Fizzy

It's the small things that show he really cares, no matter how many times he tells you gruffly to shut up.

Gabriel sulks until the early hours of the morning, perched like a carrion bird until the light streams through the room and washes away most of the darkness shrouding him. He can't sleep, restless and agitated, spurred on by the simmering pain of his cells regenerating at a rapid pace that keep him alive and watching the halls like Talon's resident ghoul. He marinates in a thick gloom, festering under a bone-white mask like a children's nightmare.

That is, until you wake up. If he's not already in your room - the defences flimsy to someone like him - waking you up so deliciously by parting your soft, pyjama-less thighs with his clawed gauntlets and stretching your cunt open on his thick cock, then he's waiting routinely for you in the 'staff-room.'

Every single day. Like clockwork, he's there. You always make two cups of steaming coffee, even though he never touches it and it often goes cold, simply staring as the steam rises and dissipates. It's early, all but a select few still asleep, and still a half hour before Akande has you organising documents and booking his meetings, a short period where Reaper has you all to himself.

He doesn't talk because he doesn't need to. You fill the silence with some trivial drabble about a new show you'd seen or some menial gossip you'd heard along the grapevine of Talon's many inconsequential minions. It's normal. Too normal for someone like Gabe, but you help him pretend. You're all too happy to see him, chirping over your coffee like all is right with the shadow beside you. It makes him feel sick, something all too sweet and sappy filling his chest and drowning his lungs, cloying and thick and all too unlike him. But if you pause your chatter under the pretence that he isn't listening, he'll turn towards you with a stare so hard you can feel the burn through his mask until you continue.

You punctuate your idle chatter with small sips from your drink, its your own coffee that you share with him - not the shitty burnt crap that the staff room provides. A small gesture, innocent and sickeningly sweet that makes him want to scoff. But he sneaks a sip when your back is turned, and it's nice, good stuff - expensive stuff. It's a waste on him but yet you do it anyway.

The next day he's there like clockwork, only, there's the brand of coffee you use in place of the usual rubbish. He doesn't meet your gaze, nor does he accept the dopey smile he can see you doing out of the corner of his eye. He is not a kind man, your coffee is just better, so he bought some for himself, that's all. Gabriel definitely doesn't scare off any others apart from you who try to use it, definitely not.

You make him softer, sanding down his rough edges until he's tame and palatable. Until he's traipsing behind you in the halls like a lost dog, waiting at the foot of your bed like a good boy. Sit, speak, heel. Like clockwork.

It's not all bad, though. You let him in at night, a flash of his ghoulish cloak disappearing behind closed doors, welcoming him into your warmth with open arms and sweet whispers. You let him take what he needs from your softness, growling and kissing his teeth against your neck as he ruts into your cunt, leg hooked over his hip as he buries a place for himself inside you.

He leaves bruises and bite marks, danger and destruction left in his wake, yet, you still appear in the staff room every morning on time, chattering away - like clockwork. You tasted danger and let it between your legs, into your bed and between your sheets. You reward him for his softness in the mornings by letting him ravage you at night. And suddenly, everything is a little less bad.

You’re making hot drinks for a group of friends when he shows up, clad in green attire and a cunning grin on his face. He stands behind the counter, either unaware or uncaring of the eyes trained on his figure. How often is it that you see a Harlequin at a cafe? More often than you would think, apparently.

When you serve the group and they pay you watch as Harlequin’s eyes squint in delight when you return back behind the counter.

Your eyes meet his with the usual customer service smile plastered on your face. “Hello sir, what can I get for you?” He grins wider somehow “Just an iced coffee, doll.” He looks you up and down and you already know what’s coming. “But you wouldn’t happen to be on the menu, would you?” 

You let out an exaggerated sigh, pointing to the menu overhead. “ No, fortunately. But I can offer you a slice of one of our sweet cakes instead?”

“Hm, tempting, but I'll pass. I was hoping for something even sweeter, unfortunate that this establishment displays the goods behind a glass case but you can’t even purchase them.”

You try to hold back a huff of amusement, “Keep it up and it might work,” you hand him his iced coffee and he gives you the owed payment. “I’m sure the other performers must be wondering where you slinked off to by now. You should probably get back before you get caught slacking, Harlequin.”

He leaves you with a coy wave, condensation from his plastic cup dripping down his gloved fingers. 

It had only been two or so months since the circus first arrived, in that time you had gotten to know most of the circus’s main performers and workers. The Ticketmaster, Jester, Harlequin, [REDACTED] of whom you saw once and then never again, and your favourite, Pierrot.

They were all a remarkable bunch. Unspoken mysteries of the circus aside, you didn’t put your nose where it didn’t belong. And with the metallic scent you could smell from the pink tent every now and again when you visited- you would be staying far, far away from whatever secrets were hidden within the circus walls.

When your shift ends you remove your coffee soiled apron and fold it over an arm to bring home to wash, your boss had left early again and left you to close by yourself- which you didn’t particularly mind, it was pretty dead this time of night anyway. 

Goosebumps rise along your arms when you step out of the building, a cold wind brushes against your back and you hunch your shoulders to maintain the lingering warmth of the cafe.

When you make your way down the block the goosebumps do not subside, the cold chill is still there but something else has the hair on the back of your neck rising. A forlorn fight or flight sensation taking over your body.

Someone is watching you.

You settle when you hear a tinkle of brass bells, when you shift your gaze you meet the gaze of Harlequin.

He dips his head in greeting, offering a sharp toothed grin “Hello.” 

You quirk your brow. A second chance meeting with the Harlequin of the circus in a single day, who knew.

“Still handing out flyers?” You smile politely, looking up at his eyes and trying to gauge anything from his expression. He remains stoically hard to read, as per usual.

“Yes, I work a long shift. Won’t you have pity on me, dear?”  

“Does that pity include asking for dessert that you can’t have?” You snort, wrinkling your nose up at the clown.

He laughs, his head knocking back and the bells on his hat chime behind him. “Only if you’d allow it, of course.” He falls into a casual step beside you, his presence shielding your body from the chilly wind some.

You barely make it a few lousy steps when you nearly crash into a tall figure underneath a streetlamp.

Pierrot.

He steps forward then when you make eyecontact, his withering gaze almost frightens you until you realise it wasn’t directed at you.

Harlequin steps forward “Well hello, fancy seeing you here.” He looks the opposing clown up and down, “Well I suppose I must leave you here, doll. Your saviour has arrived.” 

