karla

They married at dawn.

Not for sentiment, not for love, and certainly not for joy.

It was strategy. It was calculated. A merger of names and legacies brokered in hushed conversations behind doors, with elders and advisors whispering predictions like gamblers hedging their bets.

The ceremony itself was short, mercilessly so. No grand declarations. No romantic rites. Just the exchange of vows laced with duty, and the quiet approval of two clans desperate to keep their bloodlines relevant in a world that had already begun to forget them.

There were no fireworks. No soft glances. Not even the warmth of hands held too long.

Only ink. Paper. And power.

You were born into prestige, a daughter of the Kamo clan, legitimate in blood and brutal in expectation. Your upbringing was a paradox: you were taught to kneel and to kill in the same breath. Your etiquette was flawless, your posture immaculate, your knowledge of clan history exhaustive. But beneath the silk of your ceremonial robes and the demure curve of your smile, there lived a tempered flame. You were a girl raised to be a weapon, sharpened not with cruelty, but with purpose.

Your role was never to love. It was to serve. To strengthen. To stand beside the man who would wear your family's name like armor.

And that man was Naoya Zen’In.

Naoya, the so-called prodigy of a once feared clan, walked like the world owed him something. He was everything the whispers said: handsome, sharp tongued, impossibly proud. His cruelty was not the loud kind. It was casual, easy, the kind that crept into conversations like a toxin, leaving no room for rebuttal. He had never needed to raise his voice to command attention. He only needed to look at someone like they were beneath him and often, they were.

He did not want a wife. He only wanted an extension of himself. An ornament to flaunt when politics called for softness, and discard when his pride demanded silence.

Still, he accepted the union. Because Naoya Zen’In may have been many things, but he was not a fool. He knew the worth of your name, and the weight it carried behind closed doors.

So he married you. Well, primarily because he had to.

Not out of desire or fondness, but because the weight of legacy demanded it. Because centuries of carefully preserved bloodlines and whispered expectations bore down on his shoulders like armor he never asked to wear.

You weren’t a woman to him then, you were a strategy. A neatly wrapped solution to the slow erosion of the Zen’In name. A move on the board dictated by elders who believed tradition was strength, and strength was everything.

To Naoya, marriage was not intimacy. It was allegiance. A binding of names, of clans, of political promises exchanged in the flicker of ceremonial candles and the clink of porcelain teacups. Love had no place in that kind of union. Not when power was the only currency that mattered.

And so, he married you. Because he had no choice. Because it was what the clan demanded. And after all, you seemed promising.

Sharp where others were dull. Composed where others fawned. A woman molded for diplomacy but carved from something far less yielding. If he was to bind himself to someone, it might as well be someone who knew how to play the game.

And from that morning on, the estate became a cold and an elaborate cage, its halls filled with servants who didn’t speak unless spoken to, its walls too wide to feel anything close to home.

The two of you shared a house.

You shared responsibilities.

On occasion, you shared a room.

But not a bed.

Well, not yet.

The early months were built on restraint.

You fulfilled your duties to perfection, smiling at the right guests, pouring tea at the right temperature, bowing with just the right angle of humility but there was no warmth between you and Naoya. No flicker of tenderness. Only glances exchanged like chess moves, where every silence was a dare and every word a blade tucked beneath the tongue.

And from that morning on, the Zen’In estate became something else entirely. A cold, elaborate cage. Gold trimmed, paper thin walls. Servants who bowed lower than necessary but never dared meet your eyes. Tatami mats that creaked under weight that wasn’t yours. Every door you opened felt like a test. Every hallway you crossed, watched.

It was a house you lived in together, yes.

A name you shared. Responsibilities, too.

But not a life. Not really.

You were ornamental by design, he liked to say as much.

“That’s your color,” Naoya remarked one morning, leaning lazily against the doorframe of the receiving room as his eyes swept over you. “Black suits you. I’ll tell your attendants to burn everything else.”

You didn’t flinch. Just refilled his cup, the scent of tea wafting through the air like smoke before war.

“And here I thought you didn’t notice,” you replied smoothly.

He scoffed, taking the tea without thanks. “Hard not to, when the Kamo Clan wasted so much training on someone who ended up pouring tea.”

