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Being the first to walk into orientation four years ago and seeing 20 chairs neatly arrayed in a conference room was exciting, right up until the room started to fill. You found your chair on the end of a row, and stuck on the cheesy 'Hello, My Name Is' name tag that sat waiting for you, already displaying your name in black Sharpie. The minutes ticked by and the room started to fill with a steady trickle of 18-year-old boys, the majority of them boasting summer coding program t-shirts and basketball shorts you could tell they had owned since middle school. When the boy entitled to the name tag in the chair next to you walked in, it felt a little possible that you could actually have a friend in your program for the next four years.

Your first look at Walter McKey inspired a slight, and embarrassingly awed spark of hope. At least, more hope than the current crowd of your fellow developers instilled in you. His presence once sat in the chair next to you filled the surrounding air with the scent of clean laundry, his hair looked soft and curled slightly in a charming way around his ears. The lenses of his glasses were spotless, attributed to the practiced way he would push them up if they slipped with the pad of his middle finger, right on the metal bridge. He was wearing a short sleeved button up shirt over a t-shirt, jeans that fit him nicely, not too short around the ankles as was common with the male coders you knew, and black-and-white checkered Vans, that were marked with subtle scuffs only visible if you looked too close.

You politely told him your name and stuck out your hand, which he shook with a limp hold before finally speaking.

"I'm Keys." And then he was silent for the rest of the day.

Getting to know him was impossible. He was quiet, dutifully took notes during lectures, corrected professors under his breath, his portions of group projects were done on time and flawlessly. You were never quite able to pin him for anything, not even after working with him directly for an assignment with a few other coders during your third semester. When you met up to work on it, he was near silent. Engineered his designated sections, stood up with the group to present, helped get you a good grade. It didn't matter if he seemed different at first glance—Keys wasn't interested in anything that wasn't a 95 or higher on his transcript.

It was after your fourth semester of putting up with the verbal jabs and rolling eyes that you decided to devote every second of your college career to proving him and all of the other Mountain Dew guzzlers in your major wrong. If you couldn't prove yourself in class by being as good as them, you would simply have to be better.

Progressing through semesters of having nearly every class with the same crowd of 19 fellow developers gave you the nearly scientific ability to split them in half and classify them—the gawkers, who never totally got used to having a girl in their midst. They stared with parted mouths when you presented your work, blushed and stammered when you were forced to partner up for projects. Never quite mellowed despite the now four years of being in your presence. The other half wrote you off the second they laid eyes on you during that orientation. Reddit-frequenting, girlfriend-less, snickering and whispering to each other conspiratorially when you spoke up in classes. You assumed that Keys fit firmly in the latter category. He didn't exactly laugh like the others, but he was prone to eye rolling, and definitely didn't stare at you with looks of awe and astonishment like the former.

Truthfully, and totally unbeknownst to you, Keys wasn't in either category. He didn't like you because found something in you that he didn't get from anyone else—you offered him an actual challenge.

A glance up at the clock tower tells you it's time to get on your way to class, and you sigh, steeling yourself for another two hours of stares and shit-eating smirks. Maybe it was good for you. You were always going to be in the minority in this field, and while you still hope you would end up in a company that had at least a few women on staff, the future was going to involve an uphill climb if you were committed to making games. At least the walk to the CompSci building was peaceful. Campus was still sparse, the only sounds around being the gentle rustling of red and orange leaves and your footsteps against the brick pathway. You liked being early for classes. It gave you the best chance to get moments like this, and limited the number of heads whipping around to look at you as you pushed the classroom door open.

Your usual chair sat dutifully in the front row, and you slip your backpack off of your shoulders, sliding into the seat. As you push up the screen of your laptop and start to enter your password to unlock it, the door opens behind you, and the footsteps of nearly spotless checkered Vans make their way to the front row table to your right. Keys had a similar and infuriating habit of being early.

"Morning," he mumbles as his own laptop meets the table and your spine stiffens, surprised to hear him initiate any kind of conversation, let alone one where he isn't making backhanded comments on how "approachable" your demos are.

"Someone's cheerful," you tease. "What, did new sexy elf skins drop on World of Warcraft?"

"I don't play World of Warcraft," Keys rebuttals weakly, clicking his Bluetooth mouse on and testing it with a few back and forth swipes across the table. You look over and cock an eyebrow.

"Anymore," he adds through his teeth.

"Thought so," you smirk.

He breathes hard through his nose before he speaks again.