“Oh!” You gape, turning to look between the scalding gaze of Pierrot and the grin Harlequin wore. “Okay, bye!” You watch as he wiggles his fingers in a wave at you over his shoulder before walking away. The chiming of bells following his form with every step. 

You startle out of your stupor when a hand wraps around yours, gently intertwining fingers squeeze yours. “Uhm, Pierrot?” His eyes glow a deep amber, staring into yours with an almost overwhelming fondness- tinged with a slightly dark undertone.

You watch as his eyes flicker away from yours in an unsaid motion towards the green clad fellow. You’re trying to decipher what his forlorn expression could mean when it hits you.

“You- are you jealous?” And by now- you should think, there's a pretty obvious answer to your question. When did Pierrot not have a foul look on his face whenever Harlequin was near. Ever since you met them they always seemed to be at each other's throats. One with honest malicious intent and the other seeming simply amused.

He turns to you with a softer expression, an almost pleading look in his eyes. You can’t help but take a little bit of pity on him. “Do you want to come over?” you pause at your bold words, stumbling to explain yourself “It’s been a while I mean! And the last time didn’t really even count because we were just stopping by to-”

“I would love to, my dearest.” His hand- still holding yours, rubs soft and small circles along the back of your knuckles.

You turn to the streets that were nearly vacant, even Harlequin seemed to have returned back to the circus and only a few performers remained. 

Shaking your head to dismiss the thoughts you tilt your head up to an uncomfortable amount to look up at Pierrot, “Let’s go then, it shouldn’t take too long to get there from here.”

And with that the two of you head off in the direction of your apartment fingers still intertwined.

When you do arrive you struggle through your lock being stubborn and not opening, and then stumbling over the welcome mat when you try to make your way through the damn door. 

The act of having company over has scrambled your brain.. Especially when inviting a guest over as attractive as Pierrot.

When you manage to not make too much of a fool of yourself and gently offer him the loveseat and one of your throw blankets, and you dismiss yourself in the kitchen to grab snacks for your impromptu movie night. 

When you return with a bowl of miscellaneous foods you watch Pierrot fiddling with channels on your television.

You lean over the back of the couch over his shoulder to point at the screen “Channel 445 tends to have pretty good movies airing this time, if none of them catch your eye I think I have a few prerecorded.” He takes an odd amount of time to respond, and you’re close to reaching further over him to grab the remote to change the channel yourself when he sits ramrod straight and changes it himself, throwing on whatever rom-com had been airing tonight.

You walk around the couch to settle yourself on the cushion opposite of him, grabbing a spare throw hanging from the back and wrapping the soft fabric around yourself. You sink into the softness and bury your nose in the familiar scent, slowly letting your mind wander as the movie echoes in the recesses of your mind.

When the cushion dips next to you, you come to. You stare at the television watching as the protagonist blurts out a sappy-cute line about always having loved the love-interest, with tears welling up in her eyes. The cushion dips even further under an unexplained weight and you turn to find the source and face Pierrot hovering mere inches away from you. You gulp in uncertainty, his eyes had a harsh glow to them- shooting through your very soul. You try to read his expression, but not much is revealed.

“He was flirting with you today.” 

..What?

His body is slowly shifting over you, arms coming out to cage you to the armrest you were leaning against. Most of his mass blocks the light and tv out of view, casting an eerie shadow on his face.

Your mouth flutters open, you weren’t sure whether to refute his claims, ask why he was pinning you to your furniture, or a garbled mess of both. Either way your mouth flaps open and closed uselessly. You were at a loss for words. 

At your lack of response he shifts closer, a hot tension settling in the air. “P-Pierrot?” his knee slowly shifts in between yours, further trapping you to the couch. You couldn’t get up even if you wanted, trying would result in you knocking your forehead right into his.

His breath ghosts along your teeth, you stare into his eyes in a fluster as he plunges his mouth onto yours. The kiss is messy and sloppy and you can feel his teeth scraping along your lips. You try to lean your head back for a breath of air but he simply follows you, a clawed hand curling into your hair.

You let out a soft gasp when clawed tips meet the sensitive flesh of your belly, gently pushing your sleep shirt up and settling right underneath your bare chest. Without warning, a long, warm tongue slips onto yours, curling with curiosity into your mouth. He strokes along your ribs when you push your own tongue back against his. 

When you both pull away your face is hot and flush, he hovers close, his hot breath mingling with your own. “You know, considering it was just a little chat with Harlequin. I think you might’ve overreacted a bit.” You chuckle.

His grin widens and he hums, settling himself on the couch- practically in your lap, and shoving his face into your neck. 

You sigh and reach for the remote on the coffee table to put something on more entertaining than the rom-com you’d been tuning out for the past half hour.

the constant years of trailing behind your every step was addictive, a drug he could never even bare to withdraw from. even when you felt you were constantly alone, like you mattered little to none to anybody in the world, he put you back on your feet. quietly.

he liked (your) things within their own designated places: you sleeping peacefully in your comfortable bed, your daily necessities laid about on every surface throughout your home, the subtle scent of your signature perfume that clings to every corner of your apartment. something is never lost between the both of you, because redacted will always find, and take care of you and your belongings. whenever he visits, he subtly places things back in their signature spots. not in places you would need to search to find, but in places meant for you to see without searching.

it's when he goes back to his own apartment that he realizes just how long he has truly been loyal and devoted to you. finally returning in the middle of the night, he tiredly darts to the room locked away in the very back of the hallway. he softly opens the door, careful not to disturb anything carefully placed within the room.

quietly, he adds a new trinket to the shrine he's created throughout the decade of his constant protection. something small, something you likely wouldn’t even notice went missing. except, it meant the world to redacted. like a step closer into your heart.

redacted's apartment itself was a statement, with it's wide glass windows, his blinding white marble floors, the kind of minimalist perfection that would look sterile to anyone else but made redacted feel steady. like he's making the right decisions. everything in it existed because he’d chosen it, curated it, tamed it. tamed it to be fit for you and you only. it was never about him or his comfort; every choice is always made to move him as close to you as possible, no matter the circumstances.

there's a reason his space is so bland and empty. not because it's his home, but because it is carefully arranged for whatever you want it to be.

he had built a new life, a mysterious income, a persona worth loving, surrounded by you and your preferences. for ages, he's kept you safe from a distance, completely destroying whoever dared to look at your perfection the wrong way.

it's when you finally walk in, smiling, curious, so sweetly warm. you speak to him like he isn't full of sharp edges, like there is still something worth knowing beneath his carefully calculated personality.

months later, you were still here. here after uncovering his true being, like removing stiff grime from a fragile, cracked glass statue.

he couldn’t decide whether that meant he’d done something right, or that you simply hadn’t yet seen just how deep his cuts and scars marked his entire being.

he watches you from across the living room that morning, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, the sunlight catching the edges of your features. the two of you had woken up a little less than an hour ago, softly pecking at each other's faces, whispering your good mornings. you were laughing at something on your phone, head tilted, lips parted in that effortless way that made his chest tighten.

redacted had always been good at hiding things. his jealousy, his fear, with the exception of his unbearable need for you. he couldn’t even attempt to cover it up, simply because he'd crack instantly.

yet, sometimes, when you smiled just like that, the mask of everything he truly was threatened to slip.

you peer up at him.

