the last living boy in nyc lawschool!dickgraysonXfem!reader
૮ ․ ․ ྀིა 28k words —very long oneshot! set in 2000 New York, Dick Grayson is in law school and reader works at a daycare with jason. This is AU. porn with lotssss of plot , rough sex daddy kink, p in v , anal veryyyy long read , this is for a mature audience , please read with caution ! warning: added characters and personalities, if you want to skip to the smut..scroll to (𝜗ৎ) extra notes: read this as if you’re watching a early 2000s rom-com! i actually got so inspired by them writing this!
The building smelled like cinnamon and Crayola markers.
that specific combination of craft supplies and institutional optimism that only existed in well-funded nonprofit spaces where grant money met good intentions. Dick Grayson stood in the doorway of the Happy Hearts Community Daycare Center, briefcase in hand, wool overcoat still buttoned against the October wind that had followed him up three flights of stairs in a walkup that had been recently renovated, the kind of renovation that meant exposed brick and new windows and rent that was probably triple what it used to be. The lights overhead were warm, almost golden, the kind of lighting that cost extra but made everyone look like they were starring in their own indie film.
Through the window, Dick could see the street below. A hot dog cart on the corner, the vendor reading a Post with the headline about the Yankees in thick black letters. A woman in sweatpants walking three tiny dogs, her Razr phone pressed to her ear. A kid on a skateboard wearing jeans so baggy they defied physics. The whole city felt like it was holding its breath between centuries, between the old New York of Scorsese films and Springsteen songs and whatever came next, this new thing that smelled like money and ambition and the specific kind of desperation that came from watching your rent double while your paycheck stayed the same.
Dick shook the cold out of his shoulders, brushed invisible lint off his coat. The coat was long and charcoal gray, the kind of thing his mother had bought him when he got into Columbia Law because Wayne’s dressed for the job they wanted, not the job they had. His briefcase was Tumi, black leather, expensive in that quiet way that whispered instead of shouted. His shoes were Church’s oxfords that had cost more than most people’s monthly grocery budget. He looked like money. Old money.
He was supposed to meet Jason. His younger brother, the one who’d rejected every advantage their family name carried like a birthright, who’d turned down the internship at the Attorney General’s office to spend his fall semester teaching four-year-olds the alphabet and the fundamental principles of not biting each other. Their father had called it a phase. Their mother had called it character building. Dick just called it Jason being Jason, which was its own category of chaos that no amount of family money or therapy could fully explain.
The reception area was actually nice, which surprised him. The desk was real wood, not particleboard painted to look like wood. The walls were painted a soft yellow that suggested sunshine rather than institutional surrender.
There were plants, actual living plants in ceramic pots that someone clearly watered , sitting on a shelf next to children’s artwork in real frames, not just taped to the wall like an afterthought. Behind the desk sat a guy who looked like he’d gotten dressed by someone with taste and a good eye for thrift stores. Eden. Dick knew the name because Jason wouldn’t shut up about him, his “partner in crime,” his “comrade in the trenches,” all the language of warfare applied to early childhood education.
Eden wore a vintage flannel shirt over a faded Strokes t-shirt, the one from their Room on Fire tour, and his jeans were dark wash and actually fit him properly, which meant someone in this building understood that fashion was a thing that existed. His hair was artfully messy in that way that looked effortless but probably required product and time. A discman sat on the desk next to him, headphones dangling, Next to that was a coffee cup that had a heart next to his name.
“You must be the famous Dick” Eden said without looking up from his computer, an actual flat-screen monitor, relatively new, the kind that suggested this place had budget for things like technology. His voice had that specific kind of dry humor that suggested he found the world amusing in the way you found a mediocre comedy amusing: entertaining enough to pay attention to, not good enough to recommend.
“Jason’s been talking about you for weeks. Really built up the mystique. I was expecting someone shorter . More nerdy. He made you sound very..geeky. You look more like a model that decided one day they wanted to be a lawyer..Which I guess you are. So points for accuracy.”
“Thanks?” Dick said, not entirely sure if he’d been complimented or insulted or both.
“Don’t mention it,” Eden replied, finally looking up. His eyes were sharp, assessing, the kind of eyes that belonged to someone who’d figured out how to be broke and stylish simultaneously, which was its own kind of talent. “Jason’s in the back dealing with what we’re diplomatically calling ‘the great juice box incident of 2003.’ Something about sharing and communal property and a four-year-old named Marcus who’s apparently reading way too much Proudhon for his age bracket.”
“Proudhon?” Dick repeated. “The anarchist philosopher?”
“That’s the one,” Eden said cheerfully. “Jason’s been reading him theory during nap time. We’re pretty sure Marcus doesn’t understand it, but he’s started saying ‘property is theft’ whenever someone takes his toys, so we’ve created a tiny revolutionary. His parents are thrilled. By which I mean they’ve asked us to stop.”
“Absolutely not,” Eden said. “We’re doubling down. Next week we’re introducing Kropotkin. Mutual aid and all that. Really lean into it.”
Dick found himself grinning despite himself. “That seems irresponsible.”
“That seems like exactly the kind of irresponsible Jason excels at,” Eden corrected. “I’m just along for the ride. Someone has to document the collapse of civil society as we know it. Might as well be me.” He gestured vaguely to the left. “Anyway, he’s through that door. Try not to get converted to anarchism on your way. We’ve already lost three parents this month to Jason’s speeches about collective ownership of the means of production.”
Before Dick could respond, the front door swung open with a blast of cold air and the smell of cigarettes and expensive perfume. A woman walked in, mid-forties, wearing a Burberry trench coat and carrying a Fendi baguette bag that probably cost more than this entire daycare center’s monthly budget despite the recent upgrades. Her hair was that specific shade of blonde that only happened in salons that served champagne while you waited, cut in the kind of sharp bob that suggested she’d seen The Devil Wears Prada and taken notes. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor.
“I’m here for Sophia,” she announced to the room at large, not making eye contact with anyone, pulling off leather gloves one finger at a time like she was in a noir film. “Sophia Castellano. I’m her aunt. Bianca.”
Eden looked up from his computer with the expression of someone who’d been through this exact scenario before and had developed a sophisticated coping mechanism that involved internal screaming and external politeness. “Ms. Castellano. Always a pleasure. Unfortunately, you’re not on Sophia’s approved pickup list.”
“It’s Miss,” Bianca corrected sharply. “And I’m family. I shouldn’t need to be on a list to collect my own niece.”
“And yet,” Eden said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “here we are. Living in a society with rules. It’s very fascist of us, I know. Jason’s been teaching me about institutional oppression. I’m very conflicted about enforcing these policies now. But alas, here I am. Enforcing.”
Bianca’s eyes narrowed. “Are you being sarcastic with me?”
“I would never,” Eden said, hand over his heart like he was pledging allegiance. “I take my role as gatekeeper very seriously. It’s the only power I have in this world. Let me have this.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Bianca said, setting her bag down on Eden’s desk with more force than necessary. “My sister is stuck in traffic on the FDR, which is apparently what passes for infrastructure in this godforsaken city, and she asked me to pick up her daughter. So unless you want Sophia sitting here until the heat death of the universe, I suggest you make an exception.”
“I love exceptions,” Eden said thoughtfully. “Exceptions are my favorite thing. Right after rules, which I also love, because without rules there can be no exceptions. It’s very philosophical. But unfortunately, I can’t make exceptions for people who aren’t on the list without calling the parent first. It’s this whole thing. Very bureaucratic. I hate it. You hate it. We all hate it. But here we are, trapped in the machine.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Bianca observed.
“Immensely,” Eden agreed. “It’s the highlight of my day. Well, second highlight. First highlight was when Marcus called Jason a bourgeois sympathizer during circle time.”
“He’s four,” Bianca said.
“He’s very advanced,” Eden replied, and then he picked up the phone—a cordless phone, relatively new, the kind that had caller ID and everything—and started dialing. “Give me one second. I’ll call your sister. Confirm everything. Then you can take Sophia and go live your life. We’ll all get what we want. It’ll be beautiful. A triumph of communication and policy.”
Dick watched this exchange with the fascination of someone watching a performance art piece that he wasn’t entirely sure was intentional. Bianca looked like she was doing complex mathematics in her head, calculating exactly how much this guy was messing with her versus how much he actually cared about his job. She looked around the room while Eden talked to someone on the phone, and her gaze landed on Dick.
“And who are you?” she asked, her voice taking on that specific tone that suggested she was cataloging his net worth based on his coat. “The lawyer they already have on retainer?”
“Brother of an employee,” Dick said, because it was simpler than explaining. “Just visiting.”
“Slumming, more like,” Bianca said, but there was something almost amused in it now, like she recognized the game because she’d played it herself. “Let me guess. Columbia?”
“Law school, yeah,” Dick admitted.
“Of course,” she said, like she’d just won money on a bet with herself. “You’ve got that look. That earnest, idealistic, I’m-going-to-change-the-world-through-litigation look. My ex-husband had that look. Lasted about six months after he made partner at Skadden and realized that changing the world meant helping pharmaceutical companies dodge lawsuits and bury evidence about side effects.”
“That’s horrifying,” Dick said.
“That’s capitalism, honey,” Bianca replied, and then Eden was saying something about yes, that’s fine, we’ll release her to Bianca, have a great day, and Bianca was collecting her gloves and her bag and sweeping back out the door with Sophia in tow, a little girl with pigtails who waved at Eden like they were best friends.
“She’s my favorite,” Eden said once the door closed. “Comes in twice a month to make my life interesting. I appreciate the consistency.”
“Does she ever actually get on the list?” Dick asked.
“Why would she do that?” Eden replied. “Then we couldn’t have our little dance. It’s tradition at this point. She needs someone to be annoyed at. I need to feel like I have power over something. It works.”
Dick took the opportunity to move past the desk, past Eden who was back to looking at his computer screen with the focused intensity of someone reading something either very important or very unimportant, it was impossible to tell which. He pushed open the door Eden had pointed to and stepped into the main room.
The space was actually beautiful, which shocked him. The walls were painted in soft, warm colors—sage green and butter yellow and a pale blue that suggested sky without being childish about it. The artwork on the walls was real artwork, not just construction paper cutouts, actual prints of paintings by artists Dick vaguely recognized from his one required art history class. Rothko. Kandinsky. That one Matisse with the goldfish. String lights hung from the ceiling in swooping lines, giving everything a warm glow that made the whole room feel like a hug. The floor was hardwood, covered in colorful rugs that looked expensive and well-maintained. In one corner, a group of kids sat on floor cushions while a young woman with dreadlocks and a Lauryn Hill t-shirt read to them from a book about a bear who was learning about feelings. In another corner, building blocks were arranged in what looked like a small city, complete with roads and bridges and what might have been a tiny socialist commune, knowing Jason.
And there, at a small desk near the window, surrounded by the kind of natural light that photographers paid extra for, pretending to work. you sat a girl drawing.
Not sketching. Drawing. There was a difference, and Dick knew it the moment he saw your hand moving across the paper with the kind of focused intensity that made the rest of the room dissolve into irrelevance.
You were beautiful in that way that made beautiful feel like an inadequate word, like calling the ocean wet or calling loneliness sad. Dark hair pulled back in a low bun that looked effortless but probably wasn’t, the kind of thing that required bobby pins and prayer and patience. You wore a cream cable-knit sweater that was slightly oversized, the kind you’d probably found at a thrift store or inherited from someone, with the sleeves pushed up to reveal delicate wrists and a vintage Timex watch with a brown leather strap, the face small and silver and completely utilitarian. Your skirt was dark wash and short, showing show off brown leather knee high boots that had clearly been worn in, loved, the kind that developed character with age rather than falling apart. A silk scarf in a muted paisley print was tied loosely around your neck, the kind of accessory that separated people who understood fashion from people who just wore clothes.
Next to you on the desk sat a battered leather tote bag, the kind that looked expensive but was probably from a street vendor in SoHo, stuffed with what looked like magazines, a sketchbook, and a Nalgene water bottle covered in stickers. Your face was angular, sharp in places that made Dick want to understand the geometry of you, the careful architecture of cheekbones and jaw that seemed designed by someone who understood that beauty was sometimes just mathematics wearing skin. You were biting your lower lip while you drew, a gesture so unconscious, so unself-aware that Dick felt like he was intruding on something private just by watching it.
He found himself walking toward you without deciding to walk toward you, his body making executive decisions his brain hadn’t authorized. The briefcase felt suddenly stupid in his hand, a prop from a life that had nothing to do with this room, these children, this girl who was drawing something he couldn’t see but desperately wanted to. Around him, the sounds of the daycare continued: the woman reading about the bear’s feelings, her voice gentle and patient; one of the kids asking if bears could feel angry; another kid announcing that they felt angry right now because Tyler took their crayon; a phone ringing somewhere in the back; that 50 Cent album still thumping faintly through the walls from the street below.
Dick was three steps away when you looked up.
Your eyes were the color of something he didn’t have a reference for. Not brown just brown. Something darker, deeper, like looking into water where you couldn’t see the bottom and weren’t sure you wanted to. There was intelligence there, and something else. Guardedness. The specific kind of careful that came from being looked at too much or not enough or in the wrong ways entirely. You had a smudge of graphite on your cheek, just below your left eye, like you’d rubbed your face while drawing and forgotten to check a mirror.
“Hi,” Dick said, and immediately hated himself for saying it, for reducing the moment to a syllable that meant nothing, carried nothing, was nothing.
You stared at him for exactly two seconds that felt like twenty. Your hand had stopped moving. The pencil hovered above the paper like a question mark waiting for punctuation.
“You’re Jason’s brother,” you said. Not a question. A statement of fact delivered in a voice that was soft but certain, like you’d been told to expect him, like Jason had warned you, like Dick was something that required warning about. Your voice had texture, a slight rasp underneath the softness, like you’d spent too much time talking or not enough time sleeping or maybe both.
“Guilty as charged,” he said, trying for charm and landing somewhere around awkward. He set the briefcase down, immediately wondered if that made him look like he was staying, picked it up again, felt like an idiot performing a one-man show called ‘Man Doesn’t Know What To Do With His Hands.’
“I’m Dick. Dick Grayson. Which you already knew. Because you just said the thing. About Jason. And brothers. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” you repeated, and there was something in the way you said it that might have been teasing or might have been mockery or might have been both. You glanced down at his briefcase, then back up at his face, and one eyebrow raised slightly. “You look very official. Very lawyer-y. Did you come here straight from arguing with the Supreme Court or something?”
“Constitutional law class, actually,” Dick said. “Which is like arguing with the Supreme Court except everyone’s younger and angrier and nobody’s paying attention because the professor has the charisma of a wooden spoon.”
You almost smiled. Almost. The corner of your mouth did something that suggested the possibility of smiling existed in your facial muscle memory but wasn’t being authorized for full deployment. “That’s very specific. Wooden spoon. Not just any spoon.”
“Wooden spoons are particularly boring,” Dick said, committing to the bit now because what else could he do. “Metal spoons at least make noise. Plastic spoons have that existential sadness about them. But wooden spoons? They’re just there. Existing. Serving no one.”
“I think wooden spoons are useful,” you said, and now you were definitely almost smiling, your fingers tightening slightly around the pencil. “You can stir things with them. Make pasta. They’re good for cooking.”
“Okay, but in terms of charisma,” Dick pressed. “In terms of personality. Wooden spoons rank where?”
“Dead last,” you admitted. “Bottom tier. F minus.”
“Thank you,” Dick said, and he was grinning now, couldn’t help it. “Vindication. I’m writing this down. Using it in my evaluation.”
“Your professor evaluation is going to say he has the charisma of a wooden spoon?” you asked.
“My professor evaluation is going to be a detailed treatise on kitchen utensil metaphors and their applications to legal education,” Dick said. “I’m going to single-handedly change how we assess teaching quality.”
You did smile then, just a little, just enough, and Dick felt something in his chest do something that was probably medically concerning. “That’s very ambitious,” you said. “Very… what’s the word. Quixotic?”
“I prefer ‘visionary,’” Dick said. “But quixotic works too. I’ll take it.”
