It was supposed to be one of those clichés—you knock, and someone warm and welcoming swings the door open, shows you around, tells you about the neighbors. A sitcom moment. But instead—

“Oh. You’re here.”

The voice was flat, the expression even flatter. He didn’t step aside or offer a hand with your bags, didn’t even invite you in. He just turned around, leaving the door wide open, and walked away.

You blinked, confusion tugging at your smile, but dragged your suitcases inside anyway. Grey walls greeted you, minimalistic décor in every shade of beige, black, and dull gray. Cold. Quiet. Not exactly welcoming.

And then—him again. Standing in the middle of the living room, holding out a piece of paper. At the top, in bold capital letters:

HOUSE RULES

No loud music.

No guests without permission.

Don’t touch my stuff.

Quiet hours: 10 p.m. – 7 a.m.

Do NOT go into my bedroom.

Respect my food in the fridge.

Always carry your keys.

You skimmed through them, lips twitching. Some rules seemed normal enough, but others practically screamed: Hi, I’m grumpy as hell.

“Rules,” he said matter-of-factly. “They’re easy to follow. Your room’s down the hallway. Mine’s across from it. If my door is closed, don’t knock unless the apartment’s on fire.”

You blinked, swallowing hard like a stray kitten caught in the rain. “Yes, understood.”

“Great.” He didn’t even look at you as he disappeared into his room, door clicking shut.

He didn’t even ask my name, you thought with a sigh.

Dragging your bags down the hall, you found the room he’d pointed out. Grey walls again, a slightly crooked bed, but a large window and a big closet. Simple, but enough. It surprised you how quiet everything was—the neighborhood, the apartment, him.

You weren’t used to quiet. Back home, silence didn’t exist. A big country house full of noise: two brothers, three sisters, mom, dad, grandma, an aunt and her twins. Someone was always crying, laughing, or arguing over a lost jacket. Pots clattered in the kitchen, dad’s lawnmower roared at dawn, and voices spilled through every corner.

Now—just silence.

You exhaled slowly, glancing at your suitcases. “It’s fine,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

You unpacked piece by piece, filling the room with tiny comforts: lavender bedding that smelled faintly of home, your worn bunny plushie, two pink mugs with cat ears, and a colorful French press. The quiet pressed in around you, but little by little, the room began to feel like yours. You wandered into the kitchen, opening cabinets until you found one with a strip of masking tape labeled with your name. So…he had remembered it from your application. That counted for something, right?

You carefully placed both of your pink cat-ear mugs inside and set your colorful French press on the counter beside his sleek, black Nespresso machine. The contrast made you smile—sunshine versus storm cloud, side by side.

When you turned around to head back to your room, you startled, letting out a tiny squeak as you jumped. He was standing right there, silent as a shadow.

“What’s that?” he asked, brows furrowing.

“This?” You pointed at the French press, forcing a smile. “It’s my Bodum French press. You like coffee?”

“Yeah,” he said simply.

You waited, hoping he might add something more—a follow-up question, a joke, anything. But instead, he moved past you, sat down on the sofa, opened his laptop, and that was the end of the conversation.

You exhaled softly. Moving away from home, you’d expected challenges. You braced yourself for missing family, for the hunt to find a job. But this? Living with him? That already felt like a new, impossible level of hard. Later that day, you finally finished unpacking the last of your things in your new room. The space looked warmer now, a little more you. Still, your stomach reminded you that your side of the fridge was empty, and maybe—just maybe—you could even bake something later.

You tucked your wallet into a tote bag, slipped on your shoes, and slid the final cardboard box into the back of the closet. With a deep breath and a smile, you headed for the front door. A new start. You weren’t going to let a stranger—or his rules—dim your light and…

“Forgetting something?”

The voice made you pause, one foot already out the door. You turned back to see him leaning lazily against the wall, keys dangling from his finger. He wasn’t even looking at you, just spinning the key ring like it was second nature.

“Oh…right…” You crossed the room, plucking the keys from his hand with a sheepish smile.

“Rule number seven,” he said flatly. “Always carry your keys.”

🍒

When you came back from the grocery store, tote bags digging into your hands, the faint sound of sizzling reached you before you even stepped into the kitchen. Peeking in, you spotted him at the stove, working a pan with calm precision—stir-fry, by the smell of it.

“Hi,” you said softly, almost careful, already knowing not to expect much of a reply.

He didn’t look up, didn’t say the word back, but you caught the tiniest twitch in his jaw. Taking the silence as permission, you slipped past him and began stocking your side of the fridge, then the pantry.

Even with that stern, unreadable face, you noticed it—his eyes flicking, quick and subtle, toward what you were unpacking. Maybe he was silently judging your colorful cereal boxes, or maybe he was just curious. Either way, the thought made you bite back a smile.

You placed the last box of cereal into the pantry, then hesitated, glancing at the sizzling pan in front of him.

“Smells good,” you said softly. “Do you, um, want me to help with anything? I’m a pretty decent vegetable chopper.”

He didn’t even look up, just shook his head once. “I’ve got it.”

That was the end of the conversation. You lingered for a moment, then nodded, more to yourself than him. “Alright… I’ll just wait until you’re done to make mine.”

He gave no reply, so you slipped away to your room, scrolling idly through your phone to pass the time. The house was quiet except for the faint clatter of pans and the hiss of steam drifting through the walls.

Peeking out, you padded softly into the hallway. The kitchen lights were still on, the air fragrant with soy and garlic. He was there, already at the small dining table with his laptop open beside him, eating from a bowl like nothing in the world could disturb him.

On the counter, set neatly near the edge, was a second plate.

Your eyes flicked from the food to him, but he didn’t look at you—didn’t acknowledge you at all. He just kept eating, focused and unbothered. But something about the way that second plate sat waiting in plain view left no room for doubt.

With a small, grateful smile, you pulled the plate toward you, whispering under your breath, “Maybe not all grump.” Before you could even finish, he pushed back his chair, scooped up his laptop, and disappeared down the hall. A second later, the sound of his bedroom door closing clicked through the silence.

You stood there for a moment, half amused, half frustrated. No words, no nothing, just action.

Still, you felt like you needed to say something back. When you finished and cleaned your plate you went straight to your room, grabbed a sticky note from your desk, you scribbled quickly:

“Thanks for dinner ♡”

With a grin, you tiptoed to his door and slid the note under the crack. It felt silly, like sneaking around in a game, but it was the best you could do.

🍒

The next morning, you woke to sunlight spilling through the big window and the faint hum of the city outside. The apartment, though, was silent. Too silent.

You stretched, rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and padded into the hallway barefoot. His bedroom door was wide open now, bed neatly made, no trace of him anywhere.

With the apartment empty, curiosity itched at you. You wandered slowly through the living room, eyes scanning the plain gray walls and beige furniture. Nothing personal. Not a single photo frame on the shelves. The counter was bare, save for the black Nespresso machine and the French press you’d left beside it. You even peeked toward the side table by the couch, but there were only chargers and a coaster.

No pictures. No postcards. No magnets from trips. Not even a forgotten grocery receipt.

You stood in the middle of the room, tote bag from yesterday still by the door, feeling both amused and unsettled. “Who lives like this?” you murmured.You circled back towards your room, ready to give up, when something caught your eye. A slip of paper sticking out from under his laptop charger on the coffee table.

Curiosity won over hesitation. You tugged it free—a folded bill, crumpled at the edges, like it had been stuffed in a pocket and forgotten.

It wasn’t just a bill, though. Your eyes flicked to the bold letters at the top: The Rusty Note — Live Music Fridays.

Beneath it, smaller print listed the lineup. And there it was: Midnight Avenue. The band name had a scribbled circle around it in black pen, and at the bottom of the receipt was a drink order—two beers, one soda.

Your brows lifted. So he’s in a band.

Suddenly, the quiet, guarded guy in the next room didn’t feel so one-dimensional. You pictured him under stage lights, guitar in hand, the opposite of the silent shadow you’d met at the door.

You set the bill back exactly where it had been, heart racing a little. A secret. A clue. 

“Midnight Avenue,” you whispered, trying the words on your tongue like they were part of a puzzle you’d just begun to solve. 

And also, just like that you broke rule #3

Back in your room, you sat cross-legged on the bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. The name still echoed in your mind—Midnight Avenue.

With a guilty grin, you opened a new tab and typed it in. The search results popped up quickly: a modest Instagram page, a couple of tagged posts, a handful of grainy bar photos.

You clicked on one video. The sound was tinny, recorded from someone’s phone, but it was enough. There he was, on stage under dim neon lights, guitar slung across his chest. His face was the same unreadable mask, but the way he played wasn’t. Confident. Alive. Like the music pulled out a side of him you couldn’t imagine in the quiet gray apartment.

You scrolled further, finding flyers for past gigs, a few comments about the band’s “moody sound” and “late-night energy.” In one picture, he even looked like he was smiling—not big, not obvious, but enough to make you blink.

You leaned back against your lavender pillows, heart thudding faster than it should. So he wasn’t just the silent, rule-obsessed roommate. He was someone people went out of their way to see. Someone who belonged to a world you hadn’t known about until now.

The thought of asking him about it crossed your mind—then you pictured his face, that flat tone of voice, the shut door. No. BAD IDEA. 🍒

The first few days in the city slipped by in a blur. You woke early, sometimes to find the apartment already empty, other times catching the faint sound of the shower running through the walls before his door closed again. He came and went like clockwork, never volunteering where he was headed, never asking where you were going.

You tried. Cheerful good mornings, small comments about the weather, even casual questions about the best grocery store nearby. He’d answer, but never more than the bare minimum. Words from him felt rationed. So you filled the silence with your own noise.

There were auditions. One ended before you’d even spoken a line, the casting director waving you off with a polite, “We’ll be in touch.” Another felt promising until the girl before you walked out clutching the script with the confidence of someone already chosen. You told yourself it was fine. There would be more.

In the evenings, you propped your phone against a mug and FaceTimed your family. Your sisters talked over each other, your dad asked if you were eating enough, your mom wanted a tour of the apartment. You tilted the screen carefully, avoiding the gray walls and keeping your lavender bedding in view instead.

When your friends called, you laughed and exaggerated the quirks of city life—the subway, the pigeons, the endless honking. But you didn’t mention him. Not really. How could you describe someone so silent, so carefully walled off?

Still, curiosity lingered. You caught yourself listening for the sound of his guitar through the walls, sometimes you peeked into the kitchen just to see what he cooked, hoping for a clue about who he really was. But if he noticed your curiosity, he never showed it. It was 10:30 p.m. when you stumbled back into the apartment, makeup smudged and your tote bag heavier than usual though you carried nothing new. You had spent all day chasing a role that had slipped right through your fingers the moment you walked into the audition room. The casting director’s blank stare, the clipped thank you, the way no one looked up when you left—it all replayed in your head like a cruel loop.

By the time you reached your bedroom, you could feel the tight ache in your chest breaking into sobs. You didn’t even bother turning on the main light, just dropped onto the bed and fumbled for your phone. One ring, two rings, and then your best friend’s familiar voice filled the silence.

You let it out—how you felt humiliated, how maybe you weren’t cut out for this city, how every step seemed to prove you didn’t belong. Your words cracked, spilling into tears, your friend’s voice on the other side a lifeline of soft encouragement. “You’re not a failure,” they repeated. “You’re brave for even being there.”

Your knees were curled into your chest, the phone wedged against your ear as you tried to steady your breathing.

“I’m just… I don’t know what I’m even doing here,” you sobbed into the speaker, your best friend’s voice a soft murmur on the other end. “I thought I could handle rejection, but they didn’t even look at me, like I wasn’t worth the two seconds it would take to listen. And maybe they’re right—maybe I’m not worth it.”

Your words tumbled out, jagged and breathless, not realizing how loud you’d gotten in the quiet apartment.

The knock on your door startled you so badly you almost dropped your phone.

“Hold on,” you whispered to your friend, wiping at your face with the heel of your palm.

The door creaked open just enough for Harry to appear, his hand still on the knob. His hair was mussed, his expression sharp and impatient.

“It’s past ten,” he said flatly, voice low and firm. “Walls are thin, so—”

He stopped.

The second his eyes met yours, glassy and rimmed red, his words faltered. He didn’t move for a beat, like he’d been caught in something he hadn’t meant to step into.

You pressed your lips together, mortified. Your friend’s voice was still faintly audible through the speaker, asking if you were okay.

Harry’s jaw flexed. “Sorry,” then, without another word, he stepped back and shut the door gently.

You stared at the closed door, your breath still shaky.

Swallowing, you lifted the phone back to your ear. “Sorry, I—uh—I’ll call you back,” you whispered, hanging up before your friend could protest.

For a long while, you just sat there in silence, the air heavy with what had just happened. After that you just went to brush your teeth and slumped in the bed praying to fall asleep quickly to forget about the audition and about your very grumpy very unknown roommate seeing you cry and making him uncomfortable.

You had broken almost three rules by now—it was silly how you were more worried about the rule breaking and making him uncomfortable than your actual feelings. The thought made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. Instead, you pulled the blanket over your head and tried to will your brain into silence.

But of course, it didn’t work. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the way he’d stopped mid-sentence, the flicker of something softer in his expression before he shut the door. Somehow, Harry being witness to your tears felt worse than the casting director telling you “thank you, next.” And the worst part? You couldn’t figure out why.

The next morning, sunlight bled through the curtains, nudging you awake far earlier than you wanted. Your head throbbed faintly, your throat raw from crying. With a groan, you rolled over, half-expecting to hear faint kitchen noises or footsteps.

But the apartment was silent.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you padded into the hallway, hair messy, socks slipping on the wood floor. When you stepped into the kitchen, you stopped short.

On the counter sat a plate—scrambled eggs, two pieces of toast, and a small bowl of cut fruit, still fresh enough to glisten. A mug of black coffee steamed beside it, the smell curling warmly through the air.

Your chest tightened.

There was no note, no sticky reminder, nothing dramatic—just breakfast, plated neatly, waiting for you.

You glanced around as if he might appear from behind the fridge or step out from the hallway, but the apartment was empty. His keys were gone from the hook near the door.

Still, you sat down at the small table, staring at the food for a long moment before taking the first bite. It was simple, but somehow it tasted better than anything you’d eaten since moving in.

And you couldn’t help the small, ridiculous smile tugging at your lips.

You spent most of the day in your room, alternating between scrolling job boards and rereading the audition notes that made you feel worse the longer you looked at them. But the thought of the breakfast kept sneaking back in, softening the edges of your mood.

By late afternoon, you heard the sound of the lock turning.

Harry stepped in, hair a little messy from the wind, guitar case slung over his shoulder. He kicked his boots off near the door and set his case down without noticing you at first.

Your heart thudded. You wanted—needed—to say something.

“Hey,” you started, voice tentative. “About… last night.”

That caught his attention. He looked over, unreadable as ever, one hand still resting on the strap of his bag.

You twisted your fingers together. “I—I’m sorry if I was too loud. I didn’t mean to break your rules. I just… had a rough day.”

For a moment, you thought he was going to brush you off with a shrug and retreat to his room. Instead, he leaned against the wall, arms crossing over his chest.

“You don’t have to apologize for crying,” he said simply, his tone even. 

Relief washed over you, but also a little courage. “Right. Okay. Um… thank you. For breakfast.”

His jaw worked for a second, like he wanted to deflect, but then his gaze flicked to yours. “Figured you probably didn’t eat last night. Don’t make it a big deal.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I won’t. Promise.”

For the first time, something like the shadow of a grin tugged at his mouth—small, fleeting, but real—before he pushed off the wall and grabbed his guitar case.

“Good,” he said, and disappeared into his room.

Still, the moment lingered. And for the first time since moving in, you felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t entirely untouchable.

That evening, you were in the kitchen again, determined to bake something. The cupboards were still half-bare, but you had managed to grab flour, sugar, and a carton of eggs earlier. Cupcakes weren’t home, exactly, but they felt close enough.

You were whisking the batter when you felt that prickle at the back of your neck—the same one you always felt when he suddenly appeared without a sound.

“Do you always hum when you cook?” Harry asked.

You jumped, nearly spilling the bowl. “God—you’re like a ghost,” you muttered, clutching your chest before setting the whisk down.

His lips curved—just slightly. “Didn’t mean to sneak up.” He moved to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water.

You eyed him as he twisted the cap. “I didn’t know you noticed things like that.”

“I notice a lot of things,” he replied evenly, though his eyes lingered on the bowl, the bright silicone spatula, the messy bit of flour on your shirt. “Cupcakes?”

You nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. Thought it might make the place feel less… gray.”

Something flickered across his face, quick as lightning. “Not a bad idea,” he said, softer than you expected.

You blinked. “Do you… want one? When they’re done, I mean.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just took a sip of his water, watching you over the bottle’s rim. Then, after a beat:

“Maybe.”

And with that, he retreated back to the sofa, laptop in hand—but the word stuck with you. Maybe. It wasn’t much, but from him, it felt like a door cracking open just enough to let a sliver of light through.

The smell of vanilla and sugar soon filled the apartment, warm and inviting in a way the gray walls never managed to be. You pulled the tray from the oven, setting it on the counter, and carefully spread pale pink frosting across the tops.

You hesitated before carrying one over to the living room, your heart thumping faster than it should for a simple cupcake.

Harry was exactly where you’d left him, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers tapping lightly at the keys. His hair fell into his face until he pushed it back absently.

“Hey,” you said softly, holding out the plate. “They’re ready. You said maybe.”

His eyes flicked up, then down to the cupcake, then back to you. He didn’t move for a second, as though testing whether this was some kind of trick. Finally, he closed the laptop with a quiet click and set it aside.

You placed the plate in front of him, feeling a ridiculous rush of nerves as he picked it up. He turned it in his hand once, studying the frosting swirl, before taking a bite.

For the briefest moment, his expression shifted—just a flicker—but you caught it. His jaw relaxed, the corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“It’s good,” he said, voice low.

Relief bubbled out of you in a laugh. “Thanks. I was afraid you were going to say you don’t eat sugar after nine p.m. or something.”

That earned you a look—sharp at first, then unexpectedly amused. He shook his head, taking another bite. “Not one of the rules.”

His eyes met yours then, and for the first time, he didn’t look away right after. The silence stretched, softer this time, before he returned to his cupcake like it was a shield.

Still, that sliver of light through the door grew just a little wider.

You lingered nearby as he finished the last bite, trying not to stare too openly but unable to help it. 

“So…” you started, voice casual. Too casual. “Do you play often? The guitar?”

Harry’s eyes lifted to yours, unreadable. “Yeah.”

“Are you, um—like, in a band or something?” you pressed, tilting your head innocently.

For a second, you swore you saw his mouth twitch, not in amusement but in recognition. His gaze narrowed, sharp but quiet, like he could see straight through you.

“Funny question,” he said slowly, leaning back against the cushions. “Makes me wonder how you’d even think to ask it.”

Your stomach dipped. You tried for a shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Just… curious. Most people don’t have a guitar case lying around unless they use it.”

He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing the truth in your words. Then he leaned forward, setting the empty plate on the coffee table.

“Curiosity’s fine,” he murmured, his voice even but edged, “as long as it doesn’t cross into rule three or five.”

Your breath caught. You plastered on a smile, forcing your tone light. “Noted.”

But the way his eyes lingered, sharp and knowing, made your pulse thrum faster. For the first time, you wondered if he already suspected how much you wanted to know.

🍒

The days blurred into a quiet rhythm. You tiptoed around his rules, careful not to push too hard, and he—well, he started giving you more than one-word answers. Not a lot more, but enough to feel like cracks in his armor.

A muttered “Morning” when you crossed paths in the kitchen. A dry “That smells edible” when you burned your first attempt at pasta. Even the occasional question tossed your way, quick and casual, as if he regretted asking it immediately after.

Still, the apartment was missing something. It wasn’t just the silence—it was the sterility of it all, beige and gray swallowing every corner. So, one afternoon, you came home balancing a small terracotta pot in your hands, a tiny green plant with wide leaves that practically radiated cheer.

You set it on the coffee table in the living room and stepped back, smiling. “There,” you said to no one, brushing the dirt from your hands. “Instant upgrade.”

You didn’t hear him until his voice came from the hallway. “What’s that?”

You turned, caught in the act, but didn’t back down. “A plant. His name is Finn.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as he walked closer, hands in his pockets. He looked at the plant for a long moment, and you braced yourself for the inevitable rules lecture.

Instead, he crouched slightly, tilting his head as if assessing it. “It’s not fake?”

You blinked. “No. Real.”

His lips pressed together, and for the first time, you saw something like approval flicker across his face. “Looks… good.”

The words were quiet, almost reluctant, but they warmed you more than you wanted to admit.

You grinned. “So Finn can stay?”

He straightened up, glancing at you briefly before turning toward his room. “As long as you water him.”

It was a small thing, but to you, it felt monumental. Like he’d just admitted—without saying it—that maybe he didn’t mind sharing the space with you after all.

🍒

Friday night, the city buzzed with life around you, but you didn’t feel like part of it. You were just tired—bone-deep tired—from the week. When you reached the apartment building, though, your stomach sank.

Your tote was lighter than it should have been.

Keys.

You dug through the bag twice, then three times, even checked your pockets though you knew better. Nothing.

Your phone was in your hand, thumb hovering over his number. Rule seven screamed in your head—Always carry your keys. You could practically hear his voice reminding you. Calling him felt like confessing a crime.

So instead, you sat down against the door. I can wait a while. At first, it was just to think, to stall for a minute. But the hallway was quiet, and the cool wall behind you made your eyelids heavy. Hours blurred, and before long, exhaustion pulled you under.

The sound of steps jolted you awake. Your head shot up.

“Jesus Christ—Y/N” Harry’s voice cut sharp before it faltered. He crouched down, frowning as he took in the sight of you curled against the doorframe, your dress wrinkled, your face marked from leaning on your arm.

“What happened?” His voice was low, urgent in a way you hadn’t heard before.

“I—uh—” You rubbed your eyes, embarrassed heat rushing to your cheeks. “I forgot my keys. Didn’t want to bother you. With the… rule.”

For a second, he just stared at you, something tightening in his jaw. Then he shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

“In this scenario,” he said firmly, almost like he was scolding himself more than you, “it’s obviously okay to call me. You don’t sit out here all night.”

The guilt in his eyes was clear, even if his voice stayed even. He stood, reaching down to help you up. “You could’ve been freezing. Or worse.”

You took his hand, letting him pull you inside. “I didn’t want to break the rules,” you murmured

He exhaled, something like frustration threading through it. “Forget the rules right now, alright? I don’t…” He trailed off, jaw tight, shutting the door behind you. “I don’t want you waiting out there again.”

The words lingered between you, heavier than any rule taped to the fridge.

You hovered in the entryway, clutching your bag. He set his guitar case down with more force than necessary, then disappeared briefly into the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a glass of water, which he pressed into your hands.

“Drink,” he said, softer this time.

You obeyed, the cool water easing the dryness in your throat. When you set the glass down, you caught him watching you, something unguarded flickering across his face before he looked away.

“You were out late,” you said, trying for lightness. “Gig?”

He gave a short nod, toeing off his boots. “Yeah.” He paused, glancing at you again. “Went alright.”

It wasn’t much, but it was the first piece of his life he’d willingly offered. And after the night you’d had—sitting on the floor outside your own home, waiting, doubting—you clung to it.

“Good,” you whispered, the corner of your mouth tugging up.

For once, he didn’t retreat straight to his room. He lingered a moment longer, then jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Get some sleep. You look wrecked.”

And though the words were blunt, there was no edge to them this time—only a strange, quiet concern that followed you all the way to your bedroom door.

The next morning, the smell of something warm and toasty pulled you out of sleep. Blinking at the clock, you realized it was barely eight. That alone was unusual—Harry was never up this early unless he had somewhere to be.

Padding into the kitchen, you found him again at the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy, sliding scrambled eggs onto two plates. A small stack of toast leaned precariously beside them, and the coffee machine gurgled as it finished its last cycle.

Your throat went tight, remembering last night—the door, the guilt in his eyes, how small you must have looked curled up outside.

“Morning,” you whispered.

He glanced over, jaw flexing like always, then nodded once. “Sit.”

You did, suppressing the smile tugging at your lips as he placed a plate in front of you. He didn’t linger, didn’t hover. Just poured himself coffee and sat across from you, silent but present. It was more than enough.

And then you noticed it—tucked under your plate, almost like a placemat. A sheet of lined paper. The familiar scrawl made your stomach flip.

The Rules (modified):

Don’t go into my room.

Don’t touch my stuff.

No loud calls after ten. (exception: emergencies, yes crying is an emergency.)

If you forget your keys, call me.

Your eyes flicked up, and he was already watching you. Not glaring, not scolding—just watching, a little stiff, like he wasn’t sure how you’d react.

You traced the paper with your fingertip, lips curving despite yourself. “So… exceptions exist.”

He grunted, stabbing at his eggs with his fork. “Yes.”

You bit back the flood of gratitude rising in your chest, choosing instead to take another bite of toast like it was the most casual thing in the world. But your heart was racing.

Because for the first time since moving in, the rules weren’t just walls. They were… bending.

And that, you decided, was your biggest victory yet.

🍒

You smoothed the hem of your new dress in front of the hallway mirror, it was a pale yellow dress that looked like it had been plucked straight from a fairytale. The fabric was light and airy, layers of sheer tulle falling gracefully into a full, mid-calf skirt that swayed with every step. Tiny dotted patterns scattered across the material caught the light, adding a subtle shimmer. The bodice was fitted like a corset with sweetheart cups that framed your neckline and delicate ribbon ties rested on your shoulders.

Exactly what you needed for today’s audition.

Behind you, you heard footsteps. Harry’s, slow and even, padding down the hall toward the kitchen.

You turned, smile blooming nervously. “Hey—um. Do I look okay?”

He stopped dead a few feet away. For a beat, he didn’t say anything, just let his eyes flick over you once—quick, but not quick enough. His jaw flexed, like he had to physically lock something back down.

Then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. “You look like the sunshine.”

The heat that rushed to your cheeks was instant, impossible to hide. “Sunshine?” you repeated, the smile tugging at your lips betraying how flattered you were.

He blinked, as though realizing what he’d said. His mouth tightened, and he cleared his throat. “I meant… bright. Loud, even. Hard to miss.”

But his ears were pink, and you could tell he was scrambling for cover.

You tilted your head, biting your lip to stop your grin from growing. “I’ll take sunshine,” you said softly, brushing past him toward the door.

And though he didn’t answer, you caught the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth before he ducked his head.

Later the door swung open with a dramatic push, and you all but burst into the apartment. Your tote bag nearly slipped off your shoulder as you stumbled in, laughing breathlessly.

“I got it!” you squealed, tossing the bag on the couch. “I actually got the part!”

Your whole body seemed to glow, the yellow dress still fluttering around your knees as you spun once in the middle of the living room, too thrilled to care if you looked silly.

Harry had been stretched across the sofa with his laptop, but at the sound of your voice he froze, watching as you beamed at nothing and everything all at once.

He’d seen you smile plenty of times, but not like this. This was blinding, unrestrained, pure joy radiating out of you until it filled the room. It made something sharp twist in his chest.

Because, if he was honest with himself, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything like that.

Still, he found himself staring, jaw slack, as the corners of his own mouth tugged upward without permission. It was… contagious. Your happiness. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t just want to observe it from the safety of his own silence.

He wanted—just for once—to share it with you.

“You got the part?” he asked

You stopped twirling, eyes wide with delight, and nodded so hard your hair bounced. “I got it, Harry! They actually picked me!”

He set the laptop aside, shifting forward on the couch. A strange, cautious warmth pressed against his ribs, a feeling that made him nervous to name. But still, he let himself smile, small but real. “Then I guess… congratulations.”

Your laughter bubbled again, brighter than before, and he thought maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this sound filling the apartment.

You spent the next hour pacing around your room, phone pressed to your ear as you called everyone you loved. Your mom. Your dad. Each one of your siblings. Your best friend. The words I got it! echoed again and again, your voice bright, bubbling, unstoppable.

Through the thin apartment walls, Harry could hear it all—your laughter, your excited footsteps, the rise and fall of your joy spilling into every call. And even though he tried to keep his focus his lips betrayed him, tugging upward into a quiet smile.

It stirred something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not jealousy—no, he didn’t begrudge you your happiness. It was more like a tug, an ache he couldn’t name. The way you trusted so openly, the way you shared so freely, like happiness was meant to be scattered around without fear it might run out.

He set the laptop down, running a hand over his jaw. Maybe… maybe he should do something.

His mind immediately began spinning. Should I buy a bottle of champagne? No—too posh, too over the top. Dinner, maybe? Invite her somewhere nice? What? No, that would feel like a date, and he wasn’t—this wasn’t—

He groaned, scrubbing his hand through his hair. Maybe I should just cook? Something simple? But then he pictured himself fumbling around the kitchen and her bright eyes watching him, and his pulse spiked. No, no.

Beers? he thought desperately. That was safer. Neutral. But even that felt too forced.

Then it hit him. Of course. The gig.

She could come, watch the band, have a fun night, soak up the music, the atmosphere. It wasn’t a date, not really—it was casual, public, easy. And maybe, just maybe, it would let him share a piece of himself without having to strip down all his walls.

The idea settled into him and he sat there, rehearsing the words in his head like he was preparing for battle: You should come tonight. It’s just a small set. No big deal.

Casual. Harmless. Nothing more.

So why did his heart pound as if it meant everything?

You ended the last call with your best friend, still smiling so wide your cheeks ached. Your phone slipped onto the bed beside you as you leaned back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, replaying every little detail of the day in your head.

A soft knock on your door startled you. Not much of a knock, really—more like the back of a knuckle brushing against wood.

“Yeah?” you called, sitting up.

The door cracked open, and Harry leaned against the frame, arms crossed like he hadn’t been pacing in the hallway for the past three minutes working up the nerve. His voice was calm, casual—at least, that’s what he was aiming for.

“Big day, huh?” he said.

You grinned at him, still unable to contain yourself. “Huge. I can’t believe it, Harry. I thought they hated me, and then—” You stopped yourself before launching into another retelling. “Sorry. I’ve been talking everyone’s ears off.”

His lips twitched. “Could hear that.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, but he didn’t sound annoyed—just… aware. Observing.

Then, after a pause, he shifted his weight and spoke quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “Listen, uh. I’ve got a gig tonight. Just a small set, nothing major. Thought you might wanna come.”

Your brows shot up. Of all the things you thought he might say, that wasn’t on the list. “A gig?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, gaze darting past you to the corner of the room, like he couldn’t quite hold eye contact. “Bar downtown. We start around ten. You don’t have to—it’s just…” He trailed off, clearing his throat. “Figured it’s a way to celebrate?”

The way he said it—so offhand, like it didn’t matter either way—didn’t quite cover the faint pink climbing his ears.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too much. “You’re inviting me.”

“I’m… mentioning an option,” he corrected, deadpan, though his jaw worked a little like he regretted opening his mouth at all.

Still, you could feel the smallest crack in his armor, and it warmed you all over. “Well,” you said lightly, “then I guess I’ll take the option.”

His shoulders relaxed just the faintest bit. “Cool. I’ll… we leave at 8.”

And with that, he nodded once, retreating back down the hall before you could see the tiny, nervous smirk tugging at his lips.

🍒

The bar was dim, alive with the low hum of chatter and the clink of glasses. A string of colored lights zigzagged above the small stage, casting everything in a warm, intimate glow.

Harry walked in beside you, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black jacket, shoulders tight like he already regretted bringing you. You, on the other hand, practically bounced on your heels, your yellow dress a burst of light in the low-lit room.

As soon as you reached the stage area, a couple of guys looked up from tuning their instruments.

“Harry!” one of them called, grin spreading wide. He had curly hair pulled back into a bun and sticks tucked under one arm—clearly the drummer.

Harry gave a nod. “This is—” He hesitated for half a second before gesturing toward you. “My… roommate.”

You stepped forward with your brightest smile, offering a hand. “Hi! It’s so nice to meet you.”

The bassist, tall and lanky with glasses slipping down his nose, chuckled as he shook your hand. “Roommate, huh? You don’t look like the type Harry would put up with.”

“Hey,” Harry muttered, shooting him a look.

But you just laughed, the sound light and unbothered. “Guess I’m lucky then.”

After a round of quick introductions, Harry mumbled something about needing to check the set list and drifted toward the back of the stage, leaving you to find a spot. You chose a small table off to the side where you could see clearly, resting your chin in your hand, still smiling like the whole night was already magic.

Back on stage, as they plugged in cables and adjusted mics, the bandmates couldn’t resist.

“So,” the drummer said under his breath, nudging Harry with his stick. “Who’s the sunshine?”

Harry’s brows drew together. “What?”

“The girl,” the bassist chimed in, jerking his chin toward you. “She’s, like… a flower come to life. All bright and smiley. Total opposite of you.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “She’s just my roommate.”

“Uh-huh.” The drummer smirked. “Funny how your roommate shows up looking like she wandered out of a fairy tale.”

Harry busied himself with tuning his guitar, but his ears burned.

“She’s sweet,” the bassist added, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Smiled at me like I’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket. Can’t remember the last time someone looked that happy to be here.” He shot Harry a teasing grin. “No wonder you brought her.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “I didn’t bring—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “She wanted to come.”

“Sure,” the drummer said, smirking. “Just a coincidence the grumpiest guy we know suddenly has sunshine tagging along.”

The bassist chuckled. “Honestly, I like it. It’s like yin and yang. You, all broody and dark, her, all light and joy. Balance, man. It works.”