“you're staring again, red.”

he doesn't look away, just lazily leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “y' make it hard not to when your sittin' all pretty like that.”

giggling softly, you shake your head. “you're silly.”

"i mean it."

if only you knew.

--

later that evening, you had disappeared into the guest room for over an hour. redacted heard faint sounds from the living room where you told him to stay put. he heard something being cut, folded, taped, yet you brushed off his questions with a distracted “you'll see.” he had decided to give you privacy while you made this mysterious project, dismissing the set security camera facing directly towards where you were standing.

as the night fell over corland bay, rain began to tap softly against the windows. you quietly approach your boyfriend in the living room with something wrapped in your hands.

redacted sits idly on the sofa with his signature black hoodie on, phone in hand as he stares at it with a bored expression. tip-toeing towards his tall figure, his eyes brighten as he watches you come closer.

standing before him, you whip the gift out from behind you with excitement.

“for you,” you speak, huge cheeky grin tugging on your cheeks as you present your gift.

redacted blinked, surprised. presents were common between the both of you, the only difference is he was the one typically giving, not receiving.

you caught on to his hesitation before taking it from you, big blue eyes staring at you in confusion. “what's this?”

“open it and find outtt.” you giggle, clasping your hands over his as you place it in his grasp.

the present was wrapped in multicolored paper you’d clearly folded yourself. it's slightly uneven creases, the bit of tape overlapping the edge. he slides a finger under the seam, careful not to tear it, as if any sudden movement might break the entire thing and leave it disintegrated in his grasp. you can't help but let out a puff of laughter at his cautious approach.

underneath the carefully removed paper was a crimson journal, the band keeping it shut being a deep black. the design on the front was intricate, two hands, one reaching for the other. the front was seemingly hand painted, lines imperfect and slightly squiggly if you looked too closely. what really left redacted with a large lump in his throat was the noticeable mark in between both palms.

faintly burned into the surface, were your initials.

he stared at it for a long time, the rain filling the silence between you. his ocean eyes repeatedly dart along the journal, pupils blown wide. you slowly take a seat next to him on the sofa and reach out. gripping his bicep softly, he instinctively leans into your touch.

“y'made this?” he speaks, voice low, almost hoarse.

“of course, just for you.” you smile, a little shy. “it's nothing big. i just… went shopping for stationary the other day and went overboard." you laugh at yourself. "i wrote enough to write a novel, you don't need to read everything right now.”

he turns it over in his hand. the texture of the journal seemingly being the most interesting thing in the world. his close inspection of your art and design was making you slightly insecure. you know you made a few mistakes here and there, and you found yourself waiting for him to point something silly out to you.

yet, that wasn't the case for redacted at all. each stroke of color was carefully placed by your hands, even if the paint was outside the lines of your cute sketches. to him, it was human, fragile. a small piece of you made tangible.

and it was his.

something sharp suddenly twisted deep within his chest.

“y-y' didn’t have to... really i—”

“i wanted to,” you interrupted, tone soft. “you do so much for me, red. i just wanted to make something for you. something from me.”

he peers up at you, and there it was. that open sincerity that always undid him. no hidden expectations, no fear. just warmth. warmth of showing him your love.

the book suddenly felt impossibly heavy in his hand.

raising your hand to rub his back in slow circles, you move your face close to his ear.

"open it." you whisper, removing the black band.

immediately, redacted is met with multiple photos and cute stickers coating every single one of the pages; many of the stickers consisting of characters that remind you of yourselves, polaroids of the both of you walking along the beach, printed out pictures you'd taken of him in secret with the soft skincare mask he'd asked you to help him apply, the string of frames the two of you had taken in a photobooth someplace around the city.

flipping through the pages slowly, the multiple poems and colorful notes you had written in multiple colors of ink stick out to him like a blinding light. it's overwhelming in the best way possible.

he places the journal carefully on the coffee table, fingers trembling slightly. he sits there, motionless, staring down at it as though it were some holy relic he didn’t deserve to touch. he wants to read every word, digest it and study every letter, but his body is betraying him.

you frown slightly, stopping your movements along his spine.

“redacted?”

he didn’t answer. he couldn't.

something was happening. a slow, unbearable realization crawling up his throat. he'd spent so long keeping you, protecting you. but this…

you hadn’t given him this because he demanded it, or because he’d made you feel like you were forced to. you'd given it freely. willingly. displaying your heart on your sleeve just for him to show just how devoted you are to his real self.

it hit him all at once.

you were here.

not trapped, not coerced, not watching the clock and planning your time to leave. you were here, in his home, in his world, because you chose to be.

he felt the first tear before he even registered the warmth of it on his skin.

you embrace him quickly, alarmed. “hey, hey, what’s wrong love?”

he shook his head, immediately diving down to rest his forehead in the crook of your neck, but the tears kept coming, silent and uncontrollable. he tried to breathe, but it came out ragged, uneven. his composure shattered.

“'m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking. “i don’t- i don’t know why i'm—”

you shush him softly, instinctively, fingers lacing between his long, dark strands of hair. your simple gesture undid him completely.

he fell into you like a collapsing structure, arms wrapping around your waist, his head pressing even further into your shoulder. his breathing came in rough, shuddering waves, each one dragging a sob from somewhere deep in his chest. it's uncontrollable, the way he grips onto you even tighter, pressing your entire body against his own.

you hold him softly, then tighter when you realized he's shaking in your grasp.

“red,” you murmur with a kiss atop his head. “it's okay. i'm here. we're okay.”

the words you spoke so softly, so sweet and tender, made something inside him fracture further. he gripped you as though you might disappear if he let go, fingers clutching and gripping at the back of your shirt, body violently trembling against yours.

he'd imagined holding you before a millions times, in dreams and moments of weakness. and he had, in multiple ways, but never like this. never so raw, so unguarded.

it wasn’t only mere desire now. it was desperation.