“Mm,” you said, which wasn’t agreement or disagreement but some secret third thing. You looked back down at your paper, and Dick thought that might be the end of the conversation, that you were dismissing him, but then you said, without looking up, your voice quieter now, “I’m working. Sort of. In air quotes. Heavy, sarcastic air quotes.”
“Oh,” Dick said, and he heard the disappointment in his own voice, hated himself for it. “Right. Sorry. I’ll just…”
“No, I mean,” you interrupted, and now you looked up again, and there was something almost vulnerable in your face, something that made Dick want to promise you things he had no business promising. “Eden makes me sit here. Like set decoration. Like if there’s someone drawing in the corner, the parents think we’re sophisticated. Cultured. Like we’re not just babysitting but providing an enriching creative environment or whatever the brochure says.”
“Does it work?” Dick asked.
“I have no idea,” you admitted. “I’m usually too busy trying to get the drape right to notice if anyone’s enriched.”
“What are you drawing?” Dick asked, and he took a small step closer, testing boundaries, watching your face for any sign that he was overstepping, that he was becoming one of those people who didn’t understand personal space or social cues or the clear signal of someone who just wanted to be left alone.
You looked down at your paper, then back up at him, and something shifted in your expression. Not walls going up. Walls that had already been up becoming visible, like someone had turned on a light and now Dick could see the architecture of your defenses.
“Fashion,” you said, and there was something almost defensive in it, like you were preparing for him to laugh or dismiss it or say something patronizing about shopping or Project Runway.
“Fashion,” Dick repeated, genuinely interested now, leaning in slightly without realizing he was doing it. “Like clothing design?”
“Sort of,” you said, and your voice had warmed slightly, like you’d found something you actually wanted to talk about but weren’t entirely sure you should. “More like… fashion illustration. Design sketches. I like drawing clothes. The way fabric moves. The lines. The silhouettes. It’s like…” you paused, searching for words, your pencil tapping against the paper. “It’s like architecture for the body, I guess. Everything has to work together. Proportion and line and movement.”
“That’s beautiful,” Dick said, and meant it, felt it, understood it in a way that surprised him because he’d never thought about fashion as anything other than something his mother cared about and he was expected to participate in.
You looked at him like you were trying to determine if he was being sincere or just saying what he thought you wanted to hear, your eyes searching his face for the tell that would reveal him as a liar or a flirt or just another person who said nice things because nice things were easy.
“It’s nerdy,” you said finally, almost defensive. “People think fashion is shallow. Superficial. But it’s not. It’s art. It’s history. It’s culture. It’s all of it.”
“It’s both,” Dick said. “Things can be both. Beautiful and nerdy aren’t mutually exclusive. They’re like… simultaneous truths. Schrodinger’s aesthetic.”
You stared at him for a moment, and then you laughed, actually laughed, a sound that came out surprised and genuine and made Dick feel like he’d just won something important in a contest he hadn’t known he was entering. “Did you just make a physics joke about fashion?”
“I made a quantum mechanics joke about fashion,” Dick corrected. “Which is different. More prestigious. Shows I paid attention in at least one undergraduate class before law school destroyed my soul.”
“Introduction to Physics for People Who Are Never Taking Physics Again,” Dick said. “Very specialized. Only offered in the spring. I got a B plus.”
“Wow,” you said, deadpan. “B plus. Very impressive. Truly the mark of someone who understands quantum superposition.”
“I understand enough to make bad jokes about it,” Dick said. “Which is basically the same thing as actual understanding. That’s what I tell myself.”
“That’s deeply sad,” you said, but you were smiling now, really smiling, and Dick realized with something like awe that you had a dimple in your left cheek when you smiled, just one, asymmetrical and perfect and completely unfair to his cardiac health.
The silence between you felt different now, less weighted, less careful. Dick became aware that his heart was beating slightly faster than normal, that he’d set the briefcase down at some point without noticing, that his hands were empty and he didn’t know what to do with them so he shoved them in his coat pockets like a teenager who’d forgotten how arms worked.
“Can I…” he started, gesturing vaguely at the space near your desk, at the paper, at the possibility of seeing what you were working on. “Is it okay if I…”
“I’m nervous,” you said, cutting him off, the words coming out fast and unpolished, like you’d surprised yourself by saying them. Your hand tightened around the pencil until your knuckles went pale. “When people watch me. Work. Draw. Whatever. I get really nervous. Like stage fright but for something nobody asked to see and nobody probably cares about except me.”
Dick felt something in his chest do something he didn’t have language for. Not attraction, though that was there, thrumming under everything like bass notes in a song you felt more than heard. Something else. Recognition. The sense that you’d just handed him something true, something that cost you to say, and he had the responsibility now to not fuck it up, to not make you regret being honest with a stranger in an expensive coat who probably looked like every other Columbia Law asshole you’d ever met.
“I’ll look away,” he said quietly. “I can look away. I’m really good at looking away. I’ve been practicing my whole life. Family dinners, political fundraisers, any event where my dad starts talking about fiscal policy. I’m basically a professional at strategic vision avoidance.”
You studied him for a long moment, and Dick had the distinct impression he was being evaluated according to criteria he didn’t know and couldn’t fake. Your eyes moved across his face like you were reading something written there in a language only you understood.
“You don’t have to,” you finally said, and your voice was softer now, uncertain in a way that made Dick want to promise you things. “Look away, I mean. I just wanted you to know. That I’m nervous. So if I seem weird. Or rude. Or like I’m trying to end this conversation. That’s why. It’s not personal.”
“Okay,” Dick said. “I know.”
“Do you?” you asked, and there was something challenging in it now, something that suggested you were used to people saying they understood when they absolutely did not understand, when they were just saying words to get to the next part of the conversation where they got what they wanted.
“Probably not,” Dick admitted, because what else could he say, what else was there except honesty when someone had already been honest with you. “I don’t know what it’s like to be nervous about people watching me do something I care about. I’ve been trained since birth to perform under observation. It’s very fucked up. I’m probably going to need therapy for decades. But I can imagine it’s terrible. And I can promise not to make it worse. Or I can try not to. I might fail. But I’ll try.”
You held his gaze for one more second, and in that second Dick saw something flicker across your face that he recognized because he felt it in his own chest, that specific kind of fear that came from wanting something before you knew what it was. “Okay,” you said finally. “You can stay. If you want.”
“I want,” Dick said, and it came out more intense than he’d meant it to, more honest, more raw than was probably appropriate for a first conversation with a stranger in a daycare center.
You looked at him for another moment, then nodded, and went back to your drawing. Your hand moved across the paper in careful strokes, and Dick could see enough of it now to make out the full image. A woman’s figure, rendered in confident lines that suggested movement and grace. She was wearing what looked like an evening gown, something with a plunging neckline and dramatic draping, the fabric captured mid-motion like she was walking or turning or dancing. The detail was stunning. Every fold of fabric rendered precisely, the way the material would catch light and create shadow, the way it would move with the body underneath. There were notes in the margins, written in small, neat handwriting: “bias cut,” “silk charmeuse,” “cowl back,” technical terms that Dick didn’t fully understand but suggested you knew exactly what you were doing.
“That’s incredible,” Dick said, and he meant it, couldn’t stop looking at it, at the way you’d captured something so ephemeral as fabric in motion with just pencil and paper.
“It’s not done,” you said quickly, almost defensively. “The proportions are off. The arm is too long. And I can’t get the drape right on the back. It’s supposed to pool here but it looks like it’s just… sagging. Like the dress is tired.”
“The dress is tired,” Dick repeated, and he was grinning now. “That’s very specific. Very emotional. Are you anthropomorphizing evening wear?”
“Fashion is emotional,” you said, and there was passion in your voice now, the kind that came from really caring about something, from having thought about it deeply enough that it had become part of how you saw the world. “It’s not just fabric and thread. It’s how people present themselves to the world. It’s armor and vulnerability at the same time. It’s… I don’t know. It matters.”
“I believe you,” Dick said. “I’m looking at this drawing and I believe you.”
You looked up at him then, really looked at him, and there was something surprised in your expression, like you hadn’t expected him to get it, to understand even a fraction of what you were trying to say.
“Most people don’t,” you said quietly. “Get it, I mean. They think it’s frivolous. Especially guys. Especially guys who look like you.”
“Guys who look like me,” Dick said. “What does that mean?”
“You know what it means,” you said, and you gestured at his coat, his briefcase, the whole expensive package of him. “Guys who have more important things to think about than whether a hemline is interesting. Guys who are going to be lawyers or politicians or whatever. Guys who think fashion is just something women worry about while men do the real work.”
“That’s sexist,” Dick said.
“It’s accurate,” you countered.
“It’s both,” Dick admitted. “But for the record, I don’t think that. I think…” he paused, trying to find the right words, the honest words. “I think I’ve never thought about it at all, which is probably worse. I just wear what my mother buys me or a nice suit..whatever is expected for whatever event I’m attending. I’ve never considered that there could be art in it. Intention. That someone designed this coat I’m wearing and thought about the cut and the fabric and how it would make the person wearing it feel.”
“How does it make you feel?” you asked, and there was genuine curiosity in your voice now.
“Like I’m playing dress-up,” Dick said honestly. “Like I’m wearing a costume of who I’m supposed to be instead of who I am.”
You stared at him for a long moment, and something in your expression softened. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve heard all day,” you said. “And I work in a daycare center where a kid cried for twenty minutes because his apple juice was too cold.”
Dick laughed, couldn’t help it, and you smiled again, that same asymmetric smile with the single dimple that was going to haunt his dreams for weeks. “So what do you do with the drawings?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground, back to you and your work and away from his existential fashion crisis. “After you finish them?”
“I…” you hesitated, your hand going back to the paper, tracing the edge of the drawing without actually touching it. “I’m supposed to be building a portfolio. For FIT. Fashion Institute of Technology. It’s here in New York. I want to study fashion design. Actually study it, not just draw in daycare centers while pretending to be enrichment.”
“Why aren’t you there now?” Dick asked, and immediately regretted it because your face did something complicated, something that suggested he’d just asked exactly the wrong question.
“Money,” you said simply, and there was finality in it, a door closing. “FIT isn’t cheap. And I need a better portfolio to get scholarships. And I need time to build the portfolio. And I need money while I’m building it. It’s circular logic. Very stupid. Very frustrating.”
“That’s bullshit,” Dick said, and he meant it with his whole chest. “You’re talented. Really talented. You should be able to study without having to choose between that and like, eating. Having a place to live. Basic human necessities.”
You looked up at him then, really looked at him, and there was something in your eyes that made Dick feel simultaneously seen and stupid.
“That’s very idealistic of you,” you said carefully, and your voice had that same measured quality it had before, like you were being patient with someone who didn’t understand how the world worked. “Very law school. Very ‘I’m going to fix systemic inequality through strongly worded arguments and believing really hard.’ But idealism doesn’t pay application fees. It doesn’t cover tuition. It’s just a nice thing people with trust funds say to people without them.”
Dick felt that land like a punch. Not because it was mean but because it was true. Because he was standing here in his Theory coat with his Tumi briefcase, having opinions about problems he’d never had to solve, problems he’d never even had to think about because money had always just been there, invisible and infinite, like air or water or any other thing you took for granted until it wasn’t there anymore.
“You’re right,” he said. “That was ignorant. I’m sorry.”
You studied him for another moment, and Dick couldn’t read your expression, couldn’t tell if he’d just ruined whatever this was or if there was still a chance to salvage it.
“At least you admitted it. Most people double down. Start explaining why I’m wrong about my own life. Start telling me about bootstraps and hard work and other things that sound good in theory but don’t mean shit when you’re trying to figure out if you can afford both groceries and art supplies. So. Points for that, I guess.”
Before Dick could figure out how to respond to that, before he could figure out how to apologize better or make it right or do anything except stand there feeling like an asshole in expensive shoes, Jason’s voice cut through the moment like a fire alarm during a funeral.
“Dick! You actually came!” His brother emerged from the back with a juice box in each hand and what looked like applesauce in his hair and on his shoulder and possibly in his left ear. Jason had that specific kind of handsomeness that came from not trying, from being too busy caring about other things to notice that people noticed him. He wore cargo pants that had seen some shit and a hoodie from their high school that was more holes than fabric. “Eden, you owe me five bucks. I said he’d show up.”
“You said he’d show up because he’s having an existential crisis about becoming his father,” Eden called from the front room without looking up. “That’s different from just showing up.”
“Also true,” Jason said cheerfully, and then his eyes landed on where Dick was standing, who he was standing near, and his entire face did something that made Dick want to commit fratricide. A slow grin spread across Jason’s features, the kind of grin that suggested he was about to make Dick’s life significantly more difficult and was going to enjoy every second of it. “Oh. Oh. I see what’s happening here. This is happening. Eden, it’s happening.”
“What’s happening?” Eden called back, still not looking up from whatever he was doing at the front desk.
“The thing I predicted,” Jason said, his grin widening to absolutely catastrophic proportions. “The thing I specifically said would happen. The thing I bet you ten dollars would happen within the first five minutes.”
“You predict a lot of things,” Eden replied, his voice carrying that same dry amusement. “Most of them involve the eventual collapse of capitalism and the rise of a glorious worker’s paradise where everyone shares juice boxes equally.”
“This is more important than capitalism,” Jason announced.
“Nothing is more important than capitalism,” Eden corrected, finally looking up. “Capitalism is the water we swim in. The air we breathe. The invisible hand that’s currently strangling us all while telling us it’s a hug.”
“Anyway,” Jason interrupted, still grinning at Dick like he’d just discovered something hilarious and tragic in equal measure. He walked further into the room, applesauce dripping slightly from his hair onto his shoulder, completely unbothered by it. “I see you met our. Our Coco Chanel. Our tortured genius who refuses to let anyone see her work until it’s perfect, which means never, which means we’re all being robbed of witnessing greatness in real time.”
“Jason,” you said, and there was a warning in your voice, sharp and clear as a knife blade.
“What?” Jason said, all innocence that was absolutely not innocence. He set the juice boxes down on a nearby table, wiping his hands on his cargo pants like that was going to help anything. “I’m complimenting you. Compliments are good. People like compliments. It’s basic positive reinforcement. Very Pavlovian.”
“People like boundaries more,” you replied, your pencil still in your hand but your body language shifting, closing off slightly, like Jason’s chaos was forcing you to rebuild walls that had just started to come down.
“Boundaries are a capitalist construct designed to keep the working class isolated from each other,” Jason said, like this was an established fact, like he’d read it in a textbook somewhere and memorized it for an exam. “They prevent solidarity. Community. The collective good.”
“That’s not what boundaries are,” you said, and there was exasperation in your voice now, but also affection, the kind that came from having this exact argument multiple times before. “Boundaries are how people maintain their sense of self in a world that’s constantly trying to take pieces of them.”
“That’s beautiful,” Eden called from the front. “Very poetic. Did you read that somewhere or did you just come up with it?”
“I came up with it,” you called back. “About thirty seconds ago. Because I’m having to explain basic human psychology to someone who thinks personal space is a conspiracy.”
“Personal space is absolutely a conspiracy,” Jason said. He pulled up a tiny chair, one meant for a four-year-old, and sat down on it despite the fact that his knees came up to his chest and he looked completely ridiculous. “Think about it. Who benefits from people staying separate? Who profits from isolation?”
“Introverts,” you said. “Introverts benefit from people staying separate. Because we need to recharge. Because social interaction is exhausting.”
“See, but that’s what they want you to think,” Jason said, leaning forward conspiratorially, and Dick realized his brother was absolutely messing with you, that this was some kind of routine they had, some kind of verbal sparring that they both enjoyed. “They’ve convinced you that needing space is natural when really it’s just internalized capitalism. The belief that you’re a separate economic unit rather than part of a collective whole.”
“I hate you,” you said, but you were smiling now, shaking your head. “I genuinely, deeply hate you.”
“You love me,” Jason corrected. “You love that I challenge your worldview. You love that I make you think about things differently.”
“I love that you’re going to have applesauce in your hair for the rest of the day and you haven’t noticed,” you said.
Jason’s hand immediately went to his hair, found the applesauce, and he made a face. “Goddammit. Was anyone going to tell me?”
“I was going to tell you eventually,” Eden called. “Like, at the end of the day. When you were leaving. When it would be funny.”