Harry’s blush deepened as he muttered, “You two sound ridiculous,” but his fingers fumbled on the strings, betraying him.

Meanwhile, you sat at your little table, completely unaware, still smiling as you waved when you caught Harry glancing your way. He quickly looked back down, but not before the drummer elbowed him again with a knowing grin.

When the lights dimmed, a ripple of excitement spread through the bar. The casual chatter quieted, replaced by the anticipation of music about to begin. You leaned forward in your chair, elbows braced on the table, eyes fixed on the stage.

Harry stood near the mic, guitar slung low across his chest, head bent as he adjusted the strap. Even under the glow of red and amber stage lights, he seemed the same as always—closed off, unreadable.

But then he strummed the first chord.

The sound filled the bar instantly—confident, rough around the edges, alive. His bandmates joined in, the rhythm locking tight, and suddenly Harry wasn’t your grumpy, rule-obsessed roommate anymore. He was something else entirely.

The lines of his face sharpened in the lights, his jaw tight with focus, his eyes half-closed as if he was lost somewhere only the music could take him. He leaned into the mic, voice spilling out low and raw, pulling every head in the bar toward him.

You sat frozen, goosebumps prickling up your arms.

He didn’t just play the guitar—he commanded it, every strum a piece of him let loose into the room. It was loud and unapologetic and yet so clearly his truth. For the first time, you understood why the rules, the silence, the walls—maybe he needed them just to contain this.

Your lips parted as you watched, unable to stop the slow smile spreading across your face.

And when his eyes flicked up for the briefest second, scanning the room, they landed on you. Just for a heartbeat.

Your smile widened, a little breath catching in your throat.

Harry’s fingers faltered for the tiniest moment, a split-second stutter in the strings, before he caught himself and pushed harder into the chorus, jaw flexing like nothing had happened.

But you saw it. And he knew you saw it.

By the time the song ended, the bar erupted in applause, whistles and cheers bouncing off the walls. You clapped so hard your palms stung, still beaming up at him like he’d just revealed a secret side of himself meant only for you.

And maybe, deep down, that’s exactly what it felt like.

The walk back to the apartment is quiet at first, though not uncomfortably so. The night air is cool against your skin, humming with the distant buzz of traffic and the echo of laughter spilling from nearby bars. You walk beside Harry with your usual bounce, coat wrapped tightly around your shoulders, a smile that hasn’t dimmed since the very first song he played.

Harry keeps his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, head ducked, curls clinging damply to his forehead. He looks tired in that flushed, post-gig way, but there’s something warm in the corner of his mouth, like even if he doesn’t admit it, he’s still buzzing too.

“You were amazing,” you blurt suddenly, unable to keep it in any longer.

He glances at you sideways, caught off guard. “Mm?”

“Like—Harry, seriously. Amazing. I don’t even know how you didn’t tell me you play like that! You just—” you wave your hands, as though words aren’t enough to capture what you feel. “Your voice! And the guitar, oh my God. And the way everyone just… followed you, like you were the center of everything. You don’t even realize, do you?”

His steps falter, just barely. Compliments usually skim off him, deflected with a shrug or a joke, but you aren’t teasing. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars, and it makes him visibly uncomfortable. He shrugs, tugging at his sleeve.

“It was fine.”

“Fine?” you gasp, scandalized. “Harry, it was so much more than fine! You were brilliant. I wish you could’ve seen yourself—actually, no, I wish you could’ve seen yourself through my eyes. The way your face changed when you sang? And when you did that solo? Everyone was staring at you.”

Harry’s chest tightens. Too much. Your happiness, your belief in him—it’s warm and suffocating all at once. By the time you both climb the stairs and step into the apartment, he looks like he’s carrying a weight only he can feel.

You kick your shoes off by the door, still glowing. “Harry, I swear, you’re gonna be huge one day. Not just local gigs, not just little bars. Bigger. People need to hear you. They have to.”

“Stop,” he mutters, moving toward his room.

You blink, mid-sentence. “Stop what?”

“Just—stop.” He doesn’t look at you, his hand already on the door. His voice comes out harsher than he means, rough with nerves. “You don’t need to say all that.”

The silence after that cuts deeper than anything.

You stand there, frozen in the middle of the living room, arms still lifted in a gesture that now feels awkward. The smile slips right off your face. “Oh,” you whisper, small and stung.

He disappears into his room, the door shutting firmly behind him. Not a slam, but solid enough that it feels like a line.

You stay rooted where you are, heat rising in your cheeks. Embarrassment washes over you in waves. Maybe you’d overdone it, maybe all that excitement spilling out of you was too much. You’ve been careful, trying not to overwhelm him, trying to respect the way he pulls back. And here you went, dumping everything on him in one breath.

You sit on the couch, hugging your knees. The silence presses heavy, but after a moment you remind yourself—this isn’t cruelty. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. This is Harry, retreating into himself, unsteady under the weight of kindness. It’s not about you being wrong. It’s about him not knowing how to hold it.

Through the wall, you think you can hear the faint creak of his mattress as he sits.

Inside his room, Harry is dragging his hands down his face, cursing himself. Every word you’d said replays in his head—brilliant, amazing, bigger than this. And he can’t believe any of it. Can’t let himself. But the way you’d said it, like it was the truest thing in the world, burrowed under his skin. He shuts his eyes, listening.

Your voice carries faintly through the wall, muffled but clear. You’ve picked up your phone, calling someone—maybe your sister again, maybe a friend. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but your laugh filters through, bright and unguarded.

“I’m just… so proud of him,” you’re saying. “You should’ve seen him tonight. He was everything. I’ve never seen someone glow like that before. And he doesn’t even realize. He doesn’t see it at all. But I do.”

Harry’s chest aches. He presses a hand against it, as though that will keep the feeling at bay, but it doesn’t.

Because even after he pushed you away, even after he shut the door, you’re still out there believing in him—louder than he can ever believe in himself.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he finds himself smiling in the dark. Not a smirk, not a mask. A real smile. Small, fragile, but real.

Maybe, he thinks, it wouldn’t be so terrible to share in some of that happiness you carry so easily.

🍒

The morning light filters into the kitchen when you shuffle in, still in socks, hair messy from sleep. The apartment feels unusually still, like it’s holding its breath after what happened last night. You hesitate for a second before stepping farther in, half-expecting to find Harry already gone like most mornings.

But he’s there.

Sitting at the table, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other tapping lightly against the wood. His guitar leans against the wall nearby, and there’s a plate of toast and eggs on the counter—your plate, you realize.

His head lifts when he hears you. His eyes meet yours, green and sharp in the early light, but softer than usual. Almost uncertain.

“Morning,” you say carefully, testing the air.

“Morning,” he echoes, voice rough from sleep or nerves—you can’t tell which.

You walk over, fingers brushing the edge of the counter as you pick up the plate. For a moment, you wonder if you should just sit in silence, let it all fade. But then you notice the way he’s watching you, like he’s waiting for something—like he’s the one holding his breath now.

So you smile. “Thanks for breakfast.”

He clears his throat, gaze dropping to his mug. “’S nothing.”

You sit across from him, plate between you, and the silence stretches again. Only this time it’s not awkward—it’s heavy, expectant. You can feel him wrestling with words.

Finally, he exhales and leans back, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “About last night…”

You look up. His jaw flexes, like he’s bracing himself.

“I didn’t mean to—shut you down like that,” he says slowly, carefully. “I’m… not used to it. People saying things like that about me. About the band. I don’t… I don’t know how to take it.”

Your chest softens instantly. The words aren’t smooth, not polished, but they’re honest. Maybe the first honest thing he’s given you since you moved in.

“I know,” you say gently, setting your fork down. “I figured it wasn’t about me. I didn’t take it that way.”

His eyes flick up at that, sharp and searching, like he’s checking if you’re telling the truth.

You nod, holding his gaze. “You don’t have to explain or make excuses, Harry. I meant what I said, but you don’t have to believe me yet. You will, someday. For now, just—don’t worry about it.”

Something flickers across his face then—relief, disbelief, something warmer underneath. His lips twitch, almost like a smile, though he presses them together quickly, hiding it.

“You’re not mad?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Mad? No. Embarrassed maybe, for rambling so much, but never mad. Not at you.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, like a weight has eased off. He looks at you differently now—not just the noisy, sunny roommate he can’t keep up with, but someone patient enough to see through the walls he’s built.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The sunlight spills across the table, catching in his hair, warming the quiet between you. And then, almost too quietly to catch, he says:

“You’re… easier to be around than I thought.”

Your heart skips, but you don’t let your smile falter. You just reach for your toast, keeping your tone light. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me so far.”

He huffs through his nose, shaking his head, but then it happens—an actual laugh. Low, short, almost like he didn’t mean for it to escape.

You freeze mid-bite, eyes widening. “Wait.” You set the toast down carefully, pointing at him with exaggerated seriousness. “Was that a laugh? Did I just make you laugh?”

Harry smirks, trying to bury it behind his mug, but you catch the way his shoulders shake slightly.

“Oh my god, it was a laugh!” you say, grinning so wide it hurts. “I should write this down. Mark the date and time.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face, but you swear there’s still the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but it’s softer than usual—lighter, almost fond.

And you can’t stop staring at him, at how different he looks in that moment, not weighed down by walls or silence. For the first time since moving in, you feel like you’ve just caught a glimpse of the Harry that lives underneath the rules, the stern looks, the quiet.

And it makes you want to see it again.

That night, the apartment was unusually calm. You sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, scrolling half-distractedly through your phone while the glow of the TV played in the background. Harry walked in from his room, hair still damp from a shower, and for a moment he just stood there, hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or retreat.

Then, quietly, he asked, “So… the audition?”

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up. Not him.

“It—” your voice cracked on the first word, and you laughed nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It actually went really well.”

Harry tilted his head, watching you closely, waiting for you to go on.

“They said I had something different, that I wasn’t like the others. I swear I thought I’d bombed it, but then—then they called me back in and said they wanted me for the part. I couldn’t believe it!”

You were grinning so hard your cheeks ached, your words spilling out like water bursting through a dam. You told him every detail—the waiting room, the nerves, the moment they said your name.

And Harry… he listened.

Not with that half-distracted air he usually carried, not with the distant coolness you’d grown used to. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you as though your joy was something rare, something worth holding on to.

When you finally stopped for breath, cheeks flushed, he gave the smallest nod. “Knew they’d see it.”

Your smile faltered just a little. “You… what?”

Harry shrugged, but his lips tugged in a tiny almost-smile. “Knew they’d pick you. You light up when you talk about it—it’s hard not to notice.”

Your chest tightened at his words, unexpected warmth rising in your throat.

And then, as if he realized he’d said too much, he cleared his throat and straightened. “If you need help practicing… lines or whatever—you can… ask me.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “You’d actually do that?”

His eyes flicked away, a faint pink brushing his cheeks. “Don’t expect me to be good at it. But yeah. I’d help.”

For a long moment, you just stared at him, smiling so wide it was almost ridiculous. “Harry Styles, volunteering to rehearse lines with me. I should definitely mark the date and time for this too.”

He let out another one of those quick, reluctant laughs, shaking his head as he muttered, “You’re impossible.”

But you noticed the way his eyes lingered on you, softer now, like he was secretly glad you were.

🍒

The first time, it was the rain.

You hadn’t realized the sky had cracked open until you were already halfway back from the store, juggling two bags of groceries and drenched head to toe. By the time you stumbled into the apartment, your hair was plastered to your cheeks, sundress clinging uncomfortably to your skin.

Harry appeared from the hallway almost instantly, eyes widening. “Bloody hell—” He grabbed a towel from the closet and pressed it into your hands before you could even drip onto the rug.

“Take a shower. Now,” he said firmly, another towel already tossed over your shoulders. “You’ll catch a cold if you stay like that.”

You blinked up at him, water dripping from your lashes, lips curving into a small, surprised smile. “You sound like my grandma.”

“Don’t argue,” he muttered, turning toward the kitchen. “Go. I’ll make you tea.”

And you did—heart thudding at the thought of him in there, waiting with a steaming mug when you came back warm and dry.

The second time, it was the couch

You’d meant to just rest your eyes for a second, the script still open on your lap as you curled up on the couch. But when Harry came back into the living room, he found you fast asleep, cheek smushed against the cushion, soft breaths evening out.

For a long moment, he just stood there, frozen.

Then, carefully, quietly, he slipped into your room and returned with your blanket. He shook it out once, then draped it gently over you, making sure it tucked around your shoulders.

You stirred, shifting slightly under the sudden warmth, but didn’t wake.

Harry lingered only a second longer, watching the way your lips parted in sleep, the faint crease between your brows softening as you relaxed deeper. Then he turned off the lamp, leaving just the glow of the hallway light behind, and disappeared back to his room.

You didn’t know why you woke up the next morning with your blanket around you. But you smiled when you did.

🍒

The door rattles open and you glance up from the couch just in time to see Harry come in, shoulders hunched from the late evening chill, arms weighed down with two grocery bags. His curls are damp at the edges, a sure sign he walked the last blocks in a fine drizzle, and there’s something about the way he kicks the door shut behind him, exhaling like the weight of the day is still clinging to him, that makes you smile.

“Let me help” you say, standing and automatically moving toward him.

He shrugs, setting one of the bags on the counter with a heavy thud. “It’s fine” he says.

You reach for the other bag before he can protest, pulling out a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, a pack of pasta. “Still,” you say, lining them neatly on the counter. You shake your head at the way he always fusses with the smallest things, then reach deeper into the bag — and freeze.

Because tucked between his usual oat milk and black coffee beans, you find it. Your cereal. The one brand you always keep on the top shelf, half-hidden because it feels a little childish. And right after that, your favorite kind of chips. The exact flavor you’d torn through last week.

You turn, eyes widening, the box in your hand like evidence. “Harry,” you say, your voice pitched higher than you intend, “you bought my cereal.”

He glances over, expression unreadable, like maybe he hadn’t expected you to notice so soon. Then, with a casual roll of his shoulders, he says, “Saw you were running low.”

That’s it. No grin, no joke, no acknowledgment of what it means. Just a quiet, almost dismissive explanation, like he’d picked up a spare roll of paper towels.

But your chest tightens, because you know him well enough now to read between the lines. You know this man who insists he doesn’t care much about details but somehow notices when you’re down to your last coffee pod, who pretends he doesn’t listen yet recalls every small thing you mention. You know, and your heart beats faster because of it.

“You noticed?” you ask softly, unable to keep the excitement from lacing your words.

Harry exhales a laugh through his nose, reaching for the bread as if that might save him from answering. “Hard not to. You have a whole ritual with it every morning. Box was nearly empty yesterday.”

There’s a warmth in his tone he doesn’t seem aware of, a fondness tucked into the edges. You can’t stop staring at him, at the way his profile looks in the golden kitchen light, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

You want to tease him — you want to say, Since when do you pay that much attention to me? — but the words stick in your throat, too fragile to risk. Instead you smile, wide and giddy, and tuck the cereal against your chest like a prize.

Harry finally looks at you then, eyes flicking to your grin, and for a fleeting second his calm mask falters. His lips twitch as though he might smile too, then he clears his throat, busying himself with lining cans in the cupboard.

But the air has shifted. You can feel it humming in the space between you, charged and bright.

“Thank you,” you say at last, voice softer than before.

He shrugs again, but slower this time, like the gesture costs him something. “Don’t mention it.”

And in that silence, something clicks in you.

This isn’t about groceries. It’s not about cereal or chips or keeping track of what’s running low. It’s about him seeing you. About the way he can’t help but take care of you, even if he doesn’t have the words for why.

And maybe it’s about you too — the way your pulse races, the way you’re suddenly warm all over at the thought that Harry notices, that Harry cares.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing, because the happiness bubbling inside feels too much, too obvious. But he hears it anyway, the little sound that escapes, and he glances back with raised brows.

“What’s funny?” he asks.

You shake your head quickly, grinning like you can’t stop. “Nothing.” 

Harry studies you, long enough that you almost squirm under his gaze. Then, to your shock, his mouth curves into the smallest, softest smile. The kind you haven’t seen from him before. And it’s enough to make your breath catch, because you realize he isn’t annoyed, he isn’t brushing you off. He’s letting you see it — the quiet, hidden piece of him that wants to make you happy.

And standing there in your shared kitchen, surrounded by groceries and rain-damp air, you know: this is how it begins.

🍒

Harry stood frozen at the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the flower shop window like it had personally offended him. Bouquets of bright pink peonies and sunbursts of yellow tulips smiled back through the glass, an explosion of color against the gray street. He adjusted his leather jacket, jaw tight.

“This is ridiculous. I’m going.” He muttered it more to himself than anyone, already shifting his weight as if he could walk away from the whole idea.

Before he could move, Sam caught his arm, grip firm. “Nope. Not a chance.”

Harry turned, glaring at his best friend. Sam only raised a brow, smug. The two of them — tall, dressed in black, boots scuffed from late nights in dingy bars — looked wildly out of place lingering outside a flower shop. Like predators afraid of bouquets.

“You heard me,” Sam went on, nodding toward the cheerful window display. “She just finished her first big project. You need a way to say you care. To show her you’re proud. That you want to celebrate her.” His grin widened as Harry’s scowl deepened. “That you liiike he-e-er.” The last words came in a sing-song tone that made Harry want to sink into the pavement.

“Shut up,” Harry snapped, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “I don’t like her.”

Sam’s gaze flicked to Harry’s cheeks, now faintly pink. “Mm-hm,” he said, drawing the sound out like it was a verdict. “Sure you don’t.”

Harry jerked his arm free, but he didn’t move away. He looked back at the flower shop, heart thudding. Inside, a florist was rearranging a bucket of roses, humming to herself. It should have been simple: walk in, pick something, leave. But every single bunch looked like it might scream too much or not enough.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “What flowers do you even buy for… a literal flower?” The words slipped out, low and almost pained.

Sam burst out laughing, earning a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Oh, that’s rich. Man’s out here buying her favorite snacks one week and can’t figure out if daisies are too obvious.”

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, muttering, “Forget it. She doesn’t even like this kind of thing.”

“Oh, she does,” Sam countered immediately. “She’s the type to light up over something thoughtful, doesn’t matter if it’s a fifty-dollar bouquet or one daisy wrapped in paper.”

Harry exhaled slowly, eyes flicking back to the flowers. He could already imagine your smile if he got it right — that warm, unstoppable kind that made his chest ache. And that was the problem.

Sam gave him a push toward the door. “Go on. Worst case, you leave with nothing but pollen on your jacket. Best case… she keeps smiling at you.”

Harry hesitated, but his hand found the shop’s door handle anyway.

The little bell over the door chimed as Harry stepped inside, shoulders tense like he’d walked into enemy territory instead of a flower shop. The air was thick with perfume — roses, lilies, carnations, all blending into something both sweet and overwhelming. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, scanning the room like he might find a sign that said For Sunshine, Buy These. Because of course he started to call her sunshine in his mind.

The florist, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and pruning shears tucked in her apron, glanced up. “Looking for something special?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Uh… yeah. Something like that.” His voice came out rougher than intended.

Sam was already poking around the displays behind him, whistling, enjoying every second of Harry’s discomfort.

The florist tilted her head. “Anniversary? Birthday?”

Harry’s jaw flexed. He hated this. Hated how easily the question made his pulse spike. “No. Just… congratulations.”

“On what?” she asked pleasantly.

He hesitated. Saying her first big film went well out loud felt like exposing too much. Like admitting that he listened to you when you talked about your dreams, that he stored the details away. He shifted his weight. “Work thing.”

“Got it.” She smiled knowingly. “Something cheerful, then. Something that says I’m proud of you.”

She guided him toward a bucket of sunflowers, tall and golden, their faces practically glowing. Harry stopped dead, staring at them. Sunflowers. Too on the nose. Too obvious.

Sam sidled up beside him, grin wide. “Perfect. Literal sunshine for your sunshine.”

Harry gave him a look that could kill. “No.”

He turned away, landing on a bunch of white daisies. Simple. Fresh. Not too heavy with meaning. But then his eyes caught on a cluster of yellow tulips, soft and elegant, like bottled warmth. Then there were the roses — classic, romantic, dangerous.

“This is a nightmare,” he muttered under his breath.

The florist chuckled, watching him circle like a trapped animal. “What’s she like?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“The person you’re buying for. What’s she like? That usually helps.”

For a moment, his throat went dry. What were you like? He could list a thousand things, all of them lodged in his chest. You were bright. Brave. You filled a room without even trying. You had this way of making silence feel less heavy. You made him laugh when he thought he couldn’t anymore.

“She’s…” He swallowed hard. “She’s a lot. In a good way.”

The florist’s smile deepened. “Then you need something that won’t be swallowed by her light. Something that will stand beside it.”

Her hand landed on a bunch of mixed wildflowers — yellows, whites, soft pinks, all tangled together like summer in a bouquet. Not too polished, not too formal. Just… alive.

Harry stared at them. They weren’t overwhelming. They weren’t cliché. They looked like something you’d actually put in a jar on the kitchen counter and smile at every morning.

Sam leaned close, whispering, “If you don’t get those, I will.”

Harry sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. “Fine.”

When the florist wrapped the bouquet in brown paper, tying it off with twine, Harry’s stomach twisted. It felt like too much and not enough all at once. He paid quickly, muttering a thanks, and bolted out into the street before he could change his mind.

Sam followed, smirking. “You’re so gone for her, man.”

“Shut up,” Harry said again, but this time the words lacked bite. He held the flowers carefully in one hand, staring at them like they might reveal whether this was a mistake.

🍒

By the time Harry reached the apartment building, his palms were damp against the brown paper wrapping. The bouquet crinkled softly every time he adjusted his grip, and it drove him mad how fragile it felt in his hand — how fragile he felt, standing there with something so bright meant for you.

He stopped outside the door to 301, heart thudding in his ears. The hallway was quiet, save for the hum of the overhead lights. He shifted his weight from one boot to the other, jaw tight, the words he thought he’d say looping in his head and tangling every time.

Congrats. That sounds stupid. You deserve these. Too much. Saw these and thought of you. Christ, no. She’ll know. She’ll know.

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. “It’s flowers, not a bloody marriage proposal.”

Still, his chest tightened every time he pictured your reaction. Would you laugh? Tease him? Smile that blinding smile and make him feel like he was standing in the sun without a way to shield himself?

He tried to rehearse it again. Hey, you did good. Proud of you. The words burned his tongue even in thought. Pride wasn’t something he knew how to hand out. Not even to himself.

He took a deep breath, staring at the door handle like it might bite him. He could still turn back. Leave the flowers on the kitchen counter, no note, no explanation. You’d find them and never know it took him ten minutes of pacing in the hallway to gather the courage.

But something in him — the same reckless thread that had pushed him onto stages, that had kept him from walking away the first time he saw your smile — held him there.

Harry tightened his grip on the bouquet, exhaled slowly, and muttered, “Alright. Just… don’t be a dick about it.”

Then, finally, he turned the key and stepped inside.

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, still buzzing from the last few texts your best friend had sent congratulating you. The front door clicked open, and you glanced up. Harry stepped in, shoulders hunched, leather jacket half-unzipped, a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand like it was a weapon he didn’t know how to wield.

Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my god… are those—?”

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. “Heard the short film closed well and, uh, wanted to… congratulate you. To like—” He winced, adjusting his grip on the flowers. “Be proud. I mean—I am proud. Like… yeah.” His voice trailed off into a mumble.

Your heart soared so hard it nearly hurt. Harry. Harry, who never said more than a few clipped words if he could help it, was standing there in your living room, cheeks faintly pink, tripping over sentences just to tell you he was proud.

You practically flew off the couch, grabbing the flowers before he could change his mind. The brown paper crinkled under your fingers, and the colors of the wildflowers were so bright they looked stolen from a dream. “Harry! These are gorgeous!”

He scratched the back of his neck, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. “They’re just… flowers.”

“No, no, they’re not just flowers,” you insisted, spinning once with the bouquet clutched to your chest. “They’re beautiful, and they’re thoughtful, and—” you stopped mid-sentence, breathless with excitement. “Can I hug you? Please let me!”

Harry froze. You saw the hesitation flicker across his face, like his brain was trying to process the request through a hundred filters of rules and walls and distance. But then his shoulders dropped just slightly, the fight leaving him.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost like he was giving permission to himself more than to you.

You didn’t wait a second longer. You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face against his chest, the flowers squished between you both. He smelled like rain and coffee and something distinctly him. For a moment, his arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, and then—slowly, cautiously—they came up to hold you back.

The hug lingered longer than you thought it would. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady but a little fast, and it made you smile even wider. When you finally pulled back, you kept bouncing on your toes, clutching the bouquet like it was the most precious thing anyone had ever given you.

“Harry, I love them so much. You don’t understand. No one’s ever given me flowers before, not like this. And you remembered about the short film! And you said you’re proud, oh my god—do you know how much that means? I swear my heart is going to explode right now. And we have to see the short film together!”

You were rambling, words spilling out faster than you could control, but you didn’t care. The happiness was too much to hold in, and you wanted him to feel all of it.

Harry’s ears were pink, his lips pressed into a thin line like he was trying desperately to keep them from twitching into a smile. “You’re… you’re making a big deal out of it,” he muttered, gaze darting to the floor.

“It is a big deal!” you insisted, hugging the bouquet tighter. “It’s huge. It’s—you’re huge, in like, the nicest way possible. Do you realize how sweet this is?”

He gave a tiny huff of breath, almost a laugh, and dragged a hand down his face. “Christ, you’re loud when you’re happy.”

But you caught it—the way his voice was softer, lighter than usual, like he wasn’t actually annoyed. His hand lingered on the back of his neck, nervous, but his eyes flicked to yours and didn’t look away as quickly as they usually did.

“Sorry,” you said through a grin you couldn’t tame. “I just can’t stop smiling. You’ve basically ruined me for the rest of the night. I’ll probably go to sleep smiling, thanks to you.”

That earned you another almost-laugh, the sound breaking past his defenses before he could stop it. It was small, quick, but it was there, and your chest lit up like fireworks.

You gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, was that a laugh? Did I just make Harry laugh AGAIN?”

“Don’t push it,” he warned, but there was no edge in his voice this time.

You held the bouquet up between you both, wiggling it slightly. “New rule,” you teased, your eyes bright. “You’re not allowed to say you’re not sweet. Evidence: right here.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the way his lips curled at the edges, traitorous and soft. And you thought, maybe, just maybe, you were starting to find the cracks in his walls.

You darted off to the kitchen to rummage for a vase, humming happily under your breath, the bouquet cradled like treasure. Harry stayed rooted where he stood, watching you move around with that unstoppable glow in your smile, and something inside him shifted so sharply he almost stumbled.

The walls he had spent years stacking brick by brick—rules, silence, distance—felt flimsy now, like paper left out in the rain. All because you had looked at him with that much joy over something as simple as a bunch of flowers.

He let out a low chuckle, surprising even himself. It wasn’t the short, bitter sound he usually made. It was lighter, easier. And in that moment, he realized there wasn’t a better feeling in the world than putting that smile on your face.

Harry leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely but no tension in his shoulders, watching you arrange the wildflowers into a vase far too small, your tongue sticking out a little in concentration. His lips twitched upward again, the warmth curling in his chest so foreign it almost scared him.

Bloody hell, he thought, shaking his head at himself, but he couldn’t look away.

And for the first time in years, Harry didn’t feel like hiding.

The flowers were still on the counter days later, their petals unfurling lazily toward the sun that spilled through the apartment windows. You made a habit of topping up the water every morning before rushing out to run errands, humming like you always did. Harry noticed. He noticed more than he cared to admit.

Because every time he passed the vase, he felt the faintest tug in his chest—like a reminder of how your eyes had lit up when he’d handed them over. He hadn’t meant it to mean anything, hadn’t thought through the weight of the gesture. But the memory of your grin lodged itself inside him, stubborn as ever.

Harry had never been good at lingering feelings. He was used to shutting doors before they creaked open, keeping people at arm’s length with clipped words and that hardened look that usually made strangers back away. But now, somehow, his sharp edges felt dulled around you. And worse—he didn’t hate it.

Then one day he found himself outside your audition building. He hadn’t planned it, not really. He had errands to run downtown, but when his phone buzzed with your quick text—Heading in now, wish me luck!—his feet had moved on their own.

He leaned against the brick wall across the street, cap tugged low, trying to look casual even though his stomach felt oddly tight. He wasn’t even sure what he was waiting for. Maybe to make sure you didn’t walk out looking defeated. Maybe just to… see.

And sure enough, twenty minutes later you appeared, clutching your bag, your shoulders slumped just slightly. Not devastated, just tired. He almost turned back—almost let you walk home without knowing he was there. But then you spotted him.

“Harry?” you asked, surprise lifting your voice.

He shrugged, forcing a lazy smirk. “Don’t look so shocked. I was nearby.”

Your eyes softened instantly, the tiredness draining as quickly as it had come. “You came.”

“Don’t make a big deal of it.” But it was a big deal, and you knew it. The smile you gave him in return—it was softer than the one you wore when you were excited, but just as powerful. Something in him unclenched again.

It started happening in small ways after that.

He brewed an extra cup of tea in the mornings, leaving it on the counter beside your travel mug without a word. You always noticed. He began timing his grocery runs around yours, carrying the heavier bags without you asking. When you protested, he muttered something about how your arms were too scrawny for the weight, but his grin betrayed him.

Even his silences changed. Before, they had been sharp, pointed, a barrier between him and the world. Now they were softer. Sometimes he lingered in the kitchen while you cooked, leaning against the counter, just listening to you ramble about your day. He didn’t always answer, but his eyes stayed fixed on you in a way that made your cheeks burn.

And you noticed. Of course you did.

By the end of the week, the flowers on the counter had begun to wilt. Their petals curled, drooping against the glass. You went to toss them, but Harry stopped you.

“Leave ’em,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head. “They’re dying, Harry.”

His jaw flexed, like he was fighting with himself, then he let out a sigh. “Still pretty, though. Don’t need to get rid of ’em just yet.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. Something unspoken passed between you, thick in the air.

The apartment felt quiet when you came home that night, the city noises muted behind the closed door. Your shoulders sagged with the weight of the day—another audition that hadn’t gone as planned, another reminder that the road ahead was harder than you’d imagined. You just wanted to collapse onto your bed and disappear under the covers.

But before you could even cross the threshold to your room, Harry appeared from the kitchen, eyes soft but sharp, like he could read every ounce of your fatigue and disappointment the moment you stepped inside.

“You’re home early,” he said, voice calm, but there was an edge of… concern? Anticipation? You couldn’t quite place it.

You barely managed a shrug. “Yeah… rough day.”

He tilted his head, that familiar furrow in his brow settling, and the corners of his lips twitched ever so slightly. “Sit down,” he said, almost a command. “I’m making dinner.”

You froze for a moment, unsure if you should protest, but the look in his eyes—something protective, insistent—made you sink into a chair at the counter. He moved around the kitchen with surprising ease, chopping vegetables, stirring sauces, setting the table. And all the while, your chest warmed at the way he seemed to… notice you, notice everything.

It wasn’t just dinner. It was the effort, the timing, the small attention to detail that made you feel like he wanted to take the day’s weight off your shoulders, even if he didn’t say it outright.

Finally, he plated the food with care, sliding a dish in front of you. “For sunshine,” he said, almost shyly, but with enough confidence that you felt it in your chest before your mind even processed it.

You blinked, a laugh escaping your lips before you could stop it. “Did you just?...”

He shifted, cheeks coloring faintly, but he didn’t address the nickname. Instead, he placed a plate in front of himself, muttering under his breath, “For me,” though his eyes kept flicking to yours, trying not to betray the fluster creeping across his face.

Your fingers itched to reach across the table and touch his hand, just to confirm he was real, and that he had called you that. You smiled so wide it felt like your cheeks would hurt later.

He rolled his eyes, pretending to check the pasta on his plate, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a tiny, victorious grin. “Don’t make it weird,” he murmured, voice low, but there was no sharpness in it this time.

Your heart thudded. Weird? That’s exactly what it was—but the best kind of weird. The kind that made your chest feel light, like you could laugh and cry and grin all at once.

You reached for your fork, but couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at him every few seconds, catching the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw flexed as if holding back words or feelings. You didn’t have to say anything—he’d made himself clear in the softest way possible.

And as you ate, you realized something: Weeks of slow, careful pacing had allowed this moment to exist, allowed him to start showing his feelings in the smallest, most intimate ways. You hadn’t pushed, hadn’t demanded, and in return, he was giving pieces of himself that no one else had ever gotten.

The two of you ate in quiet companionship, the kind that didn’t need constant chatter, the kind where glances and half-smiles said more than words could. You felt warmth in your chest, a smile tugging at your lips, because this—this effort, this subtle affection—was far more meaningful than any grand gesture.

When the last bite was gone, he finally looked up at you, eyes soft but alive. “You like it?” he asked quietly, almost as if asking for permission to care this much.

You nodded, heart swelling. “I love it. Thank you… for everything,” you said, voice catching slightly.

Harry’s lips twitched, and for the first time, you heard the sound of him laughing—a low, easy chuckle that felt like it belonged only to you. You blinked, surprised and elated, and that laughter wrapped around you, lifting away the tension of the day. 🍒

The nickname had started to settle into your days, quiet and teasing, but every time you saw it, your chest did that little flutter.

One afternoon, your phone buzzed while you were curled up on the couch reading. You picked it up and grinned.

Harry: “Sunshine, I’m at the Chinese place. Do you want spicy or not spicy?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile didn’t leave your face. “Spicy please!” .

