At City Hall, she feels childish for thinking everyone knows where her and Daniel came from. But she supposes sometimes it’s easy to tell, even without excessive public displays. The way she looks at him is enough so she tries to keep her eyes to the floor. But then all she sees is the flowing of her wrap dress and she remembers it all too well. His shower. The range. His bed. How the hell is she supposed to do her job now? Because it isn’t a game of manipulation anymore, it isn’t a task for Fisk. This is for her.

She stops at a sidebar to grab some coffee. Daniel keeps walking at first but turns to wait for her. His face lights up as he smiles and it’s a reminder of what almost happened. She bites her lip to stop herself from returning the smile and nods at him to go on. He hesitates but does.

A stuck-up, air of malevolence approaches, and when she looks to the left she finds Buck. Of course.

“Hello, Miss Hawke.”

She works faster on her coffee. “To what do I owe the displeasure, Mr. Cashman.”

“It seems you’ve had a very busy morning. This is the latest I’ve seen you come in.” He grabs his own styrofoam cup. “Hopefully young Daniel isn’t rubbing off on you.”

Something in the way he says it feels knowing. She tries to blame it on that juvenile feeling from earlier but her gut says Buck is too aware of things he shouldn’t be.

He slides in a little closer to grab the sugar. “I was wrong about your notch on the totem poll, Teresa. So take pride in the one time I’m willing to admit my mistakes.”

Before she can ask him what the hell he means by that, he’s walking away. Normal people don’t usually confess their wrongs with a smile in their voice but not on their face. And maybe Buck’s not normal but that wasn’t normal for Buck.

She stirs her coffee quickly and follows him into Fisk’s office.

Daniel is already sitting down. Sheila is pacing as usual, trying to get a handle on the very unruly animal that is Mayor Fisk. And he himself stands at the head of the table, an ever imposing figure of domination even when he’s completely out of his element. Part of her gags at the presentation of supremacy, while the other part is guilty for feeling that way.

Buck stands beside her and the incessant staring grates her nerves, his eyes are like bugs crawling over her skin. She keeps her own eyes on the back of Daniel’s head, reminiscing the softness of his hair under her finger tips. Just focus on him.

“Vigilante crime is down thirty percent since the Task Force has been deployed,” Buck boasts, finally leaving.

Teresa stays where she is, still focusing on Daniel’s hair like a lifeline. But her stomach plummets when Fisk’s attention goes to him too. There’s a flicker of contention, perhaps the drive of her internal predator, like she and Fisk are two lions stalking a gazelle at a watering hole. He compliments Daniel on a job well done with BB Urich and another primal feeling emerges. This one she pushes down.

“I think you can do more,” Fisk says. “A lot more.”

She watches with the instinct to pounce, but not to capture. To kill. Fisk’s hand comes down on Daniel’s shoulder and she almost lunges.

Daniel slumps under his big paw. “I’m sorry, sir. I just . . .”

“As Deputy Mayor of Communications.”

The room goes still and quiet for the briefest of seconds. Coldness sweeps over her and she doesn’t understand why. This is what they have been working toward, a promotion of some kind, recognition, but this is big. Too big.

Sheila steps in first. “Excuse me, sir. Him?”

Teresa watches without hearing, feeling bugs crawling across her skin again and she flicks her eyes across the room to Buck. He stares blatantly, smirk on his face. She doesn’t like this at all.

The room seems to shrink and for a moment it’s as if they’re all in a pressure cooker about to explode. The air is thick with tension and the back of her neck is slicked with sweat.

Sheila tries once more to share her opinion but Daniel does as he’s been groomed to do from the start—whether by her or by life led before her. He pledges unwavering and unending allegiance to Fisk like one would a king. She sees herself in him at that moment. Blind loyalty.

The two sides of her begin to split apart until only one stands; the side that is no longer blind. She sees clearly for the first time what she’s done. Daniel is where she was. And she’s become her brother.

“Teresa,” Fisk’s voice booms. “How did Daniel do at the range?” He looks at him with a new pride that makes her sick.

“He did exceptional, sir. Quick learner.”

“Good, good.” He nods. “Then, Daniel, you’ll resume your training with Buck next week.”

His words are a gut punch. From her periphery, Daniel looks to her for answers but she’s already locked in a stand off with Fisk, whose eyes gleam with secret pleasure. “Sir . . .”

“I know you have a meeting with my wife, Miss Hawke. I don’t want to keep you.”

“Sir,” she says again, with grit this time.

“You’re dismissed.”

“Teresa!”

James comes into her room blazing mad, suit too tight around his neck, glasses crooked. And she jumps when her door hits the cabinet behind it with a loud crack.

“Jesus. Don’t you know how to knock?”

“The front door was unlocked.”

“Yeah. I just came home.”