“You’re all terrible people,” Jason said, but he was grinning. He looked at Dick, then at you, then back at Dick, and his expression shifted into something that was trying very hard to be innocent and failing completely. “So. Did you get her name yet, or were you too busy doing that thing where you stare at people?”
Dick felt heat crawl up his neck, felt it spread across his face like a rash. “We were just talking,” he said, which was both true and completely inadequate to describe what had actually been happening.
“Just talking,” Jason repeated, like he was tasting the words and finding them hilarious. “Right. Just talking. About what? The weather? The political situation in the Middle East? The rising cost of juice boxes?”
“Fashion,” you said, saving Dick from having to answer. “We were talking about fashion. And wooden spoons. It was very intellectual.”
“Wooden spoons,” Jason said slowly. “Fashion and wooden spoons.”
“It made sense in context,” Dick said defensively.
“I’m sure it did,” Jason replied, and his grin was absolutely unbearable now. “I’m sure it made perfect sense. So much sense. The most sense.”
“Stop,” you said to Jason, but you were laughing, actually laughing, and Dick thought that if he could bottle that sound, that specific combination of amusement and exasperation and joy, he would be a happy man for the rest of his life.
“I’m not doing anything,” Jason protested. “I’m just sitting here. On this incredibly uncomfortable chair. Observing. Making observations. It’s very scientific.”
“It’s very annoying,” you corrected.
“Same thing,” Jason said. He looked at Dick again, and something in his expression shifted, became more serious, more genuine. “She’s not going to tell you her name, by the way. Not yet. She has this whole thing about it. Very mysterious. Very film noir. I didn’t get her name for like three weeks.”
“Two weeks,” you corrected.
“Felt like three,” Jason said. “Felt like an eternity. I had to call you ‘hey you’ and ‘the artist’ and ‘the person who keeps telling me I’m wrong about everything.’”
“You are wrong about everything,” you said.
“Exactly,” Jason replied. “Which is why we’re friends. You keep me humble. You keep me grounded. You prevent me from floating away on a cloud of my own revolutionary fervor.”
“Someone has to,” you muttered, going back to your drawing, but Dick could see you were still smiling, could see that whatever this dynamic was between you and Jason, it was comfortable, safe, the kind of friendship that had been tested and survived.
Dick felt something twist in his chest, something that might have been jealousy or might have been longing or might have been both. Not jealous of Jason having your attention, but jealous of the easy familiarity between you, the kind of comfort that came from time and shared experiences and inside jokes that Dick wasn’t part of. He wanted that. Wanted to be part of that. Wanted to know you well enough to know when you were joking and when you were serious, to understand the contours of your personality the way Jason clearly did.
“So what do I call you?” Dick asked, and his voice came out quieter than he intended, more vulnerable. “If you’re not going to tell me your name. What do I call you?”
You looked up from your drawing, and your eyes met his, and there was something in your expression that Dick couldn’t quite read, something soft and careful and maybe a little bit scared. “Whatever you want,” you said finally. “For now. Until I decide if I like you.”
“Have you decided if you like me?” Dick asked, and he was aware that Jason was watching this exchange with the fascination of someone watching a nature documentary, that Eden was probably listening from the front desk, that there were children playing and laughing and living all around them, but all of that felt distant, unimportant, like background noise in a scene that was only about this moment, this question, this girl who wouldn’t tell him her name.
You tilted your head, considering him, and Dick felt like he was being evaluated again, measured against some internal standard he couldn’t see. “I haven’t decided yet,” you said finally. “You’re…” you paused, searching for words. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” Dick asked.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Someone more… Jason described you a certain way. Made you sound very uptight. Very suit-and-tie. Very ‘I’m going to be president someday and I need everyone to take me seriously.’”
“I am going to be president someday,” Jason interjected. “Of the worker’s council. When we finally overthrow the bourgeoisie.”
“No one asked you,” you said without looking at him.
“I’m contributing to the conversation,” Jason protested.
“You’re ruining the conversation,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Jason looked at Dick, then at you, then back at Dick, and something in his expression shifted.
“Okay,” he said, standing up from the tiny chair with some difficulty, his knees cracking in protest. “Okay, I can take a hint. I’m going. I’m leaving.” But then he paused, looked at Dick again, and something almost gentle crossed his face. “Actually, Dick, can I borrow you for a second? I need to show you something. Office stuff. Very important. Very urgent.”
“You have an office?” Dick asked, skeptical.
“I have a space that could generously be called an office if you squint and lower your standards significantly,” Jason replied. He was already moving toward the back of the room, clearly expecting Dick to follow. “Come on. It’ll just take a minute.”
Dick looked at you, uncertain, not wanting to leave, not wanting to break whatever fragile thing had been building between you. You made a small gesture with your hand, a little wave that seemed to say *go, it’s fine, I’ll be here*, and Dick felt something warm spread through his chest at the casual intimacy of it, the assumption that he’d come back, that this wasn’t over.
“I’ll be right back,” Dick said to you.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied, already looking back down at your drawing, and Dick followed Jason through a door at the back of the room, past cubbies labeled with children’s names and tiny coats hanging on hooks that were maybe three feet off the ground.
Jason’s “office” turned out to be a converted storage closet that still had shelves lined with construction paper and bottles of glue and boxes of crayons in every color imaginable. There was a desk that looked like it had been salvaged from a sidewalk, two folding chairs, and a poster on the wall that said “Keep Calm and Carry On” except someone had crossed out “Carry On” and written “Dismantle the Patriarchy” in red marker.
“Very professional,” Dick said, looking around. “Very presidential. When you run the worker’s council from here, it’s going to be very impressive.”
“Shut up,” Jason said, but he was grinning. He closed the door behind them, and suddenly the chaos of the daycare was muffled, distant, like they were in a separate world. Jason leaned against the desk, crossing his arms, and for a moment they just looked at each other, brothers who’d grown up in the same house but had somehow ended up in completely different universes.
“I can’t believe you actually came,” Jason said finally, and there was genuine surprise in his voice, genuine pleasure. “I really didn’t think you would.”
“You asked me to come,” Dick said. “I told you I would. I keep my promises.”
“Yeah, but you say that about a lot of things,” Jason pointed out. “And then Dad calls or you have a networking thing or some study group emergency and suddenly you’re too busy. I figured this would be the same.”
Dick felt that land like a punch, mostly because it was true. He had been flaking on Jason. Not intentionally, not maliciously, but because his life had become this endless series of obligations and expectations and things that seemed important in the moment but ultimately meant nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I’ve been a shitty brother.”
“You’ve been a busy brother,” Jason corrected, but there was something sad in his voice. “There’s a difference. I think.”
“There really isn’t,” Dick said. He moved to lean against the opposite wall, facing Jason, his expensive briefcase looking ridiculous next to a box of finger paints.
“I’ve been so focused on school and what Dad wants and building the right resume that I forgot about the stuff that actually matters. Like you. Like being here.”
Jason studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Well, you’re here now. So that’s something.”
“Speaking of obligations,” Dick said, seizing on the topic change because talking about his failings as a brother was making him want to crawl out of his own skin. “Are you coming to Mom’s dinner party? The one on Saturday?”
Jason’s face did something complicated. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
“Jay, come on,” Dick said. “She specifically asked about you. Like, three times. She wants you there.”
“Mom always wants me there,” Jason replied. “And then I get there and Dad spends the entire evening asking me when I’m going to stop playing around and do something serious with my life. It’s exhausting. I’d rather stay home and watch bad TV.”
“He won’t do that this time,” Dick said, though he had no authority to make that promise, no real belief that it was true. “And even if he does, I’ll run interference. I’ll redirect. I’ll talk about constitutional law until everyone’s eyes glaze over and they forget what they were arguing about.”
“That’s very noble of you,” Jason said dryly. “Very sacrificial. Taking one for the team.”
“I’m serious,” Dick pressed. “Mom really wants you there. She’s been asking. And it would mean a lot to her. You know how she gets about these things. She wants the whole family together. The perfect picture.”
“The perfect picture that includes her disappointment of a son who works at a daycare instead of a law firm,” Jason muttered, but there was less heat in it than usual, more resignation.
“You’re not a disappointment,” Dick said automatically.
“To Dad I am,” Jason countered. “Let’s not pretend otherwise. He looks at me and sees wasted potential. A trust fund kid playing at being working class. It’s embarrassing for him.”
“Fuck what Dad thinks,” Dick said, and the vehemence in his own voice surprised him. “Seriously. Fuck it. You’re doing something that matters. Something real. Those kids out there? You’re shaping who they’re going to become.”
Jason looked at him with something like surprise. “Wow. Columbia really is making you soft. Or rebellious. I can’t tell which.”
“Maybe both,” Dick admitted. “Maybe I’m finally figuring out that the path I’m on isn’t the only path. That there are other ways to live that don’t involve selling your soul to meet someone else’s definition of success.”
“That’s very philosophical,” Jason said. “Very midlife crisis. Except you’re like twenty-four so it’s more quarter-life crisis. Which is less prestigious but probably more common.”
“I’m having a moment here,” Dick said. “Let me have my moment.”
“I’m letting you,” Jason replied, grinning now. “I’m being very supportive. This is my supportive face.”
Before Dick could respond, Jason’s phone rang. Not the polite buzz of a cell phone on vibrate, but the actual shrill ring of the old cordless phone sitting on his desk,. Jason looked at it, then at Dick, then sighed and picked it up.
“Happy Hearts Daycare, this is Jason,” he said in his professional voice, which was surprisingly professional considering he had applesauce in his hair. “Mm-hmm. Yes. Wait, what? No, that’s not—okay, hold on. Hold on one second.” He covered the receiver with his hand and looked at Dick apologetically. “I have to take this. It’s Marcus’s mom and apparently there’s been an incident involving the words ‘damn it’ and I need to do damage control before she pulls him out of the program.”
“That’s your fault,” Dick pointed out.
“I know,” Jason said. “I accept full responsibility. I’ll be like five minutes. Ten tops. You can wait here or—”
“I’ll go back out,” Dick said, probably too quickly, probably too eagerly, and Jason’s expression shifted into something knowing and amused.
“Yeah,” Jason said slowly. “Yeah, you do that. Go back out. I’m sure you’ll find ways to occupy your time.”
“Shut up,” Dick said, but he was already moving toward the door, already thinking about you sitting at that desk with your fashion drawings and your careful walls and your smile that made his chest do things that were probably medically concerning.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Jason called after him, and then, into the phone, “Yes, Mrs. Henderson, I’m still here. Let’s talk about Marcus’s vocabulary development.”
Dick stepped back out into the main room and immediately looked for you. You weren’t at your desk anymore. The drawing was still there, the pencil laid carefully beside it, but you were gone. Dick felt a momentary panic, the irrational fear that you’d left, that he’d taken too long, that the moment had passed and he’d missed it.
Then he saw you across the room, crouched down next to one of the kids, helping him sort blocks by color. You were explaining something, your voice too quiet for Dick to hear, your hands gesturing as you demonstrated whatever principle of organization you were teaching. The kid was maybe four, maybe five, watching you with the kind of focused attention that suggested you were the most interesting person he’d ever met.
Dick felt something in his chest do that thing again, that warm, terrifying thing that he didn’t have a name for.
You stood up, the kid apparently satisfied with his new block-sorting system, and moved to another part of the room where someone had spilled what looked like an entire container of crayons across the floor. You knelt down and started gathering them, sorting them back into the plastic bin with the same careful attention you gave your drawings.
Dick found himself walking toward you without deciding to walk toward you, his body making decisions his brain was too slow to authorize. He crouched down next to you, started picking up crayons, handing them to you one at a time.
“You don’t have to do that,” you said, not looking at him, focused on finding every stray crayon that had rolled under tables and chairs.
“I want to,” Dick said. “Besides, I’m here. Might as well be useful.”
“Jason ditch you?” you asked, and there was something almost amused in your voice.
“Phone call emergency,” Dick explained. “Apparently Marcus said ‘damn it’ to his mother and now Jason has to explain why that came out of a four-year-olds mouth .”
You laughed, actually laughed, and Dick felt like he’d won something. “That’s absolutely Jason’s fault,” you said. “He’s been saying damn and fuck while around these kids and i told him they’re gonna start repeating it.”
“You were right,” Dick said, handing you a blue crayon that had rolled near his foot.
“I usually am,” you replied, and there was no arrogance in it, just statement of fact.
You moved to another part of the room, where paper scraps from some kind of craft project littered the floor like confetti after a parade. Dick followed you, watching as you knelt down again and started gathering the pieces, sorting them into a trash bag with efficient movements that suggested you’d done this a thousand times before.
“So,” Dick said, crouching next to you again, picking up paper scraps because he couldn’t think of anything else to do with his hands. “How long have you been working here?”
“Since September,” you said. “So about two months. Eden needed help and Jason vouched for me and apparently my ability to draw makes me qualified to supervise children. The logic is questionable but the paycheck is real so I’m not arguing.”
“How do you know Jason?” Dick asked, filing away bits of information like he was building a database, like if he collected enough facts about you he’d eventually understand the whole picture.
“We met at Hunter,” you said, grabbing a particularly stubborn piece of paper that had gotten stuck to the floor with what might have been glue or juice or some unholy combination of both. “Last year. Before I took time off. We had a sociology class together. He spent the entire semester arguing with the professor about Marx and I spent the entire semester trying to take notes while Jason derailed every lecture into a debate about class warfare.”
“That sounds like Jason,” Dick said.
“It was entertaining,” you admitted. “Frustrating if you were trying to learn anything, but entertaining. We started having coffee after class. Arguing about theory and politics and whether it was possible to be a good person under capitalism. He’s wrong about most things but he’s interesting about being wrong.”
“He’d take that as a compliment,” Dick said.
“He should,” you replied. You stood up, the trash bag now full of paper scraps, and moved toward a shelf where someone had pulled down every book and left them scattered like casualties of a very tiny, very intense library war. You started reshelfing them, organizing them by size rather than any kind of logical system, and Dick found himself following you again, helping without being asked, picking up board books about dinosaurs and feelings and trucks.
“Can I ask you something?” Dick said, handing you a book about a caterpillar that ate too much.
“You just did,” you replied, shelving the caterpillar next to a book about going to bed.
“Can I ask you another something?” Dick amended.
You glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “That depends on what the something is.”
“Why fashion?” Dick asked. “I mean, you said earlier that it’s armor and art and everyone wears clothes so it’s democratic. But like, when did you know? When did you figure out that’s what you wanted to do?”
You were quiet for a moment, shelving books with careful precision, and Dick worried he’d overstepped, asked too much too soon, pushed past boundaries that were clearly marked even if he couldn’t see the signs.
“I was twelve,” you said finally, and your voice was softer now, more careful. “My mom took me to the Met. The Costume Institute. They had an exhibition on wedding dresses through history. Victorian stuff, Edwardian, all the way up to contemporary designers. And I just stood there, looking at these dresses, and I realized that someone had made them. Someone had thought about every detail. Every stitch. Every button. Every piece of lace. And those choices meant something. They told a story about who wore it, when they wore it, what they were trying to say without words.”
you paused, shelving another book, and Dick stayed quiet, sensing that if he interrupted you might stop, might close back up into yourself.
“And I thought,” you continued, “that’s what I want to do. I want to tell stories with fabric. I want to create things that make people feel beautiful and powerful and like themselves. Not who society says they should be, but who they actually are underneath all the expectations and performance.” You looked at him then, really looked at him, and there was something vulnerable in your eyes. “Does that sound stupid?”
“No,” Dick said immediately, with more force than he intended. “No, that sounds perfect. That sounds like exactly the right reason to do anything.”
You studied him for a moment, like you were trying to determine if he meant it, if he was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. Then you nodded, just once, and went back to shelving books.
“What about you?” you asked. “Why law? Why Columbia? Why the whole suit-and-tie future-politician thing?”
Dick picked up another book, some story about a mouse who was learning about courage, and he thought about how to answer that, how to be honest without sounding pathetic.
“I don’t know anymore,” he admitted. “I used to know. Or I thought I knew. It’s what my dad did. What his dad did. It’s the family business. Politics and law and public service and making a difference through policy and legislation.”
He paused, turned the book over in his hands. “But lately I’ve been wondering if I ever actually wanted it or if I just wanted to make my father proud. If there’s even a difference anymore.”
“That’s sad,” you said quietly.
“Yeah,” Dick agreed. “It really is.”
You finished shelving the last book and moved to another part of the room, where the art supplies needed to be reorganized, where markers had lost their caps and paintbrushes needed to be washed and everything was chaos that needed to become order. Dick followed you to the sink, watching as you turned on the water and started washing paintbrushes with the same careful attention you gave everything else.
“Can I ask you something else?” Dick said, because apparently he’d decided to turn this into an interrogation, apparently he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop wanting to know everything about you.
“You’re very full of questions,” you observed, scrubbing red paint out of a brush.
“I’m curious,” Dick said. “You’re interesting. I want to know things.”
“What things?” you asked, and there was something almost teasing in your voice now.
“Everything,” Dick said honestly. “Where you grew up. What you like to read. Whether you prefer coffee or tea. What music you listen to. What you think about when you can’t sleep. Just… everything.”
You looked at him then, your hands still in the water, and there was something surprised in your expression, like no one had ever wanted to know everything before, like the idea of someone being curious about the small details of your life was foreign and slightly overwhelming.
“That’s a lot of things,” you said carefully.
“I have time,” Dick replied. “Or I want to have time. If you’ll let me.”
You held his gaze for a long moment, and Dick could see you thinking, calculating, weighing risks against possibilities. The water kept running. Somewhere behind them, a kid started crying about something. Eden called out something from the front desk about pickup times.
“I grew up in Queens,” you said finally, going back to washing brushes. “I read mostly fashion magazines and theory books about design. I prefer coffee but I’ll drink tea if it’s the only option. I listen to everything , And when I can’t sleep I think about clothes I want to make but probably never will because fabric is expensive and time is limited and dreams are complicated…or i watch old black and white movies”
Dick felt something bloom in his chest, warm and terrifying. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?” you asked, rinsing the last brush.
“For telling me,” Dick said. “For letting me ask.”
You turned off the water, dried your hands on a paper towel, and looked at him with that same careful expression. “You’re different than I expected,” you said.
“What did you expect?” Dick asked, echoing your earlier conversation.
“Someone more…” you paused, searching for the word. “Performative. Someone who would ask questions because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re interested in someone, not because you actually care about the answers.”
“I care about the answers,” Dick said, and he meant it with everything in him. “I really care about the answers.”
You looked at him for one more long moment, and then you almost smiled, that asymmetric smile that Dick was becoming addicted to. “Okay,” you said. “Okay, I believe you.”
“What do I have to do?” Dick asked. “To make you decide if you like me?”
You considered this for a moment, your pencil tapping against your paper, and then you smiled, really smiled, both corners of your mouth lifting, that single dimple appearing like a gift. “I don’t know yet,” you said. “But I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
“That’s fair,” Dick said.
“Is it?” you asked, testing him again, but it was playful now, not defensive.
“Yeah,” Dick said, and he meant it, felt it, understood that whatever this was, it was worth waiting for, worth working for, worth whatever it took to make you decide that you liked him. “It’s fair.”
And Dick stood there, in a daycare center in New York, helping you clean up after children who’d left chaos in their wake, asking you questions and listening to your answers like they were the most important things he’d ever heard.
Then his phone rang over the constant electric hum. The sound sliced the moment clean in half. He froze, jaw tightening, as if the noise came from inside his chest instead of his coat pocket.
You watched him fish out the Blackberry, the screen glowing blue against the wool of his coat like a tiny television broadcasting bad news.
The name on it pulled a hard sigh out of him, the kind that comes from long histories and unfinished debts, from obligations that wrap around your throat like silk ties at fundraiser dinners where everyone’s smiling and no one’s happy. Your mouth caught your bottom lip without asking permission.
You tasted bubble gum gloss and nerves and the specific anxiety that comes from watching something good about to be interrupted by something necessary but unwanted.
You turned back to the low shelves and knelt, pretending the floor needed you more than he did, pretending you did not feel the space between you stretching thin and dangerous.
He lingered. You could feel it without looking, the way you can feel someone staring at you on the subway, that specific awareness of being observed, being considered, being wanted.
His shadow stayed where it was, falling across the colorful rug where children learned their ABCs and how to share and other lies adults tell about how the world works. He did not want to take the call here, in this room that smelled like tempera paint and institutional optimism. He did not want to leave you standing,
Dick reached for a sticky note, one of those leftover Valentine’s hearts, red and slightly curled at the edges, a relic of manufactured affection from some February that had come and gone without anyone noticing.
He wrote fast, pen pressing too hard into the paper, the cheap ballpoint dragging across the waxy surface like he was carving himself into it instead of just ink, just numbers, just the possibility of future contact. He folded it once with careful precision, the gesture somehow intimate despite its simplicity, and pressed it into your palm. Your skin touched his for exactly two seconds. You counted them. Two seconds of warmth and calluses you hadn’t expected on hands that looked so carefully maintained.
You unfolded it carefully after he pulled away, read the numbers written there in sharp, precise handwriting that looked like it had been trained by expensive private schools and etiquette classes and mothers who cared about penmanship. Below the numbers, in that same careful hand:
‘if you ever need anything and I mean anything love. Call me. I’ll answer.’
His voice dropped when he said it out loud too, leaning close enough that you could smell his cologne, something expensive and subtle that probably had a French name and cost more than your monthly grocery budget. Something woody and clean that made you think of old libraries and new money and men who knew how to wear suits like they were born in them.
“I mean it,” he said, and his breath was warm against your ear, too close, not close enough. “Anything.”
Love. The word landed warm and heavy between you, settling in your chest like a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading out in directions you couldn’t predict or control. Not a promise. Not a lie. Something worse, something more dangerous. Something possible. Something that could grow into something real if neither of you was careful, if neither of you remembered to protect themselves from this exact kind of wanting.
Your fingers closed around the paper like it might dissolve if you didn’t hold it tight enough, like it might disappear the way good things always seemed to disappear when you weren’t paying attention.
You nodded because words would have betrayed you, would have come out wrong, too eager or too desperate or too honest about the fact that you’d been hoping he’d do exactly this, give you a way back to him, give you permission to want what you’d been pretending not to want for the last two hours.
Your eyes met his and stayed there a beat too long, long enough that it meant something, long enough that you both felt it. You saw it then, written across his face in a language you were just learning to read. The fear of wanting something he wasn’t supposed to want. The hunger for something his life had no room for. The discipline holding it all together with wire and prayer and years of training in how to be the person everyone expected him to be instead of the person he actually was underneath all that expensive fabric and careful grooming.
He answered the phone as he walked toward the door, his voice shifting into something else entirely, something professional and measured and completely unlike the person who’d been asking you about fashion and coffee preferences and the things you thought about when you couldn’t sleep.
You watched the transformation happen in real time, watched him put on the mask he wore for the world, the one that said he had everything under control, that he knew exactly who he was and where he was going and what he wanted from life. You watched him go, the door closing behind him with a soft click that felt louder than it should have, more final, and you were alone with the sticky note and the knowledge that you’d just been given something you weren’t sure you knew how to use or deserved to have or could keep without breaking it.
The hours that followed Dick leaving the daycare were strange and elastic, time moving at the wrong speed, everything slightly off kilter like a film projector running too slow or too fast but never quite right. He took the subway back to his apartment, the 6 train packed with the usual suspects: college kids with hangovers they were still drinking through, businessmen who’d stayed late at the office or early at the bar, a woman reading a romance novel with a cover that featured a shirtless man holding a woman against a wall. Dick watched her read, watched her smile at something on the page, and wondered if real life ever felt like those books, if anyone actually got the happy ending or if everyone was just performing contentment while slowly dying inside from the weight of unmet expectations.
His apartment was in the East Village, a fifth-floor walkup that cost too much for what it was but still less than most places in Manhattan because the building was old and the landlord was older and hadn’t figured out yet that he could be charging twice as much. The apartment itself was nice, a proper one-bedroom that Dick had spent the last two years slowly transforming into something that felt like his instead of just another generic Manhattan rental.
The main living space was open and airy despite the building’s age, with high ceilings that made the room feel bigger than it was and original hardwood floors that Dick had refinished himself one summer, spending weekends on his hands and knees sanding and staining until his back ached and his hands were raw but the wood glowed warm and beautiful under the morning light. The walls were painted a soft white, clean and simple, letting everything else in the space tell the story of who he was when nobody was watching.
He’d decorated the place with care, with intention, with the kind of attention to detail that suggested this space mattered to him in a way other spaces hadn’t. Plants were everywhere, living things that required attention and care and gave back oxygen and beauty in return. A large fiddle leaf fig stood in the corner near the window, its broad leaves reaching toward the light. Pothos cascaded from shelves in trailing vines of green. A rubber plant sat on the side table, its leaves dark and glossy. Snake plants lined the windowsill, practically indestructible, thriving on neglect in a way Dick found both reassuring and slightly insulting. He watered them on Sundays, a ritual he’d developed without meaning to, a way of marking time, of taking care of something that depended on him.
it was his. That was the thing. It was his in a way nothing else in his life had ever been his, not chosen by his mother or approved by his father or inherited from some dead relative who’d had taste and money in equal measure. He’d found this place himself, signed the lease himself, furnished it with things from thrift stores and sidewalk sales and that one Ikea trip that had taken eight hours and resulted in two bookshelves that were only slightly crooked.
Dick hated that he didn’t ask for your number. The regret sat in his stomach like bad takeout, turning over and over, getting worse instead of better as time passed. Hated that he’d given you his and left the ball in your court, left himself vulnerable to the possibility that you’d never call, that the sticky note would end up in a trash can or a jeans pocket going through the wash or crumpled at the bottom of your bag, forgotten under receipts and loose change and all the other debris that accumulated in the places women kept their lives.
He spent his time checking his phone when he was out with his friends at bars in the Village, places with exposed brick and craft beer that tasted like someone’s basement and cost eight dollars a pint. His friends would be talking about something, classes or internships or which professor was sleeping with which TA, and Dick would be nodding along while his thumb kept finding the Blackberry in his pocket, checking for messages that weren’t there, refreshing his inbox like that would somehow make you materialize.
In constitutional law, he’d set the phone on his desk, screen up, volume on high, ignoring the annoyed looks from classmates who took their education more seriously than he apparently did anymore. Professor Chen would be discussing the evolving interpretation of the Commerce Clause and Dick would be watching his phone screen like it held the secrets of the universe instead of just a depressing lack of new messages.
Between classes, walking across campus with leaves crunching under his Church’s oxfords, leaves that were that specific October color that only happened in New York, that deep red and burnt orange that photographers tried to capture but never quite got right, he’d pull out his phone and check again. Nothing. Always nothing. Just his father’s secretary confirming dinner on Saturday, just Jason sending him articles about labor organizing that Dick didn’t read, just the law school listserv announcing some speaker series nobody cared about.
He wanted to find time to go back to the daycare, to show up with some excuse about visiting Jason, to make you remember him in case you were forgetting, in case the memory of him was fading like cheap dye in sunlight. He wanted to ask how your day was going and to see your drawings, to watch your hands move across paper with that same focused intensity, to be near you in that specific way that made everything else feel less important, less urgent, less real. But he couldn’t. Class and the internship at the mayor’s office took his time from his hands like thieves in expensive suits, leaving him with nothing but exhaustion and the constant awareness of his phone’s weight in his pocket, that little rectangle of possibility that stayed stubbornly, devastatingly silent.
The internship was supposedly prestigious, the kind of thing that looked good on a resume, the kind of thing his father had arranged with a single phone call because that’s what fathers like his did, they arranged things, they made calls, they opened doors that stayed closed for everyone else. Dick spent his days making copies and fetching coffee and sitting in on meetings where men in suits discussed zoning laws and budget allocations and how to make it look like they were helping the poor while actually helping their friends get richer. It was soul-crushing work disguised as opportunity, and Dick was starting to realize that his entire future looked like this, an endless series of rooms full of men talking about things that didn’t matter while pretending they mattered more than anything.
He called Jason a few times on his breaks, standing outside the municipal building smoking cigarettes he’d bummed off the security guard, trying not to seem obvious about asking. The October air was cold, that specific kind of cold that cut through your coat and reminded you that winter was coming, that nothing good lasted, that everything died eventually and all you could do was enjoy it while it was here.
“How’s work?” Dick would say, going for casual and landing somewhere around transparent, somewhere around desperate.
“It’s a daycare, Dick,” Jason would reply, and Dick could hear him smiling, could picture him sitting in that terrible storage closet office with applesauce still in his hair. “It’s exactly as chaotic as you’d expect. Why?”
“Just wondering. Everyone doing okay?”
“Everyone’s fine. Eden’s still annoyed about everything, which is his natural state. The kids are still tiny revolutionaries in training. The artist is still drawing.”
The artist. Dick hated that Jason wouldn’t say your name, hated that he was being protected from his own obviousness like he was some kind of invalid who couldn’t handle the truth. “That’s good,” Dick would say, exhaling smoke that looked like ghosts in the cold air. “That’s great.”
“You could just come visit,” Jason would point out, not unkindly. “Instead of calling me like you’re conducting surveillance. Instead of pretending you’re asking about my day when you’re really asking about someone else’s day.”
“I’m busy,” Dick would say, which was true but also felt like a lie, felt like an excuse, felt like the kind of thing people said when they were afraid of wanting something too much.
“Right,” Jason would reply, and Dick could hear the knowing smile in his voice, could feel his brother seeing right through him across the phone line. “Busy. Very busy. Too busy to visit your little brother. Too busy to stop by for twenty minutes. Got it.”
“I’ll come by soon,” Dick would promise, and Jason would make a noncommittal noise that suggested he’d heard that before and would believe it when he saw it.
About three weeks went by like this. Twenty-one days of nothing. Five hundred and four hours of Dick telling himself that you weren’t going to call, that it had been a moment and moments passed, that he should move on and focus on school and his future and all the things that mattered according to everyone who’d ever had an opinion about his life, which was everyone, which was too many people, which was a suffocating chorus of voices telling him who to be and what to want and how to live in a way that would make them proud instead of making him happy.
Three weeks of Dick going through the motions. Attending class. Taking notes. Participating in discussions about jurisprudence and statutory interpretation and all the ways the law pretended to be about justice when it was really about power.
Going to his internship. Making copies. Fetching coffee. Sitting in meetings. Going out with friends to bars where everyone was performing being young and carefree and unburdened by the future that was rushing toward them like a train they couldn’t see but could feel in the vibrations under their feet. Going home alone. Studying until his eyes burned. Checking his phone. Always checking his phone. The Blackberry screen glowing blue in the dark of his apartment, illuminating his face like he was telling ghost stories around a campfire, like he was trying to divine the future in pixels and empty notification screens.
Dick sat in his apartment on a Wednesday night that felt like every other Wednesday night, his black hair a mess from running his hands through it too many times, a nervous gesture he’d picked up somewhere between childhood and now, between being his father’s son and trying to figure out who he was when nobody was watching.
He wore a Harvard sweatshirt that his roommate had left behind when he’d moved out last year to go to business school in Boston, the crimson faded to something pinker, softer, the fabric worn thin in places from too many washes. Black-framed glasses sat on his face because his contacts had been in for sixteen hours and his eyes were staging a protest, burning and dry and begging for relief. He sat at his desk, a cheap Ikea thing he’d assembled wrong the first time and had to take apart and redo, surrounded by constitutional law casebooks and highlighters in multiple colors because someone had told him freshman year that color-coding notes helped with retention and he’d believed them.
An old Coltrane record played from the turntable he’d bought at a flea market in Brooklyn, trying to be the kind of person who appreciated jazz even though he wasn’t entirely sure he did, wasn’t entirely sure he understood what he was supposed to be hearing beyond the obvious, beyond the saxophone and the bass and the drums having what sounded like a very intellectual argument with each other.
His TV was on low, some wrestling match providing background noise because silence in the apartment felt too heavy, too full of thoughts he didn’t want to think. Randy Orton was doing something dramatic, hitting someone with his finishing move while the commentators lost their minds about it, their voices high and urgent and completely invested in the outcome of this choreographed violence.
