✨yes, Chef ✨

It was never going to be an ordinary day.

Harry knew that the moment the sweating executive across the table began rambling about everything except the answer to his very simple question.

“We invested ten million dollars into this project,” Harry says, his voice carrying the authority of a man who has built business empires out of nothing. “Where did it all go?”

The man stutters, fingers nervously adjusting his glasses.

It thins Harry’s patience, already razor-thin after two days of half-truths and expensive lunches that led nowhere.

His brother, Peter, smoothly steps in, guiding the conversation into friendlier territory until the cowardly businessman finally admits the investment was mismanaged—but promises they will generate the profit needed to repay them and move forward with the project.

“We’ll believe it when we see it. Our lawyers will be in touch.” Irritated by the endless bullshit, Harry rises from his seat without another word.

He strides out, leaving Peter behind to close the meeting with a touch more professionalism.

In the lobby, Harry scrolls through his phone, arranging his private flight back to Manhattan.

The entire trip has been a waste of time and resources. A reminder that most people only want to take advantage of his family’s money and name. 

They had suspected the money was being mishandled from the start. Harry had pushed to send the legal team and be done with it, but his brother had insisted on this face-to-face meeting just in case things weren’t what they seemed.

So much for that.

Peter appears a moment later, loosening his tie with a sigh. “I knew you were tense, but I didn’t think you’d let him see it.”

“He was wasting our time and I have a loaded schedule waiting for me stateside,” Harry mutters, falling into step beside him as they exit into the golden morning light.

The sun spills generously over the area, bathing the elegant streets in warmth and turning the sea beyond into a glittering expanse of sapphire. 

They slip on their expensive sunglasses as the valet brings around their luxury antique car.

“You know,” Peter adds casually “there’s a beautiful oceanfront resort not far from here. Private beach. Incredible views. You could stay a few more days.”

Harry lets out a short, dry chuckle. Is he serious? “And do what? Have a spa day? Get a massage?”

“Yes,” Peter grins. “Stop spreading yourself so thin and have some fun.”

Harry rolls his eyes, tongue pressing against his cheek.

Fun. The word tastes bitter.

The last time he let himself do just that, the woman he was seeing left him for her broke ex.

Ever since, he’s buried himself in his work, which isn’t necessarily too different from how involved he usually is.

However, with his mother’s retirement looming on the horizon, he intends to be more than ready to step into the role of Chief Executive Officer; which means he’s been picking up extra responsibilities within the company.

Security and control—those are things Harry Castillo understands, and he can’t let something as trivial as having fun distract him from the bigger picture of his career.

Their car glides to a smooth stop in front of them. The young valet hops out and Peter tips him generously before they both get in.

“All I’m saying is things are in good hands back home, so if that’s what you’re worried about, don’t be,” he continues as he buckles his seatbelt. “Ever since Lucy—”

Harry shoots him a sideways glance, but his brother ignores it entirely.

“Ever since you came back from Iceland, you’ve been so rigid. It’d be good for you to loosen up and get out of your head before the promotion takes over your life.”

Harry rolls the window down, letting the warm sea breeze rush in, scented with summer itself.

The beautiful streets of Monte-Carlo unfold around them: whitewashed buildings draped in vibrant bougainvillea, shops and restaurants pulling in the morning crowd.

Since the breakup (mutual as it was) he has grown more guarded, more rigid, as Peter so eloquently put it.

Overworking himself during the day has kept him distracted enough, but at night in his penthouse, with a glass of chardonnay in hand, Lucy’s absence has carved out a hollow space inside him.

For the first time in his life, he feels truly heartbroken. It serves as a stark reminder that romance is a risk he no longer cares to take.

It’s easier to approach relationships like long-term investments rather than an actual, intimate connection.

They stop at an intersection. Peter nudges him, pointing toward the scenic coastline.

“Look at that view,” he whistles, adjusting his sunglasses. “Who wouldn’t want to get lost in that?”

The water sparkles under the sun. People lounge on the sand, others swim in the shallow water, and a few yachts drift lazily in the distance.

The beauty of it appeals to him more than expected. He supposes his brother has a point—the last few months have been nothing but long days filled with grueling business meetings and lonely city nights.

Maybe a few days of doing nothing in paradise won’t actually kill him.

His decision crystallizes in that moment.

“For once,” Harry says, a small smile tugging at his lips as Peter laughs in triumph, “you might be right. It is very beautiful here.”

“There are worse places to be.”

Harry hums in agreement, pulling out his phone and canceling his flight back to New York. 

You’ve been mostly inland for the past month—wandering misty green hills in Ireland, chasing history through the UK, and slowly making your way down to the stunning French Riviera.

It has been the kind of trip that rewires your soul.

Now you’re in Monaco, kicking off the coastal chapter of your long awaited summer escape. 

The views here are almost too beautiful to be real. Water stretches endlessly toward the horizon and pastel buildings cascade down the hills like something out of a painting.

You can’t wait to lose yourself in it.

Right now, you’re laying out on a plush lounger beside the resort’s infinity pool, bikini hugging your sun-warmed skin.

Headphones in, your favorite summer track pulses softly in your ears as a light sheen of sweat kisses your collarbones and thighs.

You’ve been out here for hours, lazily sipping mimosas until the world has taken on that perfect, fuzzy glow.

God, you haven’t felt truly peaceful in… well, longer than you care to admit. 

Between the endless hours at your interior design firm, the partnership with your husband and his brother that blurred every line between work and home, and the slow unraveling of your four-year marriage… you’d forgotten what it meant to put yourself first.

This trip is your rebellion. Your indulgence. Your chance to be gloriously selfish for once.

With a contented sigh, you slip one earbud out and push your sunglasses up to rest on top of your head. 

The bright Mediterranean light makes you squint as you lazily scan the pool area. It’s perfectly balanced—not too crowded, not too empty. 

Most guests cluster near the bar on the far side, laughter and conversation drifting across the water.

That’s when your gaze catches on him.

A handsome stranger is already watching you. Tall, dark curly hair, confident posture even while leaning against the bar.

His eyes are kind and intense at the same time. You don’t know how to feel about it.

You offer him a polite smile.

He returns it, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way that sends a small spark of interest through you, before he turns back to the bartender.

