gray

✭・.・ JOEL MILLER

⤷ red dress by @suuuupernovaaa

sweet, protective joel who defends your honor. loved this so much.

⤷ OUROBOROS by @millermouth

i'm not even kidding when i say this is only part one of this fic and it's one of the best pieces of writing i've ever laid my greedy eyes on. i'm literally frothing at the mouth for more. beautifully written, an absolutely addictive plot, imagery to die for.

⤷ COMING UP QUICK (GOING DOWN SLOW) by @sceletaflores

less than 1k words but you fr could've fooled me this fic literally grabbed me and wouldn't let go, i thought about it for hours after. so diabolical so delicious.

✭・.・TOMMY MILLER

⤷ dirty dancin' by @grayandthyme

or really anything and everything by gray because. let's be serious. but i keep going back to this one, such a comfort read for me. and the last line??? killer. everyone on three say thank you gray we love you gray

⤷ kiss my ass, cowboy by @iamasaddie

guys. GUYS. when i tell you the lot lizards series is so good. such a unique idea, so creative and so so SO delicious. like i didn't know i needed it, but now i don't think i could live without it. everything about this fic is just so fun to me.

⤷ sweet redemption by @yeobong

uhmm yeah i was salivating by the end what can i say. i loved the way this was written, too. the pacing made it so easy to devour. spectacular i love tommy miller gimme fourteen of em right now

✭・.・NANAMI KENTO

⤷ this post by @sinkuna

nanami's internal battle, seeing the younger woman and wanting her but knowing he shouldn't. freshly divorced. age gap. yeah guys this was right up my alley is anyone surprised?? i ate it up and went back for seconds.

⤷ emotional damage by @kenntoria

to me this is soo authentic nanami like he's such a provider i feel like his brain gets stuck in that provider/business mode and watching him get all flustered and nervous when he's complimented!!! ugh so sweet

✭・.・SUKUNA RYOMEN

⤷ TATT MY NAME ON YOU SO I KNOW IT'S REAL by @shelovesosa

He tried to sneak glances at you, watching your arm glide through the wind, your hair blowing messily as you tried, and failed, to tame it with your unoccupied hand. Your knees tucked into your chest, your brown sandals discarded in the front floorboard below you. Sometimes, you would catch him. Meeting his eyes as your head turned in his direction. You always smiled, that infectious smile that he loved, and he would return it before going back to pretending that he wasn’t looking at you.

Austin had never felt truly like home to Tommy. Enough so that he left as soon as he could, but he somehow ended up back in the city after telling himself he would never return. Sure, it was the city he grew up in, but the unpleasant memories that tied themselves to the city made it hard to feel like this was the place he was meant to be. Though, being with you was making Austin feel more and more like home to him everyday. It was as if you were creating a sanctuary for him every time he was in your calming presence. Somewhere he could go to replace the uncomfortable memories with new memories that he actually enjoyed and was happy to look back on.

Though, he could never tell you that, of course not. Proclaiming something that significant, that raw, would be the end, in his mind, to the comfortable relationship that you both had created together. It was easier to drive, ignore the growing feelings. Did you feel them too? He occasionally wondered to himself, but pushed the thought back into the basement of his mind where he could lock the door and throw away the key. Which worked, sometimes.

Your nights together were routine at this point.

Tommy would pick you up on Saturday night, order two banana pudding milkshakes from whataburger, then drive to your favorite lookout over the Austin skyline. Neither of you would take a drink of your milkshake until he put the truck in park. Sure, they tended to be melted slightly from the heat, but that was the routine.

And you both stuck to it.

“Mmm,” you hummed, taking the first big drink of your milkshake. “I thought maybe by the third time we had these that I’d be sick of them, but I don’t think I’d ever get sick of these milkshakes, Miller.” You admitted truthfully, swirling the large straw in circles through the thick milkshake.

“And I believe you have me to thank for that,” Tommy chuckled, setting his milkshake down in the cup holder between the two of you before adjusting his seat back slightly. “You know, introducin’ you to the banana puddin’ flavor? Isn’t that right?” He questioned, your name falling from his lips easily as he spread his legs slightly, making himself comfortable before turning his head your way.

“I’ll give you credit, it was a wonderful recommendation and I will forever be indebted to you for it, Tommy Miller.” You tease, turning to meet his gaze. You both hold it for a moment, not saying anything. His eyes are truly beautiful—especially when they’re directly fixated on you. They somehow look different. More alive? Now you know you’re just making things up. You end up being the first to tear your eyes away, focusing your attention back on the skyline, but Tommy’s attention stays on you.

You try not to notice it. Not to think too hard about it.

You both are quiet for a few minutes—taking in the views, listening to the faint voices coming from other cars. It’s peaceful. Being with Tommy makes you feel fully at peace. Just like kintsugi, he fills your cracks with gold and mends all your broken pieces back together again. You hope that you can make him feel even a quarter as good as he makes you feel.

“So,” you break the silence, wiping the sweat from your cup from your palm on the rough denim of your shorts. “How long have you been coming up here? To the overlook?” You inquire, tilting your head to the left to see Tommy taking a long drink of his milkshake.

“Uh,” He clears his throat, resting the styrofoam cup against his jean clad thigh. “Since high school. I would take my dad’s car sometimes when he was sleepin’. Then I got my license and I just liked to drive. Drivin’ cleared my mind when I needed it, which was most of the time.” You watch him shake his head slightly as his brow furrowed, thinking to himself. He was in a battle with himself over how honest he wanted to be tonight. “It was easier comin’ here and bein’ alone with myself than bein’ at home sometimes. I enjoy the quietness up here.” He says finally, and you know exactly what he’s saying without him actually saying it.