The clock on his desk read one AM, the numbers glowing red like a warning, like a countdown to something. He’d been at this since eight, five hours of reading cases about the Commerce Clause and the Dormant Commerce Clause and the distinction between the two which seemed increasingly meaningless the longer he stared at the words. Constitutional law cases blurred together into a soup of precedent and dissent and majority opinions that all sounded the same after a certain point, all saying essentially that the law was whatever five justices said it was and everything else was just elaborate justification for conclusions they’d already reached.
His head was heavy, weighted down with information he didn’t care about and thoughts about you he couldn’t stop having. His eyes were closing without permission, his body staging a coup against his determination to finish this reading before tomorrow’s seminar where Professor Chen would cold-call someone and make them explain why they were wasting everyone’s time with their unprepared presence.
Before his head hit the book below him, before he could surrender to exhaustion and deal with the consequences tomorrow, his phone rang.
The sound cut through the apartment like a knife, sharp and sudden and completely unexpected at one in the morning. He was in a rush to answer, fumbling for it on the desk, knocking over a pen in the process, sending it clattering to the hardwood floor. His heart was doing something stupid and hopeful in his chest, that specific kind of hope that was mostly just fear disguised as optimism, the kind that said maybe this time, maybe now, maybe finally. He yawned, checked the small watch on his wrist out of habit, a Rolex his grandfather had left him that was worth more than his car, saw that it was one-fourteen AM, and his heart sank because who called at one in the morning except bad news or drunk friends or his father calling to tell him he was disappointing someone somewhere, that he’d failed to live up to expectations he didn’t know he was supposed to meet.
He picked up the phone slowly, saw the unknown number on the screen, the digits unfamiliar and therefore carrying infinite possibility, infinite terror. He answered with a voice that came out tired, wary, protected.
There were shuffles on the other end, movement, the sound of traffic or wind or both, city noises that told him whoever was calling was outside somewhere, was in the world while he was locked in his apartment reading about constitutional interpretation like a monk copying manuscripts. Then a voice came over the receiver, soft and slightly uncertain and completely, devastatingly, perfectly yours.
Dick perked up like someone had shot electricity through his spine, his entire body coming back online, exhaustion evaporating like it had never existed, like the last five hours of studying had been erased and replaced with this, this moment, this phone call, your voice in his ear saying his name like it meant something. He sat up straight in his chair, closed his book without marking his place because fuck the Commerce Clause, fuck Professor Chen, fuck everything that wasn’t this exact moment. His hand tightened on the phone.
“Hey love,” he said, and the endearment came out without thinking, natural as breathing, inevitable as gravity. “Are you okay?”
He heard you chuckle a little, that same sound he’d been replaying in his head for three weeks, that soft exhale of amusement that hit him in the chest like something physical, like something with weight and force. But there was something else under it too, something strained, something wrong. “Yeah, I’m… this is embarrassing. Can I ask you a favor?”
“Anything,” Dick responded back quickly, too quickly, the word leaving his mouth before you’d even finished your sentence, before his brain could catch up to his mouth and remind him to play it cool, to not seem desperate, to maintain some kind of dignity. But fuck dignity. Dignity was for people who had better options. “Anything at all.”
“I’m stuck at a concert venue,” you said, and there was something weary in your voice, something tired and disappointed and trying not to be either, trying to keep it together in that specific way women had to keep it together because falling apart in public was dangerous. “Jason’s not answering. Eden isn’t either. Can you pick me up—”
“Where?” Dick was already up, already pulling his jeans on over his boxers with one hand while holding the phone with the other, hopping on one foot in a way that would have been comedic if he wasn’t so focused, so determined to get to you as fast as physically possible. He was already grabbing for his coat that was draped over his desk chair, already shoving his feet into his Converse because the oxfords took too long to tie and every second mattered. His heart was pounding now, not from attraction or nervousness but from something protective, something primal, something that made his chest tight with the need to get to you, to fix this, to make sure you were safe.
You gave him the location, some venue in Brooklyn he vaguely knew, and Dick paused in the middle of shoving his arms through his coat sleeves. The venue was in Williamsburg, a neighborhood that was trying very hard to be cool and mostly succeeding, full of vintage stores and coffee shops and venues where bands played music that was too experimental to be popular but too popular to be truly experimental.
“By yourself? You’re there by yourself, love?” he asked, and his voice came out sharper than he intended, edged with something that might have been anger except it wasn’t directed at you, it was directed at whoever had left you there, at whatever circumstances had resulted in you being alone at a concert venue at one in the morning calling him because nobody else had answered.
Dick was hurriedly grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door, his wallet from the desk, checking for his MetroCard even though he was absolutely not taking the subway, was absolutely driving even though parking in Brooklyn was a nightmare, even though his car was parked three blocks away and he’d have to run to get to it. He was already mentally calculating routes, which bridges would be fastest, whether the BQE or going through Queens would save him time.
“Yes,” you said, and there was something in your voice that made Dick’s chest do something painful, something that squeezed his heart like a fist. “My friends vanished on me.”
Friends. Plural. Multiple people had abandoned you, had left you alone, had decided whatever they wanted to do was more important than making sure you got home safely. Dick felt rage bloom hot and immediate in his chest, the kind of anger that made his hands shake slightly, made his jaw clench so hard his teeth hurt.
“I’m on my way,” Dick said, already out the door, already taking the stairs two at a time because the elevator in his building was older than both of them combined and slower than walking, slower than crawling, a mechanical insult to anyone who actually needed to get somewhere. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t accept anyone’s offer for a ride or anything. Just wait for me. I’m coming.”
The stairwell smelled like old cooking and mildew and someone’s attempt to cover both with air freshener that only made everything worse. Dick’s footsteps echoed off concrete, a rhythm that matched his heartbeat, fast and urgent and slightly panicked. He burst out onto the street, the October night air hitting him like a slap, cold enough to see his breath, cold enough to remind him that winter was coming and bringing all its casual cruelties with it.
“Okay,” you said quietly, and Dick heard relief in it, heard trust, heard something that made him want to drive faster than was legal or safe or reasonable, that made him want to break every traffic law ever written if it meant getting to you thirty seconds sooner.
The three blocks to his car felt like three miles. Dick ran, actually ran, his Converse slapping against sidewalk that was cracked and uneven from decades of freeze-thaw cycles and the roots of trees that refused to stay underground where they belonged. He passed closed storefronts, their metal gates pulled down for the night, covered in graffiti that ranged from artistic to obscene. Passed a bodega that was still open, the only beacon of light on the block, its neon OPEN sign flickering like a heartbeat. Passed a group of kids smoking on a stoop, their laughter following him down the street like a soundtrack to his urgency.
His car was a 1995 Honda Civic, dark green, older than some of the students in his law school classes. It had been his grandfather’s car, the one he’d driven to the train station every morning for thirty years before retiring and deciding he didn’t need a car anymore, giving it to Dick with the keys and a warning to change the oil regularly. Dick loved this car in the way you loved things that were ugly and reliable, things that didn’t ask much from you except basic maintenance and occasionally a new battery. It looked deeply out of place next to the newer cars on the street.
Dick unlocked it, got in, turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, protesting slightly because he hadn’t driven it in three days and it liked to be driven, needed to be driven, developed problems when it sat idle for too long. The interior smelled like old leather and the pine tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror that had long since stopped smelling like pine and now just smelled like chemicals. Dick cranked the heat, knowing it would take ten minutes to actually produce warmth but hoping somehow it would work faster, would make the car comfortable for you by the time he got there.
He pulled away from the curb, tires squealing slightly, and merged into the sparse late-night traffic. The streets of the East Village were quiet, almost peaceful, the kind of quiet that only existed between one and two AM when the bars had closed but the really dedicated alcoholics hadn’t made it home yet, when the city held its breath between night and morning, between yesterday and tomorrow.
Dick drove fast but not recklessly, breaking the speed limit by exactly five miles per hour which was the magic number where cops didn’t bother you, where you were breaking the law but not breaking it enough to matter. He went south on First Avenue, the lights timed perfectly for once in his life, turning green just as he approached each intersection like the universe was conspiring to help him, like someone somewhere had decided he deserved this one thing to go right. He turned onto Delancey, heading toward the Williamsburg Bridge, that massive structure of cables and metal and engineering that connected Manhattan to Brooklyn like an umbilical cord, like a lifeline.
The bridge was empty at this hour, just Dick and a taxi and someone on a motorcycle who passed him going at least eighty. The city spread out below and around him, a carpet of lights that went on forever, windows in buildings where people were awake for reasons he’d never know, living lives that would never intersect with his except in this moment, this shared insomnia, this common experience of being awake when everyone else was dreaming.
Dick thought about you while he drove. Thought about the way you bit your lip when you were concentrating on your drawings. Thought about the graphite smudge on your cheek. Thought about your voice on the phone, soft and uncertain and trusting him to come get you, trusting him enough to call even though you’d waited three weeks, even though you probably had other options, other people you could have called. The fact that you’d called him felt significant, felt like it meant something, felt like maybe you’d been thinking about him too, maybe you’d been holding onto that sticky note for three weeks the same way he’d been holding onto his phone, both of you waiting, both of you wanting, both of you too scared to make the first move until circumstances forced your hand.
He made it in twelve minutes.
The venue was one of those places that looked cool in magazine spreads about Brooklyn’s music scene but looked significantly less cool at one-thirty in the morning when the show was over and everyone was spilling out onto the street in various states of intoxication and poor decision-making. It was a converted warehouse, the kind that used to make something useful like furniture or appliances before manufacturing moved overseas and left behind these massive shells that entrepreneurs turned into art galleries and concert venues and expensive lofts for people who wanted to live in Brooklyn before it got too expensive, which it already was but everyone pretended it wasn’t, everyone pretended they were pioneers discovering something new instead of colonizers pricing out the people who’d been there first.
The street outside was chaos. People everywhere, shouting, laughing, arguing about where to go next, whether to hit another bar or call it a night or find the nearest diner and sober up over disco fries and terrible coffee. Someone was throwing up in the gutter. Someone else was crying on a friend’s shoulder. A group was trying to hail a cab that wasn’t stopping because cabs never stopped in Brooklyn at this hour, everyone knew that, but they kept trying anyway because hope was stronger than experience, because drunk people were optimists by chemical necessity.
Dick pulled up to the curb, double parking because every legal spot was taken and he didn’t care, would pay the ticket if he got one, would pay a hundred tickets if it meant not making you wait thirty seconds longer than necessary. He left the car running, hazards on, and got out.
You were standing under a streetlight about twenty feet from the venue entrance, wrapped in a vintage fur jacket that looked too big for you, probably men’s, probably thrifted, the kind of jacket that had belonged to someone else first, had lived another life before becoming yours. Under it you wore what looked like a slip dress, something silky and dark that hit you mid-thigh, Dick could see even from where he was standing, and cute black heels.
Your arms were crossed over your chest against the cold, your breath coming out in clouds that dissipated immediately in the October night air. Your hair was different than it had been at the daycare, down now instead of pulled back, falling past your shoulders in waves that suggested you’d either spent time on it earlier or had been in a crowd of people dancing and sweating and living loud enough to mess it up. You looked small standing there, smaller than you’d looked in the daycare, more vulnerable, more alone.
You looked small and tired and beautiful and Dick felt something in his chest crack open at the sight of you, something that had been carefully sealed up for protection breaking apart because you were here, you were real, you were waiting for him.
He walked toward you and you looked up as he approached, and something in your expression shifted, relaxed, softened like you’d been holding yourself together through sheer force of will and could finally let go now that he was here, now that you weren’t alone anymore.
“Hey,” Dick said, and his voice came out softer than he intended, gentle in a way he didn’t know he could be, in a way that surprised him.
“Hey,” you replied, and you almost smiled, but it didn’t quite make it all the way to your eyes, stopped somewhere around your mouth, a ghost of what a real smile from you looked like.
“Come on,” Dick said, gesturing to the car with his head, not touching you even though he wanted to, even though every instinct he had was screaming at him to put his arm around you, to check if you were hurt, to make sure you were okay. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”
You followed him to the Civic, your heels making soft sounds against the pavement, and Dick opened the passenger door for you, an automatic gesture from years of his mother’s etiquette training, from dinners where he’d been taught that gentlemen opened doors and pulled out chairs and stood when a woman entered the room. You looked at him like he’d done something surprising, something sweet, your eyes widening slightly, and then you slid into the seat. Dick closed the door with more care than necessary, walked around to the driver’s side, and got in.
The car was warm now from the heater that had finally decided to start working, filling the small space with air that smelled like dust burning off the vents mixed with that chemical pine tree smell. Coltrane was still playing, soft and low from the tape deck because his car was from 1995 and tape decks were the height of technology then, before CDs took over, before mp3 players made physical media obsolete. “A Love Supreme” wound its way through the speakers, that hypnotic repetition that sounded like prayer or insanity or both.
You buckled your seatbelt with careful movements, your hands shaking slightly either from cold or adrenaline or both, and Dick pretended not to notice, pretended to be focused on checking his mirrors and pulling away from the curb even though all he wanted to do was look at you, to make sure you were really here, really okay, really safe in his passenger seat.
Dick merged into traffic, what little there was, heading back toward the bridge. For a moment neither of you spoke. The silence filled the car like a third passenger, not uncomfortable but full of weight, full of things that needed saying but neither of you knew how to start. Dick kept his eyes on the road, hyperaware of you in the seat next to him, hyperaware that this was the first time you’d been alone together outside the daycare, outside the context of children and Jason and fluorescent lighting, outside the safety of witnesses and interruptions and reasons to not say what you were thinking.
“you alright?” Dick asked finally, glancing at you before looking back at the road, catching your profile in the intermittent glow of streetlights, the way shadows moved across your face like something alive. “Was the concert that bad?”
“No,” you said, and there was something genuine in your voice now, something that pushed through the tiredness and disappointment. “Not at all. It was great. I love Janet Jackson. She did the whole Velvet Rope album and it was perfect. Her voice, the staging, everything. It was exactly what I needed.”
“that’s great ,” Dick said, dick honestly wished he was there he grown up listening to Rhythm Nation on his Walkman until the tape wore out and he had to buy another copy, had memorized every word of That’s The Way Love Goes without meaning to, letting it soundtrack his adolescence without understanding half of what she was singing about. “So what’s with the pout?”
“I’m not pouting,” you protested, but there was no heat in it, no real denial.
“Yes you are,” Dick said, glancing at you again, catching the slight downturn of your mouth, the way your arms were still crossed even though the car was warm now, like you were protecting yourself from something that wasn’t the cold. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
You were quiet for a moment, looking out the window at Brooklyn sliding past, bodega signs and closed storefronts and the occasional group of people stumbling home from bars, living their lives in the margins of yours, extras in a movie where you were the star and didn’t know it.
“Me and my friend had a fight,” you said finally, and your voice was small, smaller than he’d ever heard it, like you were embarrassed to admit it, like admitting it made it more real. “It was stupid.”
“Was it really?” Dick asked gently, his voice taking on that same soft quality from earlier, the one that surprised him, the one he didn’t know he had access to until you pulled it out of him. “Did it hurt your feelings?”
“Yes,” you admitted quietly, the word coming out like a confession, like you were admitting to something shameful instead of something completely reasonable.
“Then it wasn’t stupid,” Dick said firmly, and he meant it with his whole chest, hated the way people dismissed their own pain, minimized their own hurt like it didn’t matter, like only big tragedies deserved acknowledgment, like small wounds didn’t count because they didn’t leave visible scars. “If it hurt you, it matters. That’s the rule. That’s the only rule that matters.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, turning in your seat as much as the seatbelt would allow, and something in your expression shifted, softened, like he’d said exactly the right thing, like he’d passed some test he didn’t know he was taking.
“I just don’t like the way Clara disappears on me,” you said, and there was frustration in your voice now, anger barely contained under a thin layer of hurt and disappointment.
“Eden and Jason already warned her about it. They told her it’s not okay to just vanish when we go out together, to leave me without saying anything, without making sure I’m okay. But she does it anyway. Every time. Every single time we go out, she finds some guy or some other group of friends and just leaves without a word. And tonight when I called her out on it, when I said I needed her to stop doing that because it’s not safe and it’s not fair, she made it seem like I was being dramatic. Like I was being clingy and needy and overreacting. Like wanting your friend to not abandon you at a concert venue in Brooklyn at one in the morning is somehow unreasonable.”