The heat is starting to cling too heavily to your skin. You rise gracefully, stretching your arms overhead, letting the sun worship every inch of you for a moment.

You adjust the strings of your bathing suit, then pad around the edge of the pool and dive in with a smooth, clean entry.

The cool water is pure bliss. It swallows you whole, washing away the morning’s warmth as you glide beneath the surface.

When you break through, you push wet strands of hair from your face and smile to yourself, savoring the way the water caresses your skin.

You swim a few lazy laps, rediscovering the rhythm of your strokes. You haven’t swam properly in years.

Eventually, the craving for something sweeter pulls you toward the submerged swim-up bar.

You swim to the smooth ledge and settle onto one of the underwater stools, ordering once you get the bartender’s attention.

“Coconut mojito, please.”

The resort is everything Peter mentioned and more.

Harry checked in not much longer after that car ride with his brother, changing into swim trunks and a light button-down, heading down to the pool with no real plan except to sit in the sun and remind himself he’s still capable of relaxing.

He ordered a tequila sunrise at the bar, the sweet burn of it loosening the knot at the base of his neck.

That’s when he saw you, and he swore his heart stopped for just a split second. 

You were laying there completely oblivious, enjoying the early afternoon so at ease that Harry almost envied how serene you looked.

And the bathing suit you have on? He kept his gaze respectful, but the pull in his gut was immediate. 

Then you made eye contact, smiled at him, and that was enough to get the man’s resolve to crack just a little bit.

You’re absolutely gorgeous.

Harry didn’t approach you or anything like that, obviously, since he’s not here for complications. Just a few quiet days to breathe before diving back into the labyrinth of his family’s empire.

So he decided to lounge at the bar in the water, taking off his button down before getting in and making small talk with the man behind the tiled counter as he waited for his drink.

But now… here you are. Sliding onto the space right beside him, water droplets tracing shimmering paths down your shoulders.

He’s already three—no, four—tequila sunrises deep. Liquid courage has a way of making him disregard his stance on making a move.

“You can charge it to my room,” Harry intervenes smoothly when the bartender turns to prepare your drink.

You glance over, one eyebrow arching in pleasant surprise.

The light catches the small hoops in your ears and the layered necklaces resting against your collarbone. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

You flash him that same smile from earlier, the one that made his pulse jump.

Up close, you’re even more striking—curves accentuated by your bathing suit, skin glowing with a thin layer of sunscreen.

The bartender returns with your cocktail. You thank him softly, then lift your glass toward Harry in a cheerful toast.

He mirrors the motion. Your glasses clink under the bright blue sky.

“Mmm, delicious,” you murmur after the first sip.

Harry wonders if that's an invitation to indulge in small talk.

It is.

“Is that your go-to order?” he asks, turning slightly toward you, the cool water lapping gently at your waists.

“No,” you answer, leaning forward against the colorful bar top, your gold jewelry gleaming with every small movement. “I’m usually an espresso martini girl, but I’m trying to break out of my routines. What about you?”

You nod toward the vibrant orange drink in his hand. “What are you drinking?”

“Tequila sunrise,” he says with a small grin. “Not my usual either. But it felt right for this setting.”

You take another slow sip through the straw, the mint and lime bright on your tongue. “So what is your usual?”

“A rich bourbon on the rocks.” His eyes drift briefly to your lips as you hum in response, licking a stray drop from them.

The motion is innocent, but it sends heat curling through him.

“Here’s to trying new things,” you say, raising your glass again with a mischievous glint in your eye.

You clink once more, and this time Harry can’t look away.

With the way the afternoon sun paints everything in gold and rose and how the distant laughter of other guests provides ambient background noise—it all feels like the opening notes of something… delightful.

“Do you usually stare this hard,” you tease lightly, “or do I have something on my face?”

Harry feels the faintest blush creep up his neck—completely out of character for him. He’s usually quick with a charming retort or flirtatious compliment.

He blames the tequila… and you.

“Sorry,” he replies with a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just find you to be a very gorgeous woman. Your partner is a lucky person.”

You tense for the briefest second, but you brush it off with an easy giggle. “And what makes you think I have a partner?”

“A beautiful woman like yourself? Surely someone has already made their move.”

Your eyes narrow as you study him, reading the confident lines of his face, the expensive watch glinting on his wrist, the kind warmth in his deep brown eyes.

The way you’re looking at him sobers Harry up just enough to realize he might be coming on too strong.

“Well,” you finally break the small silence, leaning in a little closer. 

The scent of chlorine, coconut sunscreen, and something sweetly flora hits his nose and it makes him feel a little lightheaded. 

“Someone is making their move… and I think he thinks he’s bombing it entirely.” You can’t help but tease. “He isn’t, though. But he could buy me another drink if he really wants to make a good first impression.”

Harry blinks, momentarily stunned. Then realization hits like sunlight breaking through clouds—you’re flirting back.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face as he straightens his posture and flags the bartender with newfound confidence.

“Another round,” he tells the man, not taking his eyes off you. “And keep them coming.”

The rest of the afternoon stretches lazily, conversation flowing as easily as the drinks.

For the first time in months, Harry feels the walls he’s built around himself beginning to melt under the warmth of your presence.

And you—lost in the freedom of this trip and the magnetic pull of this charming stranger—start to wonder just how far this unexpected spark might take you.

Eventually, Harry suggests moving to a shaded cabana nearby, and you happily agree.

The two of you settle into the oversized daybed draped with crisp white linens. The sheer curtains flutter lazily in the sea breeze.

As you get more comfortable, friendly touches linger just a second longer than necessary—his fingers brushing yours when passing a drink, your knee grazing his thigh as you shift closer.

The chemistry is hard to ignore.

You lean back against the cushions, legs tucked beneath you, and swirl the straw in your drink with a teasing smile.

“You know, I thought all billionaires were supposed to be pretentious and complete assholes. So far, I’m not getting that from you. Like, at all.”

Harry chuckles, moving closer, his brown eyes catching the sunlight as he rests one arm along the back of the daybed.

“That would be an accurate assumption. We are pretentious and assholes.” He says, truthfully. “I just happen to be aware of it and know when it’s best to let those unfortunate characteristics shine.”

He gives your figure a suave once over. “Sitting here with a beautiful woman doesn’t seem like the best time to be pretentious or an asshole, does it?