Tommy wasn’t one to often be open about his childhood, but occasionally he would let bits of information slip out. You were able to complete the puzzle of his childhood in your mind through the scattered pieces he would throw out at you. You didn’t meet Tommy until both of you had graduated, but Tommy’s childhood was something you wish you could have been there for. You only wished you could have scooped up the youngest Miller boys’ gentle heart and cradled it close to your body, providing it with warmth and protection from the harsh reality that he lived.

You could tell Tommy wasn’t wanting to venture too much further into the topic of his childhood tonight, so you eased both of you out of the conversation. “Well, baby Tommy chose a good spot,” That caused him to let out a small laugh and you gave yourself an imaginary pat on the back for successfully navigating the conversation elsewhere. “And thank you for sharing it with me, it truly is my favorite place in Austin.” You smile, finishing off your milkshake and setting the empty cup in the cup holder.

“Well, just add it to the list of reasons why you’re totally indebted to me for the rest of your life.” Tommy teases, mimicking you and setting his now empty cup in the cup holder beside yours. “So, you bring all the girls up here? Or only certain ones?” You say, playing it off as a joke, but regret it after the words fall from your lips. You aren’t sure if you want to know the answer tonight.

“Only the important ones. Only ever you.” Tommy says quickly, speaking before he has time to really think about his answer. Fuck. The words hang in the air, and Tommy knows it’s too late to swallow them back down and spit out a more casual answer.

Luckily for him, his small confession is quickly overlooked when a car alarm begins to blare in the small parking lot. In turn, it causes you to jump almost completely out of your skin and before you realize it, you’ve thrown your arm over and your hand has landed right on Tommy’s forearm that’s rested lightly on the console between the two of you. “Oh my God! Tommy, I almost had a heart attack!” You exclaim, turning towards him with wide eyes.

In turn, Tommy laughs. Truly laughs. The deep kind that rips its way out of his chest before he can stop it, the kind of Tommy Miller laugh that you absolutely adore hearing. You feel your heart rate falling back down to normal as his laugh calms your nerves almost immediately and you mimic him, beginning to laugh along with him without a care in the world now.

It takes a few seconds before your laughter begins to die down—before you realize you’re gripping his forearm still. “Sorry.” You say quietly, retracting your hand back to yourself.

Tommy’s arm is suddenly cold with the loss of contact. “Put it back.” He says quickly, firmly. He doesn’t know where his courage is coming from tonight. This is certainly not a part of your routine. Tommy silently prays that he’s not overstepping the invisible wall that he has fully convinced himself is between the two of you.

You replace your hand on his forearm. The invisible wall has taken a hit and it is beginning to crack.

You’re still looking at each other. Really looking at each other. He’s searching your eyes for any regrets, any reason or excuse for him to not do the one thing he’s wanted to do all night. Hell, the one thing he’s wanted to do for months.

Then,

“Kiss me, Tommy.” You whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. His breath hitches and he swears his heart stops beating in his chest. He recovers quickly, reaching across the center console and placing both hands on your cheeks, your small hand still resting on his forearm as he places a needy, but sweet kiss on your soft lips. The type of kiss that shows you that he, too, has thought about this very moment many times before. He feels your hand move to his curls, tugging on them to pull him in closer to you. He breathes your scent in, smelling the sweet vanilla perfume you wear. The perfume that lingers in his truck long after you’re gone—the perfume that drives him absolutely insane.

He pulls away first, but doesn’t retreat very far. He leans his forehead against yours, rubbing his thumbs against the apples of your cheeks. You’re smiling.

“Been waitin’ for you to do that for months, Miller.” Tommy can’t help but let out a breathy laugh, which you return, before gently pecking his lips one more time. The invisible wall between the two of you has now been demolished, completely obliterated as if it was never even there.

And Tommy? Tommy couldn’t be more grateful now that it was finally gone.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

an: i listened to drive by halsey while writing this <3 is the song 10 years old? yes. do I still love it? also yes.

You blink against the sunlight pouring through the half-open curtains, your cheek still warm and squished against Tommy’s pillow, which still smells like him—faint soap, cedar, and something undeniably his. You stretch in the wide bed, limbs still heavy with sleep, and sit up slowly. You steal a shirt of his that's lying around and tug it down over your bare thighs.

You tiptoe out of the room, sleep-soft and quiet, already smiling like you know what’s waiting for you.

Tommy is facing the stove bare-chested, only wearing checkered boxers that hang low on his hips. He grips the spatula in one hand as he stares intensely at the pancake waiting to be flipped, his brows furrowed in pure concentration.

You lean on the doorway, watching him, biting your lip trying not to laugh.

“Need help there, chef?” you ask, voice scratchy from sleep.

Tommy startles, eyes flicking over to you but then softening completely when he sees you standing there in his shirt, hair a mess, legs bare, face still half-dreaming.

“You weren’t supposed to see this, I was going to bring them to bed”

You move like you might actually do it—already starting to turn on your heel—but his hand slides to your hip, stopping you before you can take a single step.

“Now where you’re goin’, birthday girl?” he murmurs, voice low and warm in your ear. “Come here.”

You let him pull you in, smiling up at him like you’ve already gotten every gift in the world just from the way he’s looking at you.

His lips meet yours in a soft, unhurried kiss, the kind that steals the air right out of your lungs without even trying. His hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your skin like you’re something delicate—like you matter more than anything else in the room. When he pulls back, just barely, his voice is tender.

“Happy birthday, my sweet girl.”

The words melt right into you, warm and grounding. His eyes search yours for a moment, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Sleep well?” he asks, still cupping your face like he’s not ready to let go.