A few days later, you were doing laundry together in the cramped laundry room of the apartment building. You were folding your clothes into neat piles when Harry appeared behind you, holding a shirt in his hands.

“Sunshine,” he said, voice calm but eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Is this shirt yours?”

You froze for a second, caught off guard. “Oh yes! unless you want to wear a pink shirt i can lend it to you” .

Over the next week, it became harder to keep track of how often he used it.

“Sunshine, can you grab some coffee with me later or do I need to bribe you?”

“Sunshine, your favorite yogurt is on the counter. Don’t eat it all in one sitting.”

.

You weren’t in the room, but Harry’s thoughts were tangled with you so tightly that even the familiar clatter of his bandmates backstage couldn’t shake it. He leaned against the counter, guitar case propped nearby, as Sam pulled up a stool beside him, arms crossed.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam said bluntly, shaking his head. “Seriously, Harry. Sunshine? Really? You’re calling her Sunshine and doing… what? Nothing?”

Harry snorted, but it came out tight, defensive. “It’s… not that simple.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam continued, leaning closer, voice dropping. “You’ve been staring at her like she’s the only person in the world since day one. You call her Sunshine, you text her like she’s the most important person in your life, and then you… don’t move. Don’t ask her out, don’t kiss her, don’t—”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. “I don’t know if she… I mean… I’m not sure she—”

Sam barked a short laugh, cutting him off. “She’s not going to push. She’s too smart for that. You’ve got a girl who’s clearly fallen for you without you even asking, and you’re just… sitting there, letting her wait. For what? For you to figure out how to be brave?”

“I—she doesn’t even know…” Harry muttered, then trailed off, shaking his head.

Sam slammed a hand on the counter. “She doesn’t know because you’re not acting like someone who wants to be with her! She’s giving you space, Harry, because she can read you. She’s not stupid—she knows you’re figuring yourself out. But that doesn’t mean she’s going to wait forever. And you? You’re losing your chance because you can’t admit you want her as much as she clearly wants you.”

Harry stared down at the counter, chest tight. “It’s not that I don’t want her. I… I just—”

“Just what?” Sam pressed, eyebrow raised. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

Harry let out a breath, the sound almost inaudible over the low hum of the bar. “I… maybe I am,” he admitted, voice low, almost a whisper. “But what if she… what if she deserves more than… me? What if I’m not ready?”

Sam laughed—harsh, incredulous, but full of exasperation. “Harry, she’s giving you everything she’s got without asking for anything in return. And you’re going to let your stupid fears get in the way of that? She’s already letting you in, Harry. She’s already letting you see her, trust her. And you’re over here pretending you’re not just as messed up as she is.”

Harry closed his eyes, jaw flexing. “It’s not just fear. I… I don’t want to screw it up. I’ve never—never let anyone in like this.”

Sam leaned back, hands on his hips, voice softer now but still firm. “Then stop overthinking. Be honest. Stop hiding behind your grumpy wall. She’s waiting, yeah, but she’s also not going to wait forever. You need to act. And right now, while she’s still smiling at your stupid little jokes and calling her ‘Sunshine’ without a clue that you’re a mess for her—you need to do something. Or you’ll regret it.”

Harry let out a long breath, leaning back against the counter. His mind was spinning, a mix of panic and longing. Do something. That simple phrase echoed, hitting him harder than he expected.

🍒

The bar was buzzing that night, louder than usual, packed with bodies swaying to the music and laughter spilling into every corner. You slipped inside, excitement practically vibrating through your chest. Even in the crowd, you found your usual spot in the first row, close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat on Harry’s forehead as he tuned his guitar.

Your heart was racing for more than just the music. You’d told yourself to keep it casual, just congratulating him, letting him know you were proud. But now, standing here in the thrumming energy of the crowd, you felt every nerve in your body tingle.

The lights dimmed, the chatter quieted, and Harry and his band launched into their first song. The sound hit you like a wave, the guitar warm and alive under his fingers, the drums steady and grounding. You sang along quietly under your breath, a little off-key, a little breathless, but entirely immersed.

Harry’s eyes caught yours during the second chorus. That flicker, that subtle acknowledgment, made your chest tighten. His lips quirked up in a small, almost shy smile—sweat glistening on his forehead, his hair sticking slightly to the side of his face—and it made your heart thump faster.

The songs flew by, each one tighter, sharper, more electric than the last. You cheered, clapped, and swayed with the crowd, but your focus never wavered. You were there for him, for the music, but also for the man behind it—the one who had somehow worked his way into the corners of your thoughts, the one who called you Sunshine in a way that made your stomach flip.

Finally, the set ended. The crowd roared, hands clapping, whistles and cheers echoing through the small bar. Harry’s chest heaved slightly as he nodded to the band, brushing his hair back and taking in the applause. And you—well, you couldn’t wait for him to come to you. Waiting felt unbearable.

So, without thinking too much, you ducked through the side door that led backstage, weaving between cables, guitar cases, and scattered sheets of music. The air smelled of sweat and wood polish, still warm from the energy of the show. And then you saw him.

He was leaning against a table, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, guitar strap slipping slightly off one shoulder, chest still rising and falling rapidly from adrenaline. You couldn’t help but grin, practically bouncing in place.

“Harry! That was—oh my gosh—you guys were amazing! Seriously, I’ve never seen anything like it—your energy, the sound, the—” You babbled, words tumbling over each other, cheeks flushed from excitement and heat.

He lifted his hand, gently but firmly holding it against your shoulder, stopping you mid-rant. “Whoa, hey,” he said, voice low but warm, eyes searching yours. “I—I heard you from the crowd… what are you doing here?”

You nodded vigorously, cheeks still burning. “I had to! I just—I had to tell you… You were incredible! The whole band, the new songs, everything! I can’t even—”

And then, almost before you could catch the breath in your chest, his hands found your face, quick but steady.

Your words froze in your throat as his lips clashed against yours, soft but urgent, shutting down everything you were about to say. You felt his heartbeat thump against your own, a rapid, uncontainable rhythm that made your chest ache in the best way possible.

It was over in seconds, but those seconds were infinite. When he finally pulled back slightly, forehead resting against yours, eyes dark and luminous, you could barely breathe. His hands lingered, fingers lightly tracing your jaw, and he exhaled, almost a sigh of relief.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t wait anymore,” he muttered, voice hoarse but steady, eyes locked on yours. “You… you make me—everything else doesn’t matter when you’re here.”

You blinked, still catching your breath, and then the grin spread across your face, unstoppable. “You really mean that?” you whispered, voice trembling with joy and disbelief.

He nodded, leaning in again for a soft brush of lips, more tentative this time, like he was testing the water before diving in. “Every word,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

You laughed softly, a sound of pure delight, and your fingers curled around his wrists, grounding yourself to him, to the moment. “I think… I think I’ve wanted this for forever,” you admitted, heart pounding in your chest. “Seeing you up there, doing what you love, and… and knowing I’m here with you—it’s too much happiness for one person.”

Harry’s grin was slow and deliberate, the kind that crumbled walls and set everything on fire at once. “Well… guess I’m selfish then,” he murmured, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead, “because I want all of it. You. Me. Right here. Right now.”

You felt yourself melt into him, laughing softly at his words, at his seriousness, at the way this moment, this utterly chaotic, perfect, heart-thumping moment, felt like it had always been meant to happen.

He pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours again, hands still cradling your face. “I don’t know how I kept quiet for so long,” he admitted, voice almost a whisper. “Seeing you… being here, cheering me on… it just—it made it impossible. You’re everything, Sunshine.”

You shivered, caught between disbelief and pure happiness, heart racing so fast it was almost painful. “I’m so glad… you didn’t,” you said softly, brushing your fingers against his jaw.

His laugh, that soft, almost nervous chuckle you’d come to adore, broke through. “Yeah,” he said, voice still trembling slightly, “because I… I think I’m in trouble now.”

You laughed too, breathless and giddy, pressing your lips to his once more, slower this time, savoring the sweetness and heat of it, letting yourself sink fully into the moment. The music from the stage faded behind you, the world outside blurred into insignificance.

Here, in this warm, sticky backstage room, amidst sweat and cables, the two of you existed entirely for each other. And for the first time, you both let go of every hesitation, every wall, every unspoken fear, surrendering to what had been building quietly between you for weeks.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathing heavily, Harry rested his forehead against yours again, eyes soft but sparkling. “You’re really… something else, Sunshine,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion and amusement.

You grinned, heart soaring. “I could say the same about you,” you whispered. “But I think… I think I already know.”

And as he leaned in for one more kiss, just soft and lingering this time, you realized that nothing—no awkwardness, no grumpy walls, no slow-burn tension—had ever felt so perfectly, completely right.

The ride home was quiet, both of you lost in the aftermath of what had just happened, the city lights streaking past the windows like sparks against the dark. Your fingers brushed once, then again, and neither of you pulled away. 

Once inside the apartment, the silence felt different—warmer, charged with something that wasn’t there before. You set your bag down by the door, glancing at him. He looked… vulnerable. A little unsure. That rough, grumpy facade softened into something else entirely, something open, something that made your chest flutter.

“Uh…” he started, scratching the back of his neck, gaze darting around like he was trying to find the words in the air. “So… uh… you—want something to drink? Or… or do you want—”

You tilted your head, noticing the hesitation. “I… uh… I’m okay,” you said softly, voice tentative, but there was a small smile on your lips. “You?”

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Yeah. I’m… good,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the slight hitch in his tone betrayed him. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

You could see it in the way he shifted from foot to foot, in the way his eyes kept flicking to your face. He wanted—needed—you to be close, but didn’t know how to bridge that gap between the living room and the sanctuary of his bedroom.

“I—uh…” He took a step forward, then stopped. “You… you can… um… if you want, you can sleep in my room tonight. Or… I mean…” His voice trailed off “If that’s okay. I… I just…”

You blinked, heart leaping at his words. “I’d like that,” you said softly, the excitement and warmth pooling in your chest making your words sound breathless.

His eyes widened just slightly, a mixture of relief and surprise. “Right. Okay. Yeah. Sure. Uh… come on then,” he said, stepping aside to gesture toward the hallway, hands still slightly trembling at his sides.

You walked beside him, careful not to step too fast, letting the quiet tension settle around you. The apartment felt different now—not just a space where you coexisted, but somewhere charged with new possibilities, charged with this strange, electric intimacy neither of you had dared to explore fully until now.

Once inside his room, you paused at the doorway, taking it all in. The soft lighting, the scattered music sheets, the guitar resting against the wall—it all felt like a glimpse into him, into the parts of Harry he rarely showed anyone. And now, here you were, allowed to be in it.

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… bed’s, uh… big enough. I… I mean, you can—”

You grinned, stepping in closer. “I know.” chuckling

He gave a short, almost nervous laugh, cheeks coloring faintly. “Yeah.” he muttered. “You… you make yourself comfortable. I… I’ll… uh… get ready.”

You watched as he shuffled toward his dresser, awkwardly fumbling with the sheets, avoiding your gaze, and you felt this strange, sweet tension settle between you. Neither of you wanted to make the first move too obvious, yet every small glance, every slight smile, every hesitant word carried meaning.

You slipped under the covers, hugging your knees, trying not to fidget too much, heart racing from both the adrenaline of the evening and the warmth of being this close to him. You could hear him moving, quietly, deliberately, preparing his side. Each creak of the floorboard, each soft shuffle made your chest flutter.

Finally, he settled beside you, a careful distance away, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged, until he finally whispered, voice low and careful, “You… okay?”

You nodded, smiling softly in the dim light. “Yeah. I’m… perfect,” you said. “With you.”

His lips curved into the tiniest grin, almost imperceptible, but it made your heart leap. He let out a small, almost relieved chuckle. “Good,” he murmured. “Because… I… yeah. Me too.”

You let out a quiet sigh, staring at the ceiling for a moment, then, before you could stop yourself, you burst out laughing. A full, uninhibited laugh that made Harry blink at you in surprise.

“You know,” you said between giggles, turning slightly to face him, “we’re acting completely ridiculous. Both of us. Here, lying like a couple of teenagers, and we’re… I don’t know…” You shrugged, still laughing, the tension in your chest finally breaking.

Harry’s jaw loosened, and a small, relieved chuckle escaped him. “Yeah…” he said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You couldn’t help yourself—you scooted closer, brushing against him in a casual, playful way. “Ridiculous together,” you added, grinning.

For a second, he froze, as if weighing the consequences of what to do next. And then, with a quiet determination that surprised even you, he shifted closer, letting his arm snake around your waist, pulling you gently into his chest. His head tucked just under your chin, careful but firm, as if anchoring himself to you while still testing the waters.

“I… uh…” he mumbled against your hair, voice low and flustered, “I think I’m good here”

You laughed again, letting your fingers trace lazy patterns over his arm. “Looks like you’re just finally admitting you want to cuddle.”

His cheeks colored faintly, and he gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Maybe. Just… maybe,” he admitted.

You snuggled against him, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours. “Good,” you whispered, smiling against the curve of his shoulder. “Because I think this is exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

He chuckled, quiet but full of contentment, pulling you closer without a second thought. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right,” he echoed, the words soft but loaded with everything he hadn’t said yet—everything he was feeling but still figuring out how to name.

Now, neither of you felt the need to overthink, to hesitate, to pretend to be brave. You were simply here, together, letting the closeness, the warmth, and the quiet joy of being with each other speak louder than any words ever could.

Over the next few weeks, a rhythm began to settle between you. It started small—an arm brushing your waist as he settled in, a leg draping over yours almost absentmindedly. There was something comforting about letting him be needy, letting him rest his head against you like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

“Sunshine…” he’d murmur in the half-light, voice hoarse from just waking or from some unspoken longing. “Stay… just five more minutes.” And you’d laugh, letting him curl tighter against you, heart thudding in a way that left you dizzy with affection.

One night you’d had a long day, auditions that went nowhere, and you’d come home frustrated and exhausted. Harry was still at the bar, and you found yourself curling up under his blankets

When he came back, he paused in the doorway, watching you curled against his pillow, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. “You’re… making yourself at home, huh?” he teased softly, but the heat in his eyes told you he didn’t mean it as a joke.

You grinned sleepily. “It’s your fault for having such comfy sheets.”

He walked over, climbing onto the bed carefully, like he didn’t want to crush the tiny bubble of space you’d claimed. And then—without thinking, without hesitation—he curled up behind you, chest pressing lightly against your back, one arm thrown over your waist. “You… you smell like happiness,” he whispered, voice low and husky. “And… I like it.”

You giggled, squeezing his hand, heart fluttering at how unguarded he suddenly was. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured.

He hummed, pressing his nose to the nape of your neck. “Yeah… but I’m yours,” he said softly, and you could feel the honesty in the words, the vulnerability that had been buried under weeks of grumpy, sarcastic walls. That night, he didn’t just take up space in your bed—he let you take up space in his heart, too.

Over time, these small habits became a flow. One night in your bed, one night in his. Sometimes he was clingy and needy; sometimes you were the one clinging, wrapping your arms around him while he hummed softly against your hair. The nickname “Sunshine” slipped into conversation naturally now, soft, teasing, and intimate.

One evening, after a long day where auditions had worn you thin, you found yourself on the sofa, sprawled out with a mug of tea, Harry settling beside you. You were laughing about some absurdity from the day, and his fingers found yours, entwining lazily. The warmth of his hand sent a shiver up your spine.

“I can’t believe you actually said that,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

You leaned in closer, and without warning, he kissed you. Soft at first, testing, like he was still measuring the line between comfort and desire. You responded instinctively, lips parting, fingers tangling in his hair.

The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, more insistent. Your body pressed against his, heat pooling in your chest, in your stomach, in ways that made your breath hitch. And then, as his hands moved, you hesitated—pulling back just slightly, heart thudding, eyes wide.

“Hey…” he murmured, still close, his forehead resting against yours. “What is it?”

You swallowed hard, cheeks flushing bright pink. “I… I’ve never… with anyone,” you admitted, voice trembling, embarrassed. “I… I don’t know…”

Harry’s eyes softened instantly, full of care and warmth, his hand cupping your cheek. “Hey, hey,” he said gently, brushing his thumb across your jaw. “It’s okay. I… I’m not here to rush you. Never.”

You breathed out, relief washing over you in a warm wave. “Really?”

“Really,” he said, voice steady but husky. “… I’ll want to make you feel good. In all ways. From now on.”

Your heart soared, and a shy, happy smile spread across your face. You nodded, pressing your lips to his in a gentle, lingering kiss, letting yourself trust him fully. He responded with a mixture of tenderness and desire, careful yet confident, guiding, attentive, letting you take the lead when you wanted, and holding you close when you needed it.

The heat built slowly, tenderly, as you explored the intimacy between you. His hands were gentle but purposeful, tracing lines along your body with a reverence that made you feel both safe and wanted. Every movement, every sigh, every whispered word from him was measured to comfort, to excite, to reassure.

By the time you finally pulled back, hearts racing and foreheads pressed together, the air around you felt electric. You laughed softly, breathless, and he mirrored you, chuckling low and warm.

“Sunshine…” he murmured, his voice thick with both amusement and desire. You smiled, curling against him, letting the weight of his arms hold you close.

“We can try,” you whispered, heart pounding.

“Only if you want,” he said softly, brushing his lips against yours.

“I want,” you replied, certainty in your voice.

That was all he needed. Slowly, deliberately, his hand slid up your shirt, moving with care and patience, waiting for your signal to go further. His lips never left yours, the kiss open, intimate, tongues beginning to meet in a gentle dance. When he felt your shoulders relax, he cupped your bra, squeezing just slightly, getting a small, breathy moan from you.

He smiled into the kiss, reading every reaction, every little sound, knowing you were not only enjoying this but trusting him completely.

“Have you… touched yourself before?” he murmured between breathy kisses, his other hand sliding your shirt upwards with deliberate gentleness.

“Yes,” you admitted, a little embarrassed, but you knew it was natural.

“Good,” he whispered, voice low and warm. “Tell me what you like, okay, Sunshine?” His lips trailed to your neck, pressing soft, teasing kisses, gently sucking without leaving marks… not yet.

“M’kay,” you breathed, your heart racing, your body tingling at the careful attention he gave you, the slow, patient way he explored, always making sure you felt safe and desired. Your shirt slid up easily, and he paused for a moment, taking in the sight of you in that delicate beige tulle bra. He could already see your nipples through the sheer fabric, perked and inviting, silently begging for attention.

He lifted his gaze to your face, just for a moment—cheeks flushed, strands of hair sticking to your forehead—every detail of you was breathtaking, a true work of art. His fingers twitched lightly, wanting to trace every curve, every line, but he held back, savoring the view, letting the tension build, knowing how much you were trusting him.

He leaned in again, lips brushing the sensitive skin just above your bra, breathing warm against you. His fingers hovered for a moment at the edge of the tulle, teasingly light, waiting for you to shift, to give him permission to go further. Every little sigh, every subtle arch of your body told him exactly what you wanted, and he followed, patient, attentive.

“Relax, Sunshine,” he whispered, voice low and husky, pressing a gentle kiss to your collarbone. “Just… let me take care of you.”

You shivered, leaning into him instinctively, trusting him completely. His hands moved carefully, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding beneath the sheer fabric of your bra. He cupped you lightly, fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp softly, and he smiled against your skin, savoring your reaction.

“You feel… amazing,” he murmured, thumbs brushing over your nipples. “So soft… so perfect.”

Your hands found his shoulders, fingers gripping lightly as you closed your eyes, letting yourself melt under his touch. There was no rush, no pressure—just him, you, and the quiet rhythm of your shared breaths.

He pulled back slightly, tilting your chin with a gentle finger, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me if it’s too much… or if you want more.”

“I… I like it,” you breathed, cheeks still flushed, voice soft but full of trust. “I like… this. You.”

His smile was slow, a mixture of pride, desire, and pure awe. "Good," he whispered, pressing another feather-light kiss to your lips. His fingers drifted to the hem of your biker shorts, his touch both a question and a promise as his hands slid slowly to the curve of your ass. "Can I take these off?"

"Yeah, but... can you take something off too?" you asked, the words feeling like a shy favor.

"Of course," he said, a soft apology in his tone. He pulled his shirt over his head with a smooth, easy motion. You had seen his naked torso before, his tattoos like a map across his skin, but in this moment, it felt so different—so vulnerable and real. With your eyes closed, your hands shyly found his abs, tracing the lines as if you were trying to memorize them.

When he tugged at your shorts, you pushed your hips up to give him easy access. The sight of you had him in a state of awe; a pair of beige tulle thongs were all that remained, their sheer fabric making his brain feel like mush. He could see the faint outline of your pussy lips and the darkening wet patch blooming against the material. He felt his own dick twitch inside his briefs, now fully hard, and unzipped his jeans to get them off and get comfortable.

You snuck a peek at him too, the hard shape of his cock so clearly defined in his briefs. A mix of nerves and desire swirled inside you, even as your own muscles clenched in anticipation.

"Has anyone tried to eat you out, sunshine?" he asked, his voice low.

"No," you whispered.

"Would you let me?" he asked, his voice breathy with need as he looked at that wet patch like a starving man. "Yes," you whispered, the word barely audible. A flicker of self-consciousness crossed your mind; you had shaved a few days ago, but a light stubble had already returned. He didn't seem to notice, and if he did, he didn't care. He simply knelt before you. You parted your legs on the sofa, and he began to press open-mouthed kisses against the thin fabric of your thong. His tongue found you, tasting your sweet juices through the sheer material. Your hands, seemingly on their own, found their way into his hair, gripping it softly. Your hips instinctively bucked just the slightest. The scene was gloriously messy, your slick wetness and his eager kisses, while his hand moved in a soft, steady caress along your thighs and waist.

"Harry..." you moaned, the sound catching in your throat. "Uh..."

A wave of sensation washed over you as he moved the thin, damp fabric to the side, his tongue making direct, intoxicating contact. You let out a soft cry, a sound that was half gasp, half moan. Your hips pushed downward, a small, involuntary push that he met with a low groan against your skin. The sound was so deep, so full of his own pleasure, that it made you feel powerful.

His hand left your thigh, sliding between your folds as a single finger circled your clitoris. You tangled your fingers deeper into his hair, holding on tight as the world began to shrink to just the feel of his mouth, his touch, and the consuming heat building deep within you.

He slurped, kissed, and lapped with his tongue, a low, satisfied sound rumbling in his throat. "Sunshine... your taste... is addictive," he managed to say, his voice thick and low. Hearing your next moan, he went faster with his tongue against your clit, your own moans growing louder in response.

"Harry," you cried, your eyes squeezed shut, feeling how incredibly close you were.

"It's okay... just do what you want," he breathed between his deep kisses. "You look so pretty from here, sunshine. A perfect pussy, all for me."

"Uh... fuck," you said, the raw word escaping you. Hearing you swear for the first time in that state stirred something new in him. And without warning, you felt it—that intense heat consuming your body. You came with a loud moan, a wave of pleasure washing through you. It was a dizzying surprise to look down and realize, in your blissful haze, that he had slipped two fingers inside you. His tongue was still on your clit, his fingers deep inside, and your body was clenching around him, a perfect, unspoken agreement.

He pushed himself up and leaned in, capturing your mouth in a soft kiss. You could taste yourself on him, a sweet and carnal flavor that only sent another jolt of desire through you. You were still coming down from the high, your body humming, your breath coming in deep, uneven gasps.

"You're perfect, sunshine," he murmured against your lips. "You look so good like this." He groaned the words into the kiss, pulling you closer. His right hand slid from your thigh to your hip, his thumb tracing the curve of your bone. The look in his eyes held a new promise—that this was just the beginning.

He kissed you, and with a hand still inside his briefs, he began to pump his dick. You noticed immediately, your gaze dropping to the visible movement.

"Teach me," you breathed, the words escaping you as you looked at the glistening tip peeking out. He pulled his head back, his eyes searching yours for a moment.

"You sure? We don't have to go all the way today," he said, his voice gentle but thick with desire.

"But I want to try," you insisted, the words a mix of curiosity and need.

"Fuck, sunshine," he moaned softly, a blend of surrender and excitement. Without another thought, he took your hand and placed it on his. His briefs were discarded, and now it was both of you, your hand guided by his, pumping his hard cock. The heat of him was a shock against your skin, a warm, pulsing weight that felt both foreign and thrillingly right.

He leaned in, his forehead pressed against yours. "Keep going," he groaned. "Just... like that. Your hands feel so fucking good."

The praise made you bolder. Your movements became more deliberate, your grip just a little tighter. He kissed you, messy and urgent, his free hand tangled in your hair. Your heart raced, the feeling of his skin on yours, the raw, unspoken want was overwhelming.

He pulled back with a small groan, his eyes dark and unfocused. He slowly brushed his cock through your slick folds, the sensation making you gasp. "Do you want to feel it raw first?" he said, his breath ragged. "Just the tip, and then I'll put a condom on."

"Yeah," you said, your insides clenching again.

"Fuck," he swore, his dick twitching. "You're gonna feel so good."

He pushed the head slowly inside of you and groaned low, feeling your walls tighten around him. A flicker of pain crossed your face, and he immediately kissed your jawline. "Talk to me. Does it hurt? I won't push further."

"No, it's good." He pushed in a little more, then stopped, waiting. "Okay," you said, and he pushed again, his own groan leaving his mouth.

"You're so fucking tight." Once he was halfway inside, you both stayed, getting used to each other.

"Harry," you breathed, your body adjusting to the new fullness.

"Does it hurt? Do you want me to stop?" he asked, a frown of concern on his face.

"No, I want to feel you inside, all the way," you said. His cock twitched at your words.

"I'll go for a condom. Don't move," he said. You moaned, a low, yearning sound as he slid out, the sudden emptiness making you ache. Your eyes dropped to his cock, glistening with both of your fluids.

"The sensation will be a bit dull," he warned. He came back, put the condom on, and pushed back inside you, a bit quicker this time, groaning as he felt the new sensation.

"Slow," you said, flinching slightly.

He did as told, and once he was all the way in, you were both panting, his breath hot against your ear. "Are you okay sunshine?" he asked.

"Yeah."

He began to move, the friction a delicious mix of pain and pleasure. Your hands gripped his back, scratching him lightly. "Shit, that feels good," he groaned.

"More," you pleaded, wanting him deeper.

"Fuck, sunshine," he moaned, moving faster. The sounds he made were the hottest thing you'd ever heard, and you let out your own soft "uhs" and "ahs" in his ear. The thought of being inside you was all he needed, and your small sounds pushed him to the edge.

"Harry..." you said, gripping his hair. "Fuck... I'm close again, I'm sorry."

"Don't you even dare... uh!... say sorry," he said, not hiding his own imminent climax. "Come whenever you need to."

"Ah... Harry," you moaned, and then he circled your clit with his thumb. Your legs began to shiver, and a loud moan of release escaped you.

Seeing your face, feeling your walls clench around him, he buckled his hips in sync with your spasms and came into the condom, hot cum filling it as he squeezed his eyes shut and held your waist tight.

You both breathed, your bodies still connected in a shared haze of heat and satisfaction. He pulled out slowly, taking a moment to compose himself. The raw passion was fading, replaced by a deep tenderness. He looked at you, his eyes still dark but now soft and gentle, and he reached out to gently push a stray hair from your forehead.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and a little rough, a stark contrast to the rough moans from moments before.

"Yeah," you said, a small, genuine smile gracing your lips. You were still humming with the aftereffects of the climax, a quiet thrumming of pleasure under your skin. "More than okay."

He looked down, his gaze traveling over your body before meeting your eyes again. "Did anything hurt? At all?" The concern in his face was so real, so disarming. It wasn’t a perfunctory question; he genuinely needed to know.

"A little at first," you admitted, the honesty feeling easy between you now, "but it was fine. You went slow, just like you said." You reached for his hand, giving it a soft squeeze. "You were so good, Harry. You took such good care of me. Thank you"

His expression softened completely, a hint of a smile touching his lips. He leaned in and kissed you, this time a slow, lingering kiss that tasted of you and of the profound intimacy you'd just shared. There was no urgency, just a deep, abiding affection in the touch of his lips, then he suddenly scooped you up into his arms, bridal style.

"Hey!" you said, a surprised laugh escaping you as your arms went around his neck.

He just looked at you, a soft, loving smile on his face. "You're coming with me"

He carried you through the apartment, your head resting against his shoulder, your body still weak with pleasure and now cradled in his strength. You could feel the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against your chest. He gently set you down on the edge of his bed, the plush comforter feeling soft beneath you. You watched him disappear into the bathroom, and the sound of water running soon filled the quiet space, and then came back with a damp towel, and softly wiped you, making sure it was gentle. “Come” he said placing the towel on the bedside table and offered you a hand, now in the bathroom the bath all filled and smelling a bit like peaches, he helped you inside and crouched on the side making sure you were comfortable in the warm water, looking, no, admiring your body. “feels good?” he said softly “Mmm yes” you said closing your eyes but then turned to look at him “Aren’t you getting in?” she asked

“I’ll go take a shower in yours and then i’ll fix you up some dinner” he said kissing your forehead “Thank you Sunshine” You blinked and looked again at him “for what?” 

“For coming into my life and changing it…thanks for making it better, thanks for bringing sunshine into me” he said softly and kissed your hand.

You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.

​Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.

​You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.

​​Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."

​The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."

​"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.

​You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."

​You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.

Two — "Fuck you"

A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.

​The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.

​The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. ​"You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."

​Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"

​"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.

​Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"

​"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."

​Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.

​"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."

​"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."

​Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."

​"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.

​"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."

​"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."

​"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."

​"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."

​"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."

​"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."

​The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. ​He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

​The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. ​Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."

​But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.

​"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.

Three — "Fuck off"

​For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.

Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.

​There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door,  silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.

​Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.

​The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.

​Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.

A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.

​Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.

​A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.

​"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."

​The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.

​Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.

​"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.

​The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.

​The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces. 

Four — "What the fuck"

The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.

​A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.

​You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.

​He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.

​Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.

​You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."

​Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.

​"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.

​You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."

​The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

​He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.

​"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."

​"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"

​"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

​Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.

Five — "Well, fuck"

​The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.

​You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.

Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.

​Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.

​You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

​"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."

​Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."

​You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."

​You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.

A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.

​"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.

​"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.

Six — "Fuck"

Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.

​But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.

​Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.

​Logan stepped out.

You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.

​Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.

​Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.

​Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.

​It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.

​"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.

​With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.

​You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.

​"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."

​"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."

With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.

Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.

The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.

"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.

The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.

The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.

You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.

He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.

That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.

Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.

Seven — "Fuck it"

Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.

​The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.

Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.

​"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."

Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"

But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.

"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.

Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.

Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"

When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.

For his entire life, Neteyam was the standard. He was the firstborn son of Toruk Makto and the heir to the Omaticaya after all.

In the training ring, he was faster, stronger, and smarter than every other kid his age. He was used to looking back and seeing everyone else trying to catch up. He lived with the heavy weight of expectation, but he carried it easily because he knew, deep down, he was the best.

Then you limped into High Camp.

You weren't Omatikaya. You were a Windtrader, a nomad born to the open skies and shifting trade routes, not the dense and suffocating forest. But you didn't arrive at High Camp with rare beads or woven songs to trade. You arrived with nothing but the blood-stiffened clothes on your back and a survivor's hollow stare.

The Mangkwan or what they also called the Ash People had descended on your caravan like a pyroclastic flow, brutal and silent until the screaming started. You were the only thing that crawled out of that smoke.

When Jake Sully took you in, Neteyam looked at you with that unbearable softness. Pity. To him, you were just a merchant’s child whose wings had been clipped, a broken traveler terrified of the dark. He saw your silence as trauma that needed gentle handling, not the calculating quiet of a predator waiting for the right moment.

He expected to have to teach you how to hold a bow, to slow his pace for the poor wanderer who had lost their way. He thought he was your savior. He had no idea he was looking at a survivor who had learned to fight dirty long before he even learned to fly.

That illusion shattered the first time you stepped onto the sparring mat.

Neteyam had offered to go easy on you. He remembered the look on your face, it wasn't gratitude, but insult. When he lunged, expecting you to cower, you didn't just dodge, you moved with a feral, desperate speed that he had never seen in a structured lesson. You didn't fight with honor or technique, you fought like a survivor. Within ten seconds, the future Olo'eyktan was face-down in the dirt with your forearm crushing his windpipe.

The silence in the camp was deafening. You hadn't just beaten him, you had humiliated him.

From that day on, everything changed. You weren't the charity case anymore, you were the threat. Suddenly, Neteyam wasn't automatically the best archer, because you never missed a shot. He wasn't the best tracker, because you could smell an RDA patrol from a mile away. He stopped looking at you with pity and started looking at you with a burning and obsessive intensity. He trained harder, stayed up later, and pushed himself to the breaking point just to reclaim his spot at the top, but you were always right there, matching him step for step.

He hated it.

You were the only person who didn't treat him like royalty. You rolled your eyes at his orders, you corrected his stance, and you smirked when he missed. You became the grit in his eye, the one variable he couldn't control. The rivalry consumed both of you, bleeding into everything you did until that aggression and need for dominance found a different outlet in the back of a weapons tent.

Now, he doesn't just want to be the best for his father. Instead, he wants to be the best to prove it to you.

The mist clinging to the Hallelujah Mountains hadn't even burned off yet, but the thwack of arrows hitting woven targets echoed through the clearing.

Neteyam stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his posture text-book perfect. He drew the string back to his cheek, exhaled slowly, and released. The arrow flew straight, embedding itself directly in the center of the painted circle.

He lowered his bow, glancing sideways at you with that maddeningly arrogant tilt of his head. "Center mass. Clean kill. That is how you conserve energy."