His words dripped with mockery, but his gaze lingered a little too long.

“What a waste of talent,” he drawled. “Such a shame,” he said, tone almost bored. “All that training, and now? Just my wife.”

That was how it always was. Wordplay. Swordplay. He tested you, and you never gave him the satisfaction of yielding. In private, your conversations were lined with friction, your silences louder than most arguments.

But in public? You were flawless. The ideal couple, an alliance painted in perfection.

When guests visited the estate, you played your part with poised elegance, your hand resting lightly over his, your laugh chiming at just the right moment. You spoke of the future like it was shared, even if it felt like separate destinations on the same broken map.

In the early months, restraint defined everything. You danced around each other in your shared roles, appearing united while remaining distant.

You fulfilled your duties to perfection. Hosting with grace, answering elders with wisdom far beyond your years, kneeling beside Naoya during meetings with the kind of stillness that unnerved even the most seasoned clan heads.

But in the quiet, when the guests had left and the sliding doors shut, the warmth disappeared as if it had never existed at all.

You shared a room, yes.

But not a bed.

Well… not yet.

The nights were built on a fragile sort of silence. Most times, you turned your backs on each other, neither of you willing to acknowledge the weight of the other’s presence.

You slept on opposite schedules like it was intentional. He’d come in late, loosen the collar of his robes and find you already turned to the wall, breathing slow. Or you’d crawl into the sheets just as he was leaving, the door clicking shut behind him like punctuation.

Some nights, he’d glance your way and say something half hearted, “Don’t die in your sleep. It’d be too convenient.”

To which you’d grumble into your pillow, “Fuck off, Zen’In.”

He never apologized. You never looked back.

Despite the tension, despite the way your nightgowns sometimes slipped off one shoulder too easily, he never touched you. Not really.

Well… not yet.

But there were glances that lingered too long. Eyes that dragged over skin like fingertips, even across the room. Pauses thick enough to choke on, heavy, charged and waiting to snap.

Sometimes, your fingers would brush when you both reached for the same teacup, too slow to pull away. Sometimes, his gaze dipped lower than it should’ve, lingering on the curve of your throat or the sway of your hips when you walked past. And when you caught him, he never looked away.

Maybe he didn’t touch you…

But the silence between you was loud.

Too loud.

Almost obscene.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

It only happened once- this... feeling. You weren't sure what to call it.

Possessiveness? No, that didn’t sound like him.

Jealousy? Maybe.

But whatever it was, it crept up on him sharp and bitter the moment his older brother laid a hand on the small of your back, guiding you into the room like you were his.

“And this,” the man announced proudly to a circle of esteemed guests, “is the wife of Naoya. A real beauty, isn’t she? You’d think she’s one of ours with how well she carries herself.”

You smiled politely, bowing as expected. A perfect wife, a perfect doll. Soft spoken. Regal in that way the Kamo had always trained you to be. You gave no protest, no sharp tongue. After all, that wasn’t your role. Not here. Not in front of them.

And Naoya? He didn’t give a shit about things like this, did he?

Well, that’s what you thought.

Until he stepped forward.

“Oh, brother,” Naoya drawled, the corner of his mouth twitching upward but it wasn’t a smile, not really. It was that condescending smirk he wore like armor. “It's almost inappropriate how you're touching a married woman.”

The room dipped into silence, just for a second. Just enough to notice. The older Zen’In laughed, brushing it off, but his hand dropped from your back.

Naoya’s eyes didn’t leave him.

“What's with the show and tell?” he continued, cool as ever. “You proud of settling to leftovers now?”

“Come now, Naoya. I was just being welcoming.”

“You can welcome your own wife like that,” he said, voice calm, eyes sharp. “Oh- wait. You’d need balls for that, wouldn’t you?”

That got a few polite, awkward and nervous strained laughs from the crowd. The kind that made your spine lock straight, made your lips twitch in practiced etiquette. His brother gave a breathy chuckle, clearing his throat as though the words hadn’t cut deeper than intended. And just like that, the topic was let go.

But Naoya wasn’t done.

As he stepped past you, slow and unhurried, he dipped his head close enough for you to feel his breath against your temple. No one else noticed, no one else heard it.