You take a slow sip from your mojito, deliberately holding his gaze. “Smooth talker. Do you practice answers like that in the mirror, or do they come naturally like the private jet?”

“Naturally. Especially when you look at me with that sparkle in your eye and in a bikini that should come with its own warning label.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, but you don’t look away.

Instead, you bite your lip, tilting your head with a flirtatious look.

“Warning label, huh? Please. Nothing mischievous about me. I’m just here to soak up the sun and forget real life exists for a while. You, on the other hand...”

You reach out and lightly tap the center of his chest, right where his shirt would button if it were fully fastened.

“Might not be an asshole but you do have that whole ‘I negotiate with fate itself’ energy about you. I bet you even schedule spontaneous moments in your calendar.”

His grin dimples, a playful challenge sparkling in his eyes as he leans in a fraction. “Guilty, but I’ll have you know that I canceled my flight back home on a whim. That’s practically rebellious for me.”

You raise your glass in a toast. “To rebellion... and learning how to be at ease.”

He clinks your drink gently against his, the ice chiming like a secret promise.

“This might just be the best detour of my summer yet.”

The breeze stirs the cabana curtains again, wrapping the two of you in the sweet tension of a budding romance.

Eventually, the sun begins its slow descent, painting the sky in rich strokes of tangerine and deep violet.

“What’s your name, by the way?” Harry asks, realizing only now you haven’t properly introduced yourself with how wrapped up you both have been in the easy conversations.

You giggle softly. “We really skipped right past that, didn’t we?”

“If my mother were here, she’d scold me for not introducing myself properly,” he extends a large, warm hand toward you. “I’m Harry.”

“Harry,” you repeat, letting the name roll off your tongue like you’re tasting it.

You slip your hand into his, noting how perfectly it fits, feeling the buzz from the sun and drinks and now his touch. 

“I’m…” You glance down at the small sun tattoo on your wrist before meeting his eyes again. “I’m Sol.”

“What a beautiful name.”

“I’ll make sure to thank my parents on your behalf.”

Harry’s laugh is genuine and rich, paired with an easy smile that softens the frown lines of his handsome face.

“Well, Sol, forgive me for being too forward… but I would love to take you out to dinner tonight.”

Whatever this is—he doesn’t want it to end when the sun sets. Contrary to how gloomy and pessimistic he’s been about romance as of late. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in delighted surprise. “Tonight? As in, tonight tonight?”

“Not sure what other tonight there is, but yes. Only if you’d like.”

You bite your lip, the white rum humming pleasantly through your veins as you weigh the invitation.

Harry is unlike anyone you’ve met in a long time. Charming without trying too hard, confident but not arrogant.

Talking to him feels dangerously easy.

Part of you whispers that you should keep this light, enjoy the afternoon and walk away with a perfect vacation memory to tell your girlfriends back home over brunch. 

After all, he’s returning to New York soon, and you’re only at the beginning of the second half of your summer escape and in the middle of a very messy separation. 

But those eyes… those deep, kind, captivating eyes are making it nearly impossible to say no.

With a pretty, tipsy smile, you nod. “I’d love that, Harry. How about we meet in the lobby at eight?”

He tries—and fails—to hide the spark of excitement in his expression. Glancing at the expensive watch on his wrist, he notes the current time.

“That sounds perfect.”

With that, you get up to gather your things. Harry helps, also grabbing his belongings, and both of you walk back into the building together.

“I’m looking forward to dinner. Thanks for this afternoon… It was very fun.” 

Fun. There’s that word again. If Peter were here right now, he’d be saying I told you so in varying boastful ways.

“As am I. Thank you for indulging me.” 

You flash him another dazzling smile, and with that, both of you part ways.

You meet in the lobby at eight o’clock on the dot, the soft glow of chandeliers twinkling over the marble floors of the open area.

You’ve chosen a flowy summer dress in soft coral that makes your body look delectable, a fresh bikini hidden beneath for whatever the night might bring.

Keeping your makeup as natural yet accentuating as possible, you’ve made sure to apply your favorite lip gloss and sprayed just enough perfume to be that more alluring. 

Harry is waiting for you near the grand entrance, looking effortlessly handsome: a crisp light button-down rolled at the sleeves, tailored shorts, and his usually slicked-back curls now loose and fluffy.

In his hands rests a thoughtfully arranged bouquet of pink summer roses, delicate lilies, and cheerful daisies—perfectly color-coordinated as if he put meticulous care into choosing every bloom.

The sight of him makes your stomach flutter. Goodness, he really is so hot.

“You look incredible,” Harry compliments once he sees you, his warm brown eyes lighting up with obvious appreciation of how effortlessly gorgeous you look as he offers you the flowers.

You accept the bouquet with a genuine smile, inhaling the sweet floral scent. “These are beautiful, Harry. Thank you.”

He offers his arm like a true gentleman, and the two of you stroll down toward the private beach path, the distant sound of waves growing louder with every step.

“Where exactly are we going?” You can’t help but ask, taking in how beautiful the coastline looks at this time of night.

“It’s a surprise.”

He’s rented a secluded cove just for the two of you. When you arrive, your breath hitches in your throat.

A beautifully arranged beachside picnic waits under a canopy of sheer white fabric that billows gently in the breeze.

There’s plush cushions and a low table overflowing with vibrant summer fruits—ripe peaches, berries, slices of mango—alongside an elegant spread of fresh seafood, crusty bread, cheeses, and chilled wine. 

Lanterns flicker softly, casting gentle shadows across the sand as the waves foam against the shore.

“This is… possibly one of the most romantic things anyone has ever done for me,” you admit without thinking, a little breathless as he helps you settle onto the cushions.

Holy shit.

Harry’s smile is modest but pleased. “Good. That was the goal.”

The dinner unfolds like a scene from a romance movie. You talk for hours as stars pierce the clear night sky.

He tells you about growing up in New York, his love for the energy of the city but his quiet craving for serene moments like this. He’s glad his brother talked him into extending the trip.

You laugh at his dry humor, tease him about being a secret romantic, and flirt shamelessly in return. Your husband doesn’t cross your mind once.