You were leaning against a rock, chewing on a piece of dried fruit, looking unimpressed. You swallowed and picked up your own bow— a scavenged thing you’d re-strung yourself, rougher than his ceremonial weapon but just as deadly.

"That's how you kill a target that stands perfectly still and waits for you to shoot it," you drawled, stepping up to the line. "But out there? The Sky People don't wait."

"Form dictates accuracy," Neteyam lectured, watching you closely. "If your foundation is sloppy, your shot is lucky. We don't rely on luck."

"Watch and learn, Golden Boy."

Instead of planting your feet like the instructors taught, you broke into a run. You sprinted parallel to the targets, sliding on your knees through the mud. In mid-slide, you twisted your torso, drew, and fired.

The arrow hissed through the air and struck the target— not dead center, but an inch to the right, deep in the 'lung' area. A kill shot.

You stood up, wiping mud off your knees, and smirked at him. "Dead is dead. Doesn't matter if it's pretty."

Neteyam scoffed, walking over to inspect the target. He pulled your arrow out with a sharp yank. "You exposed your back during the slide. If there was a second shooter, you’d be down."

"If there was a second shooter, you’d still be standing in your perfect pose getting shot while I was already moving to cover," you shot back, snatching the arrow from his hand.

"You are undisciplined," he muttered, stepping closer, invading your space under the guise of instruction.

"Your elbow was too high on the draw. You’re going to tear a muscle."

"My elbow was fine," you argued, standing your ground. "It works for me."

"It’s wrong." Neteyam moved behind you, his chest brushing your back. To anyone watching, he was the dutiful squad leader correcting a subordinate. But you could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his breath hitched slightly. "Raise your arm. Like this."

He gripped your forearm, his touch firm, sliding up to your bicep. His fingers dug in slightly, a silent reminder of who had pinned whom against the tent pole hours ago.

"You're hovering, Neteyam," you whispered, low enough that only he could hear. "Distracting."

"If you're distracted, you're dead," he murmured into your ear, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave. "Focus."

"Get off of me," you said, shoving him back with your elbow, though there was no real bite in it.

"Hey! Break it up!"

The voice made you both jump apart. Lo'ak came jogging into the clearing, looking between the two of you with a confused frown. He held a basket of fish, looking tired.

"By Eywa," Lo'ak groaned, rubbing his face. "Do you two ever stop? I could hear you arguing from the breakfast fire. 'Your form is bad,' 'You're too stiff.' It’s exhausting."

Neteyam immediately straightened up, the perfect soldier mask sliding back into place. "She refuses to listen to protocol, Lo'ak. Someone has to make sure she doesn't get herself killed."

You rolled your eyes, re-nocking an arrow. "And someone has to make sure your brother doesn't turn into a statue while the war happens around him."

Lo'ak laughed, shaking his head. "I swear, you two hate each other more than we hate the demons. One day you’re going to kill each other."

Neteyam glanced at you. A tiny, imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, a secret just for you.

"Maybe," Neteyam said smoothly. "But until then, we train. Again."

He looked at you, his golden eyes challenging. "And this time, try to actually hit the center."

"Make me," you hissed at him, just before loosing another arrow.

The War Tent was stifling, smelling of damp earth and stale smoke. Jake Sully stood over the holomap, the blue light casting long, harsh shadows across his face. You stood in the back, arms crossed, while Neteyam stood right at his father’s elbow, mirroring his stance perfectly.

"We’ve got reports of a supply train moving through Sector 4," Jake said, pointing to a glowing red line on the map. "Neteyam, I want your squad to scout the perimeter. Do not engage. Just eyes on. If the RDA is moving heavy equipment, we need to know."

"Yes, sir," Neteyam nodded sharply. He leaned over the map, tracing a path with his finger. "We’ll take the southern ridge. It provides the best cover from the gunships. We can observe from the high ground and exfil before they scan the area."

It was a safe plan. A smart plan. A textbook plan.

You let out a short, sharp huff of breath. It wasn't quite a laugh, but in the quiet tent, it was loud enough.Neteyam froze. He didn't turn around, but you saw his ears twitch back. Jake looked up, his yellow eyes locking onto yours.

"You have something to say?" Jake asked, his voice neutral but commanding.

"The southern ridge is a wind tunnel this time of year, sir," you said, stepping forward. You ignored Neteyam’s glare burning into the side of your face. "If we take the Ikrans that way, the downdraft will make us fight for stability the whole time. We’ll be loud, and we’ll be slow. If a Sampson patrol catches us there, we’re sitting ducks."

Neteyam turned to you fully now, his jaw tight. "It’s the standard recon route. We’ve flown it a dozen times."

"And the Sky People know that," you countered, meeting his gaze evenly. "They aren't stupid, Neteyam. They predict the 'safe' moves. I say we cut through the Needle hills. It’s tight, it’s dangerous, but the magnetic interference there blinds their sensors. We can get right on top of them before they even know we’re there."

"The Needles?" Neteyam sounded incredulous. "You want to fly a squad through a rock field where one wrong turn means smashing into a cliff? That’s reckless."

"It’s unexpected," you corrected. "Survival isn't about being safe. It's about being invisible."

Silence stretched between you. Neteyam looked like he wanted to strangle you. You looked at Jake.

Jake looked between his son—the careful, burdened heir and you—the survivor who had crawled out of the ashes. He rubbed his chin.

"She's right about the sensors," Jake said finally. He looked at Neteyam. "Take the Needles. But Neteyam leads. You follow his pace. If he says pull back, you pull back. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," you said, a flicker of victory in your voice.

"Sir," Neteyam said stiffly, though he looked like he’d swallowed a rock.

Ten minutes later, outside the tent, the explosion happened.

Neteyam grabbed your arm before you could reach your Ikran, yanking you behind a stack of supply crates, out of sight of the others.

"What is your problem?" he hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "You undermine me in front of the Olo'eyktan? In front of the squad?"

"I gave tactical advice," you shot back, wrenching your arm free. "You were walking us into a trap because you’re too afraid to take a risk!"

"I am responsible for their lives!" Neteyam stepped into you, forcing you back against the crates. The gap between you vanished. "I don't have the luxury of playing hero like you do. If I make a mistake, people die. If you make a mistake, it’s just you."

That stung. You barred your teeth, grabbing the front of his vest and jerking him down to your level. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't know I’m expendable compared to the Great Toruk Makto’s son?"

"Stop saying that," he growled.

"Then stop acting like your way is the only way just because you read the manual!" you shouted, then lowered your voice to a harsh whisper. "I’m trying to keep you alive, you idiot. The southern ridge is a kill box today. I felt the wind."

Neteyam stared at you, his chest heaving against yours. The anger in his eyes warred with something else, the realization that you weren't trying to outshine him, you were trying to protect him. It confused him. It made him furious and desperate all at once.

"You are impossible," he breathed.

"And you're welcome," you snapped.

The tension snapped. He grabbed the back of your neck, his fingers tangling violently in your hair, and crushed his mouth to yours. It was an angry, biting kiss, fueled by the adrenaline of the argument and the fear of the mission ahead.

It was a battle for dominance, a way to scream at each other without words. He broke away, gasping, his forehead resting heavily against yours. His eyes were dark, blown wide.

"We take the Needles," he whispered roughly, his voice scraping against the air. "But if you crash, I’m leaving you there."

You smirked, though your heart was racing like a drum. You ran a thumb over his bottom lip, which was swollen from the force of the kiss.

"Deal. Try to keep up, flyboy."

You shoved him back and turned toward your Ikran, your hands shaking slightly as you reached for the reins. Behind you, you heard Neteyam take a deep, stabilizing breath before shouting orders to the squad, his voice once again steady, commanding, and perfect.

The mission through the Needle rocks had been a success, but it had been a nightmare. The wind shears were worse than you predicted, and at one point, you had to dive your Ikran vertically between two colliding floating mountains to avoid a gunship scan. It was insane. It was brilliant.

And Neteyam looked like he wanted to kill you.

The moment the squad landed back at the High Camp, amidst the pouring rain of a sudden storm, Neteyam didn't even dismiss the others properly. He barked a generic "Equipment check, then rest!" to the group before grabbing the harness of your vest and practically dragging you toward the secluded overhang where the extra saddles were stored.

He shoved you into the dry space, the sound of the rain roaring outside like a waterfall. It was dark, cramped, and smelled of wet leather and ozone.

"You dove," Neteyam seethed, shaking the water from his hair, his chest heaving. "We said stay in formation. You dove into a blind gap!"

"I saw the scanner!" you yelled back, shoving his hands off your vest. "If I hadn't dove, they would have pinged the whole squad! I saved your ass, Neteyam!"

"You risked the mission on a hunch!"

"I was right!"

"You're a maniac!"

The shouting stopped abruptly as he slammed you back against the rock walls. The anger was still there, blazing in his eyes, but it had mutated. The adrenaline from the near-death flight was vibrating under his skin, seeking an outlet.

He looked at you—wet, defiant, chest rising and falling rapidly—and the restraint snapped.

"I hate you," he growled, his voice dropping into that rough, unrecognizable register.

"Feeling is mutual, skxawng," you hissed.

He didn't need to be told twice. He crashed against you, his mouth capturing yours with bruising force. There was no tenderness, no romance. It was a collision of teeth and tongues, a continuation of the argument by other means. You bit his lower lip hard enough to taste copper, and he groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated against your chest.

His hands were frantic, fumbling with the buckles of your heavy vest. He tore the leather straps loose, not caring if they broke, desperate to get the armor off. As soon as the vest hit the dirt, his hands were on your skin, hot and rough, gripping your waist with enough force to leave marks.

"You think you're so smart," he muttered against your neck, hiking your leg up around his waist. He pressed you hard against the rock wall, the friction of his body against yours sending electricity shooting through your veins. "Always have to be the hero."

"Someone has to be," you gasped, throwing your head back as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder. You dug your nails into his back, scraping down the spine. "Since you're too busy following rules."

"Shut up," he breathed, his hand sliding down to the waistband of your loincloth. "I'm going to make you shut up."

"Try it."

He lifted you effortlessly, and you wrapped your legs tight around him, anchoring yourself.

Then you hissed at him.

He laughed, the sound like honey and venom in your ears, his breath fanning your neck and sending shivers down your spine. "Someone is eager," he purred, lips brushing your skin. His arms tighten like a vice around you, holding you tight. "Already getting the shivers and I've barely touched you."

"Shut up," you snapped, struggling to sound confident and not at all affected by his proximity.

Neteyam kissed you again. His kiss was demanding, hot, and possessive, swallowing your gasp before you can even think of protesting. He pressed you harder against the rock, the rough texture biting into your back, but all you can focus on is the way his tongue teases yours, the way his body pins you in place.

He started to undo your loincloth. His fingers are rough but quick, the knot of your loincloth unraveling easily under his touch. The fabric slips away, leaving you bare against him. His heated skin pressed flush against yours, the teasing friction making your breath hitch.

"Finally," he growled, nipping at your jaw before dragging his lips down your throat.

His touch is both light and maddening, his fingers teasing at your entrance in slow, torturous circles, only to pull away just as you're about to grind into it.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice rough with barely restrained desire. His fingers trace teasingly, just enough pressure to make you shudder but not enough to give you what you truly crave. "So desperate already."

"Fuck you," you spat.

A sharp grin cuts across his face at your defiance like he was waiting for it.

"Oh?" His voice is pure sin, low and rough as his fingers finally press in, just enough to steal your breath. "That what you want?"

He worked you open slow, deliberate, twisting just there until your hips jerk against him helplessly.

His smirk widens as he feels your body respond, betraying you far more than your words ever could. "Thought so," he murmured, lips grazing your jawline before catching your earlobe between his teeth.

His fingers sink deeper, slow and purposeful, each movement calculated to wring every reaction from you. "You're so fucking tight," he grits out, his own breathing uneven now. His thumb circles your clit, the pressure just shy of cruel, and he watches your face as he does it.

He can read your body like a damn book, every shiver and squirm giving him exactly what he needs to drive you closer to the edge and then pull back just in time.

You let out a whine, hips jerking forward, but before you can even protest, he moved with practiced ease, shifting his own loincloth aside in one smooth motion.

The thick length of him pressed against you, hot and insistent, teasing at your entrance but not giving you what you desperately want.

You hissed again at him. "Stop playing."

"But you look so damn pretty all desperate," he murmured, the words more breath than sound. He rolled his hips again, just enough to make you squirm, his fingers tracing over your waist, your stomach, leaving trails of fire in their wake. "Like you'd do anything I asked, right now," he added.

"Fuck," you cussed but finally give in. "Please."

"Since you asked so nicely," he said, the words rumbling through his chest, thick and full of promise, and then he's sliding into you with a harsh breath.

You arched and cried out, fingers digging into the flesh of his back, hips jerking to take him as deep as possible.

You gasped when he moved. The slide of him inside you gave a slow, torturous burn that goes straight to your head. It feels like fire and lightning all at once, sending sparks through your veins, setting you alight from the inside out.

He's everywhere. His hands on your hips, his lips on your neck, his voice in your ear. You can feel him everywhere, overwhelming all your senses.

But of course, you won't admit it.

"You're terrible," you panted against his skin, moving with him, matching his rhythm instantly. It was a competition, just like the sparring, just like the flying. Who could push harder? Who could last longer? Who would break first?

"And you're loud," he gritted out, his hands tightening on your hips, driving into you with a punishing pace that made your head spin. "Focus."

"I am... focused," you managed to say, though your voice wrecked as he hit a spot that made your vision blur. You bit his shoulder to keep from screaming his name because you refused to give him that satisfaction.

The sound of the rain outside was drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against skin and harsh, ragged breathing.

He wanted to see you come undone. He wanted to prove that he could control you, even if he couldn't control you on the battlefield.

"Say I was right," he gasped, his rhythm faltering as the edge approached. "Say... the southern ridge... was safer."

You laughed, a breathless, broken sound, tightening your grip on him. "Never."

"Stubborn little slut."

When he finished the insult, he felt your orgasm hit, the pleasure spiking so hard it felt like pain, your nails digging into his shoulders as you rode out the waves.

Then he pulled out, stroking his cock few times before releasing his cum on your stomach.

For a long time, there was only the sound of heavy panting and the rain.

He pulled back, his chest slick with sweat, and looked at you. His hair was a mess, his pupils blown wide. Then, he cleared his throat and stepped back, letting your legs drop. He reached down and picked up his dropped gear, turning his back to you to fix his loincloth.

"Your landing was sloppy, by the way," he said, his voice raspy but returning to that cool, detached tone.

You slumped against the wall, legs shaking, pulling your vest back over your chest.

"And you finish too fast, Sully."

Neteyam whipped around, eyes narrowing, though his ears burned a dark purple. "Watch it."

"Or what?" you challenged, standing up on wobbling legs. "You'll punish me again?"

He stared at you for a long beat, the heat flaring up in his eyes again, before he shook his head and shoved past you toward the cave entrance.

"Get back to the barracks," he ordered over his shoulder, stepping out into the rain. "And don't be late for dawn patrol."

“Maitan,” Neytiri’s voice is firm, but gentle, as Neteyam makes his first move of the morning for the flap of the tent’s exit. 

He pauses, throws a look over his shoulder, then comes full stop when he sees the purse of his mother’s lips, the furrow between her brows. It’s like looking in a mirror and his shoulders fall slack. 

“Yes?” He clears his throat, then straightens. 

“Maybe…” She seems to choose her words carefully. “Maybe you should give it time to breathe.” 

Neteyam doesn’t answer, wants to play dumb, because if he gives his full acknowledgement, he’ll have to admit that things aren’t getting any better between the two of you despite his valiant efforts. 

He manages a hum before Neytiri continues. 

“The last time we spoke about this situation, I know we made it seem like you didn’t have much of a choice in your selection feast,” Neytiri says. “But perhaps things change, and maybe you and ________ are no longer Eywa’s will.” 

The thought makes Neteyam physically recoil. Makes the bile rise in his throat. 

He’d been so against the two of you at first, didn’t even want to think of the idea of a future with you, but now his heart’s molding to form around the shape of you and he doesn’t think he’d have it any other way. 

Especially not now that he’s forced himself in your proximity, has watched you function in your element, seen that you’re far from the peculiar girl he’d spent so much of his childhood running away from. 

You’re everything but. You’re almost detrimentally kind, so soft and gentle to the moon and its creatures. And you work hard, dedicate every waking moment to serving your people despite no longer claiming any commitments to marrying into the tsahik’s position. You heal, and you mend, and you fix everything that’s broken, and Neteyam’s forced to watch on the sidelines as you stonewall him. 

“Eywa’s will or not, I…” The words are nearly as weighty as his mother’s gaze. “I choose her.” 

Neytiri blinks, then blows out a long breath.

“Neteyam, it’s important to realize that a selection feast is not one-sided,” she says. “She must choose you just as much as you do her.” 

It’s something he’s been having to grapple with the past few weeks, the uncertainty of things. Your love for him had been a sure thing at the beginning, but now Neteyam’s not so reassured. 

“She does, she will.” 

He realizes he sounds like he’s convincing himself. 

“Her parents have expressed their desire to withdraw from the preparations of your union,” Neytiri says. 

The news is rather stale, but still leaves an awful taste in Neteyam’s mouth. 

“They want to arrange for a new suitor.” 

But that, that’s news to him. 

You’re right where he expects you to be, in his grandmother’s tent with Mo’at herself and Kiri, testing a few trials of salve for the new round of candidates trying for their iknimaya. 

You’re no longer bandaged up, just sporting a raised scar. The navy blue skin is tough, fused and blends with a few of your stripes, but Neteyam knows it’s there. Has felt and rewrapped the wound so many times that brushing over it with his fingertips is like muscle memory. 

But now that you’re healed, practically as good as new, you don’t let him close. He doesn’t know what you feel like, has nearly forgotten the sensation of your hands on his skin. 

“Teyam,” Kiri greets happily when she clocks her older brother. 

He sees your eyes close in defeat, shoulders deflating because you just want one day of peace. 

“Can I borrow ________?” he asks. 

You answer before Mo’at does. 

“We are very busy,” is all you say, but Neteyam won’t take no for an answer. 

Your name leaves his lips firmly, like there’s no room for argument and you finally look up from your task to meet his stony gaze. 

For a moment, his expression is familiar, makes you wonder what you’d done to piss him off this time around. But as you stand to your feet to shuffle out of the tent for some privacy, his hand ghosts the small of your back. 

“What?” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Neteyam doesn’t beat around the bush. 

“Your parents are trying to marry you off,” he breathes. 

You blink. 

“I sought this out on my own accord,” you reveal, gaze bored as you watch his face morph into horror. 

“You what?” he splutters. 

“Just because we are no longer promised to each other doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to companionship,” you say harshly. “I have a duty to my parents to start a new generation.” 

The thought of you with someone else makes him sick. Doesn’t even know who’ll claim you as his, but thinks the most violent and ill thoughts of whoever will put their hands on you.

“So you’ll just spend forever with some asshole you barely know?” 

Neteyam’s being crass, but he can’t help it. Not when this is the closest he’s felt to losing. 

You shift uncomfortably, anger shuttering over your features as your arms tighten over your chest. 

“You’re awful, you know that?” you whisper. “You spent so much of our adolescence and young adulthood pushing me away and treating me so horribly.” 

Neteyam sighs shakily. 

“I know, I know,” he swallows. “And I’m sorry, you have to know that. I just—” 

“You what, Neteyam?” you bite. “You’re so used to getting what you want, to everyone fawning over you and doting on you because you’re the olo’eyktan’s son that it feels like shit now that someone doesn’t?” 

That one stings. 

“Don’t you think you’re being unfair?” you ask, voice watery. “You said that you’d forfeit your responsibilities as the future leader of our people if it meant not having to be with me. Do you remember that?” 

He does, all too well. Recalls the shattered look on your face when the words left his lips. 

“You were so disgusted by the idea of having to spend forever with me that you were willing to give up everything you worked for in life to avoid that chance,” you spit. “That’s all I think of when I see you, you know. That I’d been so in love with you and the idea of loving you, but you’d rather be nothing than have to accept that.” 

Neteyam shakes his head vehemently.

“Don’t.” 

“Leave it alone,” you nearly beg. “Leave me alone.” 

Neteyam decides to abide, but a greater force must have the cruelest sense of humor. Or perhaps the elders scheme. Because Neteyam is being hurtled into your proximity despite his best efforts to give you space. 

Be it opposing teams in the training circle, adjoined scavenger groups in the forest, you’re so close yet so far. The berth between you and Neteyam grows until he can no longer close the distance. 

From afar, he’s forced to notice things he’d been too stubborn to realize. Forced to realize that his grandmother wasn’t exaggerating when she’d warned him that there were many young warriors vying for your attention. 

At first it’d been comical, watching the way they tripped over themselves to try to catch your attention. The way they’d linger, empty conversations and little trinkets. Neteyam found it laughable until you started accepting the advances. He’d been so absorbed in his duties, in turning a blind eye to you, that he hadn’t realized just how many people were waiting for a shot. 

It makes the bitterness brew, knowing that if something doesn’t give, the possibilities of you spending forever with someone who isn’t him increases with every passing moment. 

But the look on your face outside of Mo’at’s quarters is burned in his brain, tears that brimmed your sunny eyes lodging a lump in his throat. 

A storm roils inside of him that can be felt by everyone near and far, casts such a heavy weight with every space he enters. 

You have to feel it too, the yearn. There isn’t a way you’ve been able to cast years worth of pining and wanting to the side so easily. God, is this how you’d felt this entire time? Had it always—

“Alright, you’re done,” Jake grunts. 

Neteyam’s drawn from his thoughts, glances down at the spearhead that’s been whittled down to practically nothing. It’s the fifth in his pile and his father looks cross. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes, fingers loosening. 

Jake sucks in a deep breath before prying the tools from his eldest’s hands. 

“Just take a breather,” he says. “I’ll see you in the evening.” 

Neteyam nods once, hesitantly, then concedes, withdrawing from his task to make for anything else that will get his mind off of you. 

He’s about halfway to the stream when an elder stops him in his tracks. 

“Where are you headed?” 

He hangs his head in defeat.  

“Off to clear my head,” is all he says in return. 

“Care to help with preparations for this evening’s meal?” the elder asks.

He wants to say no, hasn’t helped with dinner preparations in who knows how long. He’d always been too busy with other duties, with learning about the ins and outs of tending to the clan, but the elder is smiling hopefully and Neteyam’s always had a hard time saying no. 

“Sure,” he replies. “What do you need help with?” 

“The fish,” she  says. “Need to filet them.” 

He hums in response, thinks it’ll just be him and the elder descaling the village’s catch and fileting them for roasting, but he stalls when he enters the clearing and finds you with your back to him, hunched over a basket. 

It’s the closest he’s gotten in days, an aching mix of him keeping his distance and you avoiding him leaving him relying on personal recollections to map your features in his head. He feels like he’s intruding, like maybe he should make an excuse to break away, but you’re peering over your shoulder at the rustling of the leaves and he’s frozen in his spot. 

Your shoulders tense, turning your attention back to your task at hand as the elder nudges Neteyam forward and he skids to a seat a few feet away from you. 

“I have to retrieve another basket,” she announces, and you both miss the knowing look on her face. 

You hum and Neteyam’s looking over his shoulder wide-eyed as the older woman retreats to leave the two of you with many baskets of fish. 

He can’t help but sneak glances at you as he begins his work, fingers working over the slender catch like muscle memory. 

The silence is tangible, thick like a woolen blanket and pierceable. 

He’s flying through his basket, already on his fourth while you still fiddle with the same one you’d been working on since he sat down. 

“You’ve always been good at this,” you say quietly, and Neteyam blinks hard at the sound. 

He hadn’t expected you to break the silence. 

“Maybe you’ve always been bad,” he says, huffing a little laugh as he glances at you again.

“Yeah, maybe,” you whisper. 

The memory seems like it was yesterday, when the two of you were nine and you’d revealed your intentions to spend forever with him. 

Another uncomfortably long stretch of silence passes with nothing but your nervous breathing and the rush of the river when he finally bites the bullet and turns towards you.

He shifts closer, hands closing over yours. You’re trembling, he realizes, and he squeezes. 

“Why are we doing this?” he asks gently. 

The implication of his words are weighty. 

Your throat bobs. 

“You know why,” you say softly. 

“I don’t,” he tells you. “I really messed up, I know that, but you can’t convince me that there’s nothing here anymore.” 

His fingertips ghost underneath your collarbone, right over your heart. 

The look on your face is anguished. 

“I know you’ve been patient with me,” he sighs shakily. “It took me way too long to realize that you’re it for me and I’m sorry.” 

You’re taking in a shuddering breath and something tells Neteyam to hold on extra tight this time around. 

“I’ve given you every part of me,” you say resolutely. “And you..you—” 

You don’t even finish your statement, just look up at him with your round eyes and the reality of it all seems to settle like a disgusting feeling he can’t shake. 

He’s willing to wait for you twice, thrice as long as you’ve waited for him, but he sees the exhaustion written on your face. Sees what a toll loving him has taken on you regardless of any healing you’ve endured physically and emotionally. 

“This is my last time asking,” he whispers. “Promise. Just—think about it. Regardless of your decision, I’ll…I’ll understand.” 

True to his word, Neteyam stays away. Gives you all the space you need by throwing himself headfirst into spearheading the next round of warriors’ iknimaya training. And you take advantage of it; think to yourself that the longer you take to put a final end to this all, the longer you can cling to the remnants of your first love. 

It agonizes you, thinking of diverging paths with Neteyam, of being with someone else when you know fully well that the hold that Neteyam has on your heart is ironclad. 

No matter how much you try to convince yourself, no matter what solace you search for in another, it will always be him. 

But there are people counting on you, counting on him, and with each passing eclipse, your duties to the clan grow far heavier. Dancing around this is becoming tedious, so you take the plunge.  

It’s why you finally give into Raime, a quiet boy in the village. He’s two years your senior, the most accomplished hunter in his lot,  and he’d been the first to express his interest in you when you’d told your parents you wanted to search for new suitors. 

It’d been rocky, tumultuous, at first, but he’d been understanding. He’d known about you and Neteyam, had admitted that he knew the feeling of wanting all too well. 

“...and Mo’at was so angry that—” 

You stop because Raime hasn’t stopped smiling at you since you started speaking and your cheeks are warm. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” he assures quietly, eyes glancing back down at his task at hand. 

Ironically, the two of you are huddled in the clearing near the river, skinning the village’s catch and preparing for the evening’s meal. Like always, your fingers are fumbling and Eywa must have a funny sense of humor because Raime skins, guts, and cleans like he does it in his sleep. 

He notices the silent struggle, corner of his lips quirking up higher as you fruitlessly move a stray hair away from your face with the back of your wrist. 

He rinses his hands in the river, dries them on his loincloth. You notice his fingers in your periphery, but he’s stopping himself. 

You look up, see his hands near your face, and your throat bobs. 

“Can I?” he asks gently. 

You don’t know what he’s asking permission for, but you nod nonetheless, heart going soft and stomach frenzied because you’d never known such a tender kindness from a man in all your pining. 

Raime’s fingertips are gentle against your temple, threading his fingers through your hair softly to tuck the stubborn strands out of your face. 

“Thanks,” you hiccup, searching his chiseled features. 

He hums and you tuck your chin, trying to hide the blooms of purple over the apples of your cheeks. 

His weight shifts closer, fingers ghosting over yours as he settles like a guide. 

“Head to tail,” he says softly. “Knife over the rib cage, not through it.” 

The bones easily lift and you let out a triumphant breath, smile growing as he pulls the next fish and walks you through it hand-over-hand. 

You’re too engrossed with the foreign feeling of affection, with allowing yourself to melt into a new beginning, that you don’t even realize the eyes that have spotted you. 

Neteyam had been waiting patiently for your decision, but nestled among the foliage, he sees the soft grin on your lips, the dent of your dimpled cheeks, and he gets his answer. 

Raime is a man of few words, Neteyam comes to find out. He’s got him cornered, right before eclipse a few evenings later, and the look in his eye is a warning. 

“Be good to her,” Neteyam says, voice calm like the eye of a storm. “You’ll pay if you’re anything but.”

Raime doesn’t protest, doesn’t argue, because he knows with far too much familiarity what the nuances are between the two of you. Knows that your hearts are still bound by the most stubborn of threads whether he likes it or not. 

So all he does is nod, throat visibly bobbing. 

And for Neteyam, well, it would do. 

You decide against a selection feast. Because Raime holds little status in the clan and you no longer train to lead, you both agree that you’ll come together as one on your own terms. 

Toeing a relationship with Raime is simple, easy. But things seem a little too quiet, too good to be true. You’re used to the chaos, the storm that thunders when loving someone, and while you don’t think you love him quite yet, you think that like all things, you could learn to. 

The two of you idle near the hometree, picking herbs, laughing about younger villagers’ antics, the hunts he participates in, among other things when you catch the whispers. 

Did you hear about olo’eyktan’s son?

Your ears twitch. 

How unfortunate. 

Self-consciousness pricks the back of your brain momentarily as you strain to hear what the gossip’s all about. Raime doesn’t seem to notice that your attention is divided, still laughing quietly about a particular villager’s plight with training. 

Think he’ll be okay?

Who knows, heard the fall was pretty bad. 

Your brows furrow, brain shifting gears to the younger son. Neteyam was too careful, too cautious. But Lo’ak, on the other hand, was careless, daring. 

You want to settle on the idea that Lo’ak’s gone off and hurt himself, but then you see Kiri off in the distance, eyes wild and searching. 

When you two lock eyes, she’s crossing the trodden path hurriedly. 

“Kiri–” 

“Please,” she breathes desperately. “It’s Neteyam.” 

Neteyam’s injuries make your heart squeeze. He’s bruised, blood mottled under the surface of his wounded skin, and he’s broken his arm. 

You’d heard the conversation before you entered the tent. Despite being hurt, Jake was laying it on thick. 

“What the hell were you thinking!” Jake’s voice echos. 

“Just needed to clear my head.” Neteyam’s voice was scratchy, weak. 

“After what happened to ________, you know there’s absolutely no flying or traveling alone! Especially not as far out as you did!” his father chides. “You could have died, Neteyam!” 

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” 

“This really impedes on your duties, you know that?” Jake bites. “You–” 

“I’m sorry,” Neteyam repeats again, voice a hoarse whisper. 

He sleeps now, the smallest of furrows between his brow bones. His broken arm is wrapped tightly, resting over his stomach as his chest rises and falls with every breath. 

His parents had left you with him after your quiet request for a moment, but you don’t wake him. 

Instead, you’re digging through your satchel, finding the solidified salve wrapped in the center of a balmy leaf. You wedge off a piece, warming it between your palms as you work over shallow wounds and purpling contusions. 

Your heart had pounded so hard in your chest hours prior when Kiri had told you that Neteyam was hurt. It made you absolutely sick to your stomach, body wracked with nerves as you followed her frantic strides. 

As you kneel before him now, working softly over his skin, you realize that letting this go isn’t as easy as you thought it was going to be. It’s further solidified when your eyes burn and you’re surprised to blink back tears. 

“Wow,” you whisper shakily to yourself, knuckling away the tears in annoyance as your chin tilts towards the apex of the tent to stop them from falling. 

The salve is still warm in your hands when you feel a set of fingers ghost over yours. 

Your gaze snaps to Neteyam who watches you with sleepy eyes, hooded and struggling to stay awake. 

“Hey,” he whispers. 

“Hi,” you swallow. “You okay?” 

“I’ve been better,” he says softly. “A lot better.” 

You nod simply, hope he doesn’t notice that you’re trying not to cry, but Neteyam’s learned to read you so well over the last few months. Comes with the territory when you’ve been orbiting the same person for years. 

“You’re crying,” he observes hoarsely. “Why?” 

The corners of your lips twitch downwards, the familiar burn behind the bridge of your nose forcing more tears. 

“I’m not,” you argue weakly. 

Neteyam looks shocked, making a move to sit up. 

Your hands are on his shoulders, gently restraining him as you shake your head quickly. 

“You need to rest,” you warble. 

“Why are you…are you…” 

“You scared me,” you say weakly. “I thought–” 

You hiccup and his face softens. 

“Hey, I’m fine,” he assures you. “I’m good.” 

You bite the inside of your lip, smooth the rest of the salve over his uninjured arm, and his nose twitches at the scent. It’d been the same one his grandmother had slathered over his cuts and bruises; the one you’d made especially for him. 

Despite knowing you’ve been spending an awful lot of time with Raime, it makes something triumphant settle in the pit of his stomach knowing you still carry around something you’d made thinking of him. 

But he doesn’t say a word, keeps the comment to himself. Instead he watches you with bated breath. 

Then you surprise him, forehead meeting the firm planes of his stomach. His expression twists, uninjured hand ghosting over the back of your head momentarily before resting the full weight over your loosened braids. 

“Wha–” 

“I can’t do it,” you whisper, voice muffled against his skin. 

“Do what?” he croaks. 

“Be with him.” 

He stills. 

“What are you talking about?” 

He swallows, waiting for your next words with anticipation. 

“I can’t help it, Neteyam,” you sigh shakily. “Not when it comes to you.” 

He knows what you’re trying to say, but he can’t bring himself to act on it without hearing the words with the utmost clarity. Needs the confirmation that you’re done fighting it. 

When he doesn’t say anything, only presses his fingertips through the roots of your hair, you crack. 

“It will always be like this,” you whisper. “No matter how much distance there is, it’ll...”

You push away gently to glance at his face.

“It’ll always be you.”

Neteyam can’t help the smile that grows.

“If I…” you swallow. “If I give in, you have all of me.”

