daisy

The smell of eggs and bacon pulled you out of your room the next morning. You’d slept poorly, replaying the feeling of Toji’s fingers tugging your ponytail on loop, and now you were shuffling into the kitchen in sleepy shorts and a loose t-shirt, hair still messy from bed.

Toji was already at the stove, broad back to you, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that sat dangerously low on his hips. Two plates waited on the counter.

“Morning,” he said without turning around. His voice was still low, but the usual icy edge was missing.

You blinked, surprised. “You… made breakfast?”

He shrugged one massive shoulder and slid a plate toward you. Your portion was neatly arranged—two eggs, a couple strips of bacon, and a small heap of rice—but comically smaller than the mountain on his own plate. The size difference was almost comical.

You sat down, cheeks warming. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

Toji grunted, taking the seat across from you. He ate in silence for a few minutes, but it wasn’t the heavy, uncomfortable kind you were used to. Every so often his eyes flicked up to you, lingering on the way you tucked your hair behind your ear or how you carefully cut your food into small bites.

Halfway through the meal, he finally spoke.

“Got some friends coming over tonight.” He stabbed a piece of bacon with his fork. “Gojo, Geto, Nanami, and Sukuna. They’re loud as shit. Figured I should warn you.”

Your fork paused mid-air. Those names were familiar—he’d mentioned them in passing before, but never invited them over while you were home. “Oh. Okay. I can stay in my room if you want privacy—”

“No.” The word came out faster and firmer than he intended. Toji cleared his throat, looking almost… annoyed at himself. “You can hang with us. If you want.”

You stared at him, heart doing that stupid little flip again. He was inviting you? Willingly?

“I don’t want to intrude,” you said softly, cheeks already turning pink at the thought of sitting with his friends. Especially Sukuna. You’d heard enough stories to know he was… a lot.

Toji’s green eyes met yours directly. For once, he didn’t look away. “You live here. Not intruding. They’ll probably bring drinks and bullshit around. Just… fair warning, they’re assholes. Especially Gojo and Sukuna.”

A tiny smile tugged at your lips. “And you’re not?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smirk you’d ever seen from him. “I’m the worst one. But I’m house-trained.”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh. Toji’s gaze dropped to your mouth at the sound, something heated flickering across his face before he buried it with another bite of eggs.

He didn’t say much after that, but the silence felt… warmer. He even pushed the last strip of bacon from his plate onto yours when he caught you eyeing it. You accepted it with a quiet “thank you,” flustered all over again by the small, oddly intimate gesture.

As you stood to wash your plate, Toji remained seated, watching the sway of your hips and the way your sleep shirt rode up. His fingers flexed under the table.

Tonight was either going to be a disaster or the thing that finally made him snap.

Twenty minutes.

That’s all it took for your resolve to completely shatter.

One second you were standing there glaring at him, arms crossed, telling him you weren’t going to let him fuck his way out of this fight. The next, Rafe had you bent over your own bed, face shoved deep into your pillows while he drove into you from behind with brutal, punishing strokes.

“Fuck—Rafe!” you squealed, the sound muffled by the pillow as he gripped your hips hard enough to bruise.

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back just enough so your cheek pressed against the fabric instead of being fully buried.

“What was that?” he growled, voice dark and dangerous as he snapped his hips forward again, burying himself to the hilt. “Repeat it, baby. Use that big girl tone you had on the phone.”

You gasped, fingers clawing at the sheets as he fucked you harder, the wet sound of skin slapping skin filling your tiny dorm room.

“I—I said—” you tried, but another rough thrust cut you off, turning your words into a broken moan.

Rafe laughed low, the sound almost mean. He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, his mouth right against your ear.

“You said ‘hard pass,’ right?” he mocked, slowing his strokes just enough to make you feel every thick inch as he dragged in and out. “Said you weren’t gonna let me fuck the attitude out of you. That you’re not my groupie.”

He suddenly slammed back in deep, making you cry out into the pillow.

“So go on, princess. Tell me again how pissed you are. Let me hear that mouth.”

You were trembling, thighs shaking, tears of overwhelming pleasure stinging your eyes. Every thrust pushed you further into the mattress, your tank top pushed up around your shoulders, boy shorts long discarded on the floor.

“Rafe… oh my god—”

“Not what I asked for,” he snarled, spanking your ass hard before gripping it and spreading you open wider for him. “Repeat that bitchy little attitude from the call. Or I’ll keep this up until you can’t even speak.”

You whimpered pathetically as he hit that perfect spot over and over, your pride crumbling with every stroke.

“I’m… I’m still mad at you—” you managed, voice shaky and high-pitched.

Rafe chuckled darkly, clearly satisfied.

“Yeah? You sound real mad, baby,” he taunted, reaching around to rub your clit in tight, mean circles. “Squealing into your pillow like a desperate little slut while I fuck this tight pussy. That’s what you get for hanging up on me.”

Your eyes rolled back, moans turning into broken sobs of pleasure as he picked up speed again, relentless.

You weren’t sure if you were still pissed anymore.

But you were definitely screwed.

Your heart jumped at the sharp knock that echoed through your small dorm room.

Shit.

You froze in the middle of your room, phone still clutched in your hand from Rafe’s last text. You hadn’t even had time to decide what you were going to say to him. Your mind had been spinning with every possibility—him barging in and yelling, him pulling you into a bruising kiss, him giving you that cold, scary look he got when someone really pissed him off.

Rafe could be intense. You knew that better than anyone.

You crept to the door on bare feet and rose up on your tiptoes to look through the peephole. There he was. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black Delta Kappa hoodie and gray sweatpants, jaw tight, one hand braced against the doorframe like he was trying to keep himself in check.

He looked pissed.

You glanced down at yourself—thin white tank top with no bra and tiny black boy shorts that barely covered anything. Part of you wanted to throw on sweatpants and a hoodie, armor against whatever was about to happen. But the other part… the stubborn, still-angry part, decided against it.

Let him see what he’s missing if he keeps treating me like an afterthought.

You took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and pulled it open.

Rafe’s eyes dropped instantly, dragging slowly over your body before snapping back up to your face. His expression darkened.

“You gonna let me in?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You crossed your arms under your chest, pushing your breasts up slightly in the process. “Depends. Are you here to actually talk, or are you here to fuck the attitude out of me like you always do?”

His jaw flexed. He stepped forward without waiting for permission, forcing you to back up as he entered your room and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. The sound felt final. The small space suddenly felt even smaller with him in it.

Rafe ran a hand over his face, clearly trying to stay calm.

“I’m here because you hung up on me,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “And because you’ve been ignoring me all day.”

“You ignored me first,” you shot back. “All day, Rafe. Not a single text until you called and asked if I was ‘fucking over it’ like I’m some kind of inconvenience.”

He took another step closer. You could smell his cologne—clean, expensive, and way too familiar. Your body reacted even as your brain screamed at it not to.

“I was pissed too,” he admitted, voice dropping. “But I’m here now.”

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his presence made your stomach flutter. He looked good. He always looked good. And the way he was staring at you right now—like he wanted to throw you against the wall and remind you exactly who you belonged to—made it really hard to remember why you were still mad.

Right? You’re still pissed. You’re not going to let him fuck you tonight.

You lifted your chin defiantly.

“Then talk. Because I’m not just going to roll over because you finally decided to show up.”

Rafe’s gaze flicked down to your legs again, then back up. A dangerous little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, even though his eyes stayed stormy.

“Baby… dressed like that? You’re not making it easy for me to just talk.”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t back down.

You slammed the door to your dorm room so hard the cheap mirror on the back rattled. The sound still echoed in your ears hours later, just like Rafe’s raised voice from that morning.

The argument had started over something stupid—another weekend packed with frat parties, his endless obligations as president, and the fact that the last time he’d taken you on an actual date was weeks ago. You’d told him you were tired of being his trophy girlfriend who only saw him when he wanted to blow off steam or show you off at the house. He’d fired back that you knew what you were signing up for when you started dating the president of Delta Kappa.

By the end of it, you’d grabbed your bag and left before you said something you couldn’t take back. Now it was dinner time, your stomach was growling, and your phone had stayed painfully silent all day.

No apology. No “come back, baby.” No anything.

You were halfway through stabbing at a lukewarm dining hall salad when your phone finally lit up. Rafe’s name flashed across the screen. You almost let it go to voicemail just to be petty, but on the fourth ring you snatched it up.

“What?” you answered, voice sharp.

There was a short pause, then his deep, irritated drawl came through the line.

“Are you fucking over it?”

Your blood instantly boiled. You pushed your tray away, gripping the phone tighter.

“Over it?” you repeated, incredulous. “That’s what you lead with? After the shit you pulled this morning and then radio silence all day?”

“I’ve been dealing with house stuff,” he said flatly. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah, I do know how it is. Parties. Brothers. More parties. And me sitting here like an idiot waiting for you to remember I exist outside of your bedroom.”

You heard him exhale roughly on the other end. Rafe wasn’t used to you staying mad this long. Usually he’d flash that cocky grin, pull you into his lap, and fuck the attitude right out of you until you were moaning his name instead of arguing. But not today.

“Look,” he started, voice lowering, “I’m not doing this over the phone. Come to the house.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “So you can fuck the thought out of me and pretend the problem’s solved? Hard pass.”

There was a longer silence this time. You could practically see him running a hand through his dark hair, jaw clenched, that stormy expression he got when someone actually pushed back.

“You’re really gonna make this a thing?” he asked, quieter now.

“It already is a thing, Rafe. I’m not your fucking groupie.”

You hung up before he could respond, heart hammering in your chest. The dining hall felt too loud, too bright. You grabbed your stuff and headed back toward your dorm, cheeks flushed with anger and something dangerously close to tears.

Your phone buzzed again almost immediately. A text this time.

Rafe: Open the door when I get there.

Your stomach flipped. He was coming.

resquested from @raf3cam3r0n  really enjoyed writing Rafe!

Your father headed out early to the fields — fixing fences, tending to the crops, or working on the old tractor. He’d be gone for hours under the hot sun, leaving the farmhouse quiet except for the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional cluck from the chickens.

And Rafe… Rafe had gotten very good at finding reasons to come inside.

It was barely past 10 a.m. when the back door creaked open again.

“Lemonade?” Rafe called out, voice casual but carrying that familiar low edge as he stepped into the kitchen, wiping fake sweat from his brow.

You were at the counter, wearing a soft yellow sundress, apron tied around your waist while you folded freshly washed fabric for your next Depop listing. Your heart immediately fluttered.

“You already had two glasses,” you whispered, cheeks warming as you glanced toward the open window. Your dad was visible in the distance, working near the barn.

Rafe smirked, closing the distance in three long strides. “Guess I’m real thirsty today.”

Before you could protest, he had you backed against the counter, his big hands gripping your waist as he leaned down and kissed you hard. The kiss was hungry, needy — nothing like the gentle ones from the beginning (what a joke Rafe had never been gentle). His tongue pushed into your mouth, tasting you deeply while one hand slid down to squeeze your ass through the thin dress.

“Rafe—!” you gasped softly when he broke the kiss for air, but he just chuckled and kissed you again, deeper this time.

“Been thinking about this since breakfast,” he muttered against your lips. His hand moved up, cupping your breast and thumbing over your nipple until it stiffened under the fabric. “Fuck, you feel so good. These little tits get so sensitive when you’re worked up…”

You whimpered quietly, knees weakening as he kneaded and groped you. Your hands fisted in his shirt. “My dad's right outside… what if he comes back?”

“Then we better be fast, baby.” Rafe’s other hand slipped under your dress, palming you between the legs over your panties. He groaned softly. “Already getting wet for me? Such a good girl.”

He kissed down your neck, sucking lightly while grinding his hard cock against your thigh. You tried to stay quiet, but little breathy moans kept escaping as he touched you.

After a few heated minutes, he pulled back just enough to look at your flushed face, lips swollen, eyes glassy.

“Think I need another glass of lemonade,” he said with a wicked grin.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was tugging you toward the sewing room, door clicking shut behind you.

This pattern repeated all day.

Around 1 p.m., he came back in complaining about the heat.

By 3 p.m., it was “needed to wash his hands.”

Each time he’d pull you into the sewing room or the pantry, kissing you until you were dizzy, groping your breasts, sliding his hands under your dress to squeeze your ass and tease your aching pussy through your soaked panties. He never went further than that during the day — just enough to keep you throbbing and flustered, whispering filthy things in your ear about what he’d do to you once your dad went to bed.

Every time you tried to focus on photographing new pieces for your Depop, Rafe would appear again, needy and impatient, pressing you against the wall with his hard body while your father worked outside, completely unaware.

By late afternoon, your lips were puffy from kissing, your nipples were sore from his constant attention, and your panties were embarrassingly wet.

When your father finally came back inside for dinner, you could barely look him in the eye.

The front door clicked open hours later, the late afternoon light stretching long across the living room floor. Toji was sprawled on the couch, one arm slung over the backrest, pretending to watch a fight recap on TV when he’d mostly been listening for the sound of your keys.

You stepped inside with your tote bag and a plastic grocery bag in hand. Your tank top had slipped slightly off one shoulder, and that damn ponytail was still high and bouncy, a few strands loose from the walk home.

“I’m back,” you announced softly, like you always did. Then you hesitated. “Got your protein powder.”

Toji sat up slowly, eyes flicking over you. “Thanks.”

You blinked. He actually said thanks. No grunt. No silence. Progress?

You walked over and set the tub on the coffee table, then reached into the other bag. “I also… um, picked up something for you. It’s probably stupid, but I noticed you eat a lot of savory stuff so I didn’t want to get you something sweet in case you hated it.”

You pulled out a small paper container and held it out to him like an offering. Inside were crispy fried chicken karaage bites, still warm, sprinkled with green onions and a little spicy seasoning.

Toji stared at the container for a long second. Then at you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, voice low and a little rough.

“I know. I just… wanted to.” Your cheeks were already warming. You set the container down next to the protein powder and started to step back.

Toji stood up.

He was suddenly much closer than the small living room required. You froze as he reached past you, picking up one of the karaage pieces with his fingers and popping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, green eyes never leaving your face.

“It’s good,” he muttered.

Your shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Yeah? I’m glad—”

Before you could finish, his hand lifted. Big, rough fingers caught the base of your ponytail and gave it a gentle, deliberate tug.

Your breath hitched sharply.

The flush hit you instantly — hot, full-body, crawling all the way down your neck. Your lips parted in surprise as he kept that light grip on your hair, not pulling hard, just… holding. Testing.

“Toji—” you whispered, voice shaky.

“Hm?” He tugged again, a little firmer this time, tilting your head back just enough to expose the line of your throat. His gaze dropped there, dark and hungry. “You always get this red when someone touches your hair?”

“I-I don’t… usually people don’t—” You couldn’t finish the sentence. Your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Toji let go slowly, but not before his thumb brushed the side of your neck. The brief contact burned.

He stepped back, jaw tight like he was forcing himself to create distance. The cold mask slipped back into place, but it was cracked now.

“Thanks for the food,” he said, quieter this time. “And the powder.”

You nodded, still flushed and flustered, fingers touching the spot where his hand had been. “You’re… welcome.”

He turned toward the kitchen like nothing had happened, but you caught the way his shoulders flexed and the subtle shift in his stance — like he was trying to hide exactly how affected he was.

You escaped to your room a moment later, ponytail swinging, heart racing, wondering what the hell had just shifted between you.

Toji leaned against the kitchen counter once you were gone, exhaling through his teeth.

One little tug and you’d looked at him like that.

Fuck. He was in deeper than he thought.

You’d changed quickly after your tea—black tank top that clung a little too nicely to your chest, soft cotton shorts that rode up with every step, and your hair pulled up into a high ponytail that swayed with each movement. Tote bag slung over your shoulder, keys in hand, you were already mentally mapping out the quietest route to the library when you stepped into the hallway.

Toji was suddenly there.

He filled the narrow space between the wall and the front door like he’d been waiting for you. One thick arm braced against the doorframe, the other loose at his side, blocking your path without technically touching you. Up close, he smelled like soap and something darker—warm skin and faint cologne. Your heart immediately slammed against your ribs.

“Um… hi?” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. You clutched the strap of your tote tighter, cheeks already burning.

Toji’s eyes dragged slowly from your face, down the line of your neck, over the modest dip of your tank top, and lingered for half a second on your bare thighs before snapping back up. His jaw ticked.

“You going out,” he said. It wasn’t really a question. His voice was low, rough, like he didn’t use it often.

You nodded too fast. “Y-yeah. Library. I have a paper due soon, so…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak right away. The silence stretched until you thought you might combust from the flustered heat crawling up your neck.

Toji finally cleared his throat. “Need you to pick something up for me.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. He never asked you for favors. Barely even asked you to pass the salt.

“O-okay,” you stammered, shifting your weight. The movement made your ponytail swing. Toji’s gaze locked onto it immediately, green eyes narrowing. His fingers flexed at his side like he was physically stopping himself from grabbing it.

“What… what do you need?” you asked, trying not to sound as breathless as you felt. He was talking to you. Full sentences. Standing this close. It was overwhelming.

Toji leaned in just a fraction, crowding you against the opposite wall without laying a hand on you. “Protein powder. The chocolate one. Store on 5th usually has it.”

You blinked. “You… you ran out? I thought you just bought some last week—”

“Don’t have any left,” he lied smoothly. He’d seen the half-full tub in the pantry this morning. Didn’t matter. He needed an excuse—any excuse—to keep you here another minute, to watch the way your lips parted when you got nervous, the way your thighs pressed together under those tiny shorts.

Your face was pink all the way to your ears now. “I can get it. No problem. Anything else?”

Toji’s eyes dropped to your mouth for a beat too long. “Nah. That’s it.” He still didn’t step aside. Instead, his voice dropped lower. “You always wear your hair up like that when you go out?”

The question caught you completely off guard. Your hand flew up self-consciously to touch your ponytail. “I… yeah? It’s just easier. Why?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared, something dark and hungry flickering behind his usual blank expression. The urge to wrap that silky length around his fist and tug your head back was so strong it nearly made him growl.

You swallowed hard. “Toji… are you okay? You’re being kind of… intense right now.”

He let out a short, rough breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Intense, huh?”

Before you could respond, he finally pushed off the doorframe, giving you just enough space to slip past. As you did, his fingers brushed the bare skin of your arm—deliberate, warm, lingering half a second longer than necessary.

“Text me when you’re on the way back,” he said, voice casual like he hadn’t just cornered you and set your pulse racing.

You nodded, too flustered to do anything else, and practically fled out the door.

Toji stayed in the hallway long after it clicked shut, staring at the spot where you’d been. His hand flexed again, phantom silk of your ponytail still teasing his palm.

The apartment smelled like black coffee and man most days. It wasn’t unpleasant, exactly—just unmistakably Toji.

You stood in the narrow kitchen, barefoot in an oversized hoodie that reached mid-thigh, waiting for the kettle to boil. The morning light cut through the half-open blinds and landed across Toji’s broad shoulders where he sat at the small table, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other cradled a mug. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, a few strands sticking to the nape of his neck. The black compression shirt he wore did absolutely nothing to hide the way muscle shifted every time he moved.

You swallowed. Biology is unfair.

“Morning,” you tried, voice soft like always.

Toji grunted. That was it. No glance up. No smile. Just the low sound that could’ve meant anything from hello to fuck off.

Your fingers tightened around the handle of your mug. You’d been living together for four months now—ever since your old place flooded and Toji’s previous roommate bailed without notice. Rent was split evenly. He paid on time. He never left dishes in the sink. He was, by every measurable standard, a good roommate.

He also made your stomach twist every time he walked into a room.

You didn’t know what you’d done to make him dislike you so much. You kept to yourself. You never blasted music. You even bought the expensive coffee beans he liked without saying anything. Still, the man barely spoke two full sentences to you unless it was about whose turn it was to take out the trash.

Toji’s jaw flexed as he stared at his phone. Say something, idiot. The words died in his throat the second he even considered them. You were always so… careful around him. Eyes dropping the moment his gaze flicked your way. Cheeks going pink when he passed you in the hallway. It was cute. Dangerously cute. The kind of cute that made his brain short-circuit and his dick twitch, which only made him clamp down harder on any attempt at conversation.

He wasn’t used to wanting something he had to live with. Wanting usually meant taking, and then moving on. This was different. This was you humming quietly while you cooked, or folding his laundry by mistake and leaving it in a neat pile on his bed like some shy little housewife fantasy he definitely did didn't have.

He hated how much he didn’t hate it.

You poured hot water over your tea bag, hyper-aware of the heavy silence. “I’m heading to the library in a bit. Need anything while I’m out?”

Another grunt. This one sounded vaguely negative.

“Right,” you murmured, forcing a small smile he didn’t see. “Okay. I’ll stay out of your way.”

Toji’s grip on his mug tightened until the ceramic creaked. Stay out of my way. That’s what you thought he wanted? Fuck. He wanted the opposite. He wanted you bent over this table, hoodie rucked up, moaning his name while he finally let himself do every filthy thing he’d been imagining since week two.

But you were shy. Skittish. And he was… him. So he kept his mouth shut and let you think he was an asshole. It was safer.

You slipped past him on your way back to your room, the hem of your hoodie brushing his arm. The brief contact sent heat straight down his spine. He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, eyes tracking the sway of your hips before you disappeared behind your door.

The apartment fell quiet again.

Toji leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. This arrangement was becoming a problem. A very hard, very persistent problem.

And you still had no idea.

frat prez! Sukuna and bimbo! reader

synopsis: Sukuna is quite distracted by his frat boy duties forgetting he has a girl he promised to take care of! What an asshole really, so he has to fix that!

You were pissed.

The silk babydoll tank clung to your curves just right, the tiniest denim shorts barely covering the swell of your ass, and underneath? The prettiest baby pink panties you’d picked out special—lace edges, a little bow right over your clit, the kind that made you feel like a whole fucking present. You’d spent hours getting ready. Curled your hair into perfect bouncy waves, got a fresh set of acrylics (on your card, thank you very much), even did that extra glossy lip combo he always growled about.

All because Sukuna had been texting you the filthiest shit all day.

Gonna bury my face in that pretty pussy the second I see you, princess. Been hard since practice thinking about how tight you get when you’re creaming on my cock. Be ready for me.

And you were. You were soaked, needy, and waiting in his bed like a good little bimbo while he—

“Ryomen, we still need to finalize the keg order and the theme for the pledges—” some frat brother was saying in the living room.

You huffed, arms crossed tight under your tits as you stared at the ceiling. Football practice had run late, fine. But now he was doing frat president shit when he had a very wet, very dressed-up, very horny girlfriend waiting for him.

Twenty more minutes passed. Then thirty.

That was it.

You grabbed your little heart-shaped purse and marched out into the main room. Sukuna was leaned back on the couch, legs spread, looking every inch the king of the house in his tight black compression shirt and sweats. His tattoos peeked out at the collar, crimson eyes flicking up when he heard your heels.

“Babe—” he started, voice already dropping into that lazy drawl.

“I’m ready to go home,” you cut him off, voice sugary-sweet but edged with pure brat. “My car’s still in the shop. Can you drop me off?”

The room went quiet. His brothers suddenly found the floor very interesting.

Sukuna’s jaw ticked. “We’re not done here.”

“I am,” you said, turning on your heel. Your curled hair bounced with the motion. “I’ll just… take care of it myself. My vibrator never makes me wait.”

You heard the low, dangerous chuckle behind you as you headed for the door.

The ride to your apartment was silent—except for the low hum of his engine and the way your nails clicked against your phone screen. You didn’t look at him. Didn’t even put your hand on his thigh like usual. Just stared out the window, lips pushed into a glossy pout.

When he pulled up, you reached for the handle.

No kiss. No “bye, baby.” Nothing.

Sukuna’s hand shot out and grabbed your wrist before you could escape.

“Get inside,” he said, voice low and rough. “Now.”

You barely had time to gasp before he was dragging you out of the car, up the stairs, and into your apartment. The door slammed shut behind you hard enough to rattle the frame.

“Ryomen—!”

He spun you around and shoved you up against the wall, one big hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“You think you can just brat the fuck out and go home to a toy?” he growled, thumb pressing into your lower lip and smearing your gloss. “After you got all dolled up for me? After you wore those tiny fucking shorts knowing exactly what they do to me?”

You tried to glare, but your thighs were already pressing together. “You ignored me.”

“I was handling business.” His mouth crashed down on yours, messy and claiming. Teeth nipping, tongue pushing in like he owned you. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. “But now I’m handling you.”

He didn’t even bother taking you to the bedroom.

Sukuna yanked your tank top down, freeing your tits with a rough tug. His mouth latched onto one nipple immediately—sucking hard, teeth grazing, while his fingers pinched and rolled the other. You whimpered, back arching.

“These pretty nipples are mine,” he muttered against your skin, sucking a bruise into the soft flesh. “Say it.”

“They’re yours—”

He shoved one thick thigh between your legs, pressing up against your soaked core. His free hand shoved your tiny shorts and panties down just enough to expose you, then two thick fingers dragged through your slick folds.

“Fuck, look at this mess,” he laughed darkly, circling your swollen clit before plunging both fingers deep inside you. “Crying for me already. And you wanted to leave?”

You moaned, hips rocking desperately onto his hand. The wet, filthy sounds of his fingers pumping in and out filled the entryway. He curled them just right, hitting that spot that made your eyes roll back.

“Ryo— please—”

“Please what, princess?” He bit down on your nipple again, harder this time, then soothed it with his tongue. “Please fuck you stupid? Please remind this needy little bimbo who she belongs to?”

He added a third finger, stretching you open while his thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit. Your legs shook.

“You don’t get to run off to a vibrator,” he snarled, curling his fingers viciously. “This pussy only cums for me. Say it.”

“It— it only cums for you— ahh!”

Your first orgasm hit you like a freight train, soaking his hand as you cried out, thighs clamping around his wrist. He didn’t stop, just kept pumping through it until you were twitching and whimpering.

Sukuna pulled his fingers out and shoved them into your mouth.

“Clean them up,” he ordered. “Then I’m bending you over and fucking you until you forget anything exists except my cock.”

He smirked, crimson eyes gleaming as you sucked obediently, tasting yourself.

“Good girl. Now get on the fucking couch, ass up. We’re just getting started.”

The last four weeks had passed in a blur of early mornings, long days under the sun, and stolen nights in the garage apartment.

Rafe had changed more than he wanted to admit. The spoiled, angry Cameron heir who had arrived with a chip on his shoulder and a bad attitude was gone. In his place was a man who actually knew how to fix a fence, drive a tractor without nearly killing himself, and — most importantly — how to make a sweet, innocent girl blush and moan his name without ever pushing her further than she was ready for.

He had taught her about business. She had taught him about peace.

And somewhere between late-night accounting lessons, slow kisses that turned filthy, and quiet mornings where she made him breakfast while still wearing one of her own soft creations, they had fallen into something real.

They were dating.

It wasn’t loud or flashy like the relationships Rafe used to have on Figure Eight. It was quiet stolen moments — her sneaking up to his apartment after her dad went to bed, him pulling her into the barn loft during lunch breaks just to kiss her senseless, lazy Sunday afternoons where they’d lie in the tall grass behind the peach trees and talk about everything and nothing.

She still got flustered every time he touched her. He still loved every second of it.

The morning Rafe was supposed to leave arrived too quickly.

His duffel bag sat packed by the door of the garage apartment. Ward had called the night before — impatient, demanding his son come home and “stop playing farmer.” Rafe had almost told him to fuck off. Almost.

He found her in the sewing room, surrounded by new fabric bolts and half-finished orders. Her business had exploded in the last month. Rafe had helped her set up a proper LLC, open a business account, and start tracking inventory like a real operation. Word had spread — girls from neighboring towns were driving out just to buy her pieces. She’d even gotten her first wholesale inquiry from a small boutique two hours away.

She looked up when he walked in, those pretty brown eyes already glassy.

“You’re really leaving today?” she asked softly.

Rafe crossed the room and pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. “Yeah. Ward’s sending a car in an hour.”

She clung to him, fingers twisting in his shirt. “I knew this was coming… but it still sucks.”

He tilted her chin up and kissed her — slow, deep, the kind of kiss that said everything he wasn’t good at saying out loud.

“I’m not disappearing,” he promised against her lips. “We’re doing this for real. You and me. Long distance until we figure out the next step.”

She nodded, but her voice wobbled. “I’m scared I’ll miss you too much.”

“You will,” he teased gently, squeezing her ass like always. “But you’ve got your business blowing up. And I’ve got some shit to sort out back home. I need to prove to Ward I’m not the same fuck-up he sent away.”

They spent the last hour together in her sewing room. She showed him the latest numbers — profits up nearly forty percent since they’d cleaned up her accounting. Rafe grinned with pride.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “My smart, pretty little businesswoman. You’re gonna outgrow this room soon.”

She blushed but smiled. “Maybe. The boutique wants ten pieces by next month. I might actually need help shipping soon.”

“Good,” he said, kissing her forehead. “When you’re ready to expand… I want you closer. Figure Eight has empty storefronts. Ocean air. And me.”

She laughed softly. “You’re really trying to lure me to the rich side of the island with real estate?”

“Among other things.” His hands slid down to grab her hips. “Mostly the part where I get to wake up next to you every morning instead of sneaking around after your dad goes to sleep.”

The black SUV arrived right on time.

Rafe stood on the porch with his bag, Tom watching from the barn with a knowing look. The older man had never said anything outright about what was happening between his daughter and the Cameron boy, but he’d stopped giving Rafe the death glare weeks ago. That was as close to approval as Rafe figured he’d get.

She walked him to the car, fingers laced tightly with his.

At the last second, she tugged him down for one more kiss — soft, sweet, a little desperate.

“I love you,” she whispered against his mouth. It was the first time she’d said it.

Rafe’s chest tightened. He cupped her face with both hands.

“I love you too, baby. So fucking much.”

He kissed her again, deeper, not caring that her dad or the driver could see.

“I’ll call you every night,” he promised. “And you’ll come visit in a few weeks. We’ll look at apartments together. Whatever you want.”

She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Okay.”

Rafe climbed into the SUV, but he kept the window down until the farmhouse disappeared from view.

Six months later

The little apartment in Figure Eight overlooked the marsh with a sliver of ocean visible in the distance. It wasn’t huge, but it was hers — bought with her own savings and the steady growth of her now-official brand: “Lace & Hay”

Her business had taken off. She had a small studio space downtown where she worked with two part-time girls from the mainland who helped with sewing and shipping. Her pieces were being worn at yacht parties and country club brunches. The innocent, soft aesthetic she poured into every design resonated with girls who wanted to feel pretty without trying too hard.

Rafe had never been prouder.

He leaned against the doorframe of her new studio, watching her pin a delicate ribbon onto a finished babydoll top. She was wearing one of her own creations — a soft white sundress with tiny blue flowers that made her look like every fantasy he’d had the first day he met her.

She caught him staring and smiled, that same gentle, warm smile that had ruined him from day one.

“You’re supposed to be at the club with your dad,” she teased.

“Skipped it,” Rafe said, pushing off the doorframe and walking over to pull her against his chest. “Wanted to see my girl.”

He kissed her slow and deep, hands sliding down to squeeze her ass like he still couldn’t get enough.

“Numbers look good this month?” he asked against her lips.

She laughed softly. “Very good. Thanks to my favorite accountant.”

Rafe smirked. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s time we stop pretending this apartment is temporary.”

Her eyes widened. “You want me to move in with you?”

“Been wanting that since the day I left the farm,” he admitted. “Your dad already knows we’re serious. And I’m tired of driving forty minutes just to fall asleep next to you.”

She bit her lip, flushed and happy. “I think… I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “But only if you promise to still let me drag you back to the farm on weekends. The chickens miss you.”

Rafe groaned dramatically but grinned. “Deal. As long as you keep wearing these little dresses for me.”

Breakfast the next morning was quieter than usual.

She moved around the kitchen with her usual gentle efficiency — flipping eggs, buttering toast, pouring coffee — but her mind was clearly somewhere else. Rafe could tell. She kept glancing at her phone on the counter, brow furrowed in that soft, confused way that made something warm and possessive twist in his chest.

Tom left right after eating, muttering something about needing to run into town for tractor parts. The second the truck’s engine faded down the driveway, she turned to Rafe.

Her fingers tugged lightly at the hem of his t-shirt, shy but determined.

“Can I show you something?” she asked, voice small. “After the bank called this morning… I’m really confused. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

Rafe’s eyebrows lifted. He set his coffee mug down slowly. “You asked me first?”

She nodded, cheeks already turning pink. “Yeah. I didn’t want to bother Dad with it, and my friends… they don’t really get the business part. You said you were good with numbers yesterday, so…”

He loved that.

More than he probably should have.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he stood up, towering over her. “Show me.”

She led him upstairs to her sewing room, the space still smelling faintly of fabric and vanilla. Her laptop was already open on the small desk next to neat stacks of orders and fabric swatches. She sat down and pulled up her banking app and Depop dashboard side by side.

“The bank lady called and asked about ‘unusual activity’ on my account,” she explained, scrolling through the recent transactions with a worried little frown. “They flagged a bunch of deposits from Depop and Etsy. I told them it was just my sales, but she started asking about taxes and ‘business structure’ and… I don’t know. I got scared I was doing something wrong. I’ve just been saving everything and paying for materials. That’s all I know how to do.”

Rafe pulled up a chair right beside her — close enough that his thigh pressed against hers. He leaned in, one arm draped casually over the back of her chair, and studied the screen.

She was adorable like this.

Completely out of her depth with anything beyond “sew pretty things” and “put money in savings.” Her business side was almost comically simple: she made clothes, posted them, people bought them, and she saved every cent she didn’t immediately spend on more fabric or shipping supplies. No LLC. No separate business account. No quarterly tax estimates. Just a personal checking account that had quietly grown into a very healthy balance over the years.

Rafe scrolled through her statements, noting the steady stream of Depop payouts, the occasional bigger custom-order deposits, and the complete lack of any organized expense tracking beyond a messy notebook she kept with handwritten receipts.

“Baby,” he said after a minute, voice gentle but amused, “you’ve been running this like a very successful hobby for years.”

She bit her lip. “Is that bad?”

“Not bad,” he reassured her, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just… adorable. And a little inefficient. You’re sitting on a decent amount of money here and the bank is starting to notice because it doesn’t look like normal personal income.”

Her eyes widened. “Am I in trouble?”

“No.” He shook his head, smirking. “But we should fix a few things before they start asking more questions.”

He spent the next twenty minutes walking her through the basics — slowly, because she really was slow with numbers. She understood fabric costs and measurements perfectly, but anything involving percentages, deductions, or separating business from personal made her brow furrow in concentration.

“So… I should open a separate account just for the Depop money?” she asked, scribbling notes in her little notebook like a diligent student.

“Yeah. Business checking. Makes taxes way easier. And you should probably set aside money every month for taxes instead of just saving everything.”

She nodded seriously, then tilted her head. “How much?”

“Roughly thirty percent of your profits, depending on how much you make. We can calculate it properly.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Thirty percent? That feels like a lot.”

Rafe chuckled and leaned in closer, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “That’s why you asked me, remember? You’re good at sewing. I’m good at not letting the government take more than they should.”

She flushed at the casual affection, but kept asking questions — small, hesitant ones at first, then more as she got comfortable.

“What about the big custom dress order last month? Do I need to send them a receipt or something?”

“Do I have to charge sales tax if someone from another state buys?”

“How do people even do inventory? I just buy fabric when I run out.”

Rafe answered every single one patiently, occasionally teasing her gently when she got that wide-eyed, overwhelmed look.

“You really just sewed and saved, huh?” he said at one point, voice warm with affection. “No spreadsheets, no profit tracking, just ‘make it pretty and put the money away.’”

She shrugged, embarrassed but smiling. “It worked so far…”

“It did,” he agreed, sliding his hand onto her thigh under the desk and giving it a light squeeze. “But now you’ve got me. We’ll make it work even better.”

When they finally closed the laptop, she turned to him, those pretty brown eyes soft and grateful.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I felt so stupid on the phone with the bank lady. I didn’t want to ask anyone else.”

Rafe cupped her face with one hand, thumb brushing her cheek. “You’re not stupid. You’re just pure in all the right ways. Sewing and saving — that’s all you needed to know until now. The rest? I’ve got you.”

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and deep, his other hand sliding up to squeeze her ass again like he couldn’t help himself.

When he pulled back, he murmured against her lips, “Keep bringing me your questions, baby. All of them. I like being the one you come to first.”

She nodded, a little breathless, already thinking about what else she might need to ask him tonight when the house was quiet again.

Rafe smiled to himself as she stood up to go back to her chores.

The farmer’s daughter was turning out to be full of surprises.

Rafe kept her in his lap for a long minute after she came down from her orgasm, one arm wrapped loosely around her waist while his other hand stroked slow, soothing circles up and down her back. Her breathing was still shaky, face tucked into the crook of his neck like she was hiding from how intense everything had just felt.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmured against her hair, voice low and warm. “First time letting someone touch you like that?”

She nodded against his skin, too embarrassed to look at him yet.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “C’mere. Let me clean you up.”

He gently lifted her off his lap and laid her back on his bed, her sleep shirt rucked up around her hips. She watched with wide eyes as he grabbed a clean washcloth from the bathroom, ran it under warm water, and came back to kneel between her legs.

“Relax,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Just gonna make you feel better.”

He wiped her gently, careful around her still-sensitive folds, teasing just a little when he dragged the warm cloth over her clit. She twitched and let out a tiny whimper.

“Still so responsive,” he teased, grinning up at her. “Bet I could make you come again real easy right now if I wanted.”

“Rafe…” she whined, covering her face with both hands, but her hips shifted toward his touch anyway.

He laughed quietly and finished cleaning her, then tossed the cloth aside. Instead of letting her pull her shirt down, he leaned over her and kissed her again — slow, deep, lazy kisses that made her melt back into the mattress. His hands wandered, sliding under her shirt to cup her breasts, then lower, grabbing two generous handfuls of her ass and squeezing.

“Fuck, this ass,” he groaned into her mouth, kneading the soft flesh. “Been thinking about it since the first day. So fucking soft and pretty.”

She moaned quietly against his lips, flustered but clearly enjoying the attention. He gave her one more firm squeeze before finally letting her sit up, tugging her shirt back down modestly.

They ended up sitting against the headboard together, her tucked into his side, his arm around her shoulders. The room felt quieter now, the tension eased into something warmer.

“So,” Rafe said after a minute, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Tell me more about your sewing thing. The Depop stuff. You really into it, huh?”