When he asks about your life, you keep things intentionally vague: a few charming stories from your travels, your passion for design and beautiful spaces, but nothing that might pop this perfect bubble you’ve found yourself in.

Two bottles of expensive, crisp white wine disappear between shared bites of food.

It loosens your limbs, drawing you closer to him on the cushions.

Harry’s hand rests on your bare knee. It makes you shiver despite the breeze that flows by being warm.

Your head rests against his shoulder as the night turns more intimate.

He turns to you, his face inches from yours, eyes dark with want.

“Have you ever wanted to do something so impulsive,” he murmurs, gaze falling down to your glossy lips then back up to your eyes. “that it makes you wonder if you’re really as brave as you thought you were?”

You let out a soft sigh, the question hitting closer to home than he could ever possibly know. “Yes.”

He studies your features for a moment, then asks: “Can I kiss you?”

Instead of answering with words, you lean in and press your lips to his.

It starts tender but quickly ignites, all that pent-up longing you’ve both been carrying in your respective lives pours out between you.

You climb onto his lap, straddling his thighs as your flowy summer dress rides up around your hips. Harry’s hands instinctively settle on your waist, gripping you with a quiet groan of approval as you settle against him.

Your fingers thread through his curly hair, tugging lightly as the kiss deepens passionately. Harry responds with equal fervor, one hand sliding up your back while the other grips your thigh, pulling you flush against him.

Your bodies move together instinctively. Tongues dance, teasing and tasting wine and summer on each other’s lips.

You rock subtly in his lap, feeling his swelling erection against your inner thigh. It makes the pulsing at your core intensify. You don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this desired.

His hands roam freely now; tracing the curve of your waist, skimming over warm skin beneath the thin fabric of your dress, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the edge of your tied bikini.

When you finally pull back, you repeat his earlier question back to him with a playful smirk. “Have you ever wanted to do something so impulsive…?”

You have him completely at the edge of his metaphorical seat, every nerve alive with anticipation.

His lips are swollen from your playful nips. “Yes.”

Without warning, you rise from the picnic setup with a wicked grin

You slip out of your dress, letting it pool at your feet and revealing the stunning silhouette of your body. 

His eyes widen in a mix of surprise and desire as you peel off your bikini top and toss it playfully at his chest, exposing your chest to him.

Harry’s mouth goes dry.

You kick away your bottoms and skip toward the moonlit ocean, your laughter ringing like music across the sand.

“C’mon! Don’t make me swim alone!”

He doesn’t hesitate long after that. Harry strips down and joins you in the warm, silky water. 

He can’t believe he’s doing this. Just this morning he was ready to sign off the idea of letting loose for good… and then you appeared and completely swept him off his feet.

Naked skin meets naked skin as the gentle waves lap around you both.

Harry presses his broad body against yours, hands sliding down the slick curve of your waist, gripping the soft swell of your hips, then gliding up to cup your breasts.

You moan softly, throwing your arms around his neck and angling yourself to kiss his lips.

A low groan vibrates from his chest and into your mouth as your hardened nipples brush against his skin with every sway.

One of his hands drifts lower, possessively squeezing the fullness of your ass, pulling you tighter so you can feel exactly how hard and ready he is for you.

And holy shit is he packing a very generous package. 

“As pleasurable as I imagine it would be, I can’t sleep with you tonight, Harry.”

He’s so dizzy with lust that it’s almost disorienting. “That’s fine. There are no expectations. However, I am only human…” He says in regard to the hard on he’s currently sporting.

“Trust me, I feel it too in my own way.” You bite your lip and pull away before things escalate.

You’re not sure you want to cross that line just yet—but he’s making it seem very, very enticing.

To keep things playful, you splash him with a cheeky wave of your hand then immediately try to wade away.

Harry is a lot quicker. His strong arm loops around your waist, pulling your slippery body back against his chest with an amused laugh.

While holding you firmly in place, he retaliates with a splash of his own, sending sparkling droplets cascading all over you.

You squeal with laughter as the two of you playfully wrestle in the waves, all tangled limbs and breathless giggles under the stars.

The walk back to the hotel feels like you’re floating.

Harry’s hand rests lightly at the small of your back as you stroll along the string-lit path. The night air is perfumed with sea salt and night-blooming jasmine.

You feel like you’re in a modern fairytale.

Every touch sends sparks up your arm, shared glances carrying the delicious weight of everything that just happened between you in such a short amount of time.

When you reach the lobby, you turn to face him, cheeks still warm.

“I had an amazing time tonight,” you tell him softly, meaning every word. “Truly. Thank you for everything.”

Harry steps closer, his brown curls more prominent now from the texture of the saltwater.

“Truth be told: I’m not ready for this night to end. I want to keep seeing you… if you’ll let me.” His voice drops, laced with quiet hope that you want to continue whatever the hell this is. “May I have your number? So we can stay in touch while you’re here?”

You hesitate for half a second—your real life flickering somewhere in the back of your mind—but the pull of this amazing man and the rejuvenated summer version of yourself tugs you from those thoughts.

You give him the number to your flip phone (the burner you bought specifically for this trip) and he programs it into his phone with a boyish grin that makes the butterflies in your stomach flutter like crazy. 

Then leans in and kisses you.

It’s sweet, feeling like the beginning of something far bigger than a fleeting summer fling… even if neither of you vocalizes it.

“Goodnight, Sol,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

You slip away from him, the bouquet of flowers cradled gently in your arms. You step into the waiting elevator and press the button for your floor, your eyes never leaving his until the mirrored doors glide shut between you.

Once you’re inside your room, you close the door behind you and let out a soft sigh as you slide down against the wood, knees literally weak.

Today was pure magic. The kind of day you’ll replay in your head for years.

You’re still smiling when you push yourself up, gently laying the flowers down on the console table, and heading toward the shower to rinse the salt from your skin.

That’s when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Your heart does a hopeful little flip, hoping that Harry has caved already and decided to call you.

Couldn’t even wait until tomorrow… you think to yourself playfully, reaching for the small device. 

But the number on the tiny screen isn’t his.

It’s your husband.

The smile fades instantly. You stare at the phone for a long moment, everything inside you screaming not to answer.

But old habits (guilt, history, the tangled business partnership) win out.

You flip it open.

“Hello,” you answer, your voice flatter than it’s been all day.