Your voice had risen slightly, emotion breaking through the careful control you’d been maintaining, and Dick could hear three weeks of frustration and probably years of accumulated disappointment pouring out now that you’d finally started talking about it.
You were gripping the edge of the seat with one hand, the other pressed against your thigh, and Dick wanted to reach over and take your hand but didn’t, wasn’t sure if that would be welcome, wasn’t sure if touch was what you needed right now or if you just needed someone to listen.
“She said I was being possessive,” you continued, and there was something raw in your voice now, something that suggested this had cut deeper than you wanted to admit.
“Like being upset that your friend ditched you is somehow controlling. Like having basic expectations of how people should treat each other is asking too much. And then she left with some guy she just met, didn’t even tell me she was going, just disappeared, and I spent twenty minutes looking for her thinking something had happened before someone told me they saw her getting into a cab with him.”
“Jesus,” Dick muttered, his hands tightening on the steering wheel hard enough that his knuckles went white. He was navigating them back onto the Williamsburg Bridge, the city spreading out below them in a carpet of lights that looked beautiful and indifferent at the same time, millions of people living their lives, having their dramas, being disappointed by their friends, the whole messy human experience happening simultaneously across five boroughs.
“And the worst part,” you said, and your voice was quieter now, more controlled, like you were wrestling it back under management, “is that I know she’s going to call me tomorrow or the next day and act like nothing happened. Like this is just how she is and I should accept it. Like I’m the problem for having feelings about it instead of just going with the flow or whatever.”
“Mm,” Dick said, his jaw so tight it hurt, because he already didn’t like this Clara person, already wanted to have words with someone who’d make you feel like your very reasonable desire to not be abandoned was somehow a character flaw. “She’s the one that left you tonight? In the cold? By yourself? At a venue in a neighborhood you probably don’t know that well?”
“Yes,” you said, and there was resignation in it, acceptance of something you’d probably accepted a long time ago, that this friend wasn’t going to change, wasn’t going to suddenly start caring about your safety or your feelings or basic human decency.
“She’s not your friend,” Dick said firmly, and there was no room for argument in his voice, no space for you to defend her or make excuses or do that thing people did where they protected people who hurt them because letting go felt worse than holding on. “I’m sorry, but if I was your boyfriend I would not let you go out with her anywhere anymore. Actually, fuck that, if I was just your friend I wouldn’t let you go out with her. She’s not safe. She’s not reliable. She’s shown you who she is. Believe her.”
You were quiet for a moment, and Dick worried he’d overstepped, said too much, been too harsh about someone you clearly had history with even if that history was mostly disappointment. But then you chuckled, the sound surprised out of you, breaking through the heaviness that had settled in the car. “You’re very protective,” you said, and there was something almost wondering in your voice, like this was novel, like people being protective of you was rare enough to comment on.
“You called me at one in the morning stranded in Brooklyn,” Dick said, glancing at you, catching your eyes in the darkness of the car, the lights from the bridge casting moving shadows across your face. “Of course I’m protective. You could have been hurt. You could have gotten into a cab with the wrong person. You could have tried to take the subway alone at this hour and that’s how horror movies start. She left you vulnerable and that’s not okay. That’s never okay.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” you said, echoing his earlier words back to him. “What were you doing before I called?”
The subject change was abrupt, deliberate, the conversational equivalent of pulling a fire alarm to end a class you didn’t want to be in anymore. Dick let you do it, let you steer away from the hurt, understanding that sometimes you could only take so much emotional excavation before you needed to surface and breathe and talk about literally anything else. “Trying to study,” Dick said, and the memory of his apartment felt like it belonged to a different life, a different person who existed before this phone call, before this drive. “Trying not to doze off. Failing at both.”
“Oh I’m sorry, Dick,” you said, and there was genuine concern in your voice, genuine guilt like you’d done something wrong by calling him, by needing him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your studying. I can catch a cab or take the train from Manhattan, you don’t have to drive me all the way home—”
“Stop,” Dick said, and it came out harder than he meant it to, almost sharp. He softened his voice, tried again. “It’s alright, love. This is better than that. This is infinitely better than reading about Commerce Clause jurisprudence until my brain melts out of my ears and drips onto my desk. You calling me is the best thing that’s happened to me in three weeks. Possibly longer. Possibly ever.”
You turned to look at him fully then, and Dick could feel your eyes on him even though he was watching the road, could feel the weight of your attention like something physical, like something with mass and heat. There was a silence in the car, comfortable now, the kind that didn’t need filling, the kind that felt like its own form of communication. The Coltrane tape had ended at some point and Dick hadn’t noticed, so now there was just the sound of the engine, the hum of tires on bridge metal, the ambient noise of the city that never really stopped, that just got quieter at certain hours but never silent.
You looked at him, studying his profile in the intermittent glow of streetlights and passing cars and the ambient light pollution that turned the New York sky orange instead of black, made it impossible to see stars, made the whole city feel like it existed under a dome separating it from the real sky, the real stars, the real universe that continued on indifferent to everyone’s small human dramas.
His side profile was all angles and shadows, the line of his jaw sharp enough to cut, the slope of his nose aristocratic in that way that suggested generations of good breeding and careful selection, the way his glasses sat on his face making him look softer somehow, more approachable, less like the polished future-politician Jason had described and more like just a person, just a man, just someone who’d dropped everything at one in the morning to come get you without asking why, without making you feel like a burden.
“You look good with your glasses,” you said before you’d thought about whether you should say it, before your brain could catch up to your mouth and stop you, before the part of you that was careful and guarded could intervene and remind you that compliments were dangerous, that saying nice things to attractive men who picked you up at one in the morning created expectations, created possibilities, created openings for hurt.
Dick smiled, actually smiled, the expression transforming his whole face, making him look younger, happier, less weighted down by expectations and obligations and the accumulated pressure of being a Grayson. He glanced at you before looking back at the road, and there was something pleased in his expression, something almost shy, something vulnerable that suggested your opinion mattered to him more than it probably should given you’d known each other for exactly one afternoon three weeks ago.
“Thank you,” he said, and his voice had gone soft again, intimate in a way that made the car feel smaller, cozier, like you were in a cocoon together instead of a 1995 Honda Civic that smelled like chemical pine trees and determination. “I’m really blind. Like genuinely, deeply blind. Without these I’m basically useless. Can’t see more than two feet in front of me. Everything’s just shapes and colors and vague suggestions of reality.”
You laughed, actually laughed, the sound filling the small space of the car and making everything feel warmer, lighter, more possible. The heaviness from talking about Clara lifted slightly, not gone but manageable now, pushed to the side to deal with later or never, replaced by this moment, this conversation, this strange intimacy of being alone together at almost two in the morning driving through a city that felt like it belonged to you both and you both alone.
Dick felt it hit him in the chest like something physical, like someone had reached in and squeezed his heart in a way that hurt but in a good way, in the way that reminded you that you were alive, that you could feel things, that not everything was numb and obligatory and performed for an audience.
“I can’t imagine not being able to see,” you said, and there was something thoughtful in your voice now, like you were really considering it, really trying to understand what that would be like. “Everything I do is visual. Drawing, fashion, looking at buildings, people watching. If I couldn’t see clearly I don’t know what I’d do.”
“You’d adapt,” Dick said, and he believed it, believed you were the kind of person who adapted, who survived, who figured shit out when life handed you obstacles. “You’d find another way. You’d develop other senses. You’d make it work because that’s what you do. That’s what everyone does when they don’t have a choice.”
“That’s very optimistic,” you observed.
“That’s very realistic,” Dick corrected. “People are more resilient than they think they are. We survive things we don’t think we can survive. We adapt to circumstances we never imagined adapting to. It’s not optimism, it’s just observation.”
“You sound like a lawyer,” you said, but there was no judgment in it, just statement of fact.
“I am a lawyer,” Dick said. “Or I will be. In two and a half years. If I don’t drop out first.”
“Are you thinking about dropping out?” you asked, and there was genuine curiosity in your voice, genuine interest, like his answer mattered to you.
“Every day,” Dick admitted, and it felt good to say it out loud to someone who wasn’t Jason, someone who didn’t have a vested interest in his life choices, someone who wouldn’t report back to his father or his mother or anyone who thought they had a right to an opinion about what he did with his life. “Every single day I wake up and think about what would happen if I just didn’t go. If I just stayed in bed. If I just walked away from all of it and did something else. Anything else.”
“Why don’t you?” you asked simply, like it was that easy, like walking away from expectations was something you could just do without consequences.
“Because I don’t know what else I’d do,” Dick said honestly. “This is the only path I’ve ever known. Law, politics, public service, making a difference through policy and legislation. It’s been decided since I was like twelve. Before that, probably. My father’s a senator, his father was a senator, his father before him was in the House. It’s what we do. It’s who we are. Or who we’re supposed to be.”
“But what do you want?” you pressed, and there was something gentle in your voice but also insistent, like you weren’t going to let him hide behind family expectations, like you wanted a real answer.
Dick was quiet for a long moment, navigating them off the bridge and back into Manhattan, heading uptown because he assumed you lived somewhere accessible even though he realized with something like panic that he didn’t actually know where you lived, that he’d come to get you without asking for your address, that he’d been so focused on getting to you that he hadn’t thought about what came after.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, and it felt like confession, like admitting to something shameful. “I genuinely don’t know. I’ve spent so long being what everyone else wants me to be that I’m not sure there’s anything underneath it. Like if I took off all the layers of expectation and obligation and performance, maybe there’d just be nothing there. Maybe I’m just a well-dressed void.”
“I don’t believe that,” you said firmly, and there was conviction in your voice that surprised him, that made him want to believe you. “I’ve seen you with Jason. I’ve watched you ask questions about fashion like you actually care about the answers. I’ve heard the way you talk about your life like you’re drowning in it. People who are voids don’t drown. They don’t feel anything strongly enough to drown in it. You’re not nothing. You’re just buried under everyone else’s something.”
Dick felt something catch in his throat, something that might have been emotion or might have been the beginning of tears or might have been both. “That’s very poetic,” he managed.
“I’m tired,” you said. “I get poetic when I’m tired. Or maybe I’m always poetic and you’re just noticing now.”
“Maybe,” Dick agreed, and then, because he couldn’t put it off anymore, “Where am I taking you? I realized I don’t actually know where you live.”
“Queens,” you said. “Astoria. I can give you directions or you can just drop me at the train—”
“I’m not dropping you at the train,” Dick said firmly. “It’s almost two in the morning. I’m driving you home. That was always the plan. That’s the only acceptable plan.”
“That’s out of your way,” you protested.
“I don’t care,” Dick said. “Give me the address.”
You gave him the address, rattling off a street and a cross street that Dick vaguely knew, and he adjusted his route accordingly, heading toward the Queensboro Bridge instead of continuing uptown.
“You want company?” you asked suddenly, and the question hung in the air between them like something with weight, like something with consequences.
“For what?” Dick asked, not understanding, his brain still catching up to the conversation.
“For studying,” you clarified. “You said you were trying to stay awake to study. I could help. I could keep you company. Make sure you don’t pass out on your constitutional law textbook.”
“Yes,” Dick answered before you could even get the last part of the sentence out, the word leaving his mouth so fast it almost cut you off, his response so immediate and enthusiastic that it should have been embarrassing but wasn’t, because this was you, because you were offering to spend more time with him, because the alternative was dropping you off and driving back to his empty apartment alone and he couldn’t imagine anything worse than that, couldn’t imagine letting you go now that he had you here.
You smiled at that, really smiled this time, the expression reaching your eyes, transforming your whole face from pretty to beautiful to something that didn’t have a word because words were inadequate for what happened to you when you smiled like that, when you let your guard down and showed him what you looked like when you were happy. “Okay,” you said softly, and there was something pleased in your voice, something satisfied like his enthusiasm had confirmed something you’d been hoping was true but weren’t sure about.
The drive to Queens felt both endless and too short, time moving at that strange speed it only moved in the middle of the night when the rest of the world was sleeping and you felt like maybe you were the only two people awake in the entire city. Dick navigated through increasingly residential streets, past closed bodegas and darkened storefronts and the occasional late-night diner still glowing like a beacon.
He found your building on a quiet tree-lined street, a charming pre-war building that was four stories tall, red brick with white trim around the windows and a small garden area in front that someone clearly tended with care. It looked solid, lived-in, the kind of building where people stayed for years because it felt like home rather than just a place to sleep between obligations.
“This is me,” you said. “Fourth floor. Fair warning, there’s no elevator and by the time we get to the top you’re going to question all your life choices.”
“I can handle stairs,” Dick said, parking the car, turning off the engine. “I’m very athletic. Sometimes. Occasionally. When properly motivated.”
You laughed, getting out of the car, and Dick followed you to the building entrance. The lobby was small but well-maintained, with original tile work on the floor in an intricate pattern of black and white, a row of brass mailboxes that had been polished recently, and a small table with fresh flowers.
You unlocked the inner door and started climbing, and Dick followed, watching the way you moved. The stairwell was narrow but clean, painted a warm cream color, with framed prints on the walls at each landing.
By the fourth floor, Dick was slightly winded but not embarrassingly so. You stopped at apartment 4C, pulling out your keys, and Dick noticed the welcome mat that said
“Wipe Your Paws” and a tiny mezuzah on the doorframe.
“Okay,” you said quietly, your hand on the doorknob. “So, full disclosure, my apartment is very… me. Maya and I have been here for two years and we’ve made it very homey. So if it’s a lot, that’s normal. We like stuff. We like things that make us happy. We’re unapologetic about it.”
“I’m sure it’s perfect,” Dick said.
“Reserve judgment,” you said, but you were smiling as you unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping inside and gesturing for Dick to follow.
The apartment hit Dick like a wave of warmth and personality and life. It wasn’t a studio at all but a proper two-bedroom with a living room that opened up before him, and everything about it made him understand immediately who you were when you weren’t performing for anyone.
The space was beautifully decorated in a way that had nothing to do with trends and everything to do with two people who loved their home and filled it with things that made them happy.
The walls were painted a soft, warm cream color that made everything feel cozy, and they were covered in frames. Dozens of them. Photos of you and Maya and other friends, laughing at parties, posing at museums, candid shots at beaches and restaurants and apartments, the visual timeline of friendships and inside jokes and moments that mattered. The frames were mismatched, some vintage brass, some modern black, some clearly from Target, but together they created a gallery wall that told the story of your life.
Your fashion sketches were interspersed among the photos, some framed professionally, others pinned directly to the wall, showing your evolution as an artist. Vintage fashion posters hung in strategic places, Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly and other icons whose style had clearly influenced yours.
But what made Dick’s chest ache with how much he suddenly wanted to belong here were all the other things, all the trinkets and treasures that transformed the apartment from merely decorated to deeply loved. Every surface held something: vintage perfume bottles on the windowsill catching the streetlight, a collection of ceramic cats on the bookshelf arranged like they were having a meeting, small potted plants in hand-painted pots, stacks of fashion magazines next to art books next to novels, candles in various states of use, a small jewelry box that looked antique sitting open with necklaces spilling out.
Stuffed animals were everywhere, but not in a childish way, in a way that suggested neither you nor Maya had ever been ashamed of loving soft things that made you smile. A large teddy bear sat in the corner of the burgundy velvet sofa like he lived there, like he was part of the furniture.
Smaller stuffed animals lined the windowsill, a row of friends watching the street below. A giant Squishmallow in the shape of a strawberry took up half of one armchair. More stuffed creatures peeked out from between books on the shelves, sat on top of the TV stand, seemed to inhabit every available space like a gentle invasion of softness.
Bookshelves lined one wall, painted white and filled with books and objects in a way that suggested curation and whimsy in equal measure. Fashion textbooks and design books mixed with novels and what looked like medical texts that probably belonged to Maya. But between the books were more treasures: vintage cameras, more small plants, framed photos, a collection of snow globes catching the light, ceramic figurines, a taxidermied butterfly under glass, postcards from cities neither of you had probably been to but dreamed of visiting.
The kitchen was visible through an open doorway, small but charming, with white cabinets and open shelving displaying mismatched dishes and mugs, a collection of vintage tea tins arranged on top of the cabinets, and what looked like a string of paper cranes hanging in the window.
