ari

The couch cushion is plenty soft between your cheek. Eyes lazily watching whatever binge show you'd put on. You can barely breathe under the delicious weight of Simon. You can feel the trembling of his entire frame against your back, his arms tightly wound your chest, his chin hooked over your shoulder. His desperate moans are muffled into the pillow.

And you... you're a melted puddle beneath him, whining as he humps softly into you. Having been stretching you lovingly on his cock for only a few minutes. You're fuzzy, floating as he whimpers like this is his first time getting lost to the pleasures of sex.

You never fucking doubt he's enjoying himself as he whimpers into kisses against your shoulder. "Fuuuck- ngh, not hurtin' ya, am I, lovie?"

He knows you're going to ask. As soon as the doctor confirms your status, he knows you'll ask. You'll face your fear, your uncertainty out of desperation to avoid what's coming. Your only option because he knows John won't make it. Almost five weeks of radio silence...he's not even sure the message will get to him in time. 

That's going to be a disruption later when he does get that message. The whole pack is going to feel it. The anger, the self hatred, the guilt. It'll be worse when he gets back to you. 

They all knew this was a very real situation, a risk of the job. It was inevitable that it would happen. They were all prepared for it, even the doctor didn't seem surprised by this new development. 

It happening so soon, though...

It's more than coincidence. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. They've all been thinking it. Malicious or intentional, it's planned. They all knew things would happen, limits would be tested, you'd be stretched to your emotional limit for the sake of finding out just how much you could handle. 

You're losing it, though. Whether or not the cameras were intentional to draw a reaction, to see what you would do, to see how they would react, he hopes whoever was watching got what they wanted. 

The thought of you being watched for months, someone looking in on your private moments had a chill running down his spine. Whoever was behind that camera, watching and reporting...if he ever gets his hands on them...

Maybe that was the idea, though. Test how far they could infringe in the pack's lives before they'd retaliate. 

Everything is a test and they will never know the true purpose. 

It makes him burn hot with rage.

He hates it, how you're treated, how you're looked over, how you're not taken into consideration as more than a purpose, not even seen as a human being. 

If you were an equal in their eyes, they wouldn't have put you in this in the first place. 

He hates himself for not seeing it sooner. He hates you for not telling them right away. He hates everyone including himself for not making you feel like you could trust them enough to tell them. 

He's angry that your space was invaded. He's angry at you for not telling them, for allowing them, allowing him to have those intimate moments while being under surveillance. 

If you're willing to hide this, what else are you willing to hide?

He can't be too mad at you, not while you're in this position. Your alpha is gone, has been for weeks and you're alone aside from him and Johnny. If he was a better alpha, a better man, he might have opened himself up, allowed that vulnerability to care for you and support you in the way you need. 

He did open up and look what happened. 

He can't trust you, not totally anymore. Price doesn't suspect you of anything, doesn't think you're involved or know more than they do. Simon can't help but be suspicious. It's his nature. 

He should have stuck to his beliefs. Don't trust anyone. 

He shouldn't have let you worm your way in with those soft eyes and gentle smiles. Your sweet demeanor and playful attitude. How easily he'd fallen into your trap and how easily it had been sprung. 

He knows you're going to ask. It's brave of you, asking this of him now after everything. You're doing it out of necessity, out of fear and trepidation of your other option. He doesn't understand it. He wasn't even aware sedation was used on omegas until you. He had never needed to know, so he had never bothered to know. It can't be that bad, probably easier than toughing through it or taking an alphas knot over and over for a week straight. 

He'd destroy you. 

Rip you in half, leave you with bloody marks and bruises, permanent injuries he'd have to face and explain to Price. 

He can't. 

He can't be like his father. 

He's waiting, waiting for you to ask, for you to broach the subject, ask him outright. You want to. You're afraid of the other option and so you're facing the shame and uncertainty to ask him. 

He already knows what his answer will be. 

“Simon?” Your voice wavers. He can see how tense you are, like a coil about to spring right through the ceiling from the pressure.  

He can see you from his peripheral, hair soaked and dripping onto your shirt. You didn't even bother to dry it. It's one of Johnny’s shirts you're wearing, one of the few shirts that's not military issued. 

He knows this is the moment, keeping his gaze on his phone while he works up the courage to look at you, to face you down and hold himself steady as you present this predicament to him. 

He lets out a grunt in response, looking up finally. You're nervous, the hesitation clear on your face and body language. You're just as unsure as him, facing down this barrier you've never pushed against and he's never allowed down. It's asking a lot, but you've never needed to face this barrier before. You've always had Price. 

“Can I...ask you something?” You say, shifting nervously on your feet. You're delaying it, trying to work up the courage. He wishes you'd just ask, be straightforward and throw it in his face so he can bat it away like an annoying fly. 

He pockets his phone before standing, staring down at you. Sometimes he forgets his own size, just how large and imposing he is. You always seem to remind him of that, tiny in the way omegas usually are. He remembers how you had felt in his arms, how perfectly you fit into his hold. His alpha had been happy, content in the way he could wrap himself around you. 

“What?” He says, losing his patience and resolve very quickly. He needs you to say it before he loses his nerve and does something he regrets. 

You're hesitating, gulping down your nerves as you stare at him. You're scared, maybe because you know just as well as him how this will go. You know what to expect but you're asking in hope the answer will be different. 

“Will...” You clear your throat. “Will you help me through my heat?” 

The words have a visceral feeling to them as they reach his ears. He knew it was coming, yet hearing it nearly has him spiraling. Yes and no flash through his head like a slot machine, and he waits to see what it will land on. Yes, some deep part of him wants to. That instinct to take care of an omega, that desire to listen to you whine pathetically, begging him to stuff you full of his knot. He wants to see you in that vulnerable state, entirely dependent on him to help you. 

Blood on the carpet, streaks on the tile. 

No. He can’t. He can’t risk that. He’ll lose control, just like he did during your first time with him. It’ll be worse than that, completely lost to his instincts in his rut. You won’t care in the moment, you won’t call out in pain because you won’t even feel it. Neither of you will realize until it’s too late, until he has to complain why Price is coming back to a mangled, broken omega. He’ll hate himself, and he’ll hate Simon for breaking what’s his. You are Price’s. You belong to him. It’s not Simon’s place to do this, to offer this to you. 

He can’t. 

Even if you need it, even if you’re desperate, he can’t. He won’t. 

You shy away from him as he stares down at you, making up his mind. You’re regretting it, you’re regretting your boldness, the bravery you had forced yourself into to do this, to ask this of him. You’ve made a mistake and now you’re paying for it. 

“No.” 

The word sounds harsh on his tongue as he stares down at you. You flinch despite the fact you were probably expecting it. It rings in the room, heavy in the air as it hovers over you. Your face falls as you lose the ability to hide your emotions, not that you were doing a good job of that anyway. He hates it, the churning in his chest as your eyes begin to glisten with tears. 