“You know the rules.” When she just shrugs, he stalks across the room where she’s doing homework and slams her laptop shut. “You live in the city and have absolutely no survival instincts.” His eyes sear into her. “No more of this, Teresa. You will learn to obey me if it’s the last thing you do.”

“Then let it be the last! I’m not your puppet.”

Pain rips across her cheek before she even realizes he’s lifted a hand. “Get up. There’s work to do.”

Three weeks later, she’d dropped all her college classes and started working for Fisk. Any odd job he needed, then personal jobs once he knew he could trust her, and finally she found her way to the top. She came to seek his approval above all else because at that time he had been kind and encouraging. But even after, it felt good to be wanted. It felt good to be someone.

Some odd years after that, James Wesley was shot in the chest seven times by a journalist and Teresa melted into her role at Fisk’s side like there was nothing else to do. She gave up being herself in order to be what was needed. Even today. She stands in a dress boutique, helping the only woman Fisk has ever cared about, pick out dresses.

Vanessa gets her to try on a Hermès gown and maybe she’d feel beautiful in it if her favorite soft brown eyes were looking at her. But she’s scared now that Fisk will keep Daniel from her so all she feels is restricted and sick to her stomach.

“That black silk is perfect on your figure.” Vanessa shoves Teresa in front of the long mirror.

“We really should be finding you a dress.”

“I’d like to enjoy the time we have left,” Vanessa says and squeezes her waist.

She turns around, that awful sense she’s been left out of the loop nagging her again. “What do you mean?”

Vanessa sighs and presses her hand to her forehead for a moment. “I was told you wanted to be quiet about it.”

“About what?”

“My husband is not very good at keeping secrets from me and I’m afraid I’m not great at keeping them either. I am sorry to see you go.” She runs a hand over Teresa’s bare shoulder, still admiring the dress. A cold dread slithers down her spine. “If I could convince you to stay another year . . .”

Fisk is letting her go.

A mix of relief and raw fear tangle together until she feels truly sick enough to vomit. She could go be someone else. She could finally find the girl she could’ve been if James would’ve let her. But she can’t. That would mean leaving Daniel behind. Leaving him with Fisk.

“I . . .” She shuts it all off and puts the mask back on. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

Vanessa smiles. “Well, let’s hope you made up your mind on this dress. It looks gorgeous on you.”

She turns back around and stares at herself in the mirror. It’s like a mourning dress.

Teresa dances lazily to the song playing over the laundromat speakers. He doesn’t know it. It’s 80s pop and not his jam. She jiggles, lifting up and down on her tiptoes periodically like she’s getting restless. If he took a wild guess, he’d say something is bothering her.

She twirls her hair up in a bun, doesn’t like it, and redoes it several times as she paces. Finally, she gets the claw clip centered and pulls a few front pieces down using one of the washer doors as a mirror.

The fidgeting doesn’t quit so he has no choice—he takes her arms, soft and bare in her dark purple tank top, and stops her from moving. “Did you do some nose candy I wasn’t aware of? Jesus.”

She glares. “I can’t sit still this long.”

They’ve been at the laundromat for half an hour already and he’s not exactly thrilled either but his second load will be done soon. The boredom wouldn’t be so bad if they talked but she doesn’t seem to want to do that. He has so many questions, so many things he wants to know about her, but he’s afraid she won’t want to know him the same way so he doesn’t ask.

“Also, you should know, I don’t do drugs, Blake,” she says sternly. “Neither should you.”

The skin under his palms where he’s still holding her pebbles with goosebumps. “Are you cold?”

“No, I’m . . . thinking.”

What? He pulls back to look at her fully and realizes exactly what she means when his own body reacts with a shiver at the sight of her. She’s thinking about what they did earlier. He dips down to whisper in her ear. “Are you horny?”

She wraps a hand around his throat and pushes him away. “We have to be at work by two. That means we have an hour or more to kill after we go to the shooting range unless you want to go in early today.”

She is so not changing the subject. This is the only time he’s ever made her flustered and he’s pretty damn stoked about it. She would probably never tell him she likes him back verbally but now he knows. At least, in this way. He turns her on as much as she does him, it’s not just about a battle of the wills for her, she genuinely likes him. And maybe that means she could want him again.

“You’re horny,” he whispers.

“Shut up, Blake.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Not. Here.” Her tone says she’s serious but he catches the hint of a smile.

Holy shit. Is it too early to want to put a ring on her finger? He thinks maybe he’s about to fall in love. Or maybe he already has. The way she is with him is everything he’s ever wanted. He can’t let that go. Everything he does or will do is for her. He’s willing to bet that up front.

“We should go back to my place after shooting.” He smirks when she rolls her piercing blue eyes at him. “We can kill time.”

