Living in a Daycream

Harry’s fatal flaw had been giving in once. Knowing now that her hunger wasn’t unrequited and the man, both fortunately and unfortunately for her, had self control that was normally unshakable? It was torturous.

So if he wasn’t going to outright give her what she wanted, she was going to be every bit the manipulative little brat he had called her.

She could see it the moment he noticed. Relenting to help her slide her boots off, he was quiet about it as he gently placed the shoe on the ground beside her bed before peering up and catching it.

The cunt he had tasted just two weeks ago, bare and most definitely and noticeably wet.

The sharp exhale through his nose was the response, clenching his eyes shut as she let herself have the audacity to giggle, dragging her dropped foot right over his crotch. “What’s the matter?” The saccharine words were a purr as she watched his fists clench at his sides.

“Y/N, you are being wildly inappropriate. I need-“

“No, I like Princess better.” Y/N formed a pout, letting her socked foot slide over the bulge in his pressed trousers. “To tell you the honest truth, I liked ‘Baby’ the best, when you were being extra nice to me and doing your job properly, but-“

“I do my job.” The growl of his voice made her throb. It would be scary, directed at anyone else, but she knew where that emotion was coming from. “I protect you. I will always protect you. That is my priority, Y/N, which is why this is not happening.”

“And I appreciate your attempt at professionalism. I trust you with my safety, wholly. I’ve never doubted that, but…” Taking a deep breath, she lifted her other foot to lay on his thigh. “Your job is to take care of me, Harry.” Y/N kept her pouty face and sweet tone, noting how his cock twitched under the arch of her foot. “And I think part of me is being neglected.”

Despite his glare, despite his irritation, she could see he had a hard time looking away from her cunt.

She remembered vividly how hungry he’d been for it. Like he’d been starved. His strong hands leaving bruises on her hips and thighs while he’d devoured her, lapped at her to get every drop of her on his tongue, fingering her open as he sucked st her swollen clit. How he’d growled when she’d yanked at his hair, messing up the neat style. He’d moaned against her and pulled her right into him as she all but fucked his face. The man had not only let her, but encouraged her to grind all over him and make his chin drip as he made her cum on his face not once, but twice in a row before he’d tucked her in and told her it was never happening again.

At first, it had pissed her off. But now that she knew she could break him?

It was the most fun she’d had in a long time.

“Y/N-“

“Please?” Her whisper was soft, fingers dragging her skirt up her thighs to give him a better view. “Please, sir? I know I’ve been acting out, but… It’s because I’m frustrated.”

Y/N was taunting him. Flaunting herself around him constantly, trying to get him to break, but this was the boldest she had gotten so far. “You helped me last time. I liked when you smacked my ass. I loved when you made me say I was sorry while you made me cum. I need more.”

It was all his fault, really.

Dragging her fingers over her slippery clit, the whimper was natural as it throbbed against her fingertips. “I’ve never felt so good. I don’t want to have to ask someone else…”

“You will not be asking someone else.” He said tightly, eyes narrowing at her before flickering back down to her cunt. “I can’t, Y/N. I can’t afford to get distracted.”

“Is my pussy that good?” Her grin was feline, smug, as she all but purred. Spreading herself open for him, she leaned back on her other hand to display herself. “So good you can’t focus on anything else while guarding me?”

“Stop.” He replied, clenching his eyes back shut. “Please, don’t.”

“Answer me then.” She prodded. “Is it so good that you get lost in your head, thinking about it? Because maybe that means you just need more. So you can focus properly.”

Did it make sense? No, not particularly, but Y/N wanted his mouth. She wanted his fingers, and ideally, his cock, but she could work them up to that.

For once, she could see his restraint waning. The normally ironclad control wavering as he opened his eyes, swallowing thickly.

Yes. That’s exactly what she wanted. She wanted him to bend, to break for her. The only other time he’d broken was for her, and she wanted to be his weakness. The only one.

“C’mon. Just another taste. We don’t have to tell anyone.” She coaxed, giddiness erupting in her stomach as she watched him fall to his knees.

“Just a taste. One more time. And then it’s never fucking happening again. Am I clear?”

God, she loved when he talked a little mean.

iv.

“Hey, who is ‘Daddy’?” 

Y/N thinks she should probably crawl under a rock. 

Her dynamic with Harry was different now, after that run-in at the park. It had shifted and morphed into something else, beyond whatever weird friendship that they’d crafted out of necessity and proximity. They weren’t vocal about it, by any means; both had just accepted it and continued as they normally would. Like, what was she going to say? Hey Harry, I feel like we’re close enough now that I sort of want to fuck you all the time, but I don’t know if it’s because you protected me and take care of me, or if it’s something else? That would probably be the healthier form of communication, which means Y/N would not be able to go through with that. She preaches it, but she doesn’t always practice it – Niall and Aki haven’t noticed that yet, so they can’t call her a hypocrite when she waxes poetic about how they should be open with their feelings. 

And, seriously, she’s more open with her feelings with Harry than she’s probably been with any other man in her life (save for Ni). This is just something outside the range of being open about. There’s a difference between telling Harry that that entire night was scary, and she appreciated that he’d been understanding with her even though she went against what he said, and how he made her feel safe, and then there was telling him that she’s been wanting to ride him until her thighs burn and she gets a cramp in her calves. One of those is innocent and sweet, and there’s no room for rejection, and one of those Harry could politely decline and then stop sharing a bed with her, and honestly, she isn’t ready to give that up yet. 

She thought it would only be that first night. After the initial scare, she figured that one night with him directly at her side would make her feel safe, and then she could work on getting over the encounter the subsequent nights. However, the following day, when the sun lowered in the sky and black started inking over the sunset hues of oranges and pinks, Y/N felt a pit of anxiety well up in her stomach. It must have shown all over her face, because Harry clocked it instantly as he collected the plates off the coffee table from dinner. “What’s wrong, Bunny? Was something not good?” 

“No, that’s not it,” she shook her head, scratched worriedly at her arm, and tried desperately not to nibble at her nails, still fresh and pretty from her manicure, “I’m just. . .um. . .would it be weird if we shared a bed again? Like, just for tonight?” She wriggled in her spot, dodging eye contact at all costs so that when he refused, he wouldn’t see something stupid on her face, like a frown or tears. “I’m just sort of – y’know – about it still.” 

Harry was quiet for a second, and at the time, Y/N convinced herself it was because he was trying to figure out an easy way to let her down. What he’d really been doing was carefully setting the plates back on the coffee table and stepping closer to her, leaning over to wrap his arms around her body. Y/N squeaked, because she isn’t sure Harry realizes how tight he hugs or not – his arms feel huge around her though, and he squeezed like he might be trying to crush her lungs from the outside. Honestly, given how strong he is, she didn't doubt he’d be able to if he wanted to. 

But even with all the strength in the hug, it’s immediately softened by his sweet tone, “Of course I will,” he replied, “I’ll sleep in there every night until you’re absolutely sick of me, yeah? Anything to make you feel better.” 

Y/N let herself melt into him when her arms looped around his body. She decided to pretend that this wasn’t because she was sort of a charity case, but because he was secretly hoping that she’d ask him to spend another night in her bed. That made her smile to herself, a little – she’d always been prone to delusional thoughts to get her through things. If she imagined that Harry was just obsessed with her and not that he felt bad for her, then this was actually pretty sweet. 

She could never claim to be touch-starved. Niall and Aki had actually made it their personal mission to be touching a part of her at all times, at any given moment, and vice versa. They were just a very touchy-feely, ‘all up in your business’ kind of friend group. But Y/N hadn’t shared a bed with someone like this in a while. Niall is a horrific bed and blanket hog, so she’s just shivering on the edge of the bed if they’re forced to share. And Aki gets too hot to cuddle or anything, so Y/N is still freezing, but at least she has plenty of blankets because Aki kicks them all off. 

With Harry, though, it’s really nice. Like all things, he was a perfect fit for her and her bed. He took up the perfect amount of space, he moved the right amount, he shared an appropriate amount of blanket, and he was always the appropriate temperature. They would fall asleep shoulder to shoulder, mostly, sometimes back to back, and it would feel warm and comforting to have his spine pressed against hers. No matter what position they’d fall asleep in, they managed to meet in the middle somewhere. 

Y/N was always waking up in the middle of the night, sometimes several times – it’s something that had always happened to her, even when she was little. With Harry in her bed, it still happened, but far less, and that itch beneath her skin and under her bones to get out of bed and do something has all but disappeared. The first time she woke up when she was sharing a bed with Harry, she’d found his arm slung around her waist, her back pressed to his chest, and their legs all tangled up with each other. She was just awake enough to register that they were cuddling, but not conscious enough to panic about it. When she’d woken up the following morning, alone in bed, she’d wondered briefly if she had dreamt the entire thing. 

But then the next night, she woke up in a similar but different position. This time, she was the one wrapped around Harry, his head all but buried against her chest, and her arms cradling him to her body. She had a leg stretched across his hips too, like – it was a very intimate position for the second night sleeping together. That night, she did wake up just enough to panic a little over it and was able to successfully wiggle her arms from around him. Not because she was uncomfortable, but because she didn’t want him to feel suffocated by her presence. Especially when she was the one who propositioned them to sleep together – even she could look past her deluded thoughts to recognize that this might be too much. 

However, when she tried to pull her leg away, there was a soft, sleepy whimper and a hand gripping her thigh tightly before she could move it. Y/N struggled not to make a startled sound in her throat. She wasn’t nearly awake enough to stay awake – her head felt heavy and melty against the pillow, and that, coupled with the warmth of his hand on her thigh – well, she fell back asleep pretty quickly. Though once again, when she woke up, she was alone in bed. 

(Harry was an early riser, even though he was late to fall asleep. It’s on the weekends that she saw how intense a napper he was; sure, he’d be awake before her, but he was passed out on the couch after lunch, and K.O’d for a couple of hours at least. Y/N tiptoes around the flat when he’s napping because he’ll wake up at the sound of a glass being set on the counter.) 

She’d suspect that she’d been hallucinating the whole thing if not for how often it happened. Six nights in a row, she’s woken up tangled in Harry’s limbs and snuggled pressed against his body. Maybe Harry was the touch-starved one? She hadn’t considered that. Though she couldn’t be absolved of all the initiation to cuddling, she surely wasn’t tugging his arm across her body, or snaking his bicep beneath her head. She might have been the one to roll over and rest her cheek against his chest, but he was the one who had his other hand stretched across his torso to rest on her forearm. When’s the last time he shared a bed with someone? Maybe he was the needy, clingy one in their sleep, but neither of them was awake to know it. 

Nevertheless, neither of them brings it up. It seemed silly to; a fat lot of good it would do, because it isn’t like they could stop it – they were asleep. Or, well, they could stop it, but that would mean Harry not sharing the bed with her anymore, and she didn’t want that. She didn’t necessarily want the cuddling to stop either, actually. So the only route to take was for Y/N not to bring it up. What if Harry didn’t even know about it? What if, by the time he woke up, they had already found themselves on the opposite sides of the bed again? And then Y/N would bring it up to him, he’d probably suggest that he leave her bed so that they could put an end to it. And, yeah. . .Y/N is just not super chill with that happening. 

She likes it, sue her. It’s not even like she could tell anyone about it, either. She’d finally had to come clean about him staying with her to Niall and Aki, who all but exploded with the information handed to them. Of course, she doesn’t give them the real reason that he’s staying. They think that he needed a place to shower and sleep because his flat had a crazy plumbing issue, and the unit above his had a pipe that burst and flooded his living room and bedroom. So they’d be working on it for a while, and in the meantime, Y/N had politely offered her building because it was close to his job. 

It was a dodgy lie at best, and again, she’s not the best at lying, so she had to tell them via message. It was starting to get suspicious that Harry was taking her to work every single day, on top of her telling them that the ‘girlie pop sleepover’ couldn’t happen at her place this month. She had to come clean, at least a little bit, and when she did, the thread was filled with all caps, exclamation points, and stupid, meme-ified emojis. Niall was flabbergasted. Aki inquired if she’d gotten in his pants yet, and both wondered if he would really mind them spending the night since they’d initiated him into their circle at the club. He passed all of their checks and balances for what makes an appropriate fourth to occasionally interweave in their group. 

Y/N told them she’d ask if he minded, because it really didn’t hurt to. And she meant to ask a while ago, really, but she’d completely forgotten. Not until Niall was blowing up her phone while she had it face up on the counter, spooning her seconds of the stew he’d made into a bowl. Y/N had been playing music through the speaker hooked to her phone. She told him to skip the song that came on for her while she was serving herself. Not thinking, of course, that Niall has zero filtered, even knowing that Harry could be looking over her shoulder at any moment. 

“Hey, who is Daddy?” He’d asked it so innocently that Y/N had almost confused herself trying to figure out what he meant, until he explained it, “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything. It just sort of stuck out on your lock screen.” 

It was then, with sudden and horrific realization, that he was talking about Niall, who was probably calling him Daddy on the phone. Harry, who was standing beside her, carefully plucked the ladle from the pot so he could get more too. Her heart dropped to her stomach, and the soft whisper of ‘oh my god’ made it out of her mouth before she could stifle it. When she looked over at him, his brows were pinched inward, like he was concerned and maybe a little irritated. 

Oh god. . .oh god, Niall pissed him off? Was he really mad about the nickname? Y/N never wanted him to know that’s what they called him, but she’d always thought if he accidentally found out, he’d just chuckle and move on. But what if he was legitimately pissed? Shit, this is so bad, it’s – “Oh, uh, Niall’s just. . .you know. Being Niall.” 

Harry’s head tilted, the irritation not leaving his face, “Hn,” he murmured, “So, in reference to ‘Y/N, did Daddy say we could come over’. . .Daddy is. . .” 

God, of course, he wasn’t going to let her get away with not sharing! He may not have been trying to be nosy, but Harry – at the end of the day – is nosy as hell! So is she, so she couldn’t even blame him, but shit. Couldn’t he have just let her move on from that? Did he really need to know what some offhanded nickname was? Also, if she were smarter, then she wouldn’t have stalled with that last statement and made something up about how Niall’s talking about this guy that he met recently or something. He surely wouldn’t believe her now that she’s dragged it out this long. Plus, all it would take is scrolling through her messages once before realizing that the ‘Daddy’ mentioned is often mentioned in relation to her. 

She was going to have to just come clean. It was easier than trying to keep some rouse up, especially with someone who seems like they have an innate ability to sense a liar. Not that she’d ever seen him utilize these moves before – she just knew that her stomach and chest felt squidgy and guilt-ridden anytime she even considered a lie to him. This did not bode well for keeping up a good lie – he’d be able to see right through her. 

“Ah, well, that’s kind of his nickname for you,” she admitted, feeling hot in the face, wishing she could blame it on the steam from the stew, but both of them would know and realize what it was actually from, “He’s never been great at doing non-vulgar nicknames.” 

Harry stared at her for a second before his smile broke out into a grin, and he started to chuckle like that couldn’t be funnier. Something lifts from his gaze – Y/N was unsure what exactly had been there in the first place, but it was much darker than it had been at the beginning of the night. Had he been irritated with the thought of someone else being referred to as Daddy in their chat? Especially when she was being sort of suspicious about it. Honestly, maybe she was making things up, but he seemed sort of relieved, actually? Like him being ‘Daddy’ was the best outcome. 

“Wow, really?” His dimples were dotting either side of his big grin, “Now why is Niall referring to me as Daddy?” 

Because we talked in detail about your BDSM history and potentially all of the things that you could be into, including – but not limited to – a daddy kink. 

“Ah, is there ever really an answer for the inner workings of Niall’s brain?” She answered instead, “He’s just wanting to come over for a sleepover, is all. Aki, Niall, and I do one every month at one of our flats, but I told them you were staying with me, so it might not be best to have it here.” 

Harry pouted his bottom lip, “No, you can have it here!” He assured her, “I don’t want you to change how you live just because I’m around. Could I set up shop in your bedroom or something? I could even leave if you wanted, and like – hang in my car or something.” He motioned around them, “I’ll make my presence as brief as possible, yeah? That way, it’d just be like a regular night for you, yeah?” 

Y/N raised her brows, “Really? Wouldn’t that be annoying for you, though?” 

“Not at all,” he told her, “Besides, I like seeing you with them. You’re so pretty when you’re having fun.” 

Y/N’s face feels warm from the compliment, but she looks away to her phone before he can say anything about how shy she gets when he says things like that. She pulled up her message thread with the two of them and cleared her throat, “Okay, well, then I’ll tell them, sure,” she feels like the hair on the nape of her neck is raised, because Harry is actually way too close to her right now while she’s got their thread open. Honestly, his knowing that Niall called him Daddy was probably the least ridiculous thing he could find in here. Y/N didn’t even want to think about Harry figuring out what the omegaverse was.

“They usually get here around dinner time,” Y/N tells him while her thumbs move across the screen, “Um, we order in and then do stereotypically cute sleepover things. Nails, sometimes we practice make-up on each other, face masks at the end of the night, watch movies, and talk over them  – things like that.” 

Harry smiles, “That sounds great. Let me pick the food up for you guys.” 

“Oh, Harry, you really don’t have to –” 

“Delivery fees are killer, especially on a Friday night!” He reasons, “Just let me, yeah? It’s the least I can do.” 

Her brows crinkle, “Why are you saying that like you owe me something?” 

“I do! Did you forget the whole park incident or. . .” 

“No, of course I didn’t, but you’ve already made up for that. Like, you’ve been sleeping in my bed for a while, I feel like that’s more than enough.” Muffy toddles from wherever she’d been hiding, bonking her head into Y/N’s calf before looping around her legs. 

“Is it really paying you back if I’m benefiting from it?” He inquires, a soft, teasing gleam, and Y/N’s eyes go wide, “Anyway, I’m not taking no for an answer, so you’ll just have to deal with it, ‘kay? Gotta pull my weight somehow.” 

Y/N does eventually give up, because sometimes that’s just easier. Harry is very headstrong, and it’s never about things she’s uncomfortable with. Honestly, everything he offers and enforces just makes her life easier and better in the end. So she relents – the food would be warmer if Harry were the one picking it up anyway.  

“Oh, and I’ll get you guys some cute matching things while I’m out,” he adds, “You know what. . .you’re going to need ice cream and stuff too, aren’t you?” 

“Wait, Harry –” 

“Hold on, I’m making a list.” 

                                                               .                      .                      . 

Niall and Aki turn up around 5 PM, already dressed in pajamas with their overnight bags slung on their shoulders. Aki has a stuffed bear that she has to sleep with her cheek pressed up against since she was little (for as old as it was, it was well taken care off, and didn’t look incredibly worn or carry the scent that old things seem to carry), and Niall carries one of his many board games (that they no doubt would be arguing over in the next couple of hours). There’s a kaboodle in the mix, too, for the makeup they’ll try on each other. Y/N barely has time to step to the side to let them in before they’re pushing past one another through the door. 

They drop all of their things in the living room, where Y/N had carefully constructed a massive pallet on the floor for them to sleep on. There were a ton of blankets making the base, and a ton of additional blankets bunched and crumbled up around the edges so that they could pull them up when they got chilly. She had a dozen pillows too, because she always has a thousand pillows (with enough left over for Harry to have four to sleep with in her room), and stuffed animals that she’d gathered and collected through the years. Harry had watched her create it, praising her pallet-making skills, saying something like, “Maybe I should’ve had you make me a pallet instead of sleeping in bed together.” She clicked her tongue and told him to shut up. 

This is why they always have it at her place, because Y/N has all of the fodder for the perfect sleepover vibe. Down to the lighting that she’ll hang up, the LED strips that light the back of her telly, and her candle selection is amazing, she would be the first to say. So the room is warm, cozy, and pink, and Y/N thinks this might be her best work yet. 

“God, I love when you make us an omega nest.” Aki drops her things at the edge of the pallet before lowering to her knees and flopping face-first into the pillows, “These are new scent beads you’re using.” 

“She started using my brand,” Harry’s voice chimes in, his keys in hand, “Isn’t it nice? It’s so fruity.” 

Niall gasps, “Harry, are you going to let us put makeup on you? Aki can do a killer makeover.” 

“It’s true.” Aki muffles into the pillow, twisting to look back at them, “I probably should be doing makeup for weddings and charging them thousands of dollars, but my calling is music marketing for whatever reason.” 

Harry grins, “Ah, as fun as that sounds, I’ll just be working in Y/N’s room tonight.” He points toward the door, “But I’m going to pick up dinner before that! I need to stop at the store before that, so just message me what you guys want to eat.” 

“Oh, what?” Niall seems surprised, “Harry, you really don’t have to –” 

“He doesn’t listen to reason,” Y/N cuts in, also lowering down into the pallet, less theatrically than Aki, but she does huff out a breath when her head hits one of the pillows outlining the edge of the. . .nest, as described by Niall, “I tried to tell him he didn’t need to, but he insists.” 

Harry nods, “Yes, I absolutely insist. She’s helping me out by letting me stay here with the plumbing issue and all that, so it’s the least I can do.” 

In this situation, Y/N couldn’t necessarily fight him without exposing everything in front of Aki and Niall, so she keeps her mouth shut. Harry left with a wave and the soft click of the door, and both Aki and Niall turned to her with wild eyes. 

“Have you fucked yet?” 

“What? No!” Y/N shakes her head, not entirely surprised that this is Niall’s follow-up question as soon as Harry steps out of the door, “Of course not, it isn’t like that.” 

Aki snorts, “I mean, he definitely wants to,” she pointed her thumb toward the door. “Did you see how he was looking at you? Those are ‘fuck-me’ eyes.” 

Y/N rolled her own, “No, they aren’t, stop it,” she shakes her head again, “You two are hellbent on me being just as delusional as you! You’re trying to set me up for heartbreak.” 

“But your heart is in a place to get broken?” Niall presses, finally dropping onto the pallet and leaning his weight onto his right hand, arm outstretched. Muffy crawls into his lap cautiously, balancing on his thighs. 

Scowling, Y/N reaches for her phone so she doesn’t have to look them in the eyes, “It’s complicated,” she tells them, and she wishes she could explain just why it was so complicated. This wasn’t just some random meet-cute where she reconnected with a university crush years later. The first time Harry met her, it was with a knife to her throat. He spent the first few weeks of their interaction lowkey stalking her to make sure she didn’t say anything, and, weird enough, stuff keeps happening; he feels obligated to stick around her to keep her safe. They get along well, their chemistry is good, but at the end of the day, he isn’t here because he chooses to be. It’s not because Y/N is so amazing that he has permanently made himself a spot in her life. 

Y/N likes him, yeah. She has a crush on him. It would be difficult not to develop some sort of feelings when they were around each other all of the time, and when he made her feel safe and protected. Plus, there’s the issue of his generally very flirty personality that starts putting brain worms in her head, making her think that there was something there between them. And how could you not have further developing feelings when that same person who makes you feel safe, holds you at night like you’re something very precious to them. Cooks for you, takes you out, spends an insane amount of time with you, and doesn’t even seem burnt out by it. 

She stood no chance, really. And then there was the whole fact that his job was dangerous and scary, and that he had killed people before. Was she really okay with that? He says they were bad people, and she trusts Harry, sure, but. . .well, she doesn’t know. It’s a hard pill to swallow. Especially when that very same Harry, up until recently, she couldn’t imagine doing more than a threat or two. Even after experiencing him the first night they met, he’d done a good job at washing away any semblance of the person she first stuttered a plea to let her go. 

God, but he’s so fucking honest, too. Like he has absolutely nothing to hide from her. She thinks she could ask him to show her proof and evidence of every single person he’s ever had a case on, and he would pull up the documents if they were available to prove himself. 

“Complicated or not,” Aki began, taking Y/N’s phone and clicking on the Italian place she’s been pressing for them to try, “You get all gooey and sweet when you’re with him. Just try it out, baby, or Niall might.” 

“I’m bros before hoes, but if it makes you act faster, then I’ll start flirting.” He nudges her leg with his toe, “I can see you’re getting all shy about it, so we don’t have to keep going. Or – actually, one more question – his dick size? Do we know it yet?” 

The rest of the night goes by with little fuss. It’s fun – Harry comes back with the food that they wanted and grocery bags full of things: fancy wine, extra blankets, matching sleep masks, bags of crisps, toys for Muffy. He also has a box of baked goods from a very pricy bakery near the Italian place he picked up their food from. 

“Sorry,” he laughed, “I – uh – got a little excited. I think this is a really cute idea, and I reckon I should convince my friends to start doing something like this.” 

All of them had wide eyes, staring at the bags. “Holy shit,” Aki gasps, “What is your Venmo?” 

“Oh, don’t worry about it; this was on me.” 

“But –” 

“I’m telling you,” Y/N says gently, “He doesn’t listen to reason.” 

Harry does eat dinner with them, sits on the pallet with the lap trays Y/N has for eating since her coffee table – for the most part – she usually has shoved away from in front of her sofa so that she could have more space. But after, he packs up, tells them to have fun and not to worry about noise or anything, that he’s usually listening to music while he works anyway. When he shuts himself away, Aki lowers her voice, just above a whisper, “Y/N,” she said, very seriously, “You need to lock him down now, baby, because if someone else snatches him we’ll have to kill them to take him back, and neither of us wants to do that.” 

Their night continues as they always do. They talk about pop culture, Niall’s recent conquests, Aki’s recent conquests (Aki is keen on situationships and they’re always a little messy – most recently she found out the woman she’d been sleeping with was married with children), new make up that’s come out, current trends that they think are awful, this show that Niall is heavily invested in and has been trying to get Y/N and Aki to watch for months at this point. Just fun things, cute sleepover things – make Pinterest boards with concert outfit ideas and watch music videos on her telly. Drinking wine, getting a little tipsy, Niall and Aki convincing Y/N to figure out what Harry’s dick size is. 

That last bit was. . .well. . .

“I cannotttt, do that,” she tells them, but she’s giggling, because whatever wine Harry got them was some fancy brand that she thinks has more alcohol per serving than a normal one. Y/N wasn’t feeling dizzy or anything bad, but she was existing in a fun, giggly, little hazy bubble. If she drank one more glass, then she’d probably be drunk, but instead, she was eating one of the croissants that he had brought home. She had crumbs on her mouth and all over her hands, but she was leaning over the nest so she didn’t dirty it (her floors, however, were a different story), “He would – he would totally not answer.” 

“A non-answer means below 5,” Niall informs her, tipping his glass back to get the last swig, “I think he’ll answer, though, he gives that honest vibe. Even if he’s small, which I know he isn’t.” 

Aki rests her chin in her hands, snuggled around her bear, “Aren’t you curious? I’m curious. He walks like it’s heavy.” 

“Tell him it was a dare!” Niall says, voice quiet so that – if Harry was listening in – he wouldn’t hear. 

And, like, Y/N is pretty curious. She couldn’t help but wonder how big he was, like – isn’t she allowed to wonder things? They’re right, he is pretty honest, and he does walk like it’s massive. It would satiate some of her curiosity, like. . .y’know, if she’d be able to take him comfortably or not. Not like that would happen, for any reason! Just in case one day she wanted to get a dildo his exact size and figure it out. If she’d even have time to do that – Harry spends a lot of time here, and even when he leaves, she doesn’t necessarily feel like she has enough time to get herself off, so she hasn’t in a while. 

Y/N chooses to blame it on a combination of curiosity, Niall and Aki’s goading, and this pervading level of horniness that seems to strike every time she has had a drink or two. She does scramble up after she swipes her hands on her legs and her face on the inside of her shirt to rid herself of any crumbs. Y/N doesn’t stumble, but she does have to steady and steel herself for a minute, turning back to look at her friends one more time before pressing forward to her room. 

She does have the courtesy to knock on the door, but when he doesn’t answer, she remembers he said his headphones would be on. So she pops it open and peeks through to find Harry, sitting at her desk with his computer and everything out, headphones tucked around his ears. He seems to be doing his actual, normal job if the spreadsheets were anything to go by. And he must sense a secondary presence in the room, because he twists in the chair to face her, a soft smile twitching over his lips when he pulls the headphones down around his neck. 

“Hey, is everything okay? Were you grabbing something?” 

“Oh, um, yes,” she answers at first, but then shakes her head, “I mean – I’m grabbing information.” 

Harry chuckled a bit, “Information, yeah? What information?” 

She steps forward and shuts the door just barely enough that it isn’t open all the way, but Muffy would be able to butt her head against it and get inside. “This is a dare, by the way.” 

He seemed more pleased by this, leaning back in the chair a little with his hands resting over his tummy, “Oooh, okay, I love a game of truth or dare, no matter how old I get. Hit me with your question, I’m ready!” 

Y/N swallows thickly, because he may be ready, but she definitely isn’t. She’d made it this far, though, even though her liquid courage seemed to run out right when it was most imperative. “Ah, well. . .I was just wondering how big your. . .well, how big you are?” 

He blinks rapidly for a second, like the questions registering in his brain, “How big I am?” Y/N nods, her face feeling hot, like you could crack an egg and cook it right on her face, “Like. . .like, my. . .” he trails off, then looks at his crotch, the loose shorts he was wearing, that would be looser if his thighs weren’t so big and strong (and in desperate need of biting, from her mouth, actually), “That?” 

“Uh, yes, that,” she agrees, “If that’s okay for me to know. And then relay.” 

Harry laughs a little, breathless and a little stunned, it seems like. Which is fair – they really don’t talk about things like that together. Ever since Y/N had embarrassingly cried after asking about his BDSM experience, and then he later on explained it to her via text – they’d actually pretended like that never happened. Or, at least verbally – Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about it most of the time. 

“Sure, I don’t mind if you know, or if you tell,” he shrugs, “I haven’t measured myself in a while, but I don’t think it’s something that changes over time necessarily?” Y/N also shrugs, because she does not know, actually, but she’s holding her breath waiting for his reply, “So, I’m around 8ish inches? I think, give or take a couple of centimeters.”  

Her eyes went wide, mouth falling open, “Ah, wow,” was all she could muster to say, “That’s – you’re huge.” 

He has the nerve to get all pink, “Mm, yeah? I guess it is quite big,” the blush spreads from his face, down toward his neck, “Is that. . .a good enough response?” 

She swallows hard again, nods again, “Yep!” Because words escape her at the best of times, and especially in moments like these, where she’s certain all the blood in her brain has rushed below her pajama bottoms, “Thank you! Enjoy your – enjoy your night!” 

He laughs breathlessly, “You too, baby,” he waves and twists back to the computer while Y/N tries to be normal, walking out the door, closing it behind her, and walking back out to the living room. 

Aki and Niall are awaiting the news anxiously. Aki held Muffy against her chest, where she was purring and making biscuits, and Niall was cradling a fruit pizza slice like it was pure gold (it sort of was). “So?” Aki breaks the silence. 

Y/N closes her eyes, then lifts 8 fingers. 

“Oh my god, I fucking knew it!” Niall exclaims, maybe a little too loudly. 

                                                            .                            .                       .

Y/N’s scared. 

She didn’t start the day scared. No, she started the day feeling safe, as she always does with Harry snuggled around her body. Really, she hadn’t realized how much she had started depending on him until she was sleeping – or trying to sleep – on her pallet she’d made for their sleepover. Y/N never had trouble sleeping on it before, but that night, she had needed to be pressed against Niall’s blanket-stealing self to feel even a little like she could fall asleep. And even then, she was struggling more than she usually does. Part of her, several times, almost thought she should get up and crawl into bed with Harry. Instead, she just pitifully pretended he was the body beside her and imagined how his arm wraps around her and holds her close, the rise and fall of his chest, the sleepy little murmurs he does when she wiggles even a little. That did eventually push her into sleep, though a fitful rest at best. 

Anyway, this morning in particular, she was snuggled up against him, feeling peaceful and soft. Y/N had work this morning, and usually he was up before her, but he’d been sleepier lately. The last couple of days, he’d been out late into the night, only coming home when Y/N had already started shutting down for bed. He looked tired too, even though he was still smiling sweetly for her, and kept apologizing nonstop for not being home for dinner. 

“The end of all this should be soon,” Harry told her one night, after brushing his teeth. He’d started ditching a sleep shirt, so Y/N was being greeted with an eyeful of bare torso that she knew she’d be pressed against later that night, “I can feel it. They’re doing stupid shit – the kind of stuff you do when you’re backed into a corner.” 

Y/N’s face was flush against her pillow. Muffy snuggled against the curve of her belly, “What stuff?” 

Harry paused, a dark look crossed over his face – not at her, necessarily, but just like he’s remembering just exactly what they did, “Are you sure you want to know?” He asked, and it made something in her chest stir. 

“Never mind,” she held Muffy a little closer, “It seems like it’s been hard for you, though. Is there anything I can do?” 

He shook his head, a soft little noise in his throat, “Just keep being you, that’s all I need,” he said, in a voice so incredibly gentle she almost wanted to turn into a puddle, “You have no idea how nice it has been to come home to you, y’know? Usually, I’m dealing with all this bullshit and go back to an empty place, but it’s just – so good,” he turned to face her, lying his cheek against his palm, “To come back here, and it’s just cozy and sweet, it smells good, and you and Muffy are always here so cute. It settles something inside me.” 

Y/N smiled, feeling like she could buzz out of her skin, “Really?” 

“Yeah,” he told her, then reached out, and for the first time awake, he’d scooted across the mattress preemptively, looping an arm over her waist and wiggling his legs between hers, “It’s nice.” 

So, yeah, she woke up feeling all warm and cozy, happy. Y/N tried not to wake Harry when she was crawling out of bed, but failed miserably because he could probably wake up to the sound of an eyelash falling. His arms tightened around her, and Y/N huffed, “Harry, I need to get ready for work.” 

“No,” he whined, and it was so cute that Y/N could have turned around and bit him, “Not ready for the day yet.” 

Y/N giggled, slid her hand over his wrist and then his hand, slid her fingers into the spaces between his, and pulled up, “I can tell.” She told him, “You’re never asleep longer than me. But I gotta get ready.” 

He let her get up just a little further, but then his arm tightened around her again, and this time his body moved, his face pressing into her lower back. Y/N laughed a little louder this time. She batted at him, ticklish from his nose digging into her spine, “Harry!” 

“Ughh, I know, I know,” his voice vibrated against her, but still, he nuzzled against her, then breathed in deep and giggled when she gasped and wriggled. Y/N is all tangled in the blankets, twisted to look at him. He was staring at her with one eye squinted closed still, and a sleepy smile. Harry looked extra cute when he was just woken up – she couldn’t believe that this was a gaze she hadn’t been privy to before. His voice was lower too, rougher, and Y/N hated that it made her insides all twisted up, “I’ll make breakfast.” 

She got ready, she ate breakfast, and Harry took her to work. All normal things. He dropped her off in the garage, Y/N met Niall outside of the elevators, they rode up to their floor, and Y/N had a semi-boring work day. Nothing super exciting happened. Now that the album rollout had finished for the bigger artist from before, they had separated the floor into different segments for a variety of smaller artists to start working on their marketing plans. The music industry was oversaturated with a lot of the same stuff, so sometimes it’s difficult to get people hyped for artists without a largely established fan base. Still, they try their best to help push them into the public eye a little more. 

Y/N doesn’t hear from Harry much today, but that was the usual as of late. He’s been busy, so she mostly gets a couple of messages from him in the morning and nothing else until she sees him to pick her up later that night. Even if he has to turn around and drop her off at home, he never misses the timing to come get her, so she hasn’t ever felt the need to remind him. It’s why she isn’t worried when she hasn’t heard from him, after she blew kisses to Niall and Aki, who – both of their groups had to stay back for a meeting with the artist that their group was assigned. Y/N would have her meeting with them next week, so she didn’t have to worry about it. 

It’s quiet when she’s going down the stairwell, not interested in the borderline traffic jam of the elevators that comes with clocking out and everyone rushing home. Her feet echoed on the stairs, the click of her flats. Y/N was humming to herself, a song that Aki got stuck in her head from an edit she saw, but she had no idea what the song was, and when she looked through the comments, none of them said what it was. She’s tired, excited to take off her shoes in Harry’s car, and she wondered if they would have time to stop and get a fruit tea on the way home. 

But when Y/N exited the stairwell, into the parking garage, Harry wasn’t in his typical spot. Which was weird. . .was he parked a little further down? She isn’t sure – she clutched her bag a little closer to her shoulder and started to walk between the cars. As she does so, she starts to unzip her purse so that she can grab her phone and make sure that he hadn’t messaged her saying that he’d be late, or that she’d need to take the subway. 

Maybe it was her intuition that made her stomach twist a little. That same cold feeling of panic rushes through her thighs that had been there the night that they’d been getting followed, like her brain was telling her something was wrong, Harry wouldn’t be late without calling her, and –

As soon as she turned around to hoof it back inside, the SUV she’d been standing beside opened up. She’s almost immediately discombobulated, like when you trip and fall but you don’t realize you’re falling yet, and which way is up doesn’t make sense, and you aren’t sure that you fell until you’re on the ground looking up. Y/N opened her mouth with a mix between a gasp and a scream, thrashing against the sudden force pulling her. A piece of fabric is stuffed between her mouth and quickly tied behind her head. Her body collides with the backseat of a car that wasn’t Harry’s, and another scream builds up in her throat, though it’s muffled. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” a voice she’d never heard spoke to her, and Y/N’s eyes are suddenly covered too, she isn’t sure by what, but no amount of her moving her head and bucking her body is getting it to stop, “You need to calm down and stop screaming.” Y/N doesn’t listen, because why would she, but then the voice gets serious again, more stern, “I’m serious. I don’t want to knock you out, okay? I just need to transport you from point A to point B, and I’d rather do that with as little force as possible. But I will, if I need to.” 

Y/N is breathless, her chest heaving as she’s repositioned in the car that she can tell is already moving. She doesn’t know what to do. Her heart is beating faster than a rabbit’s, and her stomach is turning. Her eyes want to swell up with tears because she’s feeling incredibly helpless, and what’s worse, she doesn’t know if Harry’s okay. 

“Okay, okay, just relax. You aren’t wanted for anythin’ bad, yeah? Honestly, this is probably the least violent reason we’ve taken someone.” 

“Promise you that ain’t gonna make her feel any better.” Someone else said they were further away – around the front seat, she thinks, most likely the one driving. Her toes curl up in her shoes, Y/N whines in her throat, but feels herself getting buckled in. “Really, we’re hoping that if this goes south, that bloke you’ve been with don’t try killing us. Our job is transport, nothing more, nothing less; we don’t want a scratch on you.” 

Y/N makes another noise, the fabric tastes bland and rubs against her tongue weirdly, getting wet from her spit. Through muffled words, she asks them where he is, but they really can’t understand her. Now the guy in the back with her tucked his fingers into the fabric and pulled it down. Spit drags down her chin, and it’s a sensory issue that she’d deal with later. It smells like leather in here, even though the seat she was on wasn't leather. The air is blasting, and though she’s sweating, she’s got goosebumps all over her skin. 

“Where is he?” She won’t say his name. Y/N remembered distinctly Harry telling her the night they met that he normally doesn’t tell people his name – that he’d only been honest with her because he felt bad, and it was a show of good faith. “What did you do?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” the guy beside her said, and she hated that she couldn’t see him or read his face, “Seriously, they just sliced a tire or two to keep him stuck. Is he a cop or summat? He was sort of scaring us when we were following him.” 

“Yeah, what’s up with the gun, hm? He’s got it strapped ‘round his waist like he needs it in a quick second.” 

“We are not interested in any of that if he comes looking for you.” 