"So, you got demo of the week last Friday," he says, attempting to seem casual. "How are things looking this week?"

Demo of the week—a sought after title given by Dr. Howell, faculty chair of the Game Design program and professor of many of its classes. Extremely tough, and very withholding of praise outside of his designations of demo of the week. You and Keys have been alternating the title on and off since August.

"I think it's as strong as last week's," you say, scanning through your files to load your entry for this Friday. "Why, you scared?"

"No," he says, far too quickly and with a defensive sharpness. "I'm just saying, enjoy your title while you still have it."

Demo showcase passes as it typically does—everyone watches each other's entries with laser focus, cringing internally at any aspects that feel unfinished, and mentally jotting down impressive tricks or assets for later. You and Keys both present, watching each other's work with scrunched brows and teeth digging into bottom lips, eager for any kind of slip-up. Yours goes well—no obvious bugs, punctuated with a nod from Dr. Howell. A nod is alright, but a smile is best, and usually indicates that you've been chosen. Today, his face is blank. Shit.

Keys follows right after you do, and infuriatingly, his work is incredible. He's obviously proud, speaking with a little more confidence than usual as he shows off that he's mastered a new movement mechanic he's been working on the past few weeks. All ten minutes of gameplay were clearly coded meticulously—polished textures, zero lag, balanced camera movement. As much as you hate to admit to yourself (and you would die before admitting this to him), it's better than yours. The room applauds politely once he finishes, and his eyes catch yours as he detaches his laptop from the cable, twinkling mischievously and squinted a little at the corners from the satisfied smirk that spreads across his face. Your head snaps nervously to Dr. Howell, who wears a similar expression, arms crossed as he stands from the empty seat at the back of the room and makes his way back to the front of the lecture hall.

"Most of you were middling," he says, finally facing the class. "A few of you were bad, I'm assuming you already know who you are." As if on cue, a sniffle from a few seats over briefly resounds through the room. He calls your name, a sharp wave of nerves crashing over you as your eyes widen.

"You were fine this week," he starts. "About as good as last week, but the purpose of this exercise is improvement. Your bar is high, I ask that you please meet it."

Your stomach churns harder as you nod, mustering a wobbly smile that you hope expresses that you're internalizing the criticism. You aren't sure what feeling turns in you faster—disappointment in yourself, or your anger towards Keys.

"Walter," Dr. Howell says, turning to face him fully. "This was strong work from you. Very dynamic, and that new trick of yours has come very far. Almost ready for a full length project. Congratulations."

Keys beams, shifting in his chair a little, as if unable to physically contain how pleased he is. His excitement would be endearing if he wasn't so fucking infuriating.

"Thanks so much, Dr. Howell," he says a little breathless, running his hand through his hair, which only causes it to flop more over his eyes and the frame of his glasses. Dr. Howell starts another round of applause, and you briefly slap your hands together lazily, biting the inside of your cheek. No matter how many times you lost your title to Keys, it stung. It felt like a step back from your mission to rise and topple the others, a concession to the staring and laughing and backhandedness. With a sigh, as the little clock in the upper corner of your screen finally ticks to 10:00 AM, you close the lid of your laptop and pack it into your backpack.

"Excuse me," Dr. Howell says in front of your table, Keys flanking his left side with his messenger bag slung onto one shoulder. "I've asked the two of you to stay because I have something of an…additional project for you both."

Your eyebrows furrow inward, gaze briefly flicking over to an equally confused Keys.

"Additional project?" You ask.

"Yes," Dr. Howell confirms, gesturing for Keys to take the empty seat next to you, and he sits rigidly, folding his hands on the table and subtly fidgeting with his thumbs.

"You two come to every class, you see these demos. I'm assuming it's no secret to you both that you're the most evolved students in my program," Dr. Howell continues, and you hear Keys's breath hitch as your heart quickens. Maybe this is working, you think. This is paying off.

"You're both seniors, and we're inching closer to the end of the semester. That means bigger and bigger projects," he says, crossing his arms again. "Instead of creating an hour long demo for the showcase in November independently, I want to see one collaborative three hour long playtest."

Fuck. Your brain fills instantly and rapidly with one, big internal monologue of fuck. You'd prefer being kicked out of the program. You'd prefer being publicly shamed for plagiarism. Honestly, you might take being burned at the stake over spending nearly every evening with Keys for the next month. Shit, finally finding a single plot concept to agree on is probably going to take up most of that time anyway.