“I left instructions for your attendants,” he murmured, voice low and even. “Make sure you’re ready.”

You blinked, clearly confused, but he was already gone, disappearing back into the thrum of laughter and conversation, leaving you to politely smile through the rest of the night with a strange weight clinging to your chest.

You later found out what he meant.

Because the moment you returned to your shared chambers, a full entourage of attendants was already waiting.

They bowed upon your entrance, silent and poised, almost too still. Like they had been given specific instructions they didn’t dare deviate from.

Before you could utter a word, they began. Hands all over you, removing your layered silks with an efficiency that unnerved you. You weren’t even given the liberty to speak, to question, to breathe. There was no gentle chatter this time, no asking which oils you preferred or which scent soothed you most.

They were precise and strangely focused on a different level.

You sat in the chair they guided you to, unsure what to make of the warm towel they pressed to your skin, the fine oils brushed across your limbs. You opened your mouth to ask what the occasion was, but no one answered. No one looked at you directly.

When they slipped the robe over your shoulders, fine silk, sheer and impossibly delicate, you began to grow suspicious. It was the kind of robe reserved for intimate ceremonies. A honeymoon gift. A tradition bound garment you weren’t even sure was still practiced.

Your fingers ghosted over the fabric as it clung to your damp skin. You frowned. “Why… this?”

But again, no answer. Only shallow bows as they silently gestured for you to rise.

You were escorted down the hall, but it wasn’t toward your dressing room or even the usual private bath they sometimes prepared. Instead, you were brought toward the inner sanctum of the estate reserved for the head of the clan. A bathhouse not merely built for cleanliness or relaxation, but for decadence, power and control.

The closer you got, the more heat you felt through the polished floors, steam seeping beneath the threshold of the ornate wooden doors.

When you reached them, your attendants bowed once more… and left you there.

You blinked, stunned. “Pardon, aren’t you going to…?”

Nothing. Not even a glance back.

They disappeared down the corridor, leaving you with a robe barely shielding your form and your heartbeat climbing far too fast.

You exhaled shakily, hand hovering near the door before you finally slide it open.

And there he was.

Naoya.

Your husband.

Seated lazily in the center of the grand cypress soaking tub, heat rising from the surface like mist curling through air, thin petals drifting on water as if the gods themselves had chosen the aesthetic. A small lacquered table was perched beside the bath, bearing a half empty wine glass and a bottle cradled in a silver bucket.

He looked relaxed, head tilted and temple resting against his fisted hand as he watched you from beneath dark lashes.

Smiling.

Smirking.

Like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he had stirred in your chest.

“Come,” he said simply, voice velvet smooth in the echoing silence.

Your feet didn’t move. “What the hell is this, Naoya?”

His grin widened, lazy and wicked. “I said come.”

“You had them prep me up just to sit in hot water?” you scoffed. “Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” His eyes dragged down the robe clinging to your damp skin, entirely see through now under the steam and heat. His gaze was dark, heavy with heat, amusement dancing in the curve of his mouth. “You’re practically naked already.”

He didn’t wait for your answer this time.

“Come.” His voice dropped lower, like the crackle of fire just before it roars. “Now.”

Something in your spine straightened. The heat in his gaze, the steam curling around his shoulders, the way he lounged like a king in that cypress tub, it pulled you forward despite the irritation bubbling in your chest.

The scent of hinoki wood, sweet florals, and the faintest whiff of expensive cologne filled the space.

Naoya’s gaze dragged over you slowly. He took a sip from his wine, then tilted his head like he was deciding what part of you he wanted to taste first.

Then, he spoke. “Strip.”

The word barely left his mouth before your fingers were already pulling at the silk sash, slow and deliberate. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter. The robe slipped from your shoulders and whispered down your skin like a secret, pooling at your feet in a soft, glimmering puddle.

You stood there bare under the soft golden light, eye contact sharp and unbroken, chin tilted the slightest bit higher as if daring him to say something more.

Naoya sipped his wine.

His lips twitched.

The silence stretched.

“I like you better when you obey,” he said. “Makes you look more fuckable. Should’ve skipped the attitude and bent you over months ago.”