A clothing rack stood near the window, holding what were clearly your creations, dresses and jackets in various stages of completion. A dress form next to it was draped with fabric, pins stuck all over marking adjustments. Your workspace was set up near the window, a desk covered in art supplies, sketches, a small sewing machine, everything organized in a way that suggested this was where you spent hours lost in creation.
“Wow,” Dick said, and the word felt inadequate for what he was seeing, for how much this space communicated about who you were, who you wanted to be, what you valued. “This is… this is beautiful. This is really, genuinely beautiful.”
“It’s a lot,” you said, but there was something pleased in your voice. “Maya says we live like we’re running a museum for things that make us happy. But I don’t care. I love it here. This is home.”
“I can see why,” Dick said, still looking around, still cataloging details. A macramé wall hanging with small mirrors woven into it. A shelf dedicated entirely to candles, dozens of them in different scents and stages of use. More photos everywhere, moments captured and displayed because they mattered, because joy was worth remembering. “This is the most welcoming space I’ve ever seen. It’s like you’ve turned warmth and comfort into physical form.”
“That’s very poetic,” you said, hanging your leather jacket on a coat rack by the door that was already heavy with jackets and scarves. “You’re poetic when you’re tired too, apparently.”
“Apparently,” Dick agreed, watching as you moved through the space with the ease of someone who knew every inch of it by heart.
You led him further into the living room and Dick noticed more details: a corkboard on one wall covered in ticket stubs and photos and notes and memories pinned up like they were too precious to put away. A small bar cart in the corner with mismatched glasses and a few bottles, clearly for when friends came over. A woven basket overflowing with blankets, the kind you pulled out for movie nights when you wanted to be cozy.
“So that’s Maya’s room,” you said, pointing to one of the closed doors off the living room. “And that’s mine.” You gestured to the other closed door. “But we spend most of our time out here. This is where we live. Where we watch movies and cook dinner and just exist together.”
“It’s perfect,” Dick said, and he meant it with his whole chest. “Everything about this is perfect.”
“You want that coffee now?” you asked, moving toward the kitchen, and Dick followed, watching as you filled a kettle covered in floral stickers, setting it on the stove.
“If you’re having some,” Dick said.
“It’s instant,” you warned, pulling out two mugs,
“Perfect,” Dick said, leaning against the counter, watching you spoon instant coffee into both mugs with practiced efficiency.
You were standing there waiting for the kettle to boil, Dick watching you in the warm light of your beautiful apartment, when something you said made him laugh, really laugh, and you laughed too, the sound echoing in the small kitchen, bright and unguarded and genuine.
That’s when a door opened. Footsteps. And then a voice, female and sleepy but definitely amused.
“Ooh, I didn’t know you had company tonight.”
Dick turned to see a girl emerging from one of the bedrooms, wrapped in a robe covered in cartoon clouds, her dark curly hair pulled into a silk bonnet. She was taller than you, maybe five-foot-seven, with eyes that were tired but kind and definitely curious. She looked between you and Dick with an expression that was half surprise, half delight.
“Maya, I’m so sorry,” you said immediately, looking genuinely distressed. “Did we wake you? I thought we were being quiet—”
“You were being quiet,” Maya said, padding into the kitchen in slippers shaped like dinosaurs. “I just got up to get water and I heard laughing and saw the light on and got nosy. You know I’m constitutionally incapable of minding my own business.” She looked at Dick with undisguised interest.
“Hi. I’m Maya. the best friend …anddd person who’s very confused right now because she went to bed alone and woke up to a strange man in her kitchen.”
“I’m Dick,” Dick said, straightening up, his mother’s etiquette training kicking in. “Nice to meet you. I’m really sorry for the intrusion. She offered to help me study and we ended up here.”
“Study,” Maya repeated, one eyebrow rising. “At two-thirty in the morning. Sure. Very academic.” She looked at you. “Girl, when did this happen? You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone. I would have cleaned the kitchen if I’d known we were having guests.”
“This isn’t…” you started, your face going red. “We’re not… we just met. Well, we met three weeks ago but tonight I needed a ride and he came to get me and—”
“He came to get you?” Maya interrupted, and now she was looking at Dick with new respect. “From where?”
“Williamsburg,” Dick said. “From a concert. Her friend left her there.”
“Clara?” Maya’s expression darkened immediately. “I told you to stop going anywhere with that girl. She’s a walking disaster. But you—” she turned back to Dick, “—you drove all the way to Williamsburg at what, one in the morning? To pick her up?”
“Of course,” Dick said, like it was obvious, like there was no other option.
“Okay, I like you already,” Maya declared. “You’re better than the last guy. What was his name? Brandon? Brad?”
“Brandon,” you muttered. “And we went on two dates. That wasn’t dating.”
“He was terrible,” Maya said. “Talked about CrossFit the entire time and didn’t tip the waiter. Dick is already an upgrade.” She looked at Dick seriously. “Where do you go to school?”
“Columbia,” Dick said. “Law school.”
“Of course you do,” Maya said, but she was smiling. “And let me guess, you live in Manhattan?”
“Tribeca,” Dick admitted, and he saw something flicker across Maya’s face.
“So you’re rich,” she said, not accusatory, just observational.
“My family has money,” Dick corrected. “I’m aware of how privileged that makes me.”
Maya studied him for another long moment, and Dick had the distinct impression he was being evaluated. Then she smiled, warm and genuine. “ Rich handsome and modest, keep this one he’s better than you ever had”
“Maya,” you said, mortified but also clearly amused.
“What? I’m just saying,” Maya said, moving to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. “You have terrible taste in people sometimes. Present company excluded, allegedly. But this one seems different. This one seems like he actually likes you, which is shockingly rare.”
“I do like her,” Dick said, because apparently honesty was his new policy and he was committed to it. “I like her a lot.”
“See?” Maya said to you. “He’s honest. He’s direct. He’s not playing games. This is progress.” She turned back to Dick. “Okay, Dick. Here’s the deal. I’m very protective of my best friend. She’s had her heart broken by people who didn’t deserve her. So I’m giving you provisional approval, but if you hurt her, I will find you. I’m studying to be a nurse so I know exactly how to cause pain without leaving marks.”
“That’s terrifying,” Dick said.
“It’s meant to be,” Maya said cheerfully. “Okay, I’m going back to bed now because I have rounds in four hours and I need sleep. You two kids have fun studying or whatever euphemism we’re using. Just keep it down, okay? These walls are thin and I need my rest.”
“Maya!” you said, face flaming now.
“I’m just being realistic,” Maya said, completely unbothered. “You’re both adults. It’s very late. There’s clearly chemistry. I’m not going to pretend I don’t see it. Just be respectful of my sleep schedule.” She looked at Dick one more time. “It was nice meeting you, Dick. Take care of her, yeah?”
“Good,” Maya said, and then she was shuffling back to her room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
The silence that followed was heavy with embarrassment and amusement. You covered your face with your hands. “I’m so sorry. She has absolutely no filter. Especially when she’s tired. She doesn’t mean to be embarrassing.”
“She’s perfect,” Dick said honestly. “She cares about you. She’s protective. That’s what good friends do. That’s what best friends do.”
“She’s the best,” you agreed, lowering your hands, and Dick could see you were still blushing but also smiling. “She’s been keeping me sane since we moved in together. Well, as sane as I can be.”
The kettle started whistling and you turned to deal with it, pouring hot water into both mugs, the instant coffee dissolving into something that smelled more like chemicals than coffee but would serve its purpose. You handed Dick his mug and he took it, your fingers brushing, that now-familiar electricity passing between you.
“So,” you said, leaning against the counter, cradling your mug. “Still want to stay? Or did Maya scare you off with her threats of medical torture?”
“She didn’t scare me off,” Dick said. “If anything, I like her more now. And I definitely still want to stay.”
“Okay,” you said softly, and something in your expression shifted, opened up. “Okay, good.”
“So do you go to concerts a lot?” Dick asked with a quiet voice, setting his terrible instant coffee down on the counter, his eyes finding yours in the warm light of your kitchen.
“Yes, only because Eden loves live music and Jason always buys us all tickets,” you said, smiling at the memory, and Dick could see the fondness in your expression, the affection you had for his brother and Eden. “They’re always dragging me to shows. Sometimes it’s great, like tonight with Janet Jackson. Sometimes it’s less great, like when Eden took us to see some experimental noise band in a basement in Bushwick and I thought my eardrums were going to bleed.”
Dick laughed, that genuine sound that transformed his whole face, made him look younger and less burdened. “That sounds like something Eden would do. Jason told me about him. Said he’s very into the underground scene.”
“He’s very into anything that feels authentic,” you said. “He hates mainstream anything. It’s exhausting sometimes but also admirable. He lives by his principles even when it’s inconvenient.”
“You and my brother are really that close?” Dick asked, and there was something in his voice, not jealousy exactly, but curiosity, maybe a touch of something else, like he was trying to understand the relationship, trying to map the connections between the people in your life.
“Yes, I love him and Eden,” you said simply, and you meant it, the words coming out easy and honest. “They’re very good boys. They take care of me. They look out for me. When Clara pulls her disappearing act, they’re the ones who make sure I get home safe. When I’m stressed about money or school or life, they’re the ones who show up with takeout and bad movies and just let me exist without having to explain myself.”
You paused, looking at Dick, really looking at him, seeing the way he was watching you with that same focused intensity he’d had since the moment you met. “Jason said you taught him to be the way he is,” you continued softly. “And I can see it. I can see your influence in him.”
“What do you see?” Dick asked, and he bit his lip, the gesture unconscious and vulnerable and making him look less like a polished law student and more like just a person who wanted to be understood, who wanted to know how others perceived him.
“A real good guy with a good head on his shoulders,” you said, and you meant every word, could see it written across Dick’s face, the way he’d showed up for you tonight, the way he talked about his brother, the way he moved through the world trying to be better than he was raised to be. “Someone who cares about doing the right thing even when it’s hard. Someone who wants to be good not because he’s supposed to be but because he actually is, underneath all the expectations and pressure. I see that in Jason. And I see where he learned it.”
Dick smiled at that, something soft and genuine and a little bit sad, like the compliment had hit him deeper than he expected. He let your words hang in the air between you, settling into the space, becoming part of the moment, and for a while neither of you spoke, just existed together in the warm kitchen with terrible instant coffee and the city humming outside the windows.
Then Dick said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant, “I like the dress you’re wearing.”
You felt something warm spread through your chest, something that felt like validation and desire and the awareness of being seen, really seen, by someone who mattered. You’d noticed the way his eyes kept dropping to the slip dress, the way he’d been carefully not looking at you too directly all night, trying to be respectful, trying not to make you uncomfortable, trying to be a gentleman even though you could see the want written across his face in a language you were learning to read.
“I know,” you said, and you couldn’t help the teasing note that crept into your voice, the slight smile that played at your lips. “You haven’t been able to look me in the eye since I took the coat off.”
Dick turned red, actually red, color flooding his face and spreading down his neck, visible even in the warm lighting of your kitchen. His hands gripped the edge of the counter and you could see his knuckles go white. “I’m sorry, I—” he started, and there was genuine mortification in his voice, genuine concern that he’d made you uncomfortable, that he’d been inappropriate, that he’d fucked up somehow in a way that couldn’t be taken back.
“It’s okay, Dick,” you interrupted gently, not wanting him to spiral, not wanting him to turn this into something he needed to apologize for when it was actually kind of sweet, kind of flattering, kind of exactly what you’d hoped would happen when you’d chosen this dress hours ago. “Thank you for the compliment. I’ve been waiting to wear this dress for a minute. It’s vintage, nineteen-nineties, real silk. I found it at this consignment shop in the East Village three months ago and I knew I had to have it even though it cost way more than I should have spent. I’ve been saving it for something special.”
“It’s perfect,” Dick said, and his voice had gone rough, strained with the effort of maintaining control, of being respectful when what he clearly wanted was to close the distance between you and find out what would happen if he did. “black is incredible on you. like it was made specifically for you and no one else could ever wear it the way you do.”
You felt heat rise in your own face now, felt the weight of his attention like something physical, something that made your skin feel too tight and too warm and hyperaware of your body and his body and the space between them that suddenly felt both too large and too small.
“You’re very good at compliments,” you managed, trying for lightness, trying not to show how much his words affected you.
“I’m very bad at compliments,” Dick corrected, his eyes finally meeting yours and holding, not looking away this time, not being careful anymore. “I’m just telling the truth. There’s a difference.”
The silence that fell between you was heavy with something neither of you was ready to name but both of you could feel humming in the air like electricity before a storm. You were hyperaware of how close he was standing, how easy it would be to reach out and touch him, to put your hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat, to close the space between standing here talking and finding out what his mouth tasted like.
“Did any guys at the concert say the same thing?” Dick asked carefully, and there was something vulnerable in the question, something that suggested your answer mattered more than it should, that he was asking about more than just compliments, that he was really asking if he had competition, if there was someone else you were thinking about, if this thing between you was something that could become real or if it was just him wanting something you couldn’t give.
You smiled at him, slow and deliberate, enjoying the way his eyes tracked the movement of your mouth, the way he seemed frozen, waiting for your answer like it would determine something important, something that would tell him whether to hope or give up. You crossed your arms, leaning back slightly against the counter, watching him watch you, enjoying the power of it, the awareness that you could affect him this much with just a look, just a smile, just the possibility of an answer.
“Would you be mad if I said yes?” you asked, your voice steady, giving nothing away.
“Yes,” Dick said immediately, truthfully, no hesitation, no attempt to play it cool or pretend he didn’t care. The word came out hard, definitive, honest in a way that made your stomach flip, made heat pool low in your belly. “Yes, I would be mad. Irrationally, unreasonably mad..”
You felt something dangerous flutter in your chest, something that felt like power and desire and the beginning of something that could hurt you if you weren’t careful but that you wanted anyway despite the risk, maybe because of the risk. “Then no,” you said simply, your voice soft now, intimate, just for him.
Dick stared at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, and you could see him processing, trying to figure out if you were telling the truth or if you were just saying what he wanted to hear, if this was honesty or manipulation or something in between. His gaze was intense, focused, the look of someone who was used to reading people, used to finding inconsistencies, used to knowing when someone was lying.
“Are you telling me the truth?” he asked, his voice low, joking tone, like he was approaching something dangerous, something that could explode if he wasn’t careful with it.
you laugh, You held his gaze, let him see that you were serious, that you weren’t playing games, that you were being as honest as you knew how to be.
“Guys tried to talk to me,” you admitted, because honesty felt important here, felt like the only thing that mattered. “There were a few. One offered to buy me a drink. Another asked if I wanted to dance. But I wasn’t interested. Because I spent the entire concert thinking about you. About whether I should call you. About what it would mean if I did. About whether you’d actually come if I needed you or if that sticky note was just a polite gesture you’d already forgotten about.”
Dick’s breath caught, audible in the quiet kitchen, and you could see his chest rising and falling faster now, could see the careful control starting to slip, could see want written across his face so clearly it made your heart race.
“I came,” he said, and his voice was rough, strained. “Of course I came. I would have come from anywhere. I would have dropped everything. Because you called. Because you needed me. Because I’ve been waiting three weeks for you to need me.”
“I know,” you said softly, and you did know, could see it in the way he was looking at you, could feel it in the air between you, could understand it in a way that was both terrifying and thrilling. “I know you would have.”
Dick took a step closer, eliminating some of the distance between you, and suddenly the kitchen felt smaller, more intimate, like the walls had moved in while you weren’t paying attention.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he said, and it came out like a confession, like something he hadn’t meant to say but couldn’t keep inside anymore. “Standing there in that dress, looking at me like that, telling me no one else said anything, like you were thinking about me all night. You’re killing me. You’re actually going to be the death of me.”
“That’s very dramatic,” you observed, but your voice was shaking slightly now, anticipation and nervousness and desire making it hard to speak steadily.
“That’s very accurate,” Dick corrected, and then one of his hands came up, hovering near your face but not quite touching, like he was giving you the chance to pull away, to tell him to stop, to put distance between this moment and what could happen next. “Can I touch you?” he asked, and his voice was so careful, so respectful, so full of want barely contained that it made your chest ache.
