liv

Shirtless with his face buried in the pillow was exactly how Alex liked to sleep; his retainers on lock as drool spilled past his open mouth onto the soft cotton pillow below. It was the only way Alex knew how to sleep. He’d gotten used to the cool sheets, the lack of warmth and the absence of a warm body. He claimed he didn’t need it; it didn’t bother him. Really, it didn’t.

“¡Papá!”

He feels the impact first, feels his son throw his whole weight onto the bed with a joyful laugh. He cracks an eye open. 7:53 A.M. Fuck, Alex had slept in, and Jaime was still in his dinosaur pajamas. Alex inhaled sharply, his hair mussed as he rolled onto his elbows and looked at his son, who stared back at him with a toothy grin.

“¿Tenemos escuela hoy?” Do we have school today?

“Sí,” Yes, he affirms, left hand rubbing his eye as he sat up fully in bed. Jaime bounced where he sat, onesie-covered feet stuck out as his hands played with each other. Alex felt a smile grace his lips as he admired Jaime’s eager movements. “Go pick out an outfit, I’ll make you some breakfast.”

Jaime sticks his fist out, cheeks blown out as he nods, “I wanna wear my Cars shirt.”

Alex grins, fist-bumping him back. Their special ritual.

“Go for it, mijo,” and Jaime’s off the bed and bounding into the hall. His feet pad all the way down to his room, the door slamming as he goes to change. Alex shakes his head, running his hands through his hair before leaning back in bed with his eyes closed.

He felt tranquil. A little overwhelmed–well, more than a little. Work kept him slammed, and he knew he’d be late in picking up Jaime from school once again. A distant memory comes to him, a drunken night with his friends, Angel and Sebastian.

“¿Por qué no le pagas a un niñero?” Why don’t you pay for a babysitter?

He’d said something about wanting to spend as much time with Jaime as possible back then, but he knew deep down it was beginning to be too much. He prided himself on being a single parent; he’d been handling this shit on his own for as long as he remembered.

A crash echoes through the small family home, and Alex brushes the covers away and sprints to his son’s room with wide eyes. As he enters, he finds Jaime standing with his hands clasped behind his back, holding his Cars shirt and rocking on his feet while his dresser lies on its front, clothes spilling out and around it. Alex gives Jaime a look, confused, with a bit of disbelief.

“¡Se cayó! Trataba de agarrar mi camisa y se cayó…” It fell! I tried to grab my shirt, and it fell…

Alex sighs, squatting to rub his son’s back. Jaime looks at him with those wide, innocent brown eyes, and Alex knows he deserves more, deserves someone constant. Alex tugs him into a hug, and then changes his shirt with the practiced ease only a father could have. He righted the dresser, letting it stand on its four legs while Jaime wiggled his tiny feet into a pair of jeans. 

Breakfast is messy and hectic as both boys rush to get themselves ready. Jaime stands by the door with his backpack on, and Alex has to pause to swipe a bit of egg from his son’s mouth. He checks the time, 8:00 A.M. Damn. They were going to be late. 

It’s only when they’re midway through the kiss and ride that Jaime exclaims out of nowhere, “I forgot my lunch, ¡Papá!”

A stream of defeat courses through his entire body. Alex’s head drops back against the headrest. God, he really needed a babysitter.

-

“Looking for a babysitter for a five-year-old boy. Loves dinosaurs and video games, not a picky eater. Must have CPR and first aid training. Hoping for open availability, but I am willing to work with you! Pay is $30 an hour, and I am open to negotiating your salary.”

The ad finds you on the worn couch of your tiny apartment. The wine glass teeters and tips in your hand like a seesaw as you scroll through the listing. You had the credentials to back it up—years of experience, the right training and were desperate enough to do anything for a few extra bucks. The ad finds you well, and you take a mouthful of wine before clicking on the profile.

The father’s name is Alex, and the profile is mostly bare-bones. He did have a profile picture, and you felt your lips quirk into a smirk as you eyed it. A mature face, not worn, but a working man’s face. Dark hair that cascaded down in black strands that framed him, with dark eyes to match. He was sexy, as far as fathers went. While looks can be deceiving, you also figured there was no way Alex could be so bad. 

Besides, you could handle a five-year-old boy. You guide your mouse to the “message” button and click with a harsh tap. The page directs you to a private message, where you type your response with dashing fingers.

You: Hello! I’m interested in the listing you posted. Do you have availability for an interview?

Not expecting a response right away, your gaze shifts back to your wine as you refill it from the bottle on the floor. You adjust your blanket, cozying yourself further into the couch as a ding sounds out through the air. You raise a brow as you scan the message.

Alex: Hi! That’s great, I just read through your profile. You seem like a good fit. Does Friday work for you? You could also meet Jaime to see how you two get along. 

You: That sounds great, Alex. Friday works for me, I’ll see you then.

He sends his details, and you agree to meet at noon.

You had to be professional. This wasn’t a date, but damn, if you weren’t excited. The laptop is slammed shut, and your wine glass is drained. You’d ace this interview, make some extra money and move on with a beaming grin. The hot dad was a mere perk.

This job needed to change everything. You were sick of the hum-drum of the day-to-day. You felt listless. Off course. Those thoughts are pushed away; you weren’t ready to deal with them yet. Heading to bed, you lie awake with only a day in mind. Friday.

It comes quicker than you think.

Dressed in a smart outfit with a hint of cute, you knock on the front door. Flared yoga pants, pink ones—of course, and a brown tank top that hugged you just right. There are voices behind the door, and you can hear scrambling before it swings wide open. Alex stands there, hair loose and a bit in his face as he greets you. His son was there next to him, hand clinging to his leg as he peered at you from behind his father.

“Hi,” Alex says, eyeing you with a hint of warmth and a mix of want. It makes you smirk back at him, and the blush is obvious as it grows from being caught staring. “I’m Alex.”

He extends a warm hand, and you take it, offering a kind smile with bright eyes. You really needed this job. His hand has calluses, and it makes you shiver. You tell him your name, and then glance at the little boy now standing on his own, unattached from his father’s leg.

“You wanna introduce yourself, hm?” Alex pats his son on the back, enough to push him forward, and the boy steps up to jut his chin towards the sky.

“I’m Jaime,” he declares, before stepping back like a dutiful soldier in line. 

Alex laughs, glancing at you, but you’re unfazed as you squat and offer to shake his little hand. Jaime laughed and shook your hand; you stood back up and looked between the two of them.

“It’s great to meet you both,” Alex and Jaime step aside to let you in, and you enter their home. 

It was warm. Not only was their house quite large, but it was also filled with a multitude of things. It was lived in. Toys strewn everywhere, large gaming and sound systems, a marble kitchen and a thriving backyard. You felt a bit of jealousy as you took it all in, but pushed it aside as Alex led you to sit down on the couch.

“Do you like video games?” Jaime queries, following the adults into the living room.

“Yeah, I do,” you chirp with a smile. “What do you like to play?”

Maybe you could get in his good graces with that.

“Anything Papá has! I love video games.”

“Anything age-appropriate,” Alex adds before taking a seat on the couch. “Why don’t you go play upstairs for a little?”

Jaime pouts, swinging his leg around before nodding and conceding at Alex’s look.

The boy scampers up the stairs, and then it’s just the two of you. Your fingers curl in on themselves to form fists on top of your knees. With your back straight, you watched as Alex eyed you before a gentle smile graced his lips.

“So, I guess we’ll just get right to it. Jaime needs a babysitter for when I’m at work, my schedule is pretty sporadic, but I usually work at least three days a week,” Alex explains, his hands fidgeting with each other. “I was hoping you’d be able to handle maybe some pick-ups and just general caretaking while I’m out of the house.”

“I can definitely do that!” You hand him your resume, to which he glances at you with an appreciative smile; your heart flutters in your chest as he takes the paper.

Alex skims it first, nodding and reading quietly. He looks back up and laughs as his hand comes up to brush some strands away from his face. Almost nervous, he fingers a piece, twirling the hair around his finger before clearing his throat.

“You’re perfect, really. I’m down to pay you whatever you want,” his eyes dip down to your chest for just a glance, but you catch it, and it makes confidence thrum through your veins.

“I mean, I’m not gonna say no. I’m pretty happy with the standard pay, but if you were gonna raise it…?”

Alex smirks, sitting up straighter and shrugging like it was no big deal. By the looks of his house, he had no trouble in that department, “how about we raise it to $40? You can also eat from our fridge or cook for yourself and Jaime, it’s no big deal.”

You try not to squeal at the price, nodding with a barely suppressed grin at his words. A high pay rate and even more perks? It might be a dream, should you pinch yourself? You don’t, but you’re in a haze as Alex stands; you mimic him and begin to walk, the two of you heading to the front door. Your feet drag a bit. Being in Alex’s presence felt nice.

“This is honestly the first time Jaime’s ever been babysat. I’m hoping he’ll be okay, but,” the pause is long as he trails off.

Alex’s anxiety is obvious; his eyes look all around, unable to keep himself from spilling his guts. Your hand settles on his bicep, and you smile with warmth and understanding. You didn't have kids, but you knew this had to be hard for them.

“I’m sure he will be. He has a great father, and I’m pretty great too,” Alex laughs at your joke and doesn’t shy away from your touch. You squeeze, for comfort and to greedily feel the hard muscle under his skin. “Jaime’s in good hands. I promise!”

The father looks straight into your eyes, reading your expression and gauging your intentions. He seems to find what he’s looking for as you pull your hand away, and Alex grins as he opens the front door.

“I believe you, I think you’re exactly what we’ve been looking for,” and you wonder if he’s feeling the same connection you were.

It’s not lost on you what he means. Maybe you were exactly what he’s been looking for, whatever that is. A babysitter, you guess, but maybe there was room for more. Hell, you wanted more. This meeting had left you curious. No one else seemed to be in the picture.

“I’ll see you Monday. Take care, get home safe,” Alex says in a low tone, waving. 

You watch as Jaime rushes to cling to his father’s leg and downright screams. You didn’t even notice him come back down, but his scream is more than enough to let you know he was there.

“Bye! See you soon!”

You laugh, almost tripping as you make your way down to the sidewalk. The two boys keep waving as you give an embarrassed look, then open the door to your Toyota to drive off. Alex lingers in the doorway as Jaime runs in while you get yourself sorted, and he continues to linger even as you drive off. 

The weekend is spent lounging and dreaming of Alex, literally and figuratively. He haunts you a little. You two text sporadically, and it’s not crossing boundaries by any means, but it feels comfortable. It scares you.

Monday arrives, and you’re pulling up to the household with a cup of coffee in hand. You exit your car and knock, hearing Jaime’s delightful squeals behind the oak wood. 

Alex opens the door a bit frazzled, and he’s quick to say, “I burnt the pancakes. Jaime’s covered in flour—he knocked over the bowl, and I really gotta go.”

You nod, face serious as he steps aside to let you in. 

“Keep getting ready. I’ll handle breakfast,” your thumbs-up is swift; you and Alex splitting off to handle Jaime and handle himself, respectively. 

Jaime’s standing on his toes in the kitchen, peering into the bowl of leftover pancake mix. You assess the situation, and despite the burnt crust caked onto the pan, the mess was salvageable. 

“Hi! I got flour all over me,” he announces as you stand in the doorway. Your hands come to rest on your hips, the purse set aside. “Will you help me?”

“Of course I will,” you answer with a smile.

Flour is shaken out of Jaime’s dark hair; it matched his father’s, and you brush off the flour as best you can from his shirt and pants. Thankfully, the damage wasn’t too bad. With a rag and some soap, Jaime looks good as new as you scoop him up.

“Okay, you’re gonna be a good boy and wait at the table while I make your pancakes, ‘kay?”

“Okay, hi, Papá!” Jaime waves to Alex, who grabs a water bottle off the kitchen island while crossing the room.