"Dr. Howell, I really think we'd both prefer making something on our own," Keys says, his voice quick and jumpy. Finally, some common ground at least. "We're pretty different types of devs, I don't-"

"That's exactly why I want to see what you would create when working together," Dr. Howell insists, turning to you. "You're a story developer. Fleshed out characters, making connections, but your asset work isn't always the cleanest. Walter, you're a mathematician. Your code is neat as a pin, but I can tell that you're more concerned with having perfect work than engaging work. That's where you two meet. Pick up each other's slack."

"I was already kind of shaping some ideas on my own," you say, feeling your palms start to sweat a little.

"Then share them with him," Dr. Howell responds, shrugging a little as if entirely unaware of the issue. "I'm not doing this to punish either of you, in fact, I'm giving you both a look into what working on actual game looks like. 99% of things on market right now are made by teams ranging from duos like you two, up to offices of hundreds. You've done almost all of your course work on your own to this point, and I chose you two because you're my strongest designers. I suggest you both stop inventing excuses and start thinking up some actual ideas. I'm not asking."

Dr. Howell turns to pack his own computer into his briefcase, then walks with long steps up the aisle of the lecture hall. You and Keys remain frozen—a little out of shock, mostly out of dread, and both afraid to say the first word. Goddammit. Buck up, he's literally just a nerd. A nerd that just so happens to be really, really good at coding. A nerd with a stupid handsome face and stupid, sexy, big hands. A sigh in your right ear brings you back to the present.

"Are you free tonight?" Keys asks begrudgingly, still staring straight ahead at the front wall. "I don't even know why I'm asking, it's Friday. You probably have some rager to grace with your presence."

"Awe," you coo condescendingly, turning in your swiveling chair to face him. "You know, Keys, usually girls liked to be asked out with flowers, not brazen insults."

"I'm not asking you out," he scoffs, knee bumping into yours as he turns to face you. "I'd actually like to get this over with. If we marathon for the next two weeks, we can avoid any unnecessary time together until the showcase."

"That I can agree on," you huff, pulling out a pen and notebook, ripping out a piece of paper haphazardly. The jagged edges and uneven shape make Keys wince.

"Despite the popular assumption around here that I spend my weekends blacking out and fucking random Boston College guys," you say through your teeth, scribbling your phone number and address onto the paper. "I'm free through Sunday. I don't have a roommate, so we can get work done at my place without bugging anyone but each other. Come by at 8."

"Fine," he sighs, trying his best to fold the paper into a neat shape before tucking it into the front pocket of his messenger bag. This was going to be a very, very long two weeks.

"He's not ugly," Valerie says, picking up a fry from the plate you're sharing and dragging it through ketchup.

Valerie was your freshman year roommate—a funny, carefree architecture major, whose voice was sometimes your only point of reason after spending all day in your classes. Every Friday since September of your freshman year, you and Valerie met at a cafe just off campus at 6—ranting, bitching, laughing, anything either of you needed after the week.

"Ugly isn't my problem," you explain, chin in hand as you drink your iced tea, chewing on the straw a little once you're satisfied with the sip. "He's a pain in my ass, that's my problem."

"Why does he specifically piss you off, though?" She questions, leaning back a little in her chair. "Everyone in the program in a dipshit, what makes Keys so annoying?"

"Because I can ignore everyone else's weirdness," you say, taking a fry. "But his is different, I don't know."

"Is the weirdness his shiny hair and big brown eyes?" Valerie teases.

"Shut up," you say with a laugh, leaning your elbows onto the table.

"I'm just saying," she shrugs. "He's cute, not even CompSci nerd cute. Like, a normal, good-looking guy."

She's right, and you hate it. It would be easy to totally write Keys off if he was exactly like the other people in the program, but much to your chagrin, as it only made it harder to make any sense of how you felt about him, he wasn't. He was attractive, he took good care of himself (relatively, a bulk sized bottle of ibuprofen did tumble out of his messenger bag once), and he was an undeniably excellent programmer. Turning this over in your mind, you glance down at your phone, seeing it was approaching closer to 7.

"I need to get going," you lament, taking a last drink and scooting your chair away from the table. "He's coming over at 8, and I still need to shower."

"Ooo, wear something skimpy," Valerie giggles. "You can borrow one of my club dresses."

"To sit on my own couch and code?" You laugh.

"Just brainstorming."