She perked up a little, grateful for a safer topic. “Yeah… I’ve been doing it since I was sixteen. Started with simple alterations for people in town, then started making my own pieces. Dresses, tops, skirts, little sets like the one you picked. Girls around here don’t have a lot of cute options without driving an hour, so I fill the gap. I sell on Depop and a couple other sites too. It’s not huge, but it’s steady.”

Rafe nodded, genuinely interested. “You ever think about branching out? Like, making it bigger? Selling in actual stores, or doing custom orders for events, maybe even your own little brand?”

Her eyes lit up, but then she shrugged shyly. “I’ve thought about it. It would be nice to have a real studio instead of just the spare room. Maybe hire someone to help with shipping. But I don’t know… it feels scary to make it too big. This place is home. I like being close to Dad and the farm.”

He hummed, thumb stroking her shoulder. “Show me your numbers sometime. I’m good with that shit. Might be able to help you see it clearer.”

She hesitated only a second before nodding. “Okay. I can pull them up now if you want.”

She grabbed her phone from where she’d left it on the nightstand and opened her bookkeeping app. Rafe watched as she scrolled through spreadsheets — neat columns of income, expenses, materials, shipping costs, and profit margins. She’d been doing this for years, consistently putting away almost every extra dollar.

Rafe’s eyebrows rose as he scanned the screen.

“Damn,” he muttered. “You’ve been stacking this whole time.”

She blushed. “I don’t spend much. Living here is cheap, and Dad doesn’t charge me rent. Most of it just… sits there. I’ve been saving for something someday, but I never really knew what.”

He took the phone from her gently, zooming in on the totals. After a moment he let out a low whistle.

“Baby… you’ve got enough here to put a solid down payment on a nice apartment in Figure Eight. Maybe even buy one outright if you negotiate right. Hell, with this kind of consistent profit you could get approved for a mortgage easy.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait, really? Figure Eight? Like… the Outer Banks?”

“Yeah.” He smirked, but there was real respect in his voice. “That fancy side of the island where I’m from. Big houses, ocean views, all that bullshit. But an apartment there would be a smart first step. Close enough to the farm if you still want to help out, but your own space. Room to grow the business. Maybe even open a little studio or pop-up shop.”

She stared at the numbers like she was seeing them for the first time. “I never thought about it like that. I just liked making pretty things and saving the money. It felt… safe.”

Rafe handed the phone back and tilted her chin up so she had to look at him. “You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for. You’ve built something real here. Quietly. Patiently. That’s rare.”

She bit her lip, flustered all over again by the praise. “You really think I could do more with it?”

“I know you could.” He leaned in and kissed her softly, then deeper, his hand sliding back down to squeeze her ass again like he couldn’t help himself. “And when you’re ready to branch out… I’ll help you. If you want.”

She smiled against his mouth, small and warm. “Maybe. But only if you promise not to make fun of my spreadsheets.”

“No promises,” he teased, nipping at her bottom lip. “But I’ll make it worth your while.”

They stayed like that for a while longer — kissing lazily, his hands wandering over her curves, her body slowly relaxing into his. The conversation about her business felt safe and exciting at the same time, a nice contrast to the intense heat from earlier.

Eventually she pulled back, cheeks pink. “I should probably go back downstairs before Dad wakes up early.”

Rafe nodded, though he clearly didn’t want to let her go. He gave her ass one last firm squeeze as she climbed off the bed.

“Tomorrow night,” he said, voice low. “Come back. Bring more questions… or just come because you want me to touch you again.”

She paused at the door, looking back at him with those big brown eyes, still a little dazed from everything.

“I will,” she whispered.

Then she slipped out, leaving Rafe alone in the apartment with a hard-on he’d have to take care of again and the surprising realization that the farmer’s daughter was full of hidden depths.

The house had been quiet for over an hour when she finally worked up the nerve.

She’d waited until she heard her dad’s heavy footsteps go into his room and the door click shut. Then she waited another twenty minutes, heart hammering, just to be sure. She changed into the softest thing she owned — an oversized sleep shirt that skimmed the tops of her thighs and a pair of pale pink cotton panties underneath. Nothing special. Nothing skimpy. But she still felt exposed as she padded barefoot up the narrow stairs to the garage apartment.

Her knuckles barely made a sound when she knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

Rafe stood there in a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. No towel this time. His hair was messy like he’d been running his hands through it, and his eyes sharpened the second he saw her.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then he stepped aside, voice low. “Come in.”

She slipped past him, the room smelling faintly of his soap and the warm night air coming through the open window. She stood in the middle of the small space, twisting her fingers together, suddenly unsure how to start.

“I… I have questions,” she whispered. “About last night. About… what you were doing. I tried looking some stuff up but it didn’t feel the same and I didn’t want to ask anyone else and—”

Rafe closed the door softly behind her. He didn’t tease her right away. Instead he walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, then patted his thigh once.

“C’mere.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Sit in my lap. You’ll feel better asking if you’re close.” When she hesitated, he added, gentler, “I won’t do anything you don’t want. But if you’re gonna ask me about this shit, I want you right here.”

Her legs felt shaky as she crossed the room. She climbed carefully onto his lap, straddling one of his thick thighs, her sleep shirt riding up a little. Rafe’s hands settled lightly on her hips, steadying her, warm through the thin fabric.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Now ask.”

She swallowed hard, cheeks already pink. “When you were… in the shower. You said my name. What were you imagining? Exactly?”

Rafe’s grip tightened just slightly. His voice dropped, rough and honest. “I was thinking about you in that little lavender outfit I picked. How the top hugged your tits. How short that skirt was. I imagined pulling those ribbon ties loose with my teeth. Sliding my hands under the skirt. Getting you so wet you’d be shaking.”

Her breath hitched.

He kept going, slow and deliberate. “I pictured you on your knees for me, those pretty brown eyes looking up while I fed you my cock. Then I pictured bending you over the sewing table and fucking you slow until you couldn’t even remember your own name.”

She made a tiny sound, half embarrassed, half something hotter.

Rafe shifted her higher on his thigh so she was pressed more firmly against the hard muscle there. “That turn you on, baby?”

“I… I think so,” she whispered. “It feels really warm down there.”

He smiled darkly. One hand slid up her side, under the hem of her sleep shirt, until his thumb brushed the underside of her breast. “Can I show you what I was imagining? Just a little. You can tell me to stop anytime.”

She nodded, too flustered to speak.

Rafe leaned in and kissed her — slow at first, then deeper, tongue sliding against hers until she was melting against his chest. While he kissed her, his hand moved higher, cupping her bare breast, thumb circling her nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak.