Your heart races as Alex’s eyes linger on the picturesque scene. You, in all your glory with yoga pants and a sweater, looking so at ease with Jaime’s now clean cherubic face. It made his heart almost stop in his chest, a tease of what could be. Alex gulps, and his fingers tighten on the bottle as he manages a weak smile.

“Hi Jaime, I’m leaving now,” to which Jaime lets out a loud, long whine. Alex turns to you, eyes brimming with appreciation. “Thanks so much, you got it from here? I’ll be back around five to six. You know, dinnertime. Oh, and the spare key’s under the mat.”

“Gotcha,” Jaime squirms and waves along with you. “Have a good day at work, Alex.”

You set Jaime down and approach Alex, hand coming to swipe a speck of flour off the front of his button-up. Alex jerks his face away, warming up as your fingers brush his chest. Your smile is cheeky and knowing as you step back.

“You had a little something,” and then you’re clapping your hands at Jaime like nothing had even happened. “Who’s ready for pancakes?”

“Me!” Jaime exclaims, arms flying into the air as he jumps up and down. 

Alex stands dumbly in the kitchen before nodding and waving. His cheeks were pink, eyes unable to stop themselves from roving over your joyful form as you mixed pancake batter. Alex draws close, ruffling Jaime's hair and looking at you with wide brown eyes.

“Bye,” he tells Jaime, and then turns to you. 

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel it. No, you see it. He’s off in seconds, jogging out the front door and shutting it with a click. The bowl of pancake batter sits against your hip as you mix, eyes lingering on the empty space left behind by his absence.

You swiftly use the rest of the batter to make the pancakes, Jaime’s excited chatter behind you as you face away from him. You get to know him by asking him about school and what he’s learning. He’s chomping on a fluffy pancake as he says, “I like you! You make good pancakes.”

“Do you? And how are you gonna feel when I make you eat your vegetables, hm?”

“What?!” His brows are raised as he shovels another piece of pancake into his mouth. “No way!”

“Yes way,” you smirk at him and cross your arms. “Broccoli, asparagus, carrots and more.”

Jaime’s gives a whiny cry, but when your fingers dig into his stomach to tickle him, it’s quickly snuffed out. You were right. You knew how to handle him. The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, Jaime’s face is wiped clean and you toss the napkin into the trash.

The little boy slings his backpack over his shoulders, and you’re about to use the spare key to lock the door when your gaze turns in scrutiny to Jaime’s figure. Something was missing. You look intently and scan Jaime with a watchful eye. It clicks.

“Did you forget your lunch?”

The boy’s eyes are wide, before he hurriedly nods and runs inside whilst shouting, “one second!”

You wonder if every day will be as easy as this. As comfortable as this. The door is locked, and both of you are on your way to his elementary school.

Time is spent running errands while Jaime is at school. You picked up a few things for dinner, and you were sure Alex wouldn’t mind. By the time three o’clock rolls around, you’re in the pick-up lane waiting with your fingers drumming on the wheel. 

Jaime comes bounding out with his too big backpack hanging off his shoulders. The second you see him, you’re stepping out of the car with your wind-blown hair and sunglasses perched on your nose. Your arm wave is dramatic and big, and Jaime sees you immediately.

He sprints over while calling your name, and you laugh and round the car to open the door for him. He greets you with an excited “hello,” and your smile is warm as you buckle him in.

“Hi Jaime, how was school?”

“Good! Papá packed my lunch so it was yummy,” he says matter-of-factly, nodding with pride. 

“Ooh, and what did he pack for you?”

Jaime launches into a lengthy discussion of his lunch, what the other kids ate, and how he was absolutely thrilled to find a Mazapan in his lunch today. You grin as you drive at the idea of Alex taking care to put a treat in his son’s lunch. A reminder that he knew him, loved him. 

“Sounds delicious! Are you hungry enough for a snack when you get home?”

“Hmm,” Jaime says with a pensive look on his face, before asking with a tilt of his head. “Can you make me a quesadilla? Con crema?” With sour cream?

It makes you giggle. Alex had said something about Jaime having a preference for all things cheesy. You had been thinking mac and cheese, but a quesadilla “con crema” made even you feel hungry at the thought. You glance back at Jaime with a confident nod.

“I’ll make you the best quesadilla in the world.”

Jaime’s question is full of disbelief and excitement, “really?!”

Yes, really. You park in the garage and get to work in the kitchen as soon as you enter the home. It feels normal to be here, cooking and cleaning. Once post-lunch is served, you lounge on the couch and watch Bluey while Jaime eats his quesadilla. Homework is taken care of just after his snack, and it’s not long before it’s about time for Alex to come home.

-

Alex is beyond exhausted when he comes home. His shoulder sagged low on his frame as he inserted his key in the door, and he could hear the quiet chattering of you and Jaime. He feels himself perk up a little at the thought of seeing you and his son, of course.

Jaime’s already in his pajamas, and he lets out a sharp yell of joy as he comes tumbling into Alex’s arms. Alex is quick to hoist him up, spinning him around and rubbing his knuckles into the soft, dark hair. You merely sit there with a smile on your face, watching and waiting.

“Was waiting for you to tuck me in,” Jaime says with a finger twirling his father’s hair before pulling the hood of his dinosaur onesie up and over the crown of his head.

“Ah, well, you know I tuck you in the best. Head on upstairs. I’ll meet you there in a little while,” and Jaime listens as Alex sets him on the ground and watches the little boy run up the stairs.

You stand then, drawing so close that Alex can smell your perfume. Vanilla. Sugary. Sweet. He distracts himself by pulling out his wallet and thumbing through bills. Alex glanced at you, and then he offered a small smile.

“Thanks for stepping in today. You were a huge help.”

“It’s no problem,” you answer smoothly, truth lacing your words. “He’s a sweet kid, I think we get along.”

Alex says nothing to that; he’d have to get the details from Jaime. But if you were anything like this morning, with the gracious ease of handling him, he expected no issues. He hands you the few bills, and you count them after a cheeky look his way. Alex smirks, moles winking as he tilts his head.

“Did I short you?”

“Not at all. Thank you.”

The two of you linger. Alex has the sudden urge to pull you by the waist and kiss you senseless, till your lips tingled and all you could do was fall into his arms. But he didn’t, doesn’t. God, you were his kid’s babysitter; he shouldn’t be thinking like this.

And yet you whisper goodnight in that soothing, low tone, hand brushing against his shoulder with the confidence of a woman who knew what she wanted, who knew she could handle anything thrown her way. Did Alex have that same confidence? He wasn’t sure. 

Alex closes the door behind you and makes his way up the stairs to Jaime’s bedroom. It was a little messy, as kids' rooms are, but Alex could see the intention in every toy that lay strewn around. He sidesteps a few Legos (frankly, those were about to be the reason for his demise), and he picks up a stuffed bear that Jaime’s mother gifted him when he was young. A sour taste forms in his mouth at the idea of her, but he pushes it aside. 

Jaime sits patiently, legs already covered by the blanket, to which he kicks his feet as Alex approaches. The father sits on the edge of the bed, his large hand caressing the boy's soft cheek. Jaime leans closer, then lies back to begin their evening ritual.

“¿Querías una cuenta?” Did you want a story?

“No,” Jaime replies. “¿Te gusta la niñera?” Do you like the babysitter?

Alex swallows a thick glob of spit and nods. Jaime seems relieved, pulling the bear from Alex’s hands and snuggling further into his pillow. He sighs, eyes closing, before murmuring in content and satisfaction.

“A mí me gusta ella.” I like her.

It makes his heart sing. His chest pounds, and he’s filled with overwhelming gratitude at the fact that his family would be okay. Jaime would be okay, he’d be okay and maybe somehow the two of them could factor you into their life in a way that was real. In the way that you were theirs. Maybe it was too soon to think like that, but seeing you that morning holding Jaime like you were destined to be there, well, it made something inside Alex twist with want. Twist with a deep want that nearly consumed him.

“Well, I’m glad. You’ll be spending a lot of time with her, so try to be a good boy, okay?”

“Yes, papá. Te amo.” I love you.

“Te amo muchísimo,” I love you a lot.

Alex kisses his son’s forehead, smoothing down his dark hair and tucking him in tight like a stuffed burrito. Jaime squirms and then relaxes into the comforter, and Alex lingers in the pale moonlight for a small moment. He waits till he sees that telltale breathing, slow and deep breaths puffing and deflating Jaime’s tiny chest. 

The door is closed behind him. Alex leans against the hardwood and closes his eyes. He sees you —your smile, the way you looked at him just before leaving, ambling off into the night and collapsing into bed. Alex dreams of family picnics and soft kisses.

-

The boys welcome you. You fall into a routine with Jaime and Alex, arriving early before Alex has to leave for work to prepare breakfast and leaving late when Alex gets home. It’s easy, in a way, and you’re learning something new every day.

Jaime prefers Mexican food, like the infamous tamarind candy Pelon Pelo Rico — and he hates anything mushy. He preferred to pick his own clothes, often taking style tips from Alex as he selected from an assortment of beanies and cute (see: nerdy) t-shirts. He liked chocolate milk before bed, and he liked the “stories with the funny voices!”

What thrilled you even more than getting to know Jaime was getting to know Alex. 

He took his coffee with as little sugar as possible, and while he was no grand chef, he knew how to make his favorite dishes — and then some. He tended to work out before you arrived, face dripping sweat as he answered the door and gave a lopsided grin. He always showered before dinner and always greeted Jaime with a big kiss. He didn’t shy away from affection.

It was safe to say you were used to the family. You fit in well, Alex had once said before handing you your salary. You’re the best babysitter ever, Jaime exclaimed once you let him have dessert before bed.

You smile, relaxing further into the plush couch in Alex’s home. Stuart Little 2, because Jaime insisted on watching the second one before the first, blared on the TV. It was quiet, a white rat scurrying around as Jaime laughed along with him. The click of the door unlocking barely registers to you, and you’re only alerted to Alex’s presence when Jaime screams and leaps off the couch.

Alex draws closer, a small smile on his lips and Jaime in his arms, “what’re you guys up to?”

He looks at you as Jaime replies. You try not to feel shy in your comfy t-shirt and yoga pants, but Alex’s eyes rake over you appreciatively. It makes your cheeks burn, and you squirm in place.

“Watching Stuart Little 2!”

“Have you even seen the first one?”

“No,” Jaime drags out the word as he says it, before giggling and shrugging. “But I like it!”

Alex gives you a look, and the two of you start cracking up together. He sets Jaime down, who worms his way next to your side on the couch. Jaime pats the spot next to him and looks expectantly at his father. Alex seems to hesitate before taking a seat and squishing Jaime between the two of you. You press play, and it feels so right to be here at this moment with them. You didn’t want to leave.

He makes no motion to dismiss you. Your greedy eyes watch as he loosens his tie and unbuttons the top of his collared shirt. The flash of skin leaves you hot. 

It’s not long before you feel the slumped body of Jaime against your arm. The movie’s still going, hitting its climax as Jaime dozed off. Alex takes a sidelong glance at you, and you turn to look at him. He whispers to you.

“Had a long day?”

“Not too bad,” you hum. “I think I tired him out by running outside for a little.”

“That’s exactly what I do on my days off. Just chase him around till he’s falling over and begging me to stop.”

You smile warmly. He was so sweet, “you’re a good father. You work hard, you care for Jaime… he’s so lucky to have you in his life.”

Alex’s eyes grow glassy. Your eyes search his face, and you want to lean closer so badly. He was right there, willing and wanting. It was clear to you now. He breaks contact first, voice rough as he murmurs your name and thanks. You figure it’s time to get going, despite your desperation for just one more moment alone with Alex.

Jaime’s fingers cling to your shirt as you begin to stand and peel him off of you. A sleepy murmur comes out, your name, and Alex swallows before asking with a nervous, shaky voice.

“Did you want to tuck him in tonight? I-I know it’s not a part of your job capabilities, but–”

“It’s no problem. He’s already clinging to me, might as well,” and you’re scooping him up.