“I can’t.” He takes a step back, then another, trying to soften the blow he had just dealt you. It’s not fair of him, but he knows he’s not capable of it. “I can’t.” 

He can’t risk it. He doesn’t want to risk it, risk you. 

Your fingers lace together in front of you, squeezing so hard it almost looks painful. You’re fighting the emotions, the embarrassment of what you had just risked by asking him. You’re thinking he hates you, he’s doing it because he doesn’t want anything to do with you after your betrayal. You’re not wrong, not entirely. He’s still angry, but that’s not why he’s said no. 

“Oh.” 

It’s simple, but just as heavy as his ‘no’ had been. It bites at his skin, clawing its way into his heart. Johnny is coming down the hallway, his scent flooding into the sudden sour smell that has taken over the room with both of your turmoils. He’ll know. Even if Simon doesn’t tell him, he’ll know. 

Simon will tell him. Simon will explain himself as much as he can. Johnny understands but that won’t lessen the blow, the anger he’ll feel for doing this to you. Johnny loves you, Johnny cares so deeply about you. This will hurt both of you, and it’ll be Simon's fault. 

Johnny’s presence is like a breath of fresh air, breaking the heaviness that has settled between the two of you. Johnny can sense it, looking from you to him and then back. Always perceptive he knows something has transpired, and he can likely guess. It’s not going to take a genius to guess. He’ll worry about you first, take care of you in your obvious emotional state. Simon is glad. You need it more than he does right now. 

“Ready for bed?” Johnny asks cautiously, almost like he’s worried one of you might snap from the tense energy in the air. The comfort and care is instinctual to him, second nature as he stares at you, ready to step between you and his alpha should he strike. 

He won’t be stopping Simon. He’ll be protecting you. 

“Yeah.” Your voice shakes, biting into Simon’s chest, sinking into the hole already forming there. 

He watches as you scurry from his room and into Johnny’s open arms. Simon’s glad you have Johnny. He’s glad you have Johnny’s comfort, Johnny’s support. You deserve it, the things that he will never be able to offer you. 

You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.

You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.

You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.

But you know you had it.

Which means…

You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.

It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.

The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.

“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.

“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”

“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.

These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.

It’s torture, being here.

And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.

Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.

A craving that can never be satisfied.

It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.

That you can’t find.

You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.

And in order to do that-

you need your phone.

Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.

It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.

You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”

Stop.

What are you doing?

“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.

“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”

“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.

You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.

“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.

“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.

He says none of those things.

“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.

“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.

“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”

“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”

“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?

“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.

“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”

You hate him.

He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.

You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.

“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.

“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.

“Yes.”

“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.

He moves.

It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.

Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.

Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.

You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.

“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.

But it doesn’t stop there.

He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.

Subharmonics.

It almost brings you to your knees.

“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”

Alpha.

You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.

He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.

You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.

No, that is what you mean.

You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.

“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.

Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.

Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,

“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.

“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.

It’s not fair.

“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.

“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.

Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.

The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.

He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.

“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.

“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.

“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.

“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.

“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”

“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.

Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.

It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.

It’s late when the knock comes.

“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.

You don’t answer. He sighs.

“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.

But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.

He knocks again.

You meet it with silence.

A dangerous mix of funny, charming and flirtatious in the way that keeps him leaning in even though he knows better.

Girls who laugh at his jokes and steal his jacket when the evenings grow cold.

Girls who curl up next to him near the firepit and accept his breakfast with bright smiles.

Girls who take turns staring up at him through teary eyes after their couples fall apart, murmuring how sweet he is and how he’s been such a good friend before coupling up with the newest bombshell who walks in and he’s left single and vulnerable once again.

And, every time, he curses himself for thinking that it might be different.

So he’s really beginning to question what his place is in the villa. Whether his entire purpose is to act as a placeholder until another jacked, six-foot asshole is supposed to walk in and steal the girl he’s coupled up with from him.

The dinner challenge gets announced right after lunch. Two new bombshells, three courses each, one boy for each course and at the end of the night, each girl picks which boy they want to couple up with.

The first bombshell’s picks go exactly as expected.

The villa favorite stands before his phone has even stopped chiming, chest puffed as if anyone would be stupid to expect anything different.

“Appetizer.”

He sits back down, smirking as a few boys clap him on the back. His current partner, a blonde who had pulled Johnny for a few chats earlier in the week, turns to the girls close to her and starts whispering frantically about what this could mean.

Another text tone rings out.

The second boy is even less shocking.

Some guy with enough tattoos and large enough biceps that the girl’s decided that his emotional unavailability actually means he’s hiding some deep, sensitive side.

Johnny tries not to roll his eyes.

“Entrée.”

Johnny honestly doesn’t know why he expected anything different. By the time the last boy for the first bombshell stands, he already sees how this is going to play out.

Him, dumped by the end of the week, with his suitcase in hand and a summer full of memories.

And maybe a brand sponsorship if he plays his cards right.

He barely registers the second bombshell’s picks as they begin to stand, including the entrée boy from the first round standing for the appetizer selection.

Instead, he uses the time to strategize. If he can stay in a couple long enough to make it to Casa Amor, there will be a new batch of girls. Girls who are supposed to come in with their eyes set on the boys who have been in the villa. Girls whose heads aren’t turned so easily.

Girls who would want him.

A sharp jab in the ribs pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Ow,” Johnny murmurs, rubbing the sore spot on his side. “Fuckin’ hell.”

A few islanders snicker around him and the boy closest to him huffs a laugh while nodding towards his lap.

“Mate. Your phone.”

Johnny looks down. His phone is vibrating in his lap, screen lit up with a text message bubble.

It takes a moment to register what he’s seeing; screen going black before lighting up with the notification one more time that he realizes he should stand, fumbling with his phone in his hand.

“Entrée.”

A few of the boys cheer loudly, and for somehow that makes Johnny feel worse about his whole villa experience.

That it’s extremely obvious to everyone how badly he needs this right now.

Even if it’s the truth.

He chooses to focus on the notification instead.

In order to stay in the villa, he has to cook a meal to impress a girl he knows nothing about without making himself look like a total idiot in the process

Across the pool, a girl lets out loud laughter as her partner carries her piggyback towards the daybeds, her arms wrapped around his neck as she whispers something in his ear.

Her partner giggles in a way Johnny has never seen from a man before and he looks back down to his phone.

Entrée.

No pressure.

Two cheese toasties sit in front of you.

You raise a brow at the blue-eyed Scot standing at the end of the table.

Johnny has a white towel draped over his arm like he’s presenting a Michelin-star dish instead of a meal usually reserved for children. His white button-down strains across his chest when he straightens, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A ghost of a smile appears on his face, dimples threatening to appear, as if he already knows how ridiculous this looks and is committed to the bit either way.