Two sharp knocks sound on the front door of your apartment at 7:57, cutting through the soft music you had put on as you got yourself and your place ready for company, especially company as particular as Keys. You look over from the kitchen where you've been finishing clean putting dishes away (you figured tidying up would limit the amount of insult fodder available to him), and take a quick glance at yourself in the mirror. Despite Valerie's suggestion, you opted for a t-shirt, sweatpants, and fuzzy socks for tonight's session. You were in your own home after all, and Keys was decidedly not deserving of your usual routine before going out. Good enough for a little check in the mirror, though? Valerie's voice echoes in your head, so familiar to you that her commentary makes its way into your thoughts even when she isn't there. You physically shake your head, slightly damp hair whipping by your ears as you try your hardest to remove the thought from your conscience. Buck up. He's a programmer, for fuck's sake.

Keys has also dressed down for the occasion—he's traded his usual short sleeve button up for a worn, soft looking MIT sweatshirt and jeans. He steps inside and slips off his Vans before you can ask, revealing black socks covered in little stitched, colorful Tetris pieces.

"Nice of you to show," you say, locking the door behind him as he steps into your living room, taking in the atmosphere of your apartment, far cozier and more lived in than his. Furniture accumulated from years of risky Facebook Marketplace meetups and trips to thrift stores with Valerie, illuminated by string lights and a little sandalwood scented candle flickering weakly in the corner. Your music continues playing from the speaker on the coffee table.

"You know how to set the mood," Keys says, setting his messenger bag on the couch. "I'll give you that."

"Good to know it's cozier than your charging station," you tease. "Can I get you some water, or will that fry your circuit boards?"

"Let's just work, please," he sighs, pulling out his laptop. "You said you had some ideas?"

"Yeah, actually," you say, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. "I've never made a horror game before, so I was thinking of trying that out for my project back when it was still mine."

Keys rubs his eyes under the lenses of his glasses, then he takes them off, pulling up his sweatshirt a little to wipe them. The sliver of his stomach you can now see is lean and soft all at once, revealing a dark line of hair that travels from his waistband up towards his navel. Your instincts rapidly overtake your frustration with him—cheekbones stinging a little as your mouth waters, stomach starting to swirl with eagerness to see more. Keys lowers the grey fabric back over his abdomen and you snap back into focus, preferring a slow and painful death over the prospect of him catching you ogling like that.

"I actually haven't designed horror before either," he admits, his jaw tight like agreeing with you is physically painful. "It's big in the market right now, but we need an original idea."

Your tongue pokes inside your cheek, flip flopping between sharing the concepts you've been experimenting with over the last few weeks, and seeing if Keys has any competency outside of technically impressive code.

"You heard Dr. Howell, this is supposed to challenge your lack of storytelling skills," you taunt, reaching for your own laptop on the coffee table. Keys lets out a half hearted chuckle next to you, pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

"Oh, so we're actually sticking to this stupid challenge? Swapping roles and everything?" He retorts. "That's fine, I like cleaning up sloppy code anyway."

"Sloppy?" You challenge, sitting up a little straighter on the couch. "If I end up coding sloppy, it'll be because I'm working on some half-baked shooter with maybe two characters and no continuity! Plot courtesy of Walter 'Keys' McKey."

Keys's jaw clenches as he sets his laptop back on the coffee table.

"You know, on my way over here, I was actually looking forward to this a little," he says, voice gradually starting to raise, his hands starting to gesture sharply and without logic. "I thought 'her storytelling is actually decent, and maybe I have a few code tricks I can show her.' Now I see you have no interest in actually trying to grow as a developer, but I'm not too worried. I'm sure you'll make a great barista simulator someday!"

"What the fuck is your problem?" You lash out, standing abruptly to look down at him. The satisfaction of being able to do that doesn't last long, as Keys follows suit, standing face to face with hands stiffly balled at his sides.

"My problem is you," he spits. "For the most part, I really try my best to stay the fuck out of your way, which is seemingly impossible, considering you're my only actual competition! Seeing you, week after week, standing at the front of the class with that smile on your face, all of the attention on you, like you've already fucking won!"

"You're this mad because I actually like my own work sometimes?!" You shoot back, stepping closer to get in his face. "Maybe I should be just like you, Mr. Robot! I bet I could spit out perfect code too if I ran on batteries!"

"Yeah, I'm annoying about my code, but that doesn't give you the right to hate me!" Keys snaps, moving to close the distance even further, your chests nearly pressed together.

"What is it with you and the goddamn assumptions all the time, Keys?" You shout, feeling your heart thrum harder and harder against your ribs the closer you get, the more of his obnoxiously clean, stupidly charming scent filling your senses. "I don't hate you!"