“i jus-” he choked on his words. “y'don’t understand. you don’t even understand. i thought-”

you stroke his hair gently, nails gently scraping his scalp. you whisper something soothing, but he barely heard it over his jagged breathing.

“thought one day you would wake up 'nd realize you shouldn’t be here,” he confessed, voice shaking. “that y' would see what i really am. that you’d leave me.”

you freeze, heart violently pounding, but you don't dare to move away.

“kept thinking if i could jus' keep everything perfect... if i could keep y'safe, keep you happy, you’d never see how messy i am. but you did. y'saw it. and you’re still here.” he whispers, as if he's in disbelief. “you’re still here.”

his breath hitches again, and he clings to you even harder.

the sound of his crying fills the silent living room, soft but gutting. it was the kind of sound a person makes when they’ve run out of defenses, completely weak with nowhere else to turn.

you guided him gently to lay down on the couch, pulling him with you so his head stays pressed against your chest. you could feel his pulse, erratic, desperate, human.

the rain outside thickened, streaking against the windows like the world itself was crying with him.

you kept your arms around him until his shaking began to slow, until his breathing evened out. his gorgeous eyes were still red, cheeks damp, but his expression had softened. hollowed out by exhaustion, but lighter somehow.

he finally looked up at you, eyes searching yours.

you stare back, brushing his bangs out of his teary eyes. the touch of your tender hands brushing his cheeks gives him chills.

“why?” he whispered.

“why do y'stay?”

you rest your hand on his pink cheeks. “because i choose to.” you whisper with a kiss atop his nose.

"because i love you."

he let out a sound, not quite a sob this time, more a broken laugh. he rests his forehead against your shoulder once more, your words echoing through him like a prayer.

i choose to. i love you.

"fuck i love you. love y'so much angel. love you love you."

--

later, after the tears had dried and the storm had faded into quiet drizzle, you sat together on the couch. his arms stayed caged around you, loose but grounding, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

the journal lay on the table in front of you, faintly catching the city lights from outside.

he reaches for it, turning it over in his hand once more. “'ts beautiful,” he murmured. glancing at you.

“it's a little rough, you can admit it.” you chuckle, smiling fondly.

“it's perfect,” he says, and his voice carried the weight of something deeper. not just gratitude, but reverence.

he ran a thumb along the painted hands. the uneven lines never looked like flaws to him. they looked alive. they looked like the both of yours.

he wanted to hold on to this. to you, to this fragile, trembling moment of being seen. his real self, not some fake study. it was terrifying.

he leaned in slightly, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your forehead, then your soft lips.

“thank you,” he whispered.

you look up at him, meeting the vulnerability in his gaze. “always.”

and when you lean into his chest, he closed his eyes and breathed you in. not as something he possessed, but as something freely given.

he held you like a man who had finally realized the difference.

that night, when you’d fallen asleep against him, redacted stayed awake, listening to the slow rhythm of your breathing.

the journal rested on the nightstand in your shared bedroom, open and vibrant, the glossy pictures glowing in the faint light.

he traces along the spine with his finger, memorizing every little detail. the tiny marks from tearing off a sticker you’d accidentally misplaced, the smudge of paint that looked like a fingerprint.

this was proof that you were real. proof that you had chosen him.

a small, broken sound escaped him, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. he pressed a scarred hand to his mouth, trembling, overwhelmed by the sheer existence of you in his life.

for once, he didn’t try to suppress it.

he cried quietly into the darkness, not out of fear this time, but release. he cried holding you tightly against him, the warmth of your body atop his own shielding his vulnerability from the outside world. he cried with no guilt, because for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel like a man trying to hold onto a dream that would never be achieved.

he felt like someone finally worth it.

and when the tears stopped, he looked at you again. sleeping peacefully with your stunning features completely relaxed. content.

he whispered a promise into your ear.

“i'll keep deserving this,” he speaks. “i swear i'll keep deserving you.”

the apartment was silent except for the sound of rain, soft patters against the glass. the faint extension of two hands, painted onto a book full of evidence of your lives together, imperfect and eternal, always reaching for each other in the dim light.

you’d always been the one to speak first. approach first, question first. it had always been you.

you liked the way he listened. the way he absorbed your words instead of filling the air with them. there was such an odd comfort in his stillness, a gentleness you didn’t often find in this city.

yet, the truth was, solivan brugmansia was lonely. not the kind of lonely that comes with solitude, but the kind that painfully roots itself deep in your chest. a quiet, suffocating feeling that bursts during every waking minute. he became numb to the realization, yet even when it did hit, it subsided the blow. it didn't hurt much anymore, because he met you.

you gave him light. simple, thoughtless, basic attention. you sat beside him, even when he got awkward and attempted to deny you. you asked about his favorite books, genuinely interested in what he had to say. you beamed when he'd lent you a few worn copies of some of his favorite novels, and laughed at his dry comments about how the characters within the bunch reminded him of people who loved to pretend to be interesting. you found yourself slightly stunned at his mention of meeting hundreds of people like that.

you didn’t think much of it when he remembered every little thing you said. your usual coffee order, specific to the one you'd purchased alongside his own when you first approached him in the library. the song you hummed while studying, sitting awfully close to his trembling body. the full government names of each of your friends individually, the reminders of questionable things they've done to you in the past, the physical reaction he'd manage whenever you mentioned your friend crowe, specifically.

the first time sol asked to walk you home, you said yes before he could even finish spitting out the words. there was something about the way he spoke that made refusal feel impossible. like it was physically difficult.

he smiled faintly when you accepted, though you could’ve sworn there was relief flickering under his calm. as though he hadn’t genuinely expected you to agree.

the day after you woke up from accidentaly falling asleep with his company over, you sent him a quick apology text before getting up to get ready for class. you felt awful, not only from just waking from your heavy sleep, but because you completely dozed off while he was in your apartment. yet, he was still kind enough to carry and tuck you into your comfortable sheets.

sol wasn’t intrusive. not at first. he was just present. not subtle in the slightest with his attentiveness, but gentle in the way he molded himself into your everyday life. he'd walk you home without question, carrying your bag without asking, insisting there's no place he'd rather be. he'd text to make sure you’d eaten, and gods forbid you ever said no quicker than him darting to your apartment with a fresh home-cooked meal made with his expert culinary skills. everything was sweet, innocent. your relationship was growing by the day, and you never missed an opportunity to spend time with sol. it was obvious he felt the same.

sometimes you were asked if his constant presense was bothersome by your friends, which you always leaped to defend solivan, repeating that he could never be a bother.