You glance back down at the plate.

“Cheese toasties?”

A bright grin takes over his face and he leans forward.

“Actually, it’s a cheese reduction sauce cooked between two buttered artisanal slices of bread.”

You blink twice.

“So, a cheese toastie?”

He shrugs.

“More or less.”

You let out a small laugh in disbelief, leaning back in your seat.

Your appetizer date has been fine enough. The islander had made you an amazing caprese salad, tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil layered in neat, colorful rows.

You couldn’t tear your eyes off of him. He was extremely handsome in the laidback, easy way all the boys seem to possess with a golden tan and messy hair that didn’t seem to fall right no matter how many times he had ran his hands through it.

You had relaxed for all of two seconds until he opened his mouth.

You couldn’t get a word in edgewise, forced instead to listen to him go on and on about how happy he was you picked him and how miserable he was in his couple and how clingy and serious the girl was and how he didn’t want to hurt her but also didn’t want to lead her on.

By the time he mentioned not wanting to put all his eggs in one basket, you had looked over at the poor girl twice out of sympathy.

So, you’ve come into this date a little skeptical.

Johnny sits down in the chair across from you, still wearing that lazy smirk, but you see the hope underneath it. The way his eyes constantly move across your face as if he’s searching for a sign that you’re already ready to move on to the next boy.

You pick up one half of the sandwich, and his eyes follow the movement, pausing on your lips as you take a bite.

He stills, and you understand almost immediately what he’s waiting for.

Your opinion.

You’re just not sure if it’s for the sandwich or for him.

So naturally you chew longer than necessary, smirking slightly as impatience begins to build beneath his calm exterior.

His knee bounces once underneath the table.

You swallow.

“It’s good.”

He exhales through his nose.

“Actually, though,” you add, because while seeing him panic is fun, you’re not too cruel to leave him hanging.

And it’s also the truth.

The sandwich is warm and salty and gooey, cheese stretching in a thin line as you pull the sandwich away from your mouth. It’s comforting in a way you weren’t expecting, and something curls in your chest.

It doesn’t feel like he’s trying to impress you so much as he’s trying to make sure you enjoy yourself.

He leans back in his chair, looking entirely too smug for someone whose dish took all of five minutes to make.

“Though,” you say, pointing the sandwich at him, “your presentation could use some work.”

He places a hand on his heart, grin still firmly on his face.

“Wounded me.”

You shrug.

“I call it like I see it.”

“I prefer to let the food speak for itself.”

“And what message is your food trying to say?”

“That this is the treatment you can expect from me in the villa.”

You laugh. “Cheese toasties?”

“Artisanal cheese toasties,” he says.

“I don’t think that’s the message I got from it.”

“Aye, you can argue all ye want, bonnie,” he hums, leaning forward as his voice lowers. “but you’re already taking a second bite.”

You pause, looking down to find the sandwich halfway back to your mouth.

Bastard.

“That’s not fair.”

His brow raises.

“No?”

You shake your head, and he laughs. A bright, charming thing that warms you.

You had expected to be charmed, flirted with in hopes that you’ll pick your boy based on attraction and who you’ll most likely want to crawl into bed with by the end of the night.

You didn’t think you would have fun.

You take another bite, mostly just to spite him and partially because you’re genuinely enjoying the meal.

Johnny smiles triumphantly.

You chew slowly, giving him a long once-over while you do. You follow a steady path from the rolled sleeves covering his forearms to the shirt pulling across his chest before finally landing on his face.

His grin falters.

“It really is good,” you say.

His smile returns, but there’s something careful underneath it. Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Happy to exceed expectations.”

“Mm.” You wipe a crumb from the corner of your mouth, watching his eyes follow the movement before he catches himself. “It’s nice to know that if this is the treatment I should expect from you in the villa…”

You pause, and something mischievous curls low in your stomach.

Johnny’s eyes narrow ever so slightly.

“That you seem like you know exactly what to do with your hands.”

His grin drops clean off of his face, and you have to work very hard not to look proud of yourself.

He smiles again. Differently than the way you’ve grown used to during this dinner. This is charged, and his heavy gaze drops to your lips in a way that feels a lot more intentional than before.

“Dinnae say that, bonnie,” he says, tone lower than it had been a few moments ago.

You pout, letting your lashes flutter innocently.

“Why?”

“‘m already hard.”

You choke so violently that a producer has to step around the camera to see if you’re alright.

You wave the producer off with one hand, coughing into your napkin while Johnny grabs your water and slides it across the table. His shoulders shake with quiet laughter, and you glare at him through watery eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Didnae mean to kill ye before you made it to your next course.”

You take a long sip of water.

“What a way to go, though.”

Johnny looks at you, leaning back in his seat as the tips of his ears turn pink.

Another producer signals at you, motioning for you to start wrapping up so you can move on to the next course.

You aren’t expecting the disappointment you feel as you glance from the producer to the half-eaten sandwich to the man across from you.

Something changes in Johnny as well, the ease he just carried himself is replaced by the same understated hope he walked in with.

Almost as if he’s seeking reassurance.

“I guess that’s my cue,” he says.

You nod.

“I guess so.”

He starts to stand, already moving to collect the plates, but you place a hand on his wrist before he can take your plate away.

“Though I’m not sure how my next course will top this.”

Johnny looks down at your hand on his wrist before looking back at you, and his eyes light up, prepared to make a joke before glancing toward the kitchen.

You follow his line of sight, eyes catching on your next date who licks a dark sauce off of a spoon.

He winks at you when your eyes meet, and you pause, quickly turning back to Johnny.

To your surprise, he’s staring intently at you, eyes searching your face as if he’s trying to figure out if he’s already lost you.

“I’m sure he’ll find a way.”

He does.

Chocolate-covered strawberries are arranged into the shape of a heart, each one dipped in a different chocolate and drizzled carefully in a way that tells you he spent most of his prep time making sure that the dish would look perfect from every camera angle.

It takes everything in you not to audibly moan when he feeds you the first one.

Your dessert date smiles, already confident with the way this night will play out, and you smile back.

You try, you really do. You ask all the right questions, laugh at his jokes and even hit him with a flirty comment when the moment calls for it.

It’s just not enough to keep your attention.

Instead, you find yourself looking past the man in front of you to see if you can find bright blue eyes and a mohawk.

Your spot Johnny leaning against the kitchen island as a group of boys surround him. He reaches over to steal something from a discarded pan by the stove as one of the boys says something to him. Johnny fires back without missing a beat, sending half of them into loud laughter.

Your eyes meet, and his brows raise, mouth still half-parted from his laughter.

You look down so quickly that you’re sure you almost pull something in your neck, and you grab another strawberry just to give your hands something to do.