"Then I would love an explanation of how you actually feel about me!"

Looking into those big brown eyes, wide and puppy-like behind his glasses, the growing flush in his cheeks, the way his chest heaves up and down, brushing against the front of your shirt as your sternum does the same, the swimming of hatred and frustration bundles and twists until it finally transforms into something else entirely—a spark. It would be easy to attribute the sudden and irrepressible urge to get into Walter McKey's pants to the fact that school had you wound tight as a vise, and you hadn't had a good hookup in over a year (let alone that the last one was bad, and seven months ago), but he's standing in front you—ridiculously cute, obviously worked up, and you want him. Before you can listen to your usually too loud voice of reason, your fingers are clenching the soft fabric of the front of his sweatshirt harshly, and your mouth is on his, eager and long overdue for a kiss.

Keys tenses for long moment before he gives into his own longing for your touch, buried and constrained beneath deadlines and code techniques—things that make sense to him. In the seconds that follow after you press your lips to his, Keys decides he's tired of making sense all the time. Soon, his lips are pliant and needy, messily reciprocating the kiss as his arms wind around your waist, closing any sliver of distance that remained between you two. He tastes clean and minty, probably now his natural state from the sheer number of Altoids he downs and sticks of gum he chews to help keep him focused. When you come up for air, both of you with warm cheeks and parted lips, Keys starts to smile, that same smirk from this morning, when he showed off his demo.

"So that's how you feel," he teases.

"You absolutely need to shut up or I change my mind," you warn, reaching down for his hand and pulling him down the hallway to your bedroom. Almost as soon as the door is open it's closed again, shutting under the pressure of your hands on Keys's chest until his back is flush to the wood.

"I have no idea why I'm doing this," you breathe before your lips are on his again, tongue swiping against the pretty dip of his Cupid's bow, the dip you now realize you've spent a good deal of time glancing at during lectures. Fuck, he's pretty.

"I knew my demo was good today," he says, words tumbling against your mouth. "I didn't know I was turning people on."

"Ugh, shut up," you huff, pulling Keys by the front of his sweatshirt over to your bed. He falls against it, bouncing a little as his back makes contact with your mattress. Your hips are on his, thighs falling to either side of his body before he can even align his head onto your pillows.

"You're so fucking annoying," you moan, as your clothed cunt makes contact with the annoyingly large bulge in his jeans, shuddering a little as his hands brace your hips.

"And yet you're here," he challenges, before pulling you down for another needy kiss. Your hips start to rock against him, the dull pressure of his body against yours only working you up more. "I should have known this would happen. I thought I saw you shifting in your seat during class. But hey, I'm flattered, really-"

Crack. The smack of your palm against his cheek echoes through your room, everything grinding to a stiff halt. In a panic, you tuck the hand that was just across his face against your chest, breathes growing shallow as you take in his bright red cheeks and his eyes, almost pitch black with pupils, big and round as planets, overwhelming the hazel.

"Fuck Keys, I'm sorry," you pant. "I don't know what I was thinking, I wasn't. Does it hurt?"

He sucks in a shaky breath through his open mouth.

"Do it again," he whimpers.

"I-what?"

"Hit me again," he pleads, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs. "Please, baby."

The same hand reaches forward, brushing over the little blotch that glows especially red against his already blushing cheeks before you draw your hand back, palm making contact again. Keys moans this time, pulling you down for another kiss when he recovers from the recoil.

"I think about you constantly," he confesses, reaching for the bottom of your shirt. Your arms lift upward on instinct, the soft skin of your torso dimpling slightly against the cool air. His hands reach up, cupping and feeling for your breasts through the cups of your bra. "You never smile in class, so I have to catch it across the library, when you're working with your friends. It's beautiful, and it drives me fucking crazy."

"So you're stalking me?" You tease, pulling his hands back to the hooks of your bra, which he manages smoother than you expected. His sweatshirt comes off soon after, finally revealing what had been cruelly teased on the couch—pretty constellations of freckles and moles all across his arms and shoulders and chest, thick hair that covers the broadest part of it, the full view of his tummy and happy trail.

"We go to the same school," he huffs, rolling his eyes. "What, you've never seen me outside of class?"

You had frequently, often enough that you picked up on the way his tongue would slightly prod the inside of his cheek when he was focused, the slight crinkle in his nose any time a bug would pop into his code lines, the constant hands in his stupid, perfect hair. But he wasn't winning this one.

