself. Seein' you wrapped up in those fine silks, hair swept back in that way you liked best, lips painted in a soft color that made you glow... God, he wanted you. If he had it his way, you’d be in worn-out jeans, maybe one of his old flannels, smellin' of him and the wide open fields.

But he couldn’t tell you no. You hadn’t seen your family in months, and it just about broke his heart to see you so homesick. Jamie ain't one to go on about his old man, but if he learned one thing, it was this: happy wife, happy life. And you may not be his wife just yet, but he planned on changin' that real soon.

So to hell with all these other women, these high-class dames flittin' around the room. He didn’t care one bit about their money or their flirtin' glances. Jamie toyed with the silver pendant around his neck, tappin' his boot in time to the music.

Just then, a young woman drifted up, not much older than you, lips red as blood and curving into a sly smile. “Excuse me, sir,” she purred, “would you like to—”

“I’d be careful, sugar,” he cut in smooth, twirlin' his whiskey glass. “My wife fights. And I'd rather not see you back at your surgeon’s tonight.”

A crooked grin played on his lips as he raised his glass to his lips, his eyes catchin' yours across the room. There was only one woman he wanted on his arm, and she was wearin' a ring that matched his own.

You never thought you'd see him in a suit before your wedding, but it was quite the surprise — a pleasant one, at that.

Standing there in front of you, Jamie looked like he’d stepped right out of a magazine. Broad-shouldered, lean muscle wrapped in a midnight suit that clings just right, standing out among the tailored suits and smooth accents. The crisp white dress shirt only made his deep auburn hair look richer, slicked back smooth with every curl in place, and those dimples peeked out just as he caught you staring. His boots clack as he shifts, whiskey swirling in his hand, that silver band on his ring finger catching the glint of the chandelier. The sight of it alone sends any would-be admirer scuttling off with barely a second glance. He’s your plus one for the night, and the whole room knows it.

When he smiles, there’s a glint of trouble in his eyes, and those dimples—well, they could make even the stiffest folks around here swoon. He looks like the kind of man who just barely tolerates a tie, tugging at it with a smirk whenever he catches your gaze, as if to say, “You really think all this makes me any fancier?”

He’s still Jamie through and through: rugged under all that polish, with a bit of a roguish streak he could never quite hide. And tonight, even though he’s dressed up to meet your family and stand in this world of chandeliers and silk dresses, he’s every bit the man you fell for—charmingly untamed, with a quiet confidence that makes you weak in the knees.

Your friends try to pull you into old stories and polite gossip, but your eyes keep drifting back to him. Jamie’s gaze is steady, unwavering, as though he has little interest in the things around him. There’s a hint of a smirk playing at his lips every time he catches you staring, his dimples deepening, and that mischievous glint in his dark, loving eyes. You know that look too well. It’s possessive, fiercely protective, as if he’s daring anyone to even think about taking his bride-to-be.

The more you look at him, the more it pains you to look away. You try to play it cool, but he knows you too well—knew what to say, when to say it, and how to say it. It leaves you with thoughts from earlier in the day, making your knees weak all over again.

“My, my, he cleans up rather nicely,” a warm, familiar voice whistles beside you. “Don’t you agree, dear?” You jump, blinking back into the present, only to find your mother smiling knowingly.

“Distracted?” she teases, twirling you around to face her, an amused smile etched onto her red lips.

She glides past the group of dazzling damsels, fanning herself as she casts an appreciative glance toward Jamie. “Lord, honey,” she whispers in your ear, amused. “If he’s not about the most handsome thing I’ve ever seen—and the way he looks at you? It’s like he’s afraid the floor might steal you away.”

You laugh, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, but her words are truer than she knows. Jamie tips his glass toward you from across the room, raising it in a silent toast. There’s something soft in his expression—a flicker of mirth in his dark eyes.

You almost let them drown you, submerge you in their warmth. If not for the grating sound to your left.

"Who might that be?"

"I haven't seen him around."

"Should I ask him for a dance?"

"Do you think he's spoken for?"

"Of course, look at the jewel on his finger!"

"I quite fancy him. Shall I pursue him anyways?"

"Oh, how shameful~!"

Some of the girls here are looking his way—of course, they are. Jamie has that rugged charm, like he was carved out of southern dirt and bathed in the evening sun, with the wild confidence of a man who knows he’s got nothing to prove. His auburn hair, slicked back in a style that both respects the occasion and still says he’s a cowboy first, gives him a sharp, roguish look that’s almost out of place here, like a tiger in a cage.

But despite the glances, the obnoxious remarks, no one dares approach him. The way his eyes follow you, even from a distance, says more than words ever could. He isn’t here to be seen; he’s here for you.

Yet, it doesn’t make it any easier to hold your tongue. You’ve hosted these parties since the age of fourteen and know how people behave here—their promiscuous ways, and the men who can’t help but leer. High-class harlots looking for any man to pounce on, taken or not. Greasy men following women’s every move, provoked or not. You remember too well. This was the yearly matchmaking party hosted by four of the wealthiest families in the city, your family being one of them. It wouldn’t look good if you didn’t attend the event your household had built its reputation around.

You knew Jamie would settle on keeping to himself, yet you hadn’t thought your rugged companion would be the talk of the party. That alone makes the joy blossoming in your chest wilt. For once, it feels as though he isn’t just your fiancé, but everyone’s. Of course, you want everyone to love him as much as you do—but without undressing him with their winged eyes.

Just then, Jamie makes his way over, his familiar smirk making your heart skip a beat. “Sugar,” he says, poking the soft flesh of your cheek, his eyes gleaming with a familiar, mischievous warmth. When he finally makes his way back to you, he tips his drink up, raising a brow. “Sugarplum.”

His words go in one ear and out the other, turning fuzzy and static as they pass through your mind. A deep frown settles at the corners of your lips as exasperation bubbles over.

“Jamie, stop it!” you huff, swatting his hands away. “You’ll ruin my makeup, you damn brute.”

“Yeah, yeah…” he murmurs, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. But he doesn’t bother moving his hand from the top of your head, his fingers gently brushing through your hair as if daring you to protest again. You turn away, cheeks flushed, doing your best to regain the poise you usually wear like a crown.

Jamie notices the pout you're trying to hide, his lips curling in amusement. For all your princess-like composure, you’re showing more than you realize tonight. He leans down, his voice low and teasing.

“Don’t pout, pumpkin. Fix your face.”

You glare up at him, crossing your arms, but he just chuckles, reaching for your hand. Before you can react, he pulls you closer, his grip firm yet careful, as if he were holding something precious.

“Remember, Sugar,” he murmurs, giving your kiss a long, playful smooch. MUAH! “You’re the main character.”

With a playful glint in his eye, he twirls you around, his hand never leaving yours as he guides you in a slow, elegant spin. You can’t help but let out a surprised laugh, your frown dissolving as he twirls you like with practiced ease.

Only then had you decided.

That night was quite the surprise indeed—

A pleasant one at that.

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“Well, darlin’, I ain’t never seen someone hold a rake quite like that,” A certain good-for-nothin’ drawls as his plump lips twitch into a grin. He leans against the maple fence, resting his chin on the palm of his sun-kissed hand. His warm eyes twinkle, watching you wrestle with the tool. So simple, yet, watching you do it made it look like a serious challenge. “Ya tryin’ to charm the ground into plowin’ itself?”

Truth be told, the cowboy was praying you were doin’ just that.

You huff, wiping a bead of sweat from your brow. The heat was driving you crazy — more so than the fool at your side. You felt sticky and gross each time you had to peel your blouse from your dewy skin.

“It’s not as easy as it looks, you know,” you mutter, tossing a glare his way. But he just chuckles, that deep, rich resonance that quickly sent a shiver down your spine.

He saunters over with a little chuckle, leather boots crunching over dry dirt. “Here, sugarplum, let me show ya. ‘Cause if I leave ya to it, we ain’t gettin’ dinner ‘til midnight.” He teases.

Jamie slides the rake from your fingers, his touch lingering just a tad bit longer than necessary. His fingers brush yours, and you feel the heat rise in your cheeks, which only mafe his grin stretch all the wider.

With practiced ease, he shows you the rhythm, his body so close you can smell the faint hint of sweat and honey that clings to him. “See?” he whispers, voice low as he guides your hands. “Ain’t so hard when ya got someone teachin’ ya, hm?”

You roll your eyes, but the fond smile creeping onto your face betrays you. "Yeah, yeah, cowboy."

Jamie’s gaze softens, and he leans in just a bit closer. “I gotta admit, sugar, watchin' you try so hard, all city slicker and outta place...well, it’s ‘bout the cutest thing I ever did see.” He tips your chin up with a gentle finger, and for a moment, the playful gleam in his eyes shifts into something a touch darker, something hungry. “I could just eat’chu right up.”

You swallow, feeling your pulse quicken, and he laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But don’t worry, darlin’. You’ll get the hang of it. And even if ya don’t...hah, I believe I’d like keepin’ ya right where you are.”

⠀⠀𐚁🐎

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©CozyMoko, all rights reserved. Don't repost my work on other platforms.

You found refuge near the large clumps of hay by the stables. The smell was mundane, simple as though it were straight from a story book—unpleasant, sure, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

Why the hell were you out here anyways? Damn you for wanting to tag along to keep that big oaf company. He couldn’t stop poking fun at you, pushing you past your limits. It was like he knew you inside and out, from the surface of your pampered skin to the depths of your fluttering heart. For a man who wasn’t too fond of school, he sure seemed to study you quite a ton.

And speak of the devil. There he is.

He wiped dirt and grime off the worn denim that hung low at his waist. “What’s the matter, darlin’?” he called out, glancing over his shoulder to meet your eyes. “You don’t look too hot.”

Hell, that was an understatement.

He sauntered over, slipping his hat off his head. His long strides had him at your side in moments, staring down at your seated position. Pushing his deep auburn hair from his damp skin, he squatted next to you. “What’s the matter?” he asked, placing the hat back on his head with a lazy grin.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, torn between telling him and keeping your indignation to yourself. You weren’t even doing any of the heavy lifting, just spectating, but somehow, that made the heat even worse.

“It’s hot,” you mumbled, swallowing your pride.

“Then take ya' shirt off.” He grinned, raising a brow. “It’s just you ‘n me today, and it’s not like I haven’t seen you without it anyhow—”

“Stop!” you shouted, hugging your knees to your chest. If not for the heat, you were sure you'dve flushed even redder.

“Alright, suit yourself.” Jamie smirked, planting a quick kiss on your temple before rising to his feet in one swift motion. He turned back to his polished truck, the one he treated like gold. Sometimes, you swore he loved that hunk of metal more than anything, but you’d soon learn that his world revolved around you.

Your eyes followed his back, tracing the way his muscles moved with each twist of the wrench. Jamie was a tease, but damn if he wasn’t easy on the eyes. Your gaze drifted to the tattoos scattered across his tanned skin, lingering on the intricate, slightly faded markings near his jugular—your name, carved right there. The sight of it made you hot all over, and you even found yourself popping open a few buttons.

You had told that stubborn fool not to get it, warning him that tattoos were permanent and took hours of pain to remove.

“Why’re you sayin’ something like that?” he’d chuckled back then. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I get this baby removed, sugarplum. Dont worry about me nun’.”

The memory made you want to laugh. Jamie was as stubborn as a bull—and as big as one too. Too bad all that stubbornness would be the death of him. Not literally, of course.

“You wanna help me with the cattle? Think they need some lovin’, too.”

You tilted your head, a spark of hope flaring up. Maybe he was serious about wanting your help, about spending time together—maybe he was letting you be part of this place, tending to your shared home. But then he shrugged.

“Or I could get Mary Anne to come by. She’s always good with ’em—knows her way around horses like she was born with ’em.”

Mary Anne. Just the mention of her name made your blood boil. You’d seen her—all soft curls and sweet smiles, the kind of girl who fit right in here. Unlike you.

Your lips thinned, the jealousy rising like a rattlesnake. “Oh, is that so?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even despite the bitterness creeping in. “Mary Anne this, Mary Anne that—why don’t you just go on and ask her, then, since she’s not a ‘city girl’?”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “Hey now, what’s got you so riled up, sugar?”

“What’s got me riled up?” you snapped, rising to your feet. “You know damn well, Jamie. You think I don’t notice how you bring her up every time it’s my turn to help?”

You took a deep breath. “I know I’m not as capable as the others, but this is my home too. I’ve been here for over a year, and you still don’t ask me to help.”

He rolled his eyes, sighing as he straightened up, towering over you. “Aw, hell, [Name]. You actin’ like this ’cause you’re on the rag or somethin’? Ain’t no need to get all hot ’n bothered over nothin’.”

The words hit you like a slap, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, disbelief turning into a wave of fury. “You think that’s what this is about?” you hissed, your voice sharp as a knife. “You think that just because I’m upset, it’s gotta be because of that?”

Jamie shrugged, unfazed, and that was the last straw. You spun on your heel, the dusty ground kicking up beneath your boots as you stormed off. “Go on and call her, then!” you shouted over your shoulder. “I’m sure she’s just itching to help you!”

You didn’t wait for his response. You marched across the sunbaked field, fists clenched tight. You needed to get away—somewhere he wasn’t. The barn blurred into blobs of red as tears stung at the corners of your eyes. But you weren’t about to let him see you cry. Not now, not ever.

This is not where you wanted to end up. An old, run-of-the-mill saloon on a Friday night, surrounded by drunkards and divorcees, the air thick with the stench of stale tobacco. Voices murmur, glasses clink, and the laughter around you is harsh and grating. To hell with it all. To hell with them.

The whiskey settles in your veins, warm and familiar as you lean against the sticky bar. Neon lights flicker, casting a red glow across your half-empty glass, and you blink to clear your vision. You know you’ve had too much, but the night’s long, and the noise makes it easy to drown out everything.

"Fuck," you mutter, rubbing your temples.

You’ve never been much of a drinker. After moving to the countryside to be with Jamie, life on the ranch demanded your focus. Jamie hated liquor, practically despised it.

Dammit, [Name], forget about him. You shake the thought away.

“Now, darlin’, looks like your glass is ‘bout empty,” a smooth, slow drawl cuts through your thoughts. The man tilts the brim of his hat back just enough for you to catch a glint in his eyes—cold, calculating, like a snake. “Why don’t you let me get you another?”

Oh, right. You weren’t exactly alone.

“Sound good?” he asks again, his voice dripping with intentions you’re too drunk to untangle, coaxing you with the rough pad of his thumb tracing over your knuckles.

You hum. “Thank you.”

For a moment, you try to recall his name—Michael? Richard? Ashton? Danny? None of them sound right. Nothing about him feels familiar. Just another face in the blur. You decide he’s irrelevant.

"You don’t want it to get cold now, do ya?"

A voice in your head tells you to stop, to head home before you cross a line. Something about him makes your stomach churn, but you blame it on the alcohol. It doesn’t take much persuasion before you reach for the glass.

The liquor is bitter but good. But once it slips down your throat, the room spins. You blink hard, trying to steady yourself.