He didn’t think he’d be hard again for a while after the way she wrung him dry in the shower but lo and behold, his dick twitches just thinking of the possibilities those few lost hours could hold.

Teresa looks at him, shaking her head in what seems to be amused disgust. “Well, I know what you’re thinking about, you little perv.”

His face heats despite the laugh he lets out. She made him this way so it’s her fault. That’s probably why it’s so damn easy for her to read him too. The washing machine beeps and he goes back to covertly staring at her as he changes the clothes into the dryer and inserts his money into the change slot.

She leans against the row next to him and slides her hands in her pockets. “Yeah. I think we’ll kill time at your place,” she says and gives no indication that she’s agreeing to what he wants to happen. But the line stays open. It could happen. It might. Her words are hope enough that it will.

The shooting range is further out of the way than he expects but they don’t lose much time getting there. Teresa remains a stealthy driver, having cheated traffic by at least ten minutes which is both impressive and impossible in the city. Sometimes he wonders if that’s her superpower. Miss Evader of Gridlock.

Sandy dunes span out in front of them, empty other than the haystacks dotted with targets and they’re alone save for a few employees back at the front desk of Pike’s Shooting Range. They seemed to know her, like at the diner with Madge. Everywhere she goes there’s a piece of history behind it and he desperately wants to be a part of that. He wants to be someone people know. For them to call him by name when he and Teresa are together because they would know him too and they would always be together.

The wind blows and the freshness of his shower comes off of her as if it’s clung to her skin. He breathes deep and stands a little closer to smell her. Her hair fans out with the breeze as she pulls it from the claw clip and he scents lavender and vanilla from a previous shower and not from his own. It makes him want to stick his face in the curve of her neck but he doesn’t.

When she turns to look at him, her happy neutral expression plummets and she huffs a laugh. “You’re going to have to focus, Daniel. This is very serious.”

He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

She rolls her eyes and opens the bag they checked at entry. He didn’t get to see what was inside before the elderly employee took their IDs. “Listen, Daniel, I can’t have you distracted.” She pulls out a shiny black gun—maybe a glock—and takes out the magazine and checks the chamber. “Do you know anything about gun safety?”

He shifts on his feet. “Don’t point it at anyone unless I intend to use it.”

She chuckles. “Well, yeah. Or yourself. Keep the muzzle to the ground or pointed somewhere safe until you find a target. Even if you think it isn’t loaded, treat it like it is.”

“Got you.”

“I doubt you’ll need more than handgun knowledge in your position but if the time comes we’ll practice with a rifle too.” She places everything in a neat line across the table—gun, magazine, ammunition. “Are you ready?”

He’s never held a gun in his life so there’s a thrill that he’s about to operate something with the power to kill. “Hell yes. I’m ready to shoot.”

“Not quite, Danny-boy.” She holds up the gun and brings it over for him. “First we learn anatomy.”

He chuckles under his breath and thinks of sex ed in high school. They’d acted like teen pregnancy had the power to kill too but he’d escaped with his life just fine. She places the gun in his hand and he gets serious. It’s much heavier than he expected.

“Show me where the trigger is,” she says, her hands above his. “But don’t pull it.”

He slides his finger along the curve.

“Yes. And the grip?”

His fingers curl around it. “Here.”

“Good. Hammer?”

He taps it with his thumb. “This?”

“Very good.” She lets him handle the gun now instead of hovering. “The slide?”

His pulse picks up. “Uh.”

“The top,” she tells him, voice even unlike his breathing. “This is where the casings eject so keep your fingers away from there. You can ride your forefinger along the side, like this,” she says and repositions his hand. “Show me the mag release.”

He tilts the gun sidewise to look and places his thumb over a raised button. “There?”

“Mhm.” She nods and shows him the safety and a few other features he might need to know the name of. “Okay, place that on the table.”

He sets the gun down gently and looks at her for further instructions. The excitement has worn off and been replaced with nerves. There is a lot more to this than he thought and he feels a bit stupid thinking she’d just hand him a firearm and he could start shooting.

She grabs the magazine and the ammunition. “I’ll only load one round so you can see.” He watches intently as she pops one bullet into the magazine then grabs the gun and slides it back in. “Keep your fingers around the grip or along the trigger guard until you’re ready to fire. The gun is technically loaded but there’s no round in the chamber. You’ll rack the slide.” She shows him. “Then you’re ready to shoot.”

He nods. “Dope. Got it.”

“We’ll get to actually doing that in a second. So to unload, push the mag release.” The magazine drops into her hand and she puts it back on the table. “And rack the slide. Never leave a round in the chamber while you’re carrying.”

He takes a deep breath and nods again.

“You think you can do that?” She holds up the bullet. “Or am I going too fast?”

“No, no, I can do it,” he says quickly even though he’s starting to sweat. “I’m ready.”

They exchange the bullet and he sighs as she steps back to watch him. He wipes his palm on his pants before taking the magazine and angling the round into the groove. She gives a little hum of appreciation and he continues exactly as she showed him until it’s loaded and ready to fire.

“Good job,” she says, squeezing his shoulder. “Now unload it and place the pieces on the table.”

His hands seem to steady and he does as told, lining it all up like she had it and turning to her for more approval.

She smiles at him and he swoons. “Alright. Do you want to try loading the entire thing for me?”

He nods eagerly and takes the same few steps again, trying to focus on the work instead of the feeling of her eyes on him, watching to see if he’s doing it right. The resistance in the spring gets tighter and tighter the more rounds he puts into the magazine and he looks to her for assistance.

“Two more,” she says with a soft laugh. “I know, your thumb gets sore after a while.”

He chuckles nervously and forces the last two rounds in. Once he’s got that all figured out, he slips the mag back into the gun and racks the slide. “Am I doing okay?”

The smile that crosses her face feels half evil and half seductive. Her hands come up to his shoulders and massage the tension from his muscles roughly. “You’re doing very good, Daniel,” she says and his dick swells instantly.

She lifts his arms a bit so that he’s pointing the gun out toward the row of targets in the dunes. There is no one else in the world who’s ever made him feel this way—so grounded yet needy and full of urgency to please.

“I’m going to move you a bit,” she says. “Want you solid.”

Those sinful hands roam over his shoulders, sides and back as she positions him how she wants. She kicks his legs apart with the toe of her shoe until she’s satisfied with his offset stance.

“Do you feel comfortable?” Her fingers graze the back of his thigh and over his ass as she moves around him and he feels himself tremble before he even realizes it feels good. “I need you to be steady, not shaking like a leaf.”

He exhales roughly with a laugh. “It’s just a little heavy. I’m good.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” A few minutes adjusting his hands around the gun and she’s satisfied. The muscles in his arms start to burn a little and he’s a little light headed as she explains how to line up his sights. “I should be having you to dry fire first, that’s how I got used to the feel, but I know you’ve got this.”

He gives her a wary glance. “Do I?”

“Elbows out just a little.”

“Should I be—”

The words die on his lips when she takes the ear protection out of her bag and fits it over his head. She pops some foam plugs into her own ears and stands back. “Are you ready?”

“I think so.”

Her hand gently touches his mid back. It reminds him of the way a mother or a teacher would pat him for encouragement and a weird sensation of anxiety and euphoria washes over him.

“When you’re ready, put your finger on the trigger,” she tells him in that voice he craves. “Smooth press, Daniel.”

The world slows and he feels as though he’s at a great cliff with a foot dangling the edge. One push and he will free fall. It’s not that he’s scared to pull the trigger or that he’s worried he won’t hit any targets, he’s nervous for her reaction. Because he’s come to want her praise more than anything. He curls his finger over the trigger for her as his own excitement is eaten by the need to please.

“Deep breath,” she purrs. “Go ahead.”

He pulls the trigger.

The sound of the shot reverberates even with his ear protection, traveling back toward him from the dunes. He can’t see from the distance and the haze of adrenaline whether he made the target or not. His arms shake as he lowers the gun. Holy shit. He did it.

Teresa rubs his back encouragingly. “Gah, yes! That was good!”

He smiles so hard it hurts. “Can I do it again?”

“Yes, yes!” She practically jumps up and down. “You’re doing great.”

The flattery rolls over him in a tingling wave. He feels confident now, like maybe he isn’t a total useless loser. Steadying himself into the position she preferred before, he raises his arms and settles his sight down the barrel.

He pulls the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times. Takes a breath and empties the clip.

Dust clouds boil up from a missed shot but he knows statistically he’s had to have hit the target at least once. He can see a few dark marks in the plastic board from here, that’s got to be a hit. He moves to go check but she stops him with a hand around his arm.

“Check your chamber first,” she says.

“Right.” The chamber is empty when he racks the slide so he pops the mag out, setting it and the gun on the table. He slips off his ear gear and adds it to the line up. “Can we go look?”

She laughs, taking out her earplugs. “Yes. Let’s go see how you did.”

The sun is hotter today in the cloudless sky and it makes him sweat instantly. Well, some of it might be the anticipation. It’s not a long walk though and the closer he gets the more excited he is by the results. Most of the bullets pierced the bottom of the plastic target but he got a few in the middle circle.

He bends down and sticks a finger into the hole closest to the bullseye, scratchy hay poking him from the other side.

“You’re either the luckiest son of a bitch alive or you take instruction very well,” she says, amazement coloring her tone. She looks at him. “That’s good for your first time.”

He stands up straight like it’s school picture day and grins. “I have a good teacher.”