“Only way I’d ever want it,” Neteyam says, trying to tamp down the hope ebbing into his voice. 

“But would you be able to say the same?” you challenge quietly. “It only takes once.” 

He sits up despite the sharp look you give him, traps your fingers in his uninjured hand and presses your palm to his chest. You feel it, his heart, fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird under the skin. 

“Promise,” he murmurs, wincing when the skin over a particularly imposing wound stretches too taut. “I’m all yours, ________. I meant what I said. Union or no union, it’s you and me.” 

A shiver rips down your spine as you nod, teary-eyed. You move to press your face to his chest, but his fingers skim your jaw, cupping the back of your neck as he brings your lips to his. 

You’d imagined this moment a million and one times and even if the moment is fleeting, you feel the weight of things solidify around you. 

Neteyam’s kiss is bruising, like parting means letting you go for the final time. 

You only do when you feel something wet brush your jaw, breaking away momentarily to ghost the fingers not trapped against his chest over your cheek. 

The most minute of furrows twitch across your features before you realize that Neteyam is crying, yellow eyes rimmed red and watery. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, swiping the back of his wrist over his eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

Your heart softens, melting, as your thumb brushes over the carve of his cheekbones. 

“It’s okay,” you assure him quietly, and the expression on your face is devastating. It’s like you’ve morphed back into the girl who pined and yearned. It makes his gut twist with guilt. “We’ll be okay.” 

He nods hesitantly, hand coming around your wrist as he presses his cheek further into the cradle of your palm. 

He doesn’t know what possesses him to say it, such silly human words he’d heard his father mutter to his mother time and time again. But in the moment it feels right. 

“I love you,” he says gently. 

You blink hard, spine rigid. Can’t help the smile that threatens to crack your full lips. 

“I love you,” you assure him. 

And from the other side of the tent’s flap, both Neteyam’s parents and yours catch whispers of the rekindling of a dying flame. Your mother, always in your corner, murmurs soundly with a relieved grin. 

“Eywa makes no mistakes.” 

an — do i lowkey hate this, yes lmao, but i will go absolutely nuts if i don’t get this out sdfjksdfaj, love you all <3

neng © 2023

“Huh?” He’d clearly been caught off guard, ministrations on the catch frozen as his eyebrows furrowed. 

“When we are married,” you’d said, holding the bone structure of your first fish triumphantly.

“Married?” he parroted shrilly, fully turning to face you. 

You looked up from your task, nodding like it was the most common of knowledge.

“Yes, Neteyam,” you affirmed, chuffing a small laugh. “In the future, when we are married.” 

Neteyam wouldn’t have been so off put had the comment been a one time thing, but they were frequent, spoken both in the quiet of much-dreaded time alone with you and hushed whispers in the midst of the other villagers your age. 

It wasn’t any help that his parents seemed to always set the two of you up in many endeavors over the course of your adolescence. And he’d tried, tried so hard to shake you over the years, but you were glued to his hip. 

You look handsome today, you’d say often, regardless. Training is paying off, whispered in his ear as your fingertips smoothe over the skin of his biceps. I hope the little ones grow to be as mighty as you are, spoken after sessions in the archery circle. The comments are all fleeting, mentioned in passing like a casual word, but they make Neteyam warm, make his cheeks heat when he searches your face for any betrayal of emotion. 

But all he’s met with is an expression that borders smug, one that makes him wonder why, out of all of the boys growing into fine young men over the course of your adolescence, had you picked him to be the object of your affections. 

Try as he might, to be short-tempered, callous, you were always there. He sought the attention of other women, tried to put as many bodies between the two of you, but you were relentless, smiled gently when you’d catch his wandering hands against the skin of another, would turn a blind eye when his lips brushed too intimately over eager ears.

At first he figured that maybe it was because he was the first boy you’d encountered and it’d just been the way the cards were dealt. At times he thought you were messing with him, a long-running joke between you and some unknown entities to fuck around with his feelings. His current theory, however, is one that he sits more confidently on when he begins observing you. 

You spend an awful amount of time not only tailing him, but tailing his family, pestering Kiri and Lo’ak about god knows what, spending many afternoons schmoozing with his parents, seeking guidance from Mo’at. 

He comes to the conclusion, after some time, that you’re trying to solidify your place within his family, trying to secure your role next to him as the future leader of the clan. This much is confirmed when his parents bring up the sore topic of you one night once everyone has turned in after the evening meal. 

“The time for your selection feast is arriving,” Neytiri says hesitantly, like she’s treading on thin ice. 

Neteyam has an inkling where this conversation will go when Jake shifts to sit next to his partner, the perfect picture of what a love that transcends all should look like. But he doesn’t know love, just knows preparing for his future and what ruling the clan will look like. 

“Yeah,” Neteyam agrees. 

“Do you have someone in mind?” Jake prods, busying himself by toying with his songchord. 

To his dismay, you briefly eclipse his mind, the annoyingly beautiful girl he’d grown up with but, even a decade later, still can’t seem to get a good read on.

“No,” he answers slowly. 

His parents seem to chew on this for a moment, glancing at each other momentarily before Neytiri draws in a deep breath and focuses her attention on her oldest son all over again. 

“Well…your father and I believe that perhaps ________ could be a good choice.”

It’s like a bomb detonates, but the aftershocks are only seen in the way Neteyam’s lips purse and his brows furrow. 

He’s not one to go against his parents, but he’ll be damned if he has to spend forever with you. 

“No,” he repeats, but with time with vindication. 

Jake looks stunned, back straightening as he takes his son in with wary eyes.

“No?” 

“No,” Neteyam reiterates. “I would rather spend my life alone than spend it with her.” 

“Neteyam,” Neytiri sighs. 

“I’m sorry, Mom, I won’t,” he says firmly, swallowing down the lump in his throat as he glances between both of his parents, hoping, wishing that maybe they’ll see that this isn’t a good idea.

“Maitan, you don’t understand,” Neytiri says softly. “When you and ________ were born, Ewya gave us a sign.”

Neteyam’s blood runs cold. 

“So this has already been decided?” he asks, voice eerily steady. 

“Not necessarily,” Jake interjects. “We didn’t want you two to feel like you were being forced to be together so we hoped that encouraging you both to spend time together would allow something to develop…” 

“But they haven’t, so now it’s a not-so-silent push,” he says shortly. 

His parents share another look and he feels annoyance beginning to form in his gut. 

“We wouldn’t say that there aren’t any feelings there,” Neytiri says. 

Neteyam breathes a humorless laugh as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“I don’t feel anything for her,” he says with finality. “Nothing about a union with her piques my interest. We’ve been in close proximity since birth but my heart feels more for the trees in the forest than it ever will for ________.” 

Jake squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Have you thought about giving her a chance?” he pushes. “She’s a lovely girl, really likes you.” 

That draws another huff of humorless laughter from Neteyam. 

“The only thing she’s interested in is status and being tsahik,” Neteyam scoffs. “There is nothing there.” 

Neytiri opens her mouth to say something, but Neteyam has mustered up as polite an excuse as he can as he stands to his feet and bows his head to his parents. 

When he ducks from the tent, he doesn’t expect to see you lingering outside of the exit.

His face morphs as the quiet words leave your lips. 

“You doubt my affections for you.” It’s a statement and a question wrapped in one, but you’re resigned, like always, and Neteyam can’t seem to grasp what you’re trying to get at clinging to him, to whatever this dynamic is. 

“What’s this game you’re playing?” he accuses, eyes narrowed. 

“What game?” you ask, gaze unfaltering as you stare up at him with those round golden eyes. 

He lets out a frustrated sigh. 

“Our entire lives, from being kids to now, you’ve toyed with me,” he says fiercely. “With this idea of us. Why? I’ve given you no reasons to be fond of me, yet you’re always here, there, everywhere.” 

“I have much to be fond of,” is your simple answer and Neteyam could groan in frustration. 

“Like what? Being the olo’eyktan’s son? Holding the future of this clan in my hands?” he asks sharply. 

“I would love you, circumstances withstanding,” you respond. “You don’t have to be afraid.” 

Love. 

What an odd concept, weird. One that Neteyam can’t seem to wrap his mind around when it comes to you. Doesn’t think he ever will. 

“Afraid of what?” he bites. 

“Of loving me back,” you say. 

He grimaces like the very thought disgusts him, like you’re an aversion he desperately wants to rid of. And perhaps you are, you realize, seeing years of pent up frustration and anger culminating into one big wound ready to rupture. 

“You think I love you?” he asks incredulously. 

He doesn’t miss the way you shrink, blinking quickly. 

“If you gave us a chance, maybe,” you whisper.

It sounds like the conversation with his parents all over again and realization seems to shutter across his features as he looks down at you. 

“How long have you known?” 

“Known what?” you ask quietly. 

“How long have you known that they’re trying to force us to be together?” he asks. 

You’re silent for a moment before muttering something under your breath. 

“What?” he snaps.

“They aren’t forcing us,” you clear your throat. “Not me, at least.” 

He scoffs. 

“Of course,” he mocks. “Because it only matters what you want out of this. Not that for the last decade I’ve been trying to get you to back off, trying to get you to understand that I don’t want this. I don’t want us, and if it means forfeiting my responsibilities, then so be it.” 

It’s a lofty statement, one that seals the last nail on your coffin. 

You’d loved Neteyam for as long as you can remember, have probably liked him for longer. When your parents told you early on that Eywa had given both of your families a sign that you and Neteyam were meant for one another, you’d embraced the idea wholeheartedly. Loved the idea of loving him even through moments when he’d try to drive a wedge between the two of you. 

Give him time, your parents had said to you. Jake and Neytiri want his feelings to develop naturally. 

And you waited. God, you waited, for so long. Waited for him to come around, to realize the things he did to you. Perhaps you had been too presumptuous, thinking that he’d be able to read you behind such a stoic facade, afraid that if you revealed too much of your wanting, you’d turn him off from the idea of being with you. 

But as you stand here before him, small under such a burning gaze, you realize that it’d been wishful thinking. Choosing him meant nothing if he didn’t choose you back. 

“I see…” you trail off quietly.

“Do you?” he asks, tone facetious. 

You nod once, unable to meet his gaze. Unable to see that his expression twitches the tiniest amount when he clocks the way your body seems to deflate.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.” 

His following days are quiet, filled with personal duties and commitments to the clan. He’d expected you to sleep off the night’s confrontation, he certainly had, a twinge of guilt searing his gut.

But you’re good at hiding, good at masking your feelings, good at disappearing. It doesn’t bother him at the beginning, figuring that you need your space, but then it’s a dull ache that ebbs into a grating gnaw as his every other thought flits to you and what you could be doing now that you’ve settled such a wide distance between himself and his family. 

“You are injured a lot more these days,” Mo’at observes, slathering the viscous mixture over a cut between his shoulder blades. 

He remains silent, doesn’t know how to admit that he’d been far more reckless these past few days in the hopes that he’d run into you in his grandmother’s quarters. A silent yearn to feel your skilled fingers work over his wounds, tender as you try to pry your way into his heart. 

Mo’at had been the one you spent the most time with, diligently training in the chance that Neteyam would finally see you, would make you his. But right now, you’re nowhere to be found and all he’s rewarded with is his grandmother’s rough hands and inquisitive gaze.

“She made this salve,” Mo’at says, filling the silence with idle talk. “Found a recipe that speeds healing and softens the skin.” 

“Did she?” Neteyam responds absently, imagining you picking and pruning the herbs yourself, frame languid as you move through the brush. 

“Said she didn’t want her lover to have such tough skin.” 

There’s laughter in his grandmother’s voice, but he can’t find it in himself to see the humor in the situation. Not when he’s beginning to see that maybe he’s not just another rung in the ladder for you, that duty is the most miniscule drop in your bucket.  

“Where’s ________?” he asks after a moment, hissing through his teeth when his grandmother’s fingers prod the wound. 

“Taking a break from her studies to assist Ama with the children,” she answers, and he misses the knowing look in her eyes. She pats his shoulder when she’s done patching him up. “She’s a fine young woman, Neteyam. Many of the villagers do not turn a blind eye to that fact. If she is not the one that your heart desires, give her the opportunity to align with one that does.” 

It makes something ugly, green, roil in the pit of his stomach at the idea of you being the subject of houndish eyes. You’re too reserved, too sweet, too devoted to be anyone else’s. 

And the thought floors him, makes the knot growing obnoxiously in his throat choke the air from his lungs. 

“Yeah,” he agrees in a whisper. 

And he knows that his grandmother is right. Knows that he shouldn’t be asking about you, doesn’t have the right to hold you hostage if the union is something that truly unsettles him. But the thought of letting go of whatever the two of you have is surprisingly indigestible. 

Neteyam is frustrated, thoroughly disoriented now that all he can think of is you. He’d tried everything under the sun to shake you, to get you to throw your cards in first, but now that you have, it’s like you tug on a string tethered to his hellish heart. 

He stands to his feet and turns to face Mo’at, giving a respectful nod before exiting the tent. 

It’s wrong, he knows it, seeking you out after burning every bridge between the two of you, but he can’t help it. Can’t help but enter the clearing in the forest carved through with a stream that the little ones play in. 

You’re exactly where his grandmother had said you were, sitting near the edge of the bubbling waters with Ama, a girl a few years your senior. The children are giggling, laughing as they splash each other, splash you. The expression on your face falters a little, stern as you adjust the netting strapped to your chest. 

The air is trapped in his lungs as he realizes. Sees the little head that peeks from the top of the fabric, ear pressed to your heart as you cover the baby’s head from the children’s gleeful laughter. 

“That’s not very nice,” you say gently. “Your little sister is trying to sleep.” 

Your voice makes the hairs on the back of his neck prick, a soft rasp that’s haunted him for the last few sleepless nights. It’s odd, seeing you in this light, relaxed from your lack of duties. You’re in your element like this, smiling and coddling the children of the clan as they climb over you and poke and prod. 

“Teyam!” One of them clocks him before he can retreat and his spine is going stiff, stomach turning when he sees the way your expression melts. 

“Hi,” he greets simply, unable to form anything more solid in the fears that he’ll spook you. 

The kids start emerging from the stream one by one, surrounding him as he takes a few tentative steps into the clearing. 

“Neteyam,” Ama greets cordially, eyes flitting between the two of you as you busy yourself with the little one strapped to your chest. 

Neteyam, on the other hand, can’t keep his eyes off of you. He’s silently pleading with Eywa, with whatever other force lies out of reach that you’ll just look at him. But you’re locked up tighter than a vault, obviously still reeling from the confrontation all those days ago. 

He hums your name, gentle like a prayer. Your eyes are hesitant, watching the snoozing baby in your arms before glancing at the remaining children in the stream before finally meeting his longing gaze. 

“Can we talk?” he asks you, flashing one of the curious kids a brief smile when they tug on the hem of his loincloth. 

Your response is far more blunt than he’d expected, taken aback when you murmur a firm, “No.”

He supposes that he deserves that, has earned the warmth that eclipses over his cheeks as the children watch the exchange with inquisitive eyes. And the way you stand to your feet to wrangle the village’s little ones is merited, telling them that playtime is over. 

But as Ama helps you gather their things, sensing the obvious tension between you and the olo’eyktan’s son, he realizes that he can’t just let this go. He won’t. Not without making things right, without telling you that loving you isn’t the hard part, it could never be. 

But agency is something his parents have withheld from him his entire life, molded him into being the perfect son that bends to the clan’s every beck and call. Loving you was just another thing to add to the list of things he did for everyone else’s sake but his own.

He sees now, though, sees that loving you, being in love with you isn’t a difficult feat. Not when he’s been given the smallest glance into what having a future could be like with you. Especially not when he’s learned so many things about you in the moments where you’re a fleeting plume of smoke that surrounds and chokes him all the same. 

He calls your name again, firm this time around. There’s a stutter in your step, he sees the way your shoulders draw taut with a labored sigh. 

You murmur something to Ama, undoing the ties to the netting that carries the dozing infant. Neteyam watches as you shush the kids, reminding them to be good to their tsmuke on their journey through the forest. 

Your fingers are gentle as you tie the last knot, brushing Ama’s shoulders lightly as you tell her you’ll catch up with her shortly. 

When they’re out of earshot, clambering back into the village circle, you turn on your heel, standing on the opposite side of the embankment. The glittering waters gurgle between the two of you as you wait patiently for Neteyam to muster his courage. 

“About our union,” he starts. “I–” 

“I’ve told my parents to forgo the preparations,” you say softly, seemingly unbothered as you pay more attention to the blades of grass that tickle your ankles. 

Neteyam’s spine stiffens.

“Why would you…” 

“You don’t want this,” you repeat his words from the fall out. “You don’t want us. We’ll both be unhappy.” 

It makes his heart squeeze. 

“You would be so unhappy in our union?” he scoffs, like he’s cracked the code. 

He doesn’t expect the humorless laugh that spills past your lips, obviously laden with tears when he focuses hard enough. 

“Of course I would, Neteyam,” you say fiercely, quietly. “I have spent so much of my life being so disgustingly in love with you when all you’ve wanted was me gone. Do you really think I’d let myself suffer at the expense of someone who would rather be alone than be forced to spend time with the likes of me.” 

You make it sound horrible. And perhaps it was, being so taken by someone who’s life mission was to sever every carefully stitched tie.

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to tell you that he’s coming to terms with the fact that maybe he’s been gravely mistaken this entire time. 

“So have your freedom,” you say chillingly. “I surrender.” 

He’s closing the distance between the two of you, splashing through the shallow river to root you to place, fingers wrapped tightly around your elbow. 

You snatch away from his grasp, turning so sharply, he stumbles back. The pad of your finger pokes harshly into his chest, tear-filled eyes brimming as your gaze searches his face. 

“Don’t be heartless,” you hiss. “If there is one thing I will ask of you it is to leave me alone.” 

The distance between the two of you widens as you pluck your bow and quiver nearby and rush off into the brush, leaving Neteyam in the quieting clearing to allow the weight of your words sink to his bones. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, watching the same spot you’d disappeared past, but the forest is beginning to glow and he should be home soon. 

The entire encounter puts him on edge as he climbs through the foliage, moving over fallen logs and blooming flora. His muscles are taut, shoulders tight as he maps the long route back home.

It’s only when a sudden crack in the distance sounds that he becomes aware of how still the forest seems around him, like there are eyes and ears watching his every move. 

A look in the sky reveals a darkening swathe of midnight, leaves gleaming from outstretched branches. As he surveys his surroundings, his ears prick, picking up the most minute of sounds, rhythmic against the dense grass. 

His hand is on his dagger in an instant, eyes wild as he holds his breath. The pulse is nearing, almost insignificant against the backdrop of nature’s call, but something isn’t right and it makes nausea stir in his stomach. 

He blinks once, twice, before something closes over his mouth and a body seems to fuse against his back. 

“It’s me.” Your voice is ragged, hushed against the shell of his ear, and he nearly melts, fingers loosening from around the hilt of his knife. 

“I–” 

“Don’t speak,” you warn. “They are near.” 

He tenses again as you move your bodies behind a curtain of green, off the trodden path. 

“There are five of them,” you whisper and he shivers something fierce. “Two down, three on foot.” 

After years of training from his father, he knows who they are. 

“How did you…why do you–” 

“You didn’t return to the village,” you hiss. 

His heart skips a beat, thrumming because even if you’d been angry at him, you’d noticed his absence. Had gone looking for him, even. He turns to face you, wants to tell you that he’d do anything to make things right, but he realizes that now’s not a good time. 

You’re pale, gravely so, a feral look in your eyes as you grasp at your left side. 

Blood. You’re bleeding. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Stop,” you breathe shakily. “Not now.” 

“________, you’re wounded!” he protests. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, golden eyes widening as you press closer to him. 

He takes the opportunity to peer over your shoulder in pursuit of an exit wound and sighs when he finds the skin still intact. 

“You’re hurt,” he tries again, grabbing the wrist clutching your side. 

You shake your head vehemently. 

“Stop it, Neteyam,” you plead hoarsely. “We need to get rid of them before they find the village.” 

You’re right, he realizes, swallowing down the lump in his throat as he notes the tremble of your lip and the furrow between your brows. 

“Okay,” he swallows, nodding hesitantly. “Okay.” 

“Near the Tree of Souls,” you tell him, knees shaky as you draw an arrow and load your bow. 

You creep forward slowly, willowy frame shielding Neteyam as you move through the forest. 

He barely notices, only sees it when you pause a moment too long, body twitching as the bow quivers in your loosening grasp. 

“________?” Neteyam’s voice is testing, closing the berth. 

Your bow lowers, fingers brushing over the wound once again. When you assess the wetness of the pads of your fingers, Neteyam’s able to get a good look at the damage. 

His eyes widen, grabbing your shoulders tightly when he sees that your eyes are drooping. 

“Wait,” he says sharply. “Don’t—”

Your bloody hand brushes his chin. 

“Make sure…make sure they are…” 

“She must rest.” 

“It will only be for a moment.” 

The words slur together, distant and muddy as your eyes flicker open to assess your surroundings. 

“Maite, you are awake.” Your mother kneels next to you, expression a picture of harrowing concern. “Oh, Eywa, I’m glad you are awake.” 

It returns in waves, like the ebb and flow of water dousing you. The enemy, in bodies like your own, ruthless to creatures both gentle and roaring. Clothed like humans with gear so imposing, you nearly shrunk with such a small bow and only enough arrows to make each shot count. 

You’d taken out two of them with shaky hands before their hailing bullets pierced the trunks of trees and left gaping holes in the leaves. One had landed, lodged its way right above the left side of your pelvis. 

It aches as you sit up, seeing the aftermath of what must have been a grisly extraction. 

“Stop, stop,” your mother says quickly, hands on your shoulders to guide you back. “You will disturb Mo’at’s work.” 

“There are more of them,” you rush. “They are–” 

“Shh, my child,” she coaxes. “They are gone.” 

It had been a horrific sight, seeing Neteyam carrying you back to the village, limp and listless, covered in the blood of multiple parties with a nearly animalistic look in his eye. 

“Where is Neteyam?” you whisper, lashes wet. 

The look on your mother’s face softens with pity, knowing, as she sees it written all over your face. 

She’d known it before and she’d known it after you approached her and your father with the request to call off the union. 

I don’t love him, you’d said, unable to meet their eyes as you confessed. Eywa’s made a mistake with us. I want to be with someone that I love.

You’d been embarrassed, wanted to save face. You didn’t want them to know that the only man you’d ever known from adolescence to young adulthood hadn’t wanted a thing to do with you. 

“I’m here.” 

Neteyam’s entering the tent with your father hot on his heels, obviously defying his wishes to leave you be. 

His forearm is wrapped in medicinal leaves, tied off with thin vine. A cut slices his brow bone, the wound still red and raw. 

“I told you–” 

Your mother shoots your father a contemptuous look before turning to you to smooth some of the hair away from your face. 

“Eywa makes no mistakes, Maite,” she whispers, gaze pleading. 

She’s on her feet, crossing the tent to meet Neteyam half way. With a comforting squeeze to his shoulder, she pushes your protesting father through the hide and suddenly the air is shrouded in silence save for your labored breathing and the weight of the eldest Sully’s gaze. 

“I thought I lost you,” Neteyam says, the tiniest inflection of trembling pricking your ears. 

You blink, watching as he stands at the end of the mat. He’s fidgeting but his eyes are searing, shaking with tears as he stares at you unblinking—like you’ll disappear between the shutter of his heavy eyelids. 

You don’t know what to say, the lump lodged in your throat far too thick for you to form coherent words around. 

Neteyam continues for the both of you. 

“I thought that I wouldn’t…that I…” 

You watch as he crumbles. 

“Wouldn’t what?” you finally ask, voice dry. 

“I thought that I wouldn’t be able to give us a chance.” 

Your jaw tenses, breaking eye contact first as you shake your head in defeat. 

“There isn’t an us,” you sigh shakily. “Said so yourself.” 

“Oh, come on,” Neteyam scoffs, voice thick with tears. “Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” you argue, clutching your injured side as it pulses with every beat of your thundering heart. 

“Don’t—don’t give up on me yet,” he whispers. “Please.” 

Your expression crumples and his face falls as you knuckle your tears away angrily. 

“You’re cruel, Neteyam. So so cruel,” you murmur. “I am ashamed that you have my heart.” 

The words are spoken with a quiet vindication that makes Neteyam feel like his nerve endings are fraying. A singular tear arcs over the swell of your cheek and an ache roots in his gut. 

“Don’t say that,” he says, throat bobbing as he swallows the emotion threatening to bubble over. “I–” 

“Neteyam.” Your father’s voice is stern, the flap of the tent flipping as he reenters. 

Neteyam bites the inside of his lip as he spares you one last glance and your resolve dissipates when the broad expanse of his back faces you. 

You’d expected Neteyam taking his leave to be some semblance of closure for the two of you, as clean of a break as you could come to terms with now that any precarious ties that bound the two of you were severed. But you hadn’t anticipated the singular ember inside of Neteyam fanning to be engulfing and all-consuming. 

“I know you’re there,” you say simply, plucking the petals and leaves from the flora to tuck into the small pouch strung across your chest. 

He’d been following you all afternoon, lingering a safe distance away, but his eyes haven’t left your healing frame and what had initially been confusion began to bleed into annoyance. 

“Pay me no mind,” he says simply, emerging from the brush with a bow and quiver.

It’s been over a week since the sky people had infiltrated your corner of the forest and Neteyam hasn’t let you leave his sight once.

From the morning eclipse to the evening’s, Neteyam’s doted on you; shearing chunks of fruit, grinding down your herbs for your treatments, rewrapping your wound under Mo’at’s careful supervision. 

You’d asked him to give you a moment of peace in the forest alone, but it wasn’t long before you scented him, heard his labored breathing as he tried to keep up with you. 

You heed his word, stonewalling his presence like he’s nothing but another leaf stretching from the trees. And for a while, a long stretch of silence surrounds the two of you as you venture deeper and deeper into the forest. 

But before you know it, each one of your steps is exchanged like for like, his looming and muscular frame eclipsing you like a shadow as you try to ignore the fact that he’s drawing nearer. 

You turn on your heel to face him just as he settles a pace away, eyes clear and golden. 

“What?” you snip, taking a step back. 

He takes a step forward. 

“You should not overexert yourself,” he replies simply. 

“And what happened to paying you no mind?” 

His fingers brush your sore wound and your gaze flits to the way his fingertips ghost over the dressing wrapped around the expanse of your lower abdomen. 

The grin he gives you has many layers. You immediately decipher something sly, coy, as he searches your face. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he says quietly. “I want you to pay me all the mind.” 

Your expression is dry, eyes rolling as you step away from him. You’re swatting his palm away and shaking your head like a final warning. 

“You don’t get to flirt with me after all this time,” you say, blanketing the semi-tense air with a cover of finality. “And you shouldn’t. There is no longer an obligation for us to be within vicinity of each other.” 

You sound so cold, like you hadn’t spent the past decade pining after him in your own weird way. Like you hadn’t turned a blind eye when he found comfort in hopeful women despite wearing your heart on your oddly-stitched sleeve. Hadn’t been so willing to spend forever with him.

“You cannot dictate the turn of my heart,” Neteyam argues. 

The look you give him could instill fear in even the most intimidating predators. 

“You’d go to great lengths to quell a guilty conscience?” you ask. “Do not forget that forever is a long time. If nothing about our union piques your interest now, do not count on anything in the future.” 

You’re feeling for buttons to push, tender spots that will make him let up, but Neteyam isn’t easily swayed. He doesn’t know if he loves you now, but the last few weeks make certain that he will. He isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s falling fast and hard.  

“You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily, yawne.” 

The nickname makes you freeze, makes your eyes narrow as you glare up at the future olo’eyktan. 

“Don’t be insufferable, Neteyam.” 

“Duties be damned, I’ll spend every remaining moment doing right by you,” he says, fingers threading through yours so that he can bring your knuckles to his lips. 

Your heart wavers and he sees the way the curtain falls, eyes a fraction softer. 

He grins, tugging you closer. Moves your hair over your shoulder then skims his fingers along the sharpness of your jaw. 

It draws a shiver from you as you shift nervously, gaze fluttering from his eyes to the plush of his mouth. 

“Stop,” you whisper meekly. “We–”

“You’re mine, you hear me?” His voice is raw, edge melting away. “Union or no union. It’s always going to be you and me.” 

neng © 2023

But there are moments when you truly think he sees you. When you cross paths during clan meals, and the smallest of smiles twitches in his lips when you cut fruit and he's the first you offer to. When it's time to train to shoot your bows and he adjusts your form with a brief brush of his fingers on your elbow. When all of the older healers are unavailable and he shyly peeks his head into your tent for a quick patch up.

Nevermind the small tells stored in your short-term, but the little slivers of time when you were both growing into yourselves. When you were seven and he'd carried you to the elders when you hurt yourself. When some of the older kids in the clan would pick on you for keeping to yourself and he'd tell them that it was unbecoming and cowardly to pick on someone weaker than them. When he picked a flower during a group excursion into the deep depths of the forest and stuck the glowing stem in your satchel.

You had fallen so hard for Neteyam and your only hope is that he'd be at the end of the fall to catch you.

“You're not listening, ________!” Tuk whines and you look up from the scrolls you unfurled from the basket moments before she walked in.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I have a lot on my mind.”

There's a small giggle from somewhere else in the tent and you peer from Tuk to Kiri who beads an anklet on her own.

“Yeah, like big brother,” Tuk teases, turning her attention back to her own beadwork.

Kiri's face splits into a grin.

“You've been lost in thought a lot more recently,” she observes. “Could Tuk be correct?”

You don't bother to deny it, the obvious flush in your cheeks a dead giveaway. Kiri's always been perceptive and the more you fight her on it, the longer she'll draw it out.

“I think it's worth a shot,” Kiri says. “Neteyam’s always had a soft spot for you.”

It's a million degrees hotter in the tent.

“You don't have to do that,” you say quietly, slouching in your seat.

“Do what?” Kiri challenges.

“Pretend I have a chance.”

Kiri makes a face.

“You do!” she argues. “Neteyam's just shy.”

You're silent for a moment, fingers twitching over a tear in the scroll. You want to believe her, tell her that you think it could be worth a shot, too. But you scent him before you hear him, and then you hear him before you see him.

Four blue fingers wiggle in the tent's opening before Neteyam is poking his head inside.

“Tuk? Kiri?” his voice rumbles. “Ready?”

Kiri glances at you as she stands to her feet and begins gathering her things. Her eyebrows do a little dance, eyes widening as she tilts her head discreetly to her brother.

“I'll see you,” you say quietly, patting Tuk on the back of her leg as she drops her finished anklet in your lap and giggles at you.

You follow their movements as they exit the tent through where Neteyam holds the flap open for them patiently.

He simply lifts a hand as a silent greeting and you wait until they're out of sight and earshot to expel the breath you'd been holding and slump down on your pillow.

In hindsight, you should have been more careful. Neteyam was a skillful hunter, the tribe's best warrior after his father. It's only normal that he'd be in the dense forest when you were plucking flowers and herbs for your salves, speaking quietly to Eywa about your concerns.

“Please, Great Mother,” you whisper, the woodsprites caressing the skin of your arms. "Please give me a sign, any form of motivation to be brave about my feelings."

The grass below your toes lights up and tickles the pads of your fingers as you pluck the glowing flowers.

There's a trail of them, purple and pink, and you pluck and pluck and pluck until you're led to the mouth of a clearing.

Something salty and tangy circles your figure and like usual, you scent him before you see him. When your gaze latches onto his lithe figure, you grin a little, lips parting to announce yourself. This must be your sign, of how vast and great the forests are surrounding your looming home tree, it must be fate that you stumble upon him at this hour.

But his name dies on your tongue when he shifts and you see the silhouette of another pressed to his side.

It's another Omaticaya girl, pretty and tall. You'd know her anywhere, the waves of her thick hair, the tinkle of her dainty laugh. But she is fierce all the same, far from perfect, but gritty enough that it doesn't matter.

Te'feyra draws a bow and one of Neteyam's hands come up to adjust her front grasp, fingers closing over hers and the arrow.

“Steady hands to make up for the recoil,” he says softly and your heart is in your throat.

He's engulfing her as she takes her aim and sends the arrow flying through the air.

Somewhere unknown to you, the arrow sticks its landing and Te'feyra jumps excitedly, pressing her lips to Neteyam's briefly.

You back away from the clearing, eyes burning as you fist the flowers so hard they wilt in your hands. A twig snaps underneath your weight and from your distance, you see the glow of Neteyam and Te'feyra's eyes through the brush.

You take off running without a single word, and despite your stomach tearing itself to ribbons, you thank Eywa for the clarity.

“Something's wrong,” Kiri says to you days later.

Instead of the tent, you two are sitting on opposing branches of a thick tree, observing the flora and fauna of your corner of the forest. You decide that you need some time away from the bustle of the clan's circle and venture off into the opposite side of the woods.

“Why do you say?” you wonder, scribbling onto one of your scrolls.

“You're naturally quiet, I get that, but the past few days, I feel like I've been in the presence of the dead,” she sighs, staring down at you from the branch above. “And Ewya's given me the feeling that all may not be well with you.”

You lick your teeth, then roll your lips nervously.

“I told you Neteyam didn't like me,” you admit.

Kiri's eyebrows furrow.

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw him,” you sigh, fiddling with your pen. “In the forest with Te'feyra. She kissed him.”

Kiri curses under her breath.

“This is stupid,” she huffs. “He's just being stupid. Neteyam likes you and I'm going to prove it.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Kiri's already jumping down from the branches of the tree and dragging you with her through the darkening forest.