"Some of us actually focus on out work and not trying to catch a girl smiling," you tease, dipping down to the long curve of his neck, kissing a trail down to his collarbone, where you gently nip and lick at the skin. Keys's back arches from his mattress slightly, little shockwaves of pleasure picking up speed in his veins.

"If I ever smiled in class, no one in class would take me seriously," you remind him, lips traveling across his collar.

"They're idiots," Keys sighs.

You lift your head from his chest, moving to be face to face again so you can quickly peck his lips. You smile sweetly as you pull away, lifting your hand to brush a stray hair from his forehead.

"So are you."

With your lips capturing his in another bruising kiss, Keys's hands grow bolder, traveling from the sides of your breasts down to the flimsy tie that holds your sweatpants around your hips, only needing a slight tug to unravel the knot.

"Can't wait to see what Pokemon you have on your underwear," you jab.

Keys lets out a huff before he pulls your chest flush to his, grunting next to your ear. In a heartbeat, he has you underneath him, glasses slipping down his nose and arms caging you in on either side of your head. Your heart beats harder than it has all night, eyes owlish and unblinking from the sheer shock of his strength, given the heaviest thing you've ever seen him carry is his ridiculous messenger bag.

"No comeback?" He taunts, tilting his head a little.

You manage to finally blink, attempting a scoff that comes out more like a measly clearing of your throat.

"You're exhausting," you say, with a little shake of your head for good measure.

"You're pretty."

The dreamy sigh that dares to escape from you is swallowed by another long kiss, Keys's hand wandering down your body from where it cupped your cheek to tug at the waistband of your sweats again, finally in the right position to tug them down. You're completely bare underneath him, thighs shifting together nervously as Keys sits back on his heels, eyes all moony again at the sight of you. He doesn't even look down at his jeans as he unbuttons them, clumsily pulling them down, leaving him in his boxer briefs. Much to your disappointment, they're just grey. You pull your lips into your mouth, biting back the giggle that threatens to escape at his lack of finesse, not that you anticipated much suaveness from him in the first place.

"You're," he breathes, kneeling between your thighs again. "I-I don't have anything stupid to say, you're so gorgeous."

"Really?" You muse, sitting up on your elbows. "I managed to silence Walter McKey. I'm taking that as a compliment of the highest caliber."

"But you are," he whines, settling on top of you again as he eagerly goes for a kiss, hand stroking tenderly at your side. You welcome his lips gladly, moaning as his tongue starts to slide against yours. Keys lowers his body further, nudging the tip of his nearly bare cock against your clit, puffy and aching for attention. His hips roll again, sending a deep and needed pulse of pleasure from your cunt to your belly, a little swell of warmth starting to build. You tap his chest a few times, needing to get out a breath, and a few (embarrassing) words. He pulls away, looking back at you eagerly.

"Despite what all of the losers in our courses like to say about me when they don't think I can hear, I haven't had sex in like, almost a year," you clarify, eyes trained on him to ensure he absorbs every word. "Disappointingly, I'm actually exactly like you guys, and I spend 99% of my Friday nights at my desk. I am under an insane amount of stress, and I feel insane for saying this to you, but I need to get fucked, Keys. At this point, you owe me that much."

He nods a little, all too eager and clearly from a place of understanding.

"It's been a while for me too," he agrees. "I'll try my best to last, really, I promise."

"You better."

The boxer briefs come off, and you no longer have the strength to pretend not to ogle. Keys is obnoxiously hung, veins prominent from the stiffness of his erection, pink tip curving upward towards his tummy, already glossy from drips of pre-cum. The hair that was teased by his happy trail is there, neatly trimmed for a guy in his demographic. You lick your lips. His cheeks go ruddy again as his weight settles on top of you again, hips slotted between your thighs, cock heavy on your lower stomach.

"See something you like?" He taunts.

"What did I say about shutting up?" Your arms wind around his shoulders, a hand traveling into the soft hair at the back of his head as you kiss him. Keys leans onto one elbow, his now free hand wrapping around the base of his cock, teasing up and down your cunt for a moment before he pushes in. The stretch is all pleasure, the curve of his cock fitting perfectly against the walls of your cunt, tip kissing just the right spot inside of you.

"Fuck," you moan, fingers digging into his shoulder as his hips grow closer to yours, cock filling you with unbelievable satisfaction. Keys lets out a precious whine as he bottoms out, head falling to your shoulder. The lenses of his glasses are cool against your skin, and probably smudging in a way that would send him spiraling under any other circumstances.