“A good teacher probably wouldn’t have let you shoot live rounds that early and got you used to holding a firearm first,” she says and chuckles.

With a shrug, he unclips his target from the hay stack to take home. “Well, I like my teacher. She’s a master at first times.”

The bottom of her throat thrums wildly with her heartbeat before she’s marching away from him. Something about his innuendo sets her off and he has to jog to keep up. Without a word, she starts packing up her bag as soon as they’re back at the table.

“We’re done?” he asks, clutching the target sheet to his side. She nods without looking at him. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” She sighs, shaking her head before she turns on her heel and starts for the front desk building.

“What did I say?” He follows after her with a burning in his gut. “I didn’t mean anything by it! I’m stupid, I say things.”

She stops and meets his eye. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Daniel. You do everything right because you’re . . . you.” She laughs but it sounds sad. “I don’t know about us. This thing . . . Am I the person who should be doing it?”

He realizes very quickly she isn’t talking about shooting a gun. But he’s still confused because he didn’t think she cared about being his first. There’s always been a wall up between them but right now her guard is down and he’s seeing the confidence and control slipping away. Is this the part where she grows a moronic conscience and tells him he should find someone his own age? Because fuck that. They’re already too far into this to back out now. He won’t let her. She has to be the one. She is the only one. Hell, if she wants, they can be terrified about the future together. But there is no way he’s letting her go unless she tells him she doesn’t want him. If she did that, he’d respect it.

“Why question it now?” he asks. Sure, he’ll admit things changed for them in his shower earlier. The whole world broke open for him and maybe that’s too much of a burden for her.

She sighs. “I’ve pushed you since the beginning, Daniel. I don’t want to do that with this. I want you to have a normal experience.”

“I don’t care about my virginity. I mean, I’ve been trying to get rid of it.” They both laugh awkwardly. “I’d be glad if it was you. Because then I’ll know . . .” He lets his words float off, suddenly aware of why he needs it to be her, aware of how close he is to begging her.

“You know I’ll take good care of you,” she says for him.

He nods desperately.

The realization hits him that her jittering at the laundromat wasn’t just from arousal but from nerves about what they’d done. Wanting in the same way he wants and not knowing if she can have it or even deserves it. There, he finds where they relate. “Do you regret this morning?”

Her eyes glaze, remembering. “Do you?”

“I don’t have regrets, Teresa.” He shakes his head with a self deprecating laugh. “You know what my senior quote was? Wayne Gretzky. ‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take’. And I never fuckin’ took any shots. Definitely not then. I got my job on a fluke because I didn’t really do anything to earn it and almost screwed that all up but you . . . You told me to own my shit and I did. And it worked out.” She looks at him like he’s her pride and joy and it almost buckles his knees. “So, no, I don’t have regrets. Not with you.”

She smiles weakly. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah. No regrets.”

His chest deflates with a heavy sigh. The relief only soothes him somewhat. It’ll all feel better when she actually makes him a man. “Also, I lied,” he admits. “It was, uh, Michael Scott from The Office, actually. Not Wayne Gretzky.”

She bursts with a laugh and hits him in the side with her bag. “You’re such a nerd.”

At Daniel’s apartment, she helps him gather his clean laundry from the car. The afternoon sun is hiding behind some clouds now, leaving them in grayscale as if a storm is coming. They reach the front door and turn to look at the sky together.

“Smells like rain,” she says before he can.

Daniel’s never really had a girlfriend before so he doesn’t understand why he’s so giddy from their shared thought about the weather. And he’s more than aware he can’t call her that yet. It’s too soon, too complicated. But would she let him? Would she like it? Or would she want to be called something different?

He ponders all the things he could call her as they go inside. His girl, lady friend, partner, companion, significant other, mistress, lover. None fit. Teresa’s beyond a singular word.

Those swaying hips in front of him catch his attention and he watches all the way to the bedroom. It’s hypnotic how they move and he has no choice but to be possessed by the visual like it owns him. One word comes to him then: Keeper.

She is his keeper.

“Should we make the bed or fold the clothes first?” She sets the mesh laundry basket down.

He smiles and does the same. “You know, you don’t have to help me with all this.”

“Have to, no. But I want to.”

There’s a thought in the back of his mind that she’s stalling. They’re alone together after all and if she’s still game about ridding him of the hindrance of purity then it’s only a matter of time. But he guesses it’s not unlike her to do these sorts of things—feed him, bathe him. This is the next logical step.

He wonders now what he'll be called if not boyfriend. But that word comes easily to him, because it’s in the melodic sound of her voice when he thinks: baby.

“Let's make the bed first,” he says with a wavering intention behind it.

She finds his bottom sheet in one of the baskets and throws it onto the bed, the gray fabric billowing in the air. When it comes down he catches a glimpse of her unfiltered and domestic. He thinks hopefully this could be the view he sees every day if he plays his cards right. He could wake up to her insanely gorgeous face, come to with an acute eagerness to say good morning with his hands and mouth.

At the head of the bed, she waits for him to help and he kicks his own ass into gear quickly. He takes the edge of the sheet and they look for the correct position together, both getting the giggles as they try to keep the corners down. It feels normal, like this is how it’s always been, and oddly, he can’t remember a time before her. The second she showed up, he truly had just started living.

He tosses her a pillow case and is impressed with the way she fits it on in seconds flat. He has to smile at the many ways she's so particular. Everything is a straight line, except when she’s turned on and teasing him. That’s the only time he knows she lets go of her structures.

Pretty soon the bed is made to perfection, with crisp folds and tucks just like a fancy hotel thanks to Teresa. It’s a shame they’ll have to mess it up soon.

“You should relax on the bed while I fold clothes and put them away,” he says, dumping the leftover baskets onto the end of the bed.

“Why? It’ll take longer.”

“Because you like watching me.”

Her eyes seem to darken as she realizes his intentions. He feels like an extra good boy for learning her patterns, for recognizing what she needs from him. All he wants is for her to be happy and for her to tell him he’s doing well.

Instead of sitting down, she pops the button of her jeans and unlaces her shoes, taking them both off so she’s clad in her tank top, white undies and mismatched socks. Then, and only then, does she crawl onto the bed and lean back against the pillows to watch him.

“Fold my jeans too,” she says, spreading her hands over the duvet and hooking a knee to block his view to her distracting center.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She laughs freely when he grabs them off the edge of the bed and folds them into a neat rectangle. “So meticulous,” she says, eyes roving all over him. “Who trained you?”

He huffs humorlessly. It’s meant as a joke, and he knows it, but it is a little personal because he’s done every thing himself. Before her, no one gave a shit about him enough to teach him anything. He’s too self aware to ignore the reason why the comment stings. The lack of direction in his life is the main reason he’s becoming attached to her. And that scares him shitless.

She notices his demeanor shift as if she can read his mind and crawls to the end of the bed to lay on her stomach. “Where’d you go?” She gazes up at him as he continues to fold clothes.

“What do you mean?” he asks, knowing damn well.

“That hurt you, didn’t it?”

The urge to deny and change the subject is a usual tactic with anyone else. He’s used to keeping the peace, people pleasing, and brushing things under the rug. He doesn’t know vulnerability until he’s reached a breaking point. With her, things come to the surface faster than he can bury them. He’s had this filing system since he was a kid; put it away and don’t think about it. But he wants to talk to her so bad, like he’s been quiet all his life. Like she’s the first to ever hear him when he speaks.

She lifts onto her knees and takes his face in her hands. The urge to hide pummels him so he closes his eyes trying to focus on the ecstacy of her fingertips. “Don’t you shy away from me, Daniel. Not me.”

“How do you know what to do all the time?” He braves a glance at her before casting his eyes down again. “I mean, I don’t make choices like you. I make mistakes. You know that, that’s why you followed me to the club that night. I fucked up and you knew I would. Everything I do, when it’s my decision, is wrong.”

She forces him to look at her and he sags under the pressure of her hands, relaxing into her, forehead falling against hers. She sighs, holding him. “Not everything you do is wrong, Daniel.”

“It is. I almost scared you out of coming back here when we were at the range. And I’m probably ruining everything right now.” He laughs, a little manic. “Holy shit. I’m fuckin’ ruinin’ this.”

“See, this is why I was worried.” He makes a noise of utter humiliation. “No, no, listen to me. Because this does mean something to you.”

“I don’t care about—”

“Not your virginity. This, us. It means something. So I have to know what it means for you. I’m not scared of a whole lot but I am scared of hurting you.”

The insecurities feel like an open wound, raw and bleeding and ready to fester. Why did he have to start this shit?

“I don’t always know what to do, baby. I don’t know what to do right now.”

If he falls apart, he has no doubts that she’ll pick him up. But if he says what he feels, he has no idea what she’ll do. Those feelings are new, immature, and turbulent. There’s no way he can ask her to hold all that when he’s already asking for so much. But still he wants to beg; keep me, love me. She’d be the first who ever has.

He can’t move or breathe when he asks, “What does this mean to you?”

There is a long pause where she just looks at him. Through him. Yet there’s no hesitation in it, only consideration and carefulness for what he’s asking. She knows the weight of it turned on her now. She knows the other unspoken question that follows—why him?

She caresses his face gently. “You’re the one decision I’m making for me and no one else. Between my risks and your mistakes, this is neither . . . This thing between us, it’s real. That’s all I know.” Her thumb finds his wobbling chin. “That’s why it terrifies us both.”

He nods, throwing his arms around her waist. It all makes sense now. She’s never been loved either. So he doesn’t file anything away this time, he says exactly what he means, mistake or risk or otherwise. It’s the truth. “I’m scared to death you’ll leave me.”

Somehow she looks absolutely crushed when she smiles but her hands are strong as she holds him, voice unwavering when she says, “You can’t get rid of me now, Daniel.” She pets the back of his head a few times. “Come here,” she whispers and embraces him fully, kissing the side of his neck and underside of his chin.

He tosses all his clean unfolded clothes to the floor and wraps his arms back around her, squeezing and moving against her mindlessly. “I want you,” he whines, pulling her by the hips.

“Are you sure?”

“Please.”

Her lips make a trail from his jaw to the neck of his shirt then back up to the other side. “You set the pace, baby.”

He smooths his hands down her back and picks her up, grabbing the underside of her ass. It doesn’t go as planned and he ends up falling on top of her as she spreads out across the bed. Her laughter is the only thing that keeps him from feeling like the world's biggest dumbass.

She draws her knees up and pushes his joggers down with her feet. But he’s not quite in the right position for her to get them down all the way. He moves up and they almost knock heads.

“Stand,” she demands with a laugh.

He obeys accordingly and offers her help up. With both of her delicate hands in his, he pulls her to the end of the bed so she can sit on the edge. She wastes no time toeing his pants the rest of the way down while she works toward his shirt.

For a moment he just watches, forgetting she might need assistance. Lust clouds his brain until he can think of nothing else but her hands. Her perfect set of fingers slide under fabric and over his belly causing a flinch from how touchy he already is. Nails drag over his nipple and he hisses pleasantly. She joins him, standing, to get the shirt over his head.

Sliding her palms down his bare chest slowly, she hums. “You are so handsome.”

Flames lick in his belly and across his face as he shivers at her words. He doesn’t quite believe her but she’s too good with her hands for him to dwell on it. He closes his eyes for only a moment to relish the feeling but then she retreats. Disappointment almost seizes him until he realizes she’s quickly stripping off her socks and shedding her tank top. All that’s left for both of them is what separated them this morning—two pairs of underwear.

“Can I—” He abandons the question and dives down to cover her taut nipple with his mouth. Her sigh is one of satisfaction when she fists his hair with a sharp tug. “You’re so . . . fuckin’. . . soft . . . and warm,” he groans between stiff lashes with the flat of his tongue.

She heaves against him, hitched breaths coming hard with the hint of deepening pleasure. All he wants is to make her moan like she did this morning. He wants to make her come if he can—on his face or his fingers or his dick. He doesn’t care. He just wants her to feel as good as she’s making him feel.

He nuzzles into her breast, savagely licking and sucking the tip until they’re exchanging noises. His hand cups the other one, the fullness spilling over. That alone has him feeling the weight of his dick as it swells between his legs.

“Daniel,” she says in a pitch he’s never heard and she tears his hand away from her breast. He’s concerned he might’ve hurt her until she moves him down to the seam of her undies and shoves him beneath it. “Feel me.”

He slides down and meets the slick cleft that beckons him deeper between her legs. Jesus. She’s so wet. “I . . . There’s protection in the bedside drawer,” he says, stroking her gently.

Chuckling, she says, “You’ve been prepared.”

His own laugh is one of embarrassment. And he can’t help himself, he has to be honest about their usage. “Actually, it’s just easier to clean up.”

She removes his hand from her underwear without another laugh or a word, and draws him over to the bedside table. The blue box is an easy find and she slips one of the condoms out, the silver packaging glinting in the lamp light.

“Would you like me to do it?” she asks sweetly and places her hand over his striped boxers, rubbing the semi-hard bulge there.

“Uh.” He thinks. Focuses on the feel of her hand for a bit. Shit. Something is wrong. “I can do it,” he says anyway. He steps out of his boxers and rips open the foil but when he goes to put the condom on he isn’t hard enough. The instant stab of panic makes his hands shake.

Her hands cover his, pulling him away. “You’re not ready.”

Humiliation hits him hard and it makes him want to vomit. “This has never happened before. I mean . . . This morning . . . You know what I mean!”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” she soothes him, smiling and petting his arms. “It’s performance anxiety.” He looks to her for guidance because he’s losing all hope now that he’s not still ruining everything. “Stop performing,” she says, voice so gentle it makes him want to cry. “Here.” She snatches the condom and sets it aside. “Lie back on the bed.”

He lets out a huge breath and feels somewhat dizzy as he slumps down. She waits for him to get comfortable against the pillows before she crawls over to him and curls up by his side. His half hard dick lies against his lower stomach pathetically. What a fuckin’ buzz kill. If it wasn’t attached, he’d do something very mean to the backstabbing traitor.

“Do you watch pornography?” she asks casually, snuggling against him.

“I dunno. Sometimes.”

Her hand travels up and down his thigh. “Well, real life is a bit different.” He sighs dramatically. He knows that. She has a laugh, probably at the absurdity of her own explanation, but continues because she’s trying to make him feel better. “Nothing’s manufactured in real life. Just means sometimes we have to be patient.”

The tip of her finger drags the seam of his leg and he jerks because he’s ticklish there. She does it again and continues over the wisps of wiry hair at his groin. He looks down and groans. “I’m horny. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“You’re nervous.” Her finger traces the crown of his cock. “Not to mention we had a lot of fun this morning so my little guy is tired.”

He feels all his blood rush south at the comment and almost cries at the triumph that they may be getting somewhere. She really did do a number on him this morning.

“Close your eyes and relax.”

He does as she says and his other senses come alive.

Through the haze of anxiety and distrust of his own body, he allows the sensations to wash over him. Each feather light touch of her finger tips sing across his skin. Desire, burning, begins again and his yearning anew. The scent of lavender and vanilla and the tang of sweat mixes in the air around him, their source the feline female caressing her way down his body torturously slow. He feels weightless and heavy at the same time, sunken into the fresh linen covering his mattress. The texture of the duvet is rich against his palms as he spreads his arms out across the expanse of bed.

Teresa murmurs pleasantly. “Keep breathing like that,” she tells him, hands on his chest momentarily aiding the rise and fall. “Good.”

Her hair tickles him this time as she hovers over his thighs, her nails doing much the same as she drags them down his belly. He giggles, lifting his hips. Awareness prickles over his skin in a cascade of goosebumps and he trembles under the magic of her helping hands.

Warmth comes close and draws away several times as she positions herself between his spread legs. Then finally her mouth presses gently under his navel. It’s teasing as much as it is careful. And he goes on trembling, thighs shaking wildly from this alone.

“Oh, look at you,” she whispers. “So pretty.”

Heat blazes across his face and chest, and his dick throbs against his stomach. Yes. Keep loving me. Please. He reaches out and she slips her hand into his waiting palm, squeezing, tenderly rubbing a thumb across his wrist.

“Do you want my mouth on you, Daniel?”

He groans. “Yes.”

She laughs and his cheeks burn. “Keep your eyes closed and feel.”

And he does. He feels goddamn everything.

Her soft hair glides across his thighs as she moves like the tide coming to shore, her eyelashes flutter across his skin when she dips, mouth like velvet on the very tip of his cock. He shudders and shakes. Her lips descend. Soft little pecks turn to open mouthed kisses turn to licking turn to sucking. And he’s sure now that he’s ready, as hard as he’s ever been. But she doesn’t stop there and he doesn’t ask her to.

She continues her sweet assistance, loving him back to life. It goes on in this suspended stretch of time where all there is is him inside her warm, wet mouth and nothing else exists. Her hand comes around him as he leaves her lips and he feels movement, the bed dipping, her straddling him. Oh, Christ. Is this it? He groans in nervous excitement and quivers.

“Look now, baby,” she whispers.

And he nearly dies.

The sight of her over him is holy. Her hair falls down over her breast in black waves and shadows her face so she looks harsh but serene. Like a veiled guardian of some sort—divine and grim. He thinks for a moment that she’s like the temptress of his every dark desire. Her beauty almost unravels him. And then she moves. Forward. Rising. Holds him steady and slides his cock through her wetness.

He gasps. Oh, god, he’s never wanted to be inside someone so bad in his life. He’s so close. Her hips roll and he loses himself to the feeling. He jerks and shivers. Then he remembers something very important.

“The condom,” he croaks, grabbing her haunches roughly.

She shakes her head, riding him without ever allowing him to slip inside for a second. “You don’t need one.”

His thighs shake so uncontrollably he’s almost embarrassed. “I . . .”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” He sighs.

She rolls those sinful hips. Faster. Pressing harder. “And you want to feel me, don’t you?”

He moans pathetically. Wordless. Mindless.

“Do you want me to let you inside, Daniel?”

“Please.”

All at once she sinks down and he disappears into her hot, wet depths with a cry of deliverance. He stops breathing. Stops moving. Absurdly, he feels the most at home he’s ever felt. It’s like he’s bursting with everything all at once—nostalgia and grief and evolution and the rawness of life. They lock eyes and it’s as if they exchange one singular thought: You are mine.

Then it all comes crashing down. His phone on the bedside table screams with his shrill alarm. They lose the moment. The elation dies. A frown comes over her face and he starts chanting, hands on her hips, digging. “No, no, no.”

She falls over him with a groan and he slides out of her. The air is cold.

“It’s okay,” she says but there’s disappointment in her voice too. She takes his face in his hands and kisses him deeply before looking him in the eye. “To be continued, then.”