“Finally,” his familiar Texas drawl fills the line, tight with worry. “Ain’t heard from ya since you left for Ireland a month ago.”

There’s a heavy silence that follows before he speaks up again. “You okay? Where are you right now?”

“I’m fine.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, the dreamy afterglow of your day with Harry dissipating with every word.

More silence.

“We need to talk about this. I know I’ve been distant but… we built somethin’ real together and I know we can fix it.”

Old resentment bubbles up. “It took me leaving the country for you to finally come to that realization? We’ve been roommates who share a business for the last two years. Not husband and wife.”

He lets out the kind of heavy sigh that used to make you soften and let your guard down.

“I know I’ve let you down. I’ve been putting the job first—hell, putting everythin’ first except us. But I’m here now, trying. Everyone’s been on my ass too, sayin’ I’m an idiot for letting you go on this trip alone. Just… tell me where you are. I’ll fly out. We’ll figure this out together.”

Together. You scoff and close your eyes, the weight of years of trying—and failing—pressing down on you. 

You’ve already grieved this marriage in silence for too long. Important dates he missed, dinners eaten alone, the way intimacy had slowly faded into plain coexistence.

You’re exhausted from carrying the hope for both of you.

“It’s too late for that,” you admit steadily, despite the ache that lingers. “I’m not coming home yet. I need this time for me.”

The line goes quiet for another moment.

“I miss you.”

“I missed you too, but I’m done missing someone who’s right next to me. Don’t call me again for a while, Joel.”

You end the call before he can respond, the finality of it settling heavy in your chest.

Setting the phone down, you finally undress and step into the shower, standing under the hot spray of the waterfall feature.

As eucalyptus scented steam fills the space, your mind drifts back to warm brown eyes, curly hair, and the way Harry looked at you like you were the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

You allow yourself to sink fully into the possibility of what this summer—and this unexpected man—might blossom into.

A wistful, secret smile returns to your lips.

Want to be part of the taglist? Feel free to DM me or reply to this post to be added!

modern!duncan who met you half-way through your second to last semester at university after his calculus professor suggested he find a tutor before midterms.

you were on the dean's list and he was in the rugby team, and he just needed to get a decent grade on all of his classes (yes, even the nightmare-induced math ones) because his scholarship depended on it. who knew geology would have so much math in its course curriculum, anyways?

he arrived, ten minutes early to the first session with two peanut-free protein bars, a broken calculator, and a second-hand textbook packed somewhere inside a messy backpack, and thought nothing else but a headache would come out of looking at equations for two hours straight. he left, still not knowing a damn thing about derivatives and vector fields, but holding a crush he swore felt like cupid's own arrow had lodged itself straight into his heart.

modern!duncan who asked his friends to tutor him every week before his sessions with you so you would not think he was a lost cause. they never explained the concepts correctly though, and a couple of weeks into your study plan, you had to schedule two sessions per week because he was somehow more confused with integral solving than he was when you started. so... a win in his book, either way?

modern!duncan who spiraled himself into an actual bit of existential dread at the thought of the semester ending before he could tell you how he felt. what if he never saw you again? what if you moved on, forgot all about him, and fell in love with someone that was just as smart as you, and just as dedicated, and just as beautiful—gods, what if you fell in love with someone like valarr targaryen? he would not stand a chance, not against someone like the golden boy. oh, he would just never recover! not when you held the stars in your eyes and the sun in your smile, and when your voice sounded like the angelic choir he is sure welcomes well-doers in the seven heavens, and—

modern!duncan who never thought you could ever, actually, possibly like him back.

not even when he smiled every time he saw you and looked at you like you had just hung the moon upon the midnight sky. not even when he brought a to-go cup of coffee for you every time he arrived at the booth you'd reserved in the library, exactly the way you had once mentioned you liked it. not even when he laughed at your jokes, and listened to you without paying attention to anything else, and carried your bag over his shoulder the whole way through when he walked you home after your session.

he was just being polite, anyways. anyone would do that... right?

modern!duncan who didn't believe his ears when you asked him out on a date at the end of your very last session. you had mentioned it so casually, so calmly, like your heart was not about to beat its way out of your chest. like your world had not just spun on a different axis. like your fate had not just been written into the stars.

oh... was that just him?

still, he said yes right away and never once felt ashamed at the fact of you having been the one to take the first step. he let you choose the restaurant, picked you up while holding a small bouquet of wildflowers in shaking hands, and paid the bill in full after letting you have the last bite of dessert.

he walked you home and blushed a deep red when you kissed his cheek before walking inside your apartment complex and wishing him a good night. he asked you on a second date as soon as he made it back to his place.

and then almost cried himself to sleep when you told him to pick you up the next morning.

modern!duncan who, five years into your relationship, still blushes all the way up to the tip of his ears whenever you refer to him as your boyfriend. who still get butterflies every time he wakes up by your side and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead while he tries his best to not disturb your sleep. who still feels the luckiest man whenever he's simply allowed to exist by your side.

modern!duncan who will come home to your shared apartment from work before you do, pet your cat, and get dinner started with the goal of it being ready by the time you arrive. it took him a while to learn how to cook: failed youtube tutorial after failed youtube tutorial until he eventually got somewhat decent results of your favorite dishes. he kept going, and even if his creations turned a little funky whenever he improvised (and grew really fond of simply following the recipe as it said on the page), still found satisfaction in making you happy with something he'd made.

he liked it so much, in fact, that he got himself an apron and invested in a nice set of stainless steel pans. you even got him a cooking board for christmas that he considered not using only for the sake of forever keeping it in pristine conditions. he uses it carefully, and lovingly, and really hopes it can last a lifetime.

modern!duncan who, in the same vein, packs your lunch every morning and always folds a little note somewhere inside your bag so you will "always remember how much he loves you". his writing is still as indecipherable as it was since you first met and he writes the corniest notes, but you still grin from ear to ear everytime you find a post-it that reads "you are the best part of my day :)" next to your home-made buffalo chicken wrap.

he always texts you to ask if you liked your lunch. and he always feels himself become love personified when you tell him you liked your note more.

modern!duncan who will get you flowers every single pay day without fail. who will take blurry photographs of things he sees on the way home that make him think of you, no matter how silly others may think they are: a cat that looks somewhat like yours, a trinket on a windowsill he thinks you would like, the poster of a play he'll take you to after checking both of your schedules for your next day off.

modern!duncan who refers to himself as a "cat dad" every time someone at work asks him if he has children at home. who will show them the photograph he keeps of the three of you in his wallet because, well, that is his family right there. who will blush and scratch the back of his neck when his co-workers ask him if he really let you name your cat sauron. let you... let you? what is this, the middle ages? he does not let you do things, mind you, but holds the honor of doing things with you. and, just so it's perfectly clear to dave from accounting, does think sauron is a perfectly appropriate name for a cat... duh.

modern!duncan who studies his gaming group's d&d campaigns before bed, with his glasses perched low over the tip of his nose, while you read off next to him. he will ask for your opinion and then get a little bashful at having interrupted your focus but you never mind, and he will then just recount the entire campaign to you after you've set your book down on your night table. he'll write down every single suggestion you make so he can include them in his campaigns or his character design, and always lets his group know exactly how you helped him. and yes, his charismatic paladin does have a tragically romantic backstory. and yes, it was your idea. and yes, he loves it.

modern!duncan who is only on social media to keep up with what you post. he follows a couple people on instagram that he personally knows, some gaming accounts to gain inspiration for his campaigns, and the official profiles of the sports teams he keeps up with. he only really interacts with you, though. you will post something only to be immediately flooded with duncan's reactions to it, which, yes, do include a couple comments that consist only of... emojis. he's just expressive, okay?

modern!duncan who will unknowingly participate in every single trend you want him to hop on because he can never say no to you. you'll scare him half to death calling him your "current boyfriend" only for him to kiss you silly after confessing it was only a joke for a tiktok video. you'll have him snapping an egg clean between his arm muscles, and he'll be so giddy and proud of himself while you just stare at him because god, duncan, have you even seen your own biceps before?

modern!duncan who loves practically being your plus-one whenever you have plans for the weekend. who will hold your hand in his when you navigate through the crowds and then on the small of your back for the rest of the night because he has to be touching you to feel at peace. who will have you sitting on his lap while you sip on whatever fruity cocktail he'd gotten you, only to carry your heels for you when it's time to go home because you're sleepy and your feet are tired.

modern!duncan who is really vocal during sex. who always echoes a string of "just like that, baby," while you're riding him to oblivion, with your head thrown back in pleasure and your pretty tits bouncing and rubbing against his face. who likes to take one of your nipples into his mouth as you move, sucking on the bud as he spills inside you: always way too early, and always ready to go again.

who trusts you implicitely, and is always ready to try new things. who lets you tease his ass when you blow him, with your finger caressing his rim as you run your tongue along the side of his shaft. who hisses as his entire body is overcome by goosebumps when you squirt a generous dollop of lube over his skin before beginning to play with his waiting hole. who then wears a pretty little buttplug while he's fucking you in missionary.

who really means it when he says he actually could die a happy man when his head is nestled between your gorgeous thighs. who eats your pussy for hours, mumbling and blabbing about how tasty it always is, about how wet you always are for him. who moans the loudest when he's sucking on your clit, with his big, thick fingers nestled inside your sopping hole as he makes you gush into his mouth.

modern!duncan who takes aftercare really seriously, but also deems it a practice that should never feel like it is out of the ordinary. who'll run you a bath every night without fail, hop inside with you, and hold you until the water gets cold. who will stare at you in awe as you get ready for bed, and then waste no time to hold you in his arms again once you're warm and comfortable under the covers.

modern!duncan who always looks for you first whenever he thinks something is funny. who holds your opinion as holy scripture. who is always unconsciously moving his chair ever so slightly so it's a little closer to yours.

modern!duncan who will sit in silence by your side and still know exactly what you are thinking, and exactly how you are feeling, because existing by your side has become as natural to him as drawing breath. as feeling hunger. as finding happiness in the little things and peace in the quiet moments.

and the thing is that he's just so, so in love with you, that he thanks his lucky stars every single night for having him being so close to flunking calc he had to get tutored by you all those years ago. and so he will one day get down on one knee and rely on that very same blessing in the hopes that he gets honored with spending his every waking hour making you the happiest he can.

and he saves up half of his check every month, writes his vows in his head every time he feels your skin against his, and knows that he will cross the bridge when the time is right. you're his person, and his future is yours to shape in your hand. his heart, big and bleeding and always held in his sleeve, has always been safe with you, anyways.

he really is a loverboy, but can you blame him?

You had been far from home for over two weeks: King Daeron had again requested Maekar’s attendance at a melee, this time hosted by Lord Baratheon in celebration of his grandson’s nameday. Storm’s End was not too far away; the journey to and from was in fact shorter than that to Dragonstone or King’s Landing, and Maekar traveled to both places with enough frequency to know of distance and the longing that came with it. But melees and tourneys, even if particularly uneventful as of late, brought back a different feeling altogether, and with each passing of the moon, the weight of it became harder and harder for Maekar to carry. 

Nonetheless, Maekar knew of duty. And you always loved him enough to learn how to shoulder the burden.

“Warm, honeyed milk for my wife,” Maekar grumbles, voice quiet and tense, as you step inside the dressing alcove in your shared chambers. “And the sweet biscuits she likes.”

The maids scatter as soon as he speaks. It’s the same every time, both the moodiness and the food request. He never asks for anything for himself: it is always your favorite drink and something sweet to go with it, and it is always done in automatic.

It had amused you at the beginning, and you had thought it to be something that would eventually change over time. He was very attentive when you were courting, and despite the moodiness, he was still a prince of the realm. But in the end, Maekar always ever put you first without giving himself a second thought, and that had not dwindled through the years.

“You should rest,” he adds, moving further inside the chamber as he unclips his cloak from around his neck. “We rode for too long. Sit, wife. Or lay down. You have been on your feet long enough.”

“And I am perfectly content with being on my feet for a moment still,” you reply with a small smile, not taking your eyes off him as he drapes his cloak over the edge of his scriptorium. “Although I would not mind your help in unlacing my dress.”

Maekar exhales, nodding softly, and treads your way as your words leave your mouth. He does not look back when the cloak slips to the floor.