You nod, smiling softly, hands resting on his bare chest. God, it’s broad, solid, and warm under your fingertips—and it’s hard not to think about it. The way his skin feels under your touch, the strength in him, how safe and stupidly good he smells. You’re supposed to be focused on the birthday part, but your brain keeps short-circuiting every time he shifts slightly, and those muscles move under your palms like sin itself.

Tommy catches the flicker in your eyes and smirks, just a little.

“Oh,” he drawls, dipping his head closer, “you’re thinkin’ somethin’, sweetheart?”

“I’m thinking,” you say, trying to sound casual as your thumbs glide along his chest, “that maybe I should be the one sayin’ happy birthday to myself.”

He lets out a low chuckle, warm and amused, nuzzling into the side of your face. “Well, you do look good in my shirt. But if I let you get distracted now, we’ll never get to breakfast.”

You roll your eyes, wrapping your arms around his neck. “What a shame.”

“Terrible way to spend a birthday,” he teases, nuzzling your nose. “Loved up and fed pancakes.”

You laugh into his chest, breath hitching when his arms wrap tighter around you. His body is warm, the scent of him all maple and skin, and you can feel his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your cheek. He holds you there like time doesn’t exist, like it’s the most important part of his whole day, like nothing else is calling his name this morning except you. Not even the pancake threatening to burn on the pan.

"Tommy," you murmur into his chest, voice muffled by laughter, "your pancake"

He groans dramatically and finally lets go of you, hands lingering on your waist for a beat longer than necessary.

“Go take a seat, baby,” he says, kissing the top of your head with a warm press of lips, “I’ll be right there with you.”

You pout a little, dragging your fingers down his bare chest as you step away and make your way to the table.

He chuckles, already turning back to the stove, spatula in hand. His focus shifts, brow furrowing slightly as he rescues the now deeply golden pancake and slides it onto the tower of pancakes.

You slip into your chair with bare legs tucked under you, still wearing his shirt and nothing else, the hem brushing your thighs. The table’s already half-set—your favorite mug, a little vase with a small bouquet he chose from the garden, and the distinct smell of coffee waiting to be served.

From where you sit, you watch him work, the way his back flexes as he leans forward, and how his shoulders move with each motion. Tommy hums to himself under his breath, a tune you don’t recognize, and you can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. He didn’t just make you pancakes. He made you feel chosen.

And you hadn’t even opened the real gifts yet.

Tommy makes his way to the table, careful hands holding the plate like it’s an offering to a god. The pancakes are stacked high, warm and golden, your favorite fruits all arranged delicately on top. And nestled right in the center of it all is a single, crooked little candle. You can tell he found it last-minute, probably dug it out of a drawer somewhere, and it only makes your heart ache more.

He sets the plate down in front of you, clears his throat dramatically, and starts singing.

Not the whole song, just a soft, mumbled, very Tommy version of “Happy Birthday,” like he’s trying to be goofy but can’t help the warmth in his voice. He’s a little off-key. He winks at you halfway through. You laugh through the entire thing.

He finishes with a proud little bow, and you’re already looking at him like he’s strung up the stars just for you.

The way your eyes meet his is soft, full of that quiet kind of awe that steals the breath from his lungs. You’re smiling, but there’s something deeper under it. You lean forward and blow out the candle, a tiny wisp of smoke curling into the air.

Tommy leans in without a word and kisses you. Soft, lingering, like he doesn’t care that the pancakes are getting cold.

When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek. “Made any wishes?”

You look at him, still dazed with how good this all feels. And then you smile and shake your head. “I don’t need to wish for anything,” you murmur, voice quiet and full, “I’ve got you.”

His lips part like he’s gonna say something. But he doesn’t.

Tommy just kisses you again, deeper this time. He doesn’t need to say it out loud for you to know— You’re his wish, too.

You take the fork from your left and dig into the pancake stack, still warm, fluffy, and soaked just right in syrup. The fruit on top is perfectly sweet, and there's a hint of caramel that melts on your tongue like some kind of birthday miracle.

“Oh my god,” you groan, rolling your head back dramatically as the first bite hits. “This is incredible.”

Tommy’s at the counter pouring the coffee, and he turns just in time to catch the full theatrical display—your eyes fluttered shut, your fork already going in for another bite, and the pleased little hum you let out like he’s just cooked you a five-star brunch.

He grins, proud as ever. “That good, huh?”

He grabs a fork from one of the drawers and takes a seat next to you. “Lemme get in on this,” he mutters, spearing a big forkful off your plate without asking. Typical.

“Hey!” you swat at his hand as he tries to steal another bite, “That’s my birthday tower!”

Tommy laughs, full-bellied and unapologetic, already chewing on it like he didn’t just violate your sacred pancake territory. He then leans back with an exaggerated groan of pure satisfaction, like a man who just discovered fire.

“I’m so fucking good at this,” he declares around the food, eyes rolling back just slightly for dramatic effect. “Goddamn. Someone give me a Food Network show.”

He nods solemnly, already going in for another bite. “Insanely talented. At breakfast. At lovin’ you. At everything I touch.”

“Humble too, I see.”

Tommy just winks, leans over, and steals a piece of fruit from your fork before you can react.

"Hey!" you gasp at the audacity.

“You’re welcome,” he says smugly.

You shake your head, heart stupidly full, thinking that if the day ended right here—just pancakes, kisses, and him stealing your food—it’d already be the best birthday you’ve ever had.

And yet, you still haven’t opened your real gift.

Tommy left the kitchen with a little smirk and disappeared down the hallway to bring your actual birthday gift leaving you with the tower of pancakes.

You sip your coffee slowly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Tommy,” you call out, “you’re not bringing out, like… a puppy or something, right? Because I swear to god—”

“No puppies,” he calls back, voice echoing from the bedroom. “But you might scream anyway.”

You almost choked with your coffee as you took another sip. “That’s not comforting!”

A few moments later, he comes back with a box behind his back. It’s big. Wrapped in paper that’s a little crooked and taped like a man who definitely tried to do it in a hurry, and definitely did it with love.

He stops in front of you, eyes shining like a kid about to unveil his science fair volcano.

“Okay,” he says, bouncing just slightly on the balls of his feet. “This one… this one’s real special.”

You raise an eyebrow, grinning. “Better than pancakes?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Different category of good.”

He sets the box in your lap.

You tear it open slowly at first, like savoring the moment—but the second you get a glimpse of leather and stitching, your fingers fly. You peel back the paper and pull back the lid, and then—

You gasp.

Not the polite kind. The full, sharp, hands-to-your-mouth kind. Your heart skips. Your whole body lights up.

Inside the box is a pair of cowboy boots.

But not just any boots.

They’re beautiful—brown leather, soft and sturdy, embroidered with delicate little flowers in your favorite colors curling up the sides. Subtle. Sweet. Thoughtful. And at the back of each heel, stitched just above the sole in rich thread:

T.M.

Your fingers hover over the letters like they might vanish if you touch them too fast.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes wide. “Oh my god. I love them. I LOVE them!”

You pick them up and scream—and hug them to your chest like he just handed you a newborn baby.

Tommy lets out a laugh so pure and giddy it could’ve knocked you over. “There it is! I knew you’d do the little scream!”

You’re already halfway to your feet, boots clutched to your chest, spinning in place. “Tommy— they’re perfect. They’re—look at the stitching! Look at the—you put your initials on them?!”

He walks over, hands sliding around your waist, pulling you close.

“Well, figured now when you walk into a room, everyone’ll know who you belong to.”

You bury your face in his neck, laughing breathlessly. “I can’t believe you did this.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’d get you ten more pairs just to see you smile like that.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes shining. “I’m wearing these everywhere.”

“You better.” He steps back. “Go on. Try ‘em on.”

And when you stand up in your boots—bare-legged, still in his shirt, grinning like a fool—Tommy lets out a low whistle, shaking his head like he’s helpless against you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Prettiest cowgirl I've ever seen.”

You blush, cheeks warm as you try—and fail—not to smile too hard. You give him a handful of playful little poses. A hand on your hip, knee popped, chin tilted up like you’re about to step onto a runway. Another one with your feet up on a stool, showing off the boot.

Tommy lets out a soft whistle again, eyes trailing over you with so much heat and affection it makes your stomach flutter.

“Well, damn,” he murmurs, low and awestruck. “I really outdid myself, didn't I?”

He opens his arms without a word, the silent invitation clear as day.

You don’t hesitate. You walk straight into him.

His arms wrap around you instantly, snug and familiar, hands smoothing over your back and down your sides like he just needs to touch you, to have you there. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and mumbles, half-mocking, half-serious.

“Gonna have to fight people off with a stick if you leave the house lookin' like this.”

You laugh, fingers curling into his hair. “You did this to me.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling into your skin. “And now you’re never takin’ these boots off.”

You shake your head, smiling like your cheeks might split. “Never.”

His grip on you tightens just slightly, like the idea of you, in these boots and his shirt, pressed to him like this, might just undo him completely. And then he leans in—slow and deliberate—and presses a kiss right to the sweet spot beneath your jaw.

You let out a soft hum, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of his mouth sends a ripple of heat down your spine.

“Tommy…” you murmur, one hand sliding up his chest, fingers brushing the curve of his neck.

He hums against your skin, not moving, just resting his mouth there for another second like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “Mm?”

“You keep kissin’ me like that and I’m gonna forget we have pancakes to finish.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his lips curved into a smug little grin. “Baby, if I’m lucky, I’ll have you forget everything else today but me.”

You’re still wrapped in his arms, his lips against the sensitive spot on your neck, when his voice dips lower, warm, rough, that familiar, dangerous softness that makes your knees a little weak.

“We’ve got a lot planned today, unfortunately…” he murmurs, fingers skating along the hem of his shirt that barely covers you, “but if you ask me twice… we’re droppin’ all of it.”

You blink up at him, breath catching.

“I’ll keep you right here,” he goes on, gaze molten, “in this kitchen, in those boots with my name stitched in ‘em… keepin’ you all to myself.”

Your stomach flips. Your whole body burns. And the worst part? He knows exactly what he’s doing.

He leans in like he might kiss you again—but stops just short, lips hovering.

“Go on,” he murmurs, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Say it twice.”

You inhale like you might—and then you step back, smirking right back. “You are evil.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he grabs your plate and refills your coffee. “Just givin’ you options, birthday girl.”

“Okay,” you say, clapping your hands once and trying to ignore how shaky it feels, “what’s on the agenda, cowboy?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow, clearly amused at your attempt to shift gears. “We back to business now?”

“If I don’t move us along, we’re never making it outta this house,” you mutter, grabbing your coffee and sipping like you haven’t just been one word away from canceling your entire birthday schedule for a reroute to poundtown central.

He chuckles low, licking syrup off his thumb again just to mess with you. “Well, ma’am,” he says, slipping into that teasing drawl, “We're already behind schedule so you might want to take a quick shower 'cause we got a whole day of spoilin’ you planned"

You cross your arms, trying not to smile. “Spoiling, huh?”

“Yup.” He walks past you with a pat to your hip, completely unbothered. “Wear somethin’ cute. You’re gonna wanna take pictures.”