when he softly smiled and quietly spoke to you, he always looked at you as if he was analyzing the shape of your face. the various expressions you make throughout the day, the mannerisms you'd act whenever you were feeling a specific way. it's when the two found yourselves in comfortable silence that he'd whip out his familiar sketchbook and start frantically moving his pencil around the pages.

you told him once, half-joking, “i'd love to see whatever you're sketching one of these days, sunny.”

he tilted his head, expression unreadable. “eventually, ill show you when i have something worth showing.”

you smile softly, turning your head and letting out a puff of laughter. sol's gaze stayed glued to you.

your openness was a mercy to him. you were so honest and blunt with however you were feeling, you were quick to praise, quick to forgive. when he forgot his jacket at your place, you returned it the next day, neatly folded and freshly washed with a big smile on your face.

when he said he liked your handwriting, you began leaving little notes for him. reminders, inside jokes, doodles in the corners of his papers.

he kept every sliver of paper, sliver of your affection. cherished it, traced the lines with his fingertips along the marked on several of his papers.

he’d organized them in a box in his bedroom, arranged by date, edges flattened, your inked handwriting and doodles preserved under lamination.

you thought it was sweet. he thought it was eternal.

solivan changed in small ways. at least, to you. his calm deepened into something else, something heavy. when you spoke to or about others, his gaze lingered much longer than normal. his bright eyes always flickered with something unexplainable.

once, the both of you were sitting at a café, telling him about a friend’s upcoming trip abroad. you mentioned you’d miss them, that you might even visit one day. solivan’s eye twitched.

“would you?” he quietly asked, sipping at his drink.

“mmm, maybe. just for a week or two. not anytime soon though.”

he stirred his tea, the spoon scraping against the bottom of his cup.

“you'd come back.”

you nodded with a smile. “course i would. why wouldn’t i?”

he shrugs, repeatedly stirring his drink with a blank expression.

you instinctively reached for his hand. he's warm, warmer than usual.

“hey. it was just a thought." you speak lowly, caressing a thumb over the back of his hand. "i'd come back, that's even if i do go. don't stress about it.”

he stared for a moment longer, then exhaled softly. “i know you would.”

he softly curved his lips into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes so easily. just a moment ago, the two of you were laughing and cracking jokes amongst each other. between your gasps for air at his blunt humor, the two of you were still deciding on what else to order, his treat. his demeanor changed so quickly, it nearly gave you whiplash.

he would never tell you how long he had ended up laying awake that night, imagining tens of ways to make sure you never wanted to leave in the first place. that you'd never even have the thought cross your mind again. everything is right here, everything you may need for the rest of your life. you're safe here, with him and his fierce gaze watching over you. why would you even consider leaving? to get away? to get away from him?

you made him a gift once, a small, clumsy bracelet made of thread and full of random charms. you had seen one like it in a market and thought he’d find it cute. it matched his alternative aesthetic, silver and green beads surrounding his wrist. when you handed it to him, you expected a laugh, a soft thank you.

instead, sol froze.

he turned the bracelet over in his hands, thumb brushing the uneven knots, the single bead you’d misthreaded near the clasp. his eyes softened in a way you've never seen before.

“you made this?” he questioned with a raise of his brow.

you nodded, a little shy. “haha, yeah. it's not much, but i thought it'd be cute-”

“i love it. a lot.” he clasps it in his hands, holding it close to hs chest. his eyes scan your face intensely.

you blinked, heart rate picking up slightly at his words. “what?”

he continued looking at you, and something in his expression was so raw, almost broken. “no one’s even considered doing something like this for me before.”

your heart clenched mid-beat as you slowly approach him with small steps. “sol, i'm sorry. i didn't mean to make it into such a big deal... but, i'm glad it means something to you.” you smile at him, carefully taking the bracelet out of his clentched hands.

rolling up his sleeve slightly, you ignore the rough, textured skin on his forearm as you place the bracelet in it's rightful place on his wrist.

"it's a piece of me given to you. i hope you wear it and think of me whenever you feel lonely." you smile, massaging his pulse with your warm hands. "i like it when you think about me when you need somebody."

suddenly, he reached forward, pulling you into a careful, trembling hug. his voice was quiet, muffled against your shoulder. “thank you.”

you give a giddy smile, touched by his sincerity, and let him hold you. you didn’t see the way his eyes closed, the way he sharply inhaled your scent. the way his grip tightened for half a second too long, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you beneath his hands.

that was the night he realized you weren’t just simply somebody he loved. you were something sacred. something that couldn’t, wouldn’t, must not be taken away.

there were days when he was almost normal. you'd go grocery shopping together, sit on the couch reading side by side, share quiet giggles. just enjoy each other's company whenever possible. he'd rest his head against your shoulder, you’d run your fingers through his hair, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.

but sometimes, in the stillness, you’d catch him watching you, his expression distant, gaze unfocused.

“what're you thinking about?” you’d question while fiddling with his striped sleeve.

he'd blink, grin, and shake his head. “just you.”

“just me? sounds pretty lame.” you laugh, letting go of his arm.

he'd hum, leaning in closer than normal. “it's never "lame." nothing about you is boring.”

"that's interesting coming from such a mysterious man." you grin, suddenly raising your hand and adjusting his earring with a smile.

"it's alright, i like that. about you"

his cheeks flushed, and you thought it was sweet. that he was so sweet. you didn’t realize it was true. true that you were all he thought about.

he'd stopped thinking about anything else a long time ago.

one evening, you arrived at your favorite cafe the both of you agreed to meet at. you walked to the familiar building holding a new book you’d found just for him. an antique collection of poetry containing some of his favorite stand-alone pieces. of course, it was in a beautiful shade of green with black lettering, fitting his signature look even more.

he was sitting in his typical seat by the window when you walked through the noisy door of the cafe, back to the light. the room smelled faintly of fresh flowers and tea.

when you handed him the poetry, he didn’t move for a moment. just sat, eyes practically staring through the pages.

"a few of your faves are in there." you say, taking a small sip of his tangy tea. "plus it's green, thought it suited you perfectly. like it was made for you." you teased.

“you really shouldn’t have,” he murmured, cheeks flushing a slight red.

“i definitely had to. i mean, how could i not get it for you?” you gently tap him with your foot from under the table, encouraging him to look up at you before he stares a hole in the brand new addition in his growing collection.

his gaze flicked to you, eyes wide and bright. “you always give so freely.”

“that's noooot a bad thing.” you joke with a laugh.

“no.” he carefully opened the book, reverently. “it's just... every time you give me something new, it feels like i want to keep it forever.”

you smiled fondly at him. “that's... kind of the point, sunny.”

he peered up at you again, and the air between you seemed to shift, heavy and delicate at once.

“you don’t understand,” he said softly. “you could give me the smallest thing, and i'd never be able to let it go, pumpkin.”

you laughed. not at him, but the way he made you nervous. nervous in such a flattered way. “should i stop giving you spontanious gifts? hmm?"

he didn’t laugh with you. he only reached out, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone, his touch feather-light.

“don't say that,” he murmured. “you'll make me miss you even more.”

--

sol cried that night.

you didn’t know why, not really. you'd said something so simple, something kind. maybe it's because you told him you were glad to know him, or that you’d always be around, no matter the situation. you weren’t sure.

all you knew was that one moment he was smiling, and the next he was trembling, eyes wet, breath uneven.

you reached for him, and he caught your hand, pressing it against his chest. his heartbeat was rapid, frantic.

“solivan,” you whispered, frightened by how fragile he looked.

he shook his head, a quiet laugh breaking through his constant tears. “you really don’t understand how much it means when you say things like that, do you?”

you softly raise your hand to rest on his face, wiping his big tears away. “explain it to me. i'm here for you.”

“i can’t,” he said, voice shaking. “if i did, you might start to realize how deep this goes. and then you’d run. you'd run and never return.”

you didn’t move. not a muscle. “i wouldn’t. i would never.”

he softly smiled through the tears. a beautiful, terrible smile. “you say that because you’re kind. not because you know.”

he raises a hand to grip your own atop his face. he carefully removes it from his tear-stained cheek and grips it gently.

you held him then, and he let you. his hands gripped your shirt tightly, as though he was anchoring himself to you.

neither of you spoke for a long time.

in the morning, you woke on the couch to find him watching you, sunlight catching in his hair. he looked peaceful, almost nostalgic.

when you stirred, he reached out, brushing a stray hair from your forehead.

“good morning,” he spoke, voice husky.

“morning sunny,” you spoke softly, smiling at the green streaks sticking out of his head.

he smiled back. “stay a while longer.”

you hesitated. you had things to do, places to be, people to see. but you truly couldn’t say no to him, you never could.

so of course, you stayed.

and as you drifted back to sleep, you didn’t see the way he leaned closer, whispering against your hair,

“i'll find a way to make us stay like this. forever.”

Your hands trembled as you attempted to pack. You blamed it on shock from seeing a hole in your ex-boyfriend’s head and not the aftermath of the pleasure Bucky pulled from your body. At least the mobster was kind enough to use a silencer to minimize the sound and not hurt your ears.

“I can buy you new clothes,” Bucky offered, waltzing over and plucking the garment from your hand. He looked completely put together, like he hadn’t just fucked you like he owned you. Or killed someone. “Why don’t I lay you out on the bed and taste just how sweet your pussy is before we go?”

Heat filled your cheeks. “You’re dripping out of me,” you barely whispered.

“You think it’ll bother me if I taste myself inside you? I want to,” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours. “I’ll clean you up and fill you up all over again.”

“So, I’m really your whore now?” you spat.

You trembled more when he wrapped a hand around your throat, but he didn’t squeeze. “I may fuck you like a whore, but you’re my queen now.”

“Queens have power,” you said. You had none.

He smirked, putting you on the bed before you could protest. “They do. So, use it,” he said, spreading your legs and gliding his hands up your thighs. “Make me beg for it.”

Your eyes widened. “You’d beg?”

“I don’t usually beg, but I will for you… the woman given to me by a coward,” he replied, your eyes filling with tears. “You came so hard on my cock. Do it on my tongue.”

Your walls ached in a good way from him splitting you open, and your body wanted more. “Say please.”

He smiled. “Please.”

Because a king only bows to his queen.

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Life was funny. One minute you were cooking in your kitchen and the next you were bent over the sofa getting fucked within an inch of your life. The funny part wasn’t the cock inside you reaching depths you didn’t know were possible. It felt good, better than you wanted to admit. It was the fact at your boyfriend was sitting a few feet away watching another man fuck you.

Well, ex-boyfriend now. He fucked up by not paying his debt to a powerful mob boss, debt that you didn’t know about, and now you were the one getting fucked. What kind of man handed his girlfriend over to save himself?

“You’re doing so well,” Bucky praised. He was at least kind enough to give you his name before he took what now “belonged” to him. He chuckled when he began to rub your swollen clit, the sloppy sounds of your wet cunt getting louder. “Don’t flinch, baby. Take it. Let him see you cream all over my cock.”

You wanted to hide your face in humiliation that you were getting off on this terrifying man taking you apart, but you were too angry. Glaring at your cowardly ex, you moaned louder. He looked like was trying not to cry, and you weren’t sure if it was because Bucky was making you feel good or because his right-hand man had a gun pointed at his temple. Maybe both.

“You’re mine now,” the mobster breathed in your ear, making you shiver and not completely from fear. “And after I come inside you, I’ll put a bullet in his head and take you home,” he whispered, smiling when you clamped down on his cock. “Because queens don’t belong with peasants. They belong with kings.”

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

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Marc Spector₊˚⊹⋆

He's surprisingly meticulous about the small, repetitive tasks. He takes over the dishes, specifically loading the dishwasher. He approaches it with the focus of a tactical operation,, everything has its place, and God help you if you put a bowl in upside down. It’s a quiet way for him to feel productive and grounded.

He wakes up instantly, every time, alert and ready. He rarely sleeps through the night without at least one brief moment of checking his surroundings. If he wakes up next to you, he won't make a sound, just watch you sleep for a minute, a rare, soft expression on his face, before slipping out of bed to start his day.

Marc hates the process of shopping but is the best at it. He moves quickly through the aisles, knows exactly where everything is, and won't be swayed by sales or impulse buys. He views it as a mission with a clear objective: get in, get the list items, get out.

Steven Grant.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Steven is in charge of tea and snack preparation. He makes a genuinely wonderful cup of tea (milk and two sugars, please) and is a whiz at putting together cheese boards or little plates of biscuits and fruit. He often hums while he works, occasionally forgetting what he was doing because he got distracted by a historical documentary playing on his phone.

He is a slow riser who needs multiple alarms and a gentle hand on his shoulder to truly wake up. His dreams are often very active, so he'll wake up slightly disoriented, sometimes muttering facts about ancient Egypt before realizing where he is. He is always the one to say, "Good morning, darling," in the softest voice.