You didn’t grant him a reaction, though your jaw ticked. The heat between your bodies thickened like the steam curling through the room.

Without a word, you stepped into the tub. Warm water kissed your skin, enveloping you inch by inch. But it didn’t rise high enough, not nearly. Your breasts remained exposed above the surface, slick, glistening, and unbothered by your own boldness.

Naoya was staring brazenly. Shamelessly, even.

You arched a brow. “Eyes up here, Zen’In.”

His gaze lifted, unapologetic, and you watched as he slowly set the wine glass down on the lacquered table beside the tub. Then he leaned back, arms spreading along the rim behind him like a man settling in for a show he’d paid good money to see.

His voice was smooth, low, and full of expectation. “Now don’t make your husband wait. Be a good wife.”

He tipped his head, motioning for you to come closer right into his lap.

Without a word, you straddled him, knees bracketing his hips, your bare cunt pressing right against his growing length. Your palms found the edge of the tub for balance, but your eyes never left his.

“Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” you murmured, deadpan, “but your attitude isn’t exactly making me wet.”

A lie. And you both knew it.

Naoya smirked like he could see through your bones. “Then you better keep sitting right there until it does.”

His hands found your sides, slow and greedy. Thumbs dragging along the slope of your ribs, fingers dipping beneath the soft underside of your breasts, brushing your skin like he had all the time in the world.

He was eye fucking you so hard, you could feel it crawl over your skin.

His voice dropped. “Remind me again what your duties are, hm?”

A thumb grazed the peak of your nipple.

You sucked in a quiet breath. One hand clutched the tub rim tighter.

“You’re mine,” he said, tone smug and deep with promise.

“All of this,” another drag over your nipple, slower this time, watching your mouth twitch as you tried not to whimper, “belongs to me.”

Your hips twitched, his cock stirring beneath you. His mouth tilted in amusement.

“And you’ll bear my heir,” he added with finality, voice brushing hot against your throat as he leaned in and pressed a kiss against the soft swell of your breast, tongue flicking briefly over damp skin.

Your head tipped back slightly, another soft moan escaping despite your best efforts.

Naoya chuckled, dark and low, hands gripping your hips now, holding you firm.

“Look at you,” he drawled, voice thick with smug amusement, “acting like a proper wife for once.”

One of his hands slid along the curve of your back, from the base of your spine to the nape of your neck. You shivered at the contrast of his warm palm against your skin. Then, a sudden tug. His fingers curled into your hair, fisting a good amount, forcing your face closer until your noses were barely apart.

His breath fanned across your lips, eyes locked on yours like he was trying to crawl into your head.

You refused to give him the satisfaction of looking away. "Felt generous and sorry for you."

His eyes narrowed, jaw twitching like you’d just challenged him and in a way, you did.

“Tch. Should’ve ruined you the second we got home from that damn ceremony.”

“Asshole,” you said, the word slipping out low, shaky, too full of heat to really count as an insult.

Naoya didn’t even blink.

He just smirked like he liked it, like the sound of your defiance was foreplay. He leaned in, breath brushing your lips, warm and deliberate. His hand stayed curled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, your throat exposed to him like some kind of offering. His other hand slid up your side, pausing just beneath your chest, the weight of it grounding you but not gentle.

“Say it again,” he murmured, voice low, maddeningly close. “Go on.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. Not with the way his mouth hovered over yours like a fucking threat.

It was that tension where time stretches, breath catches, and all you can feel is him. Lips grazing but not kissing. Noses brushing. The charged stillness of it, like the air itself is holding its breath.

You could feel him smirk again, barely, and then...

He kissed you.

Just once.

A fleeting ghost of a kiss, cruel in how light it was. Barely there and almost tender.

And then he pulled back.

But not before his teeth caught your bottom lip and bit it slow, then sharp. Not enough to tear, but enough to sting. Enough to leave something behind.

A mark. A taste.

You gasped softly, lips parting, and he licked his own like he could already taste blood. “Tch.” His eyes burned into yours. “Guess it’s not that hard to keep that pretty little mouth of yours shut after all.”