She gasped into his mouth.

“Fuck, these are sensitive,” he groaned against her lips. He pinched lightly, rolling the bud between his fingers, then soothed it with gentle strokes. “You like that?”

She whimpered, nodding frantically.

His other hand slipped between her legs, cupping her over the thin cotton of her panties. He could already feel how damp the fabric was.

“So wet already and I’ve barely touched you,” he murmured, voice thick with dirty satisfaction. “This what you were feeling last night when you heard me? All achy and empty?”

“Yes,” she breathed, hips twitching involuntarily against his fingers.

Rafe kissed her again, harder, while he pushed her panties aside and dragged two fingers through her slick folds. He found her clit easily and started slow, tight circles, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves until her thighs started to tremble.

“Look at me,” he ordered softly.

She did — eyes glassy, lips swollen from kissing.

“I want you to come for me tonight,” he said, voice low and filthy. “Just like I was imagining in the shower. I want to feel this pretty little pussy squeeze around my fingers while you say my name. Can you do that for me, baby?”

She nodded, already panting.

He slid one thick finger inside her — careful, slow, giving her time to adjust to the stretch. She was so tight it made him groan. He pumped gently, curling his finger while his thumb kept working her clit in steady circles.

“That’s it,” he praised, mouth against her ear. “Such a good girl letting me play with you. So fucking innocent and dripping for me anyway.”

Her hips started rocking against his hand on their own. Rafe added a second finger, stretching her open, scissoring gently while he sucked a mark onto her neck.

When he pinched her nipple again at the same time he curled both fingers against that spongy spot inside her, she broke.

“Rafe— oh god, Rafe—”

Her orgasm hit her hard — sudden, overwhelming, her whole body shaking as she came on his fingers. He kept stroking her through it, murmuring dirty praise against her skin.

“That’s my girl. Come just like that. So pretty when you fall apart for me.”

She collapsed against his chest afterward, breathing ragged, face buried in his neck. Rafe slowly withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a low groan.

She watched him with wide, shocked eyes.

He smirked, pressing a softer kiss to her forehead.

The day was brutally busy, the kind of nonstop work that left little room for anything but sweat and sore muscles. Tom had them moving between tasks without much break: checking fences in the south pasture after last week’s storm, hauling fallen branches, repairing a section of the old irrigation line that had cracked, and finally moving hay bales into the barn loft before the predicted rain rolled in.

Rafe worked hard, shirt sticking to his back, muscles flexing every time he lifted or swung the post driver. The sun beat down on his shoulders, turning his skin golden and slick with sweat. He looked… really good. Strong. Capable in a way that had nothing to do with the spoiled rich-boy attitude he’d arrived with. His jaw was set in concentration, hair messy from the wind, and every time he wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt it flashed a strip of toned stomach.

She tried to stay focused on her own chores—watering the garden, collecting eggs, weeding the vegetable beds—but her eyes kept drifting.

She peeked from behind the barn door while they worked on the irrigation line. She peeked from the porch while they stacked hay. She peeked from the garden fence when they were out in the far field.

Each time she told herself it was just to check if they needed water or lemonade. Each time it was really because Rafe looked unfairly attractive doing manual labor, all broad shoulders and focused intensity.

And he caught her.

The first time was near midday. She was half-hidden by the corner of the barn, watching him swing the sledgehammer to drive a new fence post. The powerful motion made the muscles in his arms and back stand out. She didn’t realize she’d been staring until he paused mid-swing, turned his head, and looked straight at her.

Their eyes met across the distance.

Rafe’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing smirk. He didn’t say anything—just held her gaze for a long second before going back to work.

She ducked behind the barn instantly, heart racing, cheeks burning. Oh no.

The second time came in the afternoon while they were loading hay bales. She was supposed to be folding laundry on the porch, but she kept glancing toward the barn loft where Rafe was tossing bales up to Tom. His t-shirt was completely soaked through now, clinging to every ridge of muscle. When he jumped down from the loft, landing easy on the dirt, he looked up and caught her again.

This time he didn’t just smirk. He raised an eyebrow, wiped his hands on his shorts, and called out loud enough for her to hear:

“You need something, baby?”

She squeaked, nearly dropping the towel in her hands, and hurried back inside the house without answering. Her face felt like it was on fire.

The third time was late afternoon, right before they wrapped up for the day. She was in the garden pulling weeds when she heard the four-wheeler engine cut off. She peeked over the tomato plants just in time to see Rafe stripping off his drenched t-shirt, using it to wipe the sweat from his neck and chest. The low sun hit him just right—highlighting every line of muscle, the way his shorts hung on his hips, the faint trail of hair disappearing under the waistband.

She froze, unable to look away.

Rafe turned, caught her staring again, and this time he laughed—low, amused, and way too pleased with himself. He tossed the dirty shirt over his shoulder and started walking straight toward the garden, slow and deliberate.

She panicked.

By the time he reached the edge of the garden beds, she was already backing away, gloves still on, dirt smudged on her cheek, completely flustered.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, voice teasing and rough from a full day of work. He stopped just on the other side of the low fence, close enough that she could see the sweat still glistening on his skin.

“I—I wasn’t—” she stammered, eyes darting everywhere but at his bare chest. “I was just checking if you guys needed more water or—or if the weeds were getting bad over here or—”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned one arm on the fence post, towering over her even more than usual. “That why you’ve been peeking out from behind every building on the property all day?”

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. No coherent words came out. She could feel how red her face was, how warm her whole body felt under his stare. The fluster from last night had never really gone away, and now it was back tenfold.

Rafe’s smirk softened into something warmer, but the hunger underneath stayed. “It’s cute, you know. You trying so hard to act normal when you can’t stop looking.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, mortified. “I didn’t mean to stare. You just… look really good when you’re working. Strong. And I—”

She cut herself off, realizing she was only making it worse.

Rafe’s eyes darkened with clear satisfaction. He liked that she was flustered. Liked that she was innocent enough to get this worked up just from watching him do farm work. Liked even more that she was admitting it.

“You can look all you want,” he said quietly, so Tom wouldn’t overhear from the barn. “I don’t mind. In fact…” He leaned in a little closer over the fence. “I like knowing you’ve been watching me all day, baby.”

She made a tiny, embarrassed sound and covered her face with both gloved hands, dirt and all.

Rafe chuckled softly. “Go on. Finish your weeding before your dad comes looking. But tonight…” His voice dropped even lower. “When we’re alone again, maybe you can tell me exactly what you liked watching the most.”

He pushed off the fence and walked away, giving her one last glance over his shoulder—smirk firmly in place.