Jaime’s pudgy cheek rests against your shoulder as you both walk up to Jaime’s room. This was absolutely crossing a line; you knew it was. As Alex opened the door for you, you couldn’t say no. You snuggled Jaime closer before laying him down in bed.

You step back, turning and brushing past Alex. You feel his warmth for just a brief moment. It makes your knees weak. The two of you are silent as you head downstairs, the tension palpable. Alex stops in front of you once you reach the door, and he’s looking at you with those soft brown eyes that make you melt.

It’s unclear who leans in first, no, who dives in first. It’s desperate and hungry, your lips tingling as you kiss him with desperation. Your hands are grappling with his shoulders, and his hands find your waist. Alex’s lips are soft and warm against your own and you press yourself closer to feel him for just a second longer.

You pull away first, forcing yourself off of him and just barely managing to hold back. Swallowing, you look at him through your lashes. This was so unprofessional, and yet it felt so right. You didn’t want to stop. 

“I,” Alex starts and swallows before continuing. “I didn’t mean, like, I’m sorry if that was too much or something.”

“No! No, it wasn’t. It was nice, actually.”

He nods, pulling out his wallet. His cheeks were burning, and you could see his eyes darting from you to the money. He looks at you, then holds out the cash.

“Good. That’s good. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Alex’s voice practically shakes as he voices his thoughts.

You take the cash, your fingers brushing, before the feeling dissipates when you pull away. Alex can’t help but smile at you when you smile at him, the joy of the earlier kiss unable to be pushed down any longer. Your quip is inevitable.

“For the record, you’re a really good kisser.”

It’s like the tension washes away, and Alex looks comfortable again. Despite his shyness, he laughs and shakes his head at you.

“You’re a really good kisser, too,” he replies before opening the door. “Goodnight.”

He says your name so softly, with such tenderness and mirth. Your voice is caught in your throat, but you manage a raspy, “goodnight,” before walking out and down the steps of his home. A distinct feeling of sadness lingers as you walk farther away towards your car. You almost felt like you could cry. Oh, how you wanted to be with them. Be with him.

After that night, everything changed. You don’t realize it right away, pushing away the kiss to do your job, but you have been integrated. Yes, you had been absolutely worked into their schedule. Alex and Jaime worked around you like butter —smooth and flexible — as you began to show up earlier. You’d begun to hang around early, making coffee for Alex and staying late cooking dinner for the two of them. 

You tried to follow boundaries, but as you stood in the kitchen listening to Jaime laugh as Alex did his usual funny impressions, it began to feel like home. 

There was an even more profound truth that settled in your chest. Well, technically two. You loved Jaime; that was easy to admit. You loved his joy for life, his particularities, the way he said your name so sweetly and how he always buried his face in your hugs. Alex has always had to tear him away from you. You certainly loved Jaime.

Thoughts weighed heavily on your mind. Thoughts that might get you fired. That might completely ruin everything you had grown to know because you loved Alex. It was obvious when he’d turn to you and your heart would beat rabbit fast in your chest, when he’d brush past you and you swore you felt sparks. Like igniting a flame, he’d struck your match. 

You can’t focus after this newfound fact. It was impossible to focus, knowing now that you loved Alex; that you loved when he’d greet you with a hug, with one of those glamorous smiles aimed right at you.

The morning passes by with the sun shining and wind blowing, arriving early and having coffee with Alex as Jaime ambles around upstairs. You talk about Jaime, the weather, how dreadful Alex’s meetings are and more. He stands, and you almost think he’s going to kiss you when he leans forward with a smile to whisper your name and a goodbye.

Jaime is dropped off earlier than usual, his time and his mind occupied by the impending field trip to the zoo. He babbled the whole car ride to the school, and as you arrived in the kiss and ride lane, he leaped out of the car and hugged you tight.

“Bye! See you!”

You notice how other children hug their mothers and fathers, just as Jaime hugged you. Crushing, all-encompassing and full of love. Your eyes water, and you hug back just as fiercely. His head tucks into the curve of your shoulder, and it’s just the two of you for this sweet moment. 

His teacher calls, and you’re keenly aware that you are familiar now. Teachers waved, parents nodding their heads as if to say, “I get you.” It wasn’t so much strange as unfamiliar. You weren’t accustomed to being viewed as parent-lite, but it wasn’t unwelcome. As you settle back into the car after Jaime boards the bus, you wonder if parenting classes are in your future. If Jaime were in your future.

The passenger seat is empty, and your head bangs against the seat as you realize you forgot your purse. It was surely at Alex’s home, and you’d have to double back as quickly as you could. License, cash, lip gloss and more. You sigh and pull out of the drop-off lane to retrieve your things.

It’s alarming as you drive forward towards the grand house. What was Alex’s car doing here? A sudden spike of anxiety rises in your chest, and your hands grow sweaty as you grip the wheel. Should you just enter? 

You sit for ten minutes. Then, you decide you have nothing to lose and you’re sure nothing would happen if you two were left alone for a few minutes, right? You strut up to the door, head held high, and use the spare key before entering.

It’s not what you expect, no, it’s not what you expect at all. It’s quiet when you open the door and quiet while you cross the living room. A creak sounds out, and Alex steps down the steps, a towel hung low on his waist after he stepped out of the shower. You can’t help the jaw drop, your eyes taking in the flash of skin before you’re turning around and squeaking.

“I-I’m sorry! I saw your car, but I had no idea—”

Alex says your name slowly and even, as if approaching a spooked animal. He then laughs and rubs his head with pink cheeks. You turn, looking over your shoulder with a guilty face and eyes darting around everywhere.

The two of you look at each other, and he has the nerve to step forward like you’re not totally embarrassed and about to run out the door without your purse. This was dangerous. You couldn’t be around the man you loved when he’s like this!

“I just came to get my purse. I am so sorry for interrupting. This is so…”

“So, what?” His voice is curious, and he swallows before stepping closer. You back up, nearly stumbling over one of Jaime’s stuffed toys that lay abandoned. “Are you okay? Don’t sweat it, you’ve seen me without a shirt on.”

You know he’s teasing because he’s so light with it. You gulp, nodding because he was right, but was also so desperately wrong. It comes up like vomit, the words spilling past your lips before you can even think to stop them.

“It’s not that,” you blurt, eyes wide and afraid as you search his face. “It’s more than that.”

Alex is quiet while the two of you look at each other. His fists clench, and he steps forward. You feel prompted to speak, to explain, to do anything other than just stand there like an idiot. 

“Alex,” you start, throat dry. “I love Jaime. I love his laugh, his smile, and the way he loves to play games like ‘dragon slayer’ and Minecraft, because you were the one who showed him the ropes. I’ve grown to love Jaime.”

His eyes grow watery. They grow warm and milky brown; Alex takes a shuddering breath, and his hand comes to your cheek. It’s mush in his palm, and you’re weak at the knees as you murmur. The fear overtakes you, but your heart is stronger.

“I love you,” you admit.

Alex’s lips are on your instantly, right hand cupping your cheek, and left hand dragging you closer by your hip. It’s warm, and you moan as his lips drag against yours, creating heat from the friction of skin. He’s panting as your arms loop around his neck.

“I love you, too,” he groans and squeezes your ass hard. “God, I love you. I’ve been loving you.”

Your whimper is hot and whiny as you rejoin in a lip lock. The make-out is sweet, and your hands pull at his skin as they roam over his exposed torso. Alex is everywhere and everything; his body envelops you, and you grow warm when your hand skims over his chest. 

He pulls away, a string of spit connecting the two of you, before purring, “we should head to the bedroom. Don’t wanna do this on the couch, wanna do it right, you know?”

Nodding in agreement, he wraps an arm around your waist before guiding you up the stairs. You’re both all over each other, and you barely have the time to register that you’re in Alex’s bedroom when he’s crawling on top of you and lying like a weighted blanket.

Your lips reconnect with ferocity, nipping and lips dragging as you tug him closer by his shoulders. His hands skirt over the plush of your thighs and crave a path up your side till sloping over the mounds of your breasts. His fingers flex, squeezing the soft skin over your shirt and making you moan with an arched back.

“Fuck, tits are so pretty, you look so good,” Alex murmurs with a throaty voice, already half-chub in his boxers as he massaged your chest.

All you can do is squirm pathetically. You writhe side to side, hips bucking up and down as you mewled his name. It came out sharp at the first squeeze, then whiny at the second—by the third, you were moaning openly as Alex thumbed your nipples over the fabric of your shirt and bra.

“Lemme take it off,” you whisper before scooting back in a hurry.

The shirt comes off, and you’re clad in a lacy black bra that leaves Alex reeling. His eyes trace over the intricate fabric before he’s nodding in a trance, “yeah, yeah.”

Your smirk is grand as your nimble hands wind behind your back and unclasp the bra. It clatters to the floor as you toss it from the bed, settling yourself to lie back as Alex slowly makes his way back on top of you. 

He’s gentler now, almost afraid, as he brings a hand to your chest to squeeze the fat of your breast. A shuddering breath escapes you, the rough pads of his fingers drifting over the sensitive skin.

“I have to tell you something,” he murmurs with a tweak of your perky nipple. “I haven’t done this in a while, I might be…”

“What, bad?”

You cup his cheek and drag him closer till your noses brush in an Eskimo kiss. It’s quiet as you stare into his eyes, fingers clenching just the slightest as your breaths mingle together. You’re the first to speak.

“I love you, Alex. I don’t feel afraid, I just feel like I really want to do this with you. It doesn’t have to be fucking,” your voice quiets. “We could make love, if you want.”

He’s nodding immediately, his spark back as his lips curve into a wicked smile.

“Who said I didn’t want to fuck?”

Alex punctuates his words with a grind between your spread legs. Your moan is barely concealed, and the two of you fall into a hard rhythm of push-pull, Alex pressing his thick bulge against the heat of your clothed pussy.

You manage to pause him, too caught up in the feel of his heavy dick dragging through your folds. Grasping onto his hips, you wrench them away with a desperate gasp.

“I can’t, need to take this off,” you murmur hotly as Alex pulls back enough to watch you peel off your yoga pants. 

Alex’s gaze is transfixed on the heat between your legs, throat dry as he takes off his own cotton shirt. He unbuckles his belt like a tease, each loop undone slowly with his eyes tracing over the entirety of your body with a hungry gaze.

You’re both looking at each other, and you can’t help but eye the now freed bulge in his boxers. Saliva pools in your mouth, and your crawl is slow as you draw near. 

“I wanna taste you,” Alex utters in a broken, needy voice.

“You will.”

You sit on your knees, Alex opposite you. Your hand starts at his knee before trailing upwards, little hairs catching on your palm before you’re palming him over his tight boxers. 

He shudders, eyes slipping closed while a soft whine bubbled out of him. He was throbbing, so warm as you squeezed him over the fabric. Snapping the fabric against his hip, you rouse him to open his eyes and motion towards his underwear.

“Take it off.”

“B-But—“

“Shh,” you croon into his ear. “Just let me make you feel good, and then I’ll let you have what you want. Okay?”

His reply is spoken in short bursts as he stands, his hands hastily coming to his waistband to tug the underwear down and off his legs. He kicks it away, and his dick bobs and brushes against his navel. Alex looks away with a shy look on his face, but you don’t feel afraid as you wrap your hand around him.

Alex’s hips buck, a hiss forced out as you smear the drooling pre-cum all around his flushed head. His hand rests on the top of your head, and your lips pucker as you kiss his slit.

“Oh fuck, I haven’t—ohgod, your mouth is, fuuuck.”

Your tongue is quick to lap at his tip, lips parting to suck on the heated skin—the taste of salty pre on your tongue as you lave it all around his dick.

The pads of Alex’s fingers massage your scalp, knuckling the soft strands of your hair as you take him into your mouth, inch by inch. It’s heady and your lips curl around your teeth as you slide down to the base.

A keening moan bursts from Alex when you swallow him down your throat, your warm mouth constricting and gurgling as you bob up and down.

“Yesyesyes, mmf, I love your mouth. Oh my, fuck!”

Your eyes watch him as you move faster, hand coming up to play with his balls as spit dribbled down your chin. His cock throbs on your tongue, and your moan makes him even more vocal as the vibrations course through his body.

He’s pulling you off with haste. Both of you are gasping—well, you’re heaving for air as you bat your pretty lashes at him. His dick twitches, and Alex is tugging his lip between his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut to pull him back from the edge.

Pouting, you protest with a pawing hand.

“Wanted you to cum in my mouth,” you plead with your thumb grazing his nipple.

“I-I didn’t want to, not yet. Wanna make you feel good, like I said,” he’s pushing you back against the covers, thumb hooking in the waistband of your panties to tug them down. “This pretty pussy’s been waiting for me.”

He was right, eyes rapt with attention as sticky strings connected your soaking hole and underwear. Alex’s hips shift against the sheets, pressing himself against the covers with a quiet groan; his eyes never leave between your legs.

Squirming and needy, you press your foot against his shoulder with a gentle plea, “c’mon, wanna feel your tongue.”

“Yeah? You want me to eat you out?”

Alex plants slow kisses on your inner thighs, nipping at the flesh and getting closer to where you wanted him most. His breath grazes over your sensitive clit, and it takes everything in you not to force Alex’s head into your folds.

You settle with worming your fingers in his hair. It was soft, and you couldn’t help but card your fingers through it as you looked down at him.

He looks up at you, eyes lowered and hazy, before leaning in and suckling on your clit. Your cry is instantaneous, already worked up from sucking him off.

Alex eats you out like he’s starving, and in a way, he is. He hasn’t had pussy like this in so long, god, had it been years? He wasn’t sure, but he was drunk off your taste within minutes as his pink tongue wormed its way through your folds and licked your arousal.

Your fingers flex in his air, jerking and moving around as Alex lapped at you. He drew circles on your clit with his pink muscle, before diving with his nose buried against your nub and tongue working you open.

“Oh, Alex! Ah, ah—I love it, love you, ohhh,” your words die out with a keening whine.

You’re closer than you’d like to admit as Alex continues his ministrations. He was sloppy with it, hips humping the bed and groans echoing as he devoured you whole.

“That’s it, grind on my tongue. Fuck my face,” he urges darkly, voice hoarse as you pull him closer and start to work your hips against his mouth.

It builds and builds in your stomach, an inferno of lust coiled in your belly. You’re so close. Alex licks from your whole to your clit with the flat of his tongue, and that inferno heats till it explodes in a fiery ball of pleasure.

Your moan is stilted, drawn out and guttural as your back arches and you hump Alex’s mouth to ride out through your orgasm.

Alex nuzzles your thigh, planting kiss after kiss. He pulls back and skims you before sitting back with a goofy smirk.

“You lied,” you lament with a pant. “You’re really fucking good.”

He fucking giggles and shifts with anticipation.

“You ready?”

He looks so handsome like this. Built shoulders, moles dotting his skin. You nod, stars in your eyes as you spread your legs in invitation. Alex is languid as he moves closer to you, hand gripping the base of his dick and biting his lip.

Alex rubs his tip against you, your hole drooling as he makes a mess of the two of you. Your breaths are labored as you watch him, and you force out a, “hurry up!”

The man smirks, pausing before sinking in. Head thrown back, your moan is grand as Alex bullies himself into you. He’s mumbling praises, eyes watching your walls spread for him until his hips are flush with yours.

You scratch at his back, legs locking around his hips with a vice grip.

“God, you’re so fucking tight. I knew you would be, but,” he thrusts hard, the motion jerking you upwards as you cried out. “You’re so much fucking better than I imagined, you know? I’ve thought about you since I saw you.”

“Y-You have? You always seemed so–ooh, so professional,” you drawl in a steamy voice.

“Yes, ngh, yes! Had to be, couldn’t just fuck the babysitter on the first day.”

There’s an audible sound of skin on skin, and all you can do is take him until he leaves you completely spent. Alex is moaning in your ear as he leans over you, tendrils of his hair grazing your forehead and cheeks as he fucked you with vigor.

He angles his hips up, battering against that spongy spot deep inside that makes your eyes roll back. You’re wordless, hands grappling to hold his face and pull him closer, deep eye contact ensuing as he fucked into you.

“I love you,” you say in a daze, eyes bouncing around in your skull as you were fucked dumb, that heated coil returns so hot you could feel it all the way into your toes. “I love you so much.”

“I love you more,” he declares with a breathless whisper.

He fucks you harder at the shared revelation, and your eyes tear up in ecstasy as you mumble a jumbled, “gonna cum, Alex, gonna cum for you.”

“Fuck, fuck, me too. Ohmygod, can I—”

“Yes, cum inside me. Want you to fill me up, please!”

You both come undone within seconds, the feeling of Alex flooding your womb with his cum triggering your orgasm to roll over you in a wave. You go numb, toes tingling as you mewl out for Alex. 

There’s a mix of breaths that wind down, the smell of sex in the air as Alex collapses next to you. You’re rolling to nuzzle yourself into his neck as if you couldn’t stand to not feel his skin for a mere second.

You’re both quiet for a few minutes. Once you’re calm enough, you manage to whisper.

“That was, well, I never expected that to happen.”

“Really?” Alex’s fingers drum on your bare hip. “Well, maybe not today, but after that kiss?”

He turns to smile at you with a goofy grin.

“It was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

-

The smell of pancakes wafts into your dreams. It’s enough to rouse you as you sniff, burying your face in Alex’s pillow. Your hand pats around on the empty bed, searching for that hard muscle you’d grown accustomed to in the past six months you’d been living with them. The sheets are cold and you know he’s gone.

Cooking? You wonder in silence, opening your bleary eyes and sitting up. The sheets are tossed aside, and you throw on Alex’s shirt and some shorts with eagerness. You couldn’t wait to see Jaime, see Alex.

Donning your slippers, you make your way out of the bedroom and down the steps—the sounds become clearer and the grin has already shaped itself on your face.

The picture is perfect. You take it all in at the bottom of the steps, eyes scanning the scene. Alex stands shirtless, flipping pancakes with ease. Two mugs of coffee are set to the side, steaming and alluring.

Music plays from the speaker, an upbeat tune filling the kitchen.

Jaime sits at the counter, rolling a toy car over the marble counter. His toys lay tossed around, and you maneuver around them on your tiptoes before placing your hands on Jaime’s shoulders. He jumps, before calling out your name in joy.

Alex turns then, his smile easy as he watches you kiss the chubby cheeks of his son. You peer at him before standing and rounding the island to stand next to Alex.

He lowers the burner and then slinks his arms around your waist. You bite your lip, almost shy, as he looks at you in reverence. Then, he’s leaning down and kissing you in such a sugary fashion that your skin prickles with goosebumps.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you croon. “Pancakes for breakfast?”

“The big man called. I had to answer.”

He motions over to Jaime, who grins before slamming two trucks into each other. It makes the two of you laugh, and you reach to rub Alex’s back. Alex turns back to the pancakes, and you realize that this was right where you wanted to be. 

You had found your place.

Goofy, fast-talking, too-smart-for-his-own-good Alex. Always wearing some dumb shirt and making terrible jokes, constantly yelling on stream, walking around with his beanie on in the summer like he didn’t just spend the last hour texting you “come home I miss u :((”

So, naturally, the world filled in the blanks.

“She definitely doms him.”

“She picks him up and throws him like a ragdoll.”

“Alex is so submissive-coded. She probably fucks him.”

You always laughed when you saw those comments. Even liked a few of them.

But Alex didn’t.

He’d see your screen from across the bed, chin tilted down, a slow smirk creeping across his mouth like he already knew what was coming.

“Oh, they think you’re in charge?” he’d ask, voice lower than usual.

You’d pretend not to hear him.

Pretend you weren’t already pressing your thighs together under the blanket.

Pretend you weren’t remembering all the ways he’d made you sob into the sheets for calling him soft.

But you remembered.

You remembered everything.

You remembered the time he came home after seeing one of those tweets blowing up. One of those dumb little jokes someone made about how you probably fucked him with a strap. You showed it to him with a grin. He didn’t laugh.

He closed your laptop.

Grabbed your chin.

Made you kneel in front of him without saying a word.

He made you open your mouth and held your tongue down with his thumb while he fucked your throat slow. Told you to keep your eyes on his, no blinking, no whining, no pulling away. You lasted three minutes before tears were sliding down your face and drool was soaking your chest.

He came on your cheek.

Smeared it into your skin with two fingers and told you to say thank you.

You did. You always did.

There was the time in the kitchen. You had been bratting again, acting smug while you licked icing off your finger, legs up on the counter, teasing him with your bare thighs and that little smirk he hated.

He didn’t even give you a warning.

He grabbed the back of your neck, bent you over the counter, and yanked your shorts down to your ankles.

You tried to fight it. Just a little. Just to see what he’d do.

He spit on your pussy and slid in all at once.

You still remembered how cold the granite felt against your stomach. How one of your legs went numb halfway through from being pinned awkwardly. How he kept going anyway, fucking you rough and fast, talking about how you wanted everyone to think he was your little toy while you were dripping around him like a used-up mess.

He pulled out and finished on the floor.

Made you get on your knees and lick it up.

Called you good girl when you swallowed.

You remembered the mirror.

The one in the hallway that you used to take selfies in before he ruined it for you.

He sat you in front of it one night, completely naked, knees spread wide, makeup still perfect from your shoot. Told you to look at yourself while he touched you. Told you to watch your face while he made you beg.

You came once just from his fingers.

He didn’t stop.

He leaned in behind you, cock heavy against your lower back, and whispered that you looked so much prettier when you were crying. That all the people online who thought you were the one in charge would probably lose their minds if they saw you now. Spread open and desperate. Whimpering. Completely wrecked.

You begged him to fuck you. He said no.

Not until you said it.

Not until you said you weren’t the boss.

You remembered choking on the words. Voice shaking. Eyes locked on your own reflection while you whispered it like a confession.

You remembered the smile that broke across his face right before he grabbed you by the throat and shoved himself inside.

You came again before he even finished the first thrust.

There were more. So many more.

The bath. The couch. That one time in the backseat of the Uber where you swore no one saw but he didn’t even seem to care. The night he used your vibrator on you while keeping one hand around your throat and another on your hip. The time he called you daddy’s dumb little toy and you came so hard your legs gave out.

They all blurred together.

Every filthy moment. Every bruise. Every bruise he kissed better right after.

Every single time you thought you could play with him.

Every single time he reminded you who you really belonged to.

So when he said it again, from across the bed, already leaning forward with that cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth,

“Oh, they think you’re in charge?”

You only smiled.

Because you knew what was coming.

And you knew you’d thank him when he was done.

He pushed the blankets off and stood at the end of the bed, still shirtless, low sweats hanging off his hips, sleepy wisps of hair falling into his eyes. He tilted his head and looked at you like you were already on your knees. Like he already owned you.

“C’mere.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

You got up on shaky legs, walked over slow, half-dazed already, and stopped right in front of him.

He hooked a finger under your chin.

“Still think you’re the boss?”

You shook your head.

He grinned.

“Then prove it.”

You sank to your knees on the floor.

Palms flat on your thighs.

Eyes wide, lips parted, waiting.

He pushed his sweats down just far enough, cock already hard, already leaking for you. He didn’t touch himself. Didn’t stroke it. Just stepped forward and rested the tip on your tongue, watching your expression shift from smug to needy in half a second.

“Good girl.”

You took him slowly. Not because he told you to, but because your jaw was still sore from the last time. You gagged a little, eyes fluttering as your throat tightened around him.

Alex groaned, fingers threading into your hair.

“Look at you,” he said, voice thick with pride. “Twitter’s favorite dom queen. Can’t even take a full inch without choking.”

You moaned around him.

He held your head still and rocked his hips forward, a little deeper, then a little more, fucking your mouth slow but deliberate. Each thrust made your eyes water. Each slap of skin made you shiver.

“You’re so much prettier like this,” he murmured, thumb brushing a tear off your cheek. “Bet if they saw you now, they’d shut the fuck up real fast.”

You could barely breathe.

Barely think.

Your own arousal was leaking down your thighs and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

He pulled out with a wet pop and dragged you to your feet. You stumbled a little, dazed, unsteady, mouth hanging open.

“Bed.”

You climbed back onto it, hands and knees, ass in the air because you knew what he wanted. You heard him spit behind you, felt it drip between your legs, warm and filthy.

Then his palm cracked across your ass.

You gasped.

“What do you say?”

“Thank you, daddy.”

Another slap. Harder.

You moaned.

“Louder.”

“Thank you, daddy.”

“Slut,” he muttered, lining up and shoving inside you without a second of warning. “You love this. You fucking love it.”

He started slow just to tease you. Long, deep thrusts that stretched you out until you were trembling. Then he picked up the pace. Rough. Relentless. One hand gripping your hip so tight you knew it would bruise. The other buried in your hair, yanking your head back so you couldn’t hide your moans.

“Say it,” he growled.

You shook your head, too far gone to speak.

“Say it or I’ll stop.”

You whimpered, tried to stay still, but your body was clenching around him too tight. Your mouth finally opened.

“I’m not the boss,” you choked out.

He slammed into you harder.

“Again.”

“I’m not the boss.”

“Louder.”

“I’m not the fucking boss. You are. You’re in charge.”

“That’s right.”

You came without warning. Legs shaking, mouth open in a soundless scream, body collapsing under the weight of it.

He didn’t stop.

He kept going until you were sobbing into the sheets, until you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, until you were begging him to stop and begging him not to all at once.

And when he finally finished inside you, he bent down and kissed your shoulder like he hadn’t just ruined you completely.

“You still think you’re in charge?” he asked again, lips brushing your ear.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

You were trembling under him, soaked, swollen, half-sobbing into the sheets. The words wouldn’t come. Just little gasps. Little whimpers.

Alex pulled out slow. You felt every inch of it leave you and you whimpered like it physically hurt.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “So fucking pathetic now.”

His hands slid down your sides, fingers trailing across bruised skin, before he flipped you over onto your back. You winced a little at the movement, thighs still twitching.

He watched your chest rise and fall, hair tangled, mascara smudged, lips puffy and wet. Your body was trembling. Mouth parted. Whole expression gone blank with pleasure and exhaustion.

You looked ruined.

You looked owned.

And he loved it.

His thumb brushed your bottom lip.

“I should take a picture,” he said. His voice was casual, almost playful. “Send it to Twitter. Let them see you like this.”

Your eyes widened.

He smirked.

“I should. Let them see how their dom queen really looks. Face covered in tears, legs shaking, my cock halfway down your throat.”

You blinked slowly. Tried to speak.

All that came out was a soft, broken moan.

He leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and filthy.

“But I won’t,” he whispered. “Not because you don’t deserve it. But because they don’t.”

You breathed out, relief tangled with arousal.

He slid a hand between your thighs again, gently now. Barely brushing over your sensitive cunt. His fingers came back slick.

“You think they deserve to see how wet you get from being used?” he murmured. “You think they’d believe it if they saw you licking my come off the floor? Moaning like a whore every time I call you daddy’s little bitch?”

You whimpered.

He kissed your cheek.

“No. They don’t get to see this. This is mine.”

He wrapped his hand around your throat and held it there. Not squeezing. Just a reminder. A collar you couldn’t take off. A touch you’d wear even when it was gone.

“Say it,” he whispered.

“I’m yours,” you breathed. “I’m all yours.”

He smiled.

“Good girl.”

Then he kissed you again. Not hard. Not rough. Just soft. Sweet. Possessive.

Like he wasn’t still dripping down your thighs.

Like you weren’t still shaking under him.

Like you hadn’t just been sobbing into the mattress while he fucked the brat right out of you.

And you knew, deep down, that he was right.

You were his.

Always had been.

No matter what the internet thought.

No matter what you pretended to be online.

No matter how many people thought you were the one in charge.

Because at the end of the night, it always ended the same.

You. On your knees.

Him. In control.

And your voice, ragged and hoarse, whispering thank you.

And when you finally cracked?

You didn’t even cry at first.

You just went somewhere else.

And everything that came after was a consequence of that one quiet breaking point.

You’re not dressed up. Not really. Just jeans, hoodie, a little makeup you barely finished putting on before stopping yourself and wiping half of it off. You didn’t want to look like you were trying too hard. You didn’t even know what you were trying for. You just knew that when Alex canceled dinner for the third time this week to “finish an edit” and forgot to text you goodnight after streaming, something in you cracked.

The drive to Missa’s was a blur. Your phone buzzed once with a Discord ping from Alex.

You didn’t check it.

When Missa opened the door, he looked like he had just woken up from a nap. His hair was messy, a little flattened on one side, sweatshirt hanging off his shoulder. He blinked at you slowly, like he wasn’t totally sure you were real.

“…Hey,” he said cautiously. “¿Estás bien?”

You nodded. “Can I come in?”

He stepped aside immediately, still frowning. “Yeah, of course.”

You didn’t say much. Walked into his living room, sat down on the edge of his couch like you were afraid to sink in too far. He didn’t sit next to you, not yet. Just hovered a few feet away like he could feel how strange this was, how heavy the air was between you.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you said finally, your voice small.

He tilted his head slightly. “You and Alex…?”

You didn’t answer. Just stared down at your hands.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Did he do something? I swear, if he—”

“No,” you said, a little too fast. “He didn’t do anything. That’s the problem.”

Silence.

Then Missa sat on the coffee table across from you, knees spread, hands resting on the edge, like he was grounding himself.

“You want to talk about it?”

You shook your head. Your chest ached. Your eyes burned. “No. I don’t think talking’s gonna help.”

Missa went still.

He wasn’t stupid. He was goofy, sweet, sometimes scattered, but not stupid. He knew what you meant. You watched it register in his face—shock, then confusion, then something heartbreakingly soft.

“I…” he started, then stopped. He looked away. “Are you sure you want to be here right now? With me?”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You swallowed, throat dry. “I don’t know what I want. I just know that I feel like I’m disappearing, and I need to feel something again.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood more than you wanted him to. “I need to know that if this happens, you won’t hate yourself in the morning.”

“I already do,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes like that hurt him. Then, gently—so gently—he reached out and touched your knee.

“I’m not gonna take advantage of you,” he said, voice quiet, trembling. “Even if I want to.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

His eyes weren’t full of lust. They were full of worry. Of longing. Of restraint. And it made you want to cry.

“I’m not asking you to take advantage of me.”

“But you’re not mine,” he said softly. “And if I touch you right now, I’m afraid I’ll forget that.”

You didn’t know how to respond. So you leaned in.

He kissed you like he was scared to. Like it would ruin something. Like it already had. His hands stayed on your jaw, trembling. His lips were warm, hesitant, tasting like a question he was too afraid to ask.

“I don’t want to be just some mistake,” he said against your mouth.

“You’re not.”

He pulled back slightly, breathing hard. “Then why does it feel like we’re about to destroy something?”

You didn’t have an answer. So you kissed him again.

This time, he let it happen.

When he touched you, it was careful. Like he was trying to learn you without claiming you. Every graze of his fingers asked permission. Every breath was slow, deep, like he was grounding both of you in something real.

You ended up in his bed, tangled in the sheets, your hoodie long forgotten on the floor. He held you afterward. Didn’t push for anything else. Just pulled you against his chest and let you cry into his skin without flinching.

And you hated how good it felt.

You got home late. The house was dark. The only light came from Alex’s office, spilling out from under the door.

You stood in the hallway for a long time.

He didn’t come out.

When you finally walked past, his voice filtered through the crack.

“I’ll be right back, chat. Bathroom break.”

His chair squeaked. His steps came closer. You froze.

The door opened.

“Hey,” he said flatly, surprised to see you. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I was out.”

He nodded. “Cool.”

That was it.

He walked right past you. No kiss. No hug. No warmth.

And he didn’t even smell the cologne that wasn’t his on your clothes.

—-

The sheets are cold when you slip into bed.

Alex doesn’t move.

He’s lying on his side, facing away from you, blanket bunched around his waist. The soft glow of his phone lights up the wall as he scrolls through something—Twitter, Discord, probably Reddit. You can hear a faint chuckle under his breath at something he’s reading.

You don’t say anything. You just lie there. Still. Quiet.

You thought maybe being home would help. That guilt would kick in hard enough to make you feel sorry, to make you curl against him and cry and beg yourself to feel bad for what you did. But all you feel is this numb ache spreading through your chest.

You’re still sticky between your thighs. You didn’t shower. You thought about it—stood in the bathroom for twenty minutes just staring at your reflection—but you couldn’t bring yourself to turn the water on. Couldn’t bring yourself to scrub off the smell of Missa. His skin. His sheets.

The faint scent still clings to you. Cologne. Fabric softener. Sweat. But Alex doesn’t notice.

You shift under the covers, uncomfortable, trying not to think about the way your body aches in places he hasn’t touched in weeks.

Still, nothing.

You glance over. His brow is furrowed. He’s watching some dumb meme video with the volume low. His face is lit up by it, soft and blue, and he looks peaceful. Like nothing is wrong.

It would be easier if he’d just roll over. If he’d look at you and frown and say, “What’s that smell?” or “Where were you tonight?” Something. Anything.

But he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t see you anymore.

You’re lying right next to the man you love, thighs still slick with someone else’s hands, your heart barely holding it together—and he doesn’t even ask how your day was.

You turn your back to him.

Your eyes sting.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t bother pretending you’re not crying.

——

You could still feel the ghost of Missa’s hands on your hips. The way he’d held you afterward. The way he asked, “Are you sure? I don’t want to do this if you’ll hate yourself after.”

The way you lied and said, “I won’t.”

God.

It didn’t even feel like cheating. Not really. It felt like waking up.

You didn’t sleep, but you closed your eyes. Pretended to. Let your breathing even out, just to get through the night.

It wasn’t until morning that he finally noticed.

A sleepy groan. The shift of the mattress beside you. Then a hand on your waist, barely there, more of a habit than a conscious choice.

You felt his nose brush your shoulder.

Then pause.

“…Huh?” he muttered. His voice was still thick with sleep, but there was a note of confusion in it.

You held your breath.

He leaned in again.

“Babe?”

You didn’t answer.

“You smell kinda weird,” he said, sniffing again. “Like… cologne.”

You stayed quiet. Eyes still shut.

“…Not mine,” he added after a beat.

Then another pause. You felt his weight shift behind you as he leaned closer, just slightly. His fingers moved up, grazing your shirt. His breathing slowed.

And then, softly—barely audible—he said it.

“…And sex?”

The word hung in the air.

And then his hand was gone.

He sat up, suddenly awake, eyes wide and dark. You could feel him staring at you even though you didn’t turn to look.

“What the fuck?”

You opened your eyes slowly.

He was sitting there, shirt wrinkled, hair messy, blinking like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. Or smelling.

“Did you…?” he started, but his voice broke. He cleared his throat, trying again. “Did you fuck someone?”

You didn’t answer.

“Tell me right now,” he snapped. “Please. Just—just tell me you didn’t do that. That I’m wrong. That I’m losing my fucking mind.”

You sat up too, pulling the blanket around yourself even though you were still fully dressed.

“Alex—”

“No.” His voice cracked like glass. “Don’t say my name like that. Just answer me.”

You stared at your hands in your lap. They were still trembling.

“…Yeah,” you said.

He went silent.

You felt it in the air. That shift. Like the second before lightning strikes.

He flinched. His whole face changed. First confusion, then disbelief, then devastation.

“Who?” he asked. “Who the fuck was it?”

You hesitated.

Then, quietly—so quietly—

“…Missa.”

It was like you hit him. His whole body recoiled.

“Missa?” he echoed, voice shrill with shock. “Missa? Are you—are you fucking serious right now? Him? My friend? You fucked my friend?”

“I didn’t think it would matter,” you said, barely audible.

His eyes snapped to yours. “What?”

You blinked hard. “I didn’t think it would matter if I did. You haven’t touched me in weeks, Alex. You don’t even see me anymore. I feel like I’m living with a stranger who doesn’t care if I’m here or not.”

“So you fucked Missa?” he shouted, voice cracking. “That’s your fucking solution?! You didn’t even talk to me!”

“I tried!” Your voice broke then, finally. “So many times, I tried! You’re always working or streaming or asleep or somewhere else, and I’m just here. Sitting in it. Sitting in the silence you left.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “You cheated on me because you felt ignored? That’s your fucking excuse?”

“I needed to feel something,” you said, eyes wet. “Anything.”

“And he was the one to give you that?” Alex asked bitterly, voice low and trembling. “You couldn’t even cheat on me with someone I didn’t know? You had to pick him?”

“I didn’t pick him,” you said. “I picked anyone who saw me.”

He stared at you, and you’d never seen him look more broken.

“I would’ve fixed it,” he whispered. “If you told me you were hurting, I would’ve fucking fixed it.”

“I didn’t want to have to beg to be loved.”

That silenced him.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then he turned toward the door.

You sat up straighter. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he said, voice hollow. “Don’t follow me.”

“Alex—”

“Don’t.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I don’t want to look at you right now.”

Then the door slammed shut, and all the air went with it.

You were alone.

For real this time.

And no amount of someone else’s arms would change that now.

——

You didn’t sleep.

The apartment stayed dark, save for the faint glow of your phone screen lighting up now and then—notifications you didn’t check. You barely moved from the couch. Just sat there curled under a blanket, replaying every second of the night before, waiting to hear his key in the door.

But the hours crawled by.

And he didn’t come.

Not until 12:47 a.m.

The door slammed against the wall harder than it needed to. His keys hit the table with a metallic clang. And when he walked in, you knew before he said anything.

He wasn’t calm anymore.

He’d had all day to sit with it. To think. To let it rot inside him. Now it was ready to come out.

Alex stood there in the shadows by the door, staring at you like he didn’t know who you were. Like he wasn’t sure if he should even speak or just leave again. His jaw was tight. His hair messy. His hoodie half-zipped. He looked like a man who had been crying in his car until he physically couldn’t anymore.

You sat up slowly. “Alex…”

“Don’t.” His voice was cold. Flat.

You swallowed. “Can we please—”

“Don’t say my name like I’m still yours.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Your heart thudded unevenly.

He stepped closer into the light, and his face was hollow. Like everything soft in him had been scraped out.

“You fucked him,” he said. No emotion. Just fact. “My best friend.”

“Alex, I—”

“I was going to propose.”

Silence.

Your stomach dropped through the floor.

He laughed once—short, breathless, cruel. “Yeah. I had the ring. I had this whole stupid plan for your birthday. Thought maybe it would fix us. Thought maybe I’d get to feel you love me again. Guess I was a little late, huh?”

You covered your mouth with your hand, eyes burning.

“I thought maybe you were just tired. Or burnt out. I thought if I planned it right, if I showed you I was still all in, you’d remember what we used to be.”

He laughed again, bitter this time. “I was out shopping for your ring while you were probably still in his bed. Tell me—was he good? Did he fuck you like I used to, or better?”

“Stop—”

“No, tell me.” He stepped closer. “You let him fuck you raw? You beg for it? Moan his name like you meant it?”

You flinched hard. “Alex—”

“You know what’s fucked?” His voice dropped. “Every time I close my eyes, I see it. I see him between your legs. Touching you where I used to. Laughing at me afterward, probably. Because why wouldn’t he? I was the idiot waiting at home, planning a life with a girl who couldn’t even keep her legs closed for a month.”

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” he snapped, eyes wild now. “You didn’t trip and fall on his dick. You made a choice. You sat there, probably smiled at him, flirted, maybe cried about how mean I was while you took your panties off.”

You covered your ears. “Please stop—”

“You fucked him because you wanted to. And you knew it would destroy me. You had to know.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You just didn’t care enough not to.”

That silenced you.

He stared at you for a long time. Breathing heavy. Like he wanted to keep going. Like there was more venom in him, but he didn’t know where to spit it.

And then, quietly, like it tasted sour in his mouth—

“I was gonna spend the rest of my life with you.”

You choked on a sob.

He blinked fast, and you could see it—the hurt. The grief. The part of him that was still bleeding under all the rage.

But he didn’t let it show for long.

His face hardened again. Voice flat.

“But now all I can think about is his hands on you. His mouth on your neck. His cum dripping out of you while you walked back into my bed like it was nothing.”

You covered your face, trembling.

He didn’t move.

Just stood there for a long time. Staring. Saying nothing.

And then—

“I hope it was worth it,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Where are you going?” you asked, your voice cracked and hoarse.

“Anywhere that’s not here.”

“Are you coming back?”

He paused.

“…No.”

Then he left.

And this time, he didn’t slam the door.

That was how you knew it was really over.

—-

It starts with a tweet.

“Imagine planning a proposal just to find out she’s fucking your best friend.”

No punctuation. No context. No follow-up.

Just that.

You stare at it on your screen, heart in your throat.

His main account. Not a burner. Not a vent.

His real, public, verified account.

Posted at 12:47 a.m.

By 12:58, it has over 67,000 likes.

You refresh.

83,000.

101k.

It’s viral. And climbing.

The replies are chaos. Pure speculation. Messy and fast and vicious.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

“Quackity was gonna propose???”

“Nah he’s gotta be talking about HER. I knew it.”

“SOMEONE CHECK ON HIM.”

“Oh my god who the fuck would cheat on HIM??”

“This is gonna be a fucking movie.”

You scroll until you can’t anymore. And that’s when you see the quote tweets.

You’re tagged in them.

Not by him.

By fans. By trolls. By people who recognized you in the back of old photos. From your username on shared VODs. From that one stream clip months ago where he accidentally called you babe off-camera and the whole chat exploded.

They know.

They fucking know.

Your Twitter is on fire.

Mentions filled.

DMs overflowing.

Profile bookmarked by the internet’s worst people.

You’re just sitting on the couch in the dark, phone in your lap, barely breathing when the next tweet drops.

From Alex again.

“Since people are asking.”

Attached: a photo of a small velvet box. Open. Simple. Elegant. A gold band with a small, perfectly cut diamond. Delicate. Soft.

Everything you never got to see.

Everything he picked for you.

And the caption?

Just your handle.

“Y/N This was yours.”

No notes. No warning. No blur.

Just your name in lights and a ring that never made it to your finger.

You gasp like you’ve been shot. Like the wind’s been knocked out of you.

“No…”

And then it hits.

Your inbox explodes.

Your phone doesn’t stop vibrating.

Calls. Unknown numbers.

Threats. Names. Slurs.

“Slut.”

“Homewrecker.”

“Hope you choke.”

“Kill yourself.”

“I’m gonna find you.”

“You ruined him. You fucking ruined him.”

Your profile picture is screenshotted and reposted with captions like:

“This the bitch??”

“Found her. Do your thing, Twitter.”

“Crazy what a whore will do for attention.”

You try to lock your account.

Try to delete it.

But it’s too late.

Your face is already out there.

Your name trending.

Your mistake turned into a fandom-wide manhunt.

And the worst part?

He still hasn’t taken the tweet down.

You’re crying now. Shaking. Thumb hovering over his name in your contacts.

You want to scream. To beg. “Please, make it stop. Please, take it down. Please don’t hate me like this.”

But you don’t call.

Because deep down?

You know this was his answer.

And now the whole world knows it too.

—-

The tweet was still up.

Both of them.

He hadn’t touched his phone in hours. He thought maybe if he left it off long enough, the chaos would burn itself out. Maybe the internet would move on to someone else. Maybe you would block him. Call him. Show up at the door screaming. Something.

But the phone stayed dark.

And so did his apartment.

He didn’t stream. Didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t eat. He laid on the couch with a hoodie pulled over his face and let the noise of the world exist somewhere far outside of his skull.

Until the phone rang.

Buzzing once. Then again. And again. Persistent. Relentless.

He thought it might be Missa at first. Or Roier. Maybe someone telling him he was a piece of shit. Maybe someone telling him you’d clapped back. That you posted your side.

He wasn’t ready.

He answered anyway.

“Hello?” he mumbled, voice thick.

“Hi, is this Alexis?”

He sat up straighter.

“Yeah.”

“This is Saint Vincent’s Medical Center. You’re listed as the emergency contact for [Your Name].”

His stomach dropped through the floor.

“What—what do you mean? What happened?”

“She was brought in about an hour ago after what we believe was an intentional overdose. She’s stable now, but unconscious. We’ll need someone to be here when she wakes up, and you’re the only name in her file.”

Alex didn’t speak.

“Sir?”

“…Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m on my way.”

He didn’t even put on socks.

He grabbed his keys with shaking hands and bolted to the car, hoodie still half on. It wasn’t until he was halfway down the freeway that he realized he hadn’t said a word since hanging up. Just white noise between his ears and your name echoing through it like a ghost.

You had tried to die.

And they called him.

He gripped the wheel tighter. Took the turns too fast. He didn’t care.

Because while he was sitting in the dark, pouting over a fucking tweet, you were alone, in pain, collapsing under the weight he’d helped pile on.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and loss. Too clean. Too cold.

He nearly tripped rushing into the ER. His voice cracked when he said your name.

The nurse at the desk stood. “She’s still unconscious. But we’re monitoring her closely. Come with me.”

He followed in silence. The hallway felt too long. The lights too bright. The hum of machines too loud in his ears.

“She ingested a significant amount of sleeping pills. We believe she was found early enough for recovery,” the nurse said. “Her phone was unlocked. We saw your name first.”

He couldn’t respond.

Because his chest was splintering.

Then they turned the corner.

And he saw you.

You were smaller than he remembered. Fragile. Hooked to an IV. Your arm taped up, bruised where they’d tried to find a vein. Oxygen tube tucked under your nose. Hospital gown loose and wrinkled. Hair matted. Eyelashes clumped from old tears. No makeup. No expression. Just stillness.

Like a body. Not a person.

Like he had already lost you.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His hands dropped to his sides and curled into fists as he stepped in.

“Is it okay if I sit with her?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

The nurse nodded and closed the door behind him.

He sat in the chair next to your bed, elbows on his knees, heart in his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathed, staring at you. “What did I do?”

He reached for your hand.

Hesitated.

Then pulled it into his palm gently, like it might break.

Your skin was cold.

He looked at your face and hated himself. Hated what he said. Hated the tweet. Hated the fact that when you needed someone most, the person the hospital called—the one whose name was still on your records—was the same person who’d helped push you over the edge.

He wanted to scream. Wanted to rewind the last two days. Wanted to delete everything.

“I didn’t think you’d…” His voice cracked. “God, I didn’t think it would get this far.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“You didn’t deserve that. I was angry, but you didn’t deserve any of that.”

Still no response. Just the slow beep of the heart monitor.

He leaned forward, head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes burning. “Please wake up. Please.”

Because if you didn’t—

If this was it—

That tweet would be the last thing the world ever saw about you.

And he would never forgive himself.

—

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

One minute he was sitting beside your hospital bed, thumb brushing over your knuckles, whispering apologies to someone who couldn’t hear them. The next, his body gave out. He slumped forward in the stiff hospital chair, still clutching your hand, head resting awkwardly on the edge of the mattress like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

The beep of your heart monitor kept him grounded. Kept him alive.

Because you still were.

Barely.

The door creaked open sometime after sunrise.

Alexis stirred, blinking blearily, and instinctively tightened his grip on your hand like letting go would mean losing you again.

“Is she awake?” a voice asked quietly.

He knew the voice before he saw the face.

He looked up slowly, and there he was.

Missa.

In the doorway. Pale. Eyes bloodshot. Hoodie inside out. Hair a mess like he’d sprinted out of bed the moment he heard.

Alexis sat up straighter, dragging a hand over his face.

She was still unconscious.

Missa stepped in slowly. “I came as soon as I—”

“Get out,” Alexis said flatly.

Missa froze. “Alex…”

“Get out.”

“I’m not here to fight.”

“No?” Alexis stood now, his voice low and shaking. “Then why the fuck are you here?”

Missa’s eyes flicked to you in the bed. “Because she almost died.”

“And you think that wasn’t your fault too?” Alexis spat, stepping closer. “You think you don’t have blood on your hands like I do?”

“I didn’t ask for her to come to me—”

“But you took her!” Alexis shouted, chest heaving. “You fucking knew what we were. You knew. And you still put your hands on her like it didn’t matter.”

Missa’s expression darkened. “Don’t act like you were some fucking saint. She came to me crying, Alexis. You weren’t there.”

Alexis laughed, bitter and broken. “Don’t you dare pretend you did it out of kindness.”

“I didn’t know she’d break like this.”

“Well neither did I!” Alexis yelled, and the sound cracked hard in his throat. His voice dropped to a whisper as he gestured helplessly to your still body. “She tried to kill herself, man. She was alone, and I was too busy tweeting like a fucking asshole. You wanna talk about blame? You want to stand here and play who-hurt-her-more?”

They both went quiet.

The machines hummed. The light through the blinds was soft. Too soft for this.

Alexis rubbed a hand over his mouth, pacing. Then suddenly, he stopped.

“I was gonna marry her.”

Missa swallowed.

“I had the ring. It’s in my drawer. Right next to all the shit I never gave her because I thought I had time.”

“Alexis…”

“And then I opened Twitter,” he said, voice hollow, “and watched the whole world turn her into a fucking villain. Because of me. And you. And now she’s here. And I don’t even know if she’s gonna wake up.”

He looked at you again. Then back at Missa.

His voice cracked.

“I shouldn’t even be here.”

Missa stared at him for a long time. His eyes were wet.

Then, quietly—

“She never stopped loving you.”

Alexis turned his face away, jaw clenched, trying not to cry again. “Yeah, well. I didn’t stop loving her either. Didn’t stop me from ruining everything.”

Missa didn’t have an answer.

Alexis sat back down. Took your hand again, gentler this time. Pressed it to his cheek like it was the only thing keeping him real.

Missa stood there a minute longer.

Then he walked over to the other side of the bed. Sat. Didn’t speak.

And for the first time since everything shattered—

They stayed.

Together.

Because now, there was nothing left to burn.

——

You’re still unconscious.

Still wrapped in blankets that smell like hospital bleach and sterile nothing, an IV in your arm and oxygen tubing soft against your face. There’s color returning to your cheeks, barely. Your lips aren’t as pale as they were when Alex first got here.

But you still haven’t moved.

And Alex hasn’t left your side.

He’s curled forward again, elbows on the bed, holding your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He’s been there for hours now. He doesn’t care that his back hurts. That his hoodie smells like sweat and panic. That his eyes are red.

He’ll stay as long as he has to.

Across from him, Missa sits still. Awkward. Guilty. Helpless.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t fidget. Just watches.

Then, suddenly, Alexis does speak—so quietly Missa almost doesn’t catch it.

“She’s everything to me.”

Missa’s eyes flick to him.

Alex keeps staring at your hand in his.

“I don’t even think she knows it. I think somewhere along the line, I forgot how to say it right. Or show it. I got caught up in all this bullshit—streaming, deadlines, merch drops, fucking… everything. And she was always just there. Supporting me. Taking care of me. Smiling even when I knew she was sad.”

He swallows hard.

“I’d come home and she’d already have my favorite snacks bought. She kept my hoodies clean even when I left them in disgusting piles. She made the fucking bed every morning even when I was still sleeping in it. I think she thought I didn’t notice. But I noticed.”

He blinks fast. His eyes are wet again.

“I just never said thank you. Never told her I was looking. Never said you’re the reason this house feels like home.”

Missa doesn’t say anything. His face is tight. He keeps glancing at you like you might open your eyes at any second and save them both from this.

“I bought the ring after that trip,” Alex says again, voice steadier now. “The one where we got stranded. We ran out of gas an hour from the city and she just laughed. We sat on the hood of the car and she leaned against me and said, ‘I don’t care where we are, as long as we’re together.’”

He pauses.

“That was it. That was when I knew. I saw the ring a week later in this tiny-ass shop and didn’t even hesitate. It was her. It looked like her. I wanted to give it to her in some big stupid romantic way, but I kept pushing it off because I wanted it to be perfect.”

He wipes his face.

“Turns out I was just running out of time.”

Missa leans forward, elbows on his knees. He looks sick. His voice is low when he speaks.

“I didn’t know it was like that.”

Alex doesn’t respond.

“I mean, I knew you loved her,” Missa continues, guilt heavy in his throat. “Obviously. But not like that. Not that deep.”

Alex finally looks up, hollow and angry and wrecked.

“She was the love of my life,” he says.

Missa’s eyes drop.

“I didn’t even know she was coming to me that night,” he says, softer. “She just showed up. I didn’t think—I didn’t mean for it to go there.”

Alex doesn’t yell. Doesn’t hit him. He just nods slowly, like every word is one more nail in a coffin that already closed days ago.

“I can’t even blame you fully,” he says. “I left space for it. I pushed her so far away she thought she was already alone.”

“I shouldn’t have let it happen,” Missa says. “She was crying, and I should’ve just told her to go home. I should’ve called you.”

“You should’ve,” Alex agrees. Quiet. Honest.

Missa’s throat tightens. “I hate myself for it.”

“You should.”

And there it is.

No malice. Just truth.

Just two best friends sitting on opposite sides of the girl they both broke in different ways.

Alex’s hand moves gently over yours again.

“She made me better,” he murmurs. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was cold. Or distracted. Or just a fucking idiot. She still looked at me like I was hers.”

His voice breaks.

“I’d give anything to go back and look at her that way too.”

Missa doesn’t speak.

Because what the fuck do you say to that?

They just sit there in silence.

Both of them holding guilt like a second heartbeat. One on each side of your bed. Waiting. Hoping. Dreading.

That when you finally wake up—

You’ll still be the girl who wants to look at either of them at all.

—-

You’re sitting on the hood of a car.

The sun’s going down. The sky is soft and bruised pink, stretching wide and quiet over the empty road. It smells like warm asphalt, cheap candy, and cinnamon gum. The soda in your hand is half-flat, your bare feet swing lazily above the gravel.

Alex is next to you.

Leaning back on his palms, beanie pushed up, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’s laughing about something dumb. You’re laughing too. And for a second—just one—it feels like nothing in the world could touch this moment.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

“I don’t care where we are,” you say, voice light, honest. “As long as we’re together.”

He looks at you with that soft, wide smile—the one that used to ruin you.

And then—

He disappears.

You blink and the sky is darker. The air cooler. The soda spilled at your feet. The seat beside you empty.

But you’re not alone.

Missa’s there now.

Sitting further down the hood, like he knows it’s not his place. Hands folded. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his palms. He doesn’t look at you—just out at the road, like he’s waiting to be told to leave. He’s not smiling. His expression is heavy.

Guilty, yes.

But not uncaring.

You try to speak—but everything fades.

——-

You wake up gasping.

Everything is too bright, too cold. The sheets scratch your skin. Your throat is dry, tight, aching. You try to move, but your limbs feel distant. Weak. You blink, and the light burns your eyes.

Then you panic.

Because you see him first.

Alex.

He’s right beside you. One hand holding yours, the other already moving to your face.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, breathless, urgent. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”

But you can’t stop shaking. Your body’s remembering things you don’t want it to. The heaviness, the silence, the loneliness that led you here. Your chest stutters. You try to sit up. You can’t.

And then—

Your eyes find the corner of the room.

Missa.

Still. Quiet. Watching.

And that’s when the tears hit.

You choke on a breath. “Why is he here?”

Alex cups your cheek gently, grounding you with his voice. “Because he cares. And he didn’t leave when things got bad.”

Your breath hitches. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I can’t—I can’t do this—”

“You don’t have to,” Alex whispers, arms around you now. “Just breathe. Just let me hold you.”

Behind him, Missa starts to stand—like he’s going to leave. Like he doesn’t want to make this harder for you.

But Alex turns slightly, not letting go of you. “You can stay. Just give us a minute.”

Missa nods. He doesn’t say anything. He just backs up into the corner of the room, out of your line of sight. Giving you space. Giving Alex space. But still there.

Because he does care.

He cared even when he shouldn’t have. He cares now, even if he knows he shouldn’t be allowed to.

And Alex knows that too.

You’re still crying. But you’ve stopped shaking.

Your face is buried in Alex’s chest. He smells like detergent and cold air. Like safety. Like regret.

“I didn’t want to die,” you whisper. “I just didn’t know how to make it stop.”

“I know,” he says into your hair. “I know, baby. I should’ve been there. I should’ve seen you.”

His arms tighten around you, like he’s trying to hold all the broken pieces together by sheer force of will.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “For everything.”

You’re still not okay.

But you believe him.

And right now, that’s enough.

——

You’re asleep again.

For real this time. Not just passed out from shock or exhaustion, not just unconscious. You’re resting. Breathing slow. Skin warmer. The monitors are steady. Your fingers twitch in Alex’s lap, but you don’t wake up.

He doesn’t stop holding your hand.

He sits there, slouched forward, hoodie wrinkled, eyes bloodshot and dry. There’s nothing left to cry. But the panic hasn’t gone anywhere. It just simmers under his skin now, quiet and relentless.

Across the room, Missa sits with his hood up and his knees drawn into his chest like he wants to disappear into the corner. He hasn’t spoken since Alex last whispered to you.

The quiet between them isn’t tense.

It’s heavy.

Alex breaks it with a whisper. “She’s gonna see it all when she wakes up.”

Missa looks up slowly. “I know.”

“She already saw some of it, obviously. That’s why she…” He trails off. Swallows. Can’t say it.

“Yeah,” Missa says quietly.

Alex leans back and runs a shaky hand over his face. “I was just angry. I didn’t think. I didn’t even tag her on the first tweet—I just needed to scream. Then people figured it out and I fucking fed it. I gave them everything.”

Missa nods. “Yeah.”

“And now what?” Alex mutters. “I just sit here and hope she forgives me while people dig through her old selfies and send her fucking death threats? She’s gonna wake up to all that again.”

He clenches his jaw. Breathes through his nose. Tries not to scream.

Missa glances toward the bed. “Then we fix it.”

Alex lifts his head. “How the fuck do you fix a whole internet?”

“You don’t.” Missa shrugs. “You just lie to it until it gets bored.”

That gets a dry laugh out of Ale—tired and bitter. “Jesus.”

“I’m serious. Say it was fake. Say it was lore. Say it was pre-scripted content for a new SMP or a stream event or some dumb fake series. People want closure, right? They don’t care if it’s true—they just want to feel like they were right.”

Alex thinks about that.

Really thinks.

Then he picks up his phone.

It’s still on Do Not Disturb. When he turns it off, the flood comes in instantly—hundreds of missed notifications, tags, calls, unread DMs. His name is still trending. So is yours. So is Missa’s.

He opens Twitter.

The tweet is still there.

“Imagine planning a proposal just to find out she’s fucking your best friend.”

147k likes. 38k QTs. An entire public unraveling.

He breathes in. Breathes out.

Then opens the tweet composer.

His thumbs hover. Then start to move.

“Writing character arcs at 4am and forgetting what’s real is actually crazy.”

No punctuation. No context. Vague. Obnoxiously streamer-coded.

He hits post.

And waits.

The first reply hits in under thirty seconds.

“?????”

“BRO.”

“is this about the ring tweet???”

“wait are you saying that was SCRIPTED???”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME RN”

“you guys were doing lore???”

He scrolls once. Twice.

Then posts again.

“Y’all act like you know the script. Chill.”

Missa glances over, then smirks. “There it is.”

Within minutes, the replies shift tone.

Some people rage harder—accusing him of “emotional manipulation,” screaming that “faking a cheating arc” is unethical, that fans cried for nothing.

But others?

Others bite.

“no way they baited us like this lmfaoooo”

“this is the most elaborate soft-launch fake breakup ever”

“i hate streamers. anyway i need a 17-part tiktok breakdown”

“new lore arc LET’S GOOOOO”

“this explains the ring tweet he’s so unserious”

The drama reorients. The casuals move on. The rabid fans latch onto the “bit” idea and run wild with theories.

The flames don’t go out.

But they move.

Away from your name.

Away from your face.

Away from your pain.

And that’s all Alex cares about right now.

He puts his phone down like it physically weighs something.

Missa looks at him. “You think she’ll believe it when she sees it?”

“No,” Alex says. “But at least she won’t have to relive it every time she opens her phone.”

He leans forward again, gently smoothing your hair back, watching your face like he’s memorizing every inch.

“I didn’t protect her when I should’ve,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna make sure I do now. Even if it’s with a lie.”

Missa watches quietly.

And for the first time since the worst night of either of their lives—they’re on the same page.

Protect her.

No matter what.

He sits back in the chair beside you, thumb gently brushing over your wrist where the IV sits taped and fragile beneath your skin. You’re still sleeping. Still warm. Still here.

That’s all that matters.

For now.

He picks up his phone again. The ring tweet’s still up. Still gathering likes. But the QTs have shifted tone.

Less venom. More confusion. Some jokes. Mostly speculation.

A lot of them now read:

“okay so this was lore right???”

“im starting to think the cheating thing was a setup”

“he soft-launched trauma for views”

“not me crying over fake streamer drama”

“wait. if it’s scripted does that mean they’re still together irl???”

He taps the tweet.

Taps the three dots in the corner.

Quietly. Casually.

Untags your name.

Then deletes the one with the ring photo entirely.

He doesn’t even flinch when he does it. Doesn’t say anything. Just does it like it’s clockwork. Like he’s deleting a typo or scheduling a video. And maybe that’s the only way he can do it—by pretending it’s just another piece of content.

When he’s done, he opens a separate app.

Types out a quick message to one of his production leads—the one who usually handles legal cleanup, narrative structuring, account back-end, NDA oversight.

Alex:

“hey. do me a favor. clean up what you can from my socials. push the lore angle. we’re burying the last 48 hrs.”

production_gremlin:

“on it. narrative recap post okay?”

“timeline wipe?”

“fan podcast redirect?”

Alex:

“yeah. make it pretty. clean. funny, even. whatever makes it less real.”

He doesn’t watch the replies anymore. Doesn’t read the comments. Doesn’t look at the tag where your name used to be.

He just sets the phone screen down, face first, on the windowsill beside your bed.

And slides his hand back into yours.

Because the tweets might fade. The drama might shift. The fans might move on.

But you?

You’re the one thing he still wants to hold on to.

Even if the rest of the internet forgets—

He won’t.

—

The room is dark now, except for the low hospital lights and the blue cast of the vitals monitor beside your bed.

You’re still asleep. Steady. Peaceful. Your hand rests loosely on top of the blanket now, relaxed in a way it hadn’t been all day. Your body’s still healing. Your mind, too.

Alex sits beside you, slouched in the uncomfortable chair, arms crossed tight over his chest. His phone’s on the sill behind him—dark, untouched. He hasn’t looked at it since the tweets.

Missa stands near the window, hood still up, thumb tapping against the metal bed rail like a nervous tic. He hasn’t left. He hasn’t said much either.

Until now.

“She looks better,” he says, voice quiet.

Alex glances over at you, then nods. “Yeah.”

Neither of them speaks for a while.

Then Alex shifts. Straightens slightly. Eyes still on you when he says:

“Do you have feelings for her?”

The question hangs in the air for a second too long.

Missa doesn’t flinch—but he doesn’t answer right away either. Just exhales and leans back against the wall, looking down at his shoes.

“I care about her,” he says eventually. “Obviously. She’s funny. She’s kind. She talks to me like I’m not just background noise in everyone else’s life. I think… it was easy to fall into it, you know?”

Alex listens. Quiet. Stiff.

“But no,” Missa adds. “I’m not in love with her. I’m not trying to steal her. That’s not what it was.”

Alex looks at him now. Really looks.

“Then what was it?”

Missa runs a hand through his hair. “I think it was two people who felt ignored. Who were hurting. And we made a mistake.”

He doesn’t sugarcoat it. Doesn’t hide from it. He looks Alex in the eye.

“I never planned on crossing that line. But she was in pain, and I was… lonely. And I thought—just for a second—that I could be something she needed.”

Alex swallows. His jaw flexes. He turns his gaze back to you.

“You were.”

Missa doesn’t reply.

Alex shifts, voice low now. “You were there when I wasn’t. You made her feel seen. You made her feel wanted. I should’ve done that. That was supposed to be me.”

Missa lowers his head. “She never stopped talking about you. Not once.”

That makes Alex blink fast.

“She cried in my hands and still called you home,” Missa adds. “I don’t think she ever stopped loving you, man. She just didn’t think you were ever coming back.”

The silence that follows is thick. Messy. But not cruel.

Alex nods slowly.

“I don’t hate you,” he says eventually. “I did. For a second. But I don’t now.”

Missa breathes out. “Thanks.”

They sit like that for a while.

Two men in a hospital room, both tired, both broken in different ways, both trying to make peace with what they can’t undo.

And you?

You sleep on.

Breathing soft.

Between the pieces of them.

The machines hum softly, the light outside the hospital window barely blue now. It’s late—or early. Either way, the floor is quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens when no one has the energy to hurt anymore.

Missa’s sitting cross-legged on the padded bench under the window, hoodie bunched around his hips, his phone held sideways in his hands. He’s watching dumb TikToks with the sound barely audible.

Alex is in the chair beside your bed, one arm curled across his chest, the other resting next to your hand.

He wasn’t planning to watch.

But then Missa laughed—quiet, breathy—and tilted the screen toward him.

The video was a dog walking on its hind legs wearing a tutu, set to dramatic opera.

Alex blinked.

“Send that to me,” he mumbled.

Now they’ve been watching for fifteen minutes. Maybe more.

Stupid clips. People falling. Bad haircut fails. A girl fighting her Roomba. A baby yelling in Italian. It’s the first time either of them has smiled in hours.

“You know what I realized?” Missa says, yawning as he swipes to the next one. “If I ever die tragically, I want my funeral to be narrated by TikTok text-to-speech.”

Alex scoffs. “Jesus Christ.”

“No, really. Like: ‘Today we gather to say goodbye to Missa. He was a goofy lil guy.’”

Alex chuckles. “You’d have confetti pop out of the urn.”

“I’d want one of those inflatable car dealership guys dancing next to my casket. People should be confused, not sad.”

Alex hums, low. “I’d still be sad.”

Missa glances over, but doesn’t say anything. Just nods once.

Another video starts playing—some guy running into a glass door—and Alex leans forward, hands clasped in front of his mouth, trying not to laugh too loud.

And then the laughter fades.

His gaze drifts back to you.

You’re still asleep. You haven’t stirred in hours. You look fragile like this—face turned slightly toward the window, lashes resting gently on your cheeks, your hand limp under the blanket.

Alex stares.

Then, without looking at Missa, he says softly:

“She cares about you too, you know.”

Missa doesn’t answer right away. He just shifts a little, sets his phone down in his lap.

“I know,” he says eventually.

Alex exhales. Leans back in his chair. Looks at him now, not hostile, but firm.

“But please don’t have sex with her again.”

Missa stares at him for a beat.

Then raises an eyebrow.

“Really, Lex?”

Alex lifts his hands. “I’m just saying.”

“I mean, sure, yeah, okay, obviously, I wasn’t planning on it,” Missa mutters, rubbing the side of his face with both hands. “But that was a hell of a way to bring it up.”

Alex shrugs. “I’ve been thinking it for like twelve hours. Felt like I earned the right to say it out loud.”

Missa gives him a look. “You got a weird sense of timing.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve also got a girlfriend who tried to die in front of both of us, so maybe I get a pass.”

Missa winces. “Fair.”

Alex’s expression softens. “I’m not mad you were there. I’m mad I wasn’t.”

Missa nods slowly. “I didn’t mean to be anything to her.”

“You were, though.”

“I know.”

They both go quiet again.

Then Alex says it, almost like he’s daring himself.

“I still want to propose.”

Missa looks up sharply.

Alex’s jaw is tight. “I still want to marry her. Even after everything. If she’ll have me.”

Missa studies him. Then nods once.

“You’re lucky,” he says.

Alex laughs bitterly. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Still are.”

Alex looks down at your hand, still curled under the blanket.

He runs his thumb over your knuckles. “I just want her to feel safe again. Like… truly. Not just from the internet. From me.”

“She will,” Missa says. “You’ll make sure of it.”

Another video plays on his phone—some guy in a Spider-Man suit dancing in a Walgreens.

And somehow, despite everything, they both smile.

Just a little.

Just enough to believe that maybe not all of this is broken beyond repair.

—-

You wake up slowly.

The light is dim. The room is warm. You feel heavy, but not in pain—just worn out, like every muscle has been wrung out and left to dry. There’s a faint pressure wrapped around your hand, something steady and warm, and when you blink your eyes open, it’s the first thing you see.

Alex.

Sitting beside your bed, half-asleep, his hand wrapped around yours like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. His head is tilted down, eyes closed, the corners of his mouth relaxed in a way that looks exhausted and soft at the same time.

You move your fingers slightly, just to see if it’s real.

He stirs instantly.

His eyes open, dark and glassy, and then widen.

“Hey,” he says, voice cracked with sleep and something close to awe. “You’re awake.”

You try to speak, but your throat catches. Your lip wobbles. Your eyes sting.

He notices.

Immediately.

“Hey, no, no—don’t cry,” he whispers, shifting closer, both hands cradling yours now. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

You cover your face with your hand, already crying.

“I’m sorry,” you choke. “I’m so sorry, Lex.”

His heart twists.

“Hey—stop. Baby. Look at me.”

You do.

Eyes red. Chin trembling.

“I fucked your best friend,” you whisper.

Alex lets out a breath—then smiles.

Like, genuinely smiles.

“Well,” he says, “I mean… I’d rather it be Missa than, like, some hot, ripped six-foot-four gym guy named Chad.”

You blink.

Then let out a breathy, messy, wet laugh.

Missa, from the corner of the room, goes, “¿Qué pedo? Hey! What the fuck, cabrón?!”

Alex glances back. “No offense, man. You’re just less intimidating.”

“I’ll start lifting weights just to spite you.”

“Go for it. She still picked me.”

You shake your head, still laughing through the tears.

Alex turns back to you, brushing a thumb gently under your eye.

His voice softens. “I’m not saying I’m over it. I’m not saying it didn’t hurt. But you’re still the person I want to come home to.”

Your lip trembles again.

He leans in, forehead against yours.

“You’re still the one I want to propose to.”

Your eyes flutter closed. A fresh tear slips down your cheek.

“You do?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, not this week. You’ve been through enough. And I kinda blew the dramatic reveal.”

You laugh, watery. “Kinda.”

Missa mutters something about needing earplugs.

Alex just kisses your forehead. “We’ll get through it. I love you.”

And for the first time in a long time—

You believe it.