The weather is the perfect kind of sunny—not sweltering, just warm enough to kiss your skin, with a breeze that plays in your hair as you step out into it. The kind of morning that feels like it was made for you.

Tommy’s already waiting by the truck, sunglasses pushed up on his head, that easy grin tugging at his lips. He opens your door for you like a gentleman, but his hand doesn’t leave the small of your back until you’re seated, buckled, and blushing.

He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles into your skin.

He takes you to a little downtown strip—brick sidewalks, ivy-covered lampposts, locals setting out chairs for brunch service. There’s a bookstore on the corner with a crooked sign and a bell on the door, and the moment you walk in, you feel it: this is the kind of birthday that feels like home.

Your arms are locked as you wander past shelves of cracked spines and well-loved covers. Tommy trails his fingers down the rows like he’s pretending to browse, but really, he’s just watching you—how your face lights up when you find an old copy of a favorite, how you flip it open to smell the pages without even realizing.

“Get it,” he says before you can put it back. “Birthday rule.”

“What birthday rule?”

“The one I just made up. If you touch it and smile, it’s yours.”

That candle that smells like vanilla woods that makes you close your eyes and hum? He buys it. The little necklace with the tiny star pendant you keep circling back to? Already bagged and paid for before you even say a word.

“Tommy, I don’t need all this.”

“You don’t,” he agrees, slinging an arm around your shoulder, “but you deserve all of this"

From there on it's all kinds of shops, a boutique with sundresses that he insists on helping you pick out, whistling low when you hold one up to your frame. He carries every bag, every single little wrapped trinket, and refuses to let you even think about checking a price tag.

“Tommy,” you say, laughing, “you’re gonna go broke.”

He shrugs. “Worth it.”

By the time you stop for lunch—open patio, iced drinks, your favorite sandwich—you’ve walked miles but barely noticed. Your legs ache a little, your face is sun-warmed and flushed, but you feel full. Not just from the food. From him. From this.

And when he leans over the table, brushing a crumb from your lip and saying, “You havin’ a good day, baby?”—you don’t even have to think.

While you wait for the waitress to come back with dessert and the check, you sink a little deeper into your chair, stretching your legs out under the table with a quiet sigh. The late afternoon sun is warm on your skin, lazy and golden, wrapping around you like a blanket. The day’s been long in the best way—your arms full of little shopping bags, your heart even fuller.

You tilt your face toward the sky, basking in the light, then slowly turn your head to the side, peering at Tommy over the rim of your sunglasses.

He’s half-reclined in his seat, arms crossed, watching people pass by on the sidewalk—but you know that relaxed posture. It’s an illusion. He’s still watching you.

You take him in—scruffy jaw, sun-touched skin, those damn forearms resting just right—and you smile. Then softly, like it’s been sitting on your chest for hours, you say, “You don’t need to keep buying me things, Tommy. Really.”

He blinks once, like you’ve pulled him out of a pleasant dream.

“Hm?” His head tilts toward you.

Your voice is soft, honest, and you place your hand gently over his on the table—warm skin against warm skin, the buzz of the café fading around you.

“I don’t want you to spend all your money on me,” you add, giving his hand a little squeeze. “You give me so much already.”

His thumb stills under yours.

For a second, he just looks at you—those steady brown eyes searching your face, reading the sincerity there like it’s written in bold. His expression softens, that crooked smirk of his fading into something quieter, more serious.

“I know I don’t have to,” he says finally, voice low. “That’s not why I do it.”

He flips his hand over so he can lace his fingers with yours, rubbing his thumb along the inside of your wrist.

“You never ask for a damn thing, baby. Never have. And I know you’d still be sittin’ here smiling at me even if all I gave you was a cup of gas station coffee and a damn paper hat.” He chuckles at that, eyes crinkling. “But I like doin’ this for you. Gettin’ you things. Seein’ your face light up when I get it right.”

You look down at your joined hands, thumb tracing his knuckles.

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to earn my love,” you whisper.

He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles, gentle and sure.

“I’m not tryna buy your love—I already got it. But cause of that, it makes me want to give you everything.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest and he offers a small smile, tilting his head. “But if you ever say stop, I stop. You know that.”

You nod, a little overwhelmed, a little breathless.

And for a second, the day pauses. Just him, you, sun-warmed hands

Later, when you finally get back home, Tommy carries the heavier boxes inside like they weigh nothing and then disappears straight into the bathroom meanwhile you put away all the boxes and bags, filling your shared wardrobe with all the clothes you got, smoothing fabric, arranging shoes, smiling softly at the memory of each store, each comment he made, each look he gave you that made you feel like the only person on the planet.

Once you're done you walk into the bathroom to see him sitting at the edge of the tub watching it fill up.

The bathroom door is cracked open, soft light spilling through.

You push it gently and peek in.

He’s sitting on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, watching the water fill with the same focus he gives everything he cares about. The tub is already half full, bubbles foaming on the surface, steam rising in slow curls. Candles flicker on the counter—your favorites, the soft vanilla one, the clean linen scent he always says reminds him of you.

He looks up when he hears you and smiles like he’s been waiting.

“All done?” he asks, voice low, lazy.

You nod, leaning against the doorframe. “You’ve really planned this whole day out, huh?”

“‘Course I did.” He pats the spot next to him. “Come sit.”

You do, tucking your legs under you on the cool tile. The two of you sit in comfortable silence, listening to the water trickle in, bubbles popping gently at the edges.

“You spoil me, you know,” you murmur, resting your head on his shoulder.

Tommy kisses the crown of your head and wraps an arm around you, holding you there.

“Good,” he whispers. “That was the plan.”