The barstool creaks as you sway, gripping the counter for balance. The stranger’s grin stretches wider, eyes watching you like a hawk. You know you shouldn’t have taken that drink, but it’s too late. The world starts tilting.

You turn, ready to brush off the man beside you, when you hear the heavy boots. They echo on the old floorboards, slow and deliberate, each step sending a chill down your spine. Then, a hand rests on your shoulder, the grip firm, possessive.

“Takin’ drinks from strangers now, sugar?” His voice is low, a whisper against your ear. “Why’d you go and do that for? You know better.”

Jamie.

His breath is warm, almost too close, as his fingers dig into your shoulder just enough to keep you anchored. The stranger’s hand pulls back, and you catch the flicker of fear in his eyes.

Jamie’s fingers tighten, not enough to hurt, but enough to warn. “Ain’t polite to drink without me, darlin’.” His tone is calm, but there’s a tension in it, like a leash pulled too tight.

You look up at him, the soft light catching the curve of his grin. The cowboy hat sits low, loose curls brushing the nape of his neck, his button-up shirt hugging the broad stretch of his shoulders. His forearms, tanned and strong, are exposed as his sleeves are rolled up. His eyes, though—dark and unreadable—pin you in place. There’s a hunger in them, one that makes your skin prickle.

He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping off the smudge of your lipstick. His grin widens, revealing sharp canines that peek between his lips. It’s friendly enough—too friendly. Like the way foxes smile when they’re circling prey.

“Mm, you’re drunk.” He says it like it’s a fact he’s already known for hours. “How much you had tonight, sugarplum?”

You stare at your glass, pretending you don’t know. You don’t want to admit to your carelessness.

Jamie chuckles, a low, knowing sound. “So, quite a bit, huh?”

His laugh is loud, and it feels like a warning. He leans in, his hand settling on your hip, fingers curling possessively. “And flirtin’ with some nobody at the bar. That’s new.” His eyes narrow. “So, you gonna tell me who he is?”

The stranger shifts uneasily, glancing between you and Jamie. His bravado fades, and he mumbles, “Look, I didn’t mean no harm. Just thought she could use some company.”

Jamie doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are locked on yours, sharp and unyielding. “Ain’t that sweet?” he says, his voice soft, but his grip on your hip tightens, like he’s claiming a prize. “But I think she’s got all the company she needs.”

The man hesitates, looks like he’s weighing his options, then backs off with a muttered apology, disappearing into the crowd.

The world tilts again, and you’re struggling to stay upright. The bar fades around you, the noise drowning in the back of your mind. The room swims, and your vision blurs, the faces blending into nothing but shadows.

Jamie’s presence feels suffocating. His eyes linger on you, dark and intent, like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s testing you. And you know, deep down, that he doesn’t just hate you drinking—he hates you here, surrounded by people who aren’t him.

“Let’s get you home, darlin’.” His tone is almost gentle, but there’s an edge beneath it, something nasty and foreign brewing beneath the surface.

Before you can protest—before the room spins again—he’s there, pulling you into him, lifting you off your feet like you weigh nothing. His arms wrap around your waist, and the world blurs as you’re hoisted over his shoulder, carried out the bar like a mere sack of potatoes.

The night air bites at your cheeks as he strides through the darkness, the cold wind cutting through the haze in your mind. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and sure beneath you, and his fingers grip your thigh, possessive and unyielding. He’s not letting you go.

Everything in you says to fight back, to push away, but he smells like home—like honey and oak. The world narrows down to him, the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his touch.

“Man, you’re gettin’ heavy. Eating too much pumpkin pie, huh, sugarplum?”

“Fuck you,” you manage, but it’s weak, and the smile he gives you is sharp and satisfied.

You close your eyes, the world tilting again, and for a moment, you let yourself sink into it. Maybe this isn’t so bad.

Maybe this is just how it’s meant to be.

⠀⠀𐚁

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©CozyMoko, all rights reserved. Don't repost my work on other platforms.