He views grocery shopping as a delightful excursion. He spends too long reading the labels and checking the origin of the produce. He always ends up buying something completely unnecessary but charming, like a small plant, a strange European mustard, or a book on the history of common household items.

Jake Lockley✶⋆.˚

Jake handles all things related to maintenance and repair. If something is broken,,the leaky faucet, the squeaky door, the worn-out tire,, he's already on it, without being asked. He keeps a toolkit that is cleaner and more organized than the apartment's spice cabinet. He works silently and effectively.

He is a man of habit. He gets up before sunrise, makes a strong espresso (he probably has a high-end machine tucked away), and spends the first hour of the day cleaning and checking the locks and windows. He only goes back to the bed to leave you a cup of coffee or a note written in slightly messy Spanish.

That’s where Steven finds you.

He lingers a few paces away at first, watching the way you worry at your fingers, shifting your weight as you lean toward the door. You look unsure, hesitant—and he recognizes the feeling instantly.

He clears his throat softly as he approaches, the sound almost swallowed by the rain. “Forgot your umbrella, yeah?” His voice is careful, like he’s afraid to intrude.

You glance back, caught off guard by the warmth in his tone. “Left it at home,” you admit, smiling faintly. “I could’ve sworn the forecast said only a drizzle.”

Steven huffs a small laugh, one that curls at the corners of his mouth before he can stop it. “They never get it right, do they? Can’t trust a meteorologist here.”

“They all need to be tested again,” you say through a laugh. 

He shifts, glancing from you to the storm and back again. His fingers tap restlessly against the strap of his bag before he blurts, “I, uh— I’ve got mine. If you don’t mind sharing, that is. I can walk you home. Not far, is it?”

Your first instinct is to say he doesn’t have to, that you can manage on your own—but something in his face stops you. There’s a shy hope there, a nervous kind of courage.

“That’s really kind,” you say instead. “If you’re sure.”

He nods quickly, eyes shining with eagerness. “Yeah, of course. I mean—yeah.”

When he opens the umbrella, it’s a little crooked, one rib bent from some past mishap. He steps close enough that your shoulders brush, and the two of you step out into the storm.

For a moment, it feels like you’re suspended in your own small world—just the two of you beneath the thin canopy, rain against the fabric, your breaths mingling in the damp, cool air.

The walk begins in silence. London hums around you—cars hissing through puddles, the steady percussion of rain on rooftops. Every few steps, Steven tilts the umbrella slightly more toward you, his sleeve darkening where the drops find him.

“Hey, you’re getting soaked,” you murmur, glancing at his shoulder. 

He shakes his head quickly. “It’s no worries, I’ve been through worse, trust me. Once the ceiling leaked in my flat—woke up to rain coming straight through the light fixture. Nearly fried me alive, that did.”

You laugh, soft and unexpected. “That sounds like something out of a cartoon.”

He grins at the sound of your laughter, like it’s something rare he’s been lucky enough to stumble upon. He wants to bottle it, keep it safe for just his ears to listen to.  “Yeah, well, suppose that makes me the punchline.”

You glance over at him—his curls damp at the edges, the faintest smile still tugging at his lips—and something inside you flutters. You’ve always thought Steven was handsome, always thought that whoever got to come home to him was highly favored. You look away quickly before he can catch your steady gaze.

A quieter street leads you home, lamps casting gold across the slick pavement. The city noise fades to a hush, replaced by the rhythm of your footsteps and the faint sound of your hearts keeping time.

“So,” you start, a little shyly, “do you walk all of our coworkers home in the rain, or am I special?”

He nearly stumbles at that, eyes wide. “Oh no. I mean, not that you’re not special, or— you are, obviously, I just—” He stops himself, sighing in a way that almost hints at frustration. “I don’t usually do this, no.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your mouth. You nudge his shoulder with your own, “Guess I’m lucky then.”

He looks down at his feet, pink creeping into his ears. “Yeah. Guess we both are.”

The umbrella dips as you step over a puddle, and your hand grazes his—just the briefest touch, but it sends a shiver through you both. He freezes for half a heartbeat, eyes flicking to yours, and the air between you feels suddenly fragile, electric.

“Thanks for walking me,” you murmur. Its all you brain can come up with, what with the way your fingers tingle from the accidental touch. 

He swallows, voice low. “Anytime.”

The way he says it—so soft but so certain—makes your chest tighten. You want to believe he means it. You think maybe he does.

By the time you reach your building, the rain has nearly thinned to a mist. The edges of the umbrella drips steadily onto the stone steps, and the light above the door casts everything in a soft, golden glow.

Steven lowers the umbrella, shaking off the water. “Well,” he says, shifting his weight, “mission accomplished.”

You smile, pulling your hood down in salute. “Yes, you’ve gotten me safely home. Not a drop of rain on me. Thank you, Steven.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Was nice, actually. The walk, I mean. Bit of company never hurt, right?”

You study him for a moment—the damp curls plastered to his forehead, the faint flush in his cheeks, the nervous way he can’t quite meet your eyes. There’s something disarming about him and his nerves, something that makes your own heartbeat trip.

You take a half step closer. “I’ll always mention it. Means a lot to me.”

Before he can respond, you lean in and kiss his cheek. It’s light, quick, and leaves a burning warmth on his rain-chilled skin.

He blinks, startled, flustered— satisfied. “Oh, right. Um— goodnight then.”

You can’t help the small giggle that escapes you as he fumbles with the umbrella, starting to walk away in the wrong direction. He’s a few steps down the street when you call after him.

“Wait, Steven!”

He turns, half-collapsed umbrella in hand, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Are you hungry?” you ask, voice gentle but sure. “I got some leftover tomato soup and I make an excellent grilled cheese.  It’s nothing fancy, but…”

He stares at you for a moment then blinks once, twice. “You— you mean, come in? Me in your flat? For dinner? ”

You smile encouragingly, tilting your head. “Yeah. If you’d like.”

Something in him softens then. He nods, a shy smile breaking through. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’d really like.”

You hold the door open for him, the smell of warmth and home spilling out into the night. And as he steps inside—shoulder brushing yours, raindrops still caught in his hair—you realize all the uncertainty and flutters melt away. Steven stepping into your space feels right as you close the door behind him.

“So, tea?”

“Tea would be just about as lovely as you,” he breathed. 

Yes, Steven being here, eyes glowing, smile wide feels exactly right.

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A comfortable routine built of lounging in your respective spots on the couch, perfectly made coffee, a spotless apartment. And when he’s feeling a bit more adventurous, sometimes it looks like renting a ridiculously silly movie or eating at the Thai restaurant you both happen to be obsessed with.