Y/N is confused. Did they not know Harry was who he was? They must have really thought he was merely her boyfriend who carried a gun around. Does that mean Finley didn’t know who Harry was? Did he also just see him as her dutiful boyfriend who was just always around? They were worried about him coming to kill them, but they must have just been weirded out by the gun. Which is fair enough – Y/N is also concerned when she sees someone with a weapon and no uniform out in public. 

“Where are we going?” Y/N asks – for no reason, she isn’t that scared of these guys. She isn’t, by any means, feeling any warm and fuzzies, but they do seem adamantly against hurting her, at least. Was Harry’s presence really that frightening? Or did they actually know what he did, and they were pretending not to? 

“Can’t tell you,” the one beside her says, “But it’ll be a quick drive, yeah? They just need you for something.” He pats her shoulder, and Y/N startles, “Oh! Sorry – don’t know what it is, but it ain't bad.”

They talk amongst each other the rest of the way while her brain supplies her with the worst possible scenarios. Yeah, they’re telling her that it isn’t bad, but they could also just be trying to settle her so she doesn’t keep fighting. She doesn’t know these guys – they have no reason to be telling her the truth or anything like it. She would move her hands, but he’s got her wrists gripped in one of them, and he’s holding firm. Didn’t Harry tell her there was trafficking going on? Guns and drugs for sure, but she couldn’t help but get a sick feeling that there could be more to it than just that. Like maybe Harry had been sparing her, so she thought it was only those two and nothing more. 

Y/N guesses that she and Harry never discussed what she should do in a situation like this. Maybe they should have had some sort of game plan for her. How she should act or what she should do. For now, she thinks it might be smart to conserve her energy in case an opportunity to run away arises. Still, the feeling in her legs is all but gone from fear alone. She thinks if she were to stand up right now, then she’d crumple to the ground almost instantly. They would probably have to hold her up to get her inside of. . .wherever it was.  

It smelled like leather and cologne; it was clogging up her nose. The air in here felt thick from smoke, but she guessed they wouldn’t be cracking a window because of her right now, and the chance she would scream. The windows were tinted when she’d been walking by them before, so she knew nobody could see inside. She hears cars pass them, so they still must be in a heavily populated area, which brought her some comfort at least. If they were headed toward country roads or highways, then she would’ve contemplated just chucking herself out of the car and hoping for the best. 

There are about ten minutes that pass before they slow to a stop somewhere. The car hums softly, and the sound of a text being sent echoes in a near-silent car. Y/N stays still, like she’s hoping they’d forget she was there if she didn’t move a single muscle, but of course, she had no such luck. Movement comes from her right, “Again, I don’t want to knock you out or nothin’, just want to take you from point A to point B.” Something is looping around her wrist, then twisting it behind her back, and the fabric is pulled back into her mouth despite a murmured protest from her. That was her last warning, before the car door popped open and she felt herself being tugged outside. Or, well – outside of the car, at least. From the echo and the lack of wind, she could tell she was in a garage of some kind. 

Y/N is ushered into what feels like an elevator. Her heart speeds up again, and the rush of her blood roaring through her ears is all she can focus on. She whips her head left to right like that would help her see through the fabric at all, but it doesn’t. It does, however, earn her a small grunt from whoever has their fingers wrapped around her bicep. “Watch your head,” he tells her, voice a little lower than it was in the car, “You’re g’na knock us both out if we hit each other.” 

She would love to knock him out, probably, but she would like to stay awake and lucid through the duration of whatever this was. The tears that would have spilled had been rescinded for now, like her body knew it was not the time to get emotional. She really couldn’t afford that, right now. If she were hiccuping and snotty, sniffling, it’d be harder to focus. 

When the elevator comes to a stop, she’s brought off of it. There are no voices or anything heard in this new area they have her in; their feet click and echo on what she would guess is linoleum or something. The staticky hum above her head is giving fluorescent lighting vibes – it sounds like her job when she turns up early enough in the morning that the only people there are the manager and smut-reading Holly. Was she in an office? 

She’s brought somewhere and pressed down into a chair. It bounces slightly and rolls, before there are two sets of shoes walking away, out of the room, “I reckon you hurry,” one of the voices calls back, the one who was driving, “The bloke she’s with seems like he could change a tire fast.” 

Y/N swallows thickly, then flinches again when the fabric is pulled from her mouth again (and seriously, they need to get this damp piece off her neck before she freaks out). Then the fabric is pulled away from her eyes, and it takes her a second to adjust to the blinding light, blinking several times until they adjust to the world after being hidden away. When her vision finally clears, she sees she’s in an office, like she thought. It looks like she’s in the boss's office, though, on a high floor if the windows were anything to go by, showing the tops of several buildings. In the chair across from her sat Finley, and behind him, leaning on the desk, stood someone with a similar complexion to hers and hair that was maybe just one shade away from being her own, even pulled back in the same style that Y/N had hers in. Their outfits, however, do not match, because this woman, whom she’s guessing is Antonyia, is dressed in designer clothes from head to toe. Y/N had a linen button-up and a skirt that Harry had called her a garden fairy this morning. 

“You’re fucking joking.” Is the first thing Y/N says, her fists clenching behind her back, “What the hell?” 

“I know,” Finley grimaces, “I really didn’t want it to come to this, but you practically ran away from me in the mall when I tried to set up a date, so –” 

“Yeah, because it was fucking creepy!” Y/N exclaims, “You stood me up once and then expected me to just jump at the chance to get coffee?” 

Finley raised his hands, “Listen, I’m well aware that that hadn’t been the best way to go about it,” he motions toward Antonyia, “She actually told me that I couldn’t have come off creepier. But you seemed pretty resolute in not speaking with me, so I had to take a more. . .intense approach.” He then motions toward her, referencing the state of her. Y/N’s heart is still thudding, but with something like anger too – this is so fucking stupid! 

“Where’s – where’s my boyfriend?” Y/N phrases it instead, trying to gauge if Finley had any idea who Harry was. She was still careful not to give his name or anything, though she stumbled a little over her words. 

Finley peeks at his watch, like they’re on a time crunch. “He’s fine,” he waves her off, like it’s not a concern. “The twins slashed his tire somewhere with dodgy cell service. It’s why he couldn’t come get you.” 

Y/N huffed, “So what, you’ve been following me? Is that why you knew where to pick me up?” He nods, “This is fucking crazy.” Because why has Y/N gone almost all of her life without being followed, only for two different sides of the same debacle to have followed her at some point in the last couple of months? This is ridiculous! 

“Listen, I know, and we really don’t have time for all of this, okay? We have a flight out of here, but we have some people following us. I’m hoping we sent them on something close to a wild goose chase to buy us a bit more time, but they’re smart – they’d be able to find us eventually. There was a mic in my house, I found, so we gave them some false info as to where we’d be. Where she’d be –” he nodded again, toward Antonyia standing behind him, still silent for now, “So really, we just need you to pretend to be her. We’ll get you changed into her clothes and have you down at the pier, where they think I’m meeting her at my yacht for a private dinner. While they are confused by who you are, she and I will be elsewhere, sneaking out. Nobody gets hurt, everything is nice and easy.” 

Y/N’s brows are furrowed, pinched right in the center. 

“Why would I do that?” She inquires, “What do I get out of helping you? Why would I want to when you kidnapped me off a lot!” 

Finley patted his pocket, “I’ll cut you a check.” He said simply, because all rich people think that everything could be solved with money, “10,000 quid? More?” 

And, had Y/N had no idea what was going on, she might have been convinced. Money for pretending to be someone? It was kind of hard to beat, when the most she’d have to do is probably walk onto a yacht, as long as nobody started shooting at her or something. But she couldn’t be a part of whatever the hell this was. And she didn’t want money that was pulled from a gun trafficking ring, or drugs, or anything that is meant to ruin people’s lives. 

“I don’t want to.” She told him. 

Antonyia rolls her eyes, “I told you this was a waste of fucking time.” She pushes herself off the desk and storms off, shouldering through the door and leaving Y/N alone with Finley, who gave a deep, heavy sigh. 

“How about you think about it, hm? I’ll give you some time.” 

He follows after her, and then Y/N is alone. Or, at least she thought she would be. Another person replaces Finley – this guy is quiet, with what definitely looks like a gun underneath his shirt. He stands with his hands behind his back and a bored look on his face, and Y/N wants to cry again. 

“Just don’t move or anything.” He tells her, and then goes back to being quiet. 

Y/N nods. 

Surely Harry would realize something has happened to her, right? 

                                                               .                        .                      . 

Harry is immediately thrown off when his low-pressure light comes on for his tire. He’s thankful that he has a spare, sure, and that he knows how to change a tire, but he had literally just started driving when all of a sudden it felt like he was practically on the rim. Something nasty settles in his gut when he checks the time – it’s too close to when he picks Y/N up from work, and when he tries to send a message to her to stay inside, or to go with Niall and Aki – it won’t go through. He has no service at all. 

All of this was very horror movie sketchy, and he half expected Jeepers Creepers to roll up on him or something in some big, evil truck. It does put a more intense kick in his step so that he can get to her. 

What really makes him feel sick, though, is when he checks out his tire and finds a thin gash right between the grooves. Too long and precise to have been an accident. This was definitely on purpose, and if there hadn’t already been a sweat building up on his neck, then he would have broken out into one almost instantly. This was bad. This was really, really bad. 

Harry started working even quicker, looking at the time, imagining Y/N walking out of the doors into the parking garage waiting for him. Someone else being there instead of him. Fuck. Fuck! 

The spare goes on easily, thankfully, but he has to waste time airing it up, so there weren’t any other mishaps on the way. He’s too far fucking away, even if he drove well over the speed limit, Y/N would have already been out of work. Did someone know who he was? Or did they just notice he drives her around all of the time? They had kept the fuck who was following them around, and, from what he’d told them, he had no clue who Harry was or what they wanted from Y/N. That he was paid 10,000 quid to follow a girl in her mid-20s and see what times she would most likely be alone (Harry had punched him again for that – he couldn’t help himself). He’d just thought Harry was her boyfriend – an overly dutiful one. And he hadn’t been released until all of this was done, so that he couldn’t expose Harry or Adam for being involved. 

Harry felt like something was coming; he just didn't know what. They finally had a lead that he’d be down at the pier tonight with Antonyia on his yacht, which would be a perfect escape route because it does take some time to steal and rig up another person’s boat to chase after them. They could be off into the night sea, and nobody would have a clue where they disappeared off to. But his assistant is the one who spilled, after being snatched outside of his house by Adam and being scruffed up a bit. They had plans to stake the place out until they showed up – Harry had been down at the pier, but was hurrying to take Y/N home, drop her off where he knew she’d be nice and safe, and then come back.

He stopped for gas, and then he came out, drove for a while, and his tire is completely fucked. Wherever they had sliced into it had been perfect to only lose steam when he was far from the gas station – enough that he wouldn’t be able to make a call. This is so fucked. 

Harry steps on the gas. He’s whipping and weaving through cars in a way that would give his driving instructor from his teens a reason to go back in time and never pass him. His palms are sweating, and his mind feels frantic – this is the first time in a very long time that Harry feels legitimately scared. Scared for what they’ll do to her – scared for what she’ll say. They never talked about what she should do if something like this should happen, because he didn’t want to worry her. He had vowed to always be there for her so she wouldn’t ever need to worry about something like this. 

God, he doesn’t even want to think about what could be happening. His only solace is offered in the fact that they want her for their own benefit. That they need her to be a stand-in, and to be a stand-in for some wannabe kingpin’s girl, you can’t really have them limping or bleeding anywhere, or else it would be too obviously a ruse. At least, that’s what he’s telling himself to calm down. He needs to check her location – he keeps his phone up on the little tracking dot for when it finally switches from ‘No Location Found’ to a little blue dot. 

His poor baby – she’s probably so fucking scared. 

If they laid even a single finger on her, he’ll fucking kill them. 

                                                                .                          .                        .

Y/N thinks 30ish minutes pass before Finley comes back into the room. It’s longer than she imagined him giving her, since they seem like they crunched for time, but if they don’t know who Harry is, then they must think the most he’d do is call the police or something. They wouldn’t know that Harry has her location, and honestly, whoever took her didn’t seem to be digging around in her purse at any point. Her purse was on Finley’s desk, actually, just out of reach. If anyone was calling her, she’d have no clue because she has the ringer off during work days, but she could only imagine that Harry realized something was fucked by now. 

“Any thoughts?” Finley inquired, “We really don’t have time for you to sit and chew on it for any longer.” 

“Well, I’m still refusing.” She huffs, swallowing hard. 

This time, he rolls his eyes, “Okay, listen,” he began, lowering so that his face was mere centimeters from hers. She could smell liquor on his breath, and her nose scrunched because of it, turning away so that it was hitting the side of her face. He grabs her chin, though, and yanks her to look at him, and a distressed noise leaves her throat, “I was trying to be nice, yeah? Give you the illusion of a choice and even put some money in your fucking pocket, but if you’re going to be a bitch about this, then I can be a bitch too. Either you come willingly, get paid, and keep your mouth fucking shut, or we force you, no money, and you’ll be lucky not to end up at the bottom of the fucking oce–” 

There’s commotion outside. Finley gets distracted in whatever he was saying, eyes darting to the side like he was looking out the door. Y/N cranes her neck the best she can to look as well, his hand still on her chin. There were more people than it had sounded like when she first came in, all scattered about, moving, some rushing toward the left and some rushing away. Y/N is confused – she can’t make out what they’re saying, but muted whispers become shouting. 

There’s gun shots, and Y/N almost screams, a full body jump where she nearly launches herself off the chair. Her blood runs cold – is she really about to get trapped in the middle of a fucking shoot-out? Oh my god, this seriously could not get any worse. Unless – was it Harry? Was it Harry’s team? Or was it the cops? 

Antonyia, who had previously been out of the room, rushes in while the guy who had been armed rushes out. Just as she does, Y/N sees the glimmer of Harry around the corner. Relief floods through her almost instantly, and her mouth opens, “Harry!” She screamed before a palm collided with her mouth, muffling her, but it was too late – from where he was, he may not be able to see her, but he definitely could hear her. Y/N can’t see anymore because Antonyia slams the door shut and locks it. 

“Fuck!” Finley yells out, especially because now, Y/N does start fighting against him. Harry’s here; he could get her out of this. If she fought before, she wouldn’t know the first thing to do to get away, especially since there were fucking armed guys lining the office floor. But now, she stood more of a chance. Now it would be better. She wriggles and bucks and tries to flail, but he grips her tight. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Antonyia, get the gun.” 

“The gun?” She asks, shaking her hand, “What gun? What gun?” 

“The – fuck, the one in my drawer.” 

Antonyia runs over to the desk and starts to pull at the drawers, but all of them are locked. She keeps yanking and yanking, noticeably worked up, frantic, panicking. Y/N thinks both of their hearts are bouncing out of their chests – honestly, hers too, especially the more she hears happening outside. There’s yelling and hitting; there hadn’t been any more gunshots, but Y/N doesn’t particularly trust that. 

“They’re all fucking locked!” 

“The key is on the table, idiot, you have to –” 

The door handle twisted. Finley stops talking, Antonyia stops moving, Y/N swallows hard, and wonders if her heart is going to burst right out of her throat. Once whoever is turning it registers that it’s locked, they let go of the handle. All of them can hear the person take a couple of steps back, the shift in the flooring outside the office. Then there is a thud. It makes all of them jump, the door rattling against its hinges. 

Then there’s another one. 

And another one. 

On the fourth, there’s a sickening crack and the door busts open. There stands Harry, pissed off, and intimidating with his gun in hand. Finley scrambles up and covers as much of his body with Y/N’s as he can. Y/N says breathlessly, “Harry,” before her eyes really do start welling up with tears. Her hands are shaking – she knows she’s safer now than she has been, but she wants to be with him, pressed up against him, up under his arm. 

Harry points his gun at Antonyia without thinking twice. 

“Get your hands off her,” Harry’s voice is low, demanding, and Y/N doesn’t doubt for a second that he means his next sentence, “I’ll shoot her, and then I’ll kill you, if you don’t let go of her right fucking now.” 

And Finley is an idiot, in most things it seems, but for once, he does appear to make a smart decision. Y/N feels the pressure around her body loosen as his arms fall from her, and Y/N trips forward toward Harry, while more people rush in through the door behind him. They’re swarming with orders and yelling, Y/N doesn’t know if they’re cops, or detectives, or just people in Harry’s group. She doesn’t know, and she really doesn’t give a fuck either, as she stumbles into Harry’s body and collides against him. 

Y/N buries her face into his chest while he presses the back of her head with his palm, “I know, baby, I know, I know, I’m so sorry, I’m here now.” He loosens the ties around her back so her arms are free. She nods, and when he pulls her face from his chest to have her look at him, he locks eyes with her, “Yeah? I’m here now, baby, I’m here now. You’re okay.” 

She peeks to the side to see Finley face down on the floor, and Antonyia with her arms tied behind her back. Harry guides her face back to his chest, “I’m taking you home.” 

“But – but don’t they need you to –” 

“No, none of that shit matters anymore, okay? I’m taking you home,” he is resolute, scratching gently at her scalp with his nails, when someone hands him her purse, “C’mon, baby, we’re going to leave here. But when we do, I need you to keep your eyes closed for me. And I mean it, don’t open them for anything.” 

Y/N takes a shaky breath, nodding, having some idea what that means. She huddles closer to him, squeezing her eyes shut, and Harry starts walking her through the door, moving her around. There’s still a lot of commotion and ruckus around her, but she keeps her eyes closed as he told her to. Y/N doesn’t want to see anything that was going to traumatize her further. This was traumatizing enough without any visuals, really. 

But they make it to the elevator, Y/N keeps her eyes closed the whole way down, and is guided out to the car. It’s very similar to how she’d been taken up there, only this time she feels safe. She doesn’t open her eyes until Harry has her seated in the car and she lets them flutter to the darkness of a parking garage again, feeling as he snaps the seat belt across her. Harry, for the most part, looks relatively unscathed. Clear of any bruises or scratches, no sight of blood, whether it be his own or someone else's.  Harry holds the side of her face again, petting over her forehead, then her temple with his thumb, “Did they hurt you anywhere?” He pulls the gag off of her, and tosses it on the floor of his car, shaking his head, “Did the kick you or punch you? Cut you? Anything?” 

“No,” she shakes her head, “No, no they didn’t I – they were worried to, the guys who took me – they said you seemed scary, so they didn’t want – didn’t want to do anything.” She answers, “Finley sort of started to threaten it, but nothing happened. My wrists are just a little sore.” 

He nods, like he’s cataloging everything she’s saying while also doing a brief overview of her. Then, in a moment extra tender, he leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to her forehead, “Okay,” he nestles his nose against the top of her head, “Okay, good. As long as you’re okay.” 

Harry shuts the door and comes around on the other side. He doesn’t even wait a second before he pulls out, “I hope you  don’t mind, but early today I installed a more intense security system in your flat.” 

“I don’t mind, but –” she pinches at the fabric beside her thigh, “I – if you have to leave tonight at any point, I understand, but –” 

“Baby, listen to me,” he cuts her off, then reaches over and places his hand on her thigh. It’s warm, where the heat from his palm seeps into her skin. “The only way I’m leaving your side is if you tell me you want me gone. Do you want me to leave?” 

“No,” she replies, “Of course not, I want – I want you to stay.” 

“Then I’m staying.” He replies decisively, “I’m staying until you ask me to leave.” 

Y/N hardly thinks that will ever happen. 

                                                                       .                        .                       .

Once they got home, Harry showed her the security system and explained to her that if she didn’t type in the keypad and use her fingerprint within one minute of entering the home, it would send an alert to his phone, and subsequently, the police. He registered her index finger into the system and told her that he could delete his if she wanted, but Y/N told him it wouldn’t be necessary. 

She feels too shaken to eat, but Harry warms her up a little bit of the soup he’d made yesterday for dinner. Y/N can stomach it at least, since it’s light, and she tries to scrub her brain clean of any memories of the last couple of hours. When she realizes that it is not going to work, she says she needs a shower, and Harry gets it started for her. He sets the temperature and tells her he’ll warm her towel in the dryer again. 

But she was still shaken, nervous, and a little jumpy. 

“Do you think you could maybe stay in here with me? Like – like while I’m in there?” 

Harry’s gaze, which had already been quite soft, softened even more. He agreed, folding the towel in his lap and sitting on the toilet, “Okay, Sweetheart, I can do that,” he told her, “How was your morning, hm? Was separating into different teams stressful?” 

Y/N knows he’s trying to get her mind off of what happened, and she lets him. She prattles on about the new artist, about some of their newer marketing tactics they’ll be utilizing, how streaming has influenced the industry beyond physical copies. . .a ton of shit that she usually doesn’t bother getting into. It made her feel better, though. When she was done, she turned the water off, and he stuck his hand past the curtain and into the shower. Y/N took it from him, looped it around her body, then tugged it open. 

“I want to wear one of your shirts.” She sort of demanded, and Harry got on it right away. Y/N followed after him while he dug in his suitcases, and made a noise when she saw the one she wanted. It was just a plain shirt, but it’s one he slept in before he started forgoing a shirt altogether. She wears that and just some underwear, and then brushes her teeth before crawling into bed. 

Harry showers with the door open while Y/N scrolled on her phone and snuggled a concerned Muffy, who kept purring and pressing herself further and further against Y/N’s neck until the kitten fell asleep. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her, threatening to pull her into the mattress. She went from a wired adrenaline rush to feeling waterlogged. Her brain was begging her to sleep. 

But she couldn’t quite settle until Harry crawled into bed beside her. Neither fake any pretenses. Y/N scooted over to him instantly, and Harry opened his arms for her readily, until she was pressed as close to him as Muffy was to her. 

“It doesn’t have to be now,” he murmured softly, “But I think you should talk to a therapist about what happened. We have one that works with us – I see them every now and then. They already know what we do, so there’s no risk of them exposing anything if you’re worried about it. It’d be good to work through some of these. . .these experiences, you know? Only when you’re ready.” 

Y/N hummed softly, let her eyes close, and fell into a dreamless sleep. 

It lasts for only a few hours. Eventually, she stirs like she always does, still in Harry’s arms but faced away from him. She batted blindly around for her phone before finding it, squinting open, and seeing the time. It was late – 1 AM, and the moon was seeping through the curtains. Y/N didn’t let Harry turn all of the lights off last night, so her fairy lights twinkle, lining the ceiling and bringing a sense of warmth and comfort that not being submerged in total darkness provides. Her left shoulder aches, so she has no idea how long she’s been lying on it. She twists around in his arms carefully so she wouldn’t wake him up, but when she turns all the way around, she finds his eyes already open, gaze already set on her. 

She jumps a little, a soft sleepy sound in her throat that makes him smile, “Sorry,” he says quietly, “Did I scare you?” 

Y/N pouts at him a little, “Have you not – have you not been to sleep?” 

He shakes his head, “No, but I’ve been watching you.” 

His hand, as it has several times that day, finds her face again. He cradles the side of it, petting her like the feeling of her skin beneath his thumb is confirming that she’s real. That things ended the absolute best that they could, and that she was uninjured. Like it was his fault, and he would be spending a great deal of time trying to rectify it. 

“This wasn’t on you,” she speaks as his fingers trace down her cheeks, over the curve of them, “It wasn’t your fault. I hope you’re not blaming yourself.” 

“How could I not?” He replies, “I should’ve been there.” 

Y/N’s brows furrow, “You can’t be everywhere all the time, you’re one man,” she feels like she’s reminding him, “And they slashed your tire. There was no way.” 

“But I –” 

“There’s no buts about it.” 

He still seems unsettled, “I put you in danger.” 

“I was in danger the moment they realized I looked like her – they didn’t even know who you were.” She reasons, “You’re the only reason why I’m safe and sound right now.” 

“I just –” 

Y/N doesn’t know what came over her. Maybe she wanted him to stop doubting himself and blaming his actions for why tonight went how it did. Maybe she wanted it so that he could feel how real she was and how okay she was, despite all of it. Maybe it was really just for herself, actually, because she wanted to be close and feel close to him. Whatever the reason, she surges forward and presses her mouth to his in a searing kiss. 

She feels a little dramatic to say it, but it feels like two pieces coming together – like something meant to click into place finally has. Harry only takes a second before he reciprocates, deepening it, leaning into her mouth, and sliding the hand that had been on her face to the back of her head again. He holds her tightly, and when she parts for her tiny breath, he only chases after her lips until they meet again. It’s nice, his lips are soft, she feels warm and puddled. 

Once he does part, the tip of his nose brushes against hers, his eyes closed as he mouths over her again. He presses her from her side to her back, covering her body and supporting himself with a forearm on the opposite side of her. A soft noise leaves him, like he’s been wanting this – needing this. The way you moan after taking a drink when your mouth is so dry. 

Y/N parts her lips and carefully slips her tongue out, caressing the seam of his mouth. Harry opens readily, slides his tongue against her own. She moans a little this time, from her throat, feeling the careful weight he presses against her chest, the way his leg slides from her side, between her thighs with a knee bent to keep himself even just a little raised. Y/N wanted his full body weight on her, though. She liked how it felt to be completely covered by him. It’s why she snakes her arms around his shoulder and drags him down further. Her hands press against his back, feeling the strength of the muscles there, how easy it is for him to support himself on mostly one arm while still kissing her. 

One of his hands finds her throat. Not to do anything, just to lie there, dragging his thumb across her pulse. He nips on her bottom lip, she thinks so he can feel her throat vibrate with the whine that leaves her, before he soothes it over with his wet tongue. When he drags himself away, it’s only to smear kisses against her chin, down her jawline, against the opposite side of her throat where his hand isn’t resting. Not only is he kissing her, but he’s rubbing his nose against her, breathing in slowly and deep, dragging his teeth along the sensitive skin. Parts of her he sucks into his mouth, between his teeth to make blooming marks. Y/N’s okay with it – she likes it. She’s calling into work tomorrow anyway, so he might as well mark her all up. 

If he’s satisfied with one spot, he moves to another. He does it again and again, until his lips are dotting around her collarbones and his teeth are meeting her shoulder. His hand slides from her neck, down, and he hovers just above her breast before he leans away. Y/N’s eyes had been closed, but at the sudden departure, she blinked them open. 

“You have to tell me to stop,” he says, breathless, chest heaving as his gaze darts around her face, her neck, where his hand hovers, “I’ve wanted this for so long, baby, but if you don’t want it, then tell me to stop.” 

“I want you,” she mewls, rocking her hips to press herself closer, “Please, I want to feel close, I want you.” 

He kisses her again, this time with his hands skating up her shirt and finding her boobs. Harry kneads them, squeezes them – he seems to like how they feel against his hands, and how if he holds just right and squeezes just so, the flesh will start to pool around his knuckles. He flicks her nipples beneath his fingers before kissing down her neck again, only this time he goes further, stopping at her tits and dragging his tongue over the fabric. Y/N whines again, reaching for the hem of the shirt and hiking it up, up, up, until she can pull it over the swell of her breasts. 

From her POV, it looks like Harry had just been bestowed a feast before his very eyes. He pulls her nipple into his mouth and swirls around it until it pebbles up for him, feeling the ridge of each bump with the tip of his tongue. Harry doesn’t do the annoying thing she’s seen plenty of men do in porn, where they just keep popping on and popping off. He sticks on, only pulling his lips back when he’s sucking at them, before pulling more skin into his mouth so he can lave against it again. Y/N’s nipples haven’t ever been the most sensitive, but the show he’s putting on is making her feel like they are. She’s getting wetter, the thin material of the panties starting to stick to her lips as he dots kisses across her chest to her other nipple. 

Y/N’s fingers find his hair, carding through the strands and gripping tightly at the nape of his neck and at the top of his head. Her chest heaves with every little breath she takes, and he chuckles against her when she starts to press his head down, arching her back. 

“I didn’t take you for a head pusher, Sweetheart,” he murmurs against her skin, but he gets the memo, dragging the tip of his nose and his upper lip down her torso, like he was drawing a line. Her stomach jumps, ticklish from these feathery kisses he starts giving her just below her belly button, “You want me to make you feel good, hm? Want Daddy to make you feel good?”

She shakes all over and moans, a heated coil twirling in her belly the way it always does when she’s reading something she’s surprised that she’s into. His hands are slipping down her sides, skating along the skin until he gets to her hips. Her hips twitch under his hold, but he presses her down and makes sure she can’t move, and she thinks if she tried hard enough, she could cum just from this and her clit pushing against the fabric of her underwear. 

“Use your words,” he orders, “What do you want?” 

“Make me feel good,” she twitches again, only to be held down, and yeah – she really could cum from just this, “Please, please, I want to feel good, I haven’t in so long.” 

Harry noses down to her folds, the tip of it dipping against the wet fabric, “Poor baby,” he murmurs softly, “Just need someone to take care of you, yeah?” 

“Just want you to take care of me,” she whines, “Just want – just want Daddy to.” 

Harry makes a noise between a moan and a growl before he buries his face against her pussy. It’s almost animalistic in the way that he doesn’t seem to care how much of his face gets wet. He breathes in deep and hangs his tongue out so that it’s stroking past her with every swipe up and down. Like he couldn’t even wait to get them off of her – like he needed this more than he could even put into words. 

Y/N spreads out her legs for him, knees pulled up on either side and split open. His fingers pressed into the bottom of her thigh like he needed something to grip onto, to maintain his handle on reality. That’s how she felt, holding onto his other hand that she’d noticed on her right side, just lying there, digging into the blankets. Maybe it was too sentimental and mushy for whatever they were, but Y/N slots her fingers between his anyway, and he held onto her like she was something sweet and precious to him. 

When he finally tugs her panties to the side, he must overestimate how much strength he would need for it because they rip in half. It wasn’t helped by the fact that they already had a tiny tear in the seam, but he widened it, stretched it out, and the show of strength was enough to get her moaning again. Harry doesn’t seem concerned by it, just immediately slips his tongue between her folds like there’d been a magnet drawing him there. He presses in firm and deep, the tip just barely fluttering against her hole that she can’t help but pucker a little for him. He drags it up, wet and full, against her clit, before he briefly sucks it into his mouth.

Y/N gasps, her legs jerk like they might try closing around his head, but he keeps her pressed open as he does it again. Starting low and dragging his tongue up, barely suckling her clit before going back down. He does it until she’s rocking her hips against his tongue, whining at him, “More –” she feels greedy, but she can’t help it, “More, please – suck on me more.” 

“Filthy little thing,” he says, his words vibrating against her pussy – he stays close, like he couldn’t bear the thought of pulling his lips any further away, “Want me to keep this tasty little button in my mouth, yeah? Suck on it until you cum?” 

Her other hand is digging into his scalp, tugging, “Yes,” her toes curl so tightly they pop, her clit throbbing like it heard that they were talking about it. He’s unrelenting on her slit, slurping up everything she drools and leaks for him, before he licks around her clit. This time, instead of the tiny little sucks, he treats it how he’d been treating her nipples. He takes her clit and just a few centimeters beneath it, into his mouth, suctioning against her, fluttering his tongue back and forth while she pulsed around nothing. It’s hard for her thighs not to tremble; it feels too good, better than anything she’s ever felt before. She could tell he was practiced and enjoying himself, not just doing it as an obligatory precursor to fucking her. 

Two fingers carefully prod at her hole, circling in her slick before sliding in slowly. Harry’s fingers are long and on the thicker side, so the stretch is felt, but it wasn’t horrible. She was wet enough and horny enough that her walls were coaxing and accommodating, like she’d been waiting for something to get inside of her this whole time. He pulls off her clit for a small breath before latching back on, and when she squeezes tightly around his two fingers, he moans a soft, “Mhm,” that makes her eyes flutter and roll back. Now that he doesn't have a hand on her thigh, Y/N tries to hold herself up and open for him, but she’s doing a bad job of it. Especially when his fingers curl and nudge at her G-spot. 

Once Harry finds it, he doesn’t let up. He only retracts for a moment to slip a third finger in as he strokes against her spongy bump, sucking on her clit in the way no man has ever done for her. Her eyes brim with tears – it’s too much, and it feels too good. Her orgasm feels like a lightning bolt zipping down from her brain to a hot coiling spring in her belly. He must be able to feel it, because he moans another hum against her like he’s encouraging her. But he doesn’t go any faster – he doesn’t change his pace at all, while Y/N’s eyes are squinted closed, her spine starts to curl inward, as she pushes her hips closer, shoving herself against his mouth. 

“Cumming, I’m cumming,” she whined, when it finally hits her, full body waves rolling through her as she jumps and twitches against him. At first, she’s quiet, her breath stolen from her, but when she finally sucks in air, the sound that leaves her is a little guttural and sort of embarrassing. She’s worried she’s going to get a cramp from how tight she has all of her muscles. 

When she finally comes down, she’s sensitive, pressing his head away, melting into the mattress. It opens her up further for his fingers, which spread out and stretch, opening her up even more. He places kisses on the tender insides of her thighs, nosing against the junction of where they meet her pussy. 

“How do you want me, baby?” He asks, “Do you want to be on top? Do you want me on top of you?” 

She thinks about it – thinks about what she wants right now, and right now, she sort of wants to be surrounded by him. Engulfed in him, and if he’s inside of her on top of that, that was even better. 

So she flips around onto her belly when he eases his fingers out of her (and pops them into his mouth – he was a real eater, for sure), “I want your – your bicep wrapped around me, kinda like a chokehold but not actually choking me. Just there, y’know, I’d – I’d like that.” 

Harry chuckles, sliding his hand down the center of her back toward her bum, spreading her open, “Yeah, Daddy can do that for you.” 

She whines when his thumb brushes past her other hole, tightly puckered, and she reaches back to bat at him, “Don’t – don’t look at my butthole,” she grumbles, and he laughs again. 

“Sorry, baby,” he positions her legs beneath a pillow, before leaning over to her bedside drawer and finding a condom, “S’just a cute little hole, I might need to play with it one day.” The head of his prick tap, tap, taps against her drippy slit. He paints it up and down, stroking the tip through the mess of spit and slick before he slowly starts to press forward. 

The stretch of his cock is more intense than his fingers, with less give, and a little girthier than 3 stacked on top of each other. She thinks this position, too, in particular, makes it feel more intense. She doesn’t even have a chance to be upset that she didn’t actually get to look at it before he slid it inside of her, because it’s so much. So big and thick, she thinks she can feel it in her throat when he finally bottoms out, his balls swollen and full, tucked against her pussy. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, stretching over the top of her. She feels his chest and belly press against her back, and his arm carefully loops up under her head, curling around her neck. It isn’t tight, but it’s reassuring, holding her close, and she can rest her cheek comfortably against his bicep. “That’s it, pretty girl. How do you feel?” 

Y/N has to urge every brain cell that controls her mouth to work, “Full,” she feels herself squeeze around him, and Harry’s hips jerk a little deeper, “So full.” 

“Yeah?” He pets her side before he brings his other arm around her body, across her shoulders, so she can fully rest against his arms. “You like feeling full.” 

She nods, eyes closing as she soaks it in, “Is it good for you?” She inquires, “Do I feel good for you?” 

“You feel perfect.” His cheek is pressed against the side of his head, so his words are right in her ear, “So perfect for me. Tell me if it’s too much, okay?” 

Harry’s careful as he starts. First, he grinds slowly and deeply, letting her walls get used to the stretch and size of him, before he rolls his hips out just a little, then sinks back in. Then he does a little more, and sinks back in, then even more – he does it again and again until just the tip is in before he fucks back into her. Each thrust is punctuated by the slap of their skin meeting, and Y/N gasping and whining with each movement. He’s all around her, just like she wanted. In her ear, around her torso, tucked inside of her. Every part of him crowds her, and she feels safe, and full, and good, so, so good. 

“Talk to me,” she demands, her hands curling around his arm, “Wanna hear your voice.” 

He giggles softly, “Yeah? You’re so soft, Sweetheart. Want me to tell you how badly I’ve been wanting this?” He keeps his pace, and even talking during it, it doesn’t even sound like he’s breaking a sweat, “How every night that I’m holding you, I just want to make you feel good? Have you cum on my fingers, my tongue, and my cock until you’re too worn out to wake up in the middle of the night, even for a second? My restless girl.” The way her pussy is stretching is probably obscene, if she could see it. All she can do is imagine how wide she’s spread for him, and how tightly her walls hug him. Y/N can feel it, how she sucks him back in every time he pulls out. 

“Want me to tell you that I’ve been thinking about you calling me Daddy? How, when you had that stupid little dare to ask me the size of my cock and couldn’t stop looking at my crotch, I wanted to flip you over the desk and show you just how big it was?” Y/N moans, her thighs trying to close, but with how he’s positioned, his knees keep her spread open, their legs locked together, “Yeah, baby, I’ve been wanting you since the moment you teared up when I asked if we were friends. Fuck, I needed to eat you right then and there.” 

With a whine, she tilts her face and bites into his bicep, “Don’t bring that up,” she fusses, “It was embarrassing.” 

“It was perfect,” he murmurs, “You’re fucking perfect. I almost can’t stand it. Need to feel you like this every day – need to feel this tight, wet pussy sucking me right in, soaking my cock. Need to be pressed close to you like this. So happy you’re okay,” he noses at the side of her head again, “So happy to have you in my arms like this.” 

The coil twists, warm, hot, and bright, “Harry,” she feels pathetic, how much she’s whimpering, how pitiful she sounds, “Again, m’g’na cum again.” 

“Cum for me,” he murmurs, “Love making you feel good, baby, cum all over my cock.” 

It’s more intense with him inside of her like this. More intense now that she can feel herself pulsing and squeezing, milking around his cock. Just like with his fingers, Harry keeps pace, the same ease, thrust and buck of his hips while he works her through it, curling tighter around her body to hold her still. It somehow manages to prolong her orgasm, she thinks. It feels like it lasts forever, trapezing through her body. 

Harry cums soon after, only speeding his hips when he knew she was completely finished. He grinds in deep when he finishes, and Y/N is bummed that she’s not feeling it inside of her, spilling all over, slipping out when he keeps going. Still, the elation and pure bliss she feels outweigh any negative emotion. Her brain feels buzzy and tingly in a good way – one she’s never experienced before, as her body completely melts into the mattress, and therefore, further into his arms. They stay like this for a little while, catching their breath, feeling the sweat of each other’s skin pressed together. 

When Harry eases up and carefully pulls out of her, he is only away from her body for as long as it takes to twist the condom and throw it away. Then he’s right back against her, “Did so well for me,” he murmurs, “Such a good girl, feeling so good for me. Do you want to cuddle some more, baby? Before I clean you up?” She nods, and Harry pulls her back in against his body, like he read her mind. Like he knows she wants him to completely swallow her up, wrapping his legs around hers, his arms around her, pressing her face into his neck. It wasn’t even too warm – it was perfect. So perfect, and she feels safe, secure, and satiated. 

His fingers play carefully at her nape, doing light, feathery touches that tickle a little in the best way. Y/N giggles, wrapping her arm around his body, letting her fingers feel each nob and bump of his spine. 

“Yeah?” He hums, “Are you feeling good?” 

Y/N nods, because she’s doing better than that even. All things considered. 

“I’m feeling great.” 

“Good,” he hums, “You’re all mine now.” 

                                                              .                           .                           .