"You good?" You breathe, fingers giving his hair a gentle tug.

"Please be quiet, or I'll ruin this," he begs, voice muffled by your soft skin. "I-shit, I need a second. You feel so good."

The quip dies on your tongue as soon as it rises, and you opt instead to release the hold in your fingers, gently brushing through the strands as he adjusts. He needs this as bad as you do, after all. Keys's shoulders rise, the frame growing a little broader as he tries to calm himself down with a deep breath. He releases the air shakily against your neck, punctuating it with a kiss before his hips start rolling—slight, experimental movements to test how much he can handle.

Even with the tiniest of movements, the sheer size of him is enough to have you squirming beneath him, the warmth in your belly starting to pool even deeper, needing more motion, another kiss, something. His arms brace either side of your head, the veins in his forearms growing more prominent as he tries to keep his composure.

"I was promised a fucking," you remind him, pushing his slipping glasses up his nose with a single finger on the bridge, just as you had seen him do a thousand times.

"You can have it now or you can have it longer," Keys chides, giving another roll of his hips

"Come on, pretty boy," you taunt. "You've got good stamina for coding marathons, let's see if you succeed in other categories."

"I don't like losing," he says, finally pulling out a little more before he slides back in, a wet desperate sound from your cunt giving your true desperation away.

"Then pull it together."

Your hands fly up to his cheeks, pulling him down roughly for a kiss, disrupted by the sudden snap of his hips against yours, finally thrusting into you with his entire length.

"Shit-' you gasp,

"What, too much for you now?"

"I can't stand you," you say, voice shallow from the sudden fullness.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself," he grunts, leaning back with hands gripping onto the tops of your thighs hard, giving the right leverage for his cock to piston in and out of you at just the right rhythm.

Your orgasm starts to build embarrassingly fast, the months of last minute solo orgasms under your duvet right before you manage to sleep never quite scratching the itch that sits inside of you. The room suddenly fills with all manner of filthy sounds—the wetness of your cunt weeping at the pleasure, the slap of his hips meeting yours, desperate sounds tumbling from both of your mouths, chasing and rushing toward a once elusive satisfactory orgasm.

"Keys, baby, I'm-" you pant against his mouth, heels starting to dig against the mattress as the tightness in your belly becomes more and more taut, the once low heat now rushing hot throughout your whole body as your high comes closer and closer.

"Me too," Keys whines, the thrusts starting to stutter a little as his own orgasm creeps up on him. "Can I-fuck, um, inside?"

You nod frantically, thighs trembling as your walls start to pulse around his cock, tightness finally snapping and washing over you. Every nerve, synapse, and vein in your body filling with the pleasure you've been denied for too long. No thoughts about assets or source code rushing in you, no breaths stuttering from anxiety, just pure warmth that buzzes satisfyingly under your skin.

The high absorbs so much of your focus that you don't even notice Keys is flying on the same cloud, glasses finally dropping from his face and onto the mattress as his cock twitches against your spent walls, warmth pooling in you again from just how much cum he releases. Guess it really has been a while.

Keys's lips press to your shoulder before he lifts his head, thumb brushing at your cheekbone sweetly before he kisses your lips, a wordless thank you. He kisses again, easing the ache of him starting to pull out, releasing a little drop of your combined arousal.

"Do you have, like, tissues, or?" Keys asks, a hand fumbling next to the both of you for his glasses. You glance over and spot them, giving the lenses a wipe on the pillowcase before sliding them onto his face. He blinks a few times, smiling at the view of you beneath him, finally clear and in focus.

"Yeah," you let out, laughing softly. "In the middle drawer of the nightstand."

Keys stumbles onto his feet to pull on his underwear again, retrieving the little pack of on-the-go Kleenex before he sits on the side of the bed. He eases your thighs open sweetly, wiping the mess from your cunt as gently as he can, his other hand gently stroking your knee as you whine a little at the contact.

"I can get you clean clothes," he offers, wrapping the tissue in a clean one, then tossing it in the wastebasket next to your dresser. He points to the drawers. "Which one?"

"I'm good with just underwear," you say softly. "The top one on the left."

Keys pulls on the front, digging a little before he finds something that makes him chuckle—a pair of blue panties, covered in little red Autobot logo heads, TRANSFORMERS stitched obnoxiously loud all around the waistband.