“Get in with me?” you ask, voice soft, almost shy even after everything—the gifts, the kisses, the way he’s looked at you all day like you hung the damn moon.

Tommy lifts his eyes to meet yours, and there’s no hesitation—just a warm smile, gentle and sure.

“Yeah, baby. ‘Course I will.”

He stands, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt, and pulls it off with one fluid motion. You can’t help the way your eyes trace the lines of him. His broad chest, tan skin, his muscles. He unbuttons his jeans next, sliding them off along with everything else, slow and easy.

He steps into the water first, settling into the tub with a contented sigh. Then he holds out a hand to you, palm open, eyes soft.

“C’mere, birthday girl.”

You let him help you in, one careful step at a time, the water hot and perfect, your skin already tingling from the warmth—and maybe from the way he watches you like you’re something sacred.

Once you’re in, he guides you between his legs, your back pressing to his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle like he has to keep you close.

You sink into him with a quiet sigh, your head resting against his shoulder, water sloshing gently around you both.

“Best part of the day,” he murmurs against your temple.

His fingers start tracing idle patterns on your stomach, your arms, soft touches like he’s painting you with affection.

You smile, eyes closed, letting yourself be completely held. “You said that after pancakes.”

“Okay, best new part.”

You giggle, body melting against his, and he kisses your cheek, your jaw, the side of your neck, your shoulder.

He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t try to make it anything more than this quiet intimacy. Just two bodies in warm water, limbs tangled, hearts full.

You’re quiet for a while, letting your body relax completely against his, lulled by the soft lap of water and the slow rhythm of his breathing.

Then you feel it—his fingers gently gathering your wet hair, brushing it back over your shoulder. He reaches for the shampoo with one hand, the other still holding you close.

“Lemme me wash you baby”

You hum in approval, eyes closed, and tilt your head back slightly to give him better access.

He lathers the shampoo into your hair with a tenderness that makes your heart ache, strong fingers massaging your scalp, slow and unhurried. His thumbs stroke just behind your ears, down the nape of your neck. You melt, a low sigh slipping past your lips as your shoulders sink lower into the water.

“You’re gonna put me to sleep,” you mumble.

“Nah,” he says, rinsing carefully, cupping water over your head with one hand. “Still got plans for you.”

You giggle, blinking up at him lazily. “More plans, huh?”

“You’re damn right.” He sets the bottle down, hands sliding over your arms under the water, thumbs stroking slow circles over your skin. “But first I gotta get my girl squeaky clean.”

You shift, turning around in the water slowly—knee brushing his, water sloshing quietly—until you’re straddling his lap, arms resting on his shoulders.

His hands settle at your waist without hesitation, and his eyes darken just a little when you lean in close. You cradle his face in your hands and kiss him.

Soft at first, then it grows slightly hungrier.

Then he smiles against your mouth. “You tryin’ to distract me from washin’ your back?”

You pull away just enough to smirk. “Is it working?”

He chuckles, fingers tightening just a bit at your hips. “Keep kissin’ me like that, and I swear, I’m not lettin’ you outta this tub.”

“Maybe that’s the plan,” you whisper, lips brushing down his jaw.

He groans softly, tilting his head back like he’s surrendering already.

You kiss him again, slower this time—mouth pressing firm against his, hands sliding down his chest, and you feel it the second his grip tightens at your waist. His breath hitches, lips parting just barely as you deepen it, your body shifting just enough in his lap to make the water ripple around you both.

“Mm-mm,” he murmurs against your lips, voice thick and low, “you are tryin’ to distract me.”

“You’re not exactly resisting,” you breathe, trailing your fingers down his neck, along his chest, under the water. His skin is warm and slick beneath your touch, and he swallows hard when your nails drag ever so lightly over his ribs.

“Can you blame me?” he rasps, eyes half-lidded as he watches you. “You, in my lap, in my boots this mornin’… you’re lucky we even made it outta the damn house.”

You giggle, fingers now resting just above his hipbones. “You’re lucky I let you finish the pancakes.”

He laughs, head falling back against the edge of the tub for a second before you lean in and kiss the hollow of his throat. Slowly. Purposefully. You feel him exhale hard through his nose, hands gliding up your back, under your arms, holding you close against him.

And just when he starts to pull you back in for another kiss—

You pull away.

His brows lift, breath caught. “Oh? What’s this now?”

“Your turn,” you smirk, reaching for the body wash. “Birthday girl gets to return the favor.”

Tommy groans dramatically but doesn’t move, sitting back with a hand over his heart. “Now I know I’m dreamin’.”

You lather your hands and start running them over his chest, deliberately slow, watching the way his muscles tense, the way he watches you. His lashes are low, jaw tight, but he lets you guide the moment—quiet, trusting, completely in your hands.

You wash his chest, his shoulders, even tilt his head to the side to kiss under his ear when he lets out a little hum of satisfaction.

“Relax,” you whisper.

“I am,” he says, smiling lazily. “Don’t stop.”

You rinse him off gently, kissing his temple before leaning back with a sigh, the both of you warm and drowsy in the water now, steam curling around your skin.

Tommy could stay in this tub with you for the rest of his life but unfortunately he had one last trick up his sleeve. He cursed himself in his mind for the dinner reservation.

“What time is it?”

You glance over at the fogged-up clock on the wall and squint to read properly.

“8:23,” you say.

His brows lift. “Shit.”

You tilt your head, resting your chin on his chest and glancing up at him from under damp lashes. Tommy exhales and runs a hand through his damp hair, water dripping down his neck.

He doesn’t answer right away—just stares at the clock like it personally offended him.

“Tommy,” you say, slower this time, “why ‘shit’?”