Things settle out quite nicely, after all the drama of it is over. In the following week, the news is released to the public about Finley and Antonyia. Their mugshots are all over the news, and she gets a frantic call from Niall, who is crying about the fact that he almost set her up with a criminal. Harry gets to have some time off from his dangerous job, because that’s how it is after working for months on a bust like this – there’s vacation time in order, so he gets to relax a little, only working on his “normal” job. 

He stays over more nights than he doesn’t. It had been so long since he’d been to his flat before, he told her he had to go and make sure the place hadn’t been actually flooded with sewage water, since they put that into the universe. At least twice a week, he goes back home to make sure everything is in order, but he always comes back with new clothes to store here for when he spends the night. Y/N doesn’t mind it at all – she likes her alone time, sure, but she prefers to have it knowing someone else is in the flat with her. Then it’s not as scary or creepy. 

They aren’t like. . .officially anything yet. Y/N wants to ask him about it, but she doesn’t know how to without seeming clingy, even though he’s definitely the clingier of the two of them. But every version of her asking turns into him telling her they’re better off as friends who fuck sometimes, or him giving some half-baked excuse about his job being dangerous, or just anything that doesn’t end with them running off into the sunset. Niall and Aki tell her she’s being stupid, but that’s easy for them to say – they’re never the ones who need to confess first. They always have people falling at their feet practically, begging them to date before they’d even need to ask. 

But one day, Y/N comes out of work one day with her coworker Jacob, who makes her laugh and slap his arm before they part ways (he never comes down the stairwell, but he told her about how he’d gotten stuck on the elevator this morning, and how the firemen actually had to come and get him out, and it was the most humiliating experience of his life – but he’s a funny guy, so it all comes out very hilarious), she doesn’t think anything of it when Harry asks, “Who is that?” 

Y/N hums, because she’d been looking at the picture Niall sent her, and she lifted it higher for Harry to see, “It’s this guy Niall matched with on Hinge, we’re trying to find out if his profile is real or not. He’s Russian, apparently.” 

“No, not him – but tell me more about him later, I have some software we can use to see if he’s a fake or not,” Harry motioned toward the door, “That guy you walked out with.” 

“Oh! That’s Jacob! He’s one of the secretaries,” she answers, slipping her phone back in her purse, “He’s really funny.” 

“Not funnier than me, right?” 

“Well…..” 

“Hey!” Harry made an affronted sound, “You’re not supposed to think any man is funnier than your boyfriend, didn’t you know that?” 

Y/N paused. Her eyes widened when she turned to look at Harry, who did not appear like he’d said anything out of the ordinary. She blinked a couple of times, registering it, before repeating, “Boyfriend?” 

“Uh, yeah?” Harry replied, tilting his head, “I am your boyfriend. You’re supposed to think I’m the funniest guy in the world next to Niall.” 

“I – I mean, yes, you’re very funny, I just didn’t know – I mean. . .we’re dating?” 

A look of pure horror warps Harry’s face, “Oh my god,” he says quietly, then immediately turns into a different parking space, pushes the gear shift into park, and turns to face her, “Baby, what? Yes!” 

“Oh!” Y/N exclaimed, “Oh, I just didn’t know! You never asked so –” 

“Oh, wow, this is what it felt like the night I asked if we were friends, isn’t it? I think I’m going to cry,” he looks as shocked as Y/N feels, “We’ve – I mean, yeah, according to me, we’ve been dating.” Then, he looks a little worried, “I mean, are you not interested in –” 

“No! That isn’t it at all,” she denies, “I – no, Harry, I want to be dating you very badly, I just didn’t know we already were,” Y/N puffs out a disbelieving laugh, “I’ve been spending the last like three weeks trying to figure out how to tell you I liked you more than just friends.” 

Harry seems to relax, shoulders slumping a little as he melts back into his seat, “Well, great news for you, baby, that’s unnecessary. I don’t kiss my friends. If I did, I would’ve been laying them on you the moment your eyes watered that night.”

“I really need you to stop bringing that up.” 

He grins at her, leaning forward and pushes a soft, chaste kiss to her lips. 

“I guess, I could ask properly, instead of just assuming we were on the same page.” He slid his hand into hers, squeezing when the sides of their knuckles met, “It feels a little backwards, since we’re already coparenting a kitten, but Y/N – I like you a lot. I like you so much, in fact, that it makes me look so stupid sometimes. I want to be around you all of the time, and I want to sniff you, and cuddle you, and be weird about you. Would you maybe want to date me?”  

It’s hard not to break out into a matching smile. 

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled into the pillow, his voice full of sleep and his eyes firmly shut.

“Someone’s at the door,” YN prised his arm away from her waist, “We can’t leave them there.”

“We can,” Harry hummed.

“No we can’t,” YN laughed, pulling herself from the bed.

Scrambling slightly, the only thing she could find to cover herself was Harry’s shirt that they’d thrown on the floor last night. She pulled it over her body, pulling it closed over her chest. It was long enough that it covered the front of her, but the curve of her ass escaped the bottom no matter how much she pulled it down.

The banging continued at the door and YN spoke, “Coming!” In hopes that it would stop them.

YN pulled the door open, and Yas was standing there, her hand still raised as though she was going to knock one more time.

“Well,” A smile crossed Yasmin’s face, “Don’t you look freshly fucked.”

YN knew she must have looked a state. Despite her half covered frame, she wouldn’t be surprised if her hair looked as though a bird had made a nest in it and the remnants of her makeup were probably all under her eyes.

“Good morning to you, too, Yasmin.”

“Hmm,” Yasmin hummed, “Is he still here?”

YN sighed, “Maybe.”

“Harry!” Her voice raised louder, probably waking up everybody else in corridor as well as just Harry.

“Yes, Yasmin?” He responded, his voice sounding a little more awake than it had been the last time he spoke.

“Harvey’s waiting for you in your room!” She calls back, before turning to YN, “I need you in mine in twenty minutes, YN.”

“Yes, miss,” YN responds, a smile toying at her face as she did.

Yasmin groaned, “I should have put a sex-wide ban for all of my bridesmaids.”

“Why?” YN snorted, “Because you couldn’t get any last night?”

“Exactly!” Yas groaned, shaking her limbs out, “I could’ve done with it.”

YN groaned, “As much as it hurts me to say, I’m sure Harvey won’t be against a little… you know…”

“Not before the wedding,” A small smile then crosses her features, “I’m saving it for tonight.”

YN clamped her eyes shut and shook her head, grimacing slightly, “Really didn’t need to know that.”

“Twenty minutes,” Yas points at her, “Twenty minutes, Harry! No funny business. I need a fresh, clean head bridesmaid in my room in twenty minutes!”

“You’ve got it, Yas!”

YN shut the door and let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. Turning, she saw that Harry was now sitting at the end of the bed, more awake than he was before but not fully.

“What did she say?” he says after a few seconds, “I was too distracted by your ass.”

“Shut up!” YN thwacks him on the shoulder, giggling when he stands up and places his hands on the curve of her ass, lifting her up so her legs can wrap around his waist.

“Morning,” he leans forward, their noses touching as she thread her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Morning, baby,” YN responds, a silly smile on her face, “If you could deposit me in the bathroom I’d be very grateful.”

“Hmm,” He hums, leaning down to press a kiss to her jaw, “And what do I get for depositing you in the bathroom.”

“A lifetime of gratitude,” YN jokes back, giggling as she did so.

Harry squeezes her ass, “I don’t think that’s good enough for me.”

“Oh yeah?” YN pulls at the hair at the nape of his head, lightly, “What do you want in return?”

“My mouth on you.”

At this point, he’d walked her into the ensuite, dropping her down on the bathroom sink with his hands either side of her, trapping her in.

“We only have twenty minutes,” YN drops down from the counter, so she’s standing in front of him, “And I need to shower before getting my hair and makeup done.”

“Twenty minutes is plenty of time,” Harry shrugs, “And I’ll eat you in the shower, kills two birds with one stone.”

YN contemplates his words for a few seconds. She should say no. If she wasn’t still so caught in the bubble of being with him, she would have had the brains to say no, to say that they didn’t have enough time. But the way that Harry looked at her, the way that his eyes glazed over as he pushed his shirt off her shoulders so that she was fully bare to him — she knew that she wasn’t ever going to say no.

YN slipped out from underneath his arms, making her way towards the shower with a slight bounce in her step. Harry wasn’t too far behind her, still as naked as the day he was born. They both slipped under the lukewarm water together, thankful that the shower had at least enough room for them to stand under the stream comfortably together.

Starting to wash her hair, she thought that Harry had forgotten his proposition, and it was just going to be like the last time they showered together. But once she’d washed the first round of suds away, YN noticed that Harry had dropped to his knees, his fingers dancing up her thighs.

“Harry…” YN shakes her head, “This is not us getting clean.”

“I’ll make sure you’re nice and clean baby,” he presses a kisses to the top of her thigh, “Trust me.”

“Twenty minutes and counting, baby.”

“It won’t take me twenty minutes.”

He starts light, small kisses to YN’s clit as her breathing started to become heavier and heavier. Then in one quick movement he lifted her leg up, allowing it to rest on his shoulder as he licked the expanse of her. He knew exactly what buttons of hers to press, what would sent her shivering against him. Her hand rested against the glass of the shower, hoping to steady her shaking legs as Harry took her clit between his lips, suckling and nibbling on the sensitive nub.

“Fuck, Harry,” YN moaned, her head dropping back and her eyes shutting. Her free hand came to squeeze at her breast, toying her nipple between her fingers, hoping that it would offer her at least some relief, but it wasn’t enough.

All it did was bring her closer and closer. Harry never gave up, his attack on her clit was relentless. YN ground her hips against his face, trying to use it bring herself closer to the edge.

Sighing, YN finally looked down. Just seeing Harry’s eyes, looking at her as he continued to suckle on her clit was all it took to send her spiralling. The hand that had been on her breast dropped down to his hair, just needing something to hold onto as she rode his face through her orgasm. It shook her entire body, leaving her completely spent and breathless.

Harry looked up at her, his face glistening with her release, “See, I told you it wouldn’t take me twenty minutes.”

“We still have to wash,” YN watched as he pulled himself up, wrapping his arms around her waist. It was then that she felt his hard cock against her side, “And we need to sort that out.”

“I can sort that, baby,” Harry places a kiss to her cheek, “You just focus on washing.”

Her eyes darkened as she looked from him, down to his cock that was resting against her skin, red and throbbing. Then, danced her finger from his shoulder, all the way down his abs until it reached his hard cock. Her fingers danced along the tip, before wrapping around him.

Harry groaned against her cheek, “What about only having twenty minutes?”

“It’s her wedding day,” YN shrugged, “She can’t be angry at me for too long on her wedding day.”

Harry laughed, but when YN’s hand squeezed him, only lightly but enough pressure to send him slightly dizzy he couldn’t help the laboured breath that escaped him. Her hand started to work up, her thumb brushing over his angry tip every now and then, bringing him closer and closer to the edge just as he’d done with her.

“Your fucking hands, YN…”

“What?” She teased, a smile crossing her lips, “Does it feel good?”

“Feels so fucking good.”

His lips caught hers after that, his tongue pushing his way into her mouth with little to no resistance. YN’s hand started to work quicker, his grip on her tightening as she brought him closer and closer to the edge. YN fucking loved the feeling this gave her, the fact that it was her hands and her body that was drawing those sounds and those feelings out of him.

When he came, Harry groaned into YN’s mouth, calling her name as he spilled over her hand. He giggled against her once he’d realised the mess he’d made.

“I think we’re both in need of a shower, now,” Harry laughed against her cheek.

“Good thing the water is already running…”

By the time YN made it to Yasmin’s room, she was clean and beaming from the orgasm that Harry had given her. She was a few minutes late, but she was right in thinking that Yasmin would have been too preoccupied in making sure everything was right to care that much.

So, wrapped in her bridal party robe, stitched with ‘head bridesmaid’ on the collar, she slipped through the door and joined the festivities of getting Yasmin ready for her big day.

The room was overrun with bridesmaids, and hairstylists and make up artists, everybody finding whatever space they could to sit whilst their waited for their turn. The windows to the room had been thrown open, the sea breeze swarmed in as if to not allow them to overheat whilst they were in the midst of getting ready. The citrus smell from the gardens had been overtaken by the smell of hairspray around the room. Everyone had half-finished glasses of prosecco in their hands, smiles on their faces and idle chatter about the excitement of the day.

Without even meaning to, YN finds herself smiling. She had spent so long during this trip worrying. Worrying about Harry, about herself and her happiness and now… none of that mattered. She had been terrified to arrive in Positano only days ago, terrified of the idea of rehashing the past that she had no reason to revisit and yet — look at her now. So much had changed in a week.

She had been waiting eight years to feel this way, and whilst she had a taste of it five years ago that was nothing compared to what she was feeling now. Nothing compared to the happiness that rushed around her body.

As the stylist begins on her hair, having settled on a half-up half-down braided up-do with the ends of her hair curled, she found herself humming along to the song that was playing without a care in the world. She was truly was happy, with herself and also for her friend, who was sitting next to her, getting her makeup done.

She could feel Yas’ eyes on hers, but she chose to ignore it.

“Don’t you dare think I didn’t notice that you were late…”

YN groaned, and if she didn’t have somebody behind her pinning her hair up she would have tipped her head back.

“Haven’t you got better things to focus on?”

“What?” Yasmin laughed, “Other than one of my closest friends, who is like a sister to me, finally admitting she’s in love?”

“Who said anything about love?” YN shrugs.

YN knew that if somebody wasn’t currently doing Yas’ eyeliner she would have shaken her head, “We all know it’s about love… god, I’ve watched you pine after him for five years and I know we weren’t close when you stayed with him for a few weeks but we all know that something happened.”

YN fell silent, a part of her had thought that people would have just assumed her sadness was from all of the changes she was going through. She hadn’t guessed at all that it was because they knew something was wrong between her and Harry.

“How… how did you?”

“Because he was the same…” Yasmin explained with a light shrug, “He just… I’d never seen him like that before and then when you were the same… I think I just put two and two together.”

“Did Harv know?”

“God no,” Yas shakes her head, laughter bubbling from his chest, “He made a throwaway comment here and there but he never believed any of it.”

“I think he knows now, though.”

“He does,” Yas sighs, “And he’s happy for you, and for Harry. I think we’ve all grown so much since then that we’ve all realised that happiness is the most important thing.”

“It is,” YN nodded, trying to ignore the way her eyes watered.

But, focusing on the event in front of her she shook herself off and fell back into discussions about dresses and makeup and everything else that the room found itself conversing about.

By the time that everyone was ready and dressed, Yas had fallen quiet. They had transitioned from the room into the downstairs of the villa, as it had been vacated by the groomsmen prior, and everyone was heading to the ceremony. There were a few stragglers, but as long as none of them were Harvey it didn’t matter.

“Hey,” YN placed a hand on Yas’ arm, drawing her out of the stare that she had found herself in, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Yasmin nodded, her fingers messing with the ribbons around her bouquet, “Just…”

“I know,” YN nods, moving her hand down Yas’ arm so that she could squeeze her hand, “It’s just Harv.”

“I know,” Yasmin nods, exhaling a long breath, “I don’t know where all these nerves have come from.”

“It’s normal,” YN gives another squeeze of her hand, “You wouldn’t be a bride if you didn’t get at least a little nervous.”

Yas sigh, “I just want to marry him, now, YN.”

“You’ve waited this long,” YN shrugs, “What’s a few more minutes?”

As she says that, Imogen starts organising them all into the order that they were going to be walking down the aisle in. Thankfully, Yas’ father and stepfather had taken over the duty of calming the brides nerves so YN could go to her place without worrying about Yasmin.

With her bouquet in hand, her hair done, her makeup light and the head bridesmaid dress on her body, YN felt ready to watch her brother get married. Yasmin had decided that the bridal party could choose their own dresses, but they all had to be different shades of yellow. YN had chosen a butter yellow, light in colour but it complimented the light and flowy fabric of the dress she had chosen. It had one shoulder, and three layers to its skirt that swayed when she moved. Her favourite part of the dress, however, was the cape that flowed over the long shoulder.

YN felt beautiful, and she felt elegant and even though this day was about Yasmin, and she thought that she looked like the most beautiful bride to ever be, in her long lace adorned gown and matching veil — it had taken YN a long time to feel this comfortable and confident in her skin.

The more she thought about it, the more that she realised that maybe that was why her and Harry were finding their peace with each other. It had been as Yasmin said, they were older now and wiser than they had been, and maybe with that and the experiences they had grown through, they were ready to experience that together.

YN would be lying though if she said that there wasn’t the slightest bubble of nerves in the pit of her stomach as the music started and the bridal party started to move towards the ceremony.

But, as she reminded herself before — this wasn’t about YN, this was about Yasmin and she was going to put one foot in front of the other and watch two of the closest people to her get married.

Harvey was a jittery, nervous wreck.

Harry knew he would be, and he also knew that it wasn’t because Harvey was having second thoughts about marrying Yasmin, it never would be. It was because Harvey wanted to make sure everything was perfect, and everything was exactly the way that Yasmin wanted it to be.

The whiskey that they’d drank earlier in the day hadn’t done much to settle Harvey’s nerves, and all it had done to Harry was make his anticipation grow tenfold.

“Is it hot? Are you sweating?” Harvey spoke from his side, where they were standing under the arch of flowers, pulling the collar of his shirt from him.

“I don’t think you’re sweating because you’re hot, mate,” Harry laughed, clamping him on the shoulder.

Harvey sighed, “I just need to see her now, H, it’s been way too long.”

“It’s been a night, Harvey.”

“Way too long,” Harvey responded, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, “And anyway, Yas messaged me this morning to say that if I lost you would be with my sister.”

Harry sighed, shaking his head, “I don’t think now is the time to be talking about this.”

“No, I think it’s the perfect time,” Harvey nods, “It’s taking my mind off of everything.”

“You knew I was with YN anyway last night, what does that matter?” Harry sighed with the shake of his head.

“But I need to know more, is this going to be just a Positano thing? Or are we going to be celebrating you two like this in a few years?”

Harry barked out a laugh, running his hand through his hair, “We’ve only just got together and I mean… I don’t want to rush her or anything… but…”

“But…” Harvey asks with a raise of his eyebrows, “You want to marry my sister, right?”

Harry barks out another laugh, “Maybe… if we manage to… settle, then yes.”

Harry had never imagined it before really. The wedding, the marriage, everything that comes with that. Mainly because he knew that his current life wouldn’t allow for it. he was too busy, all of the time. But, he found himself now daydreaming as to what would happen if he did let himself imagine it. If he changed the way his life looked so he could have that, the wedding, the marriage, a family — and when he did imagine it, YN was at his side every time.

Maybe he hadn’t let himself imagine it before because deep down he always knew that it wouldn’t happen if YN wasn’t by his side.

Now, if he knew one thing it was that he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that he didn’t loose YN again.

“Let’s just focus on your wedding, hmm?” Harry responded, clapping Harvey on the back again, “Now is not the time to be talking about me.”

Just after Harry said that, the music started and the ceremony begun. One by one the bridesmaids walked down the aisle, bouquets in hand and some form of yellow dress adorned on their body. As pretty as they all looked, Harry found himself waiting for one in particular, the one that came second to the maid of honour, Angie.

YN.

She looked, in Harry’s eyes, like a goddess. The butter yellow of the dress against her sun-kissed skin, the way it flowed behind her with every step she took. The way the smile seemed to be etched onto her face as she moved.

Then, her eyes found his.

If he had been imaging YN walking towards him down an aisle just like this before, the sight before him now would be etched behind his eyelids until it came to be. If it was possible, YN’s smile only grew once her gaze settled on him.

The rest of the room, as it often did when YN was around, seemed to disappear behind him. All he could focus on was her. His breath hitched in his throat, and for a moment he forgot what it was to breathe. The smile on his face matched hers, and his whole body seemed to relax as she moved closer and closer to him.

Harvey nudged him on the shoulder, and he realised that everything that they had just been talking about was going to happen.

He wanted to see YN, in white, walking towards him like that.

YN stopped in her place on the other side to Harry, almost directly across from him. It was dangerous, especially because in a few seconds or so Yasmin would be making her way down the aisle to Harvey.

Everything was perfect, just as Harvey and Yasmin had wanted it to be. The white flowers at the end of rows of chair danced in the sea breeze, which glistened just behind the alter of flowers. The guests in front of him lowered their chatter when they realised who was next, shielding their eyes from the sun that beamed down on them. The musicians behind them played softly, and then Yasmin made her way down the aisle.

Harry honestly reckons that she had only made it two steps before Harvey started to cry, tears escaping his eyes at the sight of the woman he loved making his way towards him. By the time that she was in front of him, Harry noticed that there were tears in Yas’ eyes as well. Behind her, YN was even tearing up. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he could see why.

The officiant welcomed them all, signalling to everyone that this was the day that Yasmin and Harvey were going to vow themselves to each other forever.

“Harvey and Yasmin have prepared their own vows for each other,” The officiant explained, handing the stage over to the couple.

Harry watched as Harvey struggled with slightly trembling hands to pull the piece of paper that he’d written his vows on out of his pocket.

When he did, he looked up at Yasmin, at her teary smiling face and all of the nerves in his body seemed to disappear, and all he cared about was professing his love to the woman in front of him.

“Yasmin,” He let out a small sigh before continuing, “I did try to write something clever for this… Something polished and impressive that would make everyone thing I had spent weeks preparing instead of staring at a blank page and occasionally asking Harry whether saying you’re fit counted as a vow… Apparently, it does not.”

A chorus of laughs spread around the group, Harry and YN included in that.

“The truth is, I don’t think there are clever enough words for what you mean to me,” Harvey says, a sudden seriousness washing over him, “Before you, my life was always loud. I was always moving, always planning the next thing, always convinced that if I slowed down for even a second, I might miss something.”

Harvey exhaled a shaky breath, “Then you came along, and somehow, you made me want to stop. You made me realise that the best parts in life aren’t always the loudest ones. Sometimes, they’re the quiet mornings. They’re cups of tea left beside you without having to ask. They’re knowing someone will still be there after the excitement is over and everyone has gone home.”

Harry listens as his voice starts to waver, “You never tried to make me less of who I am. You have never asked me to be quieter, calmer or easier. You have simply loved me enough that I wanted to become better. More patient. More thoughtful. The kind of man who deserves to stand beside you.”

Harvey reached froward and grabbed Yasmin’s hand, “You have been my calm in every storm, even the ones I created myself. You have laughed at me when I needed it, listened to me when I didn’t deserve it and loved me through every ridiculous idea I have ever had. And there have been many.”

At this point, Harvey had abandoned his paper, “I promise I will never stop making you laugh, even when the joke is terrible. I promise I will listen when you tell me I’m being an idiot, because statistically, you are usually right. I promise to make room for your dreams beside mine, and to never treat your happiness as something that comes second. I promise to choose you when life is easy, and especially when it isn’t. I promise to be your partner, your safest place and your best friend. You are the person I want beside me for every version of my life.

“The exciting parts, the ordinary parts, the parts we haven’t imagined yet. I would choose you in every room, in every lifetime and in every possible version of this world. But I feel very lucky that I get to choose you in this one. So, Yasmin, I give you my whole heart. And I promise that wherever we are, whatever happens and whoever we become, I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to question how completely you are loved.”

At this point, there isn’t a dry eye in the entire party. As a man who is normally the life of the party, the bearer of all jokes, to be the man to lay his heart out so freely in front of everyone, even Harry’s eyes were watering. The fact that it wasn’t over yet, and they still had Yasmin’s vows to go meant that he imagined the tears would continue to flow.

At least they were happy tears.

Harry watched as YN stepped forward, passing Yasmin a sheet of paper that concealed her own vows. He watched as well as YN gave Yasmin’s hand a strong squeeze before setting back in her place. Then YN’s eyes found his, and they beamed despite their glaze.

“Harvey,” Yasmin’s voice was shaky, but she managed to pull it together to continue, “You have always had a way of filling every room you enter. You arrive with stories, ideas, noise and enough energy for at least three people. When I first met you, I thought loving you might feel like trying to keep up with a storm. I was wrong.”

Harry could see both of their faces beam smiles at each other, “Loving you has never felt like chasing you. It has felt like coming home. You brought colour into parts of my life I hadn’t realised had become quiet. You taught me that joy can be loud, that life does not always have to be carefully planned and that sometimes the best memories begin with you saying, I’ve had an idea.”

She lets out a light chuckle, “Even if those words still worry me slightly. You have made me laugh on days when I was certain I had forgotten how. You have held me through every fear without making me feel foolish for having it. You have believed in me in moments when I couldn’t quite believe in myself. But the thing I love most about you is not the version everyone else sees.

“It is the quiet version. The one who remembers the small things. The one who checks that everyone else is okay before admitting when he isn’t. The one who reaches for my hand in his sleep. The one who loves with everything he has, even when he does not always know how to put it into words. I see all of you, Harvey. And I love all of you.

“I promise to be the place where you never have to perform. I promise to celebrate every dream you chase, and to remind you to rest when you have been running for too long. I promise to tell you the truth, even when it was difficult. I promise to stand beside you, never behind you, and to let you stand beside me too. I promise to build a life with you that has room for adventure, change and all the ordinary days in between. A life filled with laughter, family, music and, unfortunately, all of your very ambitious plans…

“I cannot promise that everything will always be easy. But I can promise that you will never face any of it alone. You are my best friend. My favourite person. My safest place. Before you, home was somewhere I went back to. Now, home is wherever you are. And today, in front of everyone we love, I choose you. I choose the life we have already built, and every life still waiting for us.

“I choose you today. I will choose you tomorrow. And I will keep choosing you for as long as I am lucky enough to be yours.”

The tears are flowing freely, and Harry can swear he can hear Harvey sniffling from beside him.

“Can we speed this up please?” Harvey says after a moment, “I kind of want to kiss my wife.”

Everyone laughs, and the officiant says, “We need to do the rings first… Harry, do you have them?”

Fishing into his pocket, Harry steps forward with the box concealing the rings in his hand. He passes them to Harvey and Yasmin, squeezing their hands as he did so, just as YN had done.

Both of their hands shake as the officiant tells them to slip the rings on their fingers, both of their hands locking together as they do. The moment is slow, and despite their fumbling its perfect.

“Now, by the power invested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Harvey and Yasmin lean forward and place their lips against each others and it’s done — they’re married.

Despite the teary mood that everyone had been in before, once the ceremony chairs had been cleared away and the celebration begins everyone has beaming smiles on their faces. There were trays filled with Aperol spritzes, limoncello spritzes, champagne and sparkling water, other filled with nibbles for every one to pick at before the dinner. Music filled the sea air, and the sun continued to blaze down on everyone.

YN was standing back, Aperol spritz held firmly in her hand chatting away to Yasmin’s stepfather and mother when she realised she couldn’t find Harry. Without even meaning to, in the midst of the conversation, she found herself scanning the crowd for him.

Eventually, she spots him. He’s across the terrace, champagne flute in hand as he chatted to some of his and Harvey’s friends that had come over for the ceremony only. He was laughing at something that they said, and then, almost instinctively, his eyes found hers. They didn’t smile immediately, but once they know that they’re both there, and not going anywhere — Harry seems to excuse himself from the conversation around him.

He weaved through the guests in front of him, along their path. He never once takes his eyes off hers, the entire time. YN watches as he apologises when someone accidentally bumps into him, even though it was there fault. It causes the corners of YN’s mouth to lift slightly.

Before, when her heart would flutter when she looked at him she was embarrassed, and ashamed. Now, she lets it happen because that flutter just reminds her that after everything — he’s hers.

He stops in front of her, “How are you feeling?”

YN looked down slightly, “Like I haven’t stopped smiling.”

“Good,” He says, his shoulder brushing hers, “You look… beautiful.”

YN rolls her eyes, “You’ve only told me that four times in the past four hours.”

Harry just shrugs, “Thought I’d make it five.”

As they stand in the middle of the patio, chatting idly to anybody who comes up to them or brushes past them, YN notices that Harry just cannot for the life of him stop touching her. But it seems to YN, that she just can’t bring herself to stop him.

As they move through the crowd, Harry’s thumb brushes the back of her hand, keeping her close to him. He then moves a loose curl that’s blown into her face mid-conversation, making sure that she doesn’t accidentally drop it her glass. His palm every so often lightly rests in the small of her back, his finger brushing against the skin underneath the drops of fabric.

When he says things that only she needs to hear, he leans so close to her. So close that she can feel his body heat through her dress, his breath against her skin. Every time it sends a shiver down her spine, but she just leans into it instead of against it.

After so long of deny herself the fact that she would be able to feel this, especially from Harry — she wanted to revel in the fact that they could do this and feel no shame.

Harry notices her staring and pulls her closer, “What?”

“Nothing,” YN shakes her head, her hand coming to rest upon his, “Nothing.”

“Okay…” Harry doesn’t look convinced, “Whatever you say.”

“YN! Harry!” It’s Yasmin’s voice that calls them, “We need you for photos.”

Harry swallows the rest of his champagne and places his glass down on the side, grabbing YN’s hand so they can walk towards where Yasmin was, “Duty calls.”

They’d already had their photos as just the bride and groom, and YN had no doubt that they turned out beautifully. They were now going to have the ones with the full bridal party. When the photographer starts arranging couples, YN’s heart nearly jumps out of her chest when she realises that Harry steps beside her and slips his arm around her waist. Yasmin and Harvey are next to each other, in similar position to what they were in.

“Keep your hands where I can see them Styles!”

“Focus on your wife, Harv,” Harry responds with a laugh, making both Yasmin and YN roll their eyes.

They were all still smiling though, and that was the most important thing. The photographer snapped away, taking photos of the whole group, then just the bridesmaids and Yas, then Harvey and his groomsmen.

By the time that everyone has taken all of the photos that they want, the bridal party is excused to do what they want. In Yasmin’s words, it was the time to eat, drink and dance the night away. YN wasn’t ashamed to admit that she wouldn’t mind doing all three.

“Is it weird now that you’re married?” YN asked Yasmin as they sat at one of the tables by the patio, having wanted a little bit of rest from being on their feet all day so far, “Like… you’re a wife now.”

Yasmin giggled, “How much have you had to drink?”

“Only one!” YN responds, “But it was quite strong… I just mean… you’re a wife now, it must feel different to being a partner.”

“Sort of,” Yasmin responds, her gaze falling to the ring that now adorned her finger, “But I love your brother just the same… it’s… I just feel like we’re a proper family now.”

“We were a proper family before,” YN shakes her head, not quite understanding.

“You’ll get it,” Yasmin taps her knee, “One day.”

“If someone marries me that is.”

“Oh,” Yasmin barks a laugh, “Someone wants to marry you, trust me.”

At that point, YN realises that Harry had disappeared. YN wasn’t dumb, or at least she didn’t think she was, and she assumed that Yasmin was talking about Harry. Would he want to marry her? The thought seemed absurd but this entire week had been absurd, so she wasn’t that surprised.

Then a hand dropped to her shoulder, and she looked up to see Harry standing there with another Aperol Spritz in his hand, “Oh! Thank you… is it—”

“With soda? Yes.”

“How did you…”

“Because I know,” he leaned down and placed a kiss to her cheek, dropping down in the seat next to her.

Yasmin pulled a face, “I’m a newly wed and yet you two are more nauseating than we are.”

“Once Harv’s got some alcohol in him we all know what he’ll be like,” Harry jokes, taking a sip of his own drink.

“Oh, I know,” Yasmin shakes her head, “It’ll be his moves on the dance floor that scare me the most.”

YN barks out a laugh at that, because they all know that as much as Harvey is musically inclined, dancing is not his forte.

“Speaking of Harv,” Yasmin taps her legs in a light beat before standing up, “I should probably go and find him.”

That leaves YN and Harry alone, and once there’s nobody else around he pulls her chair closer to him, so he can wrap his arm around the back of it.

“What are you doing?” YN laughs.

“Nothing,” Harry shakes his head, “Just don’t want to let you out of my sight.”

“I’m right here,” YN reaches over and places her hand on his green trousers, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Harry nods, his thumb brushing against her shoulder, “Still…”

With their bodies so close, and the celebration around them. YN can’t help but just relish in the feeling. His touch on hers, the fact that they didn’t have to talk and yet they were completely comfortable.

The music drifted around them, people chatted and yet they just sat there. Just completely and utterly enjoying each other’s company. YN realised that after spending a week trying to do nothing but avoid Harry and all of the love surrounding them… she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

The transition from golden afternoon into evening happened around them before YN could even realise it had.

As the last of the photographs were taken, and the sun began its descent behind the cliffs of Positano, everyone was guided down to the lower terrace for dinner.

Long wooden tables stretched the length of the terrace, covered in crisp white linen runners instead of tablecloths. Clusters of ivory roses and sprigs of olive branches spilled from low centrepieces, making sure that everyone could see each other. Above them, strings of warm fairy lights criss-crossed overhead between lemon trees heavy with fruit.

It was perfect. The kind of perfect that didn’t feel real.

“Signora?” A waiter appeared beside YN with a tray balanced expertly on one hand.

She accepted the glass of chilled white wine with a grateful smile, “Thanks.”

Before she could even take a sip, a hand brushed against hers. She turned to see Harry there, a smile on his face.

“Your seat, madam,” with one hand brushing hers, and the other one on the back of her chair, YN couldn’t help but shake her head.

“You know,” she smiled, “You’re setting the bar quite high.”

He just shrugged, “I’ve got eight years to make up for.”

The words were said lightly, almost teasingly, but they settled somewhere deep within YN’s chest all the same. Harry pulled out her chair so she could sit down.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

As YN settled into her seat, he gently pushed the chair back in before taking the one beside her. It was such a small thing. Something that countless couples probably did without thinking, but it made YN’s heart ache in the loveliest way. She supposed it was because Harry wasn’t doing it to impress anyone, there were no cameras, no reason to act this way apart from the fact that he simply just wanted to do it.

The table quickly filled with conversation. Wine was poured as everyone found their seats, followed by baskets overflowing with warm focaccia, little dishes of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, olives marinated in herbs and plates of burrata so creamy they almost melted beneath the drizzle of olive oil.

“God,” YN moaned as ripped another piece of bread off and placed it in her mouth, “I could eat this forever.”

“What is it with you and bread?” Harvey pulled a face, “I remember when you were younger and you used to eat french stick and butter as a snack.”

“It is a snack,” YN looks slightly offended at her brother’s comment, “And it makes my heart happy.”

“Not you, mate, sorry about that,” Harvey laughed, knocking Harry’s shoulder, “Bread is YN’s one true love.”

“I would never get in the way of such pure and true love.”

YN laughed, and god was it music to Harry’s ears.

Dinner unfolded shortly after the appetisers. It was exactly as every Italian meal should be. It was slow, nobody was in a hurry for it to be finished, and the courses arrived at exactly the right time after the one before. There was fresh seafood, which then moved to homemade pasta, before more seafood in the form of perfectly cooked sea bass. The wine poured, and stories drifted up and down the table everything from Harvey’s university friends embarrassing him, to Yas’ cousins reminiscing about childhood holidays.

YN found herself laughing until her cheeks hurt. As far as a support system went, they had a damn good one around them. Every now and then she’d glance towards Harry, and almost every single time he was already looking at her.

“What?” she smiled into her wine glass.

“Nothing,” he shrugged it off.

“You’re doing a damn lot of nothing today,” YN retorted with the raise of one of her eyebrows, “You were staring.”

“I was admiring,” he responds, leaning back in his seat slightly.

“There’s a difference?”

“A very important one.” YN rolled her eyes at his words, and yet she couldn’t quiet stop smiling.

“You are unbelievably cheesy.”

“And yet…” he leaned closer, his voice dropping low enough that only she could hear, “… you still fancy me.”

Heat rushed to YN’s cheeks and she nudged his knee beneath the table, “Behave.”

“I am.”

“You are absolutely not,” she retorted, and Harry’s grin only widened.

Once the sky had deepened into indigo, and the staff had quietly cleared away the last desert plates (lemon sorbet, which YN would have eaten buckets full of it was allowed), someone clicked a knife gently against a champagne glass.

It was Harvey, “It is now, unfortunately, time for the best man’s speech.”

“Hey!” Harry whined from his spot next to YN.

“Apart from Yas, and probably my sister, Harry knows me the best… and that unfortunately means that he probably has enough embarrassing stories to keep us here until breakfast… but I have promised him a speech, so I apologise in advance.”

Harry rolled his eyes at his friends antics and stood up, straightening his jacket as the applause settled around him.

“When I first met Harvey…” He paused and looked between Yas and Harvey, a smile on his face, “I thought he was the loudest person I’d ever encountered.”

“I still am,” Harvey called.

“You absolutely are,” Laughter spread around the group, “I’ve also never met anyone more fiercely loyal. If Harvey loves you… he loves you with everything he’s got. You’ll never have to question where you stand with him, or wonder whether he’ll show up. Ge always will.”

Harry watched as both Yasmin and Harvey listened, their grins replaced with something else, “I’ve been lucky enough to watch the two of you build something really special. It never looked complicated, or forced. It just… fit. Like it had always meant to.”

Across the table, YN watched as Yas reached for Harvey’s hand, and she couldn’t help the smile that flickered across his face.

“I think everyone spends their life hoping they’ll find someone who makes the world feel a little quieter. Someone who turns the ordinary Tuesdays into your favourite days of the week. Someone who reminds you that home has never really been a place, it’s always been a person.”

YN felt herself stop breathing. Harry’s eyes hadn’t found hers yet, not once, but somehow every word felt like it belonged to her.

“I also think…” Harry continued more quietly, “That sometimes we’re frightened of the very things that matter the most. So we convince ourselves we’re protecting other people. When really… we’re only protecting ourselves from having to be brave.”

YN fingers tighten around the hem of her wine glass. Only she really knew what he meant, and only she knew about the years they’d wasted believing that distance was kindness. Harry finally looked up, and his eyes met hers briefly. Just for a heartbeat, long enough for her to feel it.

“I’ve learnt this week that life has a funny way of giving you second chances,” He smile softened slightly, “And if you’re lucky enough to get one… don’t waste it.”

“So,” Harry lifted his champagne flute, “So here’s to Harvey and Yas. To finding the person who makes everywhere feel like home. And choosing them. Every single day. To Harvey and Yas!”

Crystal glasses clinked together beneath fairy lights. YN lifted hers too, though her eyes never left Harry’s. Across the table, hidden beneath the white linen tablecloth, she felt something brush against her hand.

It was Harry. He didn’t make a show of it, or even look at her, he just simply turned his palm upwards beneath the table as an invitation. She accepted it, and slid her fingers into his. His hand closed around her and encompassed her in warmth, a certain warmth as though it had always belonged there.

YN realised that it probably had, and they just hadn’t realised it.

By the time the dinner came to an end, the villa felt transformed. Somewhere near the dance floor, the band had abandoned the softer jazz they’d played throughout dinner in favour of something brighter, and livelier.

Guests were already beginning to migrate towards the music, champagne flutes being replaced with cocktails and limoncello, ties loosened and heels abandoned beneath tables. The wedding had officially become a party.

YN laughed as Harvey was being practically dragged onto the dance floor by Yasmin, “I’m not drunk enough yet.”

“Of course you are,” Yas replied.

“I heard you slagging me off earlier,” Harvey responds, “I’m not embarrassing you.”

“You won’t embarrass me and if you do I’ll just laugh,” Yasmin responds, “Come on, I wanna dance with my hubby.”

“I married a bully,” Harvey sighs dramatically.