"Those are a joke," you stutter out. "My friend Valerie, she gets me these joke gifts-"

"Is this why you haven't hooked up in so long?" Keys teases, sliding the panties up your legs as your face grows warm, arms crossing over your still bare chest. "You've been saving yourself for Optimus Prime?"

"No," you insist sharply. "I'm not a robot fucker, Keys. I have some pride."

"And yet here I am," he says, more endeared than smug as he slides into bed next to you, arms wrapping around you from behind, chest snug and comforting against your back. His lips press to the crown of your head before he tucks it under his chin.

Your eyes flutter shut with more ease than they have in months, sleep gently pulling you under as Keys never ceases the gentle stroke of his hand up and down your bicep, each brush helping to silence the usual nightly stew in the previous day's worries.

You sleep with more ease than you would ever expect with Keys's arms wrapped around you, his knees tucked too perfectly against the backs of yours until you start to stir around three a.m., turning over as your hand wanders lazily toward the side he was sleeping on. Except for you, the sheets are empty, and pool around your still naked hips as you sit up, wiping your eyes to get your bearings a little. He left, you realize as an unwelcome pang of disappointment fills your chest. He stuck around to hold you. Told you that you were beautiful. You thought about something other than programming for the first time in months because of him. And he left.

He didn't need to stay, you remind yourself, cringing at the coolness of the floor under your feet as you get out of bed. He didn't need to stay, over and over as you pull on sleep shorts and a sweatshirt. And it was true, what you and Keys had done was a mere exchange of services. A very passionate, satisfying exchange, but it didn't have to mean anything. It shouldn't. So what is the feeling swimming in your stomach right now? Not exactly regret, you did enjoy yourself, after all. Disappointment? A little closer, but not quite. Maybe a drink of water will help. Your mind is races against your heart so hard, so desperate for a single, logical answer that you don't even notice you've stepped over his jeans, still crumpled on your bedroom floor.

Keys has been sitting on the bench in front of your living room window for around an hour. He can't remember the last time he did something other than code or sleep for an hour straight, but right now, the hum of the night traffic and glow of the Boston skyline in the distance is more entertaining than any game he's played in months. Thankfully, he's the first thing you see when you step into the hallway, smiling softly with his head gently laid against the glass and one leg propped up, only in his boxers and those stupid, wonderful Tetris socks.

"You stayed," you say softly, more of a voiced thought than an attempt to start conversation.

Keys's face turns from the view out of the window to you, slight smile growing wider at the sight of you. He takes his glasses from the windowsill and puts them back on, gesturing with a relaxed hand for you to come closer.

"Did you think I was going to leave?" He asks, moving his legs from the bench to make room for you to sit, and you sink down across from him, knees tucked to your chest.

"You didn't have to stay," you shrug, picking at a loose thread on your sweatshirt cuff. "That was kind of…intense."

"It was," he agrees, his voice a little breathy with soft laughter. "I stuck around because I wanted to."

"I'm glad you did."

"Me too," Keys says, sitting up a little more. "I also realized that I'm long overdue to say something to you."

Your head tilts a little, eyebrows furrowing and signaling him to continue.

"I'm really sorry," he says sincerely. "I've been so wrapped up in trying to prove myself that I forgot you were just trying to do the same, and for you, it's a lot harder. You put up with so much shit from the guys in the program, and too much of it has been from me. And I didn't do it because you're the only girl there, I promise. It came from this awful, ugly jealousy because I didn't want to accept the truth."

A slow, grateful tear slips down your cheek as you look at him, all wide, earnest eyes and dimples impressed to his cheeks with the way he's frowning a little. You accepted a long time ago that you would never get an apology for the way you've been treated. Judgment and criticism is part of the career, Dr. Howell would say, as dismissive of your feelings as he was of the whining that came from your peers because ultimately, to him and to them, they were the same.

It's been such a long stretch of surviving—pretending you don't hear the whispering, trying to sift through whose opinions actually matter—you were starting to forget that it wasn't supposed to be like this at all. To finally hear someone say they're sorry for being apart of that pulls tears from you that you've neglected to shed for too long. You're glad they were still there, though. In your world of perfectly orchestrated numbers and impossible expectations, you were grateful for any reminder that you were still human.

"And what is the truth?" You ask, sniffling softly and wiping your cheeks with your sleeve.

Keys sighs.

"That you're better," he confesses, pushing his glasses up. "Better than all of us. And I think you always have been."

"You mean that?" You ask, voice wobbling.

"I do," Keys says, shifting a little closer to you. His hand reaches forward and softly clