inspired by: from the dining table — harry styles
word count: 4,905 words
pairing: jake "hangman" seresin x wife!reader
synopsis: you wore the dress. he wore a t-shirt. you waited ninety-seven minutes. he smiled like nothing was wrong. and when you said you were tired, he still thought love was enough.
content warning: angst, hurt no comfort, established relationship, slow unraveling, quiet arguments, miscommunication, emotional neglect, anniversary gone wrong, divorce mention, crying in the kitchen, tired love, second person pov, no happy ending
author's note: after months away, i'm back on here. new account, clean slate. i don’t really know what i expected coming back, but this story just… came out. it’s quiet, kind of heavy, and maybe a little too honest. if you’ve ever loved someone who stopped noticing, or stayed when it started to feel lonely, i hope this sits with you in the right way. thank you for reading.
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The Hard Deck was surprisingly peaceful tonight. The usual buzz of laughter and boots on hardwood had softened into something low and steady, like background noise you stopped noticing after a while.
A few off-duty pilots leaned over pool tables, murmuring bets and half-hearted trash talk. At the bar, Penny was drying a glass with the edge of a towel, listening to some guy talk about a maintenance delay like it was the worst thing in the world.
She gave a polite nod, patient as ever, then slid a drink across the counter without missing a beat. Someone near the jukebox tried and failed to pick a new song, letting an old Eagles track roll into the next without interruption.
The sliding doors were pulled open to let the breeze in, warm with salt and the smell of beer that had settled into the floorboards over time. Nobody was in a rush. The place felt lived-in, a little tired, like everyone inside was just waiting for something, though no one would say what.
Then, there was you. You were tucked into one of the corner booths, half-shadowed and easy to miss unless someone was looking. Your glass had been empty for a while, the condensation long gone, leaving behind a wet ring on the table that you'd started tracing with your finger just to pass the time.
Every now and then, Penny glanced your way, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She hadn’t asked if you wanted another drink. Maybe she already knew the answer. You weren’t drinking to pass time. You were drinking to wait.
It had been about an hour and thirty-seven minutes now. You’d stopped checking your phone after the first hour, but the math still came easy.
At twenty minutes, you told yourself he was just running late. At forty, you told yourself not to be dramatic. At the hour mark, you stopped pretending it didn’t hurt. You didn’t even have a text to read twice. Just silence, and the soft hum of people living their lives around you, none of them holding their breath the way you were.
You watched the front door every time it opened, even though you told yourself not to. You tried to act like you were just out, just sitting, just another person here to pass the time, but your body gave you away, the stillness, the way your eyes lifted every time boots hit the floor, the slight shift in your posture when someone tall walked in and didn’t look your way.
No one noticed, or maybe they did, but pretended not to. Either way, you stayed seated. You hadn’t waited this long just to leave before the ending.
You’d spent the day trying not to look too eager. Picked out an outfit hours earlier than you needed to, changed it twice, then changed back. You even curled your lashes, which you rarely did, and gave yourself more time in the mirror than usual, just in case tonight meant something.
There was a part of you, quietly hopeful, that thought maybe this anniversary would be different. A dinner reservation somewhere a little dressed up, candles on the table, maybe real conversation, and no phones between you. The kind of night you only get if someone plans it like they mean it.
But he hadn’t wanted that. When you asked, gently, if you should dress up, he just laughed and said, “We’re going to the Hard Deck, not a wedding.”
You hesitated for half a second, then smiled, because what else were you going to do? You said sure, of course, that’s fine.
It’s not a bad place, it really isn’t. Penny keeps the drinks cold and the music tolerable. The fries are good. It’s not fancy, but it’s not supposed to be. Still, part of you had pictured something else.
Even now, you keep glancing down at your hands like maybe the booth would change, maybe the place would feel more special if he walked through the door smiling and apologizing for being late.
You told yourself not to care so much about things like dinner spots and ambiance, that what mattered was him showing up, being here with you, but the thing was...he still wasn’t. And somehow, that mattered more than the venue ever could.
With that gentle dragging sound they usually made, the doors opened, and then a chorus of well-known voices and unapologetic laughing rolled in. You knew who it was without having to look. The Dagger squad always moved as if they owned the space, making noise unintentionally and moving effortlessly in a way that hurt more tonight than normal.
Still, your eyes found him, like they always did. He was walking in with the others, head tilted back in a half-laugh, one hand motioning as he told some story you couldn’t hear.
And there it was, that smile. The one that had made you say yes when he got down on one knee with a ring that didn’t fit the first time. The one that had made your mother cry at the wedding. The one that used to come home to you.
You’d been married for three years today, and somehow, that smile still had the power to stop your heart, and then let it fall straight through your ribs when he never looked toward the booth where you sat waiting.
Now, it was just the same smile he gave to everyone else. The one he wore when he was surrounded by people who didn’t know he was late to dinner with his wife. Who didn’t ask why she’d been sitting alone for almost two hours.
He didn’t scan the room, didn’t check his phone, didn’t look like a man who’d forgotten something. He looked like a man who thought he’d shown up right on time.
Eventually, he broke off from the group and wandered over like he wasn’t late. Like this was just when he said he’d be here. You saw him before he saw you, wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, nothing new, nothing clean-shaven or thoughtful.
He hadn’t changed, and maybe he didn’t think he had to. You looked down at your dress, then back up at him, and something in your chest folded in on itself a little.
He slid into the booth across from you, leaned back like he was settling in, not even a flicker of awareness on his face. “Hey, baby,” he said, like it hadn’t been almost two hours since he said he’d meet you. His eyes ran over you slowly, and he smiled in that way that used to feel like everything. “You look good. Real good. Didn’t know we were dressing up tonight.”
You smiled, just barely. Enough to hide behind. You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there, hands in your lap, nails pressing into your palms while you pretended your eyes weren’t glassy. He didn’t notice. He reached for a drink menu like everything was fine, like this was just another night and not your third anniversary, not the night you thought he’d try, not the night you’d been hoping might feel different.
He didn’t say anything about the wait. Just leaned back, stretched his arm across the top of the booth, and said, “God, I’m starving. We barely had time to breathe today. Did I tell you about that mess with the fueling crew?”
You shook your head, reached for another fry. It tasted off. A little cold, a little too stiff around the edges. You chewed slowly, nodded like you were listening.
“So I’m coming in, right? Just a standard touch-and-go, and these guys have the fuel truck parked in the worst damn spot. I had to wave off at the last second, nearly clipping the whole left side. Everyone was losing their minds.” He laughed like it was the best part of his day. “But I still stuck the landing. Clean as hell.”
“Sounds like it,” you said quietly, eyes down on your plate. You picked at the fries, stacking two side by side, like that would make them taste better.
Jake reached for one of his own, tossed it in his mouth, then kept going. “And then in the ready room, Phoenix tries to say it would’ve been her best time if she hadn’t had to circle. I told her she’s just mad because I beat her by a second and a half.” He grinned at that, proud in the way he always was when he thought he’d won something.
You gave a small smile. “She probably is.”
He didn’t notice the edge in your voice, or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. He just kept eating, kept talking, kept filling the space with his own words like they were enough, like you weren’t still trying to feel something other than disappointment.
You kept nodding, kept smiling just enough. Your hands stayed busy with the fries, breaking them in half, lining them up, pretending they were more than just something to do. He was still talking, now about something Fanboy said in the locker room, something stupid and loud that had the whole squad laughing.
You gave a soft laugh, because you were supposed to. It wasn’t fake, it just didn’t come from anywhere deep.
He reached across the table and stole one of your fries without asking. “Yours are better than mine,” he said with a grin.
“They’re the same fries,” you murmured.
He chuckled, then grabbed his drink and leaned back again like he was perfectly at home. “I’m just saying. Maybe you’ve got the lucky batch.” He looked around the bar, like he just now realized how full it had gotten. “We should’ve gotten here earlier. The place was packed when we walked in.”
You looked at him for a second. Just looked, and he didn’t meet your eyes. “Yeah,” you said. “Would’ve been nice.”
“Alright,” he said, setting his glass down harder than he meant to. “What’s going on with you?”
You blinked, looked up from the plate, from the last fry you hadn’t touched. “What?”
“You’re being weird.” He huffed a breath, sat back again. “You’ve barely said two words since I got here. You’re just… quiet.”
You stared at him, then let your eyes drop to the table. “I’ve said plenty.”
“Yeah, sure, if you count one-word replies and fake laughs.”
You swallowed, tried to keep your voice steady. “Jake, I waited here for almost two hours.”
His jaw tightened. “I told you we had a long day.”
You looked at him again. Not angry, but just tired. “I know.”
He stared at you for a second, like he was waiting for more. Like he thought that should’ve been enough to explain everything.
You breathed out slowly. “Can we just go home?”
That softened him, but only for a second. “Seriously? We just got here.”
You didn’t answer. Just looked at him, the way you used to when he knew what you meant without you having to say it. Tonight, he looked back like he didn’t recognize it at all.
He rubbed a hand along his jaw, annoyed now. “You could’ve just said something if you didn’t want to come. I wouldn’t’ve dragged you out.”
You shook your head slowly. “It’s not that I didn’t want to come.”
“Then what is it?” His voice dropped, still low but tighter, like he was trying not to make a scene. “You’ve been off all night, acting like I did something wrong just by showing up.”
You blinked at him. For a second, you didn’t speak, and when you finally did, your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “You forgot, Jake.”
He looked confused. “Forgot what?”
You just looked at him.
There was a beat of silence where you watched it land, the way his face shifted, not in shock, not even guilt, just realization, slow and heavy. He swore under his breath, leaned back in the booth like he needed to buy himself a second.
“I didn’t forget,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure.
You picked up your bag, not rushed, not dramatic. Just done.
“I don’t want to do this here.”
Jake ran a hand through his hair, then stood up with a muttered “Fine,” and followed you out, the same way he always did when he couldn’t figure out why you were upset, but wanted to win the fight anyway.
He paid without looking at the bill, and didn't even wait for his change. He just pulled his wallet out, dropped a few bills on the counter, and left the rest behind like he couldn’t stand to stay a second longer. You followed a few steps behind, quiet, eyes lowered. The door swung shut behind you and the air outside felt heavier than it had before.
You looked up for a second. The sky didn’t give you much. Just a dull stretch of gray and a low haze sitting over everything. No stars. No moon. Just a tired kind of sky, the kind that wasn’t angry or storming, just done. It felt familiar in a way you wished it didn’t. There was nothing left to look at, so you dropped your gaze and caught sight of him already walking ahead.
He didn’t wait. He didn’t say anything. Just moved toward the car like the conversation was over, like the argument didn’t even count. You kept your pace steady, didn’t rush, didn’t trail. When you reached the car, he didn’t bother with the door.
You opened it yourself, slid into the passenger seat, and pulled the belt across your chest without a word. He got in right after, his door slamming harder than necessary. The sound echoed louder than it should have.
Neither of you said anything. He started the engine, hand steady on the wheel, eyes on the road like that was the only thing that mattered. You looked out the window, watching the streetlights blur past.
The silence between you wasn’t new. It had been growing in small, quiet ways for a while now, showing up in missed calls, short replies, and late arrivals. You’d just never sat in it like this before.
The car moved through the night, headlights cutting through the dark like it owed you something. You didn’t speak, and neither did he, but maybe that said more than anything either of you could have come up with.
The drive wasn’t long, but it felt endless. When he pulled into the driveway, he didn’t kill the engine right away. Just sat there for a moment with his hands on the wheel, like maybe he was waiting for you to say something, or maybe trying to decide if he would. You didn’t look at him. You just unbuckled your seatbelt, pushed open the door, and stepped out.
Inside the house, the lights were still off. You didn’t bother turning them on. You kicked your shoes off at the door and walked straight to the kitchen, opening the fridge even though you weren’t hungry. It was just something to do. You heard him behind you, keys hitting the counter harder than they needed to.
“I didn’t forget,” he said again, from somewhere behind you.
You kept your back to him. “You didn’t remember either.”
There was a pause. He let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I said I was sorry.”
“No, you didn’t.”
You closed the fridge, leaned your hands against the counter, kept your head low. You weren’t ready to yell. You didn’t even want to. You just wanted something to make sense. Something to feel like it mattered to him the way it still, somehow, mattered to you.
He stepped further into the room, pacing a little now. “I’ve had a hell of a week. You know that.”
“I know,” you said softly, turning toward him. “I know you’re tired. I just thought maybe today… maybe this one day wouldn’t get pushed to the side.”