He blinks, like he’d almost forgotten where he was, eyes snapping back to yours. Then he sighs—long, theatrical—and lets his head fall back against the tub’s edge with a thump.

“Because,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face dramatically, “I made a reservation for nine. And I knew if I got in this tub with you, we were never gonna get out on time.”

You smile slow, teasing, tilting your head a little. “Then why’d you get in?”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes again, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

“Because you asked me to.”

His hand slides up your back, fingers curling in your damp hair. “And I’d get in a thousand more times if you asked like that again.”

Then, with another sigh—one that sounds like he’s trying very hard to convince himself—he murmurs,

“All right. We gotta wrap this up or we won’t make it on time”

You groan dramatically, still not moving. “I just melted into you.”

“Yeah, and I’ll put you right back here after dinner,” he says, already nudging you gently. “But if we don’t leave now, we’ll miss the one thing I’ve been lookin’ forward to all week.”

That catches your attention. You lift your head again, narrowing your eyes. “What is it?”

He just smirks. “Go get dressed, birthday girl. I’ll tell you when we get there.”

Tommy’s standing in the bedroom, already dressed—of course he is—rolling up the sleeves of his button-down, the fabric stretched perfectly over his arms. You’re perched on the bathroom stool with a towel wrapped around your shoulders, legs crossed, a half-full glass of wine in hand as you try to wrestle a brush through your wet hair.

It’s not going well.

You tug gently at a particularly stubborn knot near the nape of your neck and sigh dramatically. “God, why do I have so much hair?”

Tommy appears in the doorway, glancing over. “Want me to do it for you, doll?”

You turn, arching a skeptical brow at him. “Are you sure you can do it?”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. “I’ve seen you do this a million times. I’m sure I can handle it.”

You hand him the brush slowly, like it’s a sacred object. “Alright, cowboy. Good luck.”

At first, it’s sweet. He stands behind you, brushing gently, trying his best to mimic what he’s seen you do. But five minutes in, he’s muttering under his breath, the blow dryer in one hand and the brush caught in a mess of damp curls in the other.

“Okay wait—how do you hold both at the same time? I don’t get it”

You giggle, sipping your wine as you give him yet another demo. “Brush from the bottom, then work up. And use the nozzle, not the actual body of the dryer—no, babe, like this.”

Tommy grumbles, but listens. Tries again. This time, a little more confident.

After a while, he starts getting the hang of it. You tilt your head back slightly, smiling into the mirror as the warm air flows through your hair, his hands focused and steady now.

“Good job, baby,” you say, voice a little soft, a little smug. “You’re doing amazing.”

You take another sip of wine just as his eyes flick up in the mirror—catching your expression, the praise soaking in.

And he blushes. Just the faintest red blooming across his cheeks.

You smirk into the glass. “Aww. That did something to you, huh? You like me calling you a good boy”

He clears his throat, but doesn’t deny it. “Keep talkin’ like that and we’re not makin’ that reservation.”

You bite your lip, grinning. “I thought nothing was gonna stop us from this one last thing?”

Once your hair is done—finally smooth, shiny, and out of your face thanks to Tommy’s determined and slightly chaotic effort, he reaches for your necklace and fastens it gently behind your neck, fingers brushing your skin, careful and tender like he’s handling glass.

You smile, lips curled around a quiet thank you, and then slip into one of the dresses he bought for you earlier that day — soft fabric, perfect fit, something you’d eyed in the shop window but never would’ve picked for yourself.

He helps you zip it up from behind, his hands warm as they run up your spine. You feel the cool slide of the zipper, then the pause as he shifts your hair over one shoulder.

His lips press to the back of your neck, soft and deliberate, and you feel your jaw clench instinctively, a slow pulse building somewhere low and dangerous.

He lingers there. Kisses you once more, just a little lower.

“Tommy,” you warn, voice breathy, “we’ve got less than ten minutes to get there.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, eyes narrowed.

“You better not start something you can’t finish.”

He chuckles low, and it rumbles right against your back. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he meets your gaze, “I absolutely plan to finish it.”

You swallow, heat rising to your face, but you hold your ground—barely.

“Later,” you mutter, observing his reflection in the large mirror.

He steps back, smirking. “We will get back to this.”

Tommy wraps an arm around your waist as you walk through the doors, murmuring something about “your table” and how it’s “in the back, real private,” and you nod, expecting a quiet, intimate dinner for two.

But the second you step past the hostess stand and into the dining room—

“SURPRISE!”

You freeze. Blink.

There’s a long table tucked near the back wall, candlelit and overflowing with people—friends, cousins, familiar faces you didn’t think were even in town. Some you haven’t seen in months.

You let out a breathless little scream, one hand flying to your mouth, the other gripping Tommy’s forearm like a lifeline.

He chuckles softly beside you. “You like it?”

You turn to him, wide-eyed, stunned. “You did this?”

“I made a few calls.”

You laugh, then launch yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck. He catches you easily, warm and steady.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck. “Thank you, thank you. Thank you.”

He pulls back just enough to kiss your cheek. “Anything for you, baby.”

Dinner is perfect. Laughter echoing off the walls. Shared bites. Toasts raised. One of your friends starts a birthday chant. You roll your eyes and blush and still let them sing. Tommy’s hand is on your thigh for most of the meal—firm and grounding—and every time you look over at him, he’s already watching you, eyes soft, lips pulled into a little smile like he can’t believe he gets to love you out loud in front of everyone.

There are so many photos—you with each friend, the group together, you and Tommy cheek to cheek. Someone gets one of him kissing your temple while you laugh, wine glass tilted, eyes squinting from the grin. It ends up being your favorite of the night. It definitely ends up being your phone screen by the next day.