Your dessert date doesn’t seem to notice your attention has slipped.

“— and it really comes down to what I prioritize. As a gym owner, I try to work out 5-6 days a week. Of course, I try to add in one active rest day since recovery is important obviously.”

“Obviously,” you agree, and your date beams, clearly excited to meet someone who shares his opinion on workout splits.

Your eyes meet Johnny’s again, and this time, he grins.

He holds up the other half of your cheese toastie, taking a bite.

Bastard.

You bite into your strawberry and try your hardest not to smile.

Later, when you’re standing at the firepit, your choice is already made.

The host turns to you with a polished smile.

“As one of our newest bombshells, you now have the power to choose which boy you’d like to couple up with.”

A heavy quiet settles over the villa, tension simmering as everyone waits for you to alter the course of the night.

Your appetizer and dessert dates sit on the benches across the firepit, both confident as if there’s no doubt in their mind that you wouldn’t choose them.

You look over at Johnny, sitting on the end of the bench with his hands clasped in front of him. He looks casual, shoulders rolled back in a way that you would second-guess if you hadn’t just spent an entire dinner watching him not try to get his hopes up.

You watch as he avoids your eyes, jaw clenching slightly as he braces for your answer, like he knows he has a chance but believing so would only make it worse.

Your chest tugs.

There really was never any competition.

“The boy I’d like to couple up with is…” you pause just long enough until the producers give you the signal to keep going.

Johnny’s eyes lift despite himself.

You smile.

“Johnny.”

He stares at you for one beat before standing to his feet.

He relaxes all at once, a grin breaking wide and bright across his face. His dimples deepen as the boys next to him whistle, clapping him on the back and shouting his name as if he’s just won the whole series.

You laugh softly, a grin forming across your own face as Johnny crosses the firepit towards you.

When he reaches your side, he bends down to press a chaste kiss to your cheek.

His mouth lingers by your ear.

“Made the right choice, swear.”

His arm settles around your waist, warm and strong by your side.

You meet his eyes, and something about his expression, the relief and giddiness he’s trying so badly to hide, makes something in your chest soften.

You place your hand on his chest, taking in the solid, firm muscle that rests beneath his shirt.

“Don’t make me regret it,” you tease, batting your lashes.

Johnny exhales, arm tightening around your waist as his eyes move over your face.

“Aye,” he says, softer than you would expect. “Could never do that.”

Somehow, you believe him.

You flinch as a couple nearly wipes out on the foam-covered walkway.

The boy slips first, one leg flying out from beneath him before he grabs his partner for stability and ends up pulling her down with him. She shrieks as they collapse into a mess of limbs, both laughing too hard to get back up.

The challenge had been announced earlier that morning, a relay race to test each couple’s ability to work together.

Beside you, Johnny winces.

“Aye,” he murmurs, watching as a couple bangs their teeth together in a messy kiss. “Brutal, innit?”

You nudge his shoulder with yours. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

He looks down at you.

For a moment, the noise around you dulls. His mouth curls at the edges, eyes bright beneath the beaming sun, and you’ve had the same thought that you’ve been having since you sat across him last night.

How the hell did the other girls miss this?

You understand, somewhat, the narrative that’s been painted around him since he’s been in here. Funny, reliable, good-natured Johnny.

You just don’t understand how that’s managed to cover up the broad shoulders, large arms and the lazy grin that somehow makes him look boyish and charming all at once.

His eyes flicker down to your lips.

A sharp whistle pulls the both of you from your bubble and you turn to where one of the boys is sitting behind you.

“Oi, Johnny!” He makes an obscene gesture that has half the girls around him groaning. “Try not to lose this time.”

Johnny tenses next to you, rolling his shoulders back before wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

You frown.

It really has been brutal to watch on TV.

His last pairing had been with a girl who hadn’t been chosen by the guy she wanted and ended up in a friendship couple with Johnny. During the challenge, you could see her heart wasn’t in it, especially when she had to kiss him at the end.

She left the villa the next day.

And Johnny, despite being such a sore loser, had tried his hardest to act indifferent to the whole situation.

Joked, teased and took it all on the chin in a way that’s becoming very familiar.

“We’re winning this,” you say.

Johnny turns his head towards you, ready to make a joke before taking in the set expression on your face.

His brows raise.

“Are we?”

He looks down to where you’ve already slipped your hand into his, and you squeeze once.

“As long as you can keep up,” you tease, and his mouth twitches.

“Don’t think you’ll have to worry about me.”

You squeeze his hand again and he squeezes back.

“Good.” You smile. “Then we’ll have no problem winning this thing.”

Johnny’s grin comes back properly this time, bright and charming, and you fight the urge to lean in and kiss him stupid.

“Aye?” he asks, letting you pull him to his feet as the host calls your names. “Is that so?”

“Of course so.”

The host beams at the both of you, standing tall with glossy hair and a perfect pageant smile and a part of you feels ridiculous in the neon pink bikini production has forced you into.

You smile as you look down at Johnny’s matching pink swim shorts and the sweatband around his head.

“Are you two ready?” she asks.

You nod.

Johnny looks down at you again, and whatever he sees on your face makes his smile twitch like he cannot decide whether to laugh or worry.

“You’re a wee bit terrifying, bonnie.”

The host grabs the air horn in front of her, directing her attention towards the cameras.

“Let’s do Raunchy Relays!”

The air horn goes off and before he can even process what’s happening, you’ve bolted to the other side of the platform.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he laughs, taking off after you.

The first station is at the end of the platform: a silver bowl with large mounds of whipped cream.

You read the instruction card.

Switch off finding the three cherries hidden inside and pass them to your partner.

Without using your hands.

Of course.

You drop to the bowl before you can think too hard about appearances, and shove your face into the cold, sugary cream.

You faintly register Johnny laughing behind you.

You search blindly until your teeth close around the first stem, and you lift your head.

Johnny stops laughing, eyes moving from your cream-covered face to the cherry waiting in your mouth.

You raise your brows.

He bends immediately, lips brushing yours as his mouth closes around the cherry before dropping it into the waiting cup.

His eyes move back towards your lips, and you smirk.

“Focus, Johnny.”

“Trust me, I’m very focused,” he murmurs, bending down to find the other cherry.

It only takes a few moments before he’s emerging, streaks of whipped cream covering his cheeks.

You stand on your toes to grab the cherry from his mouth, and a large hand falls on your waist, lips pressing a little firmer on his.

“Don’t think that’s part of the challenge.” He grins, thumb rubbing a circle on your hip and you grin, bending over to spit the cherry out into the cup.

By the third cherry, both of you are sticky, breathless, and laughing too hard to be useful. Whipped cream is smeared along Johnny’s jaw and melting down the side of his neck.

You slap your palm against his chest.

“Look alive, MacTavish.”