“Kiri, this isn't necessary,” you finally pipe up. “It's okay if the feeling isn't mutual, I never expected it to be.”

Kiri stops in her tracks and her pinched face softens, braids swinging by the set of her jaw.

“________, we all grew up together,” she says softly. “I know my brother, and I know you. You two belong together, I feel it.”

You swallow around nothing, allowing her to drag you through the forest and back into the clan's main circle.

“Hey, Kiri! ________, where are you two headed off to in such a rush?” one of the elders calls from where they're working on tools.

Kiri smiles politely.

“Very important business,” she replies quickly, fingers tightening around your wrist to pull you across the grass.

You stop in front of their family's hometree and Kiri guides you through vines and steep inclines before pausing in front of their family's tent.

Lo'ak's voice sounds from within, whiny and irritated.

“Bro, are you being serious right now?” he squeaks and Neteyam grunts, obviously bored.

“Frankly, Lo'ak this has nothing to do with you,” he says.

“Dude, yes it does,” Lo'ak argues. “You've inadvertently involved everyone in this affair because you won't get your head out of your ass for three seconds and just admit that you like her.”

“I don't like, ________,” he says simply and Kiri freezes in front of you.

You chew the inside of your cheek, fingers twitching in Kiri's loosened hold.

“Who are you trying to convince?” Lo'ak moans. “You're really going to commit to Te'feyra even though you have no interest in her?”

“Te'feyra is a great huntress,” Neteyam says simply. “She's well-loved, a strong leader. What's there not to like?”

“________ is all of those things,” Lo'ak says. “She's a talented healer, always patches you up when you get yourself in trouble. The clan loves her, Tuk and Kiri love her, Mom and Dad love her.”

“The clan barely knows that ________ exists,” Neteyam says and you wince.

Kiri makes a move to infiltrate the heated conversation, but you put a hand on her shoulder and shake your head.

“Dude, that's low,” Lo'ak scoffs in disbelief.

“________ is a sweet girl, but she's weak. She's hollow and does what she's told. I wouldn't want to spend my life bonded to someone so passive,” Neteyam says plainly and Lo'ak lets out an exasperated hiss.

“You're kidding right? ________ is amazing,” Lo'ak challenges. “She's quiet, but she's caring. She's resilient and intelligent and anyone would be lucky to be bonded to someone like her, your stupid ass included.”

“Maybe you should focus more on training for your rite rather than trying to play matchmaker,” Neteyam says, showing the first signs of annoyance.

“You just won't admit that for the first time you're scared,” Lo'ak finally says.

Everything seems to still and Lo'ak presses on.

“Everyone loves you, you're the clan's golden child and you can do no wrong. You like ________ so much, but you're afraid that you'll let her down,” Lo'ak says fiercely. “But you don't realize that being a pussy about your feelings is the ultimate let down!”

“You'd know a lot about being a let down, wouldn't you,” Neteyam grumbles.

There's a split second of silence before Neteyam lets out a loud grunt of pain. The flap to their tent flies open and Lo'ak freezes before you and Kiri.

His eyes meet yours and his gaze softens before stalking past.

Neteyam stands stunned in the middle of the tent, lip bruised and bleeding. His gaze swings to the arch way, face falling when he finds you standing behind his younger sister.

“Wanna go swimming?” Tuk asks you the next evening, after dinner.

You smile down at her weakly, heart melting when she pets your hand. You can't deny her, nodding gently as you stand from where you're sitting on the outer circle of the scattered clan.

“Carry me?” she asks sweetly.

You heave her up with a grunt and she grins at you, playing with one of the braids in your hair. Her small fingers caress the skin of your cheek and you blink when she ghosts over your eyelid.

“Pretty,” she whispers, head nestling on your shoulder.

“I think you're prettier,” you tell her, readjusting her growing form as you walk through the brush, towards the rush of the waterfall.

You don't realize that there's a set of eyes on you, watching as you disappear through the trees with Tuk.

The cliff that houses the waterfall towers above you two in a semicircle, the water rippling gently as Tuk squirms from your grasp and splashes through the shallow pool.

“Stay close, Tuk,” you coo, toes wiggling through the pebbles washed up on the tiny shore.

“I've been practicing!” Tuk tells you. “Wanna see how long I can hold my breath under water?”

“Stay in shallow waters,” you advise her, wading into the pool until you're waist deep.

Tuk dramatically inhales and then sinks down under the surface. Something cracks in the distance and you glance around, met with the stillness of the forest and the chirp of bugs.

When you turn your attention back to Tuk, you smile fondly as you wait for her to emerge, counting the seconds diligently to report to her chubby cheeks.

Fifteen pass, then thirty. Your smile begins to fade as your arms feel around in the water around you.

“Tuk?” you call out, chest tightening when you're met with the subtle rush of the glittering cascade from the waterfall up above.

You push forward in the water until your chin touches the surface.

“Tuktirey!” you shout, thrashing around the pool, searching for her tiny frame through the illumination. “Tuk!”

Your toes lose purchase as the water deepens and you begin to panic without the youngest Sully in sight. You turn when you hear a splash, Tuk giggling on the shore.

Your stomach churns hard and Tuk's face falls when she sees your panicked expression.

“Tuk, I-I can't swim well!” you cry out, legs flailing as you splash through the water. You try to dig your toes in the earth below, but you're just shy of the mark.

Tuk looks scared on the shore, fidgeting as she looks around desperately.

“You're too deep, ________!” Tuk whines, voice laced with tears.

Your legs ache, head lolling under the water for a moment before you emerge with a splutter.

“Get– Go get help!” you instruct her, feeling your calves begin to burn as you try to keep yourself afloat. You don't know how long you'll be able to tread water. “I'll be okay, little one. Hurry!”

Tuk turns, picking up her satchel as she makes way for the path you took. When she's out of sight, you fall slack, chest heaving as you try to use your skinny arms to paddle at the water.

Meanwhile, Tuktirey runs through the forest, tears spilling down her rounded cheeks as she trips over sprawling roots and nudges low-hanging vines from the pathway.

She skids to a stop when Neteyam, who had finally worked up the nerve to excuse himself from dinner, comes into view.

He turns when he hears her wailing, face scrunching when he registers his youngest sibling's anguish.

“Tuk, wha—”

She grabs at his hands, tugging him towards the path to the waterfall.

“________ needs help!” she cries. “She can't swim!”

Neteyam's ears prick at the mention of your name, scooping up his youngest sibling in his arms before breaking into a sprint through the brush of the brightening forest. The woodsprites begin to emerge and he barrels into the clearing of the waterfall breathlessly.

It's still, like it's been untouched and his heart hammers nervously in his chest, eyes searching the pool for any sign of you.

He's setting Tuk down quickly before splash desperately into the water.

“_______!” he calls.

He ducks underneath the surface, eyes open wide as he searches for you. And there you are, body slack as you sink slowly to the bottom of the rocky pool.

He dives forward, lungs burning as he cuts through the waters with lean arms. His fingers circle one of your wrists, the other hand winding around your waist as he propels you two up above the water. He chokes on a breath, hand coming up to touch your face.

Your head lolls to the side, eyes shut as Neteyam holds you close.

“Neteyam!” Te'feyra calls from the shore, having followed him after being rebuffed during dinner.

Kiri and Lo'ak are close behind, eyes wide when they see their eldest brother wading quickly through the waters with your unconscious form in his arms.

“Neteyam,” Te'feyra repeats, hand coming to grasp his bicep.

“Not now,” he grunts, tugging his arm from her grasp to march through the brush of the forest.

Woodsprites surround you two as he takes you back to the village, a silent plea to the Great Mother not to take you away weighing heavy on his lips.

You awake to a shining sun and a wet towel on your head. You squint against the beaming light and sit up abruptly as the prior night dawns you like a swift strike to the gut.

“Whoa, wait, slow down,” a thick voice rumbles.

You scent him before you see him.

Neteyam's hands are on you, guiding you back to rest on the pile of pillows that had propped you up before.

You shoot up again anyways.

“Where's Tuk?” you ask anxiously.

“Tuk's fine,” Neteyam says. “She's eating breakfast with Kiri and Mom.”

You lean back in relief, eyes squeezing shut as you wheeze out a sigh.

His hands are on you again, gentle, warm as he takes the towel from your forehead and wipes your face to refresh you.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, hesitantly.

You pause a moment, but then nod.

“Yeah,” you affirm hoarsely. “M'fine.”

Neteyam just stares at you, yellow eyes unblinking and you know this isn't like one of those fleeting moments. He sees you and it makes your gut churn hard.

“I'll be okay here,” you say quietly. “You may have...someone, you know, waiting for you.”

Te'feyra's name is a silent implication and Neteyam doesn't look amused.

“I told them I would look after you until you're fully well,” he counters, wringing the towel into a bowl that sits next to the mound of blankets your rest on.

You fiddle with your fingers, fully disheartened because even in times like these, he remains the diligent leader-in-training that he is.

The air in the tent is think and you can't breathe.

“I'd like some air,” you whisper, crawling from the soft mat to climb to your feet shakily.

“You need to rest,” Neteyam says crossly, seemingly annoyed at your persistence to put as much distance as you can between the two of you.

You don't respond and finally he seems to burst.

“You can't swim and yet you still went after Tuk,” he calls after you like an accusation. “Why?”

You pause.

“Tuk is like a sister to me,” you say quietly. “I would never let anything happen to her.”

You make a move to exit the tent, but Neteyam's voice stops you in your tracks.

“You could have died,” he says quietly, and you can't place the emotion in his voice.

“I'd do it again,” you admit, craning your neck to face him. “I'm not that weak.”

Neteyam's face falls and you duck from the tent.

Neteyam becomes restless after that moment. He loses his focus, agility taking a hit as he hunts one on one with his father.

He goes to shoot another arrow, but Jake stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Neteyam, I know I can be hard on you,” he starts. “But I’m always here.”

“Yes sir,” Neteyam nods.

“Something’s bothering you,” Jake observes. “You’re not yourself. You’re losing focus.”

Neteyam swallows.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, head hanging.

His braids form a curtain around his face and Jake gives his shoulder a squeeze.

“Son?”

Neteyam swallows again, head tilting up to look is dad in the face.

“I don’t want to be with Te’feyra,” he admits quietly.

Jake's lips twitch.

“Well I could have told you that,” Jake scoffs, the corner of his lips twitching into a soft smile. “You look about as dead as a washed up fish when she’s around.”

Neteyam recalls the kiss she’d given him nights ago and how he'd internally recoiled, body stiff under her touch.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“Why are you sorry?” Jake prods.

“Because I know Te’feyra is who the clan wants me to be with, who is my most suitable match,” he says. “I just— I don't want to let you down.”

Jake gives him an impish grin.

“Neteyam, let me give you a word of advice. There are things in this world that are suited well for each other; you and Te'feyra are one of those things. But your heart and your mind are the two most powerful things about you,” he says. “You will not be punished for giving into your heart.”

Neteyam thinks of you. He thinks of your face, the lines of your timid smile, the idents that dimple your cheeks. He thinks of your touch when he's wounded, gentle and expert, warm against his skin. He thinks of your voice, airy, soft, a low rasp.

He thinks of when he'd called you weak. Of your face, wounded and hurt. He's stricken in this moment as he realizes that strength doesn't have to be audacious. It can be quiet, small acts that become mighty.

Tuk had told him about the waterfall, how she'd wanted to pull your leg a little. You'd accepted your fate if Ewya deemed it time, you'd even sent the youngest away in the chance you wouldn't surface.

You were far from weak. Your strength ran nearly as deep as the roots of Ewya herself, yet you'd taken the criticism in stride. Let Neteyam paint you as a coward, a pushover with no spine.

“I think there’s someone you need to clear the air with,” Jake says after a few moments of silence. “She should be in her tent.”

Neteyam's hands are clammy. It's been nearly a week since he'd last seen you. You'd reserved to spending time inside of your tent to brush up on your studies and refine your work. He'd catch glimpses of you, but you were used to blending in the background and Neteyam's used to overlooking you.

Was he being presumptuous? Maybe you only admired him as a warrior. Or perhaps it was a duty to the clan to revere him. He feels sick to his stomach thinking of confronting you. But Lo'ak wouldn't try to convince him of his own feelings if it wasn't mutual, would he?

And when had the feelings become mutual? He's recently began to think that perhaps he'd always liked you because you were the only one who didn't actively vie for his affection. Who only saw him as Neteyam, an equal, not Neteyam, the Olo’eyktan's son.

Maybe it was whenever he'd see you wandering in the forest during his hunting trips, murmuring to yourself as you picked herbs and flowers for you studies. Or maybe when he'd spot you still high on the branches of the lofty trees with a tablet of paper and ink. Maybe it was when you'd smile at him shyly when he'd adjust your form during archery and it'd melt his insides. Or when you two were little and he'd plucked flowers for everyone and you were the only one who'd smiled at it sticking out of your satchel.

If he recalls correctly, it's pressed to a scroll hanging in your tent and that alone makes his heart race.

Maybe you two are inevitable and he'd only prolonged it because of his own fears.

“Neteyam!”

Te’feyra steps in his line of sight, standing before him and the hometree that houses your tent. He glances away when she stops in front of him.

“Te’feyra,” he greets cordially.

“I haven't seen you since the incident with ________,” she says. “Are you alright?”

Neteyam nods.

“Never better,” he says simply.

“After dinner we should–”

He spots you, satchel thrown over your shoulder. You glance his way momentarily, but scurry in the direction of your tent when you lock eyes with him.

“If you will excuse me, please,” he says politely, extricating himself from Te’feyra to follow after you.

He catches up to you right outside of your tent.

“________!” he calls.

You freeze almost imperceptibly, but continue on your way, climbing the flattened incline spiraling around the center of the hometree.

“________,” he murmurs, fist closing around your skinny bicep.

You jolt to a stop, golden eyes razor sharp as you glance down at him. Your fist is wrapped tight around the strap of the satchel, knuckles stretched taut.

“Neteyam,” you reply softly. “Yes?”

He opens his mouth to say something, but finds that his tongue weighs heavy behind his lips.

“If you seek help, there are elders available for healing,” you inform him, making a move to remove your arm from his grasp.

He instinctively tightens his grasp and you shift uncomfortably.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says quietly, pulling away. “I just want to speak with you.”

A few beats pass as you blink at him.

“Well?”

“Oh,” he swallows. “Can I come in?”

You turn to face the flap of your tent before craning your long neck over your shoulder to nod.

“Sure,” you agree, holding the hide open to let him in.

You step in after him, table scattered with mixtures of finely-pounded dust, scrolls of research and bundles of materials.

You set your satchel down and begin unloading your finds from you excursion.

Meanwhile, Neteyam paces nervously, trailing the circumference of your tent, eyes flitting every which way to take in every piece of you.

A thick silence envelops you and you clear your throat when the satchel is empty.

“You wanted to talk?” you ask, watching as he stops in front of a scrolled tacked to one of the beams.

It's the pressed flower he'd given to you all that time ago as children. It's central in the room, catching the sun so beautifully and Neteyam uses this as the last bit of courage he needs to continue.

“You kept it,” he says, voice shaky.

“Of course,” you say simply, picking through your different finds. “You gave it to me.”

Neteyam turns, looks you head on and he feels his resolve crumbling.

“You like me,” he says bluntly, afraid that if he beats around the bush, he'll cop out.

“Everyone does,” you deflect.

Neteyam's jaw locks.

“No, ________, you like me,” he repeats.

You feel small, sorting the petals by color, fingers nimble against the soft grain of the wooden tabletop.

“Presumptuous,” you hum, unable to meet his piercing gaze.

“________,” he presses.

You bite your lip, tears clouding your vision as your fingers begin to trembling through the sorting. He's being so unfair and he doesn't even know it.

“Why?” you ask shakily.

“What do you mean why?” Neteyam counters, voice taking on the same edge he did with his brother days prior and he'd interrogated him about you.

“Why are you doing this?” you croak, and he hears the tears in your voice.

He's across the floor before you can blink.

“Are you crying?” he asks, shocked.

“Why do you want me to say it so badly?” you choke, poor petals strangled in your vibrating fist. “Is it not enough? To know that I yearn for you silently? That everyone pities me because my heart belongs to someone who's already spoken for?”

Neteyam is stunned.

“I like you, Neteyam. I always have,” you say, voice raw with emotion. “It's my biggest defeat to say I always will. Is that what you want to hear?”

Your eyes are tinged red and his throat feels stuffed with cotton.

“I've always admired you,” you say quietly, between hiccuping breaths. “But I didn’t know you could be so cruel.”

Neteyam winces, every word he’d practiced earlier, completely obliterated from his short term. He knows he should just tell you, tell you that his heart yearns for yours, too. That he'd been too blinded by his impending duty to feel the full effects of what a first love could be like.

“You should go,” you say when he's silent.

You brush your tears away and pat your cheeks dry with the back of your hands as you carefully set the wilted flowers the the edge of the table.

“I–”

“Neteyam, spare me, please.”

“I don’t want to,” he finally says.

Your eyebrows furrow, eyes swollen as you gaze at him unjaded. Who he believed to be so stoic and passive now baring every possible inch to him.

“You're–”

“I don't want to be with Te'feyra,” he finally spits, fists clenched. “I won't be with her.”

Your gaze softens, lips parting to ask what's gotten into him, but he cuts you off.

“You,” he answers firmly, before the question clings in the air. “It’s you. I want to be with you.”

"Stop," you whisper, shaking your head furiously. You take a step away from where he's quickly closing in on you. “Don't–”

He pauses mid-stride and the expression on his handsome face is absolutely devastating. His chest rises and falls shakily and you take a moment to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice it before,” he says desperately, “I was scared and didn't fully realize it, but I do now.”

“That’s unfair,” you hiccup. “This isn't just on your terms. You can’t— you can’t just tell me you like me and expect me to be with you.”

These passing moments are the most he’s ever heard you speak, and he’s afraid that he's severely underestimated you. It doesn’t taste so sweet now that he’s faced with the reality of things.

“You will be the future leader of this clan,” you continue. “That is a great responsibility that you've prepared for your entire life. Who you decide to be with is a permanent fixture that cannot be undone.”

“I know, I know,” he assures you.

“You find it in your heart pity me, Neteyam,” you breathe quietly. “But do you really want to be bonded to someone passive and weak?”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you've squared your shoulders, stomach caving and expanding with a deep breath. You turn to your prior task.

“You should go,” you repeat. “Duty calls.”

“What do you mean you need help?” Kiri asks incredulously, eyes widened at her older brother.

“________,” Neteyam says. “She's icing me out.”

Kiri's face melts in relief and she scoffs a laugh.

“Do you blame her?”

“Kiri!” he pleads.

Kiri stops her movements, falling back on her haunches to meet Neteyam's desperate gaze. It's so unlike him, being uncertain, nervous. He's picked up the habit of fiddling his fingers and Kiri snorts to herself.

“Actions,” she says simply.

“Huh?” he vocalizes.

“Words mean nothing to ________ if your actions don't support them,” she says. “This entire time you've acted so lukewarm towards her. Of course she won't believe you when you decide to acknowledge that you love her.”

Neteyam's throat bobs as he stares down at his sister.

“And how will I do that?” he presses.

Kiri shrugs.

“Not so mighty warrior now, are we?”

As the days progress, you begin to grasp at finally coming to terms with the tattered remains of what's left of you and Neteyam's frayed relationship. Your heart hasn't stonewalled him completely, but the yearning for him has dulled to a slight ache.

His eyes are piercing every moment you share the same vicinity. Kiri would even try to argue you that it's longing, but Neteyam's a slave to his honor and you aren't convinced.

“You should pity the poor boy,” an elder tells you as you cut up ingredients for the evening's dinner.

You pause, fingers tightening around the handle of the knife. You roll your lips together before briefly meeting her gaze, warm under firelight.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deflect, clearing your throat.

She laughs, peeling a purple fruit.

“Neteyam,” she says forwardly. “Hasn’t taken his eyes off you in who knows how long. Will you continue to let him suffer?”

You want to argue that it's you who's suffering. That the heart that beats inside the hollow of your ribcage feels like it'll tear in two every time you recall the venom in Neteyam's voice when he'd called you weak.

“I doubt his suffering has anything to do with me,” you say instead. “We are only acquaintances.”

The elder laughs again.

“Is that why he's been pestering the elders for input on how to sway your heart?”

Your head shoots up from where you've focused on the fine cuts of vegetables.

“What?”

“He’s been slacking on his duties, instead poking around the elders and villagers trying to pry information about you,” she says. “Heard him muttering about what kind of flowers you like.”

“It will take more than flowers to sway my heart,” you mumble.

“So you admit that there's something there, hmm?”

Your cheeks heat, caught like a fish in warm waters.

“I–”

“I'd argue that Neteyam’s liked you longer than you've liked him,” the elder says simply.

You bite.

“Why do you say that?”

“He's always asked Eywa for courage, and it seems like she gave you as an answer.”

The elder climbs to her feet, leaving you near the open flame. You open your mouth to call out to her, but the scent of salt and leaves envelops you before you can say anything.

You crane your neck and find Neteyam a few paces from you.

“Do you have a few moments?” he asks politely.

You want to say no, tell him that you'd offered him an infinite amount of moments that he'd spent building bridges between the two of you, but if he's a slave to his honor, you're bound by heart.

“Okay,” you say hesitantly, abandoning your task.

He holds his hand out for you to take and your fingers slide across his warm palm as he pulls you to your feet. Once he secures your hold in his, he tugs you along.

You don't know where he's taking you, or what he could possibly want with your time, but you feel a thousand times more nervous than ever now that the tangled web of your feelings drapes the both of you.

After a few moments of rugged silence, climbing through bushes and brush, he punctures the quiet.

“Are you well?” he asks.

“Yes,” you answer after a moment. “You?”

“Truthfully?” he responds, pausing to face you. You realize his hand still engulfs yours. “No.”

“No?” you parrot shakily.

“No,” he affirms. “I've been hurting actually.”

Your eyebrows furrow.

“You should seek help if you have an ongoing–”

“Here,” he says, the hand still caught in his being guided to lay flat against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering behind his ribcage. “It hurts here.”

You swallow, pulling away from his grasp when you realize his insinuation.

“Don’t,” you warn.

He breathes a shaky sigh before taking a step towards you. He's corded muscle and warmth as his palm comes to cradle your jaw. Your bottom lip twitches as you stare up at him.

“It’s always been you,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your chin as his eyes map every curve of your face. “I think I’ve always known it deep down, but...”

Your hand comes up to meet his, gently prying his touch away.

“Neteyam,” you sigh. “Had the last few days unfolded differently, I don't think you'd been saying this now.”

“Maybe not now,” he agrees. “But one day, I would. I know I would. Because when I recall every fond moment, you’re there. No matter how close to the background you get, you’re always there.”

You look skeptical, and Neteyam knows he's losing you. So he digs in the small knapsack he has slung over his broad shoulders and pulls out something thin.

When he holds it up with shaky fingers, your breath catches in your throat. Strung through the taut brown of tree vine is a line of beads identical to the one that he wears on a braid tucked behind his ear. Upon closer inspection, you notice the blue and purple beads formed to create your favorite flowers.

“Wha—”

“Until you decide you want to be mine,” he says, voice trembling nervously as he takes your arm and gently slides the band up until it fits snuggly around your bicep. “So that you remember I'm always yours.”

Your voice is caught in your throat as he brings your fingers up to his lips.

“I won’t push you,” he says when he realizes your words have evaded you. “But I’ll wait for you.”

“Neteyam–”

He simply smiles at you, golden eyes shy as he takes a step back to admire his handiwork. He seems satisfied, triumphant, when you eye the band but make no moves to remove it.

“I’ll wait for you,” he repeats, giving your fingers a squeeze before running off.

“He did what?” Lo’ak shrills a week later.

The younger three Sully's had hunted you down and brought you to the clearing dedicated to archery training.

Slender fingers wrap around your wrist and elbow to turn your arm to examine the band with wide eyes.

You can’t help but smile gently to yourself, watching the way the sun catches the reflection of the pearlescent beads and reflects them brightly.

“I knew that dummy was planning something,” Kiri grumbles. You bite your lip when she meets your gaze. “Well?”

“Well what?” you ask, arm still in Lo’ak’s grasp.

He twists playfully and your laugh glitters in the air.

"Are you going to put my knucklehead brother out of his misery or what?" Kiri hisses, arm drawing to shoot a arrow that stabs the target about a centimeter too left.

Tuk giggles as she runs up to the target to examine the damage.

“Yeah, please do, he's in love and it's disgusting,” Lo'ak grumbles, still eyeing the cuff.

Your heart skips at the mention of love, cheeks going warm when both Kiri and Lo'ak notice how you've gone quiet. They begin laughing, dealing you playful punches.

“Stop that,” you scold, swatting their hands away. “I haven’t given him an answer yet.”

“Oh, get real!” Kiri huffs. “You are so in love, you know you'll say yes.”

“Please put me out of my misery,” Lo'ak moans. “I'm tired of being his therapist because he's a little bitch.”

“Lo'ak,” you warn, eyes narrowing.

He giggles and Kiri stifles a laugh as you flounder, cheeks blooming under the siblings' teasing.

“You are both so awful,” you say petulantly, arms crossing one over the other. “How are you so sure I’ll return his feelings?”

It's Kiri's turn to groan, eyes rolling.

“Sure enough that I know if I let you in on a little secret, it'll light a fire under your ass,” she says seriously.

Your spine goes rigid, arms loosening as you wait with bated breath.

“Neteyam may choose you, but if you don’t choose him back quickly enough, someone could swoop in and claw that chance from you,” she shrugs.

Te'feyra's name is an ugly insinuation and something green coils its way into the pit of your stomach as you recall the chaste kiss she'd pressed to Neteyam's lips all those nights ago in the forest.

“Gears turning?” Lo'ak lilts.

They definitely are and suddenly you feel small, digging your big toe into the dirt to drag lines through the forest floor. You nod hesitantly, band suddenly tight around your bicep.

In your ruminating, Lo'ak and Kiri pass a knowing glance.

“Well?” Lo'ak prods.

You fidget, rattling with nerves.

“I suppose...”

Lo'ak sighs and his hands come down on your shoulders to steer you through the clearing.

“Where are we going?” you squeak.

“To put everyone out of their misery,” Lo'ak huffs.

The forest seems way more alive than usual, glowing so bright it almost overpowers the sun. Woodsprites gather around as Lo'ak nudges you through the thick foliage and you can't help but think about the sweet smile that curled on Neteyam's lips as he assured you that he was yours. All yours.

The fire crackles in the distance and you know that the morning meal is in the works when voices roar quietly meters away.

Neteyam sits near the center, surrounded by elders and the dreaded girl.

Te'feyra's obliterated every single centimeter of space available, nearly melded to his side as the elders talk animatedly over the two.

You want to turn back, uncertainty vice-like, but Lo'ak squeezes your shoulders as a silent plea. Not even a moment passes before Neteyam peels himself away and begins putting distance between them.

When Te'feyra gives him a curious glance, he gives her an uneasy smile.

“Be courageous, ________,” Lo'ak encourages. “You're one of the strongest people I know.”

With a final pat on the back, he pushes you towards the circle and the sudden movement catches everyone's gaze.

“________,” one of the elders calls fondly.

You smile and bow your head, fingers twitching at your sides.

“Hello,” you greet quietly, eyes swooping hesitantly to Neteyam who rises to his feet, already watching you intently.

That's when you notice it, the choker fastened around his throat. The vine is identical to yours, but it's strung with a line of beads that mirror the ones woven into a singular braid at the nape of your neck.

You hadn't realized that he'd noticed it all this time, but it's the ultimate confirmation that Neteyam sees you. And when he notices that you notice, he smiles softly.

The elders notice as well, drawing the link between your arm band and the necklace that Neteyam wears, now that you two stand opposite each other.

“May I borrow Neteyam for a moment?” you ask politely.

The same elder you prepared with the evening prior gleams a wide smile when Neteyam takes a step towards you, fingers brushing delicately with yours.

Te'feyra remains seated, lips twitching as her gaze flits between the two of you.

“By all means,” one of them says. “Take your time.”

You bow your head again, heart thudding when Neteyam's fingers twine with yours and he lets you drag him out of the circle and deeper into the forest.

When you deem that no prying eyes or ears surround you, you stop, Neteyam bumping softly into your back. The hair on the back of your neck bristle when he makes no moves to extricate himself from you, simply moving your braids from your face to reveal the string of beads tucked near the nape of your neck.

“You needed me?” he whispers, fingers still ghosting the skin of shoulder.

You swallow, squeezing your eyes shut as you relish the moment. Your fingers are still locked and for a fleeting second, you pretend that it's always been like this, the two of you.

“I am nothing extraordinary,” you start, and Neteyam's fingertips pause at your elbow.

“I'd argue differently,” he responds.

“I value time alone and I get overwhelmed often,” you continue.

“We all have our moments,” is his rebuttal as the hand covering yours squeezes gently.

You sigh.

“I could—”

Neteyam turns you and you're met with the the choker, beads glinting under the light. Your eyes drag up the column of his strong neck, flit past his soft lips and finally lock with his searing gaze.

“You can try all you want to run me off,” Neteyam laughs quietly, cupping your jaw. “But I'm not scared anymore.”

Your expression is skeptical and Neteyam decides to bite the bullet. He's closing in on you and your heart pounds violently in your chest.

“Neteyam,” you whisper weakly, hand coming up to his chest.

He traps your fingers against his heart, lips slotting between yours before you can protest some more.

It's like the forest comes alive around you, grass tickling between your toes as you melt under his touch and lean up into his mouth.

His hands are everywhere at once, branding your cerulean skin as he kisses you like it's your last moments. There's no hesitation, no feeling it out, just his warm breath and his soft lips as he pulls you impossibly closer.

“I'll take you as you are at any moment,” he says breathlessly between kisses. “You just have to say you want me back, ________. Please.”

You nod, nose brushing against his as one of his palms splay at the small of your back and the other grabs your chin, pulling you back to plant another burning kiss on your lips.

“Say it,” he begs.

Your eyes begin to mist as you nod again eagerly, parting for a moment to whisper the words.

“I'm yours,” you hoarse, hands on either side of his neck. “I'm yours if you'll be with me.”

Neteyam simply kisses you again, a satisfied hum rumbling from his built chest.

“Fucking finally,” a whisper sounds from the brush.

A LIL' BONUS

“You think they would have figured it out on their own?” Lo'ak asks, wolfing down his food.

Kiri shrugs, feeding Tuk a piece of fruit from her wooden plate.

“Maybe,” she says, unable to suppress her proud grin. “Maybe not. They're both stupid."

“I think so,” Te'feyra laughs watching you and Neteyam fondly from across the fire. “They were a long time coming.”

an – thank you SO much if you've made it this far! again, leave a request or let's chat hehehe. up next is lo'ak so stay tuned! :)

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...

It starts with JJ’s favor, but it doesn’t stay that way.

The second time, you tell yourself you’re just helping out again due to moral obligation. By the third, you realize Rafe is expecting you, already sitting on the stool with his hand raised like you’re the one running the show.

By the fourth, he presses an envelope into your hand.

You blink. “What’s this?”

“Cut from the winnings,” he says casually, shrugging like it’s nothing. “Standard medic’s fee.”

You frown. “There’s no such thing for these street fights.”

“There is now.” His grin is lazy, lips split and bleeding, and he has the audacity to add, “Don’t worry, I’m good for it.”

You open the envelope later... too much money. More than your rent. More than your textbooks. You almost march back and refuse, but something about the way he looked at you when he handed it over stops you. Like he was daring you to say no. Like he needed you to take it.

So you do.

And suddenly, it’s a job. Your job.

You show up after every fight, kit already packed. You’ve got a system now: disinfect, stitch, tape, ice. Rafe always tries to wave you off when you press the cold pack to his wrists, muttering something about “not a big deal,” but you don’t let him win that argument.

“It keeps the swelling down,” you remind him, stern but quiet, sliding the pack into place. “Unless you like losing your hands, Cameron.”

He just watches you, smirk tugging even as his eyes soften in a way you pretend not to notice.

Sometimes he slips extra bills into your bag. Sometimes you find your grocery list mysteriously covered by a folded check with his messy scrawl: supplies. You hate it, but you can’t deny the relief when your bank app stops glaring red at you.

You convince yourself you’re doing this because you need the money. Because med school doesn’t pay, and someone has to cover textbooks and clinical fees.

But deep down, you know it’s not just the cash that keeps you coming back. It’s the ritual. The way his bravado always cracks when you’re the one holding him together. The way he lets you touch the parts of him that hurt, and never once pretends he doesn’t need it.

...

At first, it’s a joke. Rafe throws it around with a grin and a bloody lip, bragging to the other fighters like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“Yeah, that’s right. I got my own doctor. Personal. Full-time. Looks out for me.” “Don’t be jealous your corner ain’t half as smart as mine.” “Touch me wrong, she’ll stitch me up prettier than you.”

You roll your eyes every time, muttering, “I’m not your doctor, I’m a med student.” But he ignores you, grinning like he just named you and dared the world to argue.

It gets dicey the first time another fighter, one who just lost to Rafe, storms off the mat and catches you with your med kit in hand. He’s bleeding badly, and you can’t help yourself. You crouch down, steady hands already pressing gauze, murmuring, “Hold still, it’ll scar less this way.”

But Rafe sees it.

Sees the way you lean close, the way your hands skim over someone else’s jaw to steady their head. And it hits him like a sucker punch, harder than anything thrown in the ring. His chest burns with something ugly and hot, something he doesn’t want to name.