By the time you get home, you’re stuffed, glowing, and emotionally wrung out in the best way. You toss your clutch somewhere near the nightstand, flop back on the bed with a long, satisfied sigh, your arms flung over your head.

“God,” you mumble. “I am so full and so tired”

Tommy sits at the edge of the bed and gently begins unbuckling your heels.

You glance at him, hair a little messy now, cheeks still pink from the wine, and your voice softens.

“Do I tell you that I love you enough times?” you ask. “Because what you did today? It was out of this world, Tommy.”

He looks at you, holding your ankle gently in one hand, then leans forward, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.

“You tell me all the time,” he murmurs. “But I still like hearin’ it.”

You grin, dreamy. “Well. I love you. A lot. I would cry right now but I’m too full of ravioli.”

He laughs, deep and low, slipping off the second heel. Then, without warning, he crawls up the bed over you, hands braced on either side of your hips, eyes darkening as he hovers just above you.

His voice drops low, soft with promise. “Now… where were we?”

“Well we were in the tub, kissing, hugging, loads of teasing” you say, lips curving into a smile.

He kisses you slow, like he’s savoring the first quiet breath after a day full of motion—then pulls back just enough to hover over you, one hand brushing the hair from your face as his thumb traces along your cheekbone.

“Now I’ve got you all to myself,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, just for you. “No more plans. No more runnin’ around.”

He leans in closer, presses a kiss to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

“Just you,” he whispers. “My special girl.”

Your chest flutters at the way he says it—like a secret, like a prayer. You slide your hands up his arms, slow and lazy, smiling up at him, completely warm, completely his.

All day he’s been showing you his love in gifts, in pancakes, in friends secretly gathered, in making sure you were seen. But now, it’s in the way his lips brush your skin like you’re something holy. Now it’s in the way his voice drops when he murmurs your name. Now it’s in the way he undresses you not like a man trying to get what he wants—but like one unwrapping a treasure that’s already his.

He takes his time, worships every inch. Fingers skimming, lips trailing, body moving slow against yours like he has nowhere else to be. The wine warmth of the day sinks deeper into your bones with every sigh and every kiss.

“Been thinkin’ about this all night,” he confesses as he kisses down your body. “You… in that dress. All done up and laughin’ with your friends, lookin’ at me like you knew I was gonna ruin you later.”

You giggle, breath catching as he slides back up, hovering over you, his nose brushing yours.

“You gonna ruin me, cowboy?” you whisper.

His smile curves, dark and sweet. “Damn right I am.”

He spreads your legs and glances up at you before he dives in.

Your whole body shudders when his tongue presses against your clit.

Your head falls back against the pillows, a moan slipping out, raw and helpless.

He glances up at you, eyes dark and so full of hunger, his hands tightening on your hips to hold you right where he wants you.

“God, you’re delicious,” he rasps, voice low and ragged. “Sweeter than my pancakes, baby.”

You whimper, thighs twitching around him, but he doesn’t stop, it's like he’s savoring every sound you make, every roll of your hips, every breathy plea.

He brings two fingers to your entrance and begins to thrust them ever so slowly while he's busy giving your clit sloppy kisses. You whimper, breath catching in your throat, and your fingers slip instinctively into his hair—his messy, damp, curled-up mane, you need to touch him, to ground yourself.

He groans low at the contact, like your touch alone is enough to spur him on. His hands grip tighter at your thighs, anchoring you to him, his mouth working with such focused hunger it makes your toes curl.

“Tommy,” you breathe—half a moan, half a plea.

His only answer is a deeper sound, something low and satisfied, possessive, like he’s right where he wants to be and he’s not going anywhere until you fall apart beneath him.

And when you do, trembling, shivering, gasping his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known—he doesn’t stop right away. Just eases you down gently, drawing out every little aftershock, until you're limp against the pillows, boneless and dazed.

Once he's got you stretched out and ready for him, he positions himself and brings your legs to his shoulders. You feel it before it's even inside you. He enters slowly before thrusting completely, and your hips lift off the mattress. His grip on your hips tightens as his thrusts become repetitive, and he lowers himself until his face is inches away from yours. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough like gravel and honey.

“You feel like a dream, baby,” he groans as his rhythm fastens and his thrusts become deeper. “You’re mine, you know that?”

You nod, completely dazed and breathless as you dig your nails into his back. "I'm all you—yours Tommy."

“Say it,” he pants, lips trailing up your throat in between groans. “Tell me who’s makin’ you feel this good.”

"You Tommy" You moan, soft and broken, panting against his shoulder as your body trembles. His thrusts become deeper and rougher as you repeat his name, your voice becoming shakier every second that passes. He feels you tighten around him and gives a final thrust, coming undone at the same time as you. His forehead rests against your chest as he recovers his breath.

The sheets are warm, tangled around your legs, and the only light left in the room is the soft golden spill of the lamp on his nightstand. Your body’s still humming—lazy and sated, every inch of you touched and loved on until you melted right into the mattress.

Tommy’s lying on his side beside you, one hand tracing slow, absent-minded circles on your back, the other tucked beneath his head. His chest rises and falls steady and deep, and every now and then, he kisses the top of your head like he needs the contact to keep himself grounded.

“I love you,” he says against your hair. “So much.”

And you smile, slow and sleepy, murmuring back, “I know. You showed me all day.”

He smiles, thumb brushing your cheek again. “You deserve more than one kind of spoilin’, baby.”

You press your nose to his body, inhaling him like oxygen. “Remind me to return the favor on your birthday.”

He laughs—low, sinful. “Oh, sweetheart. You absolutely will.”