You grab a fistful of his hair at the nape, yanking just enough to tilt his head back, exposing his throat. Your voice? Low, sharp, laced with venom. “You talk too much for someone so desperate to fuck me.”

He exhales, amused and breathless, his lips twitching into that cocky smirk you’ve grown to hate as much as you crave.

“Mm. There she is,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “My pretty little wife.”

His hands trail up the backs of your thighs, deceptively gentle, until they clamp hard around your waist. You feel the shift before you even react. It was sudden and fast.

In a flash, he jerks you down onto him, sinking into your heat with one brutal thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

You gasp, your body jolting at the sudden fullness, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give you a second to adjust.

Naoya grabs both your wrists, gathering them easily in one hand and forcing them behind your back. The other hand clamps down on your hip, grounding you in place as he fucks up into you, hard and unrelenting, each thrust forcing a gasp from your throat.

“Thought you were in charge?” he grunts, voice rough with effort, jaw tight as his hips snap up into you again and again. “Look at you. Already fucked dumb and clenching around me.”

You squirm, moan and try to grind down harder for relief, but his hold on you only tightens. You’re his to use now, spine arched, wrists pinned behind you and body trembling with each pounding thrust.

“A wife like you,” he breathes against your throat, tongue flicking out to taste your skin, “should know better.”

He nips your neck hard, not enough to break skin but enough to bruise because of course he wants the mark there, to mark you as his.

You whimper half from pain, half from pleasure and he only fucks you harder, hips rutting up without mercy.

“So you better not disappoint me,” he snarls through gritted teeth, voice dropping lower, filthier. “You better take everything I give you.”

His hand leaves your hip just long enough to splay across your lower stomach, pressing down slightly to feel the way his cock drags inside you.

“Gonna fuck a brat like you full,” he growls, panting now, movements starting to lose rhythm from how tight you’re squeezing around him. “Make sure you bear my child and learn what a real wife’s duty is.”

Your head drops back with a ragged moan, his filthy words sinking deep into your core, and this time, instead of resisting, you move with him. Your hips grind down and roll, greedy and slick, syncing to the brutal thrusts of his cock. He groans sharp and low, both surprised and pleased.

“That’s it,” Naoya breathes, lips parted as he watches the way you ride him now, chest bouncing, flushed, ruined, and finally giving in. “There she is. That’s a proper Zen'In wife.”

His hand loosens around your wrists, finally releasing you and you immediately plant your palms on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin for support as you ride him harder. The shift in control is brief, heated, and earned. You bring one hand up to his face, gripping his jaw with authority, thumb dragging slow and mocking down his lower lip until it catches.

He licks it without thinking, breath hitching.

“Fuck you,” you bite out, voice husky, eyes half lidded.

Naoya smirks like the bastard he is. “By all means, please.”

And just like that, you're both moving in a rhythm that’s almost obscene, sweaty skin slapping, moans melting into one another, the heat between your bodies near unbearable. He lets you take what you need, his hands tight on your waist but his hips snap up into yours, sharp and unrelenting.

“Shit! Naoya-” you gasp, jaw trembling as he hits that spot over and over.

“Yeah, keep talking,” he mutters, breath ragged, lips dragging against your jaw. “You hear yourself? So much prettier when you're full of me.”

Your forehead falls against his, breath hitching, eyes barely open. His own are dark, blown wide and locked on yours with such intensity it makes your spine arch. Your arms loop around his neck, fingers digging into the back of his shoulders, grounding yourself.

Then you kiss him.

It was not sweet. It was not soft.

It’s hungry and messy like you’re both trying to devour the other, tongues clashing, teeth grazing. You moan into his mouth, and he swallows it down like he’s starved for the sound.

"That's it," he pants into your lips, hips bucking harder now, rhythm erratic. "Ride it out with me, doll."

You cling to him tighter, the heat in your belly finally snapping, body trembling as your orgasm hits like a wave, pulsing around him as you cry out into his kiss.

"Fuck- good girl," he growls against your mouth, hand gripping your hip so tight it might bruise. “Fuck, you’re so much better like this, huh sweetheart?"

You nod weakly, lips brushing his. “Wanted it- wanted you-”

“You’re getting it,” he groans, spilling deep inside you with a violent shudder, his mouth never once leaving yours. You swallow his broken moans between the kiss, your fingers tangled in his hair, clutching him close like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

Naoya's hips twitch once, twice more, burying it as deep as he can. You feel it, and all you can do is hold on, forehead still pressed to his.

His breath fans hot across your lips as he pants out, “Fuck… that’s it. Took me so well. Knew you would.”

You whimper into his mouth, legs still trembling around his waist.

He leans in, tone quieter now, but rougher, meaner and what is this? Maybe even proud.

“My perfect little Zen'In wife.”

──── ⋆.⋆˚꩜｡ ˚ ──── ──── ⋆.⋆˚꩜｡ ˚ ────

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

my blondie corrupted brain will definitely be posting more fics soon aaaaaa

naoya gooners, standby ! you're in good hands ʕ•ᴥ•ʔو

12:47 a.m. That’s what the clock reads when I finally look up from my phone. First night of spring break, and I’ve spent it bedrotting and doomscrolling instead of studying—fully aware exam season is lurking just around the corner.

I sigh, peeling myself off the bed, and wander downstairs for a glass of water. That’s when I saw him.

Through the kitchen window above the sink, out on the back patio deck, sits Caleb. A black hoodie pulled low over his head, his face dimly lit by the flicker of a lighter as he shields the flame from the late March breeze. A blunt rests between his lips.

My Caleb.

He’s smoking? Since when does he do that? Is this his first time?

He checks his phone absentmindedly, the glow illuminating the underside of his face. For a second, I just watch him; at least 3 minutes pass like that, with me watching him scroll through whatever has his attention on his phone, smoking like it’s just another night. All I can wonder is, how long has he been smoking? When did he start smoking? Who taught him how to roll a blunt? The thought of him smoking out girls at parties or in his dorm at the DAA creeps into my mind.

I forcefully slide the back patio door open, suddenly feeling enraged by my own thoughts. Caleb jumps a little, surprised by the noise, and sees me standing there. He gives me a look of a kid who just got caught doing something they aren't supposed to.

"Shit, Pipsqueak, you scared me," he says with a smile tugging at his lips, and sets the blunt down onto the ashtray in front of him. "Since when do you smoke?" I say, pulling his hood down and crossing my arms, the irritation in my voice undeniable. “Why are you mad?” Caleb asks, grabbing my wrist and pulling me into his lap. He smells like weed and cologne, his eyes red and his lids heavy from the high. "`You ask like I just committed a crime," answering my previous question. "I don’t do it that often, just… when my brain won’t shut up," he continues.

"So you're out here smoking alone? And what's keeping your mind racing this late anyway?" My eyes flicker to his phone; I can’t help but wonder if someone at school—a girl— is influencing my Caleb.

“Pipsqueak, relax,” he says, voice low. He seems to pick up on it immediately. He always does; Caleb could always just read me like that. He runs a hand slowly down my leg like he’s trying to calm whatever displeasing thoughts were buzzing under my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Yeah, uh… guess I didn’t expect to get caught by you, of all people." He scratches his head a bit, clearly trying to play it off, but embarrassed from being caught red-handed. "So you are embarrassed." Unable to resist teasing him in a state like this. “A little." He says, tips of his ears visibly red, "I mean—you’re like the one person I didn’t wanna see me like this.”

A dull pang of guilt settles in my chest.

He didn’t say it in a way that was defensive or ashamed—just honest. Like he really cared what I thought. And for some reason, that hits me harder than I expect.

“Why won’t you try taking a hit? It’ll be fun,” he suggests, leaning in a little, eyes still low. “Let me show you how to let go for a second."

It wouldn't kill me to try it once, right? Plus, I'm with Caleb, and he wouldn't let anything bad happen to me.

Sensing I’m close to giving in, he grins just a bit wider. “There she is,” he murmurs, reaching for the blunt. He relights it, it had gone out sitting untouched in the ashtray—and brings it to my lips.

“Just breathe in slowly,” he says softly. “I got you.” The first inhale burns. I cough—hard. Caleb lets out a quiet laugh, clearly amused. “Damn, Pipsqueak,” He pats my back, his palm warm through the thin fabric of my shirt "I didn't think you'd hit it that hard" "Holy shit, do you get use to that?' I asked in between smaller coughs. Lungs still stinging from the smoke, his touch lingers, his hand gently rubbing in slow circles. Comforting. Casual. Except it’s not, not to me. "Eventually," He says

Goosebumps race down my spine as he takes the blunt back, fingers twisting the ends of my hair—almost absentminded. The closeness wouldn’t usually faze me, but it feels different now. Caleb takes another hit and turns his head away to not blow the smoke in my face.

Maybe it’s how his shoulders have filled out in the past year. Or maybe it’s Tara, my dormmate, constantly pestering me about how I need to catch a dick.

She was always saying things like, "How have you been living with a guy that hot and haven't jumped him in the laundry room already?" I always rolled my eyes, swore it wasn’t like that. But now?

Now he's sitting here with smoke curling out of his lips, his hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin and the faint line of his happy trail disappearing beneath his waistband, twisting my hair between his fingers like it’s a habit, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. And now I can’t stop noticing how his hand looks resting on my thigh—bigger, steady, and familiar, but not in the way it used to be.

I can feel my heart start to race after this realization, but I'll blame it on the THC entering my bloodstream before I acknowledge my attraction to my childhood best friend. “You’ve changed,” I mumble before I can stop myself.

Caleb raises a brow, exhaling smoke as he glances over at me. “That a good thing or a bad thing?” "I don't know," I admit, a bit too honestly. He gives me a look I can't quite decipher. "Tara's been getting to you, hasn't she?" My head shoots up to give him a look. “Shut up.” “I’m right, though,” he grins, all smug and a little too satisfied with himself. “She’s been planting ideas in that pretty head of yours.” His hand trails up from my back to massage my neck as he offers the blunt back to me.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I take it from him and confidently take another hit. He laughs softly, eyes still on me. “Look at you, getting high with me on the back porch like we’re in a coming-of-age movie.” I look away, trying to hide the blush that found its way to my face, but he can feel the heat creep up my neck anyway.

His fingers find the ends of my hair again, rolling a curl around his knuckle. This used to feel safe. Simple. But now... with his thigh pressed against mine and that look in his eyes...

I feel a heat start to build between my legs, and I shift awkwardly, squeezing them together in a weak attempt to ease the tension. Sitting in Caleb’s lap definitely isn’t helping physically or otherwise. He picks up on this, too. "Are you uncomfortable?" voice low but cautious, like he’s not sure if he should move or stay perfectly still.

“No,” I say, maybe too quickly. “just... adjusting.” He raises a brow “adjusting, huh?” “Don’t start,” I mumble, face flushed. He chuckles under his breath, teasing me. His hand settles lightly on my hips, fingers flexing just a little like he’s testing the waters.

“I mean if you wanna get up,” he says, quieter now. “You can.”

I don’t move. “You want me to?” I ask, in almost a whisper. His grip on my hips tightens just slightly—not enough to hold me there, but enough to say I don’t want you to. “No,” he says finally, voice rougher than before. “Not really.”

He takes another hit from the blunt—just a stub now—and something reckless stirs in me, probably fueled by my high or my jealousy issues. Or maybe it's the way I’m suddenly aching, clenching my thighs against the growing tension low in my belly.

Before I can even process it, I shift to straddle Caleb, now fully facing him, heart pounding in my throat. I can feel him—his clothed erection brushing perfectly against my core, sending a sharp wave of heat through me.

“Shit,” he mutters, his hand instinctively moving to my thighs. “What're you doing, Pipsqueak?” I don’t give an answer, I just reach for the blunt, and bring it to my lips. One long, slow inhale.

His eyes go wide, pupils blown and glossy. “Fuckk,” he breathes. And before he can say anything else, I cup his face in my hands, leaning in, and exhaling the smoke into his mouth, lips barely brushing. Caleb inhales the smoke like it’s second nature.

His hands slide higher, gripping my hips firmly, and he pulls me down against him—my whole body pulses at the contact, heart thudding so loud now I’m sure he can hear it.

"Fuck," he murmurs, his voice raspy from the smoke. “You have no idea what you're doing to me right now.” I bridge the gap between our lips and kiss him passionately, throwing my arms around his neck to pull us closer together. The blunt falls somewhere forgotten behind me as I grip his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.

His lips are warm and a little dry from the blunt, and I can still taste the smoke on his lips. Caleb makes a soft sound in his throat, almost like a groan, and pulls me in tighter. His fingers dig into my hips, not hard, just enough to ground us both like he needs proof this is really happening. I feel the muscles in his thighs tense beneath me, feel the way his body presses up into mine.

The high makes everything feel softer but heavier. More intense. I can’t even tell if I’m breathing too fast or not at all.

His lips leave mine only to trail kisses along my jaw, then lower, stopping to whisper against my neck, “You’re driving me insane, Pipsqueak.”

Good.

If I could climb inside his skin, I would. I love that no one else gets to see this version of Caleb—the real him—the Caleb who laughs when I say something dumb, the Caleb who treats every bump and bruise like he’s my personal doctor. The one who lets me crawl into his bed after a nightmare and never says a word about it the next morning. The one that’s mine, even if neither of us has said it out loud..

Dragging him impossibly closer as I kiss him deeper, rougher, until our teeth bump and his breath shudders against my lips. His tongue slides against mine, and I groan into his.

I grind against him again, slowly, deliberately. Feeling just how hard he is, cock barely restrained by the thin fabric of his basketball shorts. Caleb's hands find their way under my shirt now, cupping my breast, and I arch into him shamelessly. His thumbs brush across my nipples a few times, now stiff under his fingers. I bite back a gasp, burying my face into his neck. The scent of smoke and skin feeling familiar and dizzying all at once.

“You feel so fucking good, baby” he mutters, voice rough and half-broken, and I can feel the tension in him—he’s holding himself back. His hands move down, gripping my ass, guiding me to rock against him again. Faster this time. Harder. “You don’t even know,” he says, the words thick with need.

I smile, just barely, drunk on power and weed and him. “Then show me.” He kisses me again, my hips rolling on instinct, chasing the friction that has my head spinning and my toes curling.

Neither of us says a word, but everything is loud—the sound of our breath, the low hum of music still leaking from his phone speaker, the rustle of fabric, the creak of the patio chair beneath us.

Every time his hips push up to meet mine, it gets harder to stay quiet. He drags my shirt higher, mouthing at my collarbone, then lower, lips grazing the top of my chest, leaving heat in his wake, he groans into my skin.

“You’re mine,” I whisper without meaning to.

Caleb pauses for just a second, breathing hard against my chest. “Yours,” he repeats, voice rough and low. “All fucking yours.”

My breath hitches, the words settling deep inside, and I kiss him again. ike I’m trying to brand the taste of him into my mouth. Our rhythm slips into something more desperate, more frantic. My hips grind down harder, slower, dragging out the friction that’s quickly unraveling me. His cock presses up, stiff and hot through his shorts, perfectly aligned against the ache between my thighs

Caleb’s hands slip beneath my ass, kneading the soft flesh, using his grip to control the movement—rolling his hips up to meet every grind of mine. I moan into his mouth before I can stop myself, and he swallows the sound like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“Fuck, Pipsqueak,” he breathes against my lips, voice wrecked and loving. “You’re so wet—I can feel you through everything.”

“You gonna come like this?” he whispers, lips brushing mine. “Right here, on my lap, just from grinding on me?”

I nod, barely managing the motion, my whole body trembling with how close I am. “Caleb—” I gasp, digging my fingers into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor me.

“I got you,” he says, holding me tighter, pressing his forehead to mine again. “I’ve always got you.”

I roll my hips once more, and everything in me goes white-hot, crashing and clenching around nothing but need. I moan into his neck as the orgasm rolls over me, wracking my body with shivers and aftershocks.

Caleb holds me through it, never letting go, murmuring something against my temple—something I can’t quite hear over the pounding in my chest, but I feel it. Every word. Every touch.

When I finally come down, still trembling in his lap, he pulls me close, pressing a lazy kiss to my cheek. His hand strokes my back in slow, steady circles, grounding me again.

“You’re really not getting up now,” he says with a crooked grin, voice hoarse and smug.

And I don’t want to.