“You married the love of your life,” Harry corrected, slipping an arm around YN’s wait as they watched the exchange.

Harvey considered that for a moment before nodding, “…Yeah.”

“Hopeless,” YN murmured fondly.

“The pair of them.”

YN looked up at him, “The pair?”

Harry shrugged, “I’ve seen the way Yas looks at him.”

“And?”

“And I’ve seen the way Harvey looks at her.”

“So?” YN was immensely confused.

“So…” He smiled softly, “They’re exactly the same.”

YN followed Harry’s gaze as Harvey finally gave in, spinning Yas dramatically across the dance floor to an eruption of cheers. YN’s smile grew without her permission.

“They really are.”

Harry sighs, “They’ve waited long enough for today.”

The words settled comfortably between them, and then YN glanced at him, “So have we.”

“So have we.”

The music changed around them, and someone cheered loudly. Before YN could even recognise the opening notes, Harry was already holding his hand out towards her. Just as he had done the night prior.

“Dance with me.”

“I’ve had a lot of wine, Harry.”

“So have I,” He responds, swaying on his heels lightly, “I think that makes us more qualified.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” YN shook her head but stood up.

“I do,” her hand slipped into his and they made their way towards the dance floor.

It was already crowded, as it seemed all of the guests had decided that it was time to congregate there. YN barely had time to take it all in before Harry gently pulled her closer. One hand settled at her waist, and the other found hers.

The wine had settled warmly beneath YN’s skin, not enough to make the world spin but just enough that everything felt softer. She wasn’t worried about who might be watching, she was just simply… happy.

As they swayed, YN’s arms wrapping around Harry’s neck once more, YN couldn’t help but lean upwards and place her lips on Harry’s.

He pulls away with a silly smile on his face, “I think… that’s the wine talking.”

“No,” YN shakes her head and catches his lips again, “It’s all me, Harry.”

The party carried on without them. It happened gradually. One minute Harry and YN were still standing amongst everyone else, laughing as Harvey attempted to convince a group of increasingly unconvinced guests that he could perform the choreography to Dancing Queen.

The next, they had drifted to the edge of the terrace. They had simply started walking. YN had slipped her heels off first, sighing in relief as her feet met the warm stone beneath them.

Harry glanced sideways at her, “You lasted longer than I thought.”

“I committed to the outfit,” YN sighed.

“You were suffering,” Harry countered back.

“I was committed in my suffering,” Harry laughed, the sound soft beneath the music still floating from behind them.

Harry shook his head at her, “What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The woman I met eight years ago would’ve kept those shoes on until she physically couldn’t stand anymore.”

YN smiled to herself, because he was right. She would’ve. She would have done anything back then to prove that she was managing.

“I think…” YN hesitated before saying, “I think she’s learning.”

Harry looked at her for a second, “I like who she’s become.”

The warmth that had settled in YN’s chest hours ago seemed to grow even stronger, and she reached across without thinking and linked her fingers through his. He squeezed them once, and neither of them let go.

The further that they walked, the quieter everything became. The music softened into little more than a distant melody carried on the evening breeze. Laughter echoed faintly from the terrace behind them. Somewhere below, waves rolled lazily against the rocks lining the shore. The villa gardens glowed beneath strings of fairy lights, whilst the most cast silver ribbons across the surface of the sea.

Eventually they reached the pool, the same pool which they’d poured their hearts out at days before. YN stopped automatically, and Harry almost walked another step before noticing that she wasn’t beside him anymore. He turned, and saw that she was looking at the water.

A small smile tugged at her lips, “It’s funny.”

Harry walked back towards her, “What is?”

YN folded her arms loosely, never taking her eyes off the pool, “The last time we stood here… I thought we were about to ruin everything.”

“I remember,” Harry followed her gaze.

She shook her head, “I was terrified.”

“So was I?”

YN looked up at him, surprised, “You were.”

Harry gave a small, almost sheepish smile, “I was convinced I’d done it. That I’d finally lost you and there was nothing I could do to get you back.”

YN frowned, “But at the café, and at the vineyard?”

“I’d spent eight years making the wrong decision,” Harry admitted with the slight shrug of his shoulders, “I wasn’t particularly confident I’d suddenly start making the right ones.”

YN laughed softly, “No… I suppose not.”

A silence settled between them, one that was comfortable and peaceful. The kind that didn’t need filling.

Harry stepped closer until their shoulders brushed, “I keep thinking about that first day. When you arrived. You barely looked at me.”

“I was trying so hard not to,” YN admitted.

“I know,” YN laughed under her breath.

“I thought that if I avoided you all week, I’d leave with my heart… mostly intact.”

“And now?”

YN turned to face him fully, and shrugged, “I don’t think my heart was ever leaving Italy without you.”

“You can’t keep saying things like that,” Harry closed his eyes for the briefest second.

“What?” YN started to panic.

“As though you’re trying to finish me off.”

YN nudged his shoulder, “Fucking hell, Harry, don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’ve earned it.”

“You really haven’t,” YN rolled her eyes, “You’ve become unbearably smug.”

“I’ve become your boyfriend.”

The word hung in the air between them. Boyfriend. Such a silly word, so wonderfully ordinary and yet YN couldn’t stop smiling. A word that she read over and over again in the books she edited, and yet she never thought she would be hearing it from Harry. That he was declaring to her that he was hers.

“I quite like the sound of that,” YN beamed.

Harry smiled back, “I was hoping you would.”

For a while they simply stood together, watching the reflections ripple gently across the pool. Listening to the distant celebration still continuing without them.

YN broke the silence first, “I’ve been thinking.”

Harry groaned and dropped his head back, “That’s never good.”

YN pinched his side, “I’m serious.”

Harry reached over and grabbed her hand, “I know… what about?”

YN looked down at their joined hands and couldn’t help her smile, “I’ve been so focused on getting here that I haven’t really thought about afterwards.”

“Going home?” Harry nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” YN responded with a laugh, “It will be strange and I don’t want this to become one of those holidays that people spend the rest of their lives talking about.”

“What do you mean?” Harry responded with a frown.

YN searched for the words, “You know… ‘Remember Positano?’… ‘Remember that week?’… ‘Wasn’t it wonderful?’” YN shook her head, “I don’t want Italy to be the best part.”

Harry watched her carefully, “Then tell me, YN, what do you want?”

“I want it to be the beginning,” she responded.

“I want that too,” He squeezed her hand.

YN smiled, almost sadly, “But real life isn’t… this. It’s commuting. It’s laundry. It’s food shopping. It’s bills. It’s… me being at my little desk reading romance novels and you touring the world… what if that just isn’t as easy?”

Harry didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he lifted their joint hands and placed a kiss to her thumb, “You know what I’ve been imagining?”

YN shook her head, “No.”

“Sunday mornings.”

“What?” YN blinked.

“Not holidays. Not fancy dinners. Sunday mornings,” A smile slowly spread across his face, “You making tea while complaining that I’ve used every mug in the kitchen.”

“I wouldn’t complain.”

“You absolutely would,” Harry counters.

“I’d complain because you never put them in the dishwasher.”

“I’ll learn.”

“You didn’t last time,” YN responds and Harry just laughed.

“No I didn’t,” He responds, “I’ve imagined arguing over what takeaway we’re getting, you stealing the duvet. You pretending not to like my music before singing every word. You falling asleep halfway through films.”

“I do not—” YN tries but Harry shakes his head.

“You absolutely do.”

“I’ve never—”

“You drooled on my shoulder once.”

YN’s mouth fell open, “I did not!”

“You absolutely did,” YN buried her face in his shoulder, laughing.

“You’re awful,” She muttered against his neck.

“I know,” He rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head, “My point is… I’ve spent a lifetime imaging what this could be. I don’t want extraordinary, YN, I just want ordinary. I want you on a Tuesday night eating a bad takeaway. I want you stealing my hoodies. I want Christmas with your family. I want arguing over whose turn it is to buy milk, oat obviously. I want all of it… The exciting bits, the boring bits, the difficult bits. I want every version of life you’re willing to give me.”

YN inhaled a sharp breath, “Harry…”

“I’m done making decisions for both of us,” He nods, and YN’s smile faded slightly. Not because she was upset, but because she knew exactly what he meant, “For years… I told myself that staying away from you was the right thing. That I was protecting you. I never once stopped to ask what you wanted. I’m never doing that again and if I’m scared… I’ll tell you. If something changes, we’ll talk. If I’m worried… I’ll tell you instead of deciding for you.”

He placed a light kiss to the top of her head, “I don’t want to spend days wondering what our lives would have looked like if I’d been brave enough. I’m choosing you. When work is stressful. When we’re tired. When one of us is impossible to live with… that’s you, by the way.”

YN laughed through the tears that were already gathering in her eyes, “I’m never impossible.”

“No?”

“Never.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, “We’ll revisit that.”

YN swatted lightly at his chest before muttering, “I love you.”

The words slipped out so naturally that neither of them seemed to realise she’d said them until a heartbeat later. Harry just stared at her, whilst she smiled up at him.

“I really, really love you.”

His eyes glistened and he squeezed her closer, “I know.”

YN laughed, “That’s all you’re saying?”

Harry shook his head, “No.”

He turned so that he was looking at her, and his hands came to cup her cheeks lightly, “I love you too. I’ve loved you for longer than I’ve known what to do with. And I’m done wasting time,” He rested her forehead against hers, “So…” A smile played across his lips, “What do you say?”

“To what?”

“Fancy coming home with me?”

YN laughed through the tears, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Harry kissed her then, slowly. Not with urgency, or desperation but with certainty. It was the kind of kiss that came from knowing there would be another one tomorrow morning. And the morning after that.

When they finally pull apart, the music from the villa has drifted across the gardens once more, followed by another roar of laughter from their friends.

Harry smiled, “I think they’re wondering where we’ve disappeared to.”

“They’ll survive another five minutes,” YN responds, her lips still hovering over his.

Harry offers her his hand, “They probably will.”

YN accepts his hand, not because she needed it but because he simply wanted to hold it. Then, they turned and walked back towards the celebration together, towards their family, and towards the ordinary life waiting for them beyond Positano.

For the first time, tomorrow wasn’t something that they were fearing. It was something they were looking forward to.

Together.

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔

YN: If I had a pound for every time we had sex and then the next day you ignored me I’d have two pounds Harry.

YN: Which isn’t a lot but it’s annoying that it’s happened twice.

Harry: Not funny, YN.

YN: I think it’s funny…

Harry: I’m in a meeting with your brother and some very important people.

YN: So it’s Harvey’s fault yet again?

YN: I might have to start having words with this brother of mine.

YN: He keeps making you abandon me after fucking the living daylights out of me.

Harry: Again, not funny.

YN: A bit funny, you have to admit.

Harry: I’m not admitting anything.

Harry: Accept from the fact that I can give you a good fucking when you need it.

YN: and I do need it

YN: Now.

Harry: I’m in a meeting YN.

YN: So?

YN: I’m in your bed

YN: Naked

YN: And you know I’m not against doing things myself if I have to.

Harry: Be patient

Harry: I won’t be home late

Harry: You can wait until then.

YN: Are you sure about that?

Harry: Yes.

Harry: I love you.

YN: Love you too

YN: Don’t keep me waiting too long.

Harry was late. He arrived home just after the clock hit nine, which in YN speak was practically in the middle of the night. He was quiet, knowing that she’d probably be asleep but yet she still hears him.

“You’re late,” YN mumbles sleepily as he slips into their bedroom.

“I tried not to wake you up,” He grumbles lightly, “It’s your brother’s fault, it’s the first time I’ve seen him since they got back from their honeymoon.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to be late,” YN watches as he looks at her up and down, at the shirt she was wearing (one from his wardrobe, slightly fraying on the shoulder but effortlessly sexy on her) and the birds-nest on her head that she’d just thrown up after her shower.

“I know.”

As much as it pains YN, she’s so happy he’s home. It doesn’t even matter to her too much that she’s late, only that he’s here. That if she wasn’t still half-asleep, she could reach out and touch him if she wanted.

“I’ll be having words with Harvey,” She mumbles as she stretches, extending all of her limbs.

“I’m sure you will.”

YN hums, and once she’d regained more control over her limbs, she practically jumps at him. Her thighs wrap around his waist, her elbows landing on his shoulders, her lips hitting his in a way that was probably all too toothy, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He responds by placing his hands under her ass, tugging her towards him.

Harry returns her kiss, and then drops her down to the mattress. He mumbles over and over again how perfect she is against his lips, especially when she pushes at his shoulders so that he’s on his back and she’s on top.

“You made me wait too long,” YN mumbles against him, working on his trousers.

“It’s not even been twenty four hours,” Harry laughs, “You lasted five years.”

“Not the time,” YN responds, “Twenty-four hours is too long now.”

YN drops down, taking him out of his trousers and licking her lips. As she wraps her lips around the head of his cock, he twitches in her mouth. His breath starts to intake quicker, his eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of her around him. His hands find her hair, just holding her and not pushing.

He mutters, “Fuck, YN.” After a few bobs of her head, YN stays still and as she does, he thrusts inside her mouth gently, “Fucking hell, YN.”

YN hums around his cock, feeling him shiver.

“I’m really trying to be a gentleman here.”

YN lifts from him with a loud pop, “Are you?”

“Yeah, but—”

YN licks a long stripe from the base to the head of his cock, causing him to tremble and loose track of his words.

“But what?” She responds, “Am I making you wait too long?”

He groans, and before she can do anything else he has her back pressed against the mattress. Pulling her thin panties down her legs, he lines his cock up with her wet entrance and pushes inside. It is maybe a little too hard, or too fast but the burn is so welcomed by YN. She had been waiting and wanting this for so long, and now she couldn’t get enough.

“I made you wait too long, baby, didn’t I?” He mutters against her lip, starting to move his hips back and forth at a steady pace, “I’m sorry… didn’t realise how much you needed my cock.”

“I told you,” Harry’s hands wrap around her wrists, pinning them above her head, “I always need you.”

“Fuck, so fucking perfect for me,” He mumbles taking her lips between his teeth lightly, “Can’t get enough of you, better than anything I could have dreamed.”

Harry’s breath is loud in her ear as he continues to plough into her, the rate at which causing her tits to bounce over and over again. Then, he pulls out of her, leaving her breathless as he does. In one swift motion, he flips her over so she’s on her belly. Then he slips back inside of her, the new position causing YN’s eyes to slam shut.

He thrusts against her hard, reaching around so his fingers can find her clit, rubbing it lightly to match the pace of his cock. Her head falls against the mattress, trying to muffle the screams that threaten to escape from her lips.

“Come for me,” He mutters against her ear, “Come for me, baby, can feel you’re close.”

“So close, Harry,” YN mumbles.

It doesn’t take long before she tightens against him, a loud moan escaping her lips as he fucks her through her orgasm. Harry’s follows soon after, and then they’re both dropping on the bed, spent, breathless and blissful in pleasure.

YN begins to chuckle when she hears Harry groan.

“What?” He asked, opening one of his eyes to look at her.

“Nothing,” He reaches for her, grabbing her close to him.

“I told you,” He presses a light kiss to her cheek, “I’m always coming back, baby. You’re stuck with me forever.”

“Forever is a long time, Harry,” YN giggles.

Tonight, the first warning she gets is the soft scrape of a trainer against bark. Then a branch brushes the window, followed by two familiar taps against the glass.

She’s already smiling when she turns. Rafe’s face appears out of the dark, one hand braced against the window frame and his hair pushed untidily across his forehead from the climb. 

His mouth curves when he sees her sitting in bed, and that stupid, private grin does something immediate to the centre of her body, a small tightening she feels all the way down to her bare toes beneath the duvet.

She crosses the room and lifts the window just far enough for the night air to slip through. “You know my brother isn’t even home.”

“Know that.”

“You could’ve used the door.”

Rafe glances toward the front of the house. “Cameras.”

“They’re only at the front.”

“Yeah,” he says, gripping the sill. “That’s why I’m back here.”

She presses her lips together, but the laugh escapes anyway as she moves aside. “You’re going to fall one day.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You nearly fell last time.”

“That branch broke.”

“Because you stood on it.”

He climbs through with considerably less grace than his expression suggests, one knee knocking the wall before both feet land on the carpet. 

The room gives a tiny, treacherous creak beneath his weight. They freeze together, eyes going to the closed door, though there is nobody downstairs to hear it. 

Her parents are across the sound for the whole weekend, her brother has packed enough clothes for three nights at his girlfriend’s despite insisting he’ll be home tomorrow, and the only other living thing in the house is a goldfish whose investment in her reputation appears minimal.

Rafe straightens slowly. “See? Quiet.”

He brushes a bit of bark from his dark t-shirt and looks at her properly. The humour in his face shifts, attention dragging over the little cotton shorts she changed into after dinner and the pale tank top that suddenly feels thinner than it did five minutes ago. 

His eyes come back to hers, blue even in the low yellow light from her bedside lamp, and the room seems to grow smaller around him.

Her mouth goes dry. She knows things about Rafe Cameron. She knows he’s been suspended twice, though he says the first one shouldn’t count because the other boy threw the first punch. 

She knows Ward has threatened to take away his truck so many times that neither of them treats it as a real possibility anymore. She knows teachers lower their voices when they say his name in the hallway, as though he might hear trouble being assigned to him from three classrooms away.

She knows there have been girls before her. Two, according to Sarah, who’d delivered the information while painting her toenails on the floor of Rafe’s bedroom with the solemn cruelty of a 13 year old girl who understood exactly what she was doing.

Not girlfriends, Sarah had clarified. Just girls.

She knows Rafe is probably a bad idea in several measurable ways. Her mind is generally very good at assembling those reasons when he isn’t nearby. Then he touches her, and it forgets its job.

His hand settles at her waist as he steps in, warm through the tank top, thumb pressing once beneath the bottom of her ribs. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says, already quieter than she means to be.

“You miss me?”

“You saw me yesterday.”

Rafe tips his head. “Didn’t answer.”

Her fingers catch lightly in the front of his shirt. “Maybe.”

“Yeah?”

She looks at his mouth instead of responding. That’s enough. His other hand comes to her jaw, fingertips sliding beneath her hair as he bends and kisses her.

The first press is soft, almost careful, though it doesn’t stay that way for long. Nothing with Rafe ever stays arranged. His mouth moves over hers again, deeper this time, and she rises onto her toes without thinking, both hands tightening in his shirt while he walks her backward toward the bed.

The backs of her knees meet the mattress. Rafe’s hand leaves her waist just long enough to guide her down, then he follows, catching himself on one forearm before his full weight can settle over her. 

One of his knees slips between her thighs. The position opens something inside her that has been wound tight since she saw him outside the window, heat moving through her stomach in a long, disorienting pull.

She curls one leg against his hip. Rafe makes a sound into her mouth. Small, low, enough to make her fingers clutch harder.

His hand moves from her jaw to her waist, then back again, never staying anywhere long enough for her to prepare for the next place. He brushes his thumb across her cheek, drags his knuckles down the side of her neck, fits his palm around the curve above her hip. 

Every touch seems to leave the shape of itself behind, her skin continuing to feel his hand even after it has moved.

“So pretty,” he murmurs against her mouth.

Her face warms. “Stop.”

“Why?”

“You keep saying that.”

“Keep thinkin’ it.” He kisses the corner of her mouth, then the soft skin beneath her ear. His hair brushes her cheek, smelling faintly of shampoo and the outside air. “Pretty girl.”

She turns her face into his before he can see how badly the words affect her. Rafe laughs quietly against her neck, pleased with himself in a way that should be irritating and isn’t. His knee shifts higher, denim dragging against the thin cotton between her legs, and the sudden pressure makes her inhale sharply.

He lifts his head immediately. Those blue eyes find her in the dim room, watchful now beneath the dark fall of his hair. “You okay?”

She nods too quickly. “Mhm.”

Rafe studies her for another second, but she pulls him back by the shirt before he can ask anything else. She wants him. The knowledge has been sitting inside her for weeks, growing heavier every time his hand stays at her waist after a kiss or his mouth moves too slowly against her throat. 

It has followed her through class and dinner and every whispered phone call after midnight, frightening less because of the wanting itself than because it is him.

Rafe, who has done this before. Rafe, who might notice everything she doesn’t know.

His hand moves down her side again, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of her tank top for half a second before retreating. He’s waiting. She realises it in the pause, in the way his mouth stays close to hers without taking anything else.

She runs both hands into his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. It falls straight back. “Your hair’s getting long.”

“You hate it?”

She shakes her head, letting the strands slide between her fingers. “No.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “You like it?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah?” Rafe drops his mouth to hers again, smiling into the kiss. “You like everything.”

“I do not.”

“Like me.”

“Sometimes,” she mumbles.

“Liar.”

She laughs softly, and the sound turns into something else when his knee presses between her thighs again. Her body shifts against him before she can think through the movement, chasing the pressure with a small roll of her hips. 

Rafe goes still above her. His breath catches. The muscles beneath her hands tighten. Something hard presses against her through his shorts, unmistakable enough that every part of her seems to notice at once.

Her hips stop. “Sorry,” she whispers.

Rafe’s brow pulls together. “For what?”

She looks toward his shoulder, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. “I don’t know.”

The answer sounds ridiculous the moment it leaves her. His hand comes back to her jaw, not forcing her face upward but resting there until she looks at him again. “Do you wanna stop?”

She shakes her head. “No.” Her voice catches slightly. She clears it. “I don’t want to stop.”

Rafe nods once, expression quiet and serious in a way that makes him look older for half a second. “Okay.”

He doesn’t start moving again immediately. He kisses her instead, slow enough that the frantic little beat beneath her ribs begins to settle around it. 

His thumb passes over her chin. His mouth stays soft, giving her time to decide what to do with her own body, where to place her hands, how close she wants him.

She slides her palms beneath his shirt. His stomach pulls tight at the first touch. His skin is warm, almost hot, and smoother than she expected over the hard line of muscle beneath it. 

She follows the shape of his waist, then catches the hem and gives it a small, uncertain tug.

Rafe draws back. “You want it off?”

She nods. He sits onto his knees and pulls the shirt over his head in one easy movement, tossing it toward the floor without looking. It lands partly on her history notebook.

Her eyes move over him before she can pretend they don’t. Even at sixteen, he’s broad through the shoulders already, chest rising slightly faster than usual beneath her attention. 

There’s a fading yellow bruise near his ribs she hadn’t noticed before and a thin scratch along one side of his stomach. She wants to ask where both came from. She wants to put her mouth against them. She wants several things she cannot yet arrange into a sentence.

Rafe watches her watching him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

“Don’t.”

His mouth curves as he lowers himself over her again. The heat of his chest presses through her tank top, bare skin against thin cotton, and she lets out a quiet breath at the difference. He feels more real like this. More dangerous, maybe, though not in any way that makes her want distance.

His mouth finds hers. She slides both hands over his back, learning the movement of muscle beneath her palms while he kisses her until the room becomes nothing but the soft drag of sheets under her legs and the small sounds neither of them seems able to keep entirely inside.

Her body begins moving against him again. Cautious at first, then with more confidence when he follows the rhythm instead of interrupting it. Rafe drops his forehead briefly against hers, breathing hard through his nose.

“Jesus,” he whispers.

She stills slightly. “What?”

He looks at her as though the question is impossible. “You.”

The word leaves warmth behind it everywhere. She kisses him before she has to answer.

His fingers gather the bottom of her tank top. He lifts it only an inch before stopping. “Can I?”

She swallows. Her hands feel damp where they rest against his shoulders, but she nods. 

Rafe waits.

“Yes,” she says, more clearly. “You can.”

He eases the fabric upward, and she raises her arms to help him pull it over her head. Her hair catches beneath the neckline and falls messily across her face when the top comes free. 

For one awful second, she feels too visible. The cool air touches the skin above her shorts. Her instinct is to fold both arms over herself.

Rafe looks at her. The room goes completely quiet around the shape of his attention. He looks slowly, almost helplessly, eyes moving over her before returning to her face as though he has to check whether she is still allowing it.

“You’re so pretty,” he says. It comes without any of his usual grin. Her chest pulls tight.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

His expression changes around the edges, softening at the shy little formality of it. “You’re welcome.”

A laugh slips out of her, and Rafe smiles then, bending to kiss the centre of her chest. The contact makes her inhale sharply. He looks up at once, eyes catching hers over the small distance between them, and she understands with a strange rush that he’s nervous too.

Not the same way, Rafe knows what comes next. His hands don’t shake. But he wants her to like him after. Wants to do this correctly in some way he would never admit aloud.

The realisation steadies her more than any practiced reassurance could.

She touches his face. “I trust you.”

Rafe goes still. For a second, something too exposed crosses his expression, there and gone before she can name it. He turns his mouth into her palm and kisses it once, then looks back at her.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “But you tell me if you don’t like something. Or if it hurts. Or you change your mind.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

She nods. “Promise.”

He kisses her again, and the rest unfolds slowly from there. Nothing about it is as smooth as films pretend. Her knee catches awkwardly against his hip while they work her shorts down, and Rafe nearly loses his balance trying to kick his own off without leaving the bed. 

She laughs into his shoulder, mortified and relieved at once, while he mutters, “Shut up,” even though he’s laughing too.

He has a condom in the pocket of the shorts crumpled near his ankle.

The sight of it makes her stomach turn over. Rafe pauses with the packet between his fingers and looks at her. “Still okay?”

She nods, then catches herself. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” She reaches for him and curls her fingers around his wrist. “I’m sure.”

He kisses her forehead before opening it. She doesn’t watch that part. Instead she stares at his face, at the concentration pulling slightly between his eyebrows, the small mark beside one of them she’s wanted to kiss since their second date. 

When he settles over her again, he holds himself carefully above her, one hand planted beside her shoulder and the other smoothing over her hip.

“Tell me to stop, I stop,” he says.

“I know.”

“Doesn’t matter if we’ve started.”

“I know, Rafe.”

“Okay.” His mouth brushes hers. “Just making sure.”

The first pressure makes every muscle in her body tighten.

Rafe stops immediately. “Hey.”

She grips his shoulders, eyes squeezed closed. It hurts, not sharply, but enough to turn her breath thin and strange. Her body seems unable to decide whether to pull closer or get away from the feeling altogether.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

She opens her eyes. His face is only inches from hers. Hair fallen forward again, mouth slightly open, blue eyes fixed completely on her. 

There’s no impatience in them. No disappointment. Nothing except attention so absolute it makes the rest of the room disappear.

“Breathe,” he says softly. “You’re holding your breath.”

She lets it out in a shaky little rush.

“There you go.” His thumb strokes once over her hip. “We can stop.”

“No.” Her fingers tighten behind his neck. “Just– wait.”

“Yeah. I’m waiting.”

He stays completely still while she adjusts around him, kissing her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her mouth without asking for anything else. His breathing is uneven against her skin, restraint held visibly through his shoulders, but he doesn’t move until she shifts beneath him and nods.

“Okay,” she whispers.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Rafe moves carefully. It remains strange for a while. Too full, slightly sore, the rhythm difficult to find with both of them thinking too hard about it. 

She holds onto him so tightly her nails leave pale half-moons across his back. He keeps asking if she’s alright in a voice that grows rougher each time, and she keeps nodding until he gives her a look and she remembers to use words.

“I’m okay.”

“Hurts?”

“A little,” she nods.

His jaw tightens. “We should stop.”

“No.” She pulls him closer when he tries to lift away. “It’s getting better.”

Rafe searches her face, suspicious and worried and painfully sweet about it. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” She touches the crease between his eyebrows. “You’re making a weird face.”

“I’m concentrating.”

“On looking angry?”

“On not hurting you.”

Her mouth softens. She draws him down and kisses him, slow and clumsy and full of more affection than she knows what to do with. 

Something shifts after that. Her body loosens by small degrees, the discomfort thinning beneath warmth and pressure and the familiar feel of his mouth against hers.

Rafe feels it happen. His rhythm changes, still gentle but surer now, his hand sliding beneath her knee to hold her closer. Pleasure arrives without announcement, a low, gathering heat that makes her hips begin to follow his and her breath catch for a different reason.

His eyes stay on her. It should embarrass her. Instead, she cannot stop looking back.

“What?” she whispers when his attention becomes almost unbearable.

Rafe shakes his head once.

“What?”

“You’re so…” His face tightens, hips stalling for half a second as he searches for the word. “Fuck.”

She smiles despite herself. “That’s nice.”

“No, I mean–” He lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, lowering his forehead to hers. “Can’t look away from you.”

Heat rises from her chest to her face. “Thank you.”

Rafe laughs properly then, quiet and disbelieving against her mouth. “You keep thanking me.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“Don’t have to say anything.”

He kisses her, and the motion carries on around them, no longer careful in a frightened way but still controlled, his hand steady beneath her thigh and hers tangled in the hair at the back of his head. 

The room smells faintly of her vanilla candle, clean sheets and the warm night coming through the open window. Somewhere outside, a car moves along the road and disappears again, the sound distant enough to belong to another life.

Rafe’s breathing changes. His grip tightens. He presses his face into the side of her neck with a low, broken sound he tries and fails to silence, body going tense above hers before gradually settling.

For a little while, neither of them moves. His weight remains mostly on his arms, though his chest rests warm against hers now, heart beating hard enough that she feels each thud beneath her palm. 

She strokes the damp hair near his temple. Rafe turns and kisses her shoulder, then lifts his head to study her face as though he expects to find an answer there.

“You okay?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“It was…” She pauses, aware that several possible words would be dishonest. Perfect isn’t right. Neither is amazing, exactly. It had hurt, and they had knocked knees twice, and at one point she had become so conscious of where her left arm was that she had stopped feeling anything else. “Good.”

Rafe’s mouth twitches. “Good.”

“Shut up.”

“I’ll take good.”

She smiles and runs her thumb along his cheek. “It got better.”

His expression softens with visible relief. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He kisses her once, gentle and lingering, before carefully pulling out. She winces at the change, and Rafe freezes halfway upright. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“Rafe.”

“Right.” He reaches for the sheet and draws it over her before leaving the bed, an unexpectedly modest gesture from somebody who had been inside her less than a minute ago. “I’m gonna– yeah. Be right back.”

She watches him disappear into the bathroom in only his shorts, shoulders broad above the low waistband and one hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck.

The door stays partly open. Water runs. A cupboard clicks. She sits up carefully and pulls the sheet beneath her arms.

Her body feels different, though she knows that’s probably imagined. Tender in places, warm everywhere else, hair tangled around her shoulders and lips sore from kissing. She looks down at the bed as if some visible dividing line might have appeared across the sheets.

Nothing has. She’s still herself. Still sitting beneath the faded quilt her grandmother gave her, with Rafe’s t-shirt lying over a history notebook and one of his trainers beside the leg of her desk.

She isn’t a virgin anymore. She lost her virginity to Rafe Cameron.

The thought should feel terrifying. Instead, something bright and slightly ridiculous opens inside her. Her boyfriend. Rafe, who climbed the magnolia tree because her father bought a camera. 

Rafe, who gets into fights and argues with Ward and has a reputation half the island seems invested in maintaining. Rafe, who had watched her face so carefully she’d almost forgotten to be frightened.

He returns carrying a damp washcloth he seems uncertain whether to present. The second he sees her sitting with the sheet held against her chest, his expression changes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Rafe stops beside the bed. “You look weird.”

She frowns. “That’s rude.”

“Not bad weird.” He sets the cloth down on the bedside table and crouches slightly so they’re level. “You’re thinking.”

“I do that sometimes.”

“Yeah, too much.” His gaze moves over her face. “You regret it?”

Her chest pinches. “No.”

“Promise?”

She lets go of the sheet with one hand and touches his cheek. “I’m happy.”

Rafe looks at her for a second longer, suspicion slowly loosening. Then he leans in and kisses her, one hand cupping the back of her neck while his thumb strokes over her chin.

“My girl,” he murmurs.

The words settle through her more gently than anything else has tonight. She smiles against his mouth. Rafe nudges his nose along hers, and she knows with strange certainty that she will see his grin later when he isn’t there – during breakfast tomorrow, in the shower, halfway through some pointless conversation with her mother. 

It will keep appearing inside her like light left behind after looking at something too bright.

“You wanna have a shower?” he asks.

She blinks. “With you?”

“Yeah.” His brows pull together as though the alternative makes no sense. “Lemme make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not, like…” Rafe glances toward the sheet, then back to her face with an awkward seriousness that nearly makes her laugh. “Bleeding, right?”

She checks quickly, then shakes her head. “No.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Were you worried?”

“No,” he says too fast. “Just checking.”

Her smile widens. “You were worried.”

“Can you not make fun of me while I’m trying to be nice?”

“I’m not making fun of you.”

“You are. I can see it.”

She leans forward and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Can you pass me my robe?”

Rafe reaches toward the back of the door and takes down the fluffy white robe her mother bought her last Christmas. 

He holds it open while she climbs carefully from the bed, eyes moving instantly over her face when her legs wobble slightly. “You good?”

She smiles and nods. “Yes.”

“You walked weird.”

“I’ve been lying down.”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

Rafe grins, entirely unrepentant, but his hands remain gentle as he helps guide her arms through the robe and draws both sides across her body. He ties the belt himself, making a terrible knot that sits too high against her waist.

She looks down. “What did you do?”

“It’s tied.”

She reaches for the knot, but Rafe catches both sides of her face before she can fix it. The humour fades from his expression as he looks at her again, really looks, eyes moving across every part of her face as though he needs to memorise the version of her standing here now.

She rises onto her toes and kisses him. The same current moves through her at once, absurdly alive despite everything that has already happened, his mouth warm and familiar and still somehow capable of making the floor feel slightly unreliable beneath her. 

She presses closer. Rafe’s arms come around the soft bulk of the robe, holding her carefully at the waist.

When they separate, his forehead stays against hers. “Shower?” he asks again.

She nods. “Yeah.”

Rafe kisses her once more before letting go, then takes her hand and leads her toward the bathroom like the hallway belongs to a crowded place instead of an empty house. 

His fingers thread through hers, warm and secure, his thumb rubbing slowly over the side of her hand. Behind them, the window remains open to the magnolia tree, the camera at the front of the house recording an empty driveway and nothing else.

notes from me – hi my loves!! the second part to this series is officially out!! i hope you're enjoying, i'm loving this so so much i'm having so much fun mapping it out and writing it!

i feel like this one is very loosely based on 'sparks fly' but i hope you can see the inspo!!

thank you for all the love <3

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for my fics.

The idea was ridiculous. Allie was ridiculous. She was sitting in front of you in your dorm, holding up a packet of honey. A packet of honey that supposedly made you horny. You were calling bullshit.

"It's not supposed to work unless you're attracted to the person, but still. Fun!"

You giggled slightly, shaking your head. "So, you and Dean gonna try it?"

She shrugged. "Or you could." She had a twinkle of mischief in her eye. You furrowed your brows.

"With who? Casper?"

Allie rolled her eyes playfully. "Logan, silly."

Your mouth fell open, and you sputtered out some incoherent words, before getting your shit together. "John and I are friends. Friends."

Allie gave you a knowing look. "Mhm." She held the packet closer to you. "I have another one. You should do it with him. Find out if it's all really what it seems."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "That's ridiculous. We're friends, and- and even then, those stupid honeys don't work."  

Allie smiled, standing up. She went over to her purse, pulling out another packet and putting both on your desk. "Just in case."

You huffed.

Yeah, right.

  ++

  The honey packets were in your bag. Why? You had no idea. Not really. You knew it was stupid, and the chance of them actually working—whether that be because you weren't attracted to each other or because they were just straight bogus—was low.

Still, they were there, and you were on John's bed, scrolling through your phone as he did some sort of homework that he clearly didn't want to do. Eventually, he huffed, tossing his pen on the desk. "Okay, I give up. What should we do before my head explodes?"

He turned around in his chair, staring at you. You looked up, shrugging. "I dunno."

He gave you an unimpressed look. "There's not one thing in that chaotic mind of yours that has your interest?"

There was one thing. One stupid, ridiculously dumb thing. But it was there, and you couldn't get rid of it. John picked up on it before you could even deny anything. "What is it?"

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Honey."

"Honey?"

"Honey."

He chuckled, shaking his head confusedly. "What?"

"Allie gave me some stupid honey packets. Told me to test them out and give her the results."

The pieces clicked quickly. He'd heard of them before. Of course he had, he was a college hockey player after all. His throat worked. "Oh." A pause, before he shrugged. "Do you have them?"

You almost laughed. Straight up cackled at the mere idea of him entertaining this. "You're serious?"

"Why not? What's the worst that could happen? I doubt they work."

"That's what I said. Allie insists otherwise."

"Well, let's find out."

You swallowed. This was not happening. You were not about to take horny honey with John Logan. Except, you were. He was willing. He was more than willing. You were dizzy from it. You let out a breathy laugh, leaning down and grabbing your purse off the floor.

You reached inside, searching until you found them. You pulled them out, tossing one to John. "This is stupid," you commented, but still, you were opening your packet. The honey was sweet on your tongue with some sort of bitter taste involved, but it wasn't overpowering.

John did the same thing until both of your packets were empty. You tossed your purse on the floor, standing up and throwing the trash away in his mini-trashcan by his desk.

He looked up at you from his seat. "Now we wait."

"Now we wait," you repeated, going back over to his bed.

John followed, plopping down next to you and pulling out his phone. Both of you stayed silent, a little too anxious over what may happen, but still willing to do it. You scrolled aimlessly on your phone for about thirty minutes before you started to feel weird.

Not a bad weird, but you were hyperaware. Hyperaware of every time he shifted next to you, every breath that was a little too deep. Your thighs squished together a bit because you were feeling a little tingle in your core.

Fuck.

Oh, fuck.

The realization that the honey packets were working made you swallow. You slowly looked at John, and he was already staring at you. "Oh," he said softly.

You swallowed. "Yeah."

The room was silent. Still. Waiting for your next move. Did you leave? Did you run away from the situation and deal with your problem alone?

Part of you wanted to. Hell, you really wanted to.

But the bigger part, the hornier part, just wanted him. You swallowed again, head snapping forward to look at his closed door. It was locked, too. He'd done that after Dean walked in twice for stupid shit and caused him to lose focus.

Now, it felt different. There were no interruptions. Nothing to stop this.

You swore you heard him whine, but the sound was so quiet and caught in his throat that you couldn't be sure. "What do we—"

"C'mere," he interrupted, his voice deep and strained like he was holding himself back from something. You looked at him again. His jaw was tight.

You put your phone down, scooting closer. He shook his head. "Come here."

He grabbed your arms, yanking you onto his lap in one swift motion. You gasped, biting your lip at the feeling of him under you. Hard and aching and, fuck — he was big.

You could feel it.

His hands fell to your hips, gripping you tightly as he stared directly into your soul. His eyes were dark, pupils blown and gaze determined. "I feel like I'm going to explode," he grumbled, head falling back as your hands gently grazed over his shoulders. "Fuck."

"Yeah," you whispered.

"Do you want this?"

You nodded. He shook his head, jaw working as he held himself back. "Not the sex. I know you want the sex. That's the point. Do you want it with me?"

You sucked in a breath. "I wouldn't have taken that stupid thing if I didn't."

You barely got the words out before he was on you, his tongue deep in your mouth as he forced your hips to move against his. He whined into your mouth, the kiss messy and deep as you moaned, grasping his shoulders properly.

You could feel how soaked you were, and every grind against his hard cock made you wetter. It made everything more difficult to control. You weren't high, but you felt like it. Not because of what you took but because you were grinding against John Logan's dick.

He pulled you into his chest, holding you against him as you continued rocking your hips over his. He moaned lowly, teeth grazing your shoulder blade. "Oh, fuck," you whined, hand slipping into his hair and tugging softly.

He groaned, teeth sinking a little deeper. Suddenly, he pulled back, flipping you over so that you were on your back and he was hovering over you. He panted as he looked down at you. You'd never seen him so hungry for something before.

It caused your panties to be even wetter. He rested back on his knees, quickly shedding his shirt. His hands went to your shorts, undoing the button and zipper quickly, before yanking them down. You gasped as you felt the cool air over your soaked panties, and he groaned at the sight.

"Fucking hell," he murmured, immediately leaning down and pressing kisses to your thighs. Rough and desperate ones, like he was trying to devour you. He yanked your panties down, wasting no time as he pressed his tongue flat against your clit, moaning.

You whined, back bowing slightly as your hands flew to his hair. His movements were rushed, but experienced. He knew what he was doing. His tongue flicked over your clit before his lips sealed around it, sucking roughly. "Oh — fuck!"

He hummed, gripping your thigh and rubbing his thumb across the sensitive skin. His other hand came down, two fingers teasing your entrance. He pulled back slightly, blowing air over your clit. "Fuck, look at this pretty pussy," he murmured, shoving two fingers into you slowly.

You gasped, gripping his hair tighter. Everything felt more intense than it ever had, and you weren't sure how you were going to handle this. But you wanted it. You wanted it so bad.

"So fucking tight. So fucking perfect." Then his mouth was on you again, his fingers working in time with his tongue to bring you closer and closer to climax.

You moaned his name, tugging on his hair and trying to get him closer as your hips bucked into him. And then he was pulling away and you were whining, eyes opening to look at him as you panted. His face was slick with your wetness and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He moved up, thumb coming up to your lip and forcing your mouth open. He slid his fingers that were inside you moments ago into your mouth. You whined, sealing your lips around them and sucking them clean. He groaned. "Atta girl."

He pulled his fingers out, leaning down and capturing your lips in a heated kiss as he pressed into you, gently rolling his hips over yours, your slick coating his sweatpants. You gasped into his lips, pulling him closer and pushing your tongue deeper into his mouth.

"John —"

"I know, baby," he murmured, pulling back long enough to pull down his sweatpants and boxers. Then he was back on you, kissing you as he grabbed his cock, rubbing the tip up and down your slit. "Shit, you're so wet."

"Mhm," you moaned, brain blanking as you felt his cock on you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, crying out softly as he pushed the tip in you. "Oh —"

"Fuckkk, mhm," he murmured into your lips, rolling his hips and pushing in deeper. "Holy shit, baby."

"John, I — fuck, you're so —" You moaned out, words becoming incoherent as he bottomed out, pressing so deep inside you that you couldn't breathe in the best way.

"Shh, you're taking it so well for me. Such a good girl." He dragged his hand down, pulling your shirt up to press his hand over the bulge in your tummy. "Feel that? Fuck, I'm so deep, hm?"

You nodded frantically, head falling back against the pillow. He hadn't moved yet, and fuck, it was torture waiting. You needed him to move. "Please," you whimpered.

He hummed, hand slipping down further, thumb pressing to your clit, forcing a moan from deep in your throat. You knew he was just as desperate, but somehow, he was far more in control. "Please what?"

"Please fuck me. Move."

He rolled his hips once. Twice. And then stopped. You cried out, feeling his chain around his neck brushing against your skin as he leaned down. His breath brushed past your ear as he whispered, "I've been thinking 'bout this for a long time, baby."

You moaned, pulling him back enough to see his face. "Me too." And then you were kissing him, softer but still desperate. You needed this, and clearly, so did he.

He groaned, his hips starting to move fluidly now. Deep, slow thrusts that had your toes curling and your back bowing at the feel of him dragging against your walls over and over. "Fuck — so fucking good."

He grabbed your legs, tossing them over his shoulders and practically bending you in half as he did so. You cried out, loud enough that you were sure the guys heard. Right now, you didn't care. "That's it, baby. Let me hear you."

He was moving faster now. Deeper, if that were possible. Your legs were shaking and tears were forming in your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure of it all. John's lips were all over your legs, teeth nipping at skin as he held them in place, fucking into you with a force you weren't sure you've ever had before.

Moans and whimpers were escaping you at an increasing rate as you felt your orgasm closing in. You tried to warn him but everything was coming out in sputters as your brain melted into a pile of nothing because of him.

"Oh, fuck, you're squeezing me so tight," he groaned, hips jerking forward harder. You sobbed softly, hands gripping the sheets as your orgasm started.

Wave after wave of pleasure hit you so hard you were seeing stars, but he didn't stop. No, he fucked you through it, even as you pulsed around him and even as tears fell down your face. He was right there, working you through it all.

"Fuck — fuck!" He moaned, hips stuttering as he twitched. Neither of you were really worried in the moment about him coming inside of you. It just happened. You moaned as he filled you up, his hips slowing but not stopping as he dropped your legs, leaning down and kissing you as he worked himself through his orgasm.

You moaned, cupping his jaw as your legs twitched from his continuous thrusts. He wasn't stopping, even as you'd both came and everything felt insanely intense, he wasn't stopping. You didn't want him to.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, his body shaky from overstimulating himself. "Fuck — you feel too good," he moaned softly, lips trailing down to your neck. "Too fucking perfect."

You whimpered, nodding as tears slipping down your cheeks from the amount of pleasure coursing through you. "We're gonna be here a while," he murmured.

You let out a breathy laugh that turned into a moan as he picked up his pace. "Mhm," you hummed.

He checks the time, just ten more minutes and he is free to go. He has an entire hour for lunch today and he is not meeting up with anyone either, which is a rare occasion. And it also means he is spending it with Y/N, his assistant. 

At the thought of her his eyes jump over to the glass wall that separates the meeting room from the hallway and he instantly spots Y/N sitting on a sofa, typing away on her laptop with a focused look on her face. It makes him smile, wondering what she could be working on currently. Her eyebrows are furrowed and her eyes are jumping rapidly on the screen as she reads something and then starts rapidly typing again. 

He finds himself chuckling under his breath before returning his attention to the meeting, now wanting it to end even more to talk to her. The thought comes to him so easily and fast, he fails to catch himself from sinking further into it. He just starts daydreaming about the smile she’ll gift him once he walks out of the room, about her perfume that will fill his nostrils once he is standing close to her and the way she’ll giggle when he urges them to leave for lunch as quickly as possible. 

This has been quite frequent lately, Harry finding himself thinking about her, at work, at home, in meetings and at events, whenever she is not with him, but also when she is right beside him. He has no idea when things shifted in his mind, when she moved from just being his assistant to occupying almost all of his thoughts. It’s been tearing him up, if he is being honest, because he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about her this much and in this way. Because his thoughts are often straight up fantasies. 

It’s been a reoccuring event lately: Harry waking up after a rather steamy dream that featured Y/N, sporting the worst case of a morning erection which he had to take care of in his shower and then pretend none of it ever happened when he walks into his office and sees her bright smile. 

Fuck, he feels like an actual piece of shit for having dirty thoughts about his sweet, young assistant who does her job so well and he definitely shouldn’t ruin things because of his horny thoughts. 

An email notification pops up on his screen when there’s only five more minutes left of the meeting and as soon as he sees the sender his eyes jump up to the person sitting across from him at the oval table. 

Niall, his CFO, is grinning smugly at him, like he is daring Harry to open the email, though he already knows it’s nothing work related. 

With a soft sigh Harry opens it and reads the single line Niall sent him.

Stop jerking off to your assistant in your mind.

Harry shoots him a murderous look over his laptop, but Niall just shrugs with a grin and then pretends to be listening to the presenter. Harry shakes his head and types a quick response.

I’ll call compliance on you if you don’t stop.

He deeply regrets that one drunken night when he and Niall drank way too much sake and he ended up confessing his attraction towards Y/N, which Niall is not letting him live down ever since. This is the downside of running a company with your best friend, who also tends to be a big pain in the ass. He tells Niall one little thing in a weak moment and he’ll bring it up at the worst possible moments. 

“Our time is up, thank you for your attention, I’ll send you all the slides and schedule a follow-up meeting soon.”

That snaps Harry out of his thoughts as the room comes to life and everyone starts packing and he does the same. Niall walks over to him, leaning closer so only Harry can hear him. 

“Just bone her already, dude.”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll make sure you end up jobless,” he groans, but it only makes Niall laugh as he pats him on the back. 

“In all seriousness, I’m getting tired of seeing your pining. Just ask her out already!”

“Niall, already told you to quit with it,” Harry sighs as he grabs his laptop and phone and the two men start walking out of the room side-by-side. “We both know it’s just… It’s not gonna happen.”

“You’re just making it way too complicated, when it’s not.” Niall rolls his eyes as they step out of the room. Y/N is already standing, holding her laptop to her chest, a bright smile on her face as the two men approach her. 

“Just… let it go, will you?” Harry hisses to Niall, but he just snorts out a laugh before walking away. 

“How was it?” Y/N asks Harry as he stops in front of her. 

“Boring. Let’s eat.”

She giggles with a nod and he ignores the tug in his chest as they head out. 

There’s a sandwich place near the office they both like and it’s not as crowded during lunch time as all the other places in the neighborhood for some reason. That’s where they settle, Harry with a veggie sandwich and an iced tea, Y/N with a club sandwich and a lemonade, their usual. 

“How is the book hunting going?” he asks between bites. Y/N has been trying to find a first edition of Little Women, a book she loved so much growing up.

Y/N shakes her head with a soft chuckle.

“Not good. I thought I found one the other week, but it turned out to be a scam.”

“What about that auction piece? Have you signed up for that?”

“There’s no way I can buy that. The price starts at twenty-six thousand, my budget is fifteen at best,” she shakes her head sadly. 

“Told you, I can pa–” Harry starts, but she cuts him off instantly.

“You’re not paying the rest, Harry.”

“Why not? Take it as a bonus,” he shrugs, taking a sip from his tea. He has offered to buy the book all together, but she just refused to accept his help every time. 

“So then I won’t get my usual bonus at the end of the year?” she arches an eyebrow at him.

“Of course you will.”

“Then I’m not taking ten grand from you just randomly,” she chuckles. “I’ll find one that I can afford, I just have to be patient,” she adds and with that Harry knows her mind is set. 

He wishes she would stop being so stubborn. He would buy it without hesitation if it means it makes her happy. He already thought of just getting it, ignoring all her protesting. 

“Anyways, I made your schedule for next week. Did anything new come up that I need to fit in?” 

“Nothing I know of.”

“No parties or dates maybe?”

“You know the answer to that, Y/N,” he gives her a look that makes her laugh. 

Parties haven’t been his thing in a while and dating… He can’t remember the last time he went on a date. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t have anyone to ask out, because he simply doesn’t talk to women in that way. Hasn’t been in a long time and he is not ready to admit it, but it’s been since he started to compare everyone to Y/N. 

The rest of lunch goes by without any work talk. Y/N tells him about the trips she has planned with her sister and Harry listens like it’s his favorite podcast. Really, she could be talking about anything and he would be drinking her words, he just absolutely loves listening to her. 

Returning to the office is painful, but at least Harry manages to focus for a while as he buries himself in work. It’s a temporary fix, but a welcomed one. 

It’s not unusual for him to stay late, but he noticed that Y/N tends to work late too when he does. As the building starts to empty out Harry is still deep in a task, but he looks up and spots Y/N still sitting at her desk, typing away on her laptop. 

“Let me remind you again that you can leave before me.” He stops at her desk, hands tucked in his pockets as he looks down at a sleepy-eyed Y/N.

“I have stuff to do.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” She bites her lip with a guilty look that answers his question. “Alright, then you’re done for today,” he simply says, shutting her laptop. 

“Bossy,” she chuckles under her breath, but doesn’t protest as she pushes her chair away from the desk. 

“Well, I am your boss.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” she chuckles, throwing her things into her bag and rounding it to meet him at the front. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he nods and then watches as she walks away to the elevators, a heavy feeling settling over his chest that he wishes she was going home with him. 

Harry returns to his desk to finish up so he can finally go home as well, but when Niall appears he knows his plans are about to get destroyed. 

“Want to grab some drinks?” he asks, throwing himself down to the sofa in the corner of his office. 

“I’m tired and it’s Thursday, we have work tomorrow.”

“When did you become absolutely no fun?” Niall groans, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he stands and walks over to the minibar where Harry keeps some good whiskey and two crystal glasses. It’s usually for when they close a deal, a little ritual they’ve been doing since the start of the company. “Alright, then let’s just drink here.”

“Any particular reason for that?” Harry sighs, but takes the glass Niall hands him, leaning back in his chair. 

“It’s Thursday,” Niall simply shrugs, clinks his glass to Harry’s and then they both take a sip. 

Harry had a suspicion that Niall wanted to bug him about Y/N again, but surprisingly, he doesn’t bring her up. They unwind a little, talk about work stuff and then anything but work as they both empty their glasses before Niall refills them. 

“Oh fuck, it’s already past eleven,” Harry growls after the second glass that already made him kinda tipsy. He hasn’t eaten anything since lunch, so it’s hitting him like he’s lightweight. 

“Again, when did you become absolutely no fun?” Niall snorts. “But alright, I’ll call us a car.”

The building is eerily empty when they make their way out of it, laughing at something Niall said in the elevator. They bid goodbye to the night guard stepping out into the breezy night, the car already waiting for them. 

“Ah man,” Nial sighs, sliding down on the seat as the driver heads to his address first. “Are you really not gonna do anything about the Y/N situation?”

“Not this again!” Harry groans. “I told you, it’s not happening.”

“But you didn’t even try! I think you have a good shot with her.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head, that familiar tug in his chest back again, but he brushes it off. “She is my assistant, I’m her boss. It’s not happening.”

“You wouldn’t be the first person on Earth to fuck an employee,” Niall grins at him wickedly.

“I won’t even be one,” Harry retorts.

“Okay, but I need to know something.” Niall says, sitting up straight, as if he is about to say something serious. “You’re fantasizing about the nasty stuff with her, right?”

“Jesus,” Harry rolls his eyes, just as the driver pulls up in front of Niall’s apartment building. “Good night, Niall!”

“Have you thought about fucking her in your office?” Niall’s grin widens as he opens the car door, but doesn’t get out. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Harry pushes on him, urging him to get out.

“Come on! Just give me a crumb!” Niall begs, climbing out of the car.

“No! Good bye!” And with that Harry shuts the door, cutting his friend off. 

It’s only a few minutes drive to his place and those minutes are occupied by thoughts of Y/N thanks to Niall’s prying. He wonders what she is doing right now. Is she already in bed? Or maybe having a bath? What did she have for dinner? Is she the kind to lay her clothes out for the next day? His guess is not. 

Her bed must be full of pillows and it smells just like her. He wonders what it would be like to lie next to her, pull her into his arms, kiss her… 

“Fuck,” he groans when the driver stops at his building and he’s already feeling himself getting hard. 

His head feels dizzy as he rides the elevator up to the penthouse, thoughts of Y/N racing in his mind. His phone pings just as he steps into his home. It’s an email from Y/N.

Found the contracts you’ve been looking for. I’ll have them printed and on your desk by the morning!

He smiles seeing her picture on the screen next to her email address, but then realizes that she must be working at home this late as well. Settling on one of his kitchen stools he types a reply.

If you don’t stop working right now, I will fire you!

He sends the email, but then quickly sends another one.

Hope you know I’m kidding, I would never fire you.

Her response came at the same time another email arrived, the second one from Niall. First he opened the one from Y/N.

Never? That’s a brave statement! Should I put it to the test?

He barks out a laugh before opening Niall’s email.

So like on your desk? Or her desk? I bet you fantasize about fucking her in the kitchen!!!

Harry groans and decides to ignore him as he goes back to Y/N’s email to reply, but first he needs some water. He leaves the phone on the counter and grabs a bottle from the fridge while his thoughts start racing again.

He did think about fucking her on his desk. Several times. On hers too. And he would be lying if he said the kitchen never came up in his dirty daydreams, though the one that keeps haunting is fucking her from behind by his floor-to-ceiling windows, her sweet moans filling his office. 

And just like that, he is hard again. All because stupid Niall wouldn’t leave him alone. 

With a frustrated groan he goes back to his phone and starts typing.

Of course I think about fucking her on every possible surface in the office and in my home, it’s literally all I can think about all the time, especially when she comes in wearing a tight dress or a blouse with a low cut or those goddamned short skirts that make me want to slide my hand under it and feel her warmth between her smooth legs!!! Happy? This is what you wanted me to admit???

He sends the email with an angry tap on his screen, then tosses the phone back onto the counter as he tries to control his reaction to the thoughts. 

But then his heart skips a beat. 

His eyes snap to his phone, the screen still unlocked as he grabs it and checks who he just sent the email to, his worst nightmare staring back at him from his phone. He didn’t send it to Niall, his detailed fantasy just ended up in Y/N’s inbox and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Shit!” he shouts, dropping the phone as he stares at it with bewildered eyes, hands gripping his hair so hard he almost rips his locks out. “Fuck! No!”

He grabs the phone and checks again, but nothing changes, his pornographic paragraph was sent in reply to her last email and by now he is sure she’s read it, judging from how quick her responses have been. In a frenzy he quickly sends her another email.

Shit Y/N, I’m sorry, this wasn’t meant to you!! I was emailing Niall at the same time and sent it in the wrong thread, I’m sorry!

He waits, holding his breath as a minute passes by, then another and she finally replies. 

It’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.

“Fuck. I’m so fucked,” he groans, his forehead dropping against the hard surface of the counter and he even smacks his head against it a few more times, like some kind of punishment for being such an idiot. 

He has no idea what to do, how to handle it. What’s the protocol for when the CEO sends a dirty message to his assistant about wanting to fuck her on every surfice in the office? Is this a matter for HR? What if she quits tomorrow? He wouldn’t blame her, not wanting to work for such a pig. 

He fucked up, big time. But he also knows there’s nothing he can do now, he’ll have to face the consequences of his actions tomorrow. 

***

He didn’t sleep, not even for a second. Harry laid in bed all night, thinking about the worst possible scenarios that could happen because of his mistake. He is on the verge of losing his mind by the time he arrives at the office in a wrinkled shirt and his hair looking like a bird’s nest. 

He ignores the weird looks he is getting on his way up, only thinking what he should do or say if Y/N is already in. But when he sees her desk abandoned, relief spreads in his veins, however it’s rather short-lived. 

Is she not here because she is about to quit? Or is she already talking to HR about the email? What can HR do to him? Nothing, he is the CEO. Right?

The spiraling continues as he forces himself to start his usual morning routine of checking his mails and schedule. He manages to sit still for a whole 10 minutes, but then he spots her walking towards her desk. 

He jumps to his feet as if catching him sitting would get him into even bigger trouble. She is reading something on her phone while walking, so she doesn’t spot him right away and Harry has a few moments to look at her. 

She looks like she always does. Beautiful and effortless, no signs of distress, so that might be a good sign. Then when she’s just a few steps away from her desk she looks up and their eyes meet. 

“Hey,” Harry breathes out. “Can–Um… Can we talk?”

For a second she looks hesitant, but she nods, dropping her bag onto her desk before heading into his office with him. 

She stops in the middle of the room, at the same spot she always does when she comes in to talk, but her usual cheery vibe is missing today. Harry notices how stiff and uncertain she looks and he hates that it’s because of him. He stands by his desk as he looks at her.

“Look, I’m really, really sorry about that email. That was… So unprofessional and I swear I didn’t mean to send that to you, I hope you know I would never put you in such an awkward situation on purpose.”

“It’s fine,” she says, keeping her gaze down at the floor, her voice so quiet he almost doesn’t hear her. 

“It’s not fine and I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N.”

“No, let’s just… Let’s move past it,” she shrugs, but still wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

“I really hope we can do that, I would hate it if my stupidity ruined our dynamic. I’m officially promising not to ever reply to Niall’s awful emails,” he adds with a bitter chuckle and that at least pulls a small smile out of her. 

“You often email about stuff like that?” she asks, finally looking into his eyes. 

“He likes to be a pain in the ass,” he chuckles. “We had a few drinks yesterday and he started his usual game of bugging me on the way home. I thought once we parted ways I would be free of him, but then he started emailing me. That’s something he likes to do recently.”

The words are flowing out of him like he has no control over them. It’s like he needs to say all of this in order to attempt to move on, so he continues.

“So he sent me a very inappropriate email about you right when you were emailing me and I guess I had enough drinks to finally give him a crumb of what he’s been trying to pry out of me, but then I messed up the emails and—”

“Wait,” she frowns, confusion taking over her expression. “About me?” 

Harry stops, unsure what she is asking about. “What?”

“The email… It was about me?”

“Yeah, it’s… Shit.”

That’s when Harry realizes that in that message, he didn’t name her, Y/N had no idea he was talking about her. It was only obvious to him, since he knew he was talking about her. But now he just made it clear to her as well. 

For a second he feels like he is about to pass out. All along Y/N thought he was just talking about someone, any woman in the office, but now she knows it was particularly about her. 

Her expression changes, but he can’t read it. She opens her mouth to say something two times, but ends up staying silent.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I thought you knew it was about you. I’m really sorry, I don’t want this to fuck things up between us.”

“No, it’s…” she shakes her head, as if she is just now snapping out of her thoughts. “It’s… fine.”

He wants to talk more. He wants to apologize more, he feels like he needs to, but then Carla, his marketing manager appears at the door.

“Knock-knock! Hey, sorry to interrupt, but there’s a few things I need your insight about like right fucking now.”

“I’m coming, just a minute,” he says, turning back to Y/N. “I’m really sorry. Are we good?”

“Yeah,” she breathes out, her tone is not quite convincing, but he has no time to push it further. 

“I’ll… Let’s talk later, okay?”

“Sure,” she nods and then walks out as Carla takes her place and business takes over. 

Harry hates how the conversation ended, he is debating blowing everyone off just to talk to her until everything is resolved, but that’s not happening. 

In fact, he barely speaks to her until late afternoon, jumping from one meeting into the other, emergency calls and last minute tasks, the whole day is just one stressful blur. 

When he finally finishes his last meeting of the day he heads back to his office and sees Y/N in one of the meeting rooms, pacing the floor while talking on the phone. It’s past five, she should be heading home, but as always, she is working overtime. When Harry returns to his office he finds Niall lounging in his chair. 

“I’m not in the mood for your games today, Niall,” he bites out.

“Woah, someone is pissed today. What’s gotten your panties in a twist?” 

“Remember your stupid emails last night?”

“I’m still waiting for your reply on that,” Niall grins, which just pisses Harry off even more. 

“I did reply to it. Only problem is that I didn’t send it to you, I accidentally sent it to Y/N!”

Niall’s jaw slacks, staring back at his friend before the most hysterical laugh bursts out of him. It takes several minutes for him to even calm down. 

“And what now? What did she say?”

“She didn’t realize it was about her, which I didn’t know and when I started apologizing like a maniac in the morning I revealed it to her.”

“Oh my God, this is like the best comedy ever!”

“I’m glad my misery is so entertaining to you,” Harry grumbles under his breath, massaging the bridge of his nose. He is so tired, he feels like he ran a marathon today, that’s how much all this stress affected him. 

“And what’s going on right now? I saw her today, so I’m guessing she didn’t quit.”

“We didn’t have more time to talk, she said we were good, but I don’t know…”

“Dude, this is your time. Just tell her you meant whatever you wrote, send me those deets by the way, and finally get your girl!”

“I can’t believe you’re still on this shit,” he shakes his head, giving up. “Just leave, Niall. I’m too tired for… I’m too tired for you right now.”

“Ouch!” Niall places a hand over his chest dramatically, but stands from the chair. “Alright, I’ll let you sink into your guilt for a little longer, but just know that I think you’re missing out of the best opportunity ever.”

“Leave already!” Harry groans, gesturing towards the door. Niall shakes his head with a quiet laugh and walks out. 

He collapses into his chair, a headache already throbbing in his skull from this day. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back for a bit, hoping to gather some energy to carry on for the rest of the day. 

He doesn’t even hear it when Y/N appears in his open door, only snaps his eyes open when he hears her knocking on the doorframe. 

“Hey!” he sits up straight right away. “Come in. Sorry for being MIA all day.”

“It’s fine, I know how it is,” she smiles softly as she walks in and stops in her usual spot. 

“And I’m sorry for cutting things short in the morning,” he adds, clearing his throat. “I know you said we’re good, but I just wanted to apologize again.”

“Really, it’s all good,” she shakes her head dismissively. 

“Can we just forget about it?” he suggests. She freezes for a moment, like she is considering it, but at last she nods.

“Sure. Forgotten.”

He exhales in relief, leaning back in his chair. 

“Okay, good. Now go home, I don’t want to see you working overtime on a Friday,” he smiles at her, which she returns, but there’s something different about it this time, though he can’t put a finger on it. 

“Then you should head home too,” she challenges him, a soft chuckle slipping past his lips as he nods, standing from his chair.

“Fair point. I’ll see you on Monday, Y/N.”

“Yeah, see you,” she nods, voice quiet as she turns around and starts walking towards the door while Harry gathers his stuff from his desk, ready to leave as well. 

But then just a step away from the door she stops. 

“And what if… What if I don’t want to forget about it?”

Her voice is quiet, but Harry hears her, loud and clear. He stops mid-action, gaze jumping over to her figure, her back facing him. 

“What?” he asks, heart thumping wildly in his chest. Y/N slowly turns around, a sheepish look on her face. 

“What if… What if I wanted all that too?”

Harry stares back at her, his first thought is that he must have heard her wrong. She definitely did not say that. But slowly, it sinks in that she actually did say that and now she is standing there, waiting for him to say something, anything. 

He rounds the table, walks closer, but stops a few feet away from her. He notices how nervous she appears, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her pencil skirt, her chest rising and falling as she draws deep breaths. 

And something switches in him.

“Do you?” he asks, voice low. 

“What?” she breathes out.

“Do you want all that too?”

She sucks on her breath, a heartbeat passes and then she nods. He almost groans, desire flooding his groin instantly as he walks around her, like she’s a prey he wants to hunt down, while she just stands there, frozen. 

“I need your words, Y/N,” he says, now standing behind her. He is not touching her, but she can feel his presence right behind her. 

“I want all of that too. What you wrote in that email.”

“Fuck,” he exhales, pushing his body forward just an inch so now his chest is pressed against her back and as soon as she feels him, she leans even more into him.

His hands move to her hips, fingers digging into her soft flesh over the fabric of her skirt, but she is eager to feel him somewhere else, her hands cover his and pull them up, over her breasts, her bluntness sending a shiver down his spine as he palms her. 

Even though she is practically offering herself to him, he feels like he needs to be cautious, as if he could scare her away at any moment. Her head rolls back to his shoulder, baring the soft skin on her neck and now he has a great view of her breasts in his palms, a scene he has probably played in his mind a million times before. His erection is growing harder with each second and when she pushes her ass against him he can’t help the moan that slips past his lips. 

Leaning down he runs his nose down the side of her neck first, teasing her a bit with the feather-like touch, but then he can’t hold himself back any longer, practically latching onto her neck, kissing, sucking, biting the soft skin, making her arch from the sensation. When he pulls back he is happy to see the mark he left on her, bright and clear, almost screaming his name. 

He moves a hand up her chest, cradling her jaw to turn her head until she is facing him. For a second she looks nervous, almost like a deer caught in headlights, but then he sees the pure desire in her eyes and realizes it’s excitement that has her all worked up, unsure what’s coming next, but also quite thrilled. 

He takes a moment, just admiring her this close, the want and need in her eyes directed at him, it’s making him go feral.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes out before leaning in and kissing her. 

He goes in hard, demanding, wanting to devour her and she willingly kisses him back with just as much fever, twisting in his arms until she is facing him with her body as well, arms locking around his neck while his hands grab onto her ass, pressing her even more against him. She moans into his mouth, grinding against him when she feels his erection pressing into her stomach and he starts walking her backwards without breaking their hungry kissing, right until the back of her legs bump against his desk. 

Blindly, he pushes everything to the side on the tabletop before picking her up and sitting her on it, her legs caging his waist in an instant as they keep kissing wildly. It feels like a fever dream, Harry thinks, but he doesn’t want to wake up. 

His hands tug her shirt out of her skirt, then he leans back just enough to rid her from it, throwing it behind him as he looks at her exposed chest, now that she is only wearing her lacy bra on the top. The sight of her is so beautiful he needs to take another moment to just admire her. Sitting on his desk, her breasts almost spilling out of her bra as her chest is heaving from her panting. Her lips are swollen and parted and her eyes… they are bewildered, full of lust and want, only for him. The sight of her alone could make him come, he swears. 

Then he returns to kissing her, hands pushing up her skirt to reveal even more of her soft skin on her thighs until the fabric bunches around her waist. Her hands roam his body through his shirt, but soon she starts unbuttoning it, only reaching the button under his pecks, because she is so impatient to touch him she simply starts clawing at his pecks, reaching into the shirt as far as she can.

Harry steps back, a disapproving groan slipping from her lips once he is not pushed up against her, to which he just chuckles softly. 

“Take your skirt off, baby,” he says as he unbuttons the rest of his shirt as well. Y/N jumps off the table, fumbles with the zipper of her skirt before she can slip it off. It pools around her feet, she steps out of it and then simply kicks to the side. Harry has got ridden of his shirt as well and he is now taking his pants off, leaving both of them only in their underwear. His mouth goes dry seeing the matching set on her, part of him wants to leave it on, but another part of him wants to tear it off her body with his teeth. 

She leans back against the desk, pushing her thighs together, clearly to get some friction between them as she eyes him standing there in only his boxer briefs, palming himself through the fabric while his hungry eyes are eating her up. Then, with confidence she hasn’t seen from a man before he simply takes himself out and pushes his underwear down, leaving him in all of his naked glory. He gives himself a few lazy tugs while watching her with hooded eyes, sending a shiver down her spine. She pushes herself away from the desk, hooks her thumbs into the elastic of her panties and pushes they down while keeping eye-contact. Once the fabric pools around her ankles she kicks the underwear to the side as well and then… and idea pops into her head. 

With Harry still standing there she simply turns around and bends over his desk, peeking over her shoulder to see his reaction, which doesn’t disappoint. 

He stops moving, maybe even stops breathing, eyes glued to her exposed cunt, glistening from her arousal that’s all for him. His cock twitches in his hand and he lets out a long, shaky breath before stepping closer and dropping to his knees, mouth latching onto her in an instant. 

“Of fuck!” she cries out, grabbing the edge of the desk to stabilize herself.

He shows no mercy, hands grabbing her ass cheeks while his tongue works wonders, almost making her see stars. If it was his last meal, he would go as a happy man, he thinks. 

But as much as he would love to spend hours with his face buried in her cunt, he is also aching to have his cock buried in it too. When he stands and yanks her up as well, kissing her vigorously she can taste herself on his lips, but it just makes her want even more of him. 

With skilled moves he easily unhooks her bra and tosses it to the side before grabbing the back of her thighs and picks her up with ease, walking over to the sofa in the corner of his office where he sat and daydreamed of her so many times before. Holding onto him she starts kissing a path on the side of his face until she reaches his lips, kissing him so deeply he stops in his track for a second. 

Sinking onto the soft cushion of the sofa he pulls her onto his lap, her wet pussy meeting his erection, making them both moan at the same time and she involuntarly grinds against him, making his cock glide between her lips. 

“Fucking hell,” he curses, head falling back, his fingers digging into her hips. “You have no idea how many times I thought of having you like this.”

“How many?” she asks with a coy smile as she keeps grinding her hips gently, just enough to drive them both insane. “Did you fantasize about me during meetings?”

“Yes,” he answers shamelessly right away.

“Did you get hard?”

“Always.”

With each answer her confidence keeps growing, she loves seeing him so gone for her. One of his hands comes up, cupping her breast, making her moan in pleasure, then he leans forward and takes her hard nipple in his mouth, sucking on it hard. Y/N whimpers, fingers sinking into his hair, scraping his scalp with her nails which makes him groan against her skin. 

“Have you ever been hard, hiding it under your desk when I was in here?” she asks, almost out of breath. Harry nods against her chest, then tilts his face up just enough to look at her, while he swirls his tongue around her nipple. 

“Many times,” he whispers and she swears she almost came just from those two words and the look on his face. 

“I need you,” she whimpers, pulling his face up so their lips can meet. “I need to feel you.”

“Feel me as much as you want, baby,” he mumbles against her lips.

“No, I want to feel everything,” she says, hoping he’ll finally understand what she is trying to imply. It takes him a few seconds, but he finally does. 

“Are you on–”

“Yes,” she nods eagerly. “And I’m clean.”

“Me too.”

“I trust you,” she says and the words tug on something in his chest. 

“Come here,” he whispers, cradling her jaw in his hand as he pulls her face close, kissing her passionately, his other hand reaching down between them, tugging his cock so it lines up with her entrance.

She sinks down on him not too slow, not too fast, both of them moaning against each other’s mouth as he fills her up inch by inch. Once he is in fully, she takes a few moments to adjust to his size, gently circling her hips slightly. 

“Want to ride me, baby?” he asks, giving her hips a squeeze.

“Yes, boss,” she breathes out and then starts moving. 

Up and down. Back and forth. She is bouncing on him, nails digging into his pecks, surely leaving marks, but neithe rof them cares. He’ll happily wear them and then once they fade he will have her redo them again and again. 

When she can feel her orgasm nearing Harry wraps his arms around her and pulls her tight against him, lips crashing messily but she just keeps moving even when her thighs start shaking. 

“Harry,” she pleads gasping.

“Let me feel you come on my cock, Y/N,” he growls against her lips, his arms locked tightly around her. 

Then he starts thrusting up, meeting her rhythm and a few seconds later he feels her walls gripping his cock as her orgasm washes over her. He doesn’t stop moving, watches her ride through her pleasure before he reaches his high as well, his thrusts staggering. She can feel him pumping inside of her and seeing him completely lose himself in her is something she will never forget. 

They stay like that, Harry is slowly softening, but he is still inside her as they lazily kiss. When she leans back she reaches down and collects some of his cum that has dripped out of her with her finger and he watches as she sucks it off before letting her her finger go with a pop. 

“Jesus, you’re killing me,” he growls, head falling back, but she just chuckles and kisses his chin. 

“Mm don’t tell me you’re done for today,” she smiles at him coyly. Harry looks up at her in awe.

“Not at all. But why don’t we go back to my place? I have quite some fantasies to fulfill with you there as well.”

She leans closer, but stops before their lips could meet, then whispers: “Yes, boss.”

There’s a roll of hockey tape in the passenger-side footwell. Two protein bar wrappers in the door. A Briar parking pass hanging crooked beneath the mirror and one of her hair ties around the gearshift, although she has no memory of leaving it there.

By the time she crosses into Vermont, her shoulders have dropped from around her ears. The road narrows and bends through trees stripped mostly bare, the mountains washed blue-grey in the distance beneath a low ceiling of cloud. 

She listens to half an episode of a medical podcast about a missed aortic dissection, becomes briefly convinced every vague chest pain she has ever experienced was evidence of imminent vascular catastrophe, then listens to another about prehospital trauma assessment because apparently relaxation means letting two emergency physicians describe internal bleeding while she eats petrol-station pretzels.

Garrett texts twice from the hotel.

Garrett: You alive?

The second arrives four minutes later.

Garrett: Baby?

She waits until she pulls into a service station before replying, because she’s responsible and mature and also because Garrett will somehow know if she texts while driving and appear in the passenger seat through sheer disapproval.

alive. your car is dramatic.

His response comes before she’s even put the phone down.

Garrett: She likes attention. Garrett: Like me.

She smiles at the screen in spite of herself, then spends the last hour wanting him with a low, restless ache that has nothing to do with sex, until it does, and everything to do with the fact that she hasn’t seen him since yesterday morning, which is an embarrassingly short amount of time for her body to begin behaving like they’ve been separated by war.

The team hotel sits a few blocks from the lake, one of those clean brick-and-glass places designed to host business conferences, wedding parties and several dozen college hockey players. Briar’s bus is parked along the side of the building, dark windows reflecting the afternoon sky. 

Two boys she recognises from the team are coming through the revolving doors carrying takeaway coffees, both in matching tracksuits, and one of them lifts a hand when he spots Garrett’s car pulling into the loading zone.

She parks out front beneath the awning, puts the car in park, then checks herself in the mirror with the quick, useless instinct of someone who’s spent three hours driving and would now prefer to look like she hasn’t.

She’s in jeans, Garrett’s jersey over a fitted long-sleeved top. Hair loose but flattened slightly where it has rested against the headrest. Lips dry from the heater. Fine. Human. Possibly salvageable. She’s barely unclicked her seatbelt when the hotel doors open.

Garrett steps outside in black Briar track pants and a team quarter-zip, one hand pushing through his curls. He scans the cars with the distracted impatience of someone who has clearly been standing near the lobby windows pretending not to wait, then sees her through the windscreen.

His whole face changes. That bright, stupid grin that still lands in her body before her brain can dress it up as anything reasonable. He comes down the shallow hotel steps quickly, shoulders loose beneath the team jacket, cold air lifting the front of his curls. 

She reaches for the door handle, but Garrett gets there first, pulls it open and leans inside before she can put one foot onto the pavement. “Hi, baby.”

He kisses her before she can answer properly. One hand catches her jaw, thumb settling under her chin, the other braced on the top of the door while his body blocks out the cold and half the hotel entrance. 

It’s not a long kiss. It’s not remotely appropriate for the loading zone either, especially with a minivan idling behind them and somebody’s father watching through the lobby window with visible disapproval.

She smiles into it anyway. “Hi, baby.”

Garrett kisses her again, quicker this time, then pulls back just enough to look over her face. His gaze drops to the jersey and goes soft around the edges in a way that makes the three-hour drive suddenly seem like a deeply intelligent life choice. 

Garrett kisses her forehead, then reaches across her for the keys. “Move.”

She blinks. “Hello to you too.”

“I said hi.” He takes the keys from the ignition, then offers her his hand with the patient expectation of a man who has already decided this part. “C’mon. I’ll park.”

“I drove the entire way here.”

“And you did so good.”

The praise is delivered with enough sincerity to make arguing difficult. She puts her hand in his, Garrett draws her out of the driver’s seat, catches her automatically at the waist when her stiff legs object to immediate pavement, then kisses her once more beneath the awning as though the first three were administrative rather than sufficient.

The horn behind them gives one short, irritated tap. Garrett lifts his head without releasing her and looks toward the minivan. “Relax.”

She presses her face briefly into his chest, laughing. “Oh my God. Move your car.”

Garrett gestures with his hand. “Guy’s got no patience.”

“You’re making out in the loading zone.”

He glances back down at her. “I haven’t seen my girlfriend all day.”

“It’s been twenty-nine hours,” she giggles. 

“Exactly.” His hand slides down to squeeze her hip once before he lets her go. “Emergency.”

She circles to the passenger side while Garrett folds himself into the driver’s seat, shoving it backward with one hand until his knees no longer sit somewhere near his ears. The familiarity of watching him take back the car catches her strangely – the quick check of the mirrors, his wrist turning the key, one hand dropping loose over the wheel while the other reaches across the console before they have even pulled away from the curb.

She threads their fingers together. Garrett glances down, then over at her, his mouth curving. “Miss me?”

She grins. “No.”

“Okay.”

“I drove three hours in your car wearing your jersey because I hate you.”

“Yeah, that tracks.”

He follows the signs toward hotel parking, taking them down a concrete ramp beneath the building where the afternoon light falls away and everything turns dim, echoing and faintly blue beneath fluorescent strips. Tyres whisper over painted concrete. The garage smells like cold cement, exhaust and rainwater brought in beneath other cars, little dark tracks shining across the floor.

Garrett finds a spot near the lift, backs in cleanly and cuts the engine. The sudden quiet settles heavily around them, broken only by the ticking of the cooling motor and a distant car door slamming somewhere on the level above.

For half a second, neither of them moves, then Garrett looks over. She knows the look. It’s not especially subtle. His eyes move from hers to her mouth, then down the front of his jersey, lingering where the fabric folds across her chest before coming back up with all the innocence of a man who’s never successfully hidden a thought in his life.

“You look good in that.”

She smooths one hand unnecessarily over the number. “You’ve mentioned.”

“Could mention it again.”

“Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself,” she murmurs.

Garrett unclips his seatbelt. The sound is very small in the car. Her pulse reacts like somebody has fired a starting gun. He leans across the centre console, one hand catching lightly at her jaw. “C’mere.”

“You’re very bossy in Vermont.”

“I’m captain in every state,” he replies, voice low. 

She laughs against his mouth when he kisses her, but the laugh doesn’t last. Garrett’s lips settle over hers warm and soft for only a second before his thumb angles her chin higher and the kiss deepens, his mouth opening against hers with the immediate, familiar confidence that makes the enclosed car seem to shrink around the width of his shoulders and the quiet sound she makes in her throat.

His other hand finds her waist over the jersey, palm spreading there like he’s been waiting since the hotel entrance to get a proper hold of her. She turns toward him as far as the seat allows, one knee pressing awkwardly into the console, fingers climbing into the curls at the back of his head. Garrett groans softly when she tugs, the sound caught between their mouths, and pulls her closer despite there being several pieces of car engineering firmly opposed to the idea.

The centre console digs into her hip. The gearshift is somewhere beneath her forearm. Garrett’s elbow bumps the horn lightly enough to produce a short, humiliating chirp that echoes through the garage. They freeze.

She looks at him. Garrett’s mouth twitches. “Car likes attention.”

She breaks into a laugh, forehead dropping briefly to his. “You’re so stupid.”

“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of her mouth, then the other side while she’s still smiling. “Come over here.”

“Where?”

He looks down at his lap.

“Oh.”

Garrett’s grin turns slow. “Yeah. Oh.”

Climbing across the centre console in jeans and a hockey jersey isn’t graceful. It involves one knee nearly catching the cup holder, Garrett moving the steering wheel up with one hand, and her muttering, “Don’t look at me,” while he watches with the deeply pleased concentration of someone receiving a private performance.

“I’m helping.”

She gives him a look. “You’re grabbing my ass.”

“Support.”

Then she’s over him, knees braced badly on either side of his hips, head almost brushing the roof of the car until Garrett catches her waist and drags her down into the space between his body and the steering wheel. The position presses her against him all at once, heat and denim and the hard line of his thighs beneath hers, her hands landing on his shoulders while his spread over her hips.

The first kiss from there is messier. Garrett tilts his face up and she meets him halfway, mouth opening over his, one hand sliding into his hair while the other curls around the back of his neck. He grips her hip hard enough to bunch the jersey, his thumb finding the strip of skin above her jeans where the fabric has ridden up.

Her body shifts closer without consulting anyone. Garrett breathes her name against her lips, then kisses her again, tongue slipping over hers, his hand moving from her waist to her jaw so he can hold her exactly where he wants her. The touch is familiar now, warm fingers along her cheek, thumb near the corner of her mouth, just enough pressure to make her stomach tighten and her knees press harder around him.

She bites lightly at his bottom lip. Garrett’s hips lift under her on reflex. “Fuck,” he mutters.

The word lands hot and low. She kisses him again before either of them can make it funny, and for a while there’s only the muted scrape of denim, the small wet sounds of their mouths, Garrett’s breathing turning rough beneath hers, his fingers flexing at her hip every time she rolls closer.

He drags his mouth from hers eventually, though not far. A kiss at the corner of her lips. Another along her cheek. Then down the line of her jaw, warm and open-mouthed, his hand slipping into her hair to tip her head aside.

Her eyes close. “Garrett.”

He kisses beneath her ear. “So…”

The word moves over her skin. She’s breathing badly enough that it takes a second to understand he’s introduced a subject. “So?”

Garrett presses one more kiss to her throat, then rests his mouth there with the deeply suspicious stillness of a man attempting to use physical affection as diplomatic cover. “Logan’s in my room.”

Her eyes open. She pulls back just enough to look at him. Garrett’s hands remain on her hips, expression careful in a way that immediately makes it worse. “So it’s…” She waits.

“Two double beds,” he says.

She stares.

Garrett’s thumb moves once over her waist as though soothing a potentially dangerous animal. “Us in one.”

“Right.”

He tilts his head. “Logan in the other.”

“What?” Her voice bounces lightly off the windscreen, and Garrett winces.

“Tucker and Dean are together, baby.”

Her eyes widen. “Why is Logan with us?”

“Because that’s the room list.”

“I thought they were reorganising it!”

“They tried.” Garrett’s mouth tightens around a smile he’s smart enough not to show fully. “Coach already had the keys sorted when we got here.”

She looks past him at the concrete wall as if it may contain another room. “Can’t Logan sleep with Dean and Tucker?”

“Three guys in one room?”

She nods eagerly. “Yes.”

“Dean said he’d rather sleep in the hallway than share a double bed with Logan.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“Logan kicks.”

She lets her forehead fall forward against Garrett’s. The steering wheel presses lightly into her back, his hands warm and steady at her hips, the entire hot little reunion collapsing around the image of Logan six feet away eating vending-machine chips while they lie rigidly beneath hotel sheets.

Garrett kisses the tip of her nose. “What was I supposed to say to Coach?”

She makes a dissatisfied sound.

He strokes his thumbs beneath the hem of the jersey. “‘Sorry, Coach, I’m sneaking my girlfriend in, so Logan can’t be there because I want to fuck her’?”

Her mouth twitches despite the tragedy. “You could’ve phrased it professionally.”

Garrett laughs, low and warm, his nose brushing hers. “Yeah? ‘Requesting private facilities for post-game team morale’?”

“But I love post-winning sex.” The complaint comes out against his mouth, quiet and genuinely aggrieved. Garrett closes his eyes for one second like the words have caused him physical pain.

“Trust me,” he says. His hands slide around to her lower back, pulling her closer until the front of the jersey presses fully against his chest. “Me too.”

She huffs and lets her forehead return to his. His breathing is still uneven. So is hers. The glass beside them has begun to fog faintly at the edges, a soft blur spreading near Garrett’s shoulder like the car itself has decided to document their poor choices.

He rubs one hand slowly along her back. “Drive okay?”

His thumb moves beneath her hair, smoothing once along the base of her skull, and she nods. “Fine. Listened to a really cool medical podcast.”

Garrett’s grin returns, smaller now and fond in a way that sits more dangerously under her ribs than the kissing did. He brushes a flattened section of hair away from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear with fingers still warm from her skin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was interesting.”

“What was it about?”

“Aortic dissection.”

His brows lift. “Is that bad?”

She stares at him.

“Ooh,” Garrett says. “Medical face. It’s bad.”

She runs her fingers through his curls. “It’s when the inner layer of the aorta tears and blood tracks between the layers of the vessel wall.”

He nods slowly, taking this in with the sincere concentration of someone watching game tape in a language he doesn’t speak. “That sounds bad.”

“It’s extremely bad.”

“Did they fix it?”

Her mouth turns down. “Not the first guy.”

Garrett’s face drops. “Jesus.”

“The second one lived,” she says, voice bright. 

“Oh, good.” His thumb strokes once along her cheek. “That’s cool, baby.”

She nods, pleased despite the fact that he’s understood perhaps twelve percent of the episode. “Yeah.”

He looks at her for another second, mouth softened at the edges, then leans up and kisses her. This one is gentler, though not innocent. His lips move over hers slowly, thumb still tucked beneath her jaw, and when he pulls back his eyes drop again to the jersey.

“You ready for the game?” 

She glances down at herself, jeans, his number across her chest, sneakers that will become uselessly cold in an arena within twenty minutes. “Mhm.”

Garrett nods. His palms slide down her thighs and give them a light squeeze. “Go to the arena, yeah? I’ll come find you after.”

“After you win.”

His grin flashes. “Obviously.”

She shifts as though she might climb back over the console, then stops with her mouth an inch from his. “One more kiss.”

Garrett looks at her lips. “One.”

“One.”

He kisses her. It begins with the solemnity of an agreement and breaks it almost immediately. Her hand curls behind his neck. Garrett’s catches her hip. 

The kiss deepens, warm and slow and familiar, until she smiles against his mouth and pulls back only far enough to whisper, “Just one more.”

“Right.” Garrett kisses her again, quicker this time, his grin pressing briefly into her lips. “Last one.”

She catches his jaw before he can move away. “Boyfriend tax.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Get used to it.”

Garrett laughs and kisses her once more, both hands sliding up her back as she sinks closer, the arena and the game and Logan’s extremely inconvenient presence waiting somewhere beyond the concrete walls.

By the time she finally climbs back into the passenger seat, her hair is worse than it had been after three hours against the headrest, Garrett’s mouth is pink, and the inside of the car has become warm enough that the windscreen has fogged visibly over the lower corners.

Garrett starts the engine and turns the demister on full. She looks at the glass, then at him. “Subtle.”

The problem with watching Garrett play hockey now that he’s officially her boyfriend, is that every emotion arrives without the dignity of moderation. There’s no casual enjoyment left in it. No detached appreciation for skill. No sitting politely beneath the arena lights with her hands folded in her lap, thinking, yes, lovely edge work, good positioning, very athletic of him.

Her entire body has become a deeply embarrassing instrument built for reacting to Garrett Graham doing literally anything on ice.

He wins the opening face-off and something hot and stupid lifts beneath her ribs. He sends a clean pass across the neutral zone to Logan and she claps hard enough that the girl beside her laughs.

He drives a Burlington defenceman into the boards with one shoulder, comes away with the puck and that sharp, vicious little grin visible beneath his cage, and she stands with half the Briar section screaming his name before she’s consciously decided to move.

The boys are destroying them. Garrett is everywhere. He plays like the ice belongs to him and everyone else is just borrowing it, cutting through the defensive line with that frightening smoothness he has when everything inside him is aligned – the speed, the violence, the instinct, the impossible awareness of where every other body will be two seconds before it gets there. 

He’s loose in a way she loves seeing, shoulders low, movements clean, never reaching for the game because it keeps arriving exactly where he expects. 

Tucker’s having the kind of night that would make a less secure man resent him. He picks off a pass in Briar’s end, protects the puck through two bodies and sends it forward without even seeming to look, the play opening in front of them so quickly the Burlington crowd barely has time to groan before Logan has it.

Logan’s a menace. He slips past one defenceman, draws another toward him and sends the puck sideways to Garrett at the last possible second. Garrett buries it high before the goalie finishes shifting across the crease.

The Briar section explodes. She’s on her feet immediately, both hands in the air, yelling into the noise while the goal horn dies somewhere beneath the sharper sound of visiting students screaming themselves hoarse. 

Garrett gets mobbed near the boards, Logan slamming into one shoulder while Tucker catches him from the other side. Dean arrives late and launches himself into the group with enough unnecessary force to nearly knock all four of them over.

“Jesus Christ,” one of the girls beside her says, still clapping. “They came angry.”

“They’ve been unbearable all week,” another answers. “This is what happens when Coach tells them Burlington has a strong home record.”

Dean peels away from the celebration and skates backward toward the bench, lifting both arms toward the crowd like he scored the goal himself. The Burlington student section boos him. Dean cups one glove theatrically to his ear.

“He’s such a dick,” she says, smiling despite herself.

“Oh, Dean?” The blonde on her right waves one hand dismissively. “He gets worse when people boo. It feeds him.”

Dean blows a kiss toward a group of furious Burlington students before hopping over the boards, and the Briar bench erupts into helmet taps and shoves while Coach looks like he’s considering whether a win is worth the administrative burden of keeping Dean alive.

She sits again once the puck drops, breath still caught high in her chest and Garrett’s number warm over her body. The jersey is large enough that she has the sleeves pushed back twice, the cuffs sitting around her wrists in soft folds. Every time she raises her arms, the hem shifts over the waistband of her jeans, and she catches the faint clean smell of Garrett’s detergent from the collar when she breathes.

It should have been the perfect weekend. It was the perfect weekend, technically. She had Garrett’s car, his jersey, a hotel, an away game and their first official date after. 

There was something almost offensively romantic about it in the college-hockey way – driving across state lines beneath grey skies, watching her boyfriend win, going to dinner still buzzing from it, then returning to a room where nobody had an eight a.m. lecture or an eleven-hour shift or a house full of men born without the part of the brain responsible for knocking.

She had packed for the version of the weekend where Garrett had his own room. She had packed carefully. There was lingerie folded beneath her spare sweater that had taken twenty minutes to choose and a level of mirror-based analysis she would deny under oath. 

There were black stockings rolled inside one boot because she had briefly lost contact with herself in the shop and decided away-game sex required visual planning. All of it was sitting inside her overnight bag at the hotel. Along with Logan.

Stupid Logan.

The object of her private resentment takes another pass from Tucker, fakes a shot and sends it to Dean, who comes flying into the zone with no visible concern for his own skeleton. Dean snaps the puck past the goalie, then crashes into the boards behind the net because stopping appears to be beneath him.

The red light goes on. Briar scores again. She jumps to her feet with everyone else, screaming and clapping as Dean turns from the glass with his mouth open in a yell, one fist pumping before Garrett catches the back of his jersey and drags him into the celebration.

“Okay,” she mutters while sitting back down. “Maybe Logan’s allowed to live.”

The girl beside her glances over. “What did Logan do?”

She realises, belatedly, that she has been speaking aloud. “He’s sleeping in Garrett’s hotel room.”

There’s a beat. Then the blonde winces with genuine sympathy. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Like, sleeping sleeping?”

She nods. “In the other bed.”

“Oh,” the blonde repeats, worse this time.

The girls around her are people she recognises more than knows. Regular fixtures at Briar games and hockey-house parties, always in tiny tops beneath oversized team jackets, glossy hair, immaculate eyeliner and the ability to identify a hooking call from sixty feet away while drunk. 

She has privately thought of them as the puck-bunny cluster, which feels less kind now that one of them is offering her a sip from an unopened bottle of water and another has shifted her bag so she has more room for her knees.

They had all said hello when she arrived. One of them – dark hair, sharp eyeliner, little silver hoops – had complimented Garrett’s jersey and then immediately asked whether it was warm because she was considering stealing Tucker’s. They are, irritatingly, not awful.

The blonde turns toward her more fully during a stoppage, crossing one leg over the other. “So…”

The girl on her other side looks over at once. “Kendall.”

“What?” Kendall lifts both brows. “I’m being friendly.”

“You always say that right before you ask something invasive.”

Kendall ignores her. Her gaze flicks down to the jersey, then toward Garrett circling near centre ice. “Someone finally locked down Garrett Graham.”

The other girl closes her eyes. “Kenz, don’t.”

“No, it’s okay,” she says, partly because Kendall’s expression is curious rather than cruel and partly because she’s spent enough time around Dean to know invasive questions become stronger if fear is detected. “Apparently.”

Kendall smiles. “I’m Kendall.”

She introduces herself, and the dark-haired girl beside Kendall leans around with an apologetic look. “Paige. I swear we usually keep her on a shorter leash.”

“I escaped.”

“You chewed through it.”

A third girl farther down lifts her hand. “Sienna.”

“Hi.”

They exchange the peculiar smiles of women who have all, at one point, been in the same kitchen at two in the morning pretending not to hear something happening upstairs. 

The puck drops again before the conversation can settle, and for the next minute all four of them turn toward the ice as Garrett steals possession near the boards and sends a pass backward through his own legs.

Paige makes an appreciative noise. “That was disgusting.”

“He’s showing off,” she says.

Kendall glances toward her. “For you?”

“No. He’s naturally unbearable.”

Down on the ice, Garrett’s head turns toward their section for the briefest second before he moves back into position.

Kendall smiles into her drink. “Sure.”

The game keeps moving at a pace that makes conversation happen in broken sections – between whistles, during line changes, while officials argue near the boards and Burlington’s coach looks one bad call away from attempting murder with a clipboard. 

The girls know the game properly. They track matchups, complain about the officiating with specific evidence and collectively groan when a Briar defenceman turns over the puck near the blue line.

Sienna has statistics. Paige knows which Burlington winger has a weak backhand. Kendall knows everyone’s romantic history but presents it like battlefield intelligence rather than gossip.

By the middle of the second period, she’s forgotten to be wary of them.

“So where are you staying?” Paige asks, peeling the label away from her water bottle in tiny strips. “Did you get a room here?”

“Oh.” She shifts the jersey sleeve back up her arm. “Uh, Garrett’s kind of sneaking me into the team hotel.”

Three faces change at once, into pure delight.

“No,” Sienna says, pressing a hand to her chest. “That’s so cute.”

“Stop,” Kendall adds. “Away-game girlfriend weekend?”

“Kind of.” She looks toward the ice, where Garrett and Logan are conferring near the bench with their helmets tipped together. “Except Logan’s sleeping in the next bed.”

The sympathy returns immediately.

Paige makes a low noise. “That’s brutal.”

“My lingerie’s essentially on a sightseeing trip.”

Sienna snorts into her bottle. Kendall folds forward laughing, one hand gripping Paige’s knee, and even the girl in the row ahead turns around with a grin despite having no context.

“Just be quiet,” Paige says once she can speak again.

She looks at her. “What?”

Paige shrugs with the composure of someone suggesting a restaurant. “Dean and I did that last year when he was sharing with Tucker.”

There’s half a second of silence.

Kendall turns slowly. “I’m sorry?”

Paige frowns. “You knew that.”

“I knew you hooked up. I didn’t know Tucker was in the room.”

“He was asleep.”

Sienna stares. “The whole time?”

Paige’s mouth curves around the rim of her bottle. “Tuck sleeps really deep. He didn’t wake up.”

Kendall’s eyes narrow. “Would you have stopped if he did?”

Paige gives this serious consideration. “Probably not.”

The three girls burst into laughter, Kendall raising one hand. Paige high-fives her without hesitation. She laughs with them, face warming as she looks back toward the ice and tries not to imagine the logistics. 

Logan asleep beneath a hotel duvet. Garrett’s hand over her mouth. The lingerie no longer purely decorative. The difficult but perhaps not impossible task of remaining quiet while Garrett Graham was actively trying to prevent that outcome.

The idea plants itself with alarming efficiency. It doesn’t help that Garrett takes the ice again thirty seconds later.

He catches a pass from Tucker near the blue line, moves through the first defender before the man’s hips finish turning and cuts hard toward the centre. Logan draws the second defenceman away. Dean barrels toward the net, the goalie drops, anticipating the shot low.

Garrett lifts it over his shoulder. Goal.

The arena splits down the middle – Burlington groaning, Briar screaming – and she’s standing before the puck has fully hit the net. Her hands come together hard, a sharp clap lost beneath the horn, then she puts two fingers to her mouth and whistles so loudly Paige jerks beside her.

Garrett circles behind the net, momentum carrying him toward the boards while his teammates close in. He lifts his head, and finds her. Even through the cage, even beneath the helmet, she sees the grin arrive. Garrett points one gloved hand toward the stands, directly up at her, and something inside her opens so quickly it almost feels like missing a step.

The girls around her make a collective sound.

“Oh my God,” Kendall says.

She doesn’t care. Not enough to pretend. Not with Garrett still looking at her from the ice, flushed and bright and pleased, his whole body alive with the game. She blows him a kiss.

It’s corny. Public. Completely unlike the woman who once treated wanting him as a confidential condition and insisted every hookup would be the last. The kiss leaves her fingers anyway, and Garrett catches it against the front of his glove before pressing the glove theatrically to his chest.

Dean slams into him from behind hard enough to ruin the moment and nearly send him into the boards. She laughs, falling back into her seat while her pulse beats warm in her throat.

“Oh,” Paige sighs beside her. “You’re gone.”

She presses both hands briefly over her face. “I know.”

There’s no point arguing. Garrett returns to the bench still grinning, and the sight of it sits beneath her skin for the rest of the game, a warm little current through every shout and whistle and thud against the glass.

Briar finishes five goals ahead.

Dean takes a penalty with four minutes left. Tucker assists twice. Logan scores one and spends the remainder of the third period tormenting Burlington’s defence with the serene expression of someone doing homework he finds easy. Garrett leaves the ice with two goals, two assists and the particular loose swagger of a man who knows he’s been the best person in the building for two straight hours.

She stays until the stands begin emptying, saying goodbye to the girls while people file toward the exits around them. Kendall catches her wrist before leaving. “Dinner tomorrow if the boys aren’t being weird?”

She blinks, then smiles. “Yeah. Okay.”

Paige points at her. “And consider my advice.”

“Your deeply unethical advice?”

“Life-changing advice.”

Sienna shakes her head as they disappear into the crowd. “Do not listen to her.”

Paige calls back over one shoulder, “Coward.”

The corridor outside the rink is warmer than the stands and smells like popcorn, wet coats and the sour edge of old ice. She follows the signs down toward the restricted player area, stopping near the place Garrett had told her to wait. 

The door beside it stays shut. Team staff move in and out with equipment bags and clipboards, none of them paying much attention to her beyond a quick glance at the Briar jersey.

She waits. At first she stands near the wall, checking the door every time it opens. Then ten minutes becomes twenty and the heat from the game begins fading out of her body, leaving her feet cold inside her sneakers and her throat dry from yelling.

There’s a vending machine farther down the corridor. She buys a bottle of lemonade for an amount that feels rude, then sits on a narrow bench beneath a framed photograph of a team from the nineties.

She doesn’t mind the wait. The arena quiets around her in layers. Crowds disappear toward the exits. The concession shutters roll down. The overhead announcements stop. Her body settles into the pleasant exhaustion after noise, ears still faintly ringing, Garrett’s jersey warm around her shoulders.

She scrolls through her phone, answers a text from Monique asking whether she’s become an interstate hockey wife yet, and sends Lucy a blurry picture. She’s halfway through reading a post about medication errors when the door opens again.

Garrett comes through carrying his gear bag over one shoulder. His hair is damp from the shower, curls darker and pushed loosely off his forehead. He’s back in his team tracksuit, jacket unzipped at the throat, cheeks still holding a faint post-game flush despite the time he’s spent cooling down. 

There’s a small red mark near his jaw she doesn’t remember seeing before and a brightness in his face that makes the whole quiet corridor rearrange itself around him.

She grins before he spots her. “Hi, Captain.”

Garrett’s head turns. The smile that hits him is immediate and wide enough that he looks briefly younger, all the game-day sharpness dropping out of his face at once. He lets the gear bag slide from his shoulder near the wall.

She’s already standing. The lemonade goes onto the bench. Her phone gets shoved badly into the back pocket of her jeans. Then she’s moving toward him, walking quickly for three steps before giving up and half-running the rest.

Garrett opens his arms with a laugh. “Hey–”

She jumps. Her arms hook around his shoulders and her legs barely have time to leave the ground before Garrett catches her under the thighs, lifting her against him with the same easy strength that still gives her stomach a small, delighted drop. 

He turns them in a quick circle, her laugh breaking out near his ear while his gear bag sits abandoned on the floor and one arena employee watches with the exhausted neutrality of someone paid too little to acknowledge young love.

Garrett kisses her, smiling too much for it to land properly the first time. She tries again, holding his face between both hands while he steadies her against him, and the second kiss is warm and sure and tastes faintly of mint gum and whatever sports drink he had after the game.

“Nice win, baby,” she murmurs when she pulls back.

“Thanks, baby.” He kisses her once more, quick and pleased, then looks over her face like he needs to verify she witnessed all the relevant parts. “You see the second goal?”

She grins. “You pointed at me.”

“Did I?”

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“What?” His mouth twitches. “I point at lots of people.”

Her eyes narrow. “Name one.”

“Coach.”

“Romantically?”

Garrett laughs and lowers her carefully until her feet return to the floor. His hands stay at her waist after, thumbs brushing over his own jersey. “You blew me a kiss.”

She tilts her head. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yeah?” He leans down, mouth hovering close to hers. “I caught it. It was hot.”

“It wasn’t hot.”

“Baby, you’re wearing my jersey, screaming my name from the stands and blowing me kisses after goals.” His grin goes slow and devastating. “It’s pretty fucking hot.”

Her face warms. She catches the open edge of his jacket and gives it a sharp little tug. “You’re insufferable after a win.”

“You love me after a win.”

The words are careless. Easy. Garrett smiling down at her with his hands around her waist and his body still carrying the game, saying something so close to the truth that her breath catches for half a beat before she can smooth it over.

“I tolerate you very enthusiastically.”

“Right.” He kisses her forehead, lingering there for a second, then reaches down for his bag. “Hey. You wanna go eat?”

She looks up. “Now?”

“Still early.” Garrett slings the strap back over his shoulder and glances toward the emptying corridor. There’s a slight change in him, so subtle she might not have caught it a few months ago – the quick drag of his tongue over his bottom lip, his eyes moving away from hers for half a second before coming back. “Thought we could go somewhere nice.”

Her mouth softens before she can stop it. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, baby.”

Garrett nods once, then adjusts the gear bag higher despite it already sitting perfectly well. “First proper date.”

Garrett Graham, who can walk onto hostile ice and take control of an entire game in front of thousands of people, suddenly looking faintly uncertain because he has to choose a restaurant and sit across from his girlfriend while they both know it counts.

She steps closer. “Are you nervous?”

Garrett looks offended. “I just scored twice.”

“Congratulations. You’re still nervous.”

He bends and kisses her before the smile can fully escape. “Let’s go back to the hotel,” he says against her mouth. “Shower and stuff.”

Her brows furrow. “You already showered.”

“Yeah, but I smell like the locker room again.”

She breathes lightly near the collar of his jacket, mostly to be annoying. “A little.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, baby.”

Garrett’s expression eases. He picks up her half-finished lemonade with his free hand, takes a drink without asking and makes a face at the sweetness. “Jesus.”

She points at it. “That cost four dollars.”

“Robbery.”

“You still drank it.”

“Relationship property,” he argues. 

“That’s not the law.”

He grins, hooks his arm around her shoulders and draws her into his side as they start toward the exit. The gear bag hangs from his other shoulder, heavy enough that it should affect the way he walks and somehow doesn’t. She reaches up and threads their fingers together near her collarbone, holding his hand where it rests over her, then wraps her other arm around his waist beneath the open jacket.

They fit like that too easily now. Her hip against his. His warmth along her side. Their joined hands tucked near her shoulder while the quiet arena corridor stretches ahead of them beneath fluorescent lights.

She looks up at him. “So proud of you.”

Garrett’s head turns. For a second the grin fades into something smaller and more private, the words landing somewhere he doesn’t immediately cover with a joke. His thumb moves once over the back of her hand.

“Thanks,” he says, then the grin comes back. “Good-luck charm.”

She leans her head briefly against his shoulder. “You played well because I packed expensive underwear.”

His stride catches. Only slightly. Barely enough to notice if she were not pressed directly against him. Garrett looks down. “You what?”

She keeps her face forward with heroic composure. “Nothing.”

“No, no.” His arm tightens around her shoulders. “Go back.”

“First proper date,” she reminds him brightly. “We should focus on, like, emotional intimacy.”

“Baby.”

“And food,” she adds.

“What underwear?”

She smiles as the exit doors open ahead of them, cold Burlington air pressing through the gap. “Guess we’ll never know, with Logan being our roomie and all.”

Garrett stops walking altogether. She gets two steps ahead before his joined hand catches hers and pulls her gently backward into him. His mouth drops near her ear, voice low enough that it moves warm over the side of her neck.

“Logan sleeps pretty hard.”

The idea Paige planted earlier lifts its head with renewed interest. She turns slowly inside the circle of his arm. Garrett is looking at her with his brows slightly raised, dark eyes bright beneath damp curls, the edge of a challenge already settling into his mouth.

“Does he?” she asks.

Garrett’s hand slides to her waist. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The bathroom door sticks slightly against the carpet when she opens it, catching for half a second before giving way with a soft scrape, and Garrett looks up from the edge of the bed.

He’s been sitting there with his elbows resting loosely over his knees, phone balanced in one hand and one Timberland planted farther out than the other. His jacket is open over a fitted black knit that pulls cleanly across his shoulders and chest, dark jeans falling loose over his boots, curls pushed into some deliberate version of their usual disorder that makes him look unfairly put together for someone who had been knocking men into reinforced glass two hours ago.

His eyes find her face first. Then move down. The phone lowers slowly toward his thigh. “Shiiit.”

She stops just outside the bathroom, one hand still resting on the door handle, and smiles because there’s no possible dignified response to Garrett Graham looking at her like that. “Hi.”

Garrett’s gaze makes the trip again, slower this time. Over the pale knit sitting soft against her skin, the belt pulled through the waist of the dark denim skirt, the strip of bare thigh above her boots. His mouth parts slightly before the grin finds it, a little stunned around the edges despite all the confidence he’s spent several months weaponising against her.

“Fuck,” he says, setting his phone aside without looking. “You look so good, baby.”

Something warm spreads beneath the neat waistband of her skirt. She smooths one hand over the knit, suddenly aware of every decision she made beneath the yellow bathroom lighting. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His knees widen in an invitation so obvious it barely qualifies as one. “C’mere.”

She crosses the room, boots muffled against the carpet, and stops between his legs. Garrett’s hands settle immediately on the backs of her thighs, warm palms against skin, fingers spreading just beneath the hem of the skirt as his head tips back to look at her.

The contact is simple enough. Barely anything, really. He’s touched much more of her in much less fabric. Still, his thumbs move slowly along the backs of her legs and her pulse begins doing something unnecessarily visible near the base of her throat.

“You won’t be cold?” he asks.

She glances toward the long dark coat draped over the chair beside her bag. “Got a coat.”

Garrett follows her gaze, nods once as if the existence of appropriate outerwear has resolved a legitimate concern. “Good.”

Then his hands slide higher, Garrett’s fingertips catch the edge of the skirt and make her stomach tighten. He draws her closer until her knees touch the mattress between his thighs.

“You look…” He pauses, eyes moving over her again like the sentence has become difficult. “Really fucking good.”

She threads her fingers into the curls near his temple, brushing one piece back into place. “You’ve said.”

“Gonna keep saying it.”

That makes her laugh, and Garrett uses the small drop of her shoulders to pull her down. His mouth finds hers before she has properly balanced, one hand shifting from her thigh to her waist while the other stays wrapped behind her leg, keeping her steady between his knees.

The kiss starts warm and almost sweet, his lips still faintly minty, the knit of his jumper soft beneath her palm when she braces it against his chest. Then Garrett tilts his head, thumb pressing into the curve of her waist, and it deepens with the speed of something that’s been waiting impatiently beneath the surface since the parking garage.

Her mouth opens under his. Garrett makes a low sound and draws her closer, knees pressing into the outsides of her legs until she’s nearly sitting in his lap. His hand leaves her waist to cup her jaw, fingers slipping beneath her hair, thumb resting near the corner of her mouth while his tongue drags over hers.

A small sound escapes her. Soft and involuntary and immediately absorbed by Garrett’s mouth. His hand tightens at the back of her thigh, and he stands.

It happens without breaking the kiss, which is annoying only because he does it with enough ease to remind her that she could probably climb him like public infrastructure and he would remain structurally sound. One second he’s sitting beneath her, the next she’s being crowded backward by the warm, solid length of him, his jacket brushing her arms and his mouth still moving over hers while one hand catches her waist.

Her fingers close around the front of his jumper. Garrett kisses her harder, breathing rougher now, and his free hand wanders down over the denim at her hip to the curve of her ass. His palm spreads there, and she makes another little noise into his mouth.

Garrett smiles against her lips, dark and pleased, then squeezes once through the skirt in a way that sends her body into his before pride can intervene. His mouth leaves hers only to drag over her cheek, warm kisses pressed toward the line of her jaw while his hand stays firm behind her.

She tips her head aside. “Baby.”

Someone clears his throat. Logan doesn’t need volume. The sound arrives from the other bed with the calm, pointed precision of a man reminding two people that although they may have temporarily lost awareness of him, he has unfortunately continued to exist.

Garrett stops with his mouth against her jaw. For a second, his eyes stay closed. Then he lifts his head and looks directly at the ceiling, jaw working slowly, like he’s calculating the personal, athletic and legal cost of killing his best friend in a Burlington hotel room.

Logan flicks through the channels. “Don’t mind me.”

“I’m trying not to,” Garrett says.

“It doesn’t seem like you’re trying very hard.”

She presses her lips together, but the smile still pulls at them. Garrett feels it and looks down at her with narrowed eyes, as if her amusement constitutes betrayal. “Don’t,” he murmurs.

“You had your hand on my ass in front of him.”

“Yeah, and he was supposed to look away.”

Logan glances toward them. “I did. The kissing had surround sound.”

Garrett’s face goes blank with suffering. She takes pity on him before he begins rearranging the hotel’s occupancy through violence, slipping out of his arms and reaching for her coat. The dark fabric falls almost to her calves when she shrugs into it. Garrett steps behind her automatically, lifting her hair free of the collar and smoothing it down her back with both hands.

She looks over at Logan while fastening the front. “Don’t wait up.”

Logan settles deeper against his pillows. “Have fun, lovebirds.”

“We will,” Garrett says with enough pointed confidence that Logan snorts.

She catches Garrett by the hand before he can make the conversation worse and guides him toward the door. He grabs his room key from the dresser, checks the hallway through the peephole with a seriousness better suited to hostage extraction, then cracks the door and looks both ways.

She leans against his shoulder. “Are we escaping Coach or robbing the hotel?”

“Coach sees you, he asks why you’re here. Then I have to lie.”

She considers this. “You could tell him I’m here for the rich cultural history of Burlington.”

His eyes drop again before he can stop them. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

They slip into the hall, Garrett pulling the door shut carefully behind them. The hotel has gone quieter since they returned from the arena, most of the team either downstairs eating or spread across rooms under curfew-adjacent supervision. 

A television plays behind one door. Someone laughs behind another, followed by the hollow bounce of what sounds suspiciously like a ball against a wall. Garrett keeps one hand at the small of her back as they move toward the lift, then thinks better of it at the last second and steers her toward the stairs instead.

“Less cameras?” she asks.

“Less chance of Coach.”

She raises her eyebrow at him. “You do this often?”

“Sneak girlfriends out of team hotels?”

“Mhm.”

Garrett opens the stairwell door for her. “First time.”

The answer drops somewhere warm and inconvenient inside her. She steps through before he can watch it happen on her face, boots tapping lightly over the concrete stairs while Garrett follows close enough that his hand finds her waist again at the landing.

They make it through the lobby without seeing Coach, though Garrett makes her pause behind a decorative partition while one of the assistant coaches crosses toward reception carrying a coffee. She has to press her face into Garrett’s shoulder to keep from laughing when he places one finger over his lips with the grave focus of someone hiding state secrets.

Once they reach the garage, he unlocks the car and opens her door first. The small courtesy catches her more than it should. Garrett has carried her, fed her, held ice against her face and once memorised the intervals on her medication reminders while she was too feverish to understand clocks. A car door shouldn’t matter. 

Still, she looks at him over its top, and something about the way he stands there in his dark coat with his curls done and the post-game tiredness softened out of his face makes the whole evening feel newly, sweetly official.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

His mouth curves. “Good nothing?”

“Get in the car, Graham.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The restaurant is fifteen minutes from the hotel, tucked along a street strung with low golden lights and shopfront windows beginning to fog against the cold. Garrett drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting between them over the console, palm up. She puts her hand into it before he asks.

He looks calmer behind the wheel than he had standing in the room, but not entirely. His thumb keeps moving over her knuckles. He checks the navigation twice despite the directions being simple, changes lanes earlier than necessary and reaches to adjust the heat before glancing at her boots.

She watches him for another block. “You’re nervous.”

Garrett’s eyes stay on the road. “No, I’m not.”

“You checked the reservation email three times before we left.”

“I checked the address.”

“You asked me whether I was warm four times,” she smiles.

“It’s cold.”

“You nearly took a wrong turn because you were looking at whether my side of the car had enough heat.”

“I had it,” he mutters.

She turns in her seat as much as the seatbelt allows, studying the line of his jaw beneath the streetlights. “Baby.”

Garrett exhales through his nose, the sound caught somewhere between embarrassment and irritation at being understood too easily. His thumb pauses against hers.

“It’s…” He shifts his grip on the wheel. “I mean, it’s a big deal.” Garrett glances at her, then back at the road. “I want this to be, like, perfect.”

Her chest pulls tight in the gentlest way. She brings their joined hands closer and presses her lips briefly to the side of his thumb. “We’ve eaten together before, Garrett.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” He huffs, visibly frustrated by the need to translate whatever is happening beneath his ribs into normal speech. “Officially.”

They have eaten together dozens of times. Fries in his car. Pizza on her dorm floor. Tucker’s eggs at the hockey-house counter. Takeaway in bed with her assignment open and Garrett complaining that medical textbooks should contain more colour. 

He’s bought her food, stolen hers, remembered her orders, filled shelves in his kitchen with things she likes and learned which kind of hunger she means when she says she’s fine.

But this is different to him. There’s a reservation. A coat. A restaurant he looked up in advance. A version of Garrett who scored twice in front of hundreds of people without blinking and is now worried dinner might somehow fail an invisible test because it belongs to his girlfriend.

She squeezes his hand. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“I know.”

“It can be a little shit.”

Garrett looks over, offended. “I don’t want it to be shit.”

She laughs. “I’m saying it’s already good because I’m with you.”

His eyes flick toward her again. Something in his face loosens. “That was smooth,” he says.

“It was honest.”

“Even smoother.”

She rolls her eyes, but Garrett lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles at the next red light, keeping his mouth there for a second longer than the joke requires.

The restaurant sits behind a narrow brick frontage with small lights glowing above the windows and a chalkboard menu propped near the entrance. Inside, it’s warm, the air carrying butter, toasted bread, wine and something sweet from the open kitchen at the back. The walls are painted a deep green, crowded with mismatched framed prints, little brass lamps throwing soft pools of light across dark wooden tables. Small vases sit at the centre of each one with clipped branches and tiny white flowers that look almost too neat to be real.

It’s cute. It’s simply warm and lovely and busy enough that they can disappear into it, everyone bent over food and conversation while snow-soft cold presses against the windows outside. Garrett gives his name to the server, trying to sound casual and failing only because she can feel how much he cares from the hand sitting warm at her back.

Their table is tucked near the window in a little corner partly screened by a shelf of plants. Garrett pulls out her chair. She looks at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she replies, shaking her head.

“You keep doing that. Looking at me like I’ve grown another head.”

She sits, smoothing the skirt beneath her. “You pulled out my chair.”

“Yeah.” Garrett pushes it in carefully, then moves around to his own. “My mom taught me manners.”

The words are easy, but they leave the faintest change behind them, like the soft impression of a thumb pressed into fabric after it lifts. She smiles up at him. “She did a good job.”

Garrett’s gaze holds hers for a second before he sits. “Sometimes.”

A candle in a little glass holder flickers between them. Outside, headlights pass over the wet pavement. Garrett shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair, the black knit beneath it making his shoulders look even broader in the small space.

She picks up the menu. “This is very cute.”

His brows lift. “Cute good?”

“Cute good,” she nods.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Garrett.” She looks at him over the top edge. “You may relax.”

Garrett huffs a laugh and finally leans back, one ankle brushing hers beneath the table. “You’re mean on dates.”

“You knew that.”

“Thought girlfriend status might soften you.”

“That was your first mistake.”

The server returns with water and gives them time to choose. Garrett asks what she’s considering, then reads the description of the dish himself like he doesn’t trust the menu to communicate directly with her. She makes fun of him for saying confit with too much confidence. He accuses her of pronouncing gnocchi incorrectly on purpose. 

They negotiate starters as though division of resources has become a diplomatic crisis, eventually settling on bread with whipped butter and little fried dumplings because she cannot decide and Garrett says, “We’ll get both,” with the uncomplicated certainty of someone who has never respected the artificial boundary between wanting things and ordering them.

The nerves leave him in pieces. First through the food, because Garrett understands food. Then through teasing the bread apart with his fingers and putting the larger half onto her plate without comment. Then when she takes her first bite of the dumplings, makes a tiny sound of approval and immediately moves the plate closer to her side.

“Those are shared,” he says.

“I’m aware.”

“You’ve created a border.”

She smiles sweetly and eats another. Garrett watches her for a beat, then uses his fork to steal one directly from her plate. She gasps with enough volume that the couple beside them glance over.

“You’re sick,” she says.

“You stole the plate,” he argues.

“It was in neutral territory.”

He grins around the bite, and whatever tightness had been sitting behind his eyes when they walked in disappears properly.

Dinner unfolds without needing to become an Event. That’s the best part. They talk about the game, Garrett replaying Logan’s assist with his fork held like a stick until she points out the older woman at the next table is watching him demonstrate defensive positioning beside the salt cellar. He drops the fork immediately and becomes interested in his drink.

He asks about her podcast, and this time he lets her explain the whole case without making a joke about arteries until she reaches the part about a tearing chest sensation and he says, “That’s a horrific phrase,” with such genuine offence that she laughs into her water.

She tells him Maria once described a doctor as allergic to admitting he was wrong. Garrett says Coach has the same condition but is too frightened of nurses to seek treatment. He tells her Dean spent the entire second intermission trying to convince a freshman that Burlington has an underground tunnel system built specifically for transporting maple syrup. She believes him immediately.

Their mains arrive. Garrett ordered steak and potatoes; she ordered pasta with a sauce rich enough that the first bite makes her close her eyes for half a second.

Garrett notices. “Good?”

She nods, already winding more around her fork. “So good.”

“Try this.” He cuts a piece of steak and holds the fork across the table. 

She leans forward and takes it, lips closing around the fork while Garrett watches with an attention disproportionate to cooked meat. His eyes dip to her mouth, and she bites down slowly just to be difficult. His jaw flexes.

She chews, pleased. “Good.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” She reaches over with her own fork and takes a piece of potato from his plate without asking.

Garrett looks down. “You have food.”

“I wanted yours.”

“You could ask.”

She takes another bite. “You could stop me.”

He considers that, then turns his plate slightly toward her so the potatoes are easier to reach. “Nah.”

She smiles into her pasta.

They share everything by the end. Her fork travels to his plate often enough that Garrett stops pretending surprise. He takes a bite of her pasta and claims it is too rich, then takes another to make sure. She drinks from his glass because hers is marginally farther away. He slides the bread toward her every time she finishes a piece and pretends not to notice when she tucks the last one onto his plate because he has eaten most of his dinner and she hasn’t.

The restaurant gets dimmer around them as the evening moves on. Tables empty and refill. Coats brush past. The candle burns low enough that wax gathers clear around the base of the wick.

She realises somewhere between Garrett telling her about Tucker quietly losing his mind over a missed assignment deadline and him asking whether her next placement roster has come out that she’s stopped thinking about what a first official date is meant to feel like.

It feels like this.

Garrett’s ankle hooked loosely around hers under the table. His mouth curving before she reaches the end of a story because he already knows where the joke is going. Her reaching across to brush a crumb from the knit at his chest. His hand turning palm-up beside the candle until she puts hers into it.

Something they’ve been doing for months with the lights finally turned on.

They order dessert despite both claiming they’re too full. Garrett says they should share one, which is how a chocolate tart arrives with a scoop of vanilla ice cream already softening beside it and one spoon placed between them. She takes the first bite.

Garrett watches her. “Well?”

She gives a thoughtful hum, swallowing slowly. “Bad.”

His brows pull together. “Really?”

“Terrible. You shouldn’t have any.”

He reaches for the spoon. She moves it out of reach. “Baby.”

“I’m protecting you,” she grins.

Garrett catches her wrist lightly, pulls the spoon back toward the centre and takes a bite while she tries not to laugh. His eyes close for barely a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “Awful.”

“Right?”

“Probably need to finish it so nobody else gets hurt.”

They demolish most of it under the pretence of public safety. Near the end, Garrett gathers a small piece of tart and some melting ice cream onto the spoon and holds it toward her again.

She opens her mouth without making him ask. His eyes warm. “Good girl.”

The words are quiet enough not to travel beyond the table and still send a quick line of heat down her spine. She closes her lips around the spoon, gaze fixed on his while she draws the chocolate off it. Garrett swallows.

“Date going okay?” she asks innocently.

His mouth twitches. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

She laughs, and the chocolate at the edge of her mouth pulls slightly when she smiles. Garrett reaches across before she can wipe it away, thumb brushing the corner of her lips.

“There.”

She catches his hand before he can take it back and presses a small kiss to the pad of his thumb.

Garrett goes still. A tiny disruption beneath the warm light, his eyes dropping to where her mouth touched him before returning to her face. His fingers curl lightly around hers.

“Thank you for tonight,” she says.

His expression softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s really nice.”

Garrett’s thumb moves over her knuckles. “Sorry Logan gate-crashed.”

She glances down at the remains of dessert. “He’s in a mood.”

“Yeah.” Garrett leans back slightly, looking toward the window for half a second. “Wouldn’t just go sleep in another room.”

There’s no real irritation, something more tired sits beneath the words.

She watches him. “He okay?”

Garrett nods, but it takes a second. “Family stuff, I think.”

“He tell you?”

“Not really.” He traces one finger around the condensation at the base of his glass. “He just gets pissy and stops caring what anyone else thinks. Says he’s fine, acts like an asshole, keeps himself around people without actually talking to anyone.”

The description is specific enough to have history in it. She thinks of Logan stretched across the hotel bed, remote against his stomach, joking like he had not deliberately refused the easiest room solution available. 

She nods. “Okay.”

Garrett looks back at her, brows pulling faintly together. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m still mad about the lingerie.”

His mouth changes immediately. “Yeah, me too.”

“But no.” She squeezes his hand. “Not actually.”

“He’ll probably be asleep before we get back.”

She hesitates for a moment, drawing a small shape on the table with her finger. “Paige said Tucker sleeps through anything.”

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “Why the fuck were you talking to Paige about Tucker sleeping?”

She presses her lips together.

“Baby.”

“Apparently she and Dean had sex while Tucker was in the other bed last year,” she blurts out. 

Garrett stares at her. The restaurant continues politely around them while he processes this information. A server clears glasses from the next table. Someone laughs near the bar. The candle flickers.

“Tucker was in the room?”

“Asleep.”

“And Dean…”

“Mhm.”

Garrett sits back, genuinely shaken. “Dean never told me that.”

“I don’t think it was his story to share,” she mumbles.

“It’s absolutely his story to share. Tucker was there.”

“She said he never woke up.”

Garrett looks somewhere over her shoulder as if trying to re-evaluate every night Tucker has ever slept near them. “That man misses everything.”

She laughs. “The point is, maybe… maybe Logan won’t be a problem.”

His gaze snaps back to hers. The shift is immediate and recognisable, amusement sharpening at the edges as his eyes move slowly over her face. “Yeah?”

“Maybe.”

“Thought you wanted another weekend.”

“I do.” She leans closer over the table, lowering her voice. “One where we don’t need to practice stealth.”

Garrett sighs, but he’s smiling when he lifts her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist. “We’ll just have to do another weekend away.”

“Just you and me.”

“Yeah.” His thumb settles over her pulse. “Somewhere warm.”

She pictures it immediately without meaning to. Garrett brown from sun instead of red from rink cold, curls damp with sea water, shirt abandoned somewhere unnecessary. A hotel room without Logan six feet away or Dean yelling through the vents.

“Mmm.” She tips her head, considering. “Or New York.”

Garrett looks surprised. “New York?”

“I’ve never been.”

His brows lift. “You’ve never been?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Not even for, like, a school trip?”

“Not everyone had a glamorous East Coast childhood, Graham.”

He laughs, thumb still moving over her wrist. “I’ll take you.”

Her smile appears before she can contain it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He says it with the same certainty he uses when telling her he’ll pick her up after placement or bring food or stay awake. Not a vague someday tossed into the air because it sounds nice. Something already halfway to becoming logistics in his head. “Wherever you wanna go.”

She imagines Manhattan lights and Garrett’s hand in hers, hotel sheets, streets neither of them has a routine inside yet. The image sits warm behind her ribs.

“Somewhere private,” she says.

Garrett’s mouth curves slowly. “Took the words right outta my mouth, baby.”

The bill arrives not long after. She reaches for it because she has principles, and Garrett removes it from the table before her fingers touch the edge.

“No.”

“Garrett.”

“I asked you out.”

“So?”

“So I’m paying.”

“You always pay,” she sighs. 

Garrett laughs and passes his card to the server. “You can pay in New York.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s much more expensive.”

“I’m taking you on vacation.”

“You have not booked anything.”

“Details.”

He signs the receipt, then stands and comes around the table before she’s fully gathered her coat. Garrett holds it open for her, helping guide her arms through the sleeves, hands smoothing once over her shoulders after the fabric settles.

She turns within the loose circle of his arms. “Still nervous?”

His eyes move over her face. “Little bit.”

“Why?”

“Date’s not over.”

There’s heat in the answer, but something sweeter beneath it too. The night waiting outside. The hotel room. Logan, unfortunately. The fact that Garrett still seems to believe there’s a way to do this correctly and has quietly assigned himself responsibility for finding it.

She reaches up and adjusts the collar of his coat. “It’s going well.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Garrett bends and kisses her softly, thumb and pointer finger holding her chin, right there beside the table with the last trace of chocolate still sweet on both their mouths.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Outside, the cold catches instantly at the bare strip above her boots. Garrett notices before she’s taken two steps, pulling her against his side and tightening one arm around her shoulders as they head toward the car.

The street shines dark from old rain, shop lights reflecting gold across the pavement. She threads their fingers together where his hand hangs over her shoulder and slips her other arm around his waist beneath the coat, fitting herself into the heat of him.

Garrett looks down. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

“Cold?”

“A little,” she nods.

She leans into him as they cross toward the car, still full from dinner and chocolate and the easy warmth of being listened to for hours. Garrett’s hand squeezes hers near her shoulder.

“Hey,” he says.

She glances up. “Hm?”

“First date.”

Her mouth curves. “First date.”

“Went pretty well.”

“It’s not over.”

Garrett’s grin flashes beneath the streetlights. “Exactly.”

By the time Logan starts snoring, the movie has been playing for forty-three minutes and she could not tell anyone a single useful thing about it.

There’s a woman on the laptop screen standing in a dark kitchen, speaking urgently into a phone while rain moves silver against the windows behind her. The volume is low enough that most of the dialogue dissolves beneath the hotel heater and the occasional rush of tyres on the wet road outside. 

Garrett had picked the film because it had been sitting near the top of the streaming page and neither of them cared enough to argue, which is how they have ended up watching what appears to be either a murder mystery or an extremely stressful advertisement for home security.

The laptop rests half-open near the edge of Garrett’s bed, angled toward them but mostly illuminating the twisted hotel sheets in pale blue. The rest of the room has gone dark except for the narrow line of bathroom light Logan insisted on leaving beneath the door because he claimed unfamiliar hotel rooms were full of furniture placed specifically to break his toes.

Logan occupies the other double bed beneath a heap of white duvet, one arm thrown above his head and his phone still loose in his hand near the pillow. 

He had spent twenty minutes complaining that Garrett and his girlfriend were breathing romantically, another ten announcing that he wasn’t tired, then fallen asleep halfway through a story about Dean attempting to convince the hotel bartender he was part of a wedding party.

Now he snores. It starts with a faint rough pull of breath, then stops long enough for both of them to wonder whether they imagined it. A louder one follows. Then a soft snuffle against his pillow, his body turning half an inch beneath the duvet before settling again.

Garrett’s arm tightens around her middle. She’s curled on her side with her back fitted to his chest, bare legs tucked beneath the hem of his hoodie and the little cotton shorts she changed into after dinner. 

The hoodie falls nearly to the tops of her thighs, thick and soft from enough washes that it barely feels like clothing anymore. It smells like his detergent and the faint remaining trace of his skin, and every time she shifts the fabric drags against places that have been waiting several days for him with an amount of patience she would describe as medically poor.

Garrett’s shirtless behind her, one arm tucked beneath the pillow and the other looped low across her stomach. His sweatpants are warm against the backs of her legs. 

His chest rises slowly against her spine, steady enough that she might think he was drifting off too if his thumb had not been moving beneath the hoodie for the last five minutes, tracing absent little lines over the skin above her waistband.

She keeps her eyes on the laptop.

Garrett kisses the back of her shoulder. It’s barely anything. A soft press of his mouth through the displaced collar of the hoodie, warm enough that her skin tightens beneath it before he moves higher. Another kiss lands near the base of her neck.

Her breathing changes.

Garrett’s mouth curves against her skin. She feels it rather than sees it, the smug little pull of his lips, and keeps her gaze fixed on the woman in the dark kitchen as if the plot has suddenly become essential to her future.

His lips move along the side of her throat. Slowly. The tip of his nose brushes beneath her ear, curls tickling her cheek as he presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive place there.

She exhales. The sound is soft, hardly more than breath, but Garrett’s hand stills over her stomach. His mouth stays against her throat while he whispers, “Shh.”

Heat runs through her with such humiliating speed that her thighs press together beneath the blankets. She nods.

Garrett kisses the same place again. Then lower. Then back up along her jaw, each touch light enough to make her wait for the next one and warm enough that waiting becomes its own problem. 

His hand spreads over her stomach beneath the hoodie, thumb sliding near the dip of her navel while his body remains fitted lazily behind hers, as if he’s not doing anything deliberate. As if he hasn’t begun breathing through his nose because her ass is pressed into him and every little restless shift drags over the front of his sweatpants.

She tries to stay still. Garrett nips gently beneath her ear. Her hips jerk. A small whimper catches in her throat before she can contain it. Garrett’s hand comes up immediately, covering her mouth with his palm, warm and broad across her lips while his chest presses more firmly against her back.

“Shh,” he murmurs again, mouth brushing the shell of her ear.

Her eyes close. She nods quickly beneath his hand. “Sorry,” she whispers into his palm, the word muffled and damp against his skin.

“I know.” Garrett kisses her temple, then lets his hand slide away just enough that his thumb can stroke beneath her bottom lip. His voice drops lower, all the teasing stripped out of it. “Can you be quiet?”

Her stomach pulls tight. Garrett waits, lips hovering near her ear while Logan releases another rough, oblivious snore from the opposite bed.

“Promise me,” he whispers.

She turns her face slightly into his hand, lips brushing his thumb. “I promise, baby.”

His fingers flex along her jaw.

“I promise,” she says again, quieter.

“Good girl.”

The praise lands low and immediate. Her knees draw closer together, and Garrett feels it. His hand moves back down her body, slipping beneath the hem of the hoodie to settle over her hip, while his thigh nudges between hers from behind.

She opens for him without being told. His knee slides higher until the hard muscle of his thigh presses against her through the shorts. 

The first small rock of her hips is instinctive, a cautious drag that creates enough pressure to make her breath hitch. Garrett holds her waist steady and kisses the side of her neck while she does it again.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “There you go.”

She presses her lips together, trying to keep the sound trapped behind them as she grinds down against his thigh. The cotton of her shorts shifts, rubbing her underwear against her in a way that’s nowhere near enough and somehow already too much because Logan is six feet away, snoring into government-standard hotel linen while Garrett’s mouth works slowly over her pulse.

Garrett bites lightly at her ear. Her head tips back against his shoulder. “Fuck.”

The word comes out almost soundless. He kisses her jaw, pleased. His knee presses higher, giving her something firmer to move against, and she rocks back into him at the same time, feeling the shape of his cock beginning to thicken against her ass through the sweats.

The movie changes scenes. Something crashes loudly through the laptop speakers, and both of them freeze. Logan shifts beneath his duvet, nose wrinkling against the pillow. His breathing pauses.

She goes perfectly still, pulse beating hard under Garrett’s mouth. A second passes. Then Logan snorts, rolls farther onto his stomach and resumes snoring with renewed commitment.

Garrett exhales silently into her hair. Her shoulders start shaking with suppressed laughter. He catches her jaw and turns her face toward him, his own mouth twitching.

“Not funny,” he whispers.

“It’s a little funny.”

“He’s ruining my life.”

She smiles, and Garrett kisses it away. The angle is awkward from behind, her neck turned and his body still curved around hers, but the inconvenience only makes the kiss hotter. 

His mouth opens over hers, tongue moving slow and deep while his hand slides across her stomach. She reaches behind herself, fingers finding the curls at the back of his head, pulling him closer until the kiss turns messy and hungry and the movie becomes only shifting light across their closed eyes.

Garrett reaches around her and taps the volume button on the laptop. The voices on-screen rise by several careful increments. Rain grows louder. Music swells beneath a woman whispering about a locked door. He settles his hand back beneath the hoodie.

“You planned that,” she breathes against his mouth.

“Thinking ahead.”

“Captain.”

Garrett groans softly and kisses her harder. It’s been days. Enough for her body to have begun collecting the absence in small, irritated places. Enough that every press of his mouth feels sharper, every drag of his thigh between hers more necessary. Enough that she’s not ashamed of the way she turns within the circle of his arms as far as the mattress allows, chasing his mouth while her ass grinds backward against him.

Garrett’s hips move with hers. He’s fully hard now, thick beneath the sweatpants, the length of him pressing along the curve of her ass every time she shifts. His breathing breaks against her lips. One hand grips her hip while the other cups her jaw, keeping her mouth where he wants it.

She reaches behind herself, fumbling briefly with the waistband of his sweats. Garrett catches her wrist. “Baby.”

“What?”

His eyes flick over her face in the dim light. “Sure?”

She stares at him, then deliberately rolls her hips back against his cock. Garrett’s jaw tightens.

“Very,” she whispers.

He releases her wrist. Her fingers hook into the waistband and drag it down as far as she can reach from this angle. Garrett helps, lifting his hips from the mattress just enough to shove the sweatpants and boxers beneath him, exposing himself against the warm skin at the back of her thighs.

She reaches back. The first wrap of her fingers around him pulls a rough breath from his chest. Garrett drops his forehead to the side of her head, curls brushing her cheek while she strokes him slowly, learning the familiar weight and heat of him again as though several days have made the knowledge fragile.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Her thumb passes over the head. Garrett’s hips twitch into her hand.

“Quiet,” she breathes, unable to resist.

His teeth graze her shoulder. “Cute.”

Then his hand slips down the front of her shorts. She goes still. Garrett’s fingers press over her underwear, finding the heat already gathered there with the easy accuracy of someone who knows exactly what her body has been doing while she pretends to watch a film. He circles lightly through the fabric, once, then again, and her hand tightens around him.

His breath catches. She bites down on the inside of her cheek as the pressure increases, Garrett’s fingertips moving in slow, controlled circles while his mouth returns to her neck. The effort of not making a sound turns every sensation brighter. There’s nowhere for it to go. No moan to release the pressure, no sharp breath allowed to become volume. It gathers beneath her skin until her toes curl against the sheet.

“You’re soaked,” Garrett whispers.

She turns her face into the pillow. “Shut up.”

“Can feel it.”

Her hand moves faster around him in retaliation.

Garrett’s hips jerk forward, cock sliding through her fist. His mouth drops open against her throat, the sound he makes buried quickly into her skin.

She smiles.

He catches the edge of her shorts and tugs. “Up.”

She lifts her hips as much as she can while lying on her side. Garrett drags the shorts down over her thighs, the movement clumsy beneath the duvet until she kicks them off near the foot of the bed. Her underwear follows, pushed down with impatient fingers and hooked away by one foot until it disappears somewhere near the hotel carpet.

Cool air touches her for half a second, then Garrett’s hand is back on her.

His palm slides over her bare hip, up beneath the hoodie, spanning her ribs before closing around one breast. She arches into the touch, head tipping back to his shoulder, and Garrett squeezes slowly, thumb passing over her nipple until it tightens beneath his hand.

Her lips part. A thin, broken sound almost escapes.

Garrett kisses the corner of her jaw. “Quiet, baby.”

She nods, swallowing hard. “I know.”

He rolls her nipple between his fingers. Her eyes squeeze shut. She presses back into him, reaching behind to grip his curls while his cock rests hot and heavy against the curve of her ass.

Garrett’s mouth moves over her jaw, little nips and kisses that make her skin feel raw and oversensitive. “You good?”

“Yes.”

“Want me?”

She nods.

“Words.”

The command is barely louder than the movie, but her body responds to it anyway, hips shifting restlessly against him. “Please.”

Garrett kisses beneath her ear. “Please what?”

She nearly laughs, except his hand squeezes her breast again and the breath turns into a shaky little exhale. “Please fuck me.”

His eyes close briefly against her skin.

“Quietly,” she adds.

Garrett’s mouth curves. “That part’s on you.”

She pinches his arm. He kisses her cheek in apology, then reaches down between their bodies. The movement becomes careful. Focused. His hand guides himself along her, the head of his cock dragging once through the wet heat between her thighs, and she bites down hard on her bottom lip as her body tries to follow.

Garrett pushes in. Slowly at first, the thick stretch of him opening her one measured inch at a time while they lie curled together beneath the hotel duvet. Her mouth falls open around a silent breath. She lets her head drop back against his shoulder, neck exposed beneath his lips, fingers tightening in his curls while her body adjusts around him.

Garrett stops halfway. His hand comes up to her waist, holding her still. “Baby?”

She’s already nodding. “Keep going.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

His hips press forward again. The rest of him slides inside her with one slow, deep movement that leaves her full and shaking, the angle different from the way he usually takes her, somehow closer despite him being behind her. 

His chest fits to her back. His thighs bracket hers. His arm wraps over her waist while his cock sits buried inside her, every part of him curved around every part of her as if spooning had simply become filthy through administrative error.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Garrett’s lips press to her throat. “I know.”

He stays still for several seconds, letting her settle, his hand stroking softly over her stomach beneath the hoodie. The tenderness makes everything worse. The hot stretch inside her, the hard line of him behind her, his mouth moving carefully over the same place beneath her ear while Logan sleeps close enough that she can hear each uneven pull of his breath.

She clenches around Garrett experimentally. His forehead drops to her shoulder. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Her smile turns helpless. Then he moves. The first thrust is slow, his hips drawing back only a few inches before pressing forward again, cock sliding deep along an angle that makes her thighs tense around nothing. 

Her breath catches. Garrett’s hand moves from her waist to her breast, squeezing as he establishes a rhythm – small, controlled strokes designed less for distance than pressure, every one of them keeping him buried almost fully inside her.

The mattress barely moves beneath them. The effort is all inside her body. Garrett kisses her neck while he fucks her, lips dragging over her pulse, his breath warm and increasingly uneven against her skin. His hand kneads her breast beneath the hoodie, thumb brushing over her nipple in time with the slow drive of his hips.

She normally talks. She normally moans. She normally gives Garrett every sound he’s worked hard enough to earn and several he hasn’t. He knows exactly how loud she can be because the hockey house has conducted a full breakfast inquiry into the subject.

Keeping it in feels impossible. Every thrust pushes a sound up her throat. She traps each one behind closed lips, breath shivering out through her nose while her fingers knot tighter in his hair. 

The quiet makes her hyperaware of everything else: the slick drag of him inside her, the soft shift of sheets, the faint wet sound each time his hips meet the backs of her thighs, the effort in Garrett’s breathing as he controls his pace.

“So good,” he whispers against her neck. “Doing so good, baby.”

She nods, eyes shut.

“Nice and quiet for me.”

A small smile pulls at her mouth despite the heat climbing through her. “Yes, Captain.”

Garrett groans directly into her skin. His thrusts lose their rhythm for one glorious second, hips driving deeper, and she bites the inside of her wrist to stop the sound that rises with it.

“You can’t say that right now,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

She turns her face enough to find his mouth. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“Captain,” she breathes again.

His hand tightens around her breast. “Mean.”

She grinds backward onto him, taking him deeper while her fingers pull sharply at his curls. Garrett kisses her hard from behind, mouth catching hers at the wrong angle, all tongue and rough breath. His hips begin moving faster – each thrust landing with a sharp little pulse that makes her stomach tighten.

Her hand leaves his hair and reaches down between her thighs. Garrett catches it. “I’ve got it.”

His fingers replace hers, sliding over her clit with slick, sure pressure. The first circle pulls a gasp from her. Too loud. Garrett’s hand leaves her immediately and clamps over her mouth.

“Shh. Shh.”

Her brows pinch together, eyes squeezed shut as the interrupted pleasure burns beneath her skin. She nods frantically into his palm, both hands clutching his wrist.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, baby.”

She breathes hard through her nose, body still rocking helplessly with each slow thrust. Garrett waits until she has control, his palm warm and firm across her lips. Then he eases it away.

“Good?” he asks.

She swallows, mouth dry. “Yes.”

“You need me to stop?”

“No.” Her answer is immediate enough to make his eyes darken. “Please keep moving.”

Garrett kisses her jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay.”

His hips start again, building gradually into the same deep, controlled rhythm. His fingers return between her thighs, circling her clit more gently at first, watching the side of her face for the moment it becomes too much.

She presses her own hand over her mouth before the sound can escape. Garrett’s lips move over her cheek. “That’s it.”

Her breathing turns hot and damp against her palm. The pleasure gathers low, winding tighter each time his cock drives into her and his fingers circle, every sensation made sharper by the tension of staying silent. She rocks back to meet him, desperate now, hips chasing both the friction inside her and the pressure of his hand.

Garrett follows. His movements become more urgent, chest pressed to her back, breath breaking near her ear. “Fuck, baby. Feel so good.”

She whimpers into her hand. Logan snores loudly behind them. The noise snaps through the room. Garrett pauses for half a beat, eyes cutting toward the other bed.

Logan doesn’t move. She begins to laugh soundlessly into her palm, shoulders shaking.

Garrett bites her neck. “Focus.”

The laugh collapses into a moan she barely contains, body clenching hard around him. Garrett’s fingers move faster, tight circles that send white-hot pressure spreading through her pelvis.

She cannot keep still anymore. Her leg kicks slightly beneath the duvet. Her hips grind backward. The mattress gives one small, dangerous squeak. Garrett stops. Both of them stare toward Logan.

His face is turned into the pillow, mouth slightly open. A soft snuffling breath leaves him. Nothing. Garrett exhales and looks back at her. His eyes are bright with disbelief and heat.

“This is insane,” she whispers.

“You’re into it.”

She presses her lips together.

Garrett’s mouth curves. “You’re really into it.”

“Shut up.”

“You are.”

She clenches around him again. His grin disappears. “Yeah,” she whispers. “So?”

Garrett kisses her, slow and filthy, his fingers still working between her thighs. “Me too.”

The admission sends another wave of heat through her. She had expected the need, the frustration, maybe the humour of doing something reckless while Logan slept nearby. 

She hadn’t expected this strange, dizzying intensity. The discipline of it. Garrett’s hand over her mouth. The constant awareness that she’s being watched for every reaction while not being allowed to release any of them. The way each whispered praise feels louder than a shout because it exists only in the narrow space between his mouth and her skin. Her body tightens.

Garrett feels it immediately. “Close?”

She nods into her palm.

“Yeah?”

Another frantic nod. He pushes her hand away from her mouth, then catches her hip and tilts her forward. She goes easily, rolling farther onto her stomach while remaining partly on her side, face pressing into the pillow. 

Garrett shifts behind her, rising enough to align his body more fully with hers without pulling out. His hand grips her hip beneath the hoodie, and the next thrust lands deeper.

Her mouth opens against the pillow. The sound comes muffled into cotton.

“Better?” Garrett whispers.

She nods helplessly.

His hand slides beneath her stomach, fingers finding her again. “Good.”

Then he fucks her properly. Still controlled. Still careful of the bed and the room around them, but harder now, hips moving with enough force that the pillow absorbs each little cry torn from her throat. 

He stays curved over her back, mouth at her shoulder, one hand holding her hip steady while the other circles her clit in fast, precise movements.

She grips the pillow with both hands. The movie plays loudly near the edge of the bed. Someone on-screen screams. A door slams. Music swells at exactly the right moment, and she would laugh if Garrett were not driving into her from behind with his teeth set against her shoulder to keep his own breathing under control.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good.” Her toes curl tight against the sheet. “Nice and quiet.” She moans into the pillow. “Good girl.”

The orgasm hits before she can brace for it. Her whole body locks around him, thighs tightening and toes clenching until her foot gives one helpless little kick beneath the duvet. 

She presses her face harder into the pillow, moaning as softly as she can while pleasure breaks hot and deep through her, pulsing around Garrett’s cock in waves strong enough to make his rhythm falter.

Garrett swears against her shoulder. His hand stays between her thighs, working her through it until the intensity turns bright and oversensitive. She twists weakly beneath him, one hand leaving the pillow to catch his wrist.

He understands immediately, fingers easing away. “That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing the back of her shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

She goes soft beneath him all at once, limbs heavy and useless, body still fluttering around him while he takes several rough, controlled breaths against her skin.

Garrett thrusts twice more. Then pulls out. The sudden emptiness makes her whine into the pillow. Garrett’s hand grips her hip, his cock sliding once against the curve of her ass before warmth spills across her lower back. 

His face drops between her shoulder blades, breath ragged and muffled against the hoodie while his body goes tense behind hers.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Shit.”

She lies there panting, cheek warm against the pillow, everything in her body loose except the small residual tremors still moving through her thighs. 

Garrett kisses her shoulder. Then seems to remember several practical realities at once. “Hold on.”

She makes a soft, questioning sound.

“Don’t move.” He pulls his boxers and sweats back up with one hand, the movement awkward and hurried beneath the duvet. “Shit, shit. Hold on.”

She hears him lean over the side of the bed. Fabric rustles against the carpet. His abandoned t-shirt appears in his hand, grabbed from where he dropped it before climbing into bed. Garrett wipes her back clean with quick, careful strokes. She starts laughing into the pillow.

“What?”

“Romantic.”

“It’s a clean shirt.”

She turns her head enough to look at him over her shoulder. His curls are a complete mess, lips swollen, chest still moving hard with each breath. The sight of him makes her stomach give a soft, satisfied pull.

“Worth it,” she whispers.

Garrett’s expression warms. He tosses the shirt toward the floor and rolls her gently onto her back. She goes bonelessly, hoodie twisted around her waist, hair spread over the pillow, eyes heavy and body still carrying a pleasant hum beneath the skin.

Garrett looks down at her. His mouth curves. “Hi.”

She loops both arms around his shoulders and pulls him over her. “Again.”

He shakes his head immediately. “No way.”

“Baby,” she whines, tugging at his curls. 

“No.” He kisses her once, quick and firm, then pulls back before she can trap him. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because Logan almost woke up three times.”

As if summoned by the accusation, Logan produces one loud, wet snore from the opposite bed, followed by a sharp sniff and a tiny grunt. Both of them freeze. Their heads turn in perfect synchronisation. Logan shifts under the duvet, scratches once at his nose and goes still again.

“Oh, shit,” Garrett whispers.

She clamps a hand over her mouth, but the giggle escapes anyway, soft and breathless.

Garrett looks horrified. “Don’t laugh.”

That makes it worse. Her shoulders shake beneath him. Garrett presses his palm over her mouth, eyes wide and furious while he tries not to smile himself.

“Stop.”

She kisses the centre of his palm. His expression breaks.

“Pull your–” She catches his mouth in a kiss. Garrett makes a muffled sound, pulls back and tries again. “Panties on–” She kisses him again. “Baby, go–”

Another kiss, slower this time.

“Pee.” He finally gets the word out while holding her jaw far enough away to prevent further interference. “Quick.”

She hums, blissed out and shameless beneath him. “Yes, Captain.”

Garrett laughs before he can stop himself, the sound quickly buried in the side of her neck. “Shhh.”

“You’re loud.”

“Go.”

He rolls off her and begins searching beneath the duvet for her underwear with the grim focus of someone conducting a rescue operation. She sits up slowly, hoodie falling back over her hips, and watches him retrieve one tiny scrap of cotton from near the foot of the bed.

Garrett holds it out. She reaches for it, but he catches her wrist and pulls her in for one last kiss, mouth soft now, lingering despite all his insistence that she hurry. When he lets her go, his forehead rests briefly against hers.

“You good?” he whispers.

Her body feels loose and warm, her thighs pleasantly shaky beneath the sheets, her mouth sore from biting back everything he pulled out of her.

She smiles. “So good.”

Garrett’s thumb brushes her cheek. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” She takes the underwear from his hand and slips carefully out of bed. “Paige was right.”

His eyes narrow. “Do not tell Paige.”

“I’m going to thank her,” she nods once, grinning.

“Absolutely not.”

She steps into her panties and pulls them up beneath the hoodie, then glances toward Logan, who remains entirely unconscious and deeply unworthy of the amount of effort they have just invested in protecting his sleep. “He really does sleep through anything.”

Garrett points toward the bathroom. “Go.”

She bites back another laugh and slips across the room on quiet feet. Behind her, Garrett settles into the pillows, one arm thrown over his face while his chest continues rising too quickly. 

Just before she closes the bathroom door, she hears him mutter softly to the ceiling. “Best fucking date ever.”

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A myriad of noises surround you as you sprint through the woods, a cold wind biting at the warm skin of your face. Birds call high above with mournful laments that carry across the breeze as you dodge between trees. Leaves rustle where the wind whispers through them. Branches creak where they sway in dance-like movements above you.

The rapid beating of your heart is loud in your ears too, and you can barely hear yourself think over your own laboured breathing.

Just get to the lake, you think as you try your best not to stumble over an exposed tree root. Just get to the lake and you’ll be safe.

You’ve traipsed through this thick expanse of woodland more times than you can count, and many summers gone you have spent splashing in the shallows of the lake. A secluded spot off the beaten track, away from prying eyes and the constant noise of the city.

So you know you’re not far.

You know that the glittering blue surface of the lake will present itself to you in less than a quarter of a mile. You know the invisible track you’re following will lead you right to its shingled shore and you’ll be safe.

Your heart hammers wildly against your sternum, and you slow for just a second, arm reaching out to grip the trunk of a nearby tree. Your hand splays across it as cold air fills your lungs. Burning legs threaten to pull you to the ground, but you swallow down the lingering taste of defeat as you settle yourself.

You just need a second.

A sharp whistle fills the quiet woodland—a projectile rocketing through the air. You yelp when a loud thunk follows, and your head whips around to find a sleek black knife embedded in the tree trunk, directly in the gap between your thumb and index finger. You jerk your hand away, eyes drawing wide as you realise you can’t hear him. Over all the natural noises—the birds, the wind, the crinkling of leaves—you can’t hear him. Can’t hear his footfall, or his breathing, or the leisurely unsheathing of his blades.

You take off running again, leaving the knife protruding from the tree.

Another high-pitched whistle overwhelms the peace of the woods. A blade flies past your ear so quickly you barely see it, so close you almost feel it. It lands in the trunk of another tree ahead of you, and you weave around it, your entire body thrumming with adrenaline.

Ahead, the surface of the lake glimmers between the trees.

You’re so close you can smell the fresh water.

You can’t help the smile that splits across your face. You’re almost there.

You hear two more blades coming, but you don’t see them and you don’t know where they land.

Not until it’s too late.

Two blades, slightly larger than the first pair, ricochet perfectly from a thick-trunked tree nearby and rocket upwards several yards in front of you. They slice clean through a low-hanging branch and, with a splintering crack, the branch snaps and topples. Your smile drops, something sinking deep into the pit of your stomach, as you skid to a stop to avoid the branch that crashes to the ground in front of you.

Your steps falter, but you attempt to leap over the felled limb anyway.

You can’t.

Mid-air, a hand seizes the back of your shirt and pulls you backwards. You curse loudly, body hot and heart threatening to break out past your ribs, as you’re pulled through the air and brought to the ground. You let out a shout, but a large hand clamps across your mouth as you’re flattened against the woodland floor, a strong body trapping you amongst dead leaves and spongey moss.

“Aw, you were so close,” Dex whispers, his other hand pinning your hips down to prevent you from squirming. You narrow your eyes at him, and he laughs. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you y’wouldn’t make it.”

You say something against his palm, but it’s unintelligible. He removes his hand, resting it on your warm cheek instead.

“You cheated,” you grumble, hands finding where his biceps contract beneath his compression shirt. “You didn’t count to a hundred.”

“Baby, I counted to three hundred,” Dex replies, leaning down. With a pleased hum, his hand finds your jaw and angles your head up so he can drag his nose down the column of your throat. You whine, acutely aware your skin is dewy with sweat, but Dex just inhales before his lips part and he sucks a kiss to where your neck joins your shoulder. “God, you smell so fuckin’ good.”

“Dex,” you whisper. His body is a hot press against yours, and you wriggle as that heat permeates your body. Where his hand rests on your hip, you feel his thumb hook into the waistband of your pants. “Dex, please.”

A low rumble leaves his throat as he mouths down your neck, the mass of his thighs spreading your legs apart. He seems to ignore you though as he licks down your neck, his pelvis resting firmly against yours. Slowly, he ruts his hips and you feel the hard length of his cock beneath the layers. It makes your stomach swoop, and a pleasant sort of heat fills you like molasses.

“You can’t run from me,” he suddenly says, pulling his face out of your neck. His pupils are blown wide, eyes appearing near black as he peers down at you. You blink up at him, and your doe-like expression has his cock jumping where it presses to you. He groans. “Oh, my sweet girl, just look at you.”

You bite your lip to temper your own groan as he pulls back, the cool woodland air suddenly biting against your skin. Dex kneels between your spread legs and pulls your pants from your body with such force you’re dragged through the leaves. A small noise of surprise leaves your mouth before Dex is surging forward again.

His mouth slams to yours and swallows the tail-end of your little exclamation, and your hands immediately find the strong expanse of his shoulders as he holds himself over you. The kiss is not gentle in the slightest: your teeth knock together as he pushes against you, his tongue a firm swipe across your lips before he breaches inside. Thick, warm, overwhelming as his tongue flicks across yours, over the points of your molars as well, like he’s committing the taste of you to memory.

Dex moans into your mouth as he ruts his clothed cock against the gusset of your underwear, your core burning hot beneath the flimsy cotton, arousal pooling wet where he slides against you. You wonder, as your tongues meet over and over, if he can feel it. You wonder if Dex can feel the way your underwear grows damp with your desire.

Leaves rustle around you as Dex pulls back, your mouths connected by a thin string of saliva. You breathe harshly into each other’s space, just staring at one another as his hips rock and your legs twitch with each subtle rut against your covered clit.

The string of spit snaps when he speaks. “You’re fucking soaked, aren’t you?”

You burn at his words, trying to turn your head. He doesn’t let you—shooting a hand down to grab your jaw and force your head back. With a firm roll of his hips, the thick silhouette of his cock presses down harshly on your clit, and this time, you can’t hold back the mewl that tumbles from your lips.

“You don’t get to look away from me,” Dex utters, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, smothering another of your whimpers when the print of his cock slides over you again. When he pulls back, you watch him unsheath another knife from his belt.

He sits back on his heels, putting a bit of space between your bodies as he looks down. A vulpine smile creeps across his face when he sees how wet you are. The gusset of your underwear is dark with your arousal, and something primal in the back of his mind urges him to lean down and suck the fabric into his mouth.

He quashes the urge though, taking his knife and pressing the flat of the blade against you. The steel is cold and biting, and you yowl as he holds it firmly against you. You writhe in the leaves, and he grins at you all the while, gently sliding the flat of his knife up and down your clothed core.

“Dex, wait, please—” You whine, back arching when Dex pushes just a little bit firmer. Your sentence dies on your lips as you choke yourself on a moan, and Dex delights in the way your hips twitch and your legs attempt to close around him. But the mass of his body keeps them spread. You breathe out, “Please.”

“You’ve ruined your pretty little panties,” he whispers, almost to himself, as he ignores your pleading and withdraws his knife. He takes the tip of it—dangerously sharp—and touches it ever-so-slightly to the little bump of your clit beneath the material. You suck in a breath, and Dex’s grin widens when he feels you stiffen. “Made such a mess, huh?”

He removes the knife, and you exhale.

But without warning, two thick fingers hook through the elastic that rests in the bend of your thigh. Rough knuckles press firmly to the wet split of your pussy before he gives your underwear a little tug, then slashes his knife through them. 

You yelp as he cuts through the gusset. “Dex!”

Dex sheaths the knife. “You ruined them, baby.”

“But you just cut—!”

You’re cut off when those same two fingers of his split open the folds of your pussy and the cool air of the forest braces against you. You watch him with fluttering eyelids as he leers down at where he spreads you, watching the slick drip from your hole. He can’t help but chuckle to himself, shaking his head.

“She’s drooling for me,” he whispers, almost bewildered. He brings his fingers down to run a tight circle over your hole, and his eyes snap to your face momentarily as your entire body shudders, a moan slipping from you. 

Your eyes close, and that’s when his fingers vanish—only for four more to land against you in a firm smack. You rip your eyes open, a stuttered moan of his name filling the air, and you send a few birds flying from their roosts as it echoes.

“Look at me,” Dex tells you, a small dip in his brow. His breathing is laboured when his fingers find your core again, rubbing your hole in soothing circles as you tremble beneath him. When your eyes find his, he moans. “There we go.”

His hand flies to shuck his pants and underwear down, his breathing becoming more and more ragged as his cock hangs free. You moan as he grasps himself at the base and fists himself, spreading your slick across the shaft. His hips pitch forward, and he slaps the ruddy tip against your swollen clit.

“Fucking hell,” Dex hisses, dragging the tip through your wet folds. He does this a few times, rutting against you, splitting you open with the length of his cock. The vein on the underside rubs against you in just the right way that you arch off the ground, leaves crinkling. As you do this, Dex draws the head of his cock down until he can press it right against your hole. “Here we go, baby. Let’s make ‘em kiss a little.”

He bites his bottom lip, brows drawing together as he pushes the tip against your drooling hole. The moan that leaves your mouth has his balls twitching, with something drawing tight in the base of his stomach, and he repeats the movement: pushing the flushed tip of his cock against your slick hole, pushing in just enough to make your breath hitch, before pulling out.

He watches with swollen pupils as a small string of your slick pulls taut from your pussy to the head of his cock. It severs when he fists himself, and he watches instead as a pearl of pre-cum beads at his slit. He swipes it against you, running his cock back through your folds again, relishing in the dull electric current that passes down his spine.

He feels like a live wire.

“Dex,” you call to him, your hands gripping the ground around you uselessly as you arch and writhe, attempting to chase his contact.

“I’m right here, baby,” Dex whimpers, mouth dropping open when he finally slides his cock back down to your hole. This time, he notches the head fully in one gentle rock of his hips, and he bends down to kiss you when you whine at the stretch. Your pussy flutters around him, and he swears he could have come right then and there. He pulls back, pecking the corner of your mouth. “Here we go, baby, here we go. Open up for me.”

Pressure builds tight in your belly as Dex pushes in. His cock splits you open, the heat of your cunt opening up for him as he moves in. His spine tingles—if he was any more of a freak, it might’ve started glowing—as your walls part for him, slick and warm against the thick of his cock. You mould around him, clay-like in the way you take him. It makes him stutter around a moan as you flutter and tighten, sucking him in like you always did.

“That’s it, that’s a good girl,” he coos as you whimper, hips finally joining with yours. His balls rest heavy against the curve of your arse. They twitch when your fingers find his shoulders, your nails needling through the fabric that obscures them. He groans loudly, and it bounces from tree to tree. “Y’always take me so well.”

You mumble something, but it’s lost in the pleasure fogging your brain. Dex is still, resting so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him in your guts. Your heart hammers wildly against your sternum, skin dewy with sweat as your adrenaline rush continues to linger.

“Yeah,” Dex continues after a beat, stretching back to watch as he pulls his cock from you. The head rests sheathed in the heat of your cunt, silken and soft and so incredibly warm around him. He smiles down at you. “Yeah, she always takes me so well. Pussy’s a dream, isn’t she, baby?”

You hum out a dizzied moan as he ruts back in. Even when you try to expect it, it always catches you off guard: the head of his cock slams directly into that spongy spot inside you that has you seeing stars. There’s no preamble, there’s no search. He knows exactly where he needs to go, and he hits his target hard.

You clutch him tightly. “Oh, fuck, Dex, baby, that’s—uh—”

“Oh I know, sweet girl, I know,” Dex rambles as he holds himself over you, legs caught around his hips as he sets his pace. You’re dripping around him, and each of his thrusts elicit wet plap-plap-plap’s that seem loud over the blood pumping in your ears. Your cunt drools out with his movements, slick leaking down the curve of your arse. Dex breathes through a hoarse groan. “Fucking Christ, baby, just listen to her. She’s a mouthy girl today, huh?”

The pressure in your belly builds, stretching tightly like a rubber band as you listen to the pornographically wet shlicks of your cunt.

You can’t find the words to answer him. But you scarcely can in times like this. His pillowtalk always strikes you dumb, and all you can do is lie there and take his cock and enjoy the way he rambles.

You do give him a pathetic little whine in response though, and he replies with another vicious smile that deepens the lines around his eyes.

“You know she is,” he tells you as he rocks you into the soft earth beneath you. “Got all worked up while I chased you through the woods, didn’t you? Got your pussy drooling knowing I was hunting you, didn’t it?”

You heat up with your embarrassment, and the moan that fights its way out of your chest doesn’t feel like your own. “Dex, I—”

“Y’thought you could outrun me…” Dex ignores you. His cock nudges up near the plug of your womb, and your stomach clenches tightly as your legs begin to tremble. He continues, undeterred by the meek whimpers he’s pulling from you. “Y’thought you could—run—from—me.”

He speaks as he thrusts. They’re heavy hitting, and he drills you into the leaves and moss as you yowl. The sound is fittingly animalistic for the setting, like the mangled bleating of a lamb as it’s pursued by a wolf: maw red, eyes hungry.

You feel him in your stomach. He fills you so much, so perfectly, you swear he knocks the air from your lungs. The grunts and groans that fall from his lips don’t help either, and you find yourself gasping as your release looms, cresting like a wave.

Dex watches you, sweat beading high on his forehead as he takes what he needs. With something flashing in his eyes, he takes a hand and presses down on the softness of your lower belly. Your eyes roll, a splintered moan finding life in the cool air above you.

“You feel me in your tummy, baby?” He asks, tone hinged across a whine. His big hand splays across your womb. “Fuck, m’so—m’so deep. You feel my cock in here?”

When you broached this predator-prey situation to him, you never imagined it would end up quite like this.

You moan. “Fuck, y-yeah, baby—m’so full.”

Dex moans, much like yours. He sits back now, taking your hips in two hands. His thrusts build in speed and he’s hitting you deep—the right spot every single time. He pulls you back onto him, panting like a dog as you tighten. He can feel the way your legs quiver either side of him too, and he watches as your entire body begins to shake.

You’re teetering right on the edge of release. The rubber band in the pit of your stomach is pulling so tight it’s almost painful, and there’s a solid sort of pleasure in your spine that’s waiting to fissure. To crack, and splinter, and burst into a million pieces.

And Dex wants it too.

He wants to feel you come around his cock and squeeze him within an inch of his life. He wants to feel you pulse around him, thrum around him, milk him for all he’s worth.

“You wanna come?” He asks you quietly, and it’s surprisingly soft in comparison to his thrusts. His cock doesn’t relent and you begin to feel dizzy with your rising pleasure, your muscle fibres burning with it.

You nod hurriedly. “Please, Dex. M’so close, I just need—”

“I know what my sweet girl needs,” Dex mutters and, still using one hand to fuck you down onto his cock, his other hand winds down and finds the swollen pearl of your clit. 

Two fingers find it straight away, and he draws a pattern of shapes across it as you sob his name. You’re chanting his name and his ego soars, his balls pulling tight at the way you say it: “Dex, Dex, oh fuck, Dex, please—!”

You’re spiralling. The rubber band is pulling tight, tight, tight.

“Let me feel you,” he says. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

The band snaps.

You arch as you come, squeezing around his cock as your hands scrape down the taut muscles of his shoulders. You cry for him, his name the only intelligible word rolling off your tongue as your pussy spasms around him. Heat floods your entire body, the pressure in the base of your spine fragmenting as your legs seize around him, pulling him even tighter against you. It’s a heavy pleasure that pulls you under, and you find yourself gasping as Dex fucks you through it, and you’re so dazed that you don’t notice he’s writing his full name against your clit.

As your orgasm crests and fizzles, Dex takes two hands and plants them on your waist. With a deep growl, he holds you to him, forcing himself into the hilt as his own pleasure snaps like bone. He comes right against your cervix with a jerk of his hips.

“Take it, baby, take it, ah, fuck, fuck—” Dex rocks downward and buries his face into the crook of your neck, moaning your name as he spills, body flattening atop yours. 

His cum fills you while his cock twitches, and he whimpers like he’s hurt as his balls tighten and his entire body flushes hot. You whine, scratching your nails down his back as his hips give a few feeble rolls before he stills, plugging his cum inside you. He kisses your neck lazily as you both settle into the natural silence of the woods.

“Dex…” You whisper, and he turns his head just as you do.

Your mouths slot together. The kiss is slower, more gentle. It’s the gentle lapping of the lake against the shingled shore. It’s the whisper of the cool autumn breeze and the chittering of dried leaves across the ground. Your tongues meet, wet and warm and slow, and he whines softly into it as you give his a playful suck before his head falls back.

“We should do this more often,” you tell him, and he huffs, pressing his mouth back to yours. His teeth skim over your lip. Not quite a bite, but it’s enough to realise he’s a mutt with a bone that he’s willing and ready to sink his teeth into. You pull away again as one of your hands finds the back of his head, threading through his soft hair. You give it a gentle tug and he offers you a small, desperate whimper. “Next time, you’re not going to catch me.”

Dex’s eyes scan your face, and you feel his cock jerk inside of you. He smiles, and your stomach comes alive with nervous butterflies.

“I’ll catch you every time,” he whispers, and he allows you to plant a kiss to the scar on his cheek. He hums, pleased as his cock gives another pathetic jolt inside you. “You can’t run from me, baby. I’ll always catch you.”

———

bro who wants this !?!?

(me)

tags 🌿

“You have to use actual butter,” Claire is saying beside her, halfway through a story about her roommate attempting to make cookies with vegetable spread. “She said it was basically the same thing.”

“It isn’t,” she says automatically, still watching the ice turn. “That’s hateful.”

“Thank you.”

“Did they spread?”

“They became one large cookie.”

The girls laugh, and she smiles with them because she likes Claire, and Nina, and the other two girls from her behavioural economics seminar whose names she only learned properly tonight. 

They’re nice. They asked her to come out after class, complimented her dress and ordered a round of cocktails that arrived the colour of cough syrup and tasted considerably better.

She should be having fun. She is having fun. She is simply also aware of Garrett standing ten feet away with three women arranged loosely around him.

He isn’t doing anything wrong. That’s important. Garrett is leaning against the bar in a dark green sweater with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, listening to one of the girls talk while he waits for the bartender. His posture is relaxed, one ankle crossed over the other, his mouth occasionally curving around an answer she can’t hear over the music.

Normal Garrett behaviour. Infuriatingly charming, but normal.

Two days ago, he had made her come with his fingers in his bed and then solemnly shaken her hand on a secret friends-with-benefits agreement while she was still naked from the waist down.

They haven’t discussed exclusivity. They haven’t discussed anything, actually, except secrecy, not ruining the friendship and the statistical likelihood of Logan walking in on them. Garrett had kissed her again afterward, slow enough to leave her thoughts pleasantly scrambled, then gone downstairs to make eggs while she searched for her underwear beneath his desk.

Since then, they’ve exchanged approximately fourteen completely ordinary texts, sat together through one lecture and watched half a movie with Tucker on the opposite couch.

Garrett had kept his hands to himself throughout both activities. Mostly.

His palm had rested on her knee beneath the lecture table for eleven minutes while Professor Ellis explained loss aversion, but that could technically fall under existing best-friend touching. So could the way he pulled her feet into his lap during the movie and rubbed his thumb over her ankle. Probably.

She had expected the deal to feel more obvious. A secret buzzing beneath every conversation. Some dramatic shift in the air whenever they looked at each other.

Instead, Garrett still steals bites from her plate and tells her she’s dressed inappropriately for the weather. She still orders him around and complains when he chooses action movies. He still calls her princess with the same insufferable curve to his mouth.

The only difference is that she now knows what his fingers feel like inside her. Which, admittedly, is not a small difference.

The blonde at the bar touches Garrett’s arm. Barely anything. Her fingers settle briefly near his elbow while she laughs, then remain there for half a second longer than a person needs for balance.

Something tightens beneath the lace at her ribs. She takes a drink. The glass is almost empty.

Garrett glances toward the booth where Dean is saying something with both hands, Logan is stealing fries from Tucker’s plate and Tucker is pretending not to notice. None of them know. Every time she looks at them, she remembers Garrett saying Tucker will figure it out, and feels as though the responsible man in question can see directly through her dress and into the handshake agreement lodged somewhere behind her sternum.

Tucker looks toward her now and lifts his chin in greeting. She wiggles her fingers at him. The two puck bunnies look over again.

This time, one of them says something into the other’s ear. The blonde’s mouth curves – not quite a smile, not quite anything she could reasonably take offence to – and she feels the expression anyway, a tiny cold scrape beneath her skin.

She doesn’t understand why they dislike her. She has occasionally interrupted hook ups, yes, but only because she needed something, and Garrett has always complained before giving it to her. That’s hardly her fault. He’s a grown man with free will and an entirely functional ability to tell her no, even if he almost never uses it.

She doesn’t flirt with the team. She doesn’t hang off Garrett at parties more than she hangs off Garrett everywhere else. She has baked for all of them equally, excluding Tucker’s birthday cake because he requested lemon and Garrett claimed lemon cake tastes like cleaning supplies.

They have no reason to glare at her like she’s broken into the hockey house at night and stolen him from beneath a glass display case. The thought makes her throat feel thick in a way she resents.

She turns back to Claire, who’s now explaining that her roommate ate the tray cookie with a fork over the sink, and laughs at the appropriate moment. It comes out a little softer than intended.

Across the room, Garrett looks up. He finds her immediately.

It’s annoying how quickly he can do that in a crowded bar, as though some portion of his attention remains permanently hooked into her and only needs the smallest tug. His gaze moves over her face. The smile leaves the corner of his mouth.

He tilts his head. The gesture is slight. Questioning. You good?

She could shake her head and let him come over. He would. It wouldn’t matter that he was mid-conversation or that the puck bunnies were watching. Garrett has already demonstrated that he will abandon a blonde with her tongue in his mouth because she asks him to drive her home.

That’s not what she wants. Or it’s not all she wants.

Her thumb finds her lower lip. The baby-pink acrylic rests lightly between her teeth as she watches him, mind skittering past every sensible option and landing somewhere warm, reckless and privately satisfying.

She points at her phone. Garrett’s eyebrows rise, but he nods and pulls his from his pocket. She looks down quickly, opening their messages beneath the table.

Her last text to him is from this afternoon.

princess: are you picking me up tonight

garrett: thought you were going with your class friends

princess: i am princess: but are you picking me up

garrett: sure

Her mouth twitches despite herself. She types with both thumbs.

princess: bathroom?

The message delivers. She bites her thumbnail again and watches his face across the bar. Garrett feels his phone vibrate, glances down and goes completely still. His eyes lift to hers. She widens her own innocently.

He looks around the room once, taking in the crowded bar, the booth containing every person they know and the girls still standing close enough to read his drink order. Then he types.

garrett: now? garrett: with everyone here?

She reads it, looks up and gives him one small shrug. Garrett stares at her.

She can almost see the machinery moving behind his expression. Captain Graham considering risk, strategy and whether the lace hem sitting directly beneath her ass has declared war on him.

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. Then he nods. Pleasure unfurls warm and immediate through her stomach.

She ducks her head before her grin can become embarrassing and finishes the last of her drink, the melting ice knocking against her teeth. “I’m going to go pee, girls,” she says, sliding off the barstool and smoothing both hands down her skirt. “Won’t be a second.”

“Okay, babe,” Claire says, still invested in the cookie catastrophe. “We’re ordering shots when you get back.”

“Nothing cinnamon.”

“That was one time.”

“It tasted like a candle.”

Nina laughs and catches her wrist briefly. “Your dress is so cute, by the way.”

The compliment lands more deeply than it should. “Oh. Thank you.”

She squeezes Nina’s fingers, then turns toward the back of the bar. Malone’s is crowded enough that getting anywhere requires patience, strategic shoulder turns and a willingness to accept that somebody else’s beer will eventually touch you. She slips between two men arguing about basketball, passes the table near the pool cues and rounds the narrow corner leading toward the bathrooms.

The hallway is dimmer, the music reduced to a thick pulse through the walls. A neon arrow hums above the doors, red light spilling over the scuffed floor.

She has just reached the women’s bathroom when a hand closes around her wrist. She squeals.

Garrett catches her around the waist before the sound has finished leaving her and pulls her backward through the door. Her boots skid across the tile. She twists against him, laughter bursting out when he shoves the door closed with his shoulder and steers her toward the last stall.

“You scared me!”

“You invited me into a women’s bathroom,” he says, dragging the stall door open. “I’m under pressure.”

“You could’ve said hello.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He pulls her inside after him and locks the flimsy door. The stall is barely wide enough to hold one person comfortably, never mind Garrett’s shoulders, her dress and the substantial amount of poor judgement pressing them together.

She doesn’t give him time to complain. Her hands slide around the back of his neck and she kisses him. Garrett’s surprise lasts less than a second. Then his palm settles over the small of her back and he bends her into him, answering with a low hum that vibrates against her mouth.

There. That’s what she wanted.

Garrett’s mouth warm over hers and his body filling every available inch of the stall, his fingers spreading possessively against the lace at her waist as though he’s been waiting for an excuse to touch her too. She rises onto her toes, chasing him when he pulls back enough to breathe.

“This is so risky,” he murmurs, but he sounds pleased about it.

She shakes her head and kisses him again, softer this time, catching his lower lip between hers. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Talk.”

Garrett’s mouth curves. “You dragged me into a bathroom to shut me up?”

“I just wanted you to myself.”

The grin disappears. One second it is there, bright and smug and completely Garrett, and the next his face stills as though she has pressed her palm flat against something vital.

“Holy shit,” he says.

Heat reaches her cheeks. She immediately regrets speaking in full sentences. To avoid looking at him, she turns her mouth to his jaw, kissing the warm skin beneath it. His stubble catches faintly against her lips. She follows the line toward his ear, breathing in soap, beer and the clean cold scent that always seems trapped in his clothes from the rink.

Garrett’s hand tightens around her waist. “You’re jealous.”

She kisses the spot beneath his ear. “No.”

“You are.”

“Not even.”

“Princess.”

She sucks gently at his neck. Garrett’s head tips back against the stall wall with a quiet knock. His fingers thread into her hair, careful of the curls she spent forty minutes arranging, though his restraint doesn’t extend to the fist closing slowly near her scalp.

“Holy shit, baby,” he says, laughing under his breath. “You’re jealous.”

She pulls back enough to glare at him. “I’m not jealous.”

“You texted me ‘bathroom’ because girls were talking to me.”

She gives him a look. “They were looking at me.”

“Who?”

“The puck bunnies, Garrett.”

His eyebrows pull together. “What about them?”

“They’re mean to me.” The words come out smaller than she intends, stripped of all the bright irritation she had prepared around them. Her fingers catch in the front of his sweater. “Don’t like it.”

Garrett’s expression shifts. Something warm moves behind his eyes, but not pity. She would hate pity. It’s closer to recognition – the quiet click of him finally understanding why her shoulders had been sitting too straight at the bar.

His thumb brushes through the hair near her temple. “What’d they say?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what’d they do?”

“They keep looking at me and whispering,” she murmurs.

“Maybe they’re talking about your dress.”

She sighs. “They don’t like my dress.”

“Well, I fucking love your dress.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“It’s a strong point.”

She tries to scowl, but his mouth is already tilting again, not mocking her so much as coaxing her back toward herself. “G.”

His hand slides from her waist to her hip, fingers curling just beneath the tiny lace skirt. “You’re my best girl, yeah?”

The words settle into her with humiliating ease. She nods. Garrett studies her face, waiting. “I know,” she says.

“Good.”

He kisses her forehead first, which is obnoxiously tender and completely unfair, then catches her mouth before she can complain. The kiss deepens quickly, his tongue sliding against hers as he presses her back toward the metal partition.

She grabs his sweater and pulls him closer. Garrett groans, low enough that she feels it in her chest. His palm moves down her thigh, slipping beneath the lace hem until his fingers reach the soft curve of her ass.

The contact makes her stomach clench. She lifts one knee against his hip, and Garrett catches it automatically, holding her leg in place while his mouth moves to her neck.

“Wait,” he says suddenly.

She blinks up at him. “What?”

He takes one step back, which is all the stall permits, and looks between them. Her dress has ridden high enough that another inch would expose the pale-pink underwear she selected with considerably more optimism than she admitted to herself.

Garrett drags both hands over his face. “No.”

Her brows knit. “No?”

“I’m not fucking you for the first time in the bathroom at Malone’s.”

She looks around. The scratched metal walls are covered in faded stickers and someone’s declaration that Tyler from Sigma is a liar. Toilet paper trails from the dispenser. The lock has already shifted twice beneath the weight of Garrett’s shoulder.

“Right,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Good point,” she concedes.

“Thank you.”

She lowers her leg and smooths the skirt down, thoughtful for approximately two seconds. Then she reaches for his belt.

Garrett’s breath catches. “Oh?”

The buckle slides loose beneath her fingers. She pulls the leather free with more confidence than she currently possesses and starts on the button of his jeans. His hand closes around her wrist.

“Princess.”

She looks up. The expression on his face makes her pulse jump – surprise, want and something careful beneath both, as if he is trying to determine whether this is another part of the deal they forgot to negotiate.

“I want to,” she says quickly.

Garrett releases her wrist, but his fingers stay curled loosely around it. “Yeah?”

“Yes. But I, um…” Her courage catches somewhere behind her teeth. She looks down at the open buckle, then at the tiled floor, which is thankfully cleaner than expected but still part of a public bathroom. “Ugh. This is embarrassing.”

“What is?”

“I don’t really do this.”

He glances around the stall. “Hook up in a cubicle?”

“Well, yes. Obviously.” She tugs at the hem of his sweater, unable to keep her fingers still. “But, like, give head.”

Garrett goes silent. She makes herself look at him again. His mouth is slightly open. For perhaps the first time in the history of Briar University, Garrett Graham appears to have no immediate response available.

“I’ve done it,” she continues, because silence has always made her fill it, usually beyond the point of wisdom. “I just don’t normally. Because sometimes men get weird about it, and also my ex used to push my head, which I hated, and one guy made this horrible noise the entire time, like he was doing an impression of an injured bear, so I stopped because it wasn’t exactly, like, enriching my life.”

Garrett’s jaw hardens briefly at the mention of her ex, but she keeps going before he can turn it into a separate issue.

“But I want to be good.” Her voice softens without permission. “For you.”

Every thought behind Garrett’s eyes seems to leave at once. She can actually see the moment the sentence reaches him.

This is Garrett, who has spent three years being told where to drive, what to order, when to move his legs because she wants the other end of the couch and whether his room smells unacceptable. Garrett, who gets called disgusting if he drinks from her water bottle after practice and receives detailed instructions whenever she lets him help in the kitchen.

Now she’s standing with one hand halfway into his jeans, looking up through her lashes and asking to be good for him. He swallows.

“G?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I?”

His eyes close for half a second.

“Will you help?”

“Yeah,” he says again, voice rougher. His hand rises to her face, thumb brushing once over the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, course, baby.”

She smiles, relieved enough that it reaches her eyes, then lowers herself carefully onto her knees. The tile is cold even through the thin lace beneath the hem of her dress. Garrett immediately strips off his sweater and drops it in front of her without being asked. She looks up.

“For your knees.”

Her chest goes warm. “You’ll be cold.”

“I’m about to have other problems.”

She bites back a smile and settles onto the sweater. From this angle, Garrett looks even larger than usual. His thighs crowd the narrow space between the toilet and partition, jeans sitting open at his hips, one hand braced against the wall above her. She slips her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers.

He exhales slowly. She draws him out.

The first thing she thinks is that he’s bigger than she expected, which feels ridiculous because Garrett is over six feet tall, built like somebody designed him specifically to collide with other men for entertainment, and has never possessed a modest physical feature in his life.

The second thing she thinks is that she shouldn’t have worn lip gloss. Garrett watches her face closely, reading every tiny shift the way he does when she claims she’s fine and he knows she’s not.

“You good?”

She nods.

“Words.”

“Yes.” She wraps her hand around him tentatively, watching his stomach tighten. “I’m good.”

His head drops back. “Oh, fuck.”

A pleased little thrill moves through her. That was barely anything. She strokes him once, slowly, learning the weight and heat of him in her palm. His breathing changes immediately, deepening through his nose.

She looks up again. “Like that?”

Garrett’s eyes return to her face. “Yeah.”

“Just yeah?”

He laughs once, breathless. “Princess, I’m trying not to die here.”

She smiles and does it again. His fingers flex against the stall wall. There’s something almost intoxicating about the reaction. Garrett’s usually impossible to unsettle for long. He flirts through embarrassment, jokes through pain and turns most situations into something he can control with a grin.

Now she has one hand around him and his face has gone carefully blank with concentration. Her thumb brushes experimentally over the tip. Garrett swears.

“Too much?”

“No.” The answer comes fast. “Definitely not.”

She watches a bead of wetness gather and glisten beneath the harsh bathroom light. Her mouth feels suddenly dry.

“Lick it, baby,” Garrett says softly.

The instruction sends warmth low through her stomach. She leans closer and touches the tip of her tongue to him. His hips jerk before he catches himself. She pulls back, startled.

“Sorry.” His hand immediately leaves the wall and settles against the side of her head without pushing, fingers spreading gently through her hair. “Sorry. You okay?”

She nods, fighting a smile. “You moved.”

“Yeah, turns out that felt good.”

“Helpful feedback.”

“Happy to provide it.”

She licks him again, slower this time, tracing through the wetness before circling the head.

Garrett’s hand tightens faintly in her hair. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Like that.”

Praise blooms beneath her skin. She repeats the motion, watching his face as she learns what makes his jaw flex and his breath catch. There’s an unexpected satisfaction in it, not only the physical act but the certainty that every sound belongs to something she has done.

She wants more of them. She closes her lips around the tip. Garrett makes a low, broken noise and turns his face toward the partition. Her eyes widen.

He glances down and sees her expression. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

She hums experimentally around him. His hand slaps flat against the wall. The sound echoes through the stall. Somebody enters the bathroom. Both of them freeze. Heels click across the tile. The outer door swings shut, muffling the music again.

“Oh my God,” a woman says near the sinks. “He literally told me he was twenty-three.”

“He looks thirty,” another voice answers.

Garrett looks down at her. She looks up at him with his cock still between her lips. His eyes go almost black. A laugh threatens somewhere in her chest, but she swallows it before the movement can become dangerous.

The women continue discussing the ambiguous age of a man named Bryce while Garrett’s thumb brushes slowly along her cheekbone.

“You wanted risky,” he whispers.

She draws back just enough to whisper, “You agreed.”

“Because I’m weak.”

“That sounds personal.”

One of the women turns on the tap. Garrett bites down on the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh. She uses the moment to take him into her mouth again.

His amusement vanishes. Her hand works at the base while she lowers her mouth a little farther, careful, trying to remember what she knows and what she’s always hated. She keeps her movements slow enough to remain comfortable, tongue pressing along the underside.

Garrett’s fingers remain in her hair, but he doesn’t guide or push. He lets her choose every inch, his palm warm against her scalp, thumb stroking whenever she pauses.

“That’s so good,” he murmurs, barely audible beneath the running water. “Fuck, princess. Just like that.”

The words move through her faster than the drink did. She looks up.

Garrett stares down at her, chest rising beneath his t-shirt, curls already disordered from the way he keeps dragging his free hand through them. There’s nothing smug in his expression now. Only open disbelief and want.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers.

She takes him deeper. His eyes close. The women leave eventually, still debating Bryce, and the outer door swings shut behind them. Garrett exhales as if he has been holding his breath for several minutes.

She pulls off him with a quiet pop and wipes the corner of her mouth with one finger. “Am I doing it right?”

His eyes open. “Are you–” He cuts himself off and stares at her. “Baby.”

“What?”

“You’re on your knees in that dress, sucking my dick in the bathroom while our friends are twenty feet away.”

She blinks. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Garrett laughs, but the sound fractures halfway through when she strokes him again. “Yes,” he says. “You’re doing it right.”

“Could be better.”

“Of course you’d turn this into homework.”

She pouts. “I like constructive feedback.”

“You’re insane.”

“That isn’t constructive.”

He bends slightly, fingers still threaded through her hair. “Use your hand where your mouth doesn’t reach.”

She does. His eyelids lower.

“And keep your tongue there,” he says, tapping his thumb lightly against the side of her jaw. “Yeah. Good girl.”

Her thighs press together beneath the dress. Garrett notices.

His mouth curves faintly. “You like that?”

She refuses to answer and takes him back into her mouth.

“Thought so.”

She wants to roll her eyes but lacks the coordination. Instead, she focuses on him, alternating the slow pull of her mouth with the movement of her hand. Garrett talks her through it in fragments, each instruction rougher than the last.

“Little slower.” She slows. “Fuck. Yeah.” Her tongue moves over the same sensitive place again. “Right there, baby.”

The praise keeps her eager, every broken breath encouraging another careful experiment. She learns that he likes when she twists her wrist slightly, when she keeps her tongue flat beneath him and when she looks up.

Especially when she looks up.

“Jesus Christ,” Garrett mutters the third time their eyes meet. “You have no idea what you look like.”

She releases him long enough to breathe. “Good?”

“Fucking devastating.”

Her mouth curves.

“There she is,” he says, thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. “Knew you were getting cocky.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Maybe I’m having fun.”

His hand slides from her hair to cup her cheek. “Yeah?”

She nods and turns her mouth into his palm, kissing the base of his thumb before taking him back between her lips.

Garrett groans. “Fuck, princess.”

The sound is louder this time. Loud enough that somebody passing in the hallway outside might hear if the music drops. She should care. Instead, the danger sharpens everything – the cold tile beneath his sweater, the bass trembling faintly through the metal partition, the taste of him on her tongue.

Garrett begins to lose the careful stillness in his body. His hips flex faintly toward her mouth before stopping, thighs tightening beneath her hands. His fingers return to her hair, gathering it away from her face while she moves faster.

“I’m close,” he warns.

She looks up without stopping.

Garrett’s jaw clenches. “You don’t have to swallow.”

The fact that he says it now – when she can feel how close he is, when every muscle in his body seems held together by effort – makes something soft press against the inside of her ribs.

She draws back. “I want to.”

His eyes search hers. “Sure?”

“Yes.”

He strokes her cheek once. “Okay.”

She takes him back into her mouth, more certain now, her hand tightening around the base. Garrett’s control frays quickly after that. His breaths turn uneven. His head tips back against the partition and his fingers close carefully in her hair, not directing, only holding on.

“Just like that,” he says, voice breaking low. “Fuck, good girl. Keep going.”

She does.

“That’s it, baby.”

Her name almost leaves him, but he catches it somewhere behind his teeth, replacing it with a rough groan as his body tightens. He comes with one hand braced against the wall and the other cradling the back of her head. She swallows, surprised by the warmth and salt but determined, taking everything until his breathing stutters and his grip loosens.

When she finally pulls away, Garrett looks down at her as though she’s just performed an advanced medical procedure with no training. She wipes her lower lip with her thumb. He stares at the movement.

“Come here,” he says.

His hands find beneath her arms and lift her before she can protest. She squeaks as her boots slip against his discarded sweater, then lands upright against his chest.

Garrett kisses her immediately. There’s no hesitation about where her mouth has been, nothing but his fingers cupping her jaw and his lips opening warmly over hers. She melts into him, smiling halfway through when he backs her against the stall door.

He pulls away enough to breathe, forehead dropping to hers.

Her hands smooth down his chest, pleased and a little dazed. “Was that okay?”

Garrett lifts his head. “Okay?”

She nods.

“Baby.”

“What?”

“Do you understand I almost blacked out?”

A giggle slips from her. “You did hit the wall a lot.”

“I was fighting for my life.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You just–” He stops, apparently unable to describe what she has just done without violating public decency laws that no longer seem relevant. “In the dress.”

She looks down at herself. The skirt has twisted around one thigh, lace rumpled from kneeling. “Do I look bad?”

“You look like I need to lock you in my car before anyone else sees you.”

Her grin widens.

Garrett catches it and narrows his eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Get all pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

She reaches down and begins tucking him carefully back into his boxers.

Garrett looks at the ceiling. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“You switching back to organising me immediately is deeply confusing.”

She frowns. “Your jeans are open.”

“I’m aware.”

“You look indecent.”

“I wonder how that happened.”

She buttons his jeans, threads the belt back through the buckle and gives it one firm tug before fastening it. “There,” she says. “Fixed.”

Garrett looks down at her hands, then at her face. “Thanks, Mom.”

Her mouth falls open. “That is disgusting.”

“You were being bossy.”

“You’re never touching me again.”

He grins. “Sure.”

“I mean it.”

“Of course, princess.”

She bends to retrieve his sweater, but Garrett catches her around the waist and lifts her away from the floor before she can reach it. 

“I can pick it up.”

“You’re not kneeling on the bathroom floor again.”

“I was on your sweater.”

“Yeah, and now my sweater has Malone’s bathroom on it,” he grumbles.

“That feels like your sacrifice.”

He sighs, retrieves it himself and rolls it into a loose bundle beneath one arm. When he stands, she reaches toward the mirror-less metal wall and tries to smooth her hair by feel.

Garrett watches for a moment, then carefully tucks one displaced curl behind her ear. “You look good,” he says.

“My lip gloss is gone.”

“Tragic.”

“My liner’s probably smudged.”

He gasps. “Life-ending.”

She pokes him in the stomach. “You’re so annoying.”

“There she is.”

“There who is?”

“My terrifying best friend.” His hand slides beneath the back of her dress and taps her ass once, quick and warm. “Thought I lost her for a second.”

She spins toward him with an offended gasp. “Do not mess up my skirt.”

Garrett grins, fully recovered now that she is correcting him again. “See you out there.”

“You’re leaving first?”

“Unless you want to walk out together holding hands.”

Her eyes widen. “Are you insane?”

“That’s what I thought.”

He unlocks the stall and checks the bathroom before stepping out, sweater tucked beneath his arm. At the main door, he looks back. She’s still standing inside the stall, lace dress rumpled, lips pink and eyes bright, trying to smooth the hem over her thighs.

Garrett shakes his head slowly.

“What?” she whispers.

“Nothing.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s suspicious.”

“Fix your face, princess.”

Her mouth opens. He slips through the door before she can answer. She waits thirty seconds, mostly because that feels strategic, then leaves the stall and moves to the sinks.

The mirror confirms that she looks suspiciously happy. Her lip liner has smudged at one corner. Her gloss is completely gone. Several curls near the back of her head are flattened where Garrett held them, and her cheeks remain flushed enough that no amount of cold water will make her appear as though she has merely used the bathroom in a conventional manner.

She opens her tiny bag and begins repairs. Lip liner first. A little concealer beneath one eye where her mascara has transferred. Gloss. She fluffs her hair with both hands, repositions the neckline of the dress and smooths the lace skirt carefully over her hips.

By the time she steps back, she looks normal again. Better than normal, actually.She smiles at herself, small and private.

Her phone vibrates on the counter.

garrett: you’re evil garrett: tuck asked why i’m carrying my sweater garrett: i said i spilled something on it

She types back.

princess: technically true

Three dots appear immediately.

garrett: you’re disgusting

Her smile widens.

princess: you liked it

The dots disappear. Reappear. Disappear again. She can picture Garrett sitting at the booth, probably staring down at his phone with his ears pink while Dean tries to read over his shoulder.

Finally, the response comes through.

garrett: deadass best thing that’s ever happened to me

Warmth spreads through her so quickly she has to press her lips together. Another message arrives.

garrett: hurry up garrett: puck bunnies are looking at me

She rolls her eyes.

princess: tell them you’re busy

There’s a longer pause. Her heart gives one hard little beat beneath the lace.

garrett: oh am i?

She stares at the screen. They have a deal. Friends with benefits. Secret. No drama. Nothing else changes.  She touches the edge of her thumbnail to her teeth, thinking, then types.

princess: for tonight

Garrett reacts with a thumbs-up first. Then removes it.

garrett: bossy

She puts her phone away and walks back into the bar. The music swells around her as she rounds the corner. Claire and Nina are still at the bar, four bright shots arranged in front of them. The boys remain in their booth. Dean is halfway through a story. Logan is eating something that does not appear to belong to him. 

She keeps her expression sweet and blank. Garrett sits at the end of the booth, one arm stretched along the backrest, looking in every way like a man who has spent the past five minutes discussing hockey rather than being sucked off in a women’s bathroom.

Except his gaze catches hers. His mouth curves. Something smaller, warmer and entirely private. The puck bunnies follow his eyes. She feels their attention land on her again, but it doesn’t scrape this time.

Her stomach turns soft. She returns to her friends, slides onto the barstool and picks up the shot Claire pushes toward her.

“What took you so long?” Nina asks.

She glances toward Garrett over the rim of the glass. He’s already watching her.

“Line,” she says smoothly.

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