Later, when the guy mumbles a cocky little “Thanks, sweetheart” in your direction, Rafe doesn’t hesitate. He shoves the fighter back, jaw tight, eyes burning.

“She’s not here for you,” he snaps, voice low and sharp enough to cut.

The crowd barely has time to register before the bell rings again. And Rafe, reckless, furious Rafe, goes in harder than anyone’s ever seen him. Every punch lands heavy, sharp, fueled by the sight of you kneeling beside someone who wasn’t him.

You know. You know as you watch from the corner, ice pack forgotten in your lap, that he’s fighting for something else now. Not control. Not power. Not even the win.

He’s fighting for you.

And when he stumbles back into your hands afterward, bloody, shaking, stupidly grinning, you glare at him through your worry.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” you hiss, taping up his split knuckles.

Your father never explained why you had to move to the Outer Banks. One day you were packing up your life in your old town, stuffing your belongings into worn-out suitcases, and the next you were staring out the window of his truck as he drove past unfamiliar beaches and houses larger than anything you'd ever lived in. It was not your choice to leave, but you knew better than to question him.

What little you did know came in fragments. Late-night phone calls, where you heard him arguing about money with unknown people, his decision to lock all of the doors even when you were home, or the way he seemed to be nervous about other people getting too close to the two of you. 

And once you found a business card. It was creased and water-damaged, the edges curling up like it had been forgotten—or hidden. The name on it meant nothing to you, but the logo said Bayside Collections. A bank, maybe. When you asked him about it, his whole face changed. His jaw tensed, and he yanked the coat from your hand so fast it made you stumble, snapping at you to never touch his things again and mind your business. 

He was secretive, scared. That’s why he never let you make new friends, he never let you go anywhere after work, and you were forbidden from going out.  

Life in the Outer Banks wasn’t easy. You didn’t fit in with the Kooks, and you weren’t really one of the Pogues either. You kept to yourself, working whatever shifts you could find, even if your father still took all of your money, and making sure to never step out of line. Your father didn’t tolerate mistakes. If he came home angry, you made yourself small, kept the house clean, and stayed out of his way, locked up in your room when your heartbeat skyrocketing. But it never mattered because something would always set him off, and when he snapped, it finished badly.

Most of the time, his anger came in the form of words—harsh, cutting reminders that you were useless, that you should be grateful he hadn’t left you behind, that you were already too grown to be this dumb and still dependent on him, even though he was the one who tied you down to that pathetic excuse of a life. But sometimes, his grip on your wrist was too tight, his shoves were too hard, and he didn’t hesitate to slap you for “opening your mouth.”

You thought about running once. Just taking off and disappearing. But where would you go? You had no money, no plan, and basically no friends. And if he found you? You didn’t want to think about that. So you stayed, kept your head down, and avoided anything that could make him look at you the wrong way.

That was before you met Sarah, a damn sunlight trapped in a person, and other pogues who seemed to be the only people who were actually nice to you. You tried to keep your distance at first, afraid of what would happen if your father found out, but she wouldn’t let you. They knew what was happening in your family, seeing the signs of constantly appearing bruises and the way you seemed to be afraid of someone watching you, but they didn’t push, giving you time to open up naturally. 

You were careful, though. You never stayed out too late and never did anything that could get you in trouble, only once in a while skipping a shift just to feel normal with them. 

That night you hadn’t meant to go to the party, but it was too tempting—the way everyone talked about it, the way girls promised to help you get dressed and begged you to let it go for once, and how they, wanting to go there without guys, actually tried to include you—and you couldn’t say “no.” 

So you lied to your father. You practiced your speech for an hour, hoping that he would notice your trembling hands, and then made up a story about a late-night shift where you would get more money, and he, always eager to get more, waved you off.

You didn’t expect Sarah’s brother to be there. He and his friends had never been particularly nice to anyone, and it seemed that they enjoyed making trouble for your friends. Rafe himself, for some reason, awakened some feeling in you that you couldn’t quite understand. The way he was looking at you, curious, as if he couldn’t figure you out, was a bit unsettling, maybe because it was the first time you got any kind of attention from a guy, even if it wasn’t quite a positive one.

 You saw each other only occasionally when you visited his sister at Tanneyhill, always slightly catching him off guard with the way you shyly sat at one of the bar stools in the kitchen, looking so small as if you were afraid to even touch anything. You always looked fragile and cautious, and he couldn’t forget the first time he saw you in his house—the way you looked at him with your pretty, big eyes.

He would stand in the kitchen, carelessly sipping some soda, looking at you, enjoying the way you were squirming under his gaze, pretending to be interested in whatever was in front of you. Maybe it gave him some sense of power, or maybe he was actually enjoying looking at you, and it was something that he didn’t want to admit even to himself. You were still his sister's friend, basically a pogue, and Rafe Cameron didn’t do pogues. 

His thoughts were perplexing him, causing some weird feelings he refused to acknowledge, and instead he did what he used to—turned confusion into mockery, snide comments, and jokes.

So when the party was already dying down, when the kook trio suddenly felt the need to mess with your friends by actually calling the sheriff for whatever reason, you tried to run. You knew that you had to get home as soon as possible, and when Cleo and you were running towards the Twinkie, your mind was already spiraling with possible excuses for your father about the change of plans. But the universe seemed to have different ideas, sending you right into Rafe’s hands.

“Rafe, please.” You almost begged when you felt the weight of his hands around you, tugging you backwards. Your eyes were big and round, staring back at him in that pleading manner. He held your eye contact, and for a split second, you thought that they had softened and that maybe he would actually consider backing up. 

But then it shifted back to its usual appearance—cold, cocky, as if Rafe actually enjoyed seeing you behaving the way you did, the way you begged him. He knew that he couldn’t give it up now, not in front of his friends who were waiting for his sign, not when he already made such a big deal out of it. But such a thought was lingering at the back of his head at the sight of your desperate and scared eyes, and for the first time he didn’t feel the usual content of being the bad guy. 

“Please don’t do it.” You whispered so quietly, your voice seemed too broken even for your own ears.

“Call Shoupe, Kelce.” Rafe said calmly, and his friend obliged immediately, while your heart sank to your stomach. Sarah, Kie, and Cleo became as panicked as you were, all four of you looking at each other in desperation. 

“I can’t get caught. I can’t. Not right now.” Your voice cracked as you shook your head, the realization of what would happen suddenly settling in. Rafe looked at you curiously, slightly tilting his head to the side, as a hint of concern flashed in his eyes. 

But at the end of the day, you were just another Pogue, probably acting way too good to try to make him pity you and panicking over nothing. He shouldn’t care. Shouldn't even think about letting you go. But he did. 

He noticed the way his sister moved her head to the side, telling you something without any words. You looked between her and Rafe, your eyes darted down the street, and then you were running. 

Not quick enough, though. Rafe was hot on your heels, and he easily caught you before you could reach the main road or hide. He gripped you firmly by your upper arms, but not hard enough to hurt you, and held you close with your back firmly pressed to his chest when you two went back to the rest of them. You wiggled in his arms, tried to push him away, ignoring the way your body felt both flushed from closeness to him and pure terror of what he might do. 

“He’s gonna be here in a moment, and he has already called all of your parents.” Kelce points his phone at the girls and you, but if your friends just scoffed, then your shoulders and head lowered in defeat. Your throat tightened as the tears welled up in your eyes, knowing what was yet to come. 

You were not trying to get away from Rafe’s hold anymore, and he didn’t let you go either, knowing that you may try running again. He was observing your reaction, though he didn’t quite understand what was going on or why your friends were looking at you like that. Sure, they weren’t on good terms, constantly giving problems to each other, but never before had he seen such a disappointed and devastated look in his sister’s eyes. Her lips in a tight line, eyes burning holes in his head as if she was one second away from hitting him, but before he could think too much about it, the police car and your father’s truck parked not far away from your group, and you didn’t even lift your head, zoning out and focusing on your shoes. 

“Your parents are going to be here soon.” Shoupe said as he got out of the car, pointing at Kiara, who just rolled her eyes and scoffed. “And you’re going home with your brother.” He then told Sarah, who was equally annoyed. But you didn’t pay attention to any of it because you knew that your father was there and you had no escape this time. 

Your father was seething when he got out of the truck, carelessly leaving the door open and storming towards you, heavy boots hitting against the gravel with every hurried step. His eyes were zeroed in on you, and you felt it even if your own eyes were fixated on the ground. You felt cold sweat covering your skin just from hearing his hard footsteps. 

“Get in the fucking car. Now!” His loud voice cut the air, and everyone got even quieter than before, throwing confused looks at each other. He stopped a few feet away from you with his hands on his hips, licking his lips in a way that made it seem that he held back some words that he didn’t want others to hear. “Did you not hear me, girl?” He yelled again when you didn't move. Your head finally went up, and you subconsciously moved back into Rafe’s chest, seeking some kind of protection from the fire in your father’s eyes. 

Rafe’s hands tightened around your arms, and he felt a weird tugging feeling in his chest from your reaction. You were scared. Scared to the point that he, who was nothing but a pain in your ass, became a better option. Rafe’s mind was racing a hundred miles per hour, looking between you and your father, hearing your uneven breathing, and trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. Why did no one say anything, not even Shoupe? 

The Pogues were used to stepping in for each other. They kind of figured out what was happening in your family with your subtle hints and careless excuses. But seeing it in person? They just froze, looking at the scene in front of them helplessly. Shoupe stood closely to them, hands on his hips and head low, eyes on the ground. Letting it slide. Closing his eyes on it as if nothing had happened.

You knew that there was no point in just delaying what was inevitable, so with your head low again, you slipped out of Rafe’s hold before he could even react or protest. Your father’s grip on your forearms replaced Rafe's, but he wasn’t so careful, making you wince in pain. He dragged you to the passenger seat as if you were a child who was misbehaving. There was no point in protesting, asking to be gentler, and especially saying how sorry you were—it always seemed to make him even angrier—so you just followed him until he pushed you inside and slammed the door, barely not hitting you with it. 

Your eyes were stinging with tears, and your head was lowered as you were trying to focus on your shaking hands. You didn’t dare to look up, knowing that your friends, the Kook Trio and Shoupe, saw everything. 

Two days later you were sitting in the kitchen of Tanneyhill, after Sarah begged you to come there to hang out for a bit, promising that Ward and Rose were away on some business trip to Europe and that Rafe was at the golf club with his friends, so it was only her and Wheezie, who was too busy in her room. 

You hesitated, declining it for as long as you could, not really wanting her or anyone else to see the way you looked. Not to mention that your father was still pissed off and gave you a silent treatment after what he had done the night he picked you up. It was always like that, always those emotional swings, when he got violent and then did not talk to you as if it was you who had done something horrible, like it was you who was always wrong. Yet, you thought that you liked these days the most because he acted like he didn’t care and you had more personal space, even if your whole body was aching with bruises.

“We should totally go to that store today. You know, the one I told you about last week?” She said, casual as always, mixing something in her cup. You loved that about her, always grateful that even when she saw the bruises, the distant look in your eyes, she wasn't pushing. She gave you space, just like you asked her to the first time she saw everything. Sarah was a walking light, and whenever you needed it, she gave it to you and did everything to distract you from the darkness. 

“We can, but I don't have money, so…” 

“Oh, stop it. It’s my dad’s card. You think he cares where I spend it?” She rolled her eyes playfully, flipping her long hair over her shoulder and placing an icy glass with a drink in front of you. 

“I don’t want or need you to pay for me. Really. It’s not a big deal.” You refused her offer like you always did. 

“Well, I don’t care.” She tilted her head up in that playful way, biting her lip to hold back a smile. You shook your head, already giving up on fighting with her about it. “I’m gonna change quickly, and we can go, yeah?” 

She left you alone in the kitchen, running up the stairs before you could even say anything, and you let out a sigh. The same moment, as if on command, the front door to the house closed, and Rafe walked into the kitchen, looking as good and crisp as usual. 

Your breath hitched at the sight of him, your hold slightly tightening around the glass. He didn’t even see you yet, stopping in the middle of the room, texting someone on his phone. You took a chance to look at him properly. Your eyes trailed up from his cargo shorts to the blue polo that looked too perfectly tight around his biceps and to the backwards cap. Rafe was attractive, and you hated yourself that your mind automatically wandered in the wrong direction.

Then his head snapped up, as if sensing someone’s eyes, and he froze. You did so too, the moment you understood what his eyes were exactly looking at. 

Your hair or a giant t-shirt did nothing to hide the blossoming bluish bruises on your arms. The jacket that you wore on the way here was way too hot for summer heat, so you took it off the moment you walked in here, thinking that there was nothing that Sarah hadn’t seen before. But now Rafe was here, eyes fixated on your wrists that had marks looking awfully like fingerprints, and you swore you saw the moment a realization settled in him.

“What the hell is that?” Slipping his phone in the pocket of his shorts, he walked closer to you, not hesitating to walk into your personal space or even speak to you like you two weren’t something closer to enemies rather than friends. You turned on the bar stool to sit with your back to him, feeling your heart beating in your ears as you hid your hands under the table. “Turn around.” 

You stayed still, praying for Sarah to come down quicker. 

“It was him, wasn’t it? Your father. I saw your reaction. I heard the way he talked to you.” Rafe mumbled behind you, and it made you turn to face him. His eyes instantly spotted your split lip and a bruise at the side of your jaw that no amount of concealer could fully cover, no matter how hard you tried. His body tensed, slightly straightening up, as if in a defensive way, and he furrowed his brows when he realized something. 

“I didn’t know.” He said, his voice low and suddenly guilty, like he couldn't get the words out of him. “I didn’t know he’d… do that.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, the bitterness too sour to swallow. “Well, now you do. Congratulations.” His jaw clenched. You could see the guilt clawing at his skin like it was trying to crawl out of him. Rafe Cameron, golden boy of the island, rich and careless to everyone and everything, wasn’t used to feeling bad for the aftermath. Not like this.

“I didn’t call the cops for you. I mean, I did, but—fuck, I thought it would be just the way it usually happened.” He admitted, rumbling, hands balling into fists by his sides. “You and the Pogues were somewhere you shouldn’t have been, and I was pissed. That’s it. I wasn’t trying to—”

“Yeah, well, you did.” Your voice cracked suddenly, and your chest tightened, unable to hold back the fact that you did blame him slightly. “You called the cops. He got the call. And then he got me.” Rafe winced like the words physically hit him. And you weren’t trying to make him feel bad, not really. You didn’t have the energy to blame him for your messed-up life because, truthfully, you saw that he didn’t expect such an outcome, and it was the usual way he messed with his sister. You were just too tired of bruises and apologies that never came, tired of rules set by your father, and tired of people thinking they understood when they never did.

But Rafe wasn’t moving. For the first time, he didn’t know what to do or what to say. Hell, he didn’t even understand the feelings that were currently making him sick. 

“I didn’t know.” He repeated, softer this time.

You looked away, fingers curling tighter into fists. “Don’t act like you care. We’re not friends.”

“But—”

“Rafe, don’t you dare talk to her.” That was the moment when Sarah came in, interrupting whatever Rafe was about to say. She was beside you in a second, interlocking your fingers and dragging you up to stay near her. 

“Did you know about her father? Fuck, of course you did.” He laughed bitterly to himself, taking off his cap and running a nervous hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you do anything?” 

“Tell you? Yeah, that’s so funny.” Rafe’s face dropped when Sarah scoffed, dismissively looking him up and down. “Because it’s none of your business, Rafe. Stay away from it.” She didn’t let him say anything else, already guiding you out of the house. 

It was almost 11pm when you finally finished your shift and headed back home. It was a little bit later than usual, but you told your dad about it beforehand, so the only worry for now was a walk back home. 

The night was chilly, the sun had set a long time ago, and you shivered at the wind from the ocean, cursing yourself for not bringing a jacket. You wrapped your hands tightly around yourself as you looked down the road, which was barely illuminated by a poor-looking light pole. 

It was not a new thing for you to walk home alone at night, but the creepy feeling at the back of your neck never seemed to ease. You had no other choice, as you had no car, and it was way too late for the public transport. It would be a lie to say that it didn’t totally freak you out. Like someone could lunge out at any second, dragging you into the dark before you could even scream, but you simply had to deal with it because you needed the money that your current job offered. Your father was probably already at home, nursing a bottle of beer, not really caring about your well-being, as he told you many times that you were a big girl and could figure it out. 

You thought that you might jump out of your skin when the car on the road didn’t pass you by like they usually did, but it started to slow down until it was right beside you. You started walking faster, tightening your hold on the keys as if it may actually save you, not daring to look back at the car. You felt like you were about to cry because there was no one who could’ve saved you if something went wrong, but then the window rolled down and you heard a familiar voice. 

“Are you fucking insane?” Rafe, always straightforward, asked you, making you stop in your tracks. With your heart beating violently in your chest, you tried to control your breathing, but the look on your face was probably obvious enough for him to know how freaked out you were.

“What do you want?” You glanced at him, thinking about just ignoring his usual attitude and going back home. At the end of the day it was Rafe Cameron, and even if since that accident he seemed to keep his distance and not bother you or your friends anymore, you didn’t trust him fully. It’s been a week since he saw you at his house, a week since Sarah confronted him about you, and a week since he couldn’t get you out of his head.

“Why the hell are you here right now?” Through the darkness you saw his brows furrowing as he leaned in closer to the window above the passenger seat. You took in his appearance for a second—slightly leaned over, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift, he looked so effortlessly hot. 

“Because I’m working, Rafe, and I need to get home now.” You scoffed and started walking again, wondering why you even wasted your time on this. 

“Get in the car.” He moved slowly beside you, glancing at you through the window, but you ignored it completely, keeping your head straight and eyes locked somewhere in the distance, not even turning your head. “Do you want me to get out of here and sit you inside myself? Get in the car, Y/N.” There was no anger in his voice, but he was firm, letting you know that he meant it.

You felt a sudden lump in your throat, maybe because you convinced yourself to be scared of him, or maybe because you hated that you were so exhausted and terrified of being alone on the street that you really wanted to accept his offer. Even if you acted tough in front of your friends, like you got used to your lifestyle, you were tired. Of having no choice, of working your ass off just to give money to your father, and of constantly being scared of him getting angry. You looked at Rafe for a few long seconds, and he didn’t break eye contact—always so sure, so confident. So you stepped over yourself and got in the car. 

It was so warm and so comfortable that your body instantly felt sleepy, surrounded by the woody and musky smell. You shifted uncomfortably under Rafe’s long and sharp gaze while he took you in, looking up and down, probably judging you, before he finally looked back at the road, with his jaw clenched even tighter than before, and started driving. 

“So tell me, why did you think that it was a good idea to go through the fucking cut alone and at night?” His hand tightened on the steering wheel as his eyes flickered back to you again. He hadn’t been able to forget the way you looked that day in his kitchen, arms bare, lip split. The image had buried itself under his skin, and now, seeing you walking alone like it was a normal thing to do, made him suddenly lose his mind all over again.

You squirmed, ignoring the lingering cold and fidgeting with the strap of your bag. 

And of course he noticed that. In a second you heard a scoff leave his lips, as if annoyed, and then something heavy fell on your lap—his grey and warm zip hoodie—and you almost silently mumbled ‘thanks’ before wrapping it around your body. 

“So?”

“I’m working, Rafe. Today it was even later than usual, and what other choice do I have? I need to get home somehow.” You shrugged casually, as if on instinct lowering your head and inhaling the fading scent of the perfume on the hoodie. 

“No—who the fuck lets you do that, huh?” His voice suddenly got bitter, fingers tapping against the wheel, as he looked at you sharply. 

“"Lets" me do that?” You scoffed, confused. “It’s not like anyone cares, Rafe. Not my father, that’s for sure. And the only other people that I know here are pogues and Sarah, and I don’t want to be a burden for them to figure out a safe way for me to get home every day.” 

“This is not okay. You cannot just fucking walk around like a piece of candy. There are bad people on the island. Dangerous, Y/N.” You almost felt like crying from frustration. He clearly was judging you, asking you questions and looking at you as if you were insane. But Rafe clearly did not understand. Not your position. Not your lack of choice. Not that you would’ve given everything to something normal in your life or someone who would actually care. It was just how things were, and, unfortunately, you had to deal with it if you wanted to escape another harsh slap across the face. 

Rafe’s free hand curled into a fist on his knee when he looked at you. How small and fragile you looked, the way he swore your eyes started watering after his words, and you instantly turned your head away from him. He hated it. Hated that he suddenly didn’t think of you as another friend of his sister, but instead he noticed you, and, for some reason, he wanted to help. 

You both fell silent, with Rafe constantly glancing at you and you ignoring it as much as you could. In just a few minutes he parked a little bit away from your house, and you could not be happier about that, knowing that your father would kill you if he saw you in another man’s car. 

“Thank you, Rafe. Um, I really appreciate it. I should go now.” You finally looked at him, for a second losing yourself in his intense gaze, before you snapped out of it and tossed his jacket in the back seat. You reached for a door handle when his voice stopped you once again. 

“When does your shift usually end?”

“At nine, why?” 

“Just asking.” You stared at him for a few seconds, not fully satisfied with the answer. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.” The way he said it, his low and almost intimate voice, made your stomach drop, and you were grateful that it was too late for him to see the way your face was heating. 

“Goodnight.” 

You didn’t understand it. You didn’t understand him. 

Because since that day, whenever you stepped outside after your shift, you saw a familiar blue truck waiting for you. 

The first time you were absolutely confused and kind of scared, carefully walking around it with your eyes low on the ground as if you didn’t see him, and it ended up with an argument and Rafe threatening, again, to sit you in his car himself. You knew that there was no point in trying to argue more, because it was a simple and proven fact that if Rafe Cameron wanted to do something, he did it no matter what other people had to say about it. 

For some reason, he liked doing it. He liked that after his own exhausting day, when he was surrounded by the bunch of pretentious assholes, after his dad got him mad over the phone for not doing enough, he could see you. Weird, right? 

Rafe genuinely liked spending time with you and liked how you became more talkative after a few days of him picking you up. Maybe at first it was just guilt pushing him to do that—the guilt for causing you to get hurt, the gnawing reminder that he knew about some private and sick things that happened behind the closed door of your house, yet he couldn’t do anything. 

But then, you were nothing like he expected. Although, truthfully, he didn’t even know what he was expecting. Just to hate you because of your friendship with his sister and her little dumb buddies? Probably, but you were easy to be around—soft-spoken, a good listener, kind, funny, and just… normal. 

God, he needed normal in his life. Craved simple things, meaningless talks where nobody expected anything from each other, and just a comfortable atmosphere. It was weird, but actually good weird.

Sometimes he brought you food, a warm cup of good-smelling tea on a rainy night, which you always took with a shy smile and something like ‘you shouldn’t have to.’ 

He thought it was the least he could do. 

The weeks went by without a eighth of you noticing. You started getting comfortable around Rafe. It seemed like the person who annoyed you at some point was fully gone, and now you saw glimpses of his funny and caring side. You both would sit in the car, sometimes eating, sometimes enjoying the comfortable silence, or just humming to the songs when Rafe chose a long route to your house.

There was, without a doubt, a connection between you two. Something that you silently shared whenever your eyes stayed locked longer than they should have, when your fingers or your knees accidentally brushed. His sudden and genuinely unexpected warmth made you feel weird, and no matter how scared you were to even think about it, you were falling for Rafe Cameron.

He knew and felt it too. That’s why it was hard stopping his hand from reaching out to you whenever you were so close. Hard stopping himself from snapping when he saw another bruise or cut on you. 

Just the way you smiled every time you saw him at the usual spot made him want to do more, made him want to keep that spark in your eyes a little bit longer, because whenever it was time for you to go home, you hesitated and gave him that almost desperate look.

Over time you opened up. He never pushed about your father, though the question burned on his tongue, but he needed to know the truth—he made sure to slowly get you comfortable, make you feel safe around him, and eventually you revealed what nobody else knew. You told Rafe about your father always running away from something, about your constant moving from city to city, and about the fact that he was overcontrolling and had never let you breathe freely. 

He was careful with that theme, letting you pour out your thoughts before so hesitantly mentioning the day it all started and the way your father didn’t even hesitate to act like he did in front of everyone. When you finally got brave enough, the words seemed to flow freely, and you dissociated, with a blank stare talking about everything that happened to you. 

It felt normal to talk to Rafe. Natural. 

The insults thrown like they were nothing, the hitting whenever you disobeyed, or the money that you brought home was suddenly not enough. Around him you didn’t feel like a human, and it was hard to constantly walk on eggshells to do everything right. 

And Rafe listened. Fuming from the inside, gripping the wheel much harder than needed, but he listened and never judged. He looked at you, studying your profile, trying to focus on any little feature of your face that could calm him down. He let you cry. God, he hated crying, hated tears, though when your head tipped toward his shoulder and your body shuddered with little hiccups, he thought that he hated it for a whole other reason. 

This night was not an exception. Everything seemed to be great—the warm sandwiches with your favorite drinks met you in the car, and Rafe was so damn talkative, making you laugh the way you hadn't in a very long time. You didn't want this to end, didn't want to leave his company and go back to your own nightmare.

“Goodnight, Rafe.” You mumbled back when his car parked on the driveway next to yours, away from your father’s eyes. The air felt different, heavy, and for some reason you were barely able to tear your eyes away from his. You tried to take a deep breath to calm your heart down, but you felt your pulse in your ears when he didn’t look away, didn’t even pretend to not stare at you with a smile. 

Rafe’s head slightly tilted to the side, lip caught in between his teeth, as he watched you closing the door of his car and slowly getting closer to your house. The thought lingered at the back of his head, the one that he had been pushing away for probably the last couple of days. His eyes followed you, and when his mind finally said ‘fuck it’ to himself, he got out of the car, quickly catching you before you could reach your house. 

“Wait!” 

You froze, hearing Rafe’s hurried steps behind you, slowly turning back and looking up. His presence was suffocating as his blue eyes were studying your face, making your stomach turn again with that weird feeling. A flush of heat washed over you when Rafe stepped even closer, hands slightly lifting up, as if wanting to touch you. 

And you didn’t step back, even if you should have. His cologne washed over you in that already familiar, calming way. He was taller than you, looming over your body and shielding the lamp from the street with his broad shoulders. You knew what was coming, felt blood rushing in your ears when Rafe’s hands cupped your cheeks slowly but without hesitation, but it didn’t make the situation easier. Your mind started racing with thoughts about it being the wrong decision, about you not being able to escape your father’s presence in your life, but it all came to a stop when his lips touched yours. 

You melted instantly against him, lips moving slowly and hesitantly because, with all honesty, you didn’t know how it all worked. Rafe deepened the kiss, pulling you closer to him, groaning when his tongue ran across your lip and tasted your sweet lip gloss.

Your hands at first just froze in the air, not knowing whether to place it on top of his hands, or grab his shirt, or wrap it around his neck, or… Yeah, you were overthinking everything again. Your mind went blank, and you just let your hands settle on Rafe’s chest—soft and slightly hesitant, listening to the steady beating of his heart. He smiled against your lips, bringing you closer when his hand found your waist and fully enveloping you in him.

When he pulled away slightly, your breathing was rapid, eyes closed while you savored the moment. Rafe nudged you softly with his forehead against yours, bringing your racing mind back down, and you finally looked at his smug yet soft face. 

“That was… my first kiss.” You admitted hesitantly, savoring the taste of him on your lips.

“It was?” He smirked, playfully pulling you closer to his chest and reaching your lips again, kissing you until you laughed and turned your face away. “You’re cute.”

You looked up shyly, feeling something warm spilling in your chest, and nervously twisting the string of his hoodie between your fingers. “I should go, Rafe.” And just like that, his face dropped. Eyes narrowed slightly, looking behind you at the house that he started to dread, clenching his jaw again. 

“But you don’t have to—”

“I do.” 

He looked back at you, searching your face, and his eyes suddenly seemed sad, tightening his hold on you as if it could help him keep you safe somehow. “At least text me?” His frown deepened, and you instantly reached out to soften the crease in between his brows. 

“Okay. I will.” 

Rafe stood there, after you placed a hesitant kiss on his cheek, hair disheveled and heart pounding against his rib cage, while he was looking at you walking inside. The door behind you closed, and he slowly walked backwards to his car, keeping his eyes on your window, where the lights always turned on after a few minutes of him dropping you off. 

He waited, jaw set tight, an uneasy feeling tugging at him, hands involuntarily curling into fists at both of his sides. Because something wasn’t right. He couldn’t tell what was wrong, but Rafe couldn’t go just yet, standing on someone’s front yard and just staring at your house. 

And then a scream cut through the quiet setting of the street, making Rafe’s blood run cold. 

You walked into the house, cautiously looking around the hallway, feeling unsettled by the weird stillness. You slowly stepped inside, your phone clenched in your hand, praying that your dad was just already asleep or at least lying in front of the TV with a beer bottle in hand, not caring about a single thing in the world. But the second you turned into the living room, he was there.

Standing by the window, curtain pulled away. 

The one that had a perfect view of the street. 

Your heart dropped into your stomach, and you froze in place when the realization hit you that he saw everything. He saw you in another man’s car. He saw Rafe kissing you. He knew that you were lying to him, and by the awfully calm look on his face, this was the end for you. 

“So that’s what you’ve been hiding from me. Whoring around the island with a rich boy behind my back?” You shook your head as he stepped closer to you slowly, like a predator catching its prey with no ways to escape. You squirmed in the close proximity, shrinking into yourself when his figure loomed above you. 

Your voice was trembling before you even opened your mouth. “Dad, it’s not—please, it wasn’t like that—”

Your head snapped to the side with the force of the slap, skin burning and eyes watering not only from pain but also from how terrified and anxious you were. Your phone fell out of your hand with a thud against the floor, your legs gave out for a second, and your body stumbled back against the wall. The metallic taste of blood blossomed on your tongue. 

Tears blurred your vision when you hesitantly looked back into your father’s cold eyes, full of hate and pure rage. There was not a single part of him that felt bad for abusing you. The person who was there many years ago, when you were still a little girl, was gone. Now it was just an empty shell of a person who was supposed to be your family, your protection. 

“You think this is a game? Didn’t I fucking tell you to keep quiet and not be all over the island while I deal with stuff?” He shouted now, getting all in your face to intimidate you, voice rising with every word. “You think I put food on your table just so you could run around like some cheap slut and ruin everything I’ve worked for?”

You blinked rapidly, chest heaving, trying to stay calm, trying to breathe, but the words bubbled inside of you. No matter how scared you were, the straight-up lies made you all worked up, because not once did he do anything to provide for you. “You didn’t work for anything! You just drink and yell and—and hit me when something doesn’t go your way—”

His eyes darkened.

“Ungrateful bitch.” The words spat from his mouth like venom. “You were supposed to listen to me. You were supposed to stay out of sight, keep your damn head down, and what do you do instead? You go and spread your legs for a Cameron for fuck’s sake? Do you know what kind of shit you’ve stirred up for me?” He was coming closer again, and your instincts screamed. You turned, bolting for the front door with shaking legs—

But you didn’t make it.

His hand caught your hair in a fist, yanking it so hard you screamed in agony. You crashed to the floor with a thud, the pain blinding. Your shoulder hit first, then your elbow, your knee scraping across the hardwood as your body collapsed beneath his grip.

And then the real hit landed. A kick to your ribs, sharp and vicious, knocking the air from your lungs. You screamed again, your voice cracking with begging him to stop, high-pitched and desperate, your hands flailing to shield your face. But he was above you, yelling, still yelling, the words incoherent now, lost in the chaos of his rage.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe, like your head was underwater. Maybe it was your last day. Maybe it would be easier. You hoped for it. At that moment, when you lay on the floor, all you could do was think about how it all could be different. If you went with Rafe. If you asked him for help. If he could stop it all. 

Rafe knew it was you. Blinded by the rage and an overwhelming feeling of protectiveness, he didn’t even remember running up the stairs to your house. He didn’t remember banging his shoulder against the old and creaky door until it snapped open inside, hitting against the wall with a loud banging. 

The only thing he thought would forever be engraved in his head was the picture of you on the floor with your hands covering your face and a man above you holding your hair in a fist, screaming so loudly that he didn’t even sense Rafe’s presence in the room. 

He was there in a second, moving across the room like a storm, dragging the man off of you and pushing him back. Your father stumbled backwards, clocking off the glass coffee table on the floor, now fully focused on Rafe as if thinking he could handle him. 

But Rafe was quicker. His fist connected with a man’s face with a loud crack, the blood instantly streaming down, staining the light shirt.

“You think you can fucking touch her? Use her like a punchbag?” Rafe roared, hitting again and again, while your father tried to push him away, only barely making him stumble backwards. “I should’ve come after you that same day you dragged her away with you, the same day I knew you were a fucking coward for hurting someone who can’t fight you back.” 

“You don't know shit about me.” Your father choked on a grunt when Rafe lifted him by the collar of his shirt, damn nearly pulling him off the ground. 

“Don’t I?” Rafe growled, his voice low, like thunder booming in the small room. “Because I dug, asshole. I found the files. You thought you could come to this island and pretend to be someone else? Think nobody would find you here with all of the money you owe?”

Your father froze, really froze this time. A flicker of panic rippled through his face, just beneath the blood and bruises. He didn’t say anything, but that silence said everything. Rafe pushed him back again like a bag of trash, and your father grumbled something under his breath. 

Yeah, he was way too full of himself. He had never hesitated to hit you because he trained you to keep your head down and take whatever was coming your way. But he was not stupid enough to try to fight Rafe, who was bigger and much stronger than him. Your father might’ve been cruel, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew power when he saw it. And Rafe Cameron, standing there with blood on his knuckles and murder in his eyes, seemed like he could destroy everything with his bare hands.