He scoffed under his breath and shook his head, pacing once across the living room before turning back toward you. “So that’s it? One bad night and you’re acting like I don’t give a damn about you?”
You didn’t answer right away. You watched him speak, watched the way he filled the room with sound but never really with presence. That has started to happen more often lately. He was there, but not really. Like a shadow of himself that still moved, still talked, still showed up, but only halfway.
He threw his hands a little. “You knew I had a packed week. Command’s been on our asses since Monday, and today just got away from me. You think I wanted to show up late? You think I meant for it to go like this?”
You swallowed, barely audible over his voice. “You didn’t even text.”
That stopped him for a second. His mouth opened like he had a comeback, but nothing came out right away. So instead, he shrugged, like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “I figured I’d just get there and explain. I didn’t think you’d sit there and count every damn minute.”
“I wasn’t counting,” you said quietly. “I was hoping.”
Your voice cracked a little on the last word, and for a second, it went quiet again. He looked away, jaw tense, hands on his hips like he was trying to breathe through it, like this was harder for him than it was for you. That stung in a way you didn’t have words for.
“You always do this,” he muttered, not quite looking at you. “Turn every little thing into something it’s not.”
You stared at him for a moment, blinking like you couldn’t believe what you just heard.
“Every little thing?” you repeated, voice flat. “Is that what this is?”
He ran a hand through his hair again, frustrated. “Come on, I didn’t mean it like that.”
You took a slow breath, stepped away from the counter. “You showed up almost two hours late. On our anniversary. No message. No call. Nothing. And then you sat there, talking about yourself like I hadn’t been sitting alone the entire time.” Your voice stayed even, but it was starting to push. “You think that’s a little thing?”
Jake looked at you, finally really looked, and for a second he didn’t have anything to say.
“I put on a dress,” you said, quieter now, like you were almost saying it to yourself. “I sat at that table thinking maybe this time would be different. That maybe you’d remember before the last minute, maybe you’d actually want to show up and not just be there.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped in first.
“And I’m not talking about the Hard Deck. I’m not even mad about that,” you said. “It could’ve been burgers in the truck. It could’ve been a walk. I just wanted to feel like you cared enough to try.”
The silence between you stretched out again, but this time it felt different. He looked stuck between anger and guilt, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“You really think I don’t care?” he asked, like the words offended him.
And for the first time tonight, you didn’t look away. “I think you only care when it’s easy.”
Jake let out a short, bitter laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “That’s bullshit.”
Your arms folded before you even realized. “Is it?”
He stepped forward, shoulders squared now. “You’re acting like I don’t show up for you at all, like I haven’t been breaking my back trying to keep everything together lately.”
“I never asked you to keep everything together,” you snapped, voice rising before you could stop it. “I asked you to be there. For this. For me.”
“I am here.”
“No, Jake,” you said, louder now. “You’re standing in the room, but you’re not here. Not where it counts.”
His hands went to his hips again, pacing a few steps before turning back toward you, eyes sharp now. “So what, I miss dinner and suddenly I’m the villain? You act like I don’t care, like I didn’t want this marriage too.”
“You didn’t miss dinner, Jake. You missed all of it. You missed me sitting there thinking maybe tonight would be the night you show up on time, say something that sounds like you still see me.”
He raised his voice then, something in him finally snapping. “What do you want from me?!”
And that hit harder than you expected. You stared at him, chest tight, hands cold at your sides.
“I want you to stop acting like loving me is something you have to schedule around.”
He opened his mouth again, but you weren’t done this time. The words came fast, your voice not yelling now, but loud enough to shake the quiet between you.
“I want to stop feeling like I have to earn my place in my own marriage.”
That landed. He looked at you, stunned for a second, like he didn’t know who you were. Like maybe he’d finally heard you, but still, he didn’t step closer.
“I’m tired, Jake,” you said, and your voice broke right through the middle.
His mouth opened, but the words didn’t come fast enough. You didn’t wait.
“I’m tired of waiting for you to notice I’m not okay. I’m tired of pretending this feels normal when it doesn’t. I’m tired of being the only one who remembers things like tonight. And I’m so tired of feeling like I have to apologize for wanting more from the person I married.”
Jake looked at you, his face hard but his eyes uncertain now. “I’m doing the best I can—”
“Are you?” you cut in, quieter, breath shaking as you blinked back the tears. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m begging you for scraps of attention while you show up late and still act like I should be grateful.”
He looked away for a second, jaw tight, and dragged a hand over his face. “You always do this. Twist things around like I don’t care. Like I don’t try.”
“I don’t want to twist things,” you said, the words tumbling out, softer now but raw. “I want to believe you. I want to believe you still care the way you used to. But you don’t even look at me the same. And maybe that’s normal after time, maybe it is, but I can’t be the only one trying to keep us from fading.”
Your voice cracked again and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks, quiet and unchecked. Jake saw them, but he didn’t move toward you. He just stood there, like he didn’t know what to do with them, like they were a problem he didn’t sign up to solve.
“I miss you,” you whispered.
Jake’s hands went to his hips again, pacing like he couldn't sit still in it, like he needed to keep moving so it wouldn’t catch up to him. “You think this is easy for me? You think I like coming home to this? To you looking at me like I’m never enough?”
You flinched, then straightened. “I never said you weren’t enough.”
“Then what is this?” he shouted. “You corner me the second we walk through the door, throw every single thing I’ve done wrong in my face, and now what? I’m the bad guy because I’m not good at anniversaries?”
You laughed once, sharp and tired. “You’re not bad at anniversaries, Jake. You just don’t care.”
He stared at you, chest rising and falling fast now. “That’s not true.”
“Then what is?” Your voice rose with his, loud now, hoarse. “Because I am standing here telling you I’m hurting and all you do is try to win the argument.”
He stepped toward you, hands up like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry I’m not perfect? That I’m not romantic enough, not soft enough, not whatever-the-hell you built up in your head?”
You stared at him, breathing hard, heart in your throat. You’d been holding the words back for weeks, maybe longer. “I want a divorce.”
The words hit the room like a door slamming shut. No build-up, no lead-in, just the truth, finally out in the open. Jake stopped moving. He looked at you like you’d slapped him.
Jake shook his head like he could physically knock the words out of the air. Like hearing them once had been too much. “No,” he said again, sharper this time. “No, you don’t mean that.”
His voice was thin around the edges, like it couldn’t decide if it was anger or panic.
You stood still, your arms at your sides, your hands curled into fists without thinking. The air in the room felt tight. Too full. You felt like you couldn’t take a deep breath.
Jake took a step forward. “You’re upset. You’re mad. We’ve fought before. This isn’t—this isn’t how this ends.”
You didn’t say anything. You just watched him. He looked like a man trying to stop a fire with his bare hands.
“We can fix this,” he said again, louder now, like volume could glue something broken back together. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. I’ll do better. I’ll fucking try harder.”
Your voice came out sharp, louder than you meant. “Why now?” You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. “Why is it always after I say I’m done that you finally try?”
Jake flinched. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, eyes darting like he needed something to land on. “Don’t do this. You said forever. We said forever.”
You were already crying, but it wasn’t gentle. It was hot and hard and sudden. “I know what I said.”
“I stood in front of you,” he said, stepping closer like that might change something. “You were in that dress. Your hair was pinned back and your hands were shaking. I remember. I remember saying I’d stay. Through everything.”
His voice cracked on the word everything, but he pushed through it, chest rising and falling fast. “I said I’d love every version of you, even when you changed, even when I did. That I’d never walk away, that I’d never stop showing up.”
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But all of that should’ve been said hours ago. Weeks ago. Before you had to ask for it.
“Stop,” you said, voice low, strained.
He kept going, stepping closer like he was reaching back through time. “You looked up at me with those eyes and I knew it then. I meant it. I still mean it. I love you—”
“Stop!” you screamed, cutting through his words like glass shattering on tile.
Your voice echoed in the kitchen. It was too loud. Too full of everything you’d been swallowing for months. Jake froze like you’d hit him. His mouth was still half-open, but nothing else came out. His hands were shaking now. Yours were, too.
You wiped at your face roughly, but the tears kept coming anyway. Not from anger. Not even from heartbreak. You were just... done. And he was still three steps behind.
Jake stayed where he was, frozen in the middle of the kitchen like he couldn’t figure out whether to come closer or disappear. His hands slowly dropped to his sides, his eyes still locked on yours, searching your face like he could find a version of you that hadn’t said it. That hadn’t meant it.
Your shoulders rose and fell, shaky from the way your breath came in uneven pulls. You swiped at your cheeks again, slower this time, like maybe it would make it all stop spinning.
“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you said finally, voice raw. “But I can’t keep pretending this is working.”
Jake moved like his body didn’t want to, taking one small step forward. His voice was quieter now. “So you’re really just giving up.”
You looked at him. Not through him, not around him, but at him.
“I already gave everything I had, Jake,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake this time. It just sounded tired. “You just didn’t notice I was running out.”
He closed his eyes for a second, jaw clenched like he was biting something back. Then he opened them and looked around, like maybe the kitchen, the walls, the clock ticking on the stove might offer some answer he hadn’t thought of, but there was nothing. Just the stale echo of your shouting and the dull hum of the fridge in the background.
“You’re really serious,” he said after a moment, quieter now.
You nodded, your lips parting to speak but nothing coming out right away. When it did, it was softer than either of you expected. “I don’t want to keep resenting you just to stay married to you.”
Jake didn’t say anything.
The silence felt like it had teeth now, heavy and stretching between you both. You didn’t fill it. You just stood there, in the same house where you’d laughed on the floor unpacking dishes, where you’d fallen asleep on the couch more times than you could count, where you thought you'd spend a lifetime.
However, lifetimes don’t always last forever, and not even love was enough if it kept leaving one of you behind.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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the two times i used it because i was already so desperate to finish my accounting and research statistics, it gave me wrong answers. I literally had to correct it (even though I was already so confused with the solving) and it would apologize to me for every mistake it made. I was already upset, confused, on the brink of crashing out and that bot had the nerve to speak to me like we were equals. hell no.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I want a story about a king whose son is prophesied to kill him so the king is like “whatever what am I supposed to do, kill my own kid wtf is wrong with you” so he just raises him as normal, doesn’t even tell him about the prophecy, and instead of some convoluted twist of events that leads to the king’s murder the son grows up and when the king is very old and dying and in excruciating pain the kid is just like alright I'mma put him out of his misery.
The king’s son becomes the new king, and is prophesied to defeat evil and bring an age of prosperity. His generals and knights all crack their knuckles but he pretty much ignores them and focuses on strengthening the infrastructure of his kingdom. Forty years later he is old and sick but still hearing his subjects’ grievances, and a general’s like “how will you defeat the prophesied evil now? You’re old and weak.” Another visitor, a teenager fresh out of the kingdom’s public education system, looks at the general like he is an ignoramus. The king eradicated poverty, housed the homeless, taught the ignorant, ended class exploitation by abolishing the nobility and imprisoning the corrupt, and established a highly respected guild of doctors that recently figured out how to cure the plague. There are no brigands because there is enough wealth for everyone to live comfortably; hiding in the woods and taking trinkets from people simply doesn’t make any sense for anyone but the desperate, and the people are not desperate. Evil is a weed, explains the teenager. It grows in cracked roads and crumbling houses and forgotten corners, rooted in indifference and watered by suffering. But the king demands that broken things be mended and suffering people be made well.
No evil lives in this kingdom, says the teenager. It starved to death before I was born.
Every once in a while, when I’m feeling down, I go and look at the notes on this post and they make me feel a lot better. This is the energy I want to carry into 2018.
Briefing: You swore you couldn’t stand him—arrogant, infuriating, always pushing too far. Todd made it his mission to get under your skin, and you gave it right back, each fight only sharpening the edge between you. But somewhere between stolen dares, late nights, and secrets you didn’t mean to share, the hate started to crack. Now he’s in your bed, in your space, in your thoughts, and it feels less like an accident and more like the one thing you’ve been running from all along.
Words: 14k (I couldn't stop)
Warnings: Smut, filth, rough sex (light choking, spanking, other roughness), enemies to lovers, Mentions of SA nothing actually explained or detailed, frat parties, Greek Life politics and such, loneliness, unprotected sex, just beware okay??
Author note: Thank you for reading and reblogging and leaving a comment. Much love! Inspired by a tag on a post by @trelaney
The long oak table gleamed under the fluorescent lights, papers and half-empty coffee cups scattered along its surface. You smoothed your notes into a neat stack, pen aligned perfectly at the top, before sitting straighter in your chair. The monthly Greek Council meeting was tedious at best, but tonight was worse. The agenda item circled in red across your planner — Greek Week planning — was bound to set off fireworks. Greek Week was only a few months away.
The door opened behind you. Late, as usual.
Todd Stevens strolled in like he hadn’t kept a room of sorority and fraternity presidents waiting ten minutes. His Kappa Nu Alpha brothers trailed after him, but Todd moved at his own pace, dropping into his chair with a grin that looked both lazy and calculated. His collared shirt was untucked, tie nowhere in sight, dark hair pushed back like he’d run a hand through it five seconds before entering.
“Nice of you to join us,” you said without looking up from your notes.
A few chuckles rippled down the table.
“Traffic on Greek Row’s a killer,” Todd drawled, leaning back in his chair, arms spreading along the backrest like he owned the room. “Don’t worry, I’m here to save the night.”
Your jaw tightened. He always did this — pretended charm could excuse his lack of professionalism.
The faculty advisor cleared her throat. “Let’s get to the main item — Greek Week. We’ll review proposed events.”
You were ready. You’d drafted a proposal outlining philanthropic activities, inter-house competitions, and, yes, controlled social events that wouldn’t draw the kind of scrutiny Greek life had been under the last few years. Before you could begin, Todd spoke up.
“KNA wants to host the kickoff party,” he announced, voice casual, confident. “Full send, no half-measures. Live band, open invite, get everyone hyped for the week.”
Of course.
“That’s not on the agenda,” you said, finally lifting your gaze. He was already watching you, a smirk curling like he’d been waiting for the pushback.
“It’s Greek Week,” he replied. “We’re supposed to have fun, right? Don’t think anyone’s dying to start the week with another canned food drive.”
A few fraternity reps laughed. Your sorority sisters shifted uncomfortably beside you, waiting for your response.
You folded your hands on the table, controlled. “Greek Week is about showcasing responsibility and unity. Not about throwing the biggest liability event you can imagine.”
“Responsibility’s overrated.” Todd tilted his chair back, balancing on two legs like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Ask around — people want a party. We give them one, attendance doubles across the whole week.”
“And when someone ends up in the ER?” you shot back. “Whose name goes on the incident report then?”
“Mine,” he said smoothly, flashing a grin. “And I’ll take it.”
You stared at him, pulse spiking, not with flustered nerves but with irritation so sharp it almost felt good. He was reckless, arrogant, and far too aware of how easily he could get under your skin.
The room had gone quiet. You could feel everyone watching the volley like a tennis match.
“I’m sure you would,” you said, voice even, icy. “Since you clearly think Greek Week is all about you.”
Todd leaned forward suddenly, chair legs thudding back to the ground, arms braced on the table. His eyes caught yours, the smirk fading into something sharper. “No, sweetheart,” he said low, just for you. “It’s about everyone else. You just don’t know how to let people breathe.”
Your chest tightened — with anger, you told yourself. You matched his lean across the table, refusing to break eye contact. “And you don’t know how to lead without hiding behind a party.”
The faculty advisor cleared her throat loudly. “Enough. We’ll table this for later discussion.”
You forced yourself back against your chair, smoothing your notes as if you hadn’t just been rattled. Todd, of course, leaned back again, arms spreading wide, grin lazy like he’d won. But you saw the glint in his eyes — sharp, interested, almost hungry.
The meeting droned on. You pretended to take notes, but every time Todd’s voice chimed in — casual, joking, always undermining the seriousness of the discussion — you felt your spine stiffen. You didn’t look at him again, but you could feel his gaze flick to you, testing, like he was daring you to crack.
By the time adjournment was called, your temples ached. You slid your papers back into their folder, ready to escape into the night air.
“Great notes tonight,” a sorority sister teased softly as you stood. “You and Stevens gonna kill each other or finally hook up?”
Your head whipped toward her, sharp. “Not funny.”
But Todd was already across the room, laughing with his brothers. When he caught your eye over their shoulders, he raised his brows, gave a mock salute, and walked out without a word.
You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together.
This was going to be a long semester.
---
The quad was alive with the kind of early fall bustle that made campus feel like its own small city. Tables lined the brick walkways, banners bright against the sky as sororities and fraternities tried to outdo each other for attention. Flyers fluttered in the breeze, music pulsed from a portable speaker, and the scent of grilled food from one fraternity’s booth mingled with the crisp air.
Your sorority’s table stood neat and polished. A row of trifold boards displayed upcoming events, your chapter’s philanthropic initiatives, and photos of last year’s Greek Week service projects. The centerpiece — a carefully arranged vase of sunflowers in your colors — caught the light like a trophy. Everything about it was intentional and professional.
And then there was Todd Stevens.
Kappa Nu Alpha had set up two tables down, and where your presentation looked like a corporate pitch, theirs resembled a carnival. Loud music, neon flyers slapped together, guys in backwards caps tossing footballs over the crowd to get attention. Todd himself leaned against the table like it was his throne, sunglasses perched on his head, a megawatt grin aimed at anyone passing by.
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen,” he called, voice pitched to carry. “Kappa Nu’s throwing the only Greek Week kickoff party worth showing up for. Free beer, live music, bad decisions guaranteed!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly.
“Don’t,” one of your sisters murmured at your elbow. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
But then a group of freshmen wandered past, pausing between your table and his. You plastered on your best welcoming smile.
“Hi! We’ve got sign-ups here for tutoring partnerships and volunteer hours,” you said brightly. “We pair first-years with opportunities all semester long. Great way to meet people and make an impact.”
The girls smiled, reached for your clipboard—until Todd’s voice boomed over the music.
“Or,” he said, swooping in with effortless timing, “you could skip homework for one night and come actually have fun. Free cover if you say Todd sent you.”
The freshmen giggled, glancing at each other before drifting toward his table.
Your smile thinned to a line.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.
Todd, of course, caught your eye. He raised his brows in mock innocence, then winked.
Heat prickled at the back of your neck. Not embarrassment — fury. You straightened, smoothing your blazer. If he wanted to play games, you could too.
Later that afternoon, you caught your chance. Kappa Nu had hung a banner crookedly, half blocking the fire lane behind their booth. You snapped a picture, emailed it to the Greek Council faculty advisor, and within the hour, campus safety was telling them to take it down.
When you walked by on your way to class, Todd was standing on a chair, wrestling the banner loose while one of his brothers groaned about citations.
He spotted you instantly.
“You’re ruthless,” he called down, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “Could’ve just told me instead of tattling.”
You paused, adjusted your bag on your shoulder, and gave him a look cool enough to chill the sun. “Maybe try following the rules next time, Stevens.”
His grin only widened. “Where’s the fun in that?”
You didn’t dignify it with an answer. You turned on your heel and kept walking, every nerve alive with irritation.
Later that night, sprawled across your bed with your laptop open and textbooks piled beside you, you realized you were still thinking about him. The smugness in his grin. The way he seemed to enjoy the sparring as much as you hated it.
You told yourself it was just a strategy — keeping ahead of him, making sure Kappa Nu didn’t derail Greek Week with their antics. That was all.
But when your phone buzzed with a group chat update and you caught his name in the notification — a stupid meme he’d dropped into the Greek Council thread — you found yourself rolling your eyes with more heat than usual.
Todd Stevens was infuriating.
And, annoyingly, you were starting to suspect he knew exactly how to make sure you couldn’t ignore him.
-----
The conference room smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and burnt coffee, the hum of the overhead lights settling into your bones. A long stretch of evening had already bled into night, the last streaks of sunset visible through the narrow window slats.
Stacks of flyers and half-scribbled notes littered the table, a casualty of too many voices arguing over how to balance Greek Week’s events. You sat near the head of the table, pen in hand, blouse crisp, skirt smooth against your thighs. You’d come straight from class, every line of your outfit deliberate, professional — armor against the chaos Todd Stevens seemed to thrive on.
“Alright,” one of the fraternity presidents muttered, rubbing his temples. “We’ve been here two hours. Can we just vote on the damn schedule?”
Another groaned, pushing back her chair. “It’s late. I’ve got a paper due tomorrow.”
One by one, they began to trickle out, mumbled excuses and quick waves trailing behind them. Within fifteen minutes, the room had emptied until only two voices remained.
Yours.
And his.
Todd lounged across from you, rolling a pen between his fingers like he had all the time in the world. His tie — if he’d even bothered with one — was long gone, shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows. The casualness of it gnawed at you. He treated everything like it didn’t matter, and somehow that only made people follow him more.
You cleared your throat, straightening your papers into a neat pile. “If you’re serious about your house hosting anything during Greek Week, you’re going to have to compromise. Safety, budget, optics—”
“Optics,” Todd cut in, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table. His eyes gleamed in the fluorescent light, sharp and amused. “That’s your favorite word, isn’t it?”
“It’s called responsibility,” you shot back.
“It’s called sucking the life out of everything.” He smirked, voice low, edged. “No one gives a damn about ‘optics.’ They care about having a week worth remembering.”
You bristled, the heat rushing up your chest. “And when something goes wrong, who do you think gets dragged through the mud? We do. All of us. You don’t get to just—”
“Relax,” Todd interrupted, his grin widening. “The world won’t end if people have a little fun.”
Your pen snapped against the paper. “You’re impossible.”
His gaze flicked down, caught the tension in your hand, the sharp set of your shoulders, the way your blouse stretched with the rise of your breath. He tilted his head, a smile twisting.
“And you’re wound so tight I’m surprised you don’t snap in half.”
The words landed like a spark on dry grass.
You shoved your chair back, standing, the skirt brushing your thighs as you leaned forward across the table. “At least I take this seriously. You—”
The rest of your sentence died in the air as he stood, closing the space in two steps. His hand pressed flat against the table beside your papers, his body angled into yours, heat radiating from him.
“You really hate me that much?” he asked, voice low, dangerous with amusement.
Your breath caught, not from nerves but from the sharp edge of adrenaline racing through you. “You make it very easy.”
Something shifted in his eyes then, the smirk curving sharper, hungrier.
And before you could move, he kissed you.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. His mouth crashed against yours, teeth clashing, the scrape of his stubble against your skin. You gasped, shoved at his chest, but instead of pushing him away, your hands fisted in his shirt. The kiss turned brutal, consuming, his tongue forcing its way past your lips like a challenge you refused to lose.
The back of your legs hit the edge of the table, papers scattering to the floor. His hands found your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your blouse as if he could tear through it. You yanked at his shirt in retaliation, pulling him closer until his hips pressed against yours.
He lifted you just enough so he was able to bend you back against the table, the cool surface biting through the thin fabric of your skirt. His hand slid down your thigh, rough, urgent, and you gasped against his mouth, nails clawing at his shoulders.
“Still think I don’t take this seriously?” he growled against your lips.
“This?” You bit down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him hiss. “This isn’t serious.”
He laughed, dark and breathless, before gripping your blouse at the buttons and yanking it open. Fabric strained, one button snapping free and skittering across the floor. His mouth descended to your collarbone, teeth grazing your skin.
You shoved at his shoulder, meaning to push him back, but it only pressed you closer against the edge of the table. His palm slid under your skirt, dragging roughly over your thigh until his fingers hooked the thin band of your underwear and yanked it down to your knees. You gasped, clutching at his shirt as his hand slipped between your legs, two fingers sliding through your wetness before he pressed them inside you without hesitation.
“Fuck,” he hissed, low against your throat, pumping into you with sharp, impatient thrusts of his hand. “Already so wet—guess you don’t hate me as much as you say.”
Your breath caught, not with denial but with another shuddering moan when his thumb dragged hard over your clit. “Shut up,” you snapped, hips rocking against his hand anyway. “Just—do it.”
His laugh was cruel, but it broke on a groan as you fumbled his belt open, shoving at the waistband of his slacks until he swore and took over, jerking them down just far enough to free himself. He didn’t waste a second—dragged your hips to the edge of the table, hooked your skirt up over your waist, and pushed into you in one hard, unrelenting thrust.
You cried out, nails digging into the table beneath you as he filled you, stretching you until your breath trembled. He gripped your thigh, shoving your leg higher against his side, and slammed forward again. The sharp sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the empty office, his pace brutal from the start.
The table shuddered with every movement. You clung to the edge, blouse hanging open, chest heaving as he drove into you. Your head fell back with a groan, your voice breaking on his name before you caught yourself, biting hard into your lip.
His hand slid to your throat, thumb pressing just under your jaw, not choking but holding you there, forcing your gaze on his. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you want it harder.”
Your pulse hammered under his grip, your voice ragged when you finally gave in. “Harder.”
Something dark sparked in his eyes, and he yanked out only to turn you, then shove you down flat on your stomach across the table. Papers scattered to the floor. He kicked your legs apart, grabbed your hips, and rammed back inside you so hard the edge of the table dug into your ribs. You gritted your teeth, fingers clawing at the polished wood as he pounded into you, unrelenting. Every thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat, the pace so rough you could barely breathe.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, snapping his hips against your ass again and again. “Taking me so fucking good.”
Your skirt was bunched at your waist, his shirt clinging to his back as sweat gathered at his hairline, the slap of his hips sharp and steady. You pressed your forehead to the table, half a whimper, half a curse, leaving you with each thrust.
When you pushed back against him, urging him on, he snarled and hauled you up, flipping you onto your back again with reckless strength. You barely had time to catch your breath before he shoved back inside, the angle deeper this time, forcing another cry out of you. His hand slid under your thigh, driving it higher, giving him even more leverage to slam into you.
Your voice cracked on a moan, fingers knotting in his shirt. “Don’t stop—fuck—don’t stop.”
His mouth crashed against yours in a messy, teeth-clashing kiss, all heat and no tenderness, swallowing every broken sound you gave as his hips kept their brutal rhythm.
His pace grew vicious, every thrust hammering into you until your nails scraped red crescents across his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. The table rocked beneath you, squealing against the tile, but neither of you cared. His mouth dragged down your throat, biting, sucking, leaving heat in his wake as his hips slammed mercilessly into yours.
Your back arched, the rough edge of the desk biting into your shoulder blades, but you still hooked your leg tighter around his waist, urging him closer, deeper. The friction built unbearably, every drive of his cock hitting that raw, perfect spot inside you until your moans turned ragged.
“Harder,” you gasped, voice breaking as your nails clawed at his back. “Fuck—Todd—harder.”
He growled low in his chest, grabbing your hips in both hands and driving into you with a new ferocity that knocked the breath from your lungs. The slap of skin against skin was relentless, bruising. Each thrust dragged you higher, nerves sparking, your whole body trembling from the unyielding rhythm.
Your vision blurred at the edges, the knot in your stomach tightening past the point of control. You tried to swallow the sound, but it ripped out of you anyway—a sharp, helpless cry as you came, clenching tight around him. The orgasm tore through you in waves, your back bowing, body quaking as he kept pounding into you, refusing to let up.
“Fuck, that’s it—look at you,” he snarled, his voice ragged as he pushed through your release, hips still snapping forward. “So fucking tight—fuck.”
You rode it out in shuddering gasps, your body pulsing around him, every thrust dragging out the aftershocks until you were half sobbing, half moaning beneath him. He ground deeper, chasing his own edge, the pace faltering only slightly as he lost control.
Your nails dug hard into his biceps, clinging through the relentless drive until his rhythm broke. He slammed into you one last brutal time, hips jerking as he groaned against your neck, the sound raw and guttural. His cock pulsed inside you, hot and spilling, as he thrust through the final waves of his orgasm, buried deep.
For a moment, the only sound was your breathing—ragged, uneven, echoing off the office walls. The table creaked beneath your weight, your blouse hanging open, your skirt rucked around your waist. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his chest heaving against yours, both of you spent but refusing to acknowledge what just happened yet.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. His breath was still ragged against your skin, your own chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls. Heat clung to you both, the sweat on your skin cooling in the stale office air.
Then, as if the weight of what just happened hit at the same time, you both shifted. He pulled back first, his cock sliding free with a messy drag that made you flinch. You closed your legs instinctively, tugging your skirt down with trembling hands. He stepped back, shoving his pants into place, fingers jerking at the belt until it clicked.
Neither of you spoke.
You sat up, blouse gaping, one button missing. You smoothed it closed with shaking fingers, refusing to meet his eyes. The papers that had scattered across the floor looked absurd now, like a reminder that you weren’t supposed to be here for this.
He dragged a hand over his face, raking his hair back. His smirk was gone, replaced by something harder to read, but he found it quickly enough—the same armor he always wore. “Guess that’s one way to settle an argument.”
Your head snapped up, glare sharp despite the heat still crawling under your skin. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
You hopped off the table, smoothing your skirt into place, forcing your blouse to close as best it could. You snatched your bag from the chair, bent to quickly grab the papers, then slipped the strap over your shoulder like it was a shield. Your pulse still raced, your body still humming from what you’d just done, but you clamped it down, shoved it deep.
His eyes lingered on you anyway, mouth twitching like he might say something else. But he didn’t.
You beat him to it, voice clipped and cold. “This never happened."
For a beat, his smirk returned—lazy, sharp, and infuriating. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. You pushed past him, heels clicking hard against the tile, the office door slamming shut behind you.
But long after you were gone, your scent still clung to the air. And Todd Stevens leaned back against the table, jaw tight, like he’d just started a fight he had no idea how to finish.
—
A few days later, you’re sitting for another Greek meeting. The conference room was too warm, the hum of the overhead lights giving the air a faint buzz that made it hard to focus. You adjusted the neat stack of papers in front of you, smoothing their edges against the polished table while the chatter of the other presidents filled the room.
Todd strolled in late, of course. No apology, just that easy swagger like he owned the place. He dropped into the seat across from you, leaned back with his arms spread along the chair’s edge, and gave you a smirk that was far too casual.
“Nice blouse,” he said, low enough that only you caught it. “Shame about the buttons, though.”
Heat flared across your cheeks before you could stop it. Your blouse was different today, crisp and perfectly buttoned all the way up, but his meaning was clear. You didn’t rise to it—not outwardly. You simply lifted your chin, voice cool. “Try being on time for once. Then maybe your input would matter.”
A few heads turned at your tone, then rolled their eyes. Another round, just like always.
The meeting dragged on, full of reminders about upcoming philanthropy events and rules for recruitment week. But every time you spoke, Todd had something to throw back. Not enough to be disruptive, just enough to needle you.
When you emphasized fundraising goals, he leaned forward, all mock sincerity. “Sure, but you can’t forget morale. People want fun, not just your boring spreadsheets.”
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Some of us value responsibility over empty keg stands.”
That earned a few muffled laughs from the others. One of the sorority presidents across the table nudged her friend and whispered—loud enough to hear—“God, they fight like a married couple.”
Todd grinned, basking in it. You stiffened. “Don’t lump me in with him,” you snapped, quicker than you meant to.
The table went quiet for a beat before chatter picked back up, but you caught the look Todd gave you: smug, knowing. Like he’d won something.
The rest of the meeting passed in the same vein—point, counterpoint, smirk, glare. By the time the council adjourned, you were wound so tight your shoulders ached.
You packed your bag neatly, methodically, while Todd leaned lazily in his chair, watching. You refused to look at him, refused to give him the satisfaction. When you finally stood, you caught his eye anyway.
“See you at the next meeting, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice thick with mockery.
You walked out without a word, but the sound of it clung to you all the way home.
Later, alone in your room, you tossed your bag onto the floor and sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your hands. No matter how hard you tried to focus on the agenda, on the neat rows of notes in your planner, all you could see was the flash of his mouth against your throat, the slam of his hips driving you against the table.
You pressed your palms hard against your eyes, hating that it lingered. Hating him for it. Hating yourself more.
---
The meeting had gone long. Too long. Your laptop screen glowed faintly in the dim room, the only bright spot among the scattered papers and half-drained cups of coffee.
Two of the other presidents sat across from you, leaning back in their chairs. The one from Lambda was still flipping through notes, brow furrowed in thought, while the Phi Kappa president seemed more than ready to call it a night.
You were explaining, patient but firm, how the sponsorship funds needed to be divided more fairly. Not all of it could be blown on the concert alone—events across campus needed support.
To your surprise, Lambda’s president actually smiled a little. “You’ve got a point. If we spread the budget smarter, the whole week runs smoother.”
You nodded, relieved at the support. “Exactly. We need balance if we want it to succeed long term.”
The door creaked open before you could continue. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.
“Am I interrupting?” Todd drawled, leaning casually against the frame. His tie was loosened, shirt sleeves rolled, the look of someone who hadn’t cared enough to fix himself after his last class—or maybe his last drink.
The Phi Kappa president sighed. “We’re just wrapping.”
Todd pushed off the frame and sauntered in, sliding into the empty seat next to you. “Good. Thought I’d add my two cents before everyone makes the wrong decision.”
You stiffened but said nothing.
He started talking anyway. About how the concert should stay the centerpiece, how visibility mattered more than “boring logistics.” To your mounting irritation, Phi Kappa perked up, nodding along.
You cut in, sharper than you intended. “Short-term gains. It’ll crash and burn in a year if we don’t build it right.”
The argument simmered until Lambda’s president finally held up his hands. “Look, you both have points. But it’s late.” He glanced at Phi Kappa, who gave a tired nod. “Let’s pick it back up tomorrow.”
They gathered their things quickly. A few muttered goodnights, a door shutting behind them—and suddenly, it was just you and Todd.
The silence felt thick, heavier now.
You tried to focus back on your notes, flipping a page with unnecessary force. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
He leaned back in his chair, watching you with that infuriating half-grin. “What? Thought we fucked the tension out of you already.”
You froze, lips parting in a sharp breath, nose slightly snarled. “You’re disgusting.”
“Maybe.” He shifted closer, facing you, and before you could react, his hand settled firm and hot on your upper thigh.
You jerked slightly in your seat, eyes darting to his, but you didn’t move his hand away. His fingers flexed slowly against you, testing, deliberate.
He caught that tiny flicker in your gaze—the one you tried to bury—the need you didn’t want him to see. His smirk curved deeper.
“You look like you want me to prove my point.” His voice was low, near your ear, whispering something that managed to crawl under your skin, both irritating and intoxicating.
Your breath hitched, and instead of shoving him off, your knees parted a little more.
He didn’t waste time, scooting his chair as close to you as possible. His hand trailed higher, tugging at your waistband, working open a button with unhurried ease. His fingers slipped beneath, brushing heat, teasing.
At the same time, your hand slid to his lap, feeling the hard line forming beneath the fabric of his slacks. His sharp inhale told you exactly how much he wanted this, too.
He pressed two fingers into you suddenly, no warning, and your head tipped back against the chair with a choked sound.
His mouth found your neck, lips dragging hot against your skin before his teeth bit down on your collarbone. The sting drew a moan from you, unwilling but raw, and it spurred him harder, rougher. His fingers worked deep, curling, steady.
You clutched his arm with both hands, body tightening, warmth spiraling low. He put his unused hand on the back of your chair.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin, voice thick with heat. “You hate me so much, don’t you? Hate me—and you still take me so damn well.”
Your whole body trembled as he drove you higher, not quite close enough but dangerous, your thighs twitching helplessly under his grip. Heat burned in your chest, sharp with frustration, and you shoved your hand down into his pants, wrapping around him and stroking with the same merciless pace he used on you. His hips jerked, a broken breath slipping through his teeth, but his rhythm on you never faltered. If anything, his fingers tightened, punishing, like he wanted to remind you who was leading.
And then—
Footsteps. A door slamming somewhere down the hall. Voices carrying faintly, growing nearer. You both froze. His hand stilled inside you, your hand still buried in his pants. The voices faded, moving away again. No one came in.
But the spell was broken.
You pulled back first, yanking your hand free, fumbling to fix your waistband with shaking fingers. He sat back, eyes dark, lips parted like he was caught between a curse and a laugh.
Neither of you said a word.
You grabbed your bag, avoiding his gaze, and stood. Your legs felt unsteady, trembling with what almost happened, what nearly consumed you.
You left without looking back, the door closing harder than you meant.
Todd sat there, jaw tight, still breathing unevenly, his hand flexing open and shut against his thigh.
---
The next council meeting should have been business as usual. The room was the same—fluorescent lights humming, papers scattered across the table, presidents trading half-baked ideas like poker chips. But something was different.
Todd was different.
He was there, of course, sprawled in his usual chair with the same loosened tie and careless posture, but the edge was dulled. Normally, he’d cut through conversation with a smirk and some needling remark just sharp enough to get under your skin. Today, he barely opened his mouth.
When someone pitched an idea about expanding the tailgate event, you braced yourself for his inevitable interruption—something about “bigger is better” or “leave it to the pros.” But Todd only hummed, flipping a pen between his fingers and glancing vaguely down at his notes.
You found yourself watching him more than you meant to. His eyes looked darker than usual, shadowed, and when he did finally speak, it came out flat. Not lazy-cocky—tired.
It unsettled you. You told yourself it was only because you weren’t used to the silence.
When the meeting finally adjourned, you left quickly, telling yourself not to linger. Still, you caught yourself wondering.
Later that week, an unplanned party at his fraternity house made forgetting impossible.
Music rattled the windows, laughter and shouts spilling out into the night air as people crowded the porch and the lawn. Your sorority sisters had dragged you along, eager for free drinks and the chance to flirt with frat boys you had no patience for.
You lasted just long enough to make an appearance before slipping away, weaving through the noise toward the exit.
That’s when you saw him.
Todd sat at the far end of the porch steps, alone. No drink in hand, no crowd orbiting him, no grin plastered across his face. Just him, elbows braced loosely on his knees, head tilted slightly down, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.
Smoke curled faintly in the cool night, catching the glow of the porch light.
His expression was blank—not brooding, not calculating, just…gone. The carefully cultivated smirk, the spark in his eye, all of it stripped bare. He looked like someone who’d run out of energy to hold himself together.
You froze, half in shadow near the door. The Todd you knew—the Todd who needled you, pressed you against desks, whispered filth against your skin—was nowhere in sight.
This version of him wasn’t supposed to exist.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly, and you hated that. You hated noticing, hated the tug of curiosity, hated the quiet ache that crept in despite every good reason to ignore it. So you did. You stepped away, slipping into the night without a word.
Still, the image burned behind your eyes long after—the smoke, the sag of his shoulders, the tiredness he couldn’t hide when he thought no one was watching.
You told yourself not to care. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But the crack was there now, and you couldn’t unsee it.
---
Less than a week later, you had business to discuss with Todd. The bass from inside the house rattled through the porch steps as you knocked on the heavy front door, trying not to roll your eyes at the thrum of laughter and shouting spilling out. It took longer than it should have for someone to answer, and when the door finally cracked open, you were greeted by a wide, smug grin.
“Hey there,” one of Todd’s boys drawled, leaning lazily against the frame. His eyes dragged down your thigh-length flowy dress without even a pretense of subtlety. “You look good, baby. You lost? ’Cause I can think of about a hundred better reasons to be at our house than whatever you're here for, starting with me.”
You crossed your ankles where you stood, letting your shoulder rest lightly against the opposite frame; your posture remained cool, even as irritation curled in your stomach. “I’m not here for you. Go get Todd.”
He chuckled, moving far too close to you. “Todd doesn’t wanna talk to you, baby girl. But I’ve got plenty of time, and a room upstairs. You’d like it.”
Your mouth tightened, ready to snap back, when a voice cut through behind him.
“The fuck are you doing?”
Todd appeared in the hallway, his expression like steel. He shoved the guy lightly but firmly out of the way, planting himself in the doorway. His eyes cut to you—one sharp glance that softened into something heavier when he registered your dress. Then, back to his frat brother, his jaw clenched.
“You think I don’t see you running your mouth like that? Go. Now.”
The other guy muttered something under his breath and slunk back into the crowd, throwing you one last leer. Todd didn’t watch him go; his eyes flicked over you again, a quick up-and-down that was more of a performance for the boys still lingering in the hall than for you.
“What do you want?” he asked, voice flat, carrying just enough of his usual bite to keep up appearances. “Besides making my guys drool all over the entryway.”
You tilted your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction of reacting. “That urgent presidents’ meeting? Across campus? My ride bailed, so you’re it.”
His brows pulled together faintly. “Funny, didn’t hear about this meeting.”
A laugh slipped out, sharper than you meant it. “Maybe because you must not check your email like a functioning adult.”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face before turning away. “Christ. Fine. Give me a second.” He disappeared down the hall toward his office. When he returned with keys dangling from his hand, he poked you in the shoulder with two fingers, nudging you off the doorframe. “Move.” You let the touch slide off you like nothing, stepping aside and following him out into the night.
The car was quiet when you slid into the passenger seat, the music from the house muffling as the door shut. He started the engine without looking at you, waiting as you reached forward and keyed the address into his GPS.
His eyes flicked to the screen, then back to the road as he pulled away. The silence stretched. He seemed almost wary, his usual snark subdued. You didn’t say a word.
The tires hissed faintly as Todd’s car rolled over cracked pavement, the echo of rubber bouncing off the concrete pillars. You told him to pull in, to park anywhere. He shot you a look, brows raised, but followed your instruction. His headlights washed over faded yellow lines across the abandoned parking garage before he cut the engine, the sudden silence making the space feel cavernous.
He glanced at you, confusion flickering. “Why the fuck are we—”
You didn’t answer. You just reached over, grabbed his hand, and pressed it against your thigh, under your dress. His palm was warm, his fingers tense until you shifted, guiding his hand higher. Your own slid over the line of his thigh, thumb brushing the ridge of his zipper where he was already straining.
His lips parted, eyes darkening. “What the—”
“Move your seat back,” you said, low and firm.
He stared at you, disbelieving. “Why—”
“Do it,” you cut in, sharper.
Something in your tone snapped through the fog of his hesitation. He exhaled hard through his nose and reached down, the seat groaning as it slid back. Before he could even finish leaning, you shifted, straddling his lap in the driver’s seat, your dress falling around your thighs. His hands caught at your hips instinctively, fingers digging in.
“We won’t have to worry about getting caught here,” you murmured, leaning just close enough that your lips nearly brushed his ear.
That was all it took. His grip on your waist tightened, and his jaw flexed. “You’re outta your goddamn mind,” he muttered, but it came out ragged, almost reverent.
You kissed him hard, not giving him room to think. His teeth caught at your lower lip, his breath sharp as his tongue slid against yours. One of his hands pushed up your dress, bunching the fabric around your hips, while the other trailed down your back.
You ground against him, the hard line of his cock thick under his pants, and his groan vibrated into your mouth. He broke the kiss to tip his head back, eyes half-lidded as you undid his belt, your hands quick and sure. He shoved his hand between your thighs, thumb grazing your entrance through damp lace, and cursed low. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”
“Shut up,” you hissed, fumbling his zipper down and sliding your hand inside his boxers. He was hot and hard, twitching in your palm.
“Bossy little—” He didn’t finish. Two of his fingers pushed past the thin fabric and slid into you, burying deep. Your head fell forward onto his shoulder, a sharp gasp tearing out of you as your nails dug into his arm. He worked his fingers ruthlessly, curling just right, his thumb pressing hard against your clit until your thighs shook around him.
You barely managed to get his cock free before he pulled his hand away and grabbed your hips, hauling you up. He shoved your underwear aside with rough efficiency, lined himself up, and in one hard thrust, he filled you. Your cry echoed in the cavern of the garage, muffled quickly by his mouth sealing over yours.
The stretch burned in the best way, his cock thick and deep, and before you could adjust, he was snapping his hips up, slamming into you. Each thrust jolted you, your back hitting the steering wheel once before he yanked you down lower in the seat, keeping you flush against him.
You clung to his shoulders, your nails raking through the thin fabric of his shirt as you rode him, bouncing on his cock. The slap of your bodies filled the car, the windows fogging fast with heat. Soft moans escaped as you take his entire length, biting back the urge to say his name in pleasure.
When your rhythm faltered, breath catching in your throat, he snarled against your mouth and took over. His hands locked on your hips, dragging you down hard as he drove up into you, punishing thrusts that made your whole body jolt.
“Take it,” he gritted out, his voice harsh, sweat dampening his temple.
You bit your lip so hard you tasted iron, your head falling back as his cock pounded into you, your walls fluttering tight around him.
He slapped your ass, once, sharply, and your cry only spurred him. He did it again, then gripped the sting, pulling you down harder, faster, until the seat creaked under you both.
“Look at you—” his words broke into a groan as your cunt clenched tight around him. “Can’t stand me, but you fucking love this.”
You couldn’t even form a retort. Your body was trembling, building fast, his relentless rhythm pushing you higher and higher. His thumb found your clit again, rough, circling as he slammed into you.
Your orgasm ripped through you suddenly and hard, your cry muffled against his neck as your whole body locked around him. You clutched his shoulders, legs tightening at his sides, riding the wave until you were shaking.
He groaned at the way you pulsed around him, but didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, his hips snapping harder, chasing his own edge. Sweat slicked your chest to his, the air thick with heat and breath and the sound of skin on skin.
“Fuck, fuck—” he gasped, his grip bruising on your hips as his thrusts lost rhythm. He buried deep, holding you down against him as his release hit, his whole body jerking under you. He cursed, ragged into your neck, grinding in deep as he spilled inside you.
The car went quiet except for your mingled panting, both of you slumped against each other, the windows dripping with condensation.
Neither of you said a word. Not yet.
You leaned forward, palms braced against the back of his seat, your breath coming in ragged pulls. Your thighs were still trembling where they straddled him, your body pulsing around him even as the sharp edge of release faded. Todd’s chest rose and fell beneath you, heat rolling off him in waves, his hands still gripping your hips like he wasn’t ready to let go.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of breath, skin, the tick of the cooling engine. Then, low and rough, he muttered against the space between you.
“What are we doing?”
The words cut through the fog, quiet but heavy. His eyes locked on yours, unguarded, searching.
You shifted back, ready to climb off him and slip into the passenger seat, but his hand slid down, fingers curling into the lace at your hip.
“Todd—”
The lace caught as you moved. You tried to tug them back into place, but he held on tighter, the delicate fabric giving way under his grip. By the time you’d pulled yourself free of his lap, settling shakily into the seat beside him, your panties were in his hand.
He leaned back, chest still heaving, gaze steady on you. Not smirking, not taunting. Just flat. Certain. As if the decision had already been made: they were his now.
You reached out once, halfheartedly, but he moved his arm away without smirking, without teasing. Not cruel, not playful. Just final.
You didn’t push.
Adjusting your dress, you smoothed the fabric down, your skin prickling from the night air that managed to seep through the cracked windows. Todd shoved himself back into his jeans, tugging the zipper up in one motion, his eyes flicking once to you, then away. No words. No jokes. Just silence thick enough to choke on.
He readjusted his seat back into place. When he turned the key, the engine coughed to life, the low rumble filling the space. He shifted the car into gear, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh. His profile was cut in pieces by the passing streetlights as he drove — sharp jawline, lips pressed tight, eyes hard on the road. You watched him out of the corner of your eye, but the mask was back in place.
Almost.
His hand flexed once against the wheel, knuckles pale.
Neither of you spoke the whole ride back. The hum of tires over asphalt, the thrum of bass from parties echoing across campus, the whisper of your own pulse in your ears — all louder than the words you weren’t saying.
At a red light, he shifted his weight, drumming his fingers of one hand once against the leather wheel, while the other hand tightened its grip around your lace underwear. His gaze flicked sideways. For a second, his eyes caught on your bare thighs, the hem of your dress resting high without your underwear. His jaw tightened, throat working, but he didn’t say anything.
When he pulled up in front of your sorority house, he killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening. You reached for the door handle, your voice still caught somewhere in your chest.
Just as you pushed it open, his voice cut through. Low, almost flat.
“Guess we’ll just… pretend this didn’t happen.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The porch light washed you in gold as you slipped out, your legs still shaky against the pavement. You didn’t look back until you were at the steps, hand on the railing.
He was still there. Headlights glowing, his silhouette steady behind the wheel, watching.
Only when you went inside did the car finally roll away, tail lights fading into the night.
---
A week later, you take your friends to a house party at KNA. The music hit you first when you stepped inside — bass heavy enough that it shook the floorboards, laughter spilling over it, the sticky-sweet smell of alcohol clinging to everything. The house was alive, bodies pressed into every corner, drinks raised high, voices pitched louder than the music just to be heard.
For once, you let yourself lean into it. Your friends tugged you toward the kitchen, already shrieking with laughter, and someone shoved a cup into your hand. It was too sweet, some mix of juice and cheap vodka, but you drank it anyway, warmth buzzing in your chest before long.
The night blurred into something easy — a conversation shouted over the music, a familiar song pulling you into dancing, laughter breaking through your usual guard. It was good. Simple. Fun.
Until your gaze snagged on him.
Todd stood near the doorway, red cup dangling from his hand, posture loose in that calculated way he had. The memory slammed into you quick and unbidden — the press of his hips under yours, his hand fisted in lace, the words he’d breathed against your skin: what are we doing?
Your throat tightened. You forced your eyes back to your friends.
Except then he was there, cutting into your circle like he owned it.
“Well, look at that,” Todd drawled, grin already in place. His eyes slid deliberately to you. “Didn’t think you knew how to have fun. Guess you’re not as stuck-up as you look.”
Your friends howled, leaning into one another, delighted. You tilted your head, a smirk creeping in slowly, deliberate and sharp. “I’ll admit it—you nearly managed to walk in without being obnoxious.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest, but the smirk never wavered. “And here I was trying to compliment you.”
Before you could cut him down again, one of your friends leaned closer, liquid courage bright in her eyes. “Todd, she’s not the only one who looks good tonight.” She gave a little grin, biting the rim of her cup. “I wouldn’t mind if you came around more often.”
The laugh that bubbled from the group stung in your chest. You buried it fast, schooling your face into something dismissive, sipping your drink as if it didn’t matter.
Todd’s grin sharpened. He knew. He knew.
“Careful,” he said smoothly, eyes darting back to you before settling on your friend. “You say things like that, I might start thinking you mean it.”
Your stomach twisted. Not with jealousy — you wouldn’t call it that, couldn’t — but with irritation hot enough to burn. At him. At her. At yourself, for caring at all.
Your friend made a show of sighing dramatically, and your other friends laughed, fanning the flames, nudging her shoulders.
You waved him off with deliberate disgust, flicking your wrist. “God, spare us.”
He leaned back on his heels, smirk lazy, and it was like the two of you were speaking another language in front of everyone. “Tragic,” he said, voice pitched just for you. “Guess I’ll have to find someone else who appreciates me.”
Your friends laughed louder, your friend pouted theatrically, and you kept your expression sharp and cool, even as the heat in your stomach refused to fade.
The moment passed. The music pressed back in, conversations picking up again, the party carrying itself forward. You forced yourself to laugh along, even danced when another song hit. For a while, it worked.
But then — the ripple.
It started in whispers, easy to miss over the music. Someone leaning too close, murmuring sharp words. A pair of girls slipping quickly upstairs, tight in the shoulders. Laughter shifted into uneasy glances.
You frowned, pausing mid-sip. “What’s going on?” you asked, but no one answered directly.
The whispers built, passing from group to group, until you caught a thread clear enough to understand: one of Todd’s housemates. A girl from another sorority. Something upstairs.
The sweetness in your drink soured on your tongue. You set it down, your pulse suddenly loud in your ears.
The music kept going, but the atmosphere shifted — joy tilting into unease, like a party gone stale in an instant.
And then — the sound that cut through it all.
Todd’s voice, sharp and furious, crashed over the crowd.
The bass still thumped, laughter and chatter still rolled, but the edges of the night were fraying. Uneasy whispers darted faster now, cutting through the haze of alcohol and music. You caught another clear fragment — “upstairs,” “his house,” “she said no” — and your chest tightened.
Then Todd’s voice cracked across the room like a whip.
“EVERYBODY OUT!”
The music kept playing, but it didn’t matter — his shout drowned it out, raw and furious in a way you’d never heard. He wasn’t smirking, wasn’t posturing. His face was thunder, his voice fire.
“I SAID OUT!”
The living room froze, laughter dying sharp in throats. Cups hovered midair. Then a rush of motion — bodies stumbling toward the door, confusion mounting.
Todd’s frat brothers scattered, panic flashing across their faces. Two bolted for the stairs, others ran from room to room, yelling half-formed excuses, trying to contain whatever had detonated upstairs.
“Shut it down!” one barked. “Turn the music off—fuck, turn it off!”
The music cut with a harsh click, leaving only the sound of voices overlapping, chairs scraping, the slam of the front door as people poured out. The air felt electric, jagged with tension.
And there was Todd, standing at the center of it all, chest heaving, jaw locked tight. His eyes cut across the room, daring anyone to question him. No one did.
“Party’s over!” he roared again, voice cracking with something deeper this time — rage, fear, desperation all tangled into one. “Get the fuck out of my house!”
And they listened.
The crowd broke apart like water, rushing toward the exits, laughter replaced with nervous chatter, with the occasional sharp voice asking what happened? Nobody stayed long enough to find out.
Around you, your friends shifted uneasily. One gave a half-hearted laugh, another mumbled about needing to go, and before you could say a word, they slipped into the current of people flowing out the door, leaving you rooted in place.
You couldn’t look away from him.
Todd’s mask was gone. No grin, no lazy arrogance — just exhaustion and fury, the weight of a house, a name, an entire brotherhood pressing down on his shoulders. For a moment, he looked older, sharper. Broken in a way you weren’t supposed to see.
And then, as the room emptied, he disappeared. One second at the center of the storm, the next gone, swallowed by the darkened hallway at the back of the house.
You stayed standing in the wreckage, chest tight, the sound of doors slamming and footsteps fading into the night.
The house felt hollow once the crowd thinned. Music silenced, chatter gone, only the stray clink of bottles against countertops and the muffled slam of a door upstairs breaking through the quiet. A sticky mix of spilled beer and sweat hung in the air.
You hesitated at first, still near the living room, hands wrapped tight around your empty cup like it was an anchor. You could leave. Slip out into the night with everyone else, let this storm settle without you. That would be the smart thing. The safe thing.
But you found yourself moving anyway.
Down the hallway, past discarded jackets and forgotten shoes, past a door that swung open to reveal two frat brothers in whispered argument before it snapped shut again. Your heels stuck faintly to the floor as you walked, each step carrying you deeper into the house.
You found him outside.
The back porch light was dim, casting long shadows across the wooden steps where Todd sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The noise from inside barely reached out here, just the occasional muffled voice, but mostly there was quiet.
For a moment, you almost didn’t recognize him.
He wasn’t performing. No easy grin. No sharp-eyed smirk. Just a man sitting in the dark, shoulders heavy, the weight of something invisible bowing him down.
You stood in the doorway longer than you meant to, hand curled around the frame, unsure if you should intrude. He must’ve heard you, because his head lifted slightly, eyes catching the weak light.
“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” His voice was low, rough, not cutting but tired. “I don’t need you hanging around. Pretty sure you don’t want to be here either.”
The sting of his dismissal should’ve been enough to push you back inside. But the words slid right out of your mouth before you could stop them.
“Yeah? I never want you anywhere, but you’re always still there.”
His gaze lingered, then—unexpectedly—he let out a dry, humorless chuckle. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t sharp. It was almost… sad.
Silence stretched between you. The kind that settled heavy instead of awkward, the kind you didn’t know what to do with.
Finally, he exhaled, the sound shaky around the edges.
“You don’t get it,” he muttered, leaning back on his hands. His eyes drifted out over the dark yard, away from you. “Everything they do? It’s on me. Every screw-up, every fight, every party that goes too far. It’s all mine to carry. Doesn’t matter if I was in the room or not. It’s my name. My house. My responsibility.”
His jaw flexed, a shadow crossing his face as he added, quieter:
“And when it goes bad… it always goes bad on me.”
You didn’t know what to say. Words pressed at the back of your throat but stuck there, useless. So you didn’t speak. You just stepped forward, lowering yourself onto the step a few feet away from him. Not touching, not even looking directly at him—just there.
The silence thickened again, but this time it wasn’t empty. It was shared.
He didn’t thank you. You didn’t tell him it’d be fine. Neither of you moved.
But the crack was there now.
The mask you’d thought was unshakable had slipped, and you couldn’t unsee it.
---
The council room smelled faintly of stale coffee and polished wood, chairs arranged around the long table like they’d been waiting for hours. You slid into your seat, straightening your blouse, smoothing the crease of your skirt. Two weeks to Greek Week, and everyone looked just as exhausted as you felt.
Todd was already there, leaning back in his chair with that familiar crooked grin, eyes scanning the agenda in front of him. He caught your gaze almost immediately, and for a split second, you thought he’d flash that smirk directly at you, but he held it, just a tilt of the corner of his mouth, like a challenge.
The meeting started slowly, the other presidents taking turns rattling off final plans. Budgets, event orders, security, music — every detail methodically ticked off. You stayed sharp, responding clearly when asked, offering your own suggestions where needed. Todd chimed in occasionally, usually leaning on humor to soften critique, but you noticed the slight tension in the way he tapped his pen, the way his eyes flicked toward the room’s clock more than once.
He was back to his usual confident persona, but you could feel it — the cracks under the surface, the weariness he’d been hiding since the party. His shoulders stiffened when someone suggested changing a venue; his grin faltered when another president challenged the schedule. For anyone else, it would have been unnoticeable, but you’d seen the weight he carried before.
By the time the meeting drew toward the end, almost everyone was on the same page. Todd leaned over his papers, scribbling a few notes, his expression unreadable, and you quietly gathered your things.
You left first, stepping out into the brisk evening air, the hum of campus life wrapping around you. The tension of the meeting clung to your shoulders like a weight, but you forced yourself to inhale and shake it off.
Behind you, the conference room remained quiet except for the scratch of his pen on paper. Todd lingered, studying the itinerary as if it held some hidden code only he could decipher. You didn’t see him, but you knew he was still there.
You stopped on the sidewalk to text a friend, thumbs moving almost unconsciously. A moment later, you sensed movement beside you.
“I can’t believe you think this schedule makes sense,” a voice murmured.
You looked up, expecting him to be on a call. Instead, Todd was standing there, hands in his pockets, head cocked slightly, looking at you as if you’d grown three heads.
“…What?” you asked, frowning.
He shrugged, expression light, teasing — but there was a glint behind his eyes that didn’t fit the casualness. “Thought I’d check if you were keeping up with the real chaos,” he said casually.
You stared, blinking. “Are… are you on the phone?”
“Nope,” he said, grin widening. “All yours.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and glanced at him again, still baffled. He just tilted his head, hands slipping deeper into his pockets, silent except for that infuriating smirk.
For a moment, you fell into step beside him, neither of you speaking. The air between you was a delicate tension — unacknowledged, but heavy. Your mind briefly drifted back to the car, to the evening that still throbbed under your skin, and then you shook it off, stepping into the rhythm of walking side by side.
Half an hour of silence passed comfortably as you walked without realizing where you were headed. By the time you looked up, the familiar facade of his frat house loomed ahead.
“…How did we end up here?” you asked, frowning.
Todd’s grin stretched, smug and self-satisfied. “Oh, you followed me like the lost puppy you are.”
You bristled immediately, stepping back, feeling the sting of offense. “Excuse me?”
He raised his hands in mock surrender, leaning slightly back. “Relax. I’m kidding.”
You stormed a few steps forward, heels clicking against the pavement. “I don’t have time for your jokes—”
“Wait,” he said quickly, voice firm but not harsh. “I’m sorry. Don’t walk away.”
You glanced over your shoulder, eyes narrowed, but something in the vulnerability behind his smirk made you hesitate. He stepped closer, the quiet tension between you deepening, yet still charged with that teasing edge.
“I… I need your help with some Greek Week stuff,” he admitted, softer this time, voice almost pleading beneath the arrogance.
Despite yourself, you exhaled and nodded. “Fine,” you muttered.
The air between you stayed tight, stretched thin, as you weighed whether to leave him standing there with his apology or give in to the softer edge in his voice. You finally exhaled through your nose, shoulders loosening just enough.
“I’ve got all the literature at my place,” you said, tone clipped, like you had to convince yourself as much as him. “We’ll just… go there. Easier.”
Todd’s smirk faltered, then reshaped itself into something quieter—half smug, half relief. “Lead the way, sweetheart.”
The two of you walked side by side down the dim campus sidewalks. Evening settled in, the streetlamps spilling yellow pools of light over the concrete, making the silence between you feel heavier than words. He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at you once or twice, but you didn’t bite. Neither of you needed to fill the quiet; it was thick enough.
Your sorority house was alive when you arrived, a low hum of voices drifting from the common areas, laughter echoing faintly from somewhere down the hall. No one paid much attention as you pushed open the door and held it just long enough for him to slip in behind you. A couple of sisters glanced up, then immediately turned back to their phones or conversations, too distracted to care who you brought in.
You led him up the stairs, the creak of each step far louder than usual. The closer you got to your room, the more aware you became of his presence at your back—the warmth of him, the sound of his boots against the wood, the way he didn’t say a single word.
Inside your room, you set your bag down, flipping on the lamp by your desk. The soft golden glow lit up the walls, familiar and safe, though the energy in the air shifted sharply with him in your space.
Todd stepped in slowly, gaze scanning the room like he was cataloging everything about it—your books, the blanket folded on the chair, the neat stack of Greek Week folders by your desk. He gave a low hum, like he was trying not to smile.
“You gonna give me the grand tour, or are we straight to business?” he teased lightly, but it didn’t carry the usual bite.
You ignored him, moving to your desk and pulling the folders into a pile. “Sit. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter.”
He chuckled under his breath but obeyed, lowering himself into the chair by the desk, arms folded loosely across his chest. You spread papers out, flipping through them quickly, your voice steady as you started to talk him through deadlines and assignments.
It wasn’t until you looked up mid-sentence that you realized he wasn’t listening. Not even close.
His eyes weren’t on the papers—they were on you.
His gaze lingered, steady enough that it made the hair on the back of your neck rise. You faltered mid-word, flipping through the folder in your hands even though you’d already lost your place.
“…You’re not paying attention,” you muttered, refusing to look at him.
“Not to the papers, no.” His voice was quiet, almost careful, but that ever-present smirk tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth.
You finally met his eyes, intending to glare, but the look on his face stopped you. He wasn’t mocking you, wasn’t wearing that cocky armor he loved to hide behind. He just stared, caught in something unspoken, like the room had gone still around the two of you.
Your throat tightened. You set the folder back on the desk with more force than necessary, stepping closer, driven by something you couldn’t quite name. His shoulders tensed as you approached, though he didn’t move.
“Then what are you paying attention to?” you asked softly.
He froze, lips parting just slightly, but he didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.
The air thickened, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. For a heartbeat, you hesitated—then you knelt and reached out, your fingers brushing the hem of his shirt before sliding underneath. His skin was warm, firm beneath your palms, and his breath hitched as you smoothed your hands higher along his torso.
Todd didn’t move at first. He just sat there, caught somewhere between shock and surrender, until you tugged at the fabric like you meant to strip away the last of his defenses. That broke him.
In a quick, fluid motion, he stood, pulling his shirt off over his head, tossing it to the floor without care. You stood back up and mirrored him, slipping out of your blazer, then the blouse underneath, until the cool air brushed against your bare skin. His eyes darkened as they trailed down your body, not with the hunger of before, but with something softer, slower, far more dangerous.
The space between you collapsed when you grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled his mouth to yours. The kiss was hot, clumsy at first, both of you hungry but trying not to rush, trying to drag this out as though you both knew what it meant.
He stumbled forward, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You let yourself fall, the mattress dipping beneath you, and he followed, bracing himself over you as the kisses deepened.
Your hands fumbled at his jeans, tugging impatiently at the button, and he answered in kind, undoing yours with steady fingers. You laughed breathlessly against his mouth, helping him shove both pairs of pants down and off, the urgency less about lust and more about closing the distance that had been strung so tight for so long.
When he hooked his fingers into your underwear and slid them down, the teasing smirk was gone. He looked at you for just a moment, like asking permission without saying a word, and when you didn’t stop him, he lowered himself, lips pressing against your thigh before moving inward.
Your head tipped back, a soft moan slipping out before you could stop it, your hands threading into his hair instinctively. His tongue moved slow, deliberate, savoring every reaction, every twitch of your hips. It was nothing like before—no rush, no game, just him giving himself over to this moment.
When his lips left you, you nearly whimpered at the loss, but then his thumb slid inside, gentle but firm, and the sound that escaped you was sharper. You clamped a hand over your mouth, muffling yourself, heat flooding your cheeks.
Todd lifted his head, grinning faintly, and crawled back up your body, hovering over you until his mouth found yours again. His kiss was soft, lingering, his thumb slipping free as his weight pressed you deeper into the mattress.
Your chest rose and fell against his, and you whispered his name like you hadn’t meant to let it slip. The sound stilled him, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. He searched your face for a long moment, eyes flicking over every line as though making sure you were still there, still willing, still his to hold.
His hesitation held, his weight hovering just enough that you could feel the tremor in his arms. “Are you sure?” he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.
The question slipped past his usual arrogance, past the walls he carried. It was raw, unpolished. It was Todd, bare in a way you’d never seen him before.
You cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, and nodded. “Yes.”
That was all it took. He kissed you again, slower this time, as if sealing your answer into him. His hand drifted down, steadying at your hip, and then you felt the heat of him pressing at your entrance. He paused, searching your face one last time, and when you didn’t pull away, he eased forward.
The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your throat. He froze instantly, jaw tight, eyes darting back to yours as if afraid he’d pushed too far. You tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled him down to you, your lips brushing against his ear.
“Don’t stop.”
His breath left him in a shudder as he pressed deeper, inch by slow inch, until he was fully seated inside you. The closeness stole your breath—his chest against yours, his hands framing your face, the warmth of his body sinking into you until there was no space left.
For a moment, neither of you moved. You just held onto each other, his forehead pressed to yours, your nails biting lightly into his shoulders as you adjusted around him. When you finally shifted your hips, inviting him, he groaned low in his throat and began to move.
The pace was nothing like before. No reckless rhythm, no frantic push for release. He thrust slow, steady, every stroke measured, his lips finding yours again and again between broken breaths. You moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively as though to keep him there.
He murmured your name against your lips like it was the only tether he had. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pinning them above your head while his mouth trailed down your neck. He lingered there, sucking gently at your skin until you writhed beneath him, whispering for more.
“Please, Todd…” The words escaped in a trembling plea.
He answered not with words, but with a deeper thrust that pulled a cry from your lips. He adjusted you carefully, sliding a pillow under your hips, coaxing more pleasure from the angle. His other hand cupped your cheek, grounding you as he moved, the look in his eyes more intimate than anything he’d ever said aloud.
Your breath came fast, your body arching into his. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, soft and desperate, matched only by the ragged rhythm of his breathing. When you bucked your hips toward him, his jaw tightened, the effort to hold back plain on his face.
You clung to him, your moans muffled against his shoulder, and begged again. “Don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”
“I won’t,” he groaned, thrusting harder now, chasing the shudder that wracked your body as you trembled around him.
The release crashed through you suddenly, white-hot, stealing your breath as your nails dug into his back. He gasped at the feel of you tightening around him, his rhythm faltering before he pushed harder, faster, chasing his own edge.
“God—” The word tore from his throat as he spilled into you, his hips stuttering against yours, his head burying into your neck as he groaned your name.
For a long time, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, chest heaving, sweat beading along his temple. Your hand found his hair again, holding him close, grounding him as the weight of what had just happened settled heavy and warm between you.
When he finally pulled back, his face hovered just above yours, his eyes glassy, searching. You lifted your head to kiss him—soft, lingering, not rushed or needy, but enough to say what neither of you had dared voice.
He sighed into your mouth, and you laughed quietly against his lips, the sound breaking the tension. He smiled faintly, brushing his nose against yours, before lowering himself beside you.
The air in the room was thick with heat, with the ache of bodies worn through, but you didn’t move. Instead, you curled closer into him, and when his arm wrapped around you, it felt like something that had been waiting to happen all along.
The quiet stretched, comfortable now, broken only by the sound of your breaths syncing against one another. You sat up just enough to tug the nearest shirt off the floor—his—and slipped it over your head, the fabric hanging loose against your skin. Your underwear lay nearby, and you gathered those too, slipping them back on as you eased back down into the bed.
Todd shifted, watching you with that unreadable gaze, before sitting up long enough to drag his boxer briefs back on. Then he moved again, deliberately, slipping down onto the mattress beside you. His arm looped naturally around your waist as he drew you in, his chest pressed against your back, his heat wrapping over you like a blanket.
You sighed, the tension finally draining out of your body. “You’re in the way,” you muttered softly, though your hand was already reaching back, searching for him.
He only smiled, his voice a low rumble against the crown of your head. “This is my side. Closest to the door.”
The statement was casual, offhand, almost—but there was something protective in it too. Something that made your chest ache. You didn’t answer, not out loud, just let your fingers find his. He caught them easily, twining his hand with yours, and you tugged it closer, pressing it to your chest where your heart still beat fast from everything you’d just shared.
The world outside your room went quiet. You could still hear faint laughter and footsteps down the hall, but it felt far away, unimportant. What mattered was the steady rise and fall of his chest at your back, the brush of his breath against your hair, and the solid weight of his hand in yours.
Little by little, your eyelids grew heavier. His grip stayed firm, steady, not letting go, as if this—this closeness, this quiet—was something he wasn’t willing to risk losing.
You drifted like that, the two of you wound tight together, until the pull of sleep finally closed over you both.
Early morning light slipped through the thin curtains, the kind that turned everything in your room hazy and soft. The air was still, the quiet only broken by Todd’s even breaths against the back of your neck, his arm heavy and loose around your waist. You hadn’t moved since drifting off, both of you tangled up the way you fell asleep—his body curved to yours, your fingers still threaded with his against your chest like you were keeping him there.
The knock was so light at first you thought you had dreamed it. Then your door creaked, hinges groaning softly, and a crack of hallway light broke into the room.
“Hey, did you—”
Your sister’s voice cut itself off mid-sentence. You shifted just enough to see her pause in the doorway, eyes flicking to the bed. All she saw was the shape of a man’s back—Todd’s broad shoulders bare, his arm draped over you like it belonged there. She blinked once, realization dawning too slowly, then blurted a startled, panicked, “Oh! Sorry!” before slamming the door shut again.
You froze, heat rushing into your face.
But Todd didn’t stiffen. He half-laughed into your hair, the sound low and still edged with sleep, and murmured, “Guess that’s my cue to climb out the window.”
You turned your head just enough to glance back at him, lips twitching. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”
His mouth brushed a smile against your temple. “Bossy.”
“Mm,” you hummed, burrowing back against his chest, tugging his arm tighter around you until you were cocooned again. The moment could’ve turned awkward—should’ve, probably—but instead it folded inward, softened. He kissed the side of your head like it was the easiest thing in the world, and the quiet stretched comfortably between you.
Neither of you moved for a long while. Time slowed in that warm, secret bubble, until you finally sighed and shifted, reality nudging its way back in. Todd groaned softly, rolling onto his back with a stretch, his arm falling away reluctantly. You sat up with him, tugging the hem of his shirt lower towards your thighs. His eyes flicked to it, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
“Pretty sure that’s mine,” he drawled, voice rough with sleep.
You arched a brow but didn’t move, hugging the fabric closer. “Maybe. But it looks better on me.”
He laughed under his breath, leaning over to press a kiss to your temple before gently tugging at the hem. “True, but I kind of need it back if I don’t want to walk out half-dressed.”
Reluctantly, you peeled it off and tossed it at him, slipping into your own clothes, cute but comfortable, while he pulled his shirt on again, slightly wrinkled but passable.
The air felt lighter, but not careless. He was watching you as he tugged his shirt on, eyes lingering longer than they should, quiet in a way you weren’t used to from him. Finally, he exhaled and broke it.
“You know if word gets around…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. Not panicked, not dramatic—just steady, serious. “It’ll be a mess.”
You glanced at him over your shoulder, lips curving faintly. “Relax. My sisters will gossip to each other, sure, but it won’t go farther than that."
He huffed a soft laugh, like he wanted to believe you, and shook his head. “You sound awful sure.”
“I am.” You closed the space between you, brushing against him as you passed, the deliberate lightness in your tone softening the weight of his words.
For a second, his hand caught your wrist before he let it go. He looked at you differently then, quieter, like the edge between you had shifted for good.
The next hour stretched lazily, neither of you in a hurry to break the quiet. You’d both already dressed—him back in the clothes from the night before, you in a casual top and soft jeans that felt more like yourself than the blazer from the meeting. Still, neither of you seemed eager to leave.
You sat cross-legged on your bed while Todd leaned against the edge of your desk chair, one knee bent, his backpack at his feet. Sometimes the talk was about Greek Week—details you hadn’t ironed out, places where your houses overlapped or clashed. Other times it drifted into nothing, easy silences that felt strange only because they weren’t strained.
At one point, you mentioned grabbing lunch later. He raised a brow, smirk tugging. “Might be too soon for me to be seen feeding you in public,” he teased, though there wasn’t much bite behind it.
“Then coffee first,” you countered, smiling faintly. “Play it by ear after that.”
His eyes softened in a way you didn’t want to think about too hard, and he nodded. “Coffee works.”
That small agreement hung between you, delicate and grounding.
When you finally started gathering your things, the spell broke a little. You reached for your bag and glanced at him. “Can I see what you’ve written down for Greek Week? I want to compare.”
“Yeah, hold on.” Todd bent over his bag, rummaging. He pulled out a folder, but as he shifted the rest of his things, something small and dark slipped free and landed on the floor between you.
Lace.
Your stomach dropped before your brain caught up—until recognition flashed sharp and hot. They weren’t just any underwear. They were yours. The pair he’d tugged off in the garage.
“Are those…” You started slowly, voice thinner than you meant. “Are those mine?”
Todd froze for half a second, eyes flicking from the fabric to you. Then his mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite sheepish. “Technically,” he drawled, reaching down to scoop them up, “they’re mine now.”
You stared at him, caught between outrage and disbelief, waiting for the punchline. But he didn’t give one. Instead, he fidgeted, running the lace through his fingers, not looking at you directly.
“…Why do you keep them with you like that?” you asked finally.
He shifted, jaw tight, and then admitted low, “I liked having something that reminded me of you.”
The confession landed heavier than you expected. You fought the smile creeping up, trying to keep your expression flat. “That’s weird,” you told him, the words soft, not harsh.
“I know.” His hand twitched as if to hold them out to you. “Do you want them back?”
You watched him a moment longer, then shook your head, reaching to push his hand closed around them. “Keep them,” you said quietly. “If they really mean that much.”
His eyes flicked up, searching yours for a beat. Then he nodded once and tucked them back into his bag with care, sliding the folder on top before holding it out to you. You took it, sliding it into your own bag without a word.
When you finally picked up your things and turned to him, nerves fluttered sharply in your chest. Walking out of your sorority house with Todd would be its own risk. But there he was, slipping his backpack over his shoulder with ease, watching you like he already knew you weren’t going to back out.
“…Ready to get coffee?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended.
He gave a small, certain nod, then leaned close enough to brush his lips against your cheek. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Outside, the morning air was brisk, the sun creeping higher. You walked side by side, closer than you’d ever allowed before. At the crosswalk, your hand lifted without thought, catching his arm to steady yourself as you stepped off the curb. You let go once you reached the other side, but the warmth lingered.
At the café, Todd held the door open for you, the kind of casual courtesy that made your chest ache. You ordered together, then waited in silence, standing close enough that your shoulders brushed. Neither of you spoke until you left the shop with cups in hand.
“So,” he asked lightly, “where do you want to meet later?”
“The library,” you said without hesitation. “I’ve got an exam coming up. We can kill two birds.”
He smiled, tilting his head. “Nerd.” But his voice carried nothing but fondness. He nodded in agreement.
Before you could answer, he caught you by the back of the neck, pulling you in. The kiss was soft, deliberate—more tender than any of the heat you’d shared before. You felt yourself smiling against him, your coffee warm in one hand, his other hand anchoring you.
When you finally pulled back, you hesitated, then leaned forward for one quick peck on his lips. He looked at you, surprised but not smug, and you turned away before you could second-guess yourself.
Halfway across the quad, you glanced back. He was still standing there, coffee in hand, watching you like he hadn’t decided if this was real yet. You caught his eye, and only then did he turn toward his own class.
Your heart was full, beating too fast, carrying the dizzy thrill of possibility. Whatever this was with Todd—it wasn’t reckless anymore.
holy moly guacamole macaroni. the world building in this is so good. the way their chemistry maintains its spark the entire fic is downright amazing. this is my first fic after a short reading break and it's like i just breathed fresh air again.
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I just heard the phrase, “If you wouldn’t trust their advice, don’t trust their criticism” for the first time and I don’t think I’ve ever needed to hear anything more
people can’t be immortal. so in order to be immortal you can’t be a person anymore. you have to be distilled. stripped of everything. till you come out the other side as an abstract concept.
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You can go to bed at noon. You can have ravioli for breakfast and cheerios for dinner. As long as you're awake, washed, dressed, and in the place you need to be when you need to be there (and I mean *need*, like a job or a social obligation, not just aherening to cultural expectations) it doesn't matter what the rest of your schedule looks like.
List of various terms of endearment that can be used in different languages. A lot of them are gender neutral.
English
Dear
Pet
Baby
Babe
Honey
Darling
My love
Sunshine
Sweetheart
Sweet cheeks
Prince/Princess
Arabic
Habibi حبيبي (m) (my love)
Ya hayati يا حياتي (my life)
Ya qalbi يا قلبي (my heart)
Ya ruhi يا روحي (my soul)
Hubbi/hobbi حبي (my love)
German
Liebling (beloved/favourite)
Schatz (treasure, I would say the most common one between established couples)
Liebes (loved one) (f, I don't find it that romantic)
Liebster (m) (loved one, bit old-fashioned)
Liebste (f) (loved one, bit old-fashioned)
Hase / Hasi (bunny)
Maus (mouse)
Spatz (sparrow)
Bär / Bärchen (bear)
Engel / Engelchen (angel)
Prinzessin (f) (princess)
Sonnenschein (sunshine)
Kleines (f) (little one, can be used in a cute way for women, but can also sound degrading or offensive)
French
Mon amour (my love)
Mon cœur (my heart)
Chéri (m) / Chérie (f) (darling)
Chou (used like "honey", but directly translates to cabbage)
Italian
Tesoro (treasure)
Amore mio (my love)
Cuore (heart)
Vita mia (my life)
Cucciola (puppy/cub) (mostly used for women, but you could say "cucciolo" for men)
Piccola (little one) (mostly for women, "piccolo" would be the male version)
Cara/caro (dear) (now mostly used by grandmas for grandkids but perfect for couples in the past or old couples nowadays
Bimba (f) (child)
Patata/patatina (potato/little potato) (again mostly women when used romantically, "patato/patatino" for men, but they can also be used for pets, babies, your kids or anyone that you find cute)
Tata/tato (short version of papata/patato)
Polpetta/polpettina (meatball/little meatball) (very uncommon, but I've heard it used for girls)
Topolina (little mouse) (very uncommon, but could be used for girls)
Spanish
Cariño (darling)
Bebé (baby)
Corazón (heart)
Mi amor (my love)
Mi vida (my life)
Cielo (sky)
Amor (love)
Romanian
Iubi (Sweet heart/darling)
Iubirea mea (my love)
Draga mea (f) / Dragul meu (m) (my dear)
Dulceața mea (jam/honey)
Hungarian
Kedvesem (my dear)
Szerelmem (my love)
Drága (precious)
Édesem (my sweetie)
Kicsim (my little one)
Babám (my baby)
Kincsem (my treasure)
Turkish
Aşkım (my loved one)
Canım (my love/soul)
Hayatım (my life)
Bebeğim (my baby)
Kocacığım/karıcığım
(my husband/my wife, but in a more endearing way, you can say it to a person you're not married yet but thinking about marrying)
Her şeyim (my everything)
Yaşama sebebim (my reason to live)
Ceylanım (My gazelle, it's a gorgeous creature like cmon)
Güzel gözlüm (My lover with beautiful eyes)
Nazlı yarim (My coy lover)
Kalbimin sahibi (the owner of my heart)
Güzelim/yakışıklım (my beautiful/my handsome)
Kediciğim (my kitty/kitten)
Biriciğim/bi'tanem (my one and only)
Çiçeğim (my flower)
Balım (my honey) (can also say "bal dudaklım (my lover with honey lips)" if you feeling on fire)
Evimin direği (literally meaning "the post of my house," if you say this to a person (usually your husband), you mean to say that he keeps your household/family up, whether financially or with emotional maturity)
Dutch
Schatje (treasure)
Liefje (loved one)
Lieverd (loved one)
Lieveling (loved one)
Hebrew
Chaim sheli חיים שלי (my life)
Neshama sheli נשמה שלי (my soul)
Lev sheli לב שלי (my heart)
Welsh
Cariad (love)
Hindi
Meri jaan मेरी जान (f) (my life)
Mera jaan (m/n) (my life)
Rani रानी (f) (queen)
Malay
Sayang (dear/darling)
Afrikaans
Lief (love)
Liefie (lovey)
Farsi
Joon/Jaan جان (life)
Azizam عزیزم (my dear)
Asalam عسلم (my honey)
Golam گلم (flower)
Urdu
Meri jaan میری جان (my life)
Pyaari پیاری (sweetheart)
Shahzadi شہزادی (f) (princess)
Polish
Kochanie (my beloved)
Myszko (f) (little mouse for women romantic, or for young daughters)
Misiu (m) (diminutive bear, romantic for men)
Misiaczku (another form of the above but more intersex)
Słoneczko (diminutive for sun, can be for children but also romantic for women)
Pączusiu (diminutive doughnut, romantic partner)
Bąbelku (bubble diminutive for young children, toddlers or infants)
Duszko moja (very outdated, meaning my soul, for women)
Serce moje (also old school, meaning my heart, unisex)
Gwiazdeczko (diminutive star, for girls and romantic female partner)
Kotek/Kotku (kitten, unisex)
Mała (literally: little (f), for women, can be romantic but also offensive if used by strangers)
skarbie (my treasure, unisex)
rybciu (diminutive for fish, little fish, for women)
żabko (diminutive for frog, little frog, for women)
milyj (m) + milaya (f) / милый + милая (dear but in more informal way)
kotik / котик (kitty) malysh / малыш (baby)
zajchik (m) + zajka (f) / зайчик + зайка (bunny)
ptenchik / птенчик (little bird, hatchling)
rybka moya (f) / рыбка моя (my fish)
Portuguese
Meu querido (m)/ minha querida (f) (my darling)
Meu amor (my love)
Princesa (f) (princess)
Meu docinho (my sweetheart)
Coração (heart)
Amado (m)/Amada (f) (my love)
Meu (m)/ minha (f) mais que tudo (my above overall) Meu tesouro (my treasure)
Paixão (passion)
Meu bem/ meu benzinho (my goodness)
Meu doce/meu docinho (my sweet/ my little sweet)
Brazilian Portuguese
Amor (love)
Querido (m) / Querida (f) (darling)
Bebê (baby)
Meu bem (untraslatable; something between "my dear" and "my treasure")
Meu docinho de coco (my coconut candy - really old slang, nowadays used only for fun)
Patroa (f) (it means a female boss; not ironic not aggressive, but used by men to describe their wives affectionately, eg. "I can't go today, my patroa is waiting for me at home")
Gato/gatinho (m) / gata/gatinha (f) (cat/little cat; if a person is pretty, they are called a "cat")
Minha vida (my life)
Meu xodó (my crush)
Bebê (baby)
Docinho (sweetie)
Chuchu (honey)
Fofura (cutie)
Querida (dear)
Lindinha (beautiful/cutie)
Filipino (from various local languages, all gender neutral)
Mahal, sinta (tagalog) (love)
alternatively add "ko" or "aking" to turn it into "my love" (e.g. mahal ko, sinta ko; aking mahal, aking sinta) with "aking" being used more often when talking about the one you love to a 3rd party;
or turn it into a verb (e.g. aking minamahal, kasintahan) to make it "lover"
Paraluman, irog, liyag, giliw (tagalog) (darling) these are older terms though, you won't hear or see them being used unless you're lovers with someone 🌟Extra🌟
Tangi (tagalog) (only one)
Tinatangi (tagalog) (the one i hold dear/the only one for me)
Tinadhana - fated (from the root word "tadhana" meaning fate, which in and of itself should also be a term of endearment and I stand by that)
Hinigugma (bisaya) (beloved) (very old)
Palangga/pangga/langga or "ga" for short and sometimes pagingging (ilonggo) (love) (can also be used platonically or between family members)
Kalasahan (tausug) (beloved) (this is pronounced with an emphasis in the SA syllable (as in kalaSAhan) instead of the LA like in the tagalog word LAsa (which means taste)
Bebe, bebe ko, beh, bhe, bhie, bih (filipino slang) (babe)
Lablabs (filipino slang) (literally "love-love" in a heavy filipino accent)
Slovak
Zlato / zlatko (gold)
Láska (love)
Miláčik (bit cheesy, but means my lovely)
Indonesian
Sayang (to love/love, can be used as 'honey', doesn't have to be romantic)
Cintaku (my love, mostly used romantically)
Greek
Αγάπη /Αγάπη μου (love /my love) (the first can also be used among friends, usually between women, but both are very often used in romantic relationships)
Ψυχή μου (my soul) (mostly romantic but can be used by a parent to their kid)
Swedish
Sötnos (cute nose)
Älskling (darling)
Let me know more terms of endearment in your languages! And please correct me if I'm wrong somewhere.
Please note that they are not all romantic. You can ask in the replies, so a native speaker can answer if it's appropiate for the type of relationship you want your characters to have.