The hearth burns quietly, a comforting presence that bathes the room in a soft, warm amber light, and the space smells faintly of cedar. Moonlight seeps in from the outside through a set of wall-height stained glass windows and wooden latticed screens, and reflects upon the stone in a broken kaleidoscope of colors.

The blonde reaches you, delicately resting his hands along the small of your back. He leans closer as soon as he touches you, his body finding a home next to yours almost as if on instinct. He breathes you in, taking in the softness of your gown and the warmth of your body, marveling at how the moonlight seems like stardust when reflecting over your hair and reveling in the way you draw breath. 

He does not close his eyes, does not dare to miss a second of the bliss he finds in merely existing in silence by your side. He feels it again, carved down deeply into his bones, the sensation he has had ever since the day you wed: that heart-numbing fullness, that soul-crushing beatitude. The blissfulness that comes from knowing you are but two halves of one whole. 

And he exhales. And he exists in the silence again.

His hands move quietly, nimble fingers working the ties in the lace as the hearth continues to burn. 

“I forgot to mention,” Maekar clears his throat, the sound brisk and sudden in the stillness. “I had no change to give this to you any sooner.”

You feel him shift behind you, resting his weight on one leg as he retrieves something from the small leather pouch he keeps tied to the hem of his breeches. He hands it to you over your shoulder, delicately, waiting only until your fingers have properly wrapped around the parcel to remove his hand. It moves back to its place among your back in a swift, careful motion, and he resumes his task.

You recognize the gift in a heartbeat.

“Candied apricots?” You smile, tilting your head. “I do not recall mentioning I wanted some. Did you send an envoy out to retreat them?”

Maekar hums, and leans closer. It is no extraordinary offering, nothing he could not request be brought to you as soon as the craving surfaced; and yet, the weight of the parcel in your hand sends a flutter down your chest.

“You are fond of them,” he says, simply, voice rough and raw and with its ever-present edge, but does it without missing a beat. “I will get you more.”

Your husband always speaks with a certainty that informs the world around you that there is nothing more important than what makes you happy. It is what he has always done: making the universe bend to your will, and always by his hand. It is the thought of a simple thing, a small parcel of dried summer fruit, purchased only because he knows you like it; and it becomes so much more.

His hands are still on your back when the last knot has been untied, and he lets them rest there as you rip the parcel open. You turn, and lean forward to press a soft, gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth as you whisper a quiet thank you. He does not smile, but his eyes still soften as he looks at you, burning with fervent devotion.

The moon continues its course above Summerhall, and the vastness of the chamber is perfumed with the scent of candied fruits. The warm feeling in Maekar’s chest threatens to swallow him whole when your lips brush against his, and he, as he always does, surrenders to the blissfulness of it.

from this prompt list. requests are open!

It started raining after ten.

He was re-filling your coffee cup when lightning first stroke, a bright flash of white breaking through the peace that followed dinner. You were biting on a strawberry and your phone was connected to his speaker, with The Zombies’ Time of the Season swallowing the sound of the falling rain.

You had been in his apartment since early in the morning: a breakfast date had turned into eating breakfast and watching a movie. Eating breakfast, and watching a movie, and ordering take out for lunch. All of that, and resting your head on his lap as he solved a crossword on his phone. That, and sleeping on expensive velvet when he stepped out to take a call.

The very first times you'd stepped inside his apartment, he marveled at the way in which you had naturally belonged in it. You occupied the space in a way that made everything inside it bend into your shape, lean into your touch, gravitate towards your orbit.

It was easy, quiet, as if you had always been there, dealing with his stubborn moka pot and making the entire room smell like pomegranates. 

The easiness with which you came to exist in each other’s spaces became a breathing, living thing, and when he asked you to stay a little longer after your morning coffee was over, you could do nothing but nod quickly in agreement. 

And so a breakfast date turned into everything else: a whole day spent in his presence, savoring the sweetness that came with permanence.

He began to think of the future while rooting himself in the present, and looked at you, and listened to your voice, and found no place on earth more fitting for you than one he could provide.

He held your hand as you ate breakfast. He kissed your lips when they tasted like cherries and ran a hand down your back when it was covered in silk. He bent you over the armrest of his couch, with your shorts pooled around your ankles as he drove his cock inside your sopping hole over, and over, and over again. He spilled inside you and let you keep it, safe and warm inside your pussy, as he busied with dinner. 

And so when the rain first started to fall, just as you were biting on a strawberry, you could still feel his warmth nestled deep inside.

When he led you out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom, you could begin to feel it running down your thighs.

And when your back hit his mattress, eyes blown wide and locked into his, you could only feel your hole clenching, his warmth spilling out, as your cunt asked for more.

And you have always known he’ll give you anything you ask for, especially when it meant he could have you like this: bare and lying over his freshly-washed linen sheets, with your legs spread wide, and his cock plunging fast, hard, deep inside your pulsing cunt. 

“Takes me so well, doesn’t she? M’pretty girl just takes my cock so well,” he mutters, and he’s talking to himself more than he’s talking to you, but his words burn through you just the same. “You just—Oh, she always takes me so well.”

You’re completely stretched around his length, absolutely full of his girth, and it has you closing your eyes in pure, sweet bliss. He moves forward, his body called to yours as if by pulled by a magnet, and your clit grazes over the patch of graying hair at the bottom of his navel every time he thrusts inside of you.

“Baelor—”

“My pretty girl,” he repeats, his voice quiet, his words slurred. The tip of his tongue peaks out to slide across his top lip in a swift, quick lick, with the buds latching onto the sweat that had been building onto his skin. He could swear it tastes like you. “Feels good?”

He’s looking for an answer, but just as he thrusts inside you again, he gets a moan instead.

He pulls his top lip back between his teeth and sucks in a short, quick breath, as if he’s sucking the sound in, as if he’s feasting on every bit of pleasure he can make you feel. And it feels as if it’s nourished him, as if it’s fed him: and you become stuck on a loop, one where thrusts in deeper and you moan louder, and he thrusts in deeper and you moan louder.

Your head is resting against his pillow, your mouth parted in anticipation, and he leans forward, ever so slightly, bringing two of his fingers down on your lips. And then everything shifts.