His hand catches yours for half a second, pressing it flat against his bare chest.

“Aye, ma’am.”

Then you’re running again.

A bright pink mixture waits in a clear jug, something thick and glossy that smells like a fruit smoothie that’s been left out in the sun for too long. A measuring cup sits next to it.

You stop dead, and Johnny skids to a halt beside you. He grabs the instruction card, grin growing bigger as he reads every word.

“One partner takes a mouthful,” he reads. “Transfers to the other partner. Other partner fills the cup.”

“I can’t believe they haven’t gotten rid of this one yet,” you whine, placing your hands on your hips.

He stares at you.

You look past him towards the other two couples. One is still at the cherry station, fumbling for the last one, while the other couple has just reached the jug and the girl is backing away with a horrified expression.

You look at him, and you recognize the same competitive thread running beneath him, the need to win despite how ridiculous this whole situation is.

You sigh. “I cannot believe I’m doing this for you.”

He smirks.

“Knew ye liked me.”

You cross your arms. “Drink.”

“Aye, bossy thing.”

He takes a mouthful and immediately his face curls into disgust that you start laughing.

Then he steps much closer than what the challenge requires, fingers catching your chin as he tilts your head to look up at him. He leans in before spitting the mixture into your mouth.

It’s absolutely more vile than you could’ve even imagined.

You twist and spit it into the cup, shuddering so hard that your shoulders nearly touch your ears.

Johnny loses it, one hand still at your waist as he burst into bright, full laughter

“What?” you whine, wiping your face with the back of your hand as you glare at him.

“Your face.”

You huff and his smile softens.

“You took it like a champ.”

The innuendo hits you both at the same time, and your mouth falls open as his grin sharpens.

“Don’t.”

He holds his hand up in surrender.

“Didnae say anything.”

You roll your eyes before grabbing the mixture and shoving it towards his chest.

“Again.”

Johnny’s eyes light up with delight.

The second transfer is faster albeit a little messier. A little of the pink mixture drips from the corner of your mouth, and Johnny catches it with his thumb before you can wipe it away.

You spit into the cup, breathing hard.

“Again,” you say.

By the third time, you don’t even flinch.

Something in Johnny’s eyes changes, watching you wait for another mouthful because you’re not about to let him lose twice.

That you care enough to help him win.

Your cup hits the fill line.

Johnny slams it down with a shout.

You grab his hand. “Let’s go.”

He lets you drag him toward the final station, laughing breathlessly behind you.

The final instruction card waits.

Pop the balloon using only your bodies.

Johnny reads the card over your shoulder, and you can almost feel the excitement vibrating off of him.

He reaches around you to grab the balloon before lying flat on his back, placing the balloon directly over his lap.

The villa screams at the positioning, and you roll your eyes.

He stares up at you, his face the picture of innocence.

“Get to work, bonnie.”

You drop your knees on either side of his hips, and settle above him, hand firmly resting on his shoulders.

It’s so unfair how good he looks underneath you.

Objectively, he’s a mess. There’s still whipped cream around his face, and there’s somehow remaniants of the pink mixture around his jaw.

Yet, his chest has a light layer of sweat and you feel the heat radiating off of him as he places his hands around your waist.

You bounce down once, and the balloon squeaks uselessly underneath you.

Johnny clenches his jaw.

You drop down again, moving up and down in small repetitive bounces and all you get is the balloon moving beneath you.

“It’s harder than it looks,” you murmur, looking down to the balloon beneath you two.

Johnny huffs out a laugh, and when you look back up, his expression is strained.

“You have no idea.”

You laugh, then shift your weight and roll your hips down more firmly.

His grip flexes around your waist.

“Careful,” he murmurs, tone low and rough around the edges. “We’re still on telly.”

Your smile widens, rolling down again.

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m just playing the game.”

Johnny exhales sharply, and you place both hands on his chest for better leverage, grinding down until the balloon bursts beneath you with a sharp pop.

You drop fully onto his lap, and freeze.

Johnny is very, very hard beneath you.

The villa screams, and the host calls out both your names, laughing at the position the two of you are in.

Johnny’s eyes lock with yours, mouth opening and closing as he tries to explain himself.

You tilt your head, smiling sweetly, before grinding down once more for good measure.

He swallows harshly.

“Yer evil.”

You laugh breathlessly, and you pop to your feet.

Johnny follows immediately, tugging you in front of him to cover where he adjusts himself behind your back.

You glance over your shoulder. “Problem?”

His smile is strained. “You know exactly what ye did.”

“Won?”

“Aye.” His hand flexes at your hip. “That too.”

“We have our winners!” the host announces.

The villa erupts around you.

Johnny claps behind you, pressing a kiss to your cheek and you can’t help it.

You turn, grip the back of Johnny’s neck, and pull him down into a kiss.

Johnny freezes for one stunned heartbeat.

One hand buries in your hair while the other curls around your waist, pulling you tight against him as he kisses you back like he’s been waiting for this all summer.

When you finally break apart, his forehead stays close to yours.

“Didnae know that was part of the challenge,” he murmurs.

You smile.

“Consider it your prize for winning.”

His grin returns slowly.

“Best win of my life, then.”

You two end up sprawled across one of the daybeds, waiting for a shower to open up so you can scrub the sugary mess off of you.

Your legs are stretched across his lap, his hand rubbing absentminded circles over your shin like he forgot he was doing it.

He’s warm underneath you, still buzzing off of adrenaline and excitement from securing his first win of the season.

He looks down at you, smiling brightly.

“You’re staring.”

You shrug, moving closer to him.

“Can’t help it. Winning looks good on you.”

He grins, grabbing your waist to kiss you fully.

A male islander walks by, letting out a gagging noise and the two of you pull apart.

“You two are fucking disgusting.”

You smirk, leaning over to lick a stripe of whipped cream from Johnny’s jaw.

“See!” the boy says. “Disgusting!”

Johnny’s chest puffs. “Disgusting’ winners.”

You know he thinks he’s being subtle, trying to pretend like he’s still asleep with one heavy arm laid across your waist. His breath is slow and too even against the back of your neck.

He shifts again, hips grinding ever so slightly against your ass.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Johnny,” you whisper. “What are you doing?”

He stills, before realizing that he’s supposed to be pretending to be asleep and he moves behind you.

He makes a show of waking up, stretching out with a yawn as his arm tightens against you.

You stifle a laugh.

“Bonnie?” he murmurs, confusion lacing his voice, like he hasn’t been grinding against you for the past minute. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to stop acting like you’ve been asleep.”

His face presses into the curve of your neck.

“Was havin’ a nice dream.”

“Were you?”

“Aye.”

His hips shift again, the hard line of him pressing more deliberately against you this time.

“You were in it.”

Your breath catches before you can stop yourself.

The room is quiet around you, but not empty. Someone shifts in the bed beside you, and you move.

Johnny’s hand slides slowly from your waist to your stomach, palm warm beneath the loose fabric of your shirt.

You should stop this. You’re in a room with ten other people, and Johnny is still grinding against you.

You move closer to him, and Johnny takes the opening.

“All that talk earlier,” he murmurs, lips brushing the sensitive place beneath your ear. “Bossin’ me about during the challenge.”

“You liked it.”

His quiet laugh ghosts over your skin.

“Didnae say I didn’t.”

His hand travels higher, then lower again, teasing and tracing a warm path against yoir skin wherever he touches.

“Kept leaning in for me, too,” he says. “All pretty with your mouth open.”

Your stomach tightens.

“That was for the challenge.”

“Aye.” His mouth grazes your jaw. “You were good at it.”

The words settle hot and low in your body.

You turn your head enough to look at him over your shoulder, though in the dark you can only make out the sharp line of his nose, the glint of his eyes, the faint curve of his mouth.

“Johnny.”

“What?”

“Stop being mean.”

His grin deepens.

“You like it,” he says, echoing your words from earlier.

You unfortunately do.

You open your mouth to argue, but his fingers catch your chin before you can, turning you back to him.

His thumb brushes along your lower lip.

“Open up for me, bonnie.”

Something hits you low and deep at the command, and wordlessly, you part your mouth.

He spits into your waiting mouth, and his arm tightens around your waist when you swallow for him.

You stick your tongue out just enough to show him it’s gone.

Behind you, he swears under his breath.

“Christ.”

His voice is rougher than it was a moment ago, the word almost broken against your neck.

“Where the hell have you been all summer?”

You reach back, fingers catching at the back of his neck until he lowers his mouth to yours.

This kiss is slower than the one that afternoon, less fueled by adrenaline and more by the ache that’s been building since.

His tongue teases yours, and you let him in with a soft sigh you have to swallow immediately. His arm wraps tighter around your waist, pulling you back until your body fits against his.

You pull away to breathe, and his mouth goes straight to your neck.

You whine before you can stop yourself.

Johnny’s hand clamps gently over your mouth.

“Easy,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in it. “Gotta be quiet for me.”

You nod against his palm.

He kisses your jaw once, like a reward, then slips his other hand beneath your shirt. His palm drags over your stomach, up your ribs, teasing the underside of your breast until your back arches and your ass presses harder against him.

His breath stutters at the contact, and his hand drifts from your mouth to beneath the waistband of your shorts.

He groans softly when he feels how wet you are, the sound rumbling against your skin.

Your hips move on instinct, chasing the contact, and his arm tightens around your middle to hold you still.

“Shh,” he breathes, lips at your ear. “I’ve got you.”

Then his fingers find your clit.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to cover the sounds desperate to come out as he begins to rub tight circles on your clit, other arm tightening around your waist to bring you closer to him.

Everything feels a little hazy, any awareness pinpointed to the man behind you and the little cocoon you’ve made beneath the comforter. Johnny nudges your chin back to him and pulls you into another wanting kiss, all your sense hypertuned to Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.

You decide you want to feel him too.

You reach a hand back, fingers brushing against his waistband before slipping beneath the tiny black briefs he’s worn to bed.

You grip him in your hand and you both freeze: him at the sudden contact, you at the realization that Johnny might have the thickest cock you’ve ever felt.

Your hand barely wraps around his length.

“Fuck.”

You stroke him once, and his hips buck into your hand with a trembling exhale.

You do it again, slow and careful beneath the covers, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“Christ, bonnie,” he whispers, punctuated by pulling you even closer to him so your back is firmly pressed to his chest. “You’re such a dream.”

It’s tender, too tender for how you’re both feeling each other up like a pair of teenagers under the covers, but it pulls something in you either way.

He moves his hand from your cunt causing you to whine at the loss, and he huffs a quiet laugh into your skin before tugging your shorts just enough down your thighs that you’re completely exposed. The air cools your heated skin for half a second before he shifts behind you, pushing his briefs down with clumsy impatience.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow as he guides himself between your thighs.

The head of his cock nudges against your wet folds, and your breath catches so sharply that you bite the pillow to keep any more noise from coming out.

He shifts once, and you both groan into the dark.

“Can I?” he asks, and you’re nodding quickly before something comes back to you. The quiet hum of the air con system. The movement of other beds beside you.

The fact that the two of you aren’t as alone as you probably want to be for this situation.

“What about everyone else?” you whisper, and he gives you a long, hard grind. Your eyes flutter when he catches right against your clit, rubbing against you in slow, perfect strokes.

“We’ll be quiet.”

Somehow, you doubt that.

“Just the tip,” he murmurs against your neck, lazily moving his hips from where he’s currently slotted between your thighs.

“Okay,” you sigh breathlessly. “Just the tip.”

He wastes no time.

Johnny presses inside you in one slow, determined push, and the stretch makes your entire body go tight.

A sharp gasp rips out of you before you can stop it.

His hand clamps over your mouth again, his other arm hooking around your waist to keep you pressed back against him.

“Shh,” he whispers, hot and rough near your ear. “I know. I’ve got you.”

He rocks an inch inside you before pulling out, repeating the movement with low shallow thrusts.

“Christ, you’re fuckin’ tight.” His accent thickens and you turn your head back to look at him.

He looks just as wrecked as you feel, mouth halfway parted as his gaze is glued to the subtle movements under the covers, as if he stares hard enough, he’ll be able to actually see where you two are connected. A faint red blooms from his chest up to his cheeks, and he swallows, jaw clenching when you flutter around him.

You can see the effort it’s taking for him not to slam all the way in and fuck you silly.

You nip lightly at the heel of the hand covering your mouth, and he smiles.

“Want something?”

You nod, and he moves his hand to your waist.

“More,” you whisper and Johnny kisses the curve of your neck. “I want more.”

You feel his smile against your skin as he catches your top leg, guiding it back over his hip and opening you further to him. You’re only distracted by the stretch for a moment before he snaps his hips forward in one sharp movement.

Your back arches as the breath is punched out of you by how full you feel, but your body has already started moving, little helpless rolls back into him that make his grip tighten around your waist.

He begins to fuck into you in shallow, lazy strokes.

It’s not enough, him moving too slowly to really build any pressure, but you know what he’s thinking: that the slapping of skin, creaks of the bed or the obscene, slick sound of your cunt taking him back in is more than enough to get the two of you caught.

The secrecy of it only makes you warmer, tighter around him, and he lets out a strangled groan.

“Can’t stay quiet if you keep gripping me like that,” he murmurs, reaching to rub tight circles on your clit.

It shouldn’t be enough, not with how slow he’s going, but something still builds low in your stomach, from the full drag of him inside you, from his fingers on your clit, from the hand groping at your chest beneath your shirt.

“‘M gonna cum,” you say, shocking both you and Johnny.

“Aye?” he asks, shifting your leg higher over his hip before giving you another slow pull that makes you feel every vein and ridge drag inside you.

“You’re doin’ so good for me,” he whispers, pulling you down by the hips to meet his thrusts.

A hazy part of you realizes you hate this. Hate that you can’t see him properly, speak and moan the way you want to, can’t cling onto him while he takes you apart completely.

Another part of you thinks this is just enough.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

His mouth finds your neck again.

“Come on, then,” he whispers. “Let me feel it.”

Your body listens before your mind can catch up.

The pleasure breaks hot and sudden, your thighs trembling as you clamp down around him. Johnny covers your mouth again just in time, swallowing the broken sound that tries to leave you as he rocks you through it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

Johnny’s hips stutter, thrusts becoming jerky with every tight pulse around him. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath coming rough and hot as he buries himself as deep as he can without making the bed squeak in a way that will give away what the two of you are doing.

“Where?” he rasps.

“Inside. Please, inside,” you say, a little deliriously and his whole body tenses behind yours.

For a second, he goes silent.

Then he comes with a rough, bitten-off groan against your shoulder, hips jerking shallowly as he tries to keep quiet.

You both are breathing hard, skin warm to the touch and at once your surroundings come back to you.

Someone from a few beds over shifts.

“Whoever keeps moving, can you please shut the fuck up? Some of us are trying to sleep.” someone says, voice thick with sleep.

Johnny shakes behind you with silent laughter, and you breathe out a shaky laugh, partly from the relief of not being caught and partly from the aftershocks of how hard you just came around him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispers.

You turn your face enough to glare at him over your shoulder.

He looks wrecked, hair mussed with bright eyes and lips pressed in a tight line to keep from laughing all over again.

“That,” you whisper, “was so stupid.”

His grin breaks through immediately.

“Aye.”

“So fucking stupid.”

“Very.”

“We could have gotten caught.”

“Almost did.”

You drop your head back into your pillow.

Then his hand, still warm at your waist, gives one small squeeze.

“Worth it?”

You turn back from your pillow, and that same warm feeling in your chest betrays you. At the fact that if Johnny blinked the right way at you, you would do it all over again.

“So worth it.”

Johnny’s grin turns devastating.

He presses a quiet kiss to your shoulder.

“Best summer of my life,” he whispers.

Crimson staining the concrete under you, and splattered on your husband’s sleeves. The juxtaposition of your husband and Simon solidifies itself then. Something that made your mouth water and heart race with desire when it came to Simon is repulsive on your husband. Something that lodges a lump deep in your throat, makes it difficult to swallow the tears running down your cheeks. 

Your hands shake as you reach out to the bunny lying there motionless. Fear runs through your body, raging anger, but the guilt is the heaviest. 

It’s your fault. It’s all your fault. 

The bunny was innocent. A sweet, pure thing that had nothing to do with you and Simon or your deceit. And still, your husband took his anger out on it, snapped its neck in two like it was the one coercing you to Simon's doorstep. The poisoned apple. 

He’s too narcissistic to realize it was him. Too much of a coward to confess he was the one who forced you down this dark and moldered path. One that made you lose your wedding ring somewhere in the backroom of Simon’s butcher shop when you left your dignity on your knees. 

Your husband had hardly noticed really, it’s not like he paid attention to detail when it came to you. You were shocked when he did notice, stuttering over your words, and you offered a weak apology, saying you had lost it while washing the dishes.

It was a lie, he knew it. A part of you thinks you didn’t try to convince him on purpose. That you lost it on purpose because you didn’t know how to end this any other way. It’d be easier if he was the one.

Everything else after that is black, a flurry of running after him as he storms to the backyard shed. You had screamed so loud when he picked the bunny up, the poor thing kicking its hind legs in the toughest fight it could muster. It looked so tiny in his palm, trapped in his confines.

“Been letting you feed this damn pest in my backyard and this is how you repay me?” He spat it out with fury, globs of saliva landing on your cheeks.

“Put it down, please." You spoke calmly, masking the way your chest was vibrating with anxiety. "I don't even know what you're talking about, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart. There's that damn word you trickle in. A front. Appeasement of sorts to show you still care, that this is a marriage you want. 

“I should’ve known, marrying a whore like you.”

Whore. He says it so often you don't even bat an eye. Sweetheart, whore, the words have become analogous at this point.   

You were too late after that. The sound of its cracking neck came first. Its thrown limp body on the floor. Its head makes a thud as it lands hard on the gray cement at your feet, blood splashed underneath it.

It all happened so fast you didn't have time to react besides falling to your knees next to it. The worst part is you didn't even name it. A part of you afraid of the attachment you would've grown when you knew it would eventually lead to this. Afraid of what it would mean when he finally did.

You think you black out for a few seconds, coming to in short fuzzy bursts as reality dawns on you. It's funny the way raw meat did not affect you, not when Simon was the one meticulously handling it. Funny how you were willing to lie on the butcher block next to it all, be the sacrificial lamb instead, but this draws a vizierial reaction. 

You stay still, despite your quivering fingers, until the fog clears, until your hands stop and your heart calms. Everything clashes together then, morphing into this ugly, angry monster in your chest that takes over. Years of just burying it down, pretending you were okay, boil over and your pretty bow that sealed it all together unravels. Tears in two for the first time since you've laid eyes on your coward of a husband. 

You look up at him then, at the ugly figure that has the audacity to call himself a man. You won’t be too late this time.

“You’re right.” You stand, saying it with the same conviction he spat at you, except yours has reason, a deeper meaning than insecurity. "It’s the butcher. Had me on my knees last week.”

He storms across the distance then, an anger in his eyes you're not quite used to. You don't move though, not even a flinch when he wraps his hands around your throat and slams you against the wall of the shed. Your head throbs from the impact, a panging tightness radiating from your skull down your spine. Your hands find purchase on his forearm, dragging your nails along his skin until it draws blood, legs kicking out as the bunny had in his grasp too. 

“Right on top of the meat you eat for dinner every night.” You say it between your strangled breaths and stinging lash line with tears you try your best to hold back.

His fingers tighten around your neck after that and the edges of your vision go dark, hands losing their grip on him when you physically can't fill your lungs with air. You see your mom at the edges, the abuse she endured when you were young. When she wasn’t brave enough to do something about it and leave. When she put her faith above reality. Above you.

You think maybe you should be thinking about your faith instead of hers. Muttering a prayer you were forced to memorize growing up, but none of them come to mind. None of them could help you now. This God should’ve saved you years ago.

The rest is a blur, you don’t know what you grab, or how you even manage to, but it’s heavy, and you can barely wrap your fingers around it. All you know is it makes your husband’s hands fall from your throat, falling back after repeatedly bashing his head with it.

Your cross necklace follows him, silver jewelry ricocheting off the floor. You think it has to be a metaphor, a sign from this God. Being set free from the expectations of religion, set free of the shackles that weighed you down for so long. The cross scalded on your skin melted off.

There’s blood dripping from his forehead when you finally stop, and he’s looking at you in shock, fingers dabbing at the wound like he hadn't just had his hands around your jugular. It makes you laugh, a sound that comes out half broken from your strained throat. 

“We’re done.” It's raspy, but final.

You don't look back as you walk back inside the house you've lived in for years. Don't even give him a shred of acknowledgement when you pack a duffel bag. 

You find you don't have much of importance in this house besides Simon's jacket. 

You don't even realize you've got blood on your shirt and under your finger nails until you're outside Simon's door and he looks at you concerned.

You’re not even surprised when you see your ring glimmer out of the corner of your eye, pinned to the wall like a trophy he’s won.

──────────────

He hasn’t looked up, he’s too focused. And there’s something practiced and deeply troubling about the speed of which his hands are movings — it tells you more than his face even would.

“John?” you try, his back is to you now.

“Hey,” he says, a drawer slides open, he rifles through it, turns around, and whatever he took from the drawer disappears into his bag. “Listen to me a minute.”

“What’s happening? Wh- what’re you doing?”

You take a tentative step toward the bed.

“I have to go,” he says flat, pared down, slotted neatly into the rhythm of his packing. “Right now. Tonight.”

“Go where? You’ve only just got back. Is it a—,”

“It’s not work,” he cuts in roughly, then shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.

His hands go still over the bag and he turns his head and finally, finally looks at you, blue eyes hooking under your ribs. He takes a steadying inhale through his parted lips, then out his flaring nostrils.

“It’s… it’s not a job, dove.”

You feel so behind him in this, like you’re still standing in the warm kitchen five minutes ago, still on the version of tonight where dinner’s almost ready. You can feel a tickle of dread crawling up the back of your neck.

You’ve never seen him like this.

He’s never like this — frantic.

“Then what is it, J—,”

“Shepherd’s dead,” he spills. He says it the way you’d pluck a splinter from a soft palm, all at once because slow is worse. “It was me, I did it. There’ll be people comin’ here to look for me, and I can’t be here when they come, and I can’t—” His throat bobs. “I can’t be anywhere near you. D’you understand me?”

You don’t.

His confession arrives in pieces and your hands rise to your temples as the words work their way into whatever corner of your mind is properly conscious.

He’s gone back to moving, the zip of the bag closing like something tearing in half. It’s the moving you can’t deal with right now because the moving means it’s already decided. It was decided before he came through the front door. You’re hearing the end of a conversation he’s been having with himself for god knows how long.

Sick turns over in your belly, hot and acidic as it ascends your esophagus, burning the back of your tongue before you swallow it back down.

“Stop.” Your hand closes firm around his forearm. “Stop, just— just look at me. Goddamnit, just— Stop moving!”

To his credit, he goes still for a moment, turning fully toward you now and lifts both hands to your face, cradling your jaw, and every scrap of that frantic velocity drains out of him. His forehead comes down to yours, warm, a little slicked. And suddenly you would give anything to have the frantic version of him back, because stillness means he’s made time for it. John doesn’t make room for things that don’t matter. He’s making room to say goodbye, and knowing that opens up beneath you like a trap-door.

His thumbs sweep the tears you didn’t even feel on your cheeks. “Look at me,” his hands stiffen and close tighter when they rest on your face, forcing your gaze onto his. “I need you to hear me.”

“No.” You’ve got two fistfuls of his shirt now, the cotton crushed in your hands, your head moving side to side against the cage of his palms. “No. No! You don’t get to do this, we’ll— we’ll fix it,” you try to sniffle but sob instead. “You’ll go to someone— Kate! There’ll be a way—,”

“There isn’t,” he murmurs, almost pleading.

“There’s always a way.”

“Not for this.” He says it so softly it takes the legs out from under you. His breath is warm against your mouth. “Not this one, dove. Not this time. I’m sorry.”

Part of you doesn’t quite believe the apology. It was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. You know John. Or, maybe you thought you did. The blood in your heart feels like it’s curdling, heavy, turning to tar as you continue to process exactly what’s happening here.

What he’s done.

You wrench your neck and free your face from the heat of his hands.

“How long?” you ask, voice breaking.

He doesn’t answer.

You strike his chest with the flat of both hands, again and again, then again. You can’t even shift him an inch and the both of you know it, it’s just somewhere for the fear to go as it bubbles. His chin tucks, watching with a curling devastation as you keep connecting with his body. In a flash, he’s got both of his hands on your wrists, yanking you forward against him. “How long, John?!”

You’re starting to learn how long.

He says nothing.

This isn’t a tour. It isn’t a season away with a date at the end of it. He’s running. There is no number because there is no horizon he can point to, no morning he can promise you he’ll be standing in this room again.

The realization comes out of you barely above a breath as you tip your head back to see him. “You’re not coming back.”

His eyes fall shut. He presses his mouth to your forehead hard and holds there, and when the words come they come muffled into your hair just above your ear, into the warmth of you he’s trying to memorize.

“I love you.” It’s not an answer to your question by any stretch of the imagination. He pulls back again to meet your eyes. “Whatever they say about me, whatever you hear — that’s the only truth, yeah?” His knuckles lift to your chin, the pad of his thumb pushing against the front of it, holding your gaze. “When they come, you tell them I was here, I threatened you, and I left in a hurry.”

Your lip wobbles as you look at him, your throat is so tight it hurts.

“Say it back to me.”

“Y- you were here, you left in a hurry.”

“I was here, I threatened you, I left in a hurry,” he repeats.

“You were here, y-you thre- threatened me, you left in a hurry.”

“Good.”

He kisses you and you can almost taste both halves of him in it at once: the half that’s yours, and the half that's already gone. You give it back to him like you can hold him in the room by your mouth alone. But you can’t. And you feel the precise instant he decides to stop, the breath he takes to force himself away.

“Lock the door behind me,” he says.

And the velocity is back. He swings the duffle bag up onto his shoulder, and he’s past you before you’ve turned, out the bedroom door, and you spin and rush after him with his name tearing out of you, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood.

“John! Please! John!”

But he’s already at the foot of the stairs, already crossing the hall, always faster than you, and you’re only halfway down when the front door swings open and the cold of the night pours in over the threshold to meet you. You reach the bottom step, lurch for the door.

The street is empty.

You look left, you look right. It’s as if you dreamt the whole thing. As if you made him up, boots to beard.

Behind you, the speaker’s still playing music from the kitchen. The onions have started to catch, the sweet smell tipping over into something bitter and charred.