So he, clenching his jaw and burning holes into the back of Rafe’s head, sat still. 

And Rafe didn’t waste another second to finally get to you.

It might as well have been his horror dream, because you were still lying on the floor on your side, eyes open and clearly conscious, but body so limp it looked damn near lifeless. Your eyes were focused nowhere in particular, breath ragged, tears still silently rolling down the side of your face. 

Rafe was not breathing when he kneeled in front of you—he was sure of it. His whole world shrank down to the fragile shape of you lying on that worn-out floor like something broken and discarded. His chest constricted so tightly it hurt watching the way your fingers twitched like you were trying to reach for something, someone, him, but couldn’t quite make it.

His hands were hovering above your body like he was afraid to touch you and make it worse. He had seen a lot of shit in his life. Drugs. Fights. Even Ward’s fists. But nothing had ever made his stomach turn like seeing you like that.

“Hey—hey, baby, it’s me.” His voice cracked right down the middle. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” Hard reached out hesitantly. He brushed the strands of your hair away from your face, making you slightly flinch from the contact and then finally focus your eyes on him. His eyes studied your face. Wetness from your tears, a clear handprint on your cheeks that was forming into a bruise, blood on your lips—the one that he kissed not even ten minutes ago.

You blinked once, twice, slow and dazed, as if you weren’t sure if he was real or some fevered hallucination pulled from the darkest corner of your pain-soaked mind.

His hands found you gently, cradling the back of your head, his thumb brushing the tear trail down your cheek, and the moment his skin touched yours, you started trembling like a leaf.

“That’s okay. You’re safe. I swear.” His hand reached for your forgotten phone, hurriedly putting it in his pocket, before he gently slid his hands under your body and scooped you into his embrace. He stood from the floor, your head lulled against his chest, and he held you closer, hoping that his hoodie could somehow warm you up. “I’m taking you home.” 

Behind him, your father shifted just enough for Rafe to shoot him a look so sharp it instantly shut him up.

“Don’t.” He snapped. “Don’t even fucking breathe. You’re going to take all of your shit from this house and vanish, do you hear me? I don’t care how or where, but if I ever hear about you, I swear to God I’ll let them know your location, and they’ll do whatever they want with your pathetic ass.”

And your father, for once in his damn life, listened.

Warmth was the first thing you registered when your eyes opened. The room was quiet, dark, and unfamiliar, yet so safe, and as if on instinct, your body knew that there was no harm. This time you didn’t wake up because of a harsh voice calling your name or a loud bang against the door that made you jump up in horror—it was quiet. You were wearing a hoodie, a giant and heavy blue blanket pulled almost all the way up to your face, almost fully drowning you. 

The pain wasn’t gone. Your ribs still ached, your lip still stung, but it was softer now. You managed to move slightly, instantly spotting Rafe at the other side of the bed, keeping his distance. Elbows on his knees, knuckles torn, a fresh cut scabbing over his cheekbone. His head was bowed, eyes locked on the floor, leg bounced restlessly. One hand kept dragging across the same spot on his thigh, like he needed to do something, anything, to hold himself together.

You swallowed. Your throat was raw. “Where am I?”

His head snapped up at the sudden sound of your voice. “Tanneyhill.” He said gently. “Safe. It’s just us. You passed out for a while.”

You didn’t even realize your hands were shaking again until you tried to sit up. The hoodie pooled around your waist as you moved, and Rafe immediately reached out but stopped himself, his hand hovering barely an inch from your wrist.

“Can I…?”

You nodded, and he moved towards you, helped you adjust the pillow, tucking a blanket up your side. Your eyes watered so unexpectedly, a sob coming out before you could even force yourself to hold it back. The tears came quickly, being an aftershock of everything that had happened to you. “I’m sorry—” You gasped between cries, your voice hoarse and fragile. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I—why I can’t stop—”

“Stop apologizing.” Rafe whispered, moving closer, facing you now, and placing his hands on your legs through the blanket to give you some kind of comfort. “That’s okay, baby.”

You sniffled, voice barely above a whisper. “He trapped me, Rafe. I didn’t… I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I didn’t even have money to leave. He controlled everything—what I did, where I went, and who I talked to. I thought if I just followed the rules, if I just kept my head down, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched. He leaned forward like his body couldn’t take the distance, wanting to pull you into his embrace, to keep you safe, and to try to scare all of the things that were terrorizing your poor mind away.

You looked at him, chest heaving. “I wanted to ask for help so many times, but he always made it feel like I couldn’t. Like he’d always find a way back. That even if I left, he’d show up and just kill me. And—and I don’t even understand why he tried to tie me down to him, because he didn’t love me, he didn’t want me—”

“Because he needed control, because weak men like him do that to make themselves feel better. It wasn’t your fault. Do you hear me?” His head dipped down, searching your eyes, waiting until you gave him a nod. Your hands trembled when you initiated the first contact, when you placed a palm over his hand on your knee. Rafe didn’t waste a second to take both of your hands in his warm ones, rubbing your knuckles with more softness than you could’ve ever expected.

“I have nothing. I don’t know what to do or where to go because—because I’m alone.” It came out as a whimper, your stomach tightening at your own words. “I don’t know what to do with my life.” You couldn’t resist the way your head fell forward towards his chest like it was natural. Rafe’s hand cradled the back of your head, fingers gently grazing your scalp as if in memory of the way you were held. 

“You don’t have to know now. Just stay here. Eat, sleep, rest. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“But—”

“You don’t owe me anything. I just want you to get better. I need to make sure that you’re okay.” You pulled back after a second, blinking at him through tears, and in that moment it wasn’t the Rafe you had met many months ago. It was Rafe who picked you up because he was worried about your safety, who rumbled endlessly about things he liked while you were in his car, who couldn’t stop looking at you with soft eyes whenever he thought you didn’t notice. 

So you leaned forward, just enough to press your forehead against his, trembling all over, letting your tears fall. You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t say anything because there was no need for it. Just let him hold you like you were something he couldn’t lose. 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.

There was that god-awful distinct scent of jet fuel in the air, a reminder that you were in one of the Navy’s busiest air bases. The hum of roaring engines wasn’t anything new; it had become a part of your day-to-day existence. The bar you worked at, The Mirage, was a hotspot for pilots, flight crews, and pretty much anyone else who was stationed nearby. A quiet coastal town didn’t offer many options for a social life, and if you wanted to get a cold drink or unwind, The Mirage was the place to be.

You’d been working here for just over a year and a half, long enough to recognize the distinct swagger of a military man when he walked through the door. They were easy to spot – especially the pilots.

Sunglasses permanently glued to their faces, that stupid untouchable arrogance radiating from them, the knowledge that they were some of the best in the world at what they did. It was almost admirable, if it wasn’t so…predictable. 

You had sworn off pilots. No, you’d sworn off men in a uniform all together.

It wasn’t like a hard rule or anything, but after what happened with your last boyfriend—who, shocker, also wore a uniform—you weren’t about to make the same mistake twice. You’d learned the hard way that guys like that came with way too much baggage. 

Long deployments, their egos inflated to the size of fighter jets, and let’s be real, they weren’t exactly known for being faithful. Military men had a reputation, and in your experience, they earned it. You weren’t about to get your heart broken again.

You’d been there, done that, and had the emotional scars to prove it.

So yeah, working at a bar right next to a Navy air base wasn’t exactly ideal, but you weren’t here for the guys. The Mirage was just a job, a way to pay the bills while you figured your life out. It was a decent gig. Good tips, a steady flow of regulars, and every now and then, you’d get to watch a squadron of cocky, ego-driven fighter pilots try to charm their way into someone’s pants. 

Fun to watch, but that was about it.

The first time Rafe walked into The Mirage, you felt it immediately—the shift in the air. 

You had your back turned, trying to keep busy wiping down the bar, but you could practically feel his presence as he swaggered up, like the whole place had just taken notice of him at once. Lean and built like he was carved from the side of a mountain, with shoulders that filled out his flight suit just right, and a chest broad enough to make any woman’s heart skip a beat.

And when you finally turned around? He was standing there with that stupid, lopsided grin, a couple of dog tags peeking out from beneath his half-zipped flight suit, the sleeves pushed up like he had zero intention of playing by any rules but his own. He had this ridiculously good-looking, disheveled kind of vibe going on, like he’d just gotten off a jet and didn’t care that his hair was all over the place.

You almost hated how good he looked.

He didn’t even hesitate when he caught your eye. He walked right up to the bar and leaned on it like he owned the place.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, flashing you a panty-dropping smile that probably worked on most girls. “Can I get a beer?”

Sweetheart? Oh God, one of those guys. His voice had that low, southern drawl, smooth as Tennessee whiskey, dripping with charm. It was the kind of voice that could make anything sound like a compliment, even when he was teasing. And the way he leaned on the bar, just a little too close, just a little too familiar, like he’d been doing it his whole life and knew exactly what effect it had—it was almost criminal.

“Sure,” you said, not bothering to match his energy. You grabbed a bottle and slid it across the bar to him, intentionally keeping it short and sweet. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of a flirty smile or small talk. Guys like him lived for that.

“Thanks, darling.” He tipped the bottle to you, still grinning like he knew something you didn’t. You sighed, turning back to your work, already half-expecting him to hit on someone else.

But over the next few days, Rafe kept showing up.

Every night, like clockwork, he’d stroll in after his missions with that same laid-back swagger. You noticed how people gravitated toward him, like he had this magnetic pull. His squadron buddies? They idolized him. Girls? Yeah, they fell for him hard, like they didn’t see the giant walking red flag that he was.

But the worst part? He kept coming back to you. 

Every time he walked into The Mirage, he’d make a beeline straight for the bar, leaning in with that smirk that was starting to get under your skin.

“You’re not like the other girls around here,” he said one night, lounging across the bar like he was settling in for the night.

So typical it gave you chills. He was a natural-born flirt, and he knew it. He wasn’t subtle; he didn’t have to be.

You snorted. “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“They all like a guy in uniform.” He motioned to his flight suit, like he was showing off. “But you? You don’t seem impressed.”

You met his gaze and deadpanned, “I’m not.”

That should’ve been the end of it. Usually, when you gave guys the cold shoulder, they got the hint. But Rafe? He wasn’t so easily shaken. If anything, your disinterest seemed to make him more determined.

“Gotta say, I like the challenge,” he said, watching you like you were some kind of game he was about to win.

You rolled your eyes, but part of you couldn’t help but laugh. The guy had confidence, that much was clear. But you had to remind yourself why you’d sworn off pilots. This wasn’t your first rodeo. You’d been with a guy like Rafe before. The type who’d make you feel like you were the center of his universe—until you weren’t.

“I don’t date pilots,” you told him flat-out one night after he tried to get cute, leaning closer than necessary over the bar. You were done playing games, and he needed to know it wasn’t happening.

He just raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable for a second before that grin returned. “That a hard rule?”

“Pretty solid, yeah.”

“And why’s that?”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical as hell, “You don’t even know my name.”

He leaned in slightly, that annoying grin never leaving his face as he took a sip of his beer, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re right,” he said casually, placing the bottle back down. “So, what’s your name, sweetheart?”

The audacity. Like his smooth confidence was supposed to melt away all your reservations like you were just another one of his conquests. You could see it so clearly now—the cocky smirk, the way his voice had that low, drawling quality that practically screamed “I get what I want.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head as you wiped down the counter. “I’m not giving you my name, Rafe.”

"But you know mine," He arched a brow, not even remotely phased. “Fair enough. Guess I’ll just have to earn it.”

“Not happening,” you shot back, trying to keep your tone firm. 

But you could feel a tiny sliver of amusement creep into your voice despite yourself. He was relentless, and for some stupid reason, it was kind of fun to watch him keep trying.

There was something about a man in uniform that made women lose all sense of reason, and you weren’t about to be that girl again.

And yet, Rafe Cameron kept coming back. 

Like a stray, relentless and impossible to ignore. And as much as you tried to play it cool, to not be another notch on his flight log, you couldn’t help but notice how his grin deepened every time you turned him down, like he was getting some kind of kick out of the challenge.

“You really don’t give up, do you?” you asked, throwing him a sideways glance as you refilled a couple of drinks for some regulars down the bar. You could feel his eyes on you the entire time.

He chuckled, that easy confidence still dripping from him. “Not when I see something I like.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, grabbing an empty glass and polishing it to distract yourself. “Well, you’re wasting your time,” you muttered, half-hoping that would be enough to shut him down for good.

But he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like the two of you were in on some kind of private conversation.

“Maybe. But something tells me you’re not as immune to my charm as you think.”

That did it. 

You turned to face him, arms crossed over your chest, giving him the most unimpressed look you could muster. “I’ve met guys like you before. You roll into town, flash that cocky smile, and think you can get anyone in bed because you’re a hotshot pilot. You’re probably great at what you do, and I’m sure girls throw themselves at you left and right. But I’m not one of them.”

His posture faltered just a little, and you almost—almost—felt bad for bursting his bubble. But then he just laughed, “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

You shrugged, nonchalant, but you could feel a small sense of satisfaction. “Why should I? Guys like you are all the same.”

Rafe leaned back, studying you with a look that was half amused, half intrigued, like you were some kind of puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Nah, I don’t think we are,” he said, almost to himself. “But I guess you’ve got your reasons.”

That hit a little closer to home than you expected, and you felt your defenses kick back in full force. “Yeah, well, they’re good ones.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he said, his tone softer than before. He tapped his fingers against the bar, like he was considering his next move. “But just so you know, I’m not looking for an easy win here.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Oh really? Because everything about you screams ‘I always win.’”

He laughed—more like he was in on a joke that only he understood. “True. But this feels different.”

Different. Sure, like every smooth-talking pilot didn’t say the same thing when they were trying to get a girl to let her guard down. You’d heard it all before.

“Look,” you started, leaning on the bar now, “I’m sure you’re a nice guy when you’re not playing the whole ‘bad boy in uniform’ thing. I’m not about to go down that road again. Especially not with someone who spends more time in the sky than on the ground.”

His eyes stayed on yours, unwavering. “But you don’t know me. Not really.”

“And you don’t know me either,” you shot back, feeling a bit defensive.

“That’s true.” He nodded, but there was a spark in his eyes that made you feel like he was more than ready to change that. “But I’d like to.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Nope.” His grin was back, but this time, it felt less like a game and more like a challenge. Not in the annoying, overconfident way, but in a way that made you almost—almost—want to see how far he’d go. “And I’m willing to take it slow, if that’s what you need.”

You weren’t used to guys like him offering to go slow. In your experience, they wanted everything fast—fast cars, fast planes, fast relationships. The fact that he was even suggesting the idea caught you off guard.

“I don’t need anything from you,” you said, though your voice wasn’t as firm as you wanted it to be.

“I know,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “But maybe you want to give me a shot. Maybe.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out if this was some kind of trick. But all you saw was that stupid grin and those frustratingly blue eyes that were starting to chip away at your resolve.

“I’ll think about it,” you muttered, not fully committing but not entirely rejecting him either.

Rafe’s grin widened like he’d just won a small victory. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the drinks you were supposed to be serving, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. Damn it.

You weren’t ready to let him in, not yet, but maybe—just maybe—you didn’t mind the idea of him trying.

Because, against your better judgment, you kind of liked the way he made you feel.

Over the next few months, Rafe didn’t just disappear like the others. 

He stuck around, but not in the way you expected. At first, you thought he was still working some angle—coming into The Mirage every night, sitting at the bar, chatting you up like he was trying to wear you down. But after a while, something changed. It wasn’t like he was chasing after you anymore. It was more…normal. Friendly, almost.

It started small. He’d ask you about your day, your shift, little things like that. He didn’t push for more. When he wasn’t in the bar, he’d still check in—he’d send these short, goofy texts from time to time. Just little updates, nothing deep.

“Heading out on a mission, don’t burn down the bar while I’m gone.”

Or, when he was away for a while:

“Bet the place is boring without me around, huh?”

It wasn’t anything serious. Just light, casual. And you liked it that way. It was enough to feel like he was there, but not so much that it freaked you out.

Sometimes he’d ask about your life outside of work—how your art classes were going or if you’d gotten your car fixed yet. He never let you walk home alone. You hadn’t expected that from him. Like, when you first met Rafe, you pegged him as the type of guy who only cared about himself. But he’d actually listened to you, remembered stuff you’d said, which was…surprising. And kind of nice.

Still, you kept your guard up. You weren’t about to let him in fully. Not after everything you’d been through before. But you couldn't deny that a part of you enjoyed his company.

One night, about six months in, he came into The Mirage after being away on a longer mission. He looked more exhausted than usual, but his grin was still there as he slid into his usual spot at the bar.

“Miss me?” he teased, tapping the counter as if he’d been gone for a year instead of a few weeks. That flight suit clung to him like a second skin, half-zipped just enough to reveal a sliver of tanned skin and a hint of a tattoo peeking out. The sleeves were rolled up, showing off forearms roped with muscle, veins running down like they were tracing a roadmap to all the trouble he’d been in. His dog tags swung carelessly against his chest, catching the dim light of the bar.

He looked good enough to eat.

“Not even a little,” you shot back with a smirk, pouring him his usual. But the truth was, things had felt kind of off when he wasn’t around.

He took a sip of his beer, watching you closely like he always did. “Sure about that?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Cameron.”

You expected him to throw some cocky line back, but instead, he just chuckled. “You been good?”

It was such a simple question, but there was something in his voice that made you pause for a second. “Yeah,” you answered, nodding. “Same old, same old.”

“Good.” He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he turned his attention to the rest of the bar.

Everything felt kind of…easy with him now. You didn’t really know how or when it happened, but somewhere along the way, you’d started to see Rafe as more than just a cocky pilot. He was still all of that, sure, but there was more to him than you thought. He wasn’t just the guy who flirted relentlessly; he was the guy who checked in, who listened, who made you laugh when you didn’t even feel like smiling.

It was nice.

That night, The Mirage was packed. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and loud laughter. The usual suspects were there—pilots unwinding, a few locals mixing in, and the occasional sailor trying his luck. You’d been running around non-stop, the orders coming faster than you could keep up. Rafe had disappeared to the bathroom a few minutes ago, and you were focused on getting through the rest of your shift.

That’s when someone came up behind you. You didn’t even see him coming—just felt the sudden press of a hand on your waist, fingers gripping too tight, a body too close. Your breath hitched in your throat, heart picking up speed as you twisted around to see who the hell thought they could just grab you like that.

It was some guy you hadn’t seen before, a stranger with bleary eyes and a stench of cheap whiskey rolling off of him. He leaned in, way too close, his breath hot against your cheek. 

“Hey there, gorgeous,” he slurred, his hand sliding lower, and you felt your stomach twist.

“Get off me,” you snapped, trying to shove him away, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he grinned, like he thought this was some kind of game.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that,” he drawled, his other hand moving to grab at your arm, pulling you back toward him.

Panic flared fast in your chest. You tried to twist out of his grip, but he tightened his hold, pulling you closer.

“I said, let go!” you shouted, shoving him harder this time, your voice cutting through the noise of the bar. Your heart was racing now, pounding in your ears.

You glanced around, hoping someone would see what was happening, maybe step in, but everyone seemed too caught up in their own worlds, too fucking drunk to notice.

The guy just laughed, a low, sleazy sound that made your skin crawl. His hand slipped lower, fingers pressing into your hip, and you felt a cold rush of fear. “Just want to have a little fun,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough.

You opened your mouth to scream, to shout for someone, anyone, but before the words could come out, you heard it—the sound of glass shattering. You blinked, confused for a second, and then you saw Rafe.

He was back, and he was livid.

You’d never seen him like this before, eyes dark and wild, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles twitching. He shoved through the crowd like a storm, fists already balled at his sides, his whole body taut with rage.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, voice low and dangerous, like he was barely holding himself back.

The guy barely had time to turn around before Rafe grabbed him by the collar, yanking him away from you with a force that sent him stumbling back into the bar. 

“Get your hands off her,” He spat, his voice like gravel, his eyes blazing.

The guy looked stunned, confused for a moment, before his face twisted into a sneer. “Hey, man, relax—”

But Rafe didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t ‘hey man’ me,” he growled, stepping closer, his hands still clenched into fists. “You touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your fuckin' hand.”

You were still trying to catch your breath, your pulse racing, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You’d seen him mad before, but this was something else entirely. His whole body was tense, like he was ready to pounce, and there was a look in his eyes that was almost… feral.

The guy seemed to sober up real quick, his eyes flicking nervously between you and Rafe. “Alright, alright, I’m going,” he muttered, hands up in surrender as he backed away, disappearing into the crowd.

Rafe watched him go, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched like he wasn’t quite done yet. He turned to you, his eyes softening a little, but his face still hard, still angry. “You okay?” he asked, his voice rough, breathless.

You nodded, swallowing hard, trying to steady your breathing. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you managed, but your voice was shaky, betraying the fear still thrumming through you.

Rafe stepped closer, his hands reaching out to gently touch your arms, his fingers light against your skin. 

“You sure?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, his face so close you could see the worry etched into his features.

You nodded again, feeling a little steadier now, your heart still racing but slowing down, your breath coming easier. “Yeah,” you whispered, “Thanks to you.”

“You don’t have to worry,” he said quietly, “Not with me around. I got you.”

You felt your heart stutter in your chest, and you realized—maybe, just maybe, you were really starting to trust him. And that thought, more than anything, scared you to death.

It's why it felt so hard to be around him from that day on. You were trying to balance between wanting to keep things normal with him and avoiding getting too close. After what happened that night, you were more on edge than ever, and it didn’t help that Rafe was still making his usual appearances, his cute texts and late night calls. His protective streak had only made things more complicated.

“Everything alright?” he asked, his tone casual like he was trying to read between the lines.

You shrugged, “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

He didn’t buy it. “You seem off. Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened,” you said, a little too quickly. “Just a long night.”

Rafe didn’t push. Instead, he grabbed a drink and started chatting with you about mundane things—the kind of small talk that was meant to fill the space without digging too deep. 

He casually mentioned his plans for the weekend, how he was heading out with some friends, making it clear that he was open to other social opportunities.

“Gonna be out of town for a bit,” he said with a shrug, almost as if he was testing the waters. “Thought I’d let you know.”

You looked at him, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Okay.”

He paused, a smirk playing at his lips as if he was waiting for a reaction. “You sure you’re okay with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but the tightness in your voice gave you away.

Rafe’s smirk widened, clearly satisfied with the effect he was having. “Just checking. Didn’t know if you were going to miss me or somethin''.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage to find plenty of people who will,” you shot back, grimacing.

He chuckled, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You know, you’re more complicated than I thought.”

“That’s what makes life interesting,”

You finally let yourself admit it—his casual flirtation and the way he seemed to enjoy getting a rise out of you was starting to mess with your head. And that was exactly what he wanted.

So maybe, your petty self, doesn't answer to a single one of his texts while he's away. You figured if he wanted to play the game, you could play it too. It wasn’t like you were avoiding him or anything; you just wanted to make a point.

The first day, you didn’t think much of it. The second day, you told yourself it was no big deal. By the third day, you were trying not to obsess over the fact that your phone hadn’t buzzed with a message from him in the past twenty four hours. Like he'd given up. You kept yourself busy with shifts at The Mirage, catching up on sleep, and even dabbling in a new painting project.

When he finally came back, you were trying to act like it was just another day. You were behind the bar, pouring drinks and chatting away when he walked in.

Rafe’s usual swagger was in full force, but today, there was a hint of weariness in his eyes, like he’d been through the wringer. He slid onto his usual stool and flashed you that same charming grin, but this time, it felt a little more… tentative.

“Hey, stranger."

“Hey,” you replied, trying to sound casual, like you hadn’t been avoiding him. You set a beer in front of him and went back to wiping down the bar, giving yourself something to do so you wouldn’t have to meet his gaze.

Rafe took a sip of his beer, “So, you’ve been quiet lately. Everything alrigh'?”

“Just been busy, I guess.”

“Busy or just avoiding me?” 

“Why would I be avoiding you?” you chuckled, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’ve been working and catching up on things.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly not buying it. “Did I do something to piss you off?”

Uh, duh. He was making you fall for him. Recklessly. 

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’ with a little too much force. “Everything’s fine.”

Everything was not fine, especially not when a girl you'd never seen before decided to eagerly join him on the stool next to his. 

You didn’t mean to be staring at them. You really didn’t. 

But there she was, practically hanging off Rafe’s arm like some kind of human accessory, her giggle obnoxiously loud over the music in The Mirage. She had this glossy, perfect hair, one of those flirty little dresses that clung to all the right places, and legs for days. And she was touching him. All over. Laughing way too hard at whatever stupid joke he’d just made.

You could feel your stomach twist into a knot, and for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out why it bothered you so much. It’s not like you hadn’t seen this before—girls throwing themselves at him like he was the last guy on Earth. You’d watched it happen a dozen times. Maybe a hundred.

But today? Today it felt different. Today, it felt like there was a boulder lodged in your chest, and you could barely breathe around it.

God, this was so stupid. You didn’t even like him like that. He was just…a friend. A hot, annoyingly charming friend who maybe made your heart race a little bit every time he walked into the bar. Whatever. It didn’t matter. You were not—repeat, not—catching feelings. You couldn’t be.

Still, your hands were gripping the bar a little tighter than necessary, your smile plastered on your face as you poured drinks for some regulars, trying to pretend you weren’t glancing over at them every five seconds.

But then she had the audacity to look right at you, her big doe eyes blinking innocently, and ask, “Hey, could you get me another drink?”

Your fingers tightened around the beer tap, and you felt a jolt of irritation shoot through you. The girl was practically hanging off his arm, and here she was, smiling at you like you were her personal waitress. 

You forced a smile, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes, and nodded. “Sure, what do you want?”

She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, leaning in even closer to Rafe as if she needed to be attached to his hip. “A tequila sunrise, please,” she chirped.

You had to grit your teeth to keep from rolling your eyes. “Coming right up,” you muttered through clenched teeth, turning your back to them as you reached for the tequila.

You could feel Rafe’s gaze burning into the back of your head, could practically hear the smirk in his voice without even looking. He was loving this. Watching you squirm, seeing you get all pissy while he played the charming flirt. God, he was such an asshole.

“Here you go,” you said, managing to keep your voice steady.

She beamed up at you, completely oblivious, and took a sip. “Thanks! You’re the best.”

He looked like he was having the time of his life. That stupid grin plastered on his face, his blue eyes sparkling as he leaned in close to hear whatever the girl was saying. And she was soaking it all up, practically melting into him, flipping her hair like she was auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

You felt this weird, hot sting in the back of your eyes and immediately blinked it away. Oh, hell no. You were not going to cry over this. Over him. No way.

But it was getting harder to hold it all together. You turned away, busied yourself with wiping down the counter, anything to stop looking at them.

And then it happened.

He looked over at you.

Just a quick glance, but enough to catch your eye. Enough to let you know that he knew you were watching. And damn it if he didn’t look like he was enjoying every second of it.

That did it. You felt the flush of heat creep up your neck, the anger boiling under your skin. You slammed a glass down a little harder than you meant to and mumbled something about taking a break.

“Hey, you okay?” one of your coworkers called after you, but you were already pushing through the back door, needing some fresh air, some space to get your head straight.

You ended up in the alleyway behind The Mirage, your back against the cool brick wall, eyes squeezed shut as you tried to keep it together. You felt so stupid, so ridiculous for even letting this get to you. He wasn’t yours. He was just…Rafe. And you were just you, the girl who’d sworn off guys like him a million times.

But it hurt. Way more than you wanted to admit. And before you knew it, a tear slipped down your cheek. You quickly swiped it away, cursing under your breath.

And that’s when you heard it—the creak of the door swinging open, footsteps on the gravel.

You didn’t even have to look to know who it was. Of course he followed you. Of course he did.

“What’s this?” Rafe’s voice was teasing, that familiar low drawl that usually made your heart flutter, but right now it just grated on your nerves. “Are you crying?”

You scoffed, keeping your back turned, hoping he’d take the hint and leave you alone. “No. Just…got something in my eye.”

“Sure you did.” You could hear the smirk in his voice, that stupid, smug grin that he always wore like some kind of armor. “You jealous or something, sweetheart?”

God, he was such an ass. “No,” you snapped, turning to glare at him. “Why would I be jealous? You can flirt with whoever you want. I don’t care.”

He stepped closer, still grinning like he’d won something. “Really? ‘Cause you looked pretty pissed back there.”

You felt another tear threatening to fall, and you bit down hard on your lip, willing it to stop. “I’m not pissed,” you lied, crossing your arms over your chest. “Just…busy. And you’re distracting.”

Rafe laughed softly, and you wanted to smack that grin off his face. “Distracting, huh?”

He was closer now, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his body, and it just made everything worse.

“I’m serious,” you said, your voice shaking just a little. “Just…leave me alone."

But of course, he didn’t. Instead, he took another step closer, reaching out to tilt your chin up so you had to look at him. His thumb brushed against your jaw, and you hated how good it felt, how much you wanted to lean into his touch even though you were mad as hell.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer now, all teasing gone. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

You sniffed, trying to pull away, but he wouldn’t let you. His grip was gentle but firm, and for some stupid reason, that only made the tears come faster.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, hating how weak you sounded. “Just…go back to your fan club, okay?”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you saw something there, something that wasn’t just amusement. “Fan club?” he echoed, his brow furrowing slightly. 

“You mean that girl?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. That girl. You seemed pretty into her.”

He let out a low chuckle, but it wasn’t mocking. It was almost…gentle. “Sweetheart, you think I’m interested in her?”

You blinked, not trusting yourself to speak, so you just shrugged.

Rafe shook his head, his thumb still brushing your cheek. “Nah. I’m not. I was just…” He paused, a grin tugging at his lips. “I was just waiting to see how long it’d take you to get jealous.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You—what?”

He grinned, his eyes lighting up with mischief. “Oh, C'mon. You think I didn’t notice the way you were glaring at her? You looked like you wanted to rip her hair out.”

 “I did not,” you protested, but the redness in your cheeks betrayed you.

Rafe’s grin widened. “Yeah, you did. And I gotta admit…kinda hot seeing ya all riled up over me, sugar.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, but there was no heat in your voice now. It was hard to stay mad when he was looking at you like that, like you were the only person in the world.

He laughed softly, but then his expression softened, and he cupped your face with both hands, pulling you closer. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and serious now. “For the record, there’s no one else. Just you, okay?”

Your heart did a stupid little flip at his words, and you wanted to be mad, you really did. But instead, you just felt relief flood through you.

“Okay,” you whispered, and before you knew it, you were in his arms, his lips pressing against your forehead, his hands wrapping around you like he was never letting go.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t care, you know,” he murmured against your hair. “I kind of like that you do.”

You sighed, finally letting yourself lean into him, burying your face in his chest. “I hate you,” you mumbled, but your arms were wrapping around him all the same.

He chuckled, pulling you even closer. “Nah, you don’t.”

And damn it, he was right.

Then, you shifted back a little, looking up at him. His face was closer than you’d realized, his breath warm against your skin. You could see every fleck of gold in his eyes, the way his lips curved slightly like he was trying not to smile too much.

"You’re an asshole, y'know that?" you whispered, but your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

He laughed, a low rumble that you felt in your chest more than heard. "Yeah. But you kinda like that about me, don't ya?"

There was no hiding the grin tugging at your lips. "You think you’re so charming."

"That's 'cause I am," he shot back, but his voice had this low, husky tone to it now. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there a beat too long. You could feel your heart speeding up. It was like everything slowed down in that moment.

Before you could overthink it, he leaned in. Slowly, like he was giving you a chance to pull away, his eyes locked on yours, searching, waiting for any sign that you didn’t want this. But you did. More than anything, you wanted this.

So, you didn’t move. You let him come closer, closer until you could feel the warmth of his lips brushing against yours, so light at first it was barely there. A soft, testing touch, like he was still making sure this was okay. And then, when you didn’t pull back, he pressed his lips fully to yours.

It was gentle at first, careful, his hands still cupping your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks like he was memorizing every inch of you. You could taste the faint hint of beer on his lips, feel the scratch of his stubble against your skin, you felt something sweet, something that was just him.

You kissed him back, tentatively at first, but then something in you snapped. You sighed against his mouth, a soft, involuntary sound, and that was all it took for him to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushed against your lower lip, asking for permission, and you granted it without thinking, opening to him, meeting him halfway.

All the tension, all the months of pretending you didn’t feel anything, it all spilled out at once. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers threading through his hair, deepening the kiss.

Rafe groaned softly, his hands moving to your waist, pulling you flush against him. And you kissed him back just as fiercely, letting yourself feel every bit of it. When you broke apart for just a second, gasping for air, but he didn’t go far. His lips hovered over yours, his breath warm, his eyes dark and intense, like he was seeing straight through you.

"God," he whispered, his voice ragged, "I’ve wanted to do that for so long."

You didn’t even have time to say something before he captured your mouth again, this time slower, deeper, like he wanted to savor every second. His hands were everywhere now—one in your hair, the other sliding down to the small of your back, holding you like he was never going to let go.

You broke apart again, both of you panting, his forehead pressed against yours. “Fuck,” he breathed out, a smile spreading across his face. "You sure you don't hate me?"

You laughed, breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Maybe just a little," you teased, but there was no hiding the smile that was stretching across your face, the way your fingers still tangled in his hair, like you couldn’t let go.

He chuckled, leaning in to steal another quick kiss, softer this time, sweet and playful. "Well, I can live with that." he murmured against your lips.