“Look at me,” he says, and his movements halt for a second. He stays still, completely sheathed inside of you, feeling himself melt against your body. His digits move against your lips in a soft, tender motion, allowing for his breath to catch at the bottom of his throat before he pushes them inside. Hard. Heavy. “Look at me, pretty girl. Need your eyes on me as I make you feel good. As I make you—mhm—as I make you cum on my cock. Please?”

And you oblige.

You oblige because there’s nothing you could deny this perfect, ethereal man—especially when he looks at you like this: with his pupils blown wide with lust and his cheeks reddened from his efforts.

His eyes shine with something akin to hunger, staring into yours the way a predator would at easy prey, but his touch is something that feels like desperation. He’s taking you just as much as he’s asking for you to take him: just as much as he’s asking for you to hold him in the palm of your hand, for you to shape him into whatever you will.

He’s a man made up of dichotomies, and it pulls you in, in, in, until you cannot think of anything that is not him.

You would not dare to. Not in this moment. Not ever.

And so you look at him.

You set your eyes on his as he begins to move again, pulling his hips back until his tip leaves your whole with an obscene squelch. A rivulet of white drips down onto the sheets, and he presses his fingers down against your tongue, using his other hand to drag his cock down your slit in a slow, torturous motion.

Your body tries to answer, hips jutting upwards like a moth to a flame, but he presses his digits down against your tongue a little harder, and then, as if reveling in his torture, as if feeding from your wait, repeats his motion.

“She’s just about sopping for me, isn’t she? Likes the way I stuff her full of my cock too much,” he hums, pulling the inside of his cheek in between his teeth. “Look at her. So, so needy. Looks so pretty—pretty enough to eat.”

His words ring inside your ears as your hips move against him again, seeking his touch, and you moan against his fingers when he taps the thick, heavy tip of his throbbing cock against your clit. And your hips move against him, again, desperate for his touch, and you all but cry, all but sob against his digits when he slaps it down once more, coating it in what has become a mixture of seed and slick. Yours and his.

You and him.

“She did such a good job for me, did she not? Kept me inside until she couldn’t anymore. Look. Such a good girl for me, all coated in my seed and already wanting more. That’s what you want, yeah? More of me? I’ll—I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you more. Just stay still like that, just like—yeah, just like that. Be a good girl for me, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

And he watches: almost as if reveling in the slowness, almost as if feeding from the wait. Almost as if trying to commit the look on your face to memory, almost as if trying to engrave the sight of you right on his skin. 

A moment pases, and he decides he has had enough. He moves, pushing his tip against your clenching hole and entering you again. 

He shifts forward in a careful, calculated pace, breathing out in relief once your mound is pressed tightly against him.

“Oh, fuck,” he pushes forward just an inch. His voice breaks and his breath falters. He looks so, so beautiful like this. “Oh, that’s it. Right where it belongs.”

Your head sinks back against the pillow, hands gripping onto his forearms like a lifeline. He’s breathing heavy, ragged, lowering himself until his chest pushes down against yours, and your arms wrap around his torso when he does.

His fingers leave your mouth, damp with your spit, and move to hold your face upwards so that your gaze does not leave his. They feel cool against your skin, and Baelor’s breath, wild and unrestrained, hits warm against your lips.

And so he lowers himself further until his lips clash with yours, kissing and sucking on your skin as he quickens his pace. The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip tethers you to him like an anchor, and he is everything you can see, everything you can feel. Your lips part and a moan slips past them when he does, your nails digging into his back as he moves, thrusting faster. Harder.

“Mhm, that’s—that’s it. Feels so perfect. So warm, so wet—so perfect. Like it was made for me. Just for me. And it’s so, so perfect when you let me have you like this. Like this, when it’s just us. Just you and me, yeah?”

Baelor keeps moving, keeps thrusting, the sound of his skin slapping against yours filling your ears until it all goes away for one blissful, perfect moment. Starts litter the back of your mind, and to you, there’s only pleasure, and there’s only him, and he’s holding you through it all. You yield against the tide and you're floating, a creature made up of want, consisting of bliss, and when his tongue enters your mouth and he drinks in your taste, you realize all is as it should be.

It’s a wonderful sight. It’s a wonderful feeling.

And there’s this man: this perfect, ethereal man, succumbing to the depths of his pleasure, losing himself in your heat. Losing himself in you.

His brows furrow, nose scrunched up in beautiful agony, body locking in and drawing tight as he rides his peak. He moves, shaking slightly when his legs begin to burn, and moans against your body before it breaks into a sharp, sudden silence as he spills another warm, thick load inside your spasming cunt.

And he wonders if he’s your boyfriend. He maps the past few weeks in the back of his head when he feels you clenching around him, seeing it all play out in the corner of his eye. He fixed the leak in your sink. He helped you move in your new washing machine. He shared his space with you and came to know yours, both of them now intertwined and stiched together in his mind. And he wonders if you’re his girlfriend.

Maybe he is moving too fast, thinking about it too much.

He feels himself growing heavier the more he thinks about it, as if his feelings were made of lead, pulling him down a spiral of dread that threatens to only go down, down, down.

And, fuck, is he moving too fast? Is he thinking about it too much?

He wants to ask you, feels the question taking form over his tongue.

He wants to ask you—but you’re wet, and you’re warm, and he figures it will have to wait until his head is not light. Until you’re untangled, until he can breathe without feeling himself one with your skin.

He wants his ring on your finger. He has his cock in your cunt.

“Keep it,” he grunts, words slurred as he stills his hips, driving his cock deep, deep inside your cunt. It twitches and throbs in the aftershocks of his orgasm, and he lets you feel all of it. “Keep all of it, pretty girl. Every—mhm, fuck—every drop is yours.”

A noise that stands between a sob and a moan breaks past your lips when you try to reply, your nails raking across the expanse of his shoulder blades as you try to pull him closer. And closer. And closer. 

And then, when he bends lower, the cool of his golden chain kisses your hot, damp skin.

His words are quiet, and messy, and hot against your lips, and thunder strikes up above. Your hole clenches around his cock as it begins to soften, but he stills inside you, pulls you close, makes a home by your side.

He closes his eyes, and all he can smell, is the soft, sweet scent of pomegranates. 

“That’s it. That’s my girl. My pretty girl, yeah? No one else’s?”

His phone rings in the background, and, minutes later, the call goes straight to voicemail.