So maybe you have feelings for Jake. 

It’s hard not to when you’ve been one of the lucky people privy to the tenderness (and silliness) that lives under his hard mask. Hard not to when he’s objectively the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

So when he’s gone, it leaves an ache.

And this time, he isn’t meant to be back for days. That’s what he told you.

You’ve taken a liberty or two while doing laundry and stolen one of his shirts to lounge in. It smells like him and you miss everything about him: his intense gaze, his rare smile, his cooking.

All of it. All of him.

Being in one of his shirts makes the void a little easier to manage. With his scent around you, you can pretend that he’s here—sitting across the couch, engrossed in some bullshit reality TV while you read.

Trying to replicate that, to not feel so lonely with him gone, is what keeps you from hearing him enter. That and the fact that Jake moves like a cat. You never hear him until he wants to be heard.

“Is that my shirt?” Jake asks softly, his tone so neutral it could be categorized as disinterested.

“Fuck!” Your book goes flying, and so does the blanket you're tucked under. You turn to glare at him.

He’s leaning against the doorway, mouth curved, eyes alight with amusement. “Sorry, querida.”

Your glare gets icier, and now he’s fully smiling. “You are not sorry.”

“I am.”

“Why do you move like a ghost, fucking hell,” you stand, retrieving your book from under the coffee table.

He chuckles, low and dark, and the sound is enough to melt the ground under your feet. Heat floods your face. He’s looking at you—really looking—and suddenly you’re painfully aware of how obvious it is.

You’re standing in his shirt like some lovesick fool, clinging to the scent of him because you can’t stand how empty the place feels without him.

Your throat closes. You can’t handle his eyes on you, not like this. “I—uh, just—I’m going to— if I could…” you trip over your words, mortified, and bolt for the safety of your room.

You slam the door shut and press your back against it, heart galloping. What the hell were you thinking? Lounging around in his shirt like it was a stand-in for him? He must think you’re pathetic. Worse—he  knows now. Knows about the crush you’ve worked so hard to bury, about how much space he takes up in your chest.

On the other side, his footsteps pause. Silence and then a quiet knock.

“Querida,” his voice, low and coaxing, slips through the wood. “Don’t be embarrassed. It looks better on you anyway.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t believe him. Not really. He’s humoring you, letting you off easy.

“Go away, Jake,” you say, making your way to your bed.

“No.” You hear the shift of his weight as he leans against the door. “I scared you, I didn’t mean to. I’ll try not to sneak up on you again, hmm?”

A pause, like he’s waiting for you to answer. But you don’t, so he tries again.

“Don’t hide from me.” His tone isn’t teasing anymore—it’s gentle, threaded with that strange mix of command and softness that always makes your chest ache.

You curl tighter on your bed, ignoring him until your stomach betrays you with a loud, grumbling growl.

The smell hits you first when you finally crack open your bedroom door—savory, warm, comforting. Jake is standing at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring a pot of chili like he’s done it a hundred times.

He looks over his shoulder when he hears you. His expression softens. “Ven,” he says simply, gesturing you closer.

You pad into the kitchen, tugging self-consciously at the hem of his shirt. “You made chili?”

“I heard someone starving to death behind that door.” His mouth twitches. “Couldn’t let that happen.”

The banter helps, but only until his eyes flick to the shirt again. “Why do you have that?” he asks, quieter this time. Not accusing, but curious.

You swallow. “Because I missed you.”

His brows knit. “Missed me? I was gone a few days, querida, not a year.”

“I know,” you murmur. “But it feels longer when you’re not here.”

Jake blinks, clearly trying to process. He gestures faintly at the shirt. “So you… take this? Because you miss me?” He shakes his head, almost to himself. “I don’t understand.”

“It smells like you,” you admit. “And when you’re gone, it makes it easier. Like you’re here, sitting across from me, rolling your eyes at some terrible show.”

Jake’s gaze flicks between your face and the shirt, confusion etched in every line of him. “You could’ve just waited for me.”

“I didn’t want to wait,” you say softly. “I didn’t just miss you, Jake. I like you. That’s why.”

The room stills. The only sound is the simmering chili behind him. His eyes, dark and unreadable, go heavy-lidded, as though the weight of your confession drags him somewhere deeper.

“You… like me.” He repeats it carefully, like he’s making sure he heard right.

You nod, breath catching. “Yes. More than I should.”

For a long moment, he just studies you, silent, like he’s recalibrating. Finally, he exhales sharply, muttering under his breath, “And all this time I thought you just liked my cooking.”

Your heart stumbles. “Jake—”

He cuts you off with a tiny wave of his hand, still staring like he’s pinning you in place. “I don’t do this. I don’t…” His jaw flexes. “But you—” His gaze flicks down to the shirt, then back up, his eyes gone dark but warm. “I’ve wanted you too. I didn’t know what to do with it, but I do.”

It’s not a confession dressed in poetry—it’s raw, blunt, Jake.

He steps closer, close enough that the warmth of him brushes your skin. “So… if you’re gonna wear my shirt, querida, you should know I’m gonna kiss you.”

He doesn’t give you much time to prepare, not when he sees the spark in your eye at his words. He is commanding and giving all at once. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and demanding, like he’s been holding this back for far too long and can’t afford to pace himself now.

The force of it knocks the air from your lungs. His hand fists in the back of his own shirt where it hangs loose on you, dragging you flush against him, while the other cups your jaw, keeping you right where he wants you.

At first, you gasp against his mouth, startled by the sheer intensity of him—but then something in you snaps. You kiss him back just as fiercely, answering his hunger with your own.

That catches him off guard. You can feel the stutter in his breath, the surprised sound low in his throat as he realizes you’re not delicate in the way he thought—not when it comes to him. His grip tightens, the kiss turning messier, deeper, his intensity fueled by yours.

By the time he pulls back, barely an inch, his eyes are brighter than before and blown wide. He presses his forehead to yours, breath rushed and voice rough as gravel. “I missed you, too.”

Your chest heaves as you try to steady yourself. He studies you a moment longer, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze, before he brushes his thumb over your lower lip, like he can’t help himself.

Then he turns to the stove, ladles out a bowl of chili, and sets it in front of you.

“Eat,” he orders, but his voice is softer now, steadying. He grabs a spoon, offers it with a faint, almost shy tilt of his head.

You take your first bite, still flushed and breathless, and Jake watches you with that same heavy gaze—intense, unrelenting, but softened now with something warmer.

Like he’s already decided he’s not letting you go.

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