“Yes,” you said, and the word came out breathless, honest, inevitable.
“You look so pretty,” he whispered, his lips barely brushing yours as he spoke, the words falling into the space between your mouths like a prayer, like a confession.
“So, so pretty. I can’t… I’ve been trying to tell myself to be patient, to be good, but you’re making it impossible.”
You smiled slightly, looking up at him through your lashes, seeing the way his eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide with want, seeing the way he was trembling slightly with the effort of holding himself back, of waiting for permission, of being respectful even though you could feel how much he wanted to close that final distance.
Dick couldn’t hold back anymore. He crashed his lips onto yours and you kissed back just as hungry as he did, just as desperate, just as needy. The kiss was nothing like the careful, tentative thing it had been before. This was raw and honest and full of three weeks of wanting and one night of building tension and the relief of finally, finally being allowed to have this, to have each other.
His hand slid from your jaw to tangle in your hair, the other moving to your waist, pulling you closer against him, and you made a sound into his mouth, something between a gasp and a moan that you couldn’t have stopped if you tried.
Dick groaned in response, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours, and then his hand was moving lower, sliding from your waist to your hip to your ass, squeezing, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between your bodies, until you could feel every hard plane of him pressed against you.
You moaned again, louder this time, your hands fisting in his Harvard sweatshirt, trying to get closer even though you were already as close as two people could be while still wearing clothes.
Dick whimpered, actually whimpered, the sound so needy and desperate that it made your head spin, made your legs go weak, made you grateful he was holding you up because you weren’t entirely sure you could stand on your own anymore.
The kiss deepened, intensified, became something consuming and overwhelming and absolutely perfect. His tongue traced your lower lip and you opened for him immediately, letting him in, tasting coffee and something else, something inherently him.
Your hands moved from his sweatshirt to his hair, threading through the dark strands, tugging slightly, and Dick made another sound, something broken and beautiful that told you he liked that, that you should definitely do it again.
You almost fell, actually stumbled slightly, overwhelmed by how good you felt right now, by how right this was, by how much you wanted more, wanted everything, wanted him in ways you hadn’t let yourself want anyone in a long time. Dick caught you, steadied you, pulled back just enough to look at you, and his lips were swollen now, red and wet from kissing you, and his eyes were looking at you with so much want and yearning and something else, something deeper that you weren’t ready to name but could feel burning between you like a live wire.
“I feel so good right now,” he said softly, and his voice was wrecked, rough and low and full of wonder, like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening, like he was afraid if he spoke too loudly he’d wake up and discover it was all a dream.
“Let’s go to my room,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them, before you could talk yourself out of this, before you could remember all the reasons this might be a bad idea and decide that being careful was more important than being brave. You grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers through his, feeling how warm his palm was against yours, how right it felt to be holding him like this.
Dick nodded, couldn’t seem to form words anymore, just nodded and let you lead him, let you pull him along. You moved hurriedly through your apartment, past the living room with its stuffed animals and photos and evidence of the life you’d built, past Maya’s closed door where she was sleeping and definitely didn’t need to know what was happening right now, toward your bedroom door.
The bedroom hung in that suspended hush of midnight, where the city's distant hum seeped through the cracked window like a forgotten confession, the air chilled and crisp against the warmth of tangled sheets. Soft covers, rumpled and inviting around your body as Dick moved with the precision of a man who knew exactly what he wanted , his eyes locking onto yours with a hunger that cut through the dim glow of the bedside lamp. He didn't waste a breath, flipping you onto your back with hands that gripped like vices forged in some fevered dream, the mattress dipping under the force of it all.
There you lay, exposed under his gaze, the white panties clinging to your skin like a secret too ripe to keep, the fabric translucent where your arousal had bloomed into a dark, insistent spot. His cock strained against his pants, throbbing with a pulse that mirrored the frantic beat in your chest, the outline of your folds visible through the damp cotton sending a jolt straight to his core, hardening him to the edge of pain.
His long fingers trailed up your thighs with deliberate slowness, mapping the terrain of your skin, You couldn't tear your eyes from him—his face, sculpted in the low light, beautiful in its raw intensity, jaw set like a blade, lips parted just enough to reveal the storm brewing inside.
"Look at you baby~" Dick growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the air, thick with command.
"Soaking through your panties for me. You think you can hide how bad you want this?" He hooked his fingers into the waistband and yanked them down roughly, peeling away the sticky evidence of your desire, leaving you bare and glistening. Your pussy lips swelled plump and inviting, your clit peeking through, hardened into a needy peak that begged for attention.
Dick was already hard, his cock straining against his sweats, thick and veined, the tip pushing a wet spot through the gray fabric. You could see it twitch, as if it had a mind of its own, eager to claim you. But it was Dick himself who let out the first soft whimper, his breath hitching as he stared at your bare pussy.
Pushing your knees up toward your chest, he pinned them there with one massive hand, opening you fully to his view, your holes exposed and winking in the cool draft that whispered across the room, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked streets from outside. A soft moan escaped your lips, involuntary, as the vulnerability washed over you, mixing fear and thrill in a cocktail that made your pulse thunder.
"That's it, spread wide for me baby," he ordered, his free hand slapping your inner thigh hard enough to sting, the sharp pain blooming into heat that pooled between your legs. "Show me that pussy. It's dripping for me, isn't it? Begging to be filled." His fingers traced the full curve of your pussy lips, exploring the slick contours with a dominance that bordered on obsession, parting them softly to expose your throbbing clit.
You whimpered, hips bucking instinctively toward his touch. He chuckled, dark and promising, but then a needy whine escaped his throat, his fingers trembling slightly as he traced your slit once more.
His fingers parted your lips, revealing the pink, glistening entrance, and he dipped one inside, slow and teasing, feeling the way your walls clenched around it.
“Fuck hun.” he murmured, pumping it in and out with deliberate strokes, but his free hand gripped the sheets, knuckles white, as another whimper slipped from his lips—soft, vulnerable, like he was the one being tortured by how perfectly you gripped him. The wet sounds echoed in the room schlick, schlick as he added a second finger, stretching you wider, his thumb circling your clit firmly. Your back arched off the bed, and he leaned closer, breath ragged, eyes locked on where his fingers disappeared into you.
“That's it, baby, feel how good that is? Your pussy's sucking me in like it never wants me to leave.” The praise poured out in a husky rush, but undercut by his whimpers, each one making you feel seen, cherished in the midst of the filth, stirring a warmth in your chest that twisted with the building pleasure.
You moaned, hands fisting the sheets, as he scissored his fingers inside you, rubbing against that sensitive spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His cock throbbed visibly now, pre-cum leaking steadily, soaking through his pants and leaving a dark stain. He ground his hips against the mattress, seeking friction, a low whimper escaping his lips again, raw and pleading, as if holding back was breaking him.
“So fucking pretty, this pussy, so pretty and wet, gonna make me lose it when I fuck it.” The confession hung in the air, intimate and nasty, making your core clench harder around his invading fingers, the emotional pull of his vulnerability amplifying every slick thrust until you felt exposed in the best way, desired beyond just the physical.
Your juices coated his hand, dripping down to your ass, making everything slick and messy, the scent of your arousal thick and heady. He lowered his mouth without mercy, his tongue delving into your folds like a man starved, lapping at your juices with the fervor of someone who'd traversed deserts for this very taste. He sucked your clit between his lips, his mouth sucking and licking, tongue flat and broad one moment, pointed and teasing the next, drawing out whimpers from you that mirrored his own. Your thighs quivered around his head, and he groaned against you, the vibration sending shocks through your body.
His free hand reached up to pinch your nipple, twisting just hard enough to send sparks of pain-pleasure shooting straight to your core, and in that moment, his whimper turned into a soft sob of need, making your heart stutter with the intensity of his longing.
"Dick, please~" you moaned softly, the words tumbling out in a breathy plea that hung in the air like smoke. He hummed against your core, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and slid a thick finger inside your tight cunt, curling it just right to stroke that sensitive spot deep within, drawing a sharp yelp from your throat.
"Yes, baby?" he murmured breathlessly, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, He pumped his finger in and out of your wet pussy with a rhythm that built like a crescendo in some forbidden symphony, the obscene wet sounds filling the room and pulling a curse from his lips. Adding a second finger, he stretched you wider, scissoring them to rub against your inner walls, his thumb circling your clit in firm, insistent strokes. His cock wept pre-cum now, the sticky bead soaking through his pants, smearing against his thigh as he worked you higher, his hips grinding against the mattress for friction.
"Fuck, you're so tight around my fingers," he rasped, his breath hot against your thigh as he nipped at the sensitive skin. "Gonna make this pussy cum all over my hand before I even fuck you. You want that, don't you? Want me to eat this sloppy cunt until you're screaming?" He dove back in, tongue flicking rapidly over your clit while his fingers plunged deeper, twisting to hit every nerve. Your hips rolled up to meet him, chasing the building pressure, your moans turning into whimpers as the coil in your belly tightened.
"fuck" you gasped, You shattered, walls fluttering around his fingers, a gush of wetness flooding his palm as you screamed his name, the orgasm ripping through you like fire, leaving you trembling and raw. He didn't stop, lapping up every drop, his whimpers muffled against your folds as he savored you, like you were the only thing grounding him. Panting, he pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on yours—dark, pleading, filled with a fierce affection that made your breath catch.
Only when your spasms slowed did he pull his fingers free, holding them up to your lips.
"Taste yourself, princess. See how sweet you are for me ." You parted your lips obediently, sucking his fingers clean, the tangy flavor of your arousal mixing with his saliva as he watched with hooded eyes. His free hand worked down his pants, his cock springing free—heavy, thick, the shaft curving slightly upward, veins bulging along its length. The tip was flushed dark red, slick with pre-cum that dribbled down in a thin strand. It bobbed as he stroked it once, twice, and Dick let out a long, needy whimper, his hand shaking as he touched himself, the vulnerability in his eyes pulling you in deeper, making the scene feel not just hot, but profoundly intimate.
"Good girl," he praised, stroking his length slowly, the wet schlick of his hand echoing in the room.
"Now, i’m gonna fuck that pretty mouth while you recover. Open up." He shifted up the bed, kneeling over your chest, his balls heavy and full as he tapped the tip against your lips. You stretched your jaw wide, tongue darting out to lick the salty pre-cum from his slit, and he thrust in without hesitation, filling your mouth to the brim. "That's it, take my cock down your throat.“
He gripped your hair, holding your head steady as he rocked his hips, sliding deeper with each push until your nose brushed his pubes, gagging you with his girth. Saliva bubbled at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin as he face-fucked you roughly, his grunts mixing with your muffled whimpers. he held one of your hands, you gripped it as he went deeper.
"Fuck, your throat's milking me so good. Gonna flood this mouth with cum soon, but not yet. i wanna wreck that pussy first."
Pulling out with a pop, strings of spit connecting you, he flipped you again ,this time onto your stomach, yanking your ass up high.
"Arch that back, baby. Show me your holes." You complied, knees spreading wide, pussy and ass presented. He slapped your ass hard, the cracks ringing out, leaving red handprints that burned deliciously. "so perfect . This ass is mine."
His tongue traced down your spine before diving between your cheeks, rimming your tight asshole with wet, swirling laps that made you jolt.
"Ah!" you squealed, pushing back against his face. He chuckled darkly, spitting on your puckered hole before working a finger in alongside the two already teasing your pussy. "Gonna stretch both these holes, baby. Make you cum so hard you forget your own name."
He fingered your ass slowly at first, building the stretch while his other hand plunged back into your cunt, three fingers now, pumping in tandem. The dual invasion had you keening, body rocking between them, the fullness overwhelming. Pre-cum leaked steadily from his cock, which he stroked lazily, lubing himself up as he watched you writhe. "you’re doing so good baby."
"wan’ you inside " you said breathlessly, the words spilling out in a desperate rush. Satisfied, He flipped you over with thinking again, Pulling your legs up with one hand than positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the fat head through your folds, coating himself in your arousal. You gasped at the contact, so hot and insistent,
“ Please ” you begged, voice breaking, and that seemed to snap something in him. He grinned, wicked and feral, but his eyes softened with that raw need, and he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge and vein as he split you open. you were a moaning mess, you grabbed onto his biceps.
“Fuck, so tight” he groaned, bottoming out with a slap of skin on skin, his cock throbbing inside you.
But then he groaned—high and broken—his forehead pressing to yours, breath mingling as he held still, savoring the clench of your walls.
“fuck-i can’t let you go~” The words hit you like a caress, nasty and tender, stirring a swell of emotion that made tears prick your eyes amid the pleasure.
He started moving, shallow thrusts at first, building to a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips driving him deeper, his balls slapping against your ass.
“ fu-uck it’s too much~” you cry while pulling him closer, he kissed your lips as if you both been together for years and this was your honeymoon.
“ i know baby.. i know~” he said breathless when he pulled away, he looked at you, you saw his face read and his eyes dilated. his view was beautiful, you were making a face that made his cock twitch, tears streamed down your eyes but you looked at him as if you were his. he was in paradise.
The sounds were obscene, your combined fluids making everything slippery, the room filled with the wet smack of flesh and your shared moans—his turning into grunts with every plunge, like each stroke was pushing him closer to the edge of control. He grabbed your hips, angling you to hit that spot inside, making you see white with every thrust, and his praises kept coming, breathy and desperate
With a growl that dissolved into a whine, he pulled out, his cock glistening with your cream, and flipped you onto your stomach.
“ Ass up, again baby. I want both holes tonight—I need them” You scrambled to obey, presenting yourself, pussy and ass on display, and he spread your cheeks, spitting directly onto your tight ring before pressing the tip of his cock there.
“So pretty, this ass too” he aimed for your ass, pressing the cum-slick head against your prepared hole. "Relax for me, doll"
The intrusion was intense, his thickness splitting you open inch by inch until he was seated fully, groaning at the vice-like grip. He started slow, letting you adjust, but soon ramped up, fucking your ass with deep, punishing strokes that made your toes curl. "Such a good girl for me."
Dialogue poured from him like commands, each thrust punctuated by filthy praise. "Look at you, ass bouncing on my dick. You love being my whore, don't you? Say it."
"Yes, Daddy! I'm your whore! Harder, please!" He obliged, slamming faster, one hand fisting your hair to arch your back further, the other spanking your clit lightly to keep the pleasure spiking.
You pushed back, meeting his thrusts, the pleasure building again as he alternated—pulling from your ass to slam into your pussy, then back, double-dipping until both holes were sloppy and stretched. Pre-cum and your juices mixed, leaking down your thighs, the scent of sex heavy and intoxicating.
"Gonna fill you up, baby. Cum in both these greedy holes." His pace turned frantic, Your second orgasm hit like a freight train, ripping through you as you sobbed into the pillow, walls spasming around his invading cock, the release so intense it left you shaking, tears streaming from the overwhelming feeling of being utterly taken.
He didn't let up, chasing his own release now, balls drawing tight, his whimpers pitching higher.
With a roar that broke into a long, broken whimper, he buried deep in your pussy first, flooding you with hot, thick spurts of cum that overflowed immediately, trickling out around his shaft. He ground through the aftershocks, milking every drop, body trembling against yours, then switched to your ass for the final ropes, pumping until he was spent, marking you completely.
“shit~” he panted, collapsing over you, his cock still twitching inside, soft whimpers escaping as he nuzzled your neck, breath hot and ragged.
“So pretty, baby, you make me feel... everything.” The words wrapped around you like a blanket, nasty cum leaking from your holes but the tenderness in his voice making it feel sacred, stirring a deep satisfaction that lingered in your bones.
He stayed like that for a moment, catching his breath, before pulling out with a wet pop. Cum leaked from both holes, a creamy mess pooling on the sheets, and he whimpered softly at the sight, fingers tracing the drip down your thigh.
“Look at that—so pretty, baby, all filled up and dripping with me.” He flipped you over gently, spreading your legs to admire his work, eyes soft with awe. His fingers dipped into the mess, scooping up a mix of his seed and your juices, bringing it to your lips.
“Taste us. Clean it up like a good girl” You sucked his fingers clean, the salty-bitter flavor making your core clench again, and he watched, another whimper slipping out, his cock already stirring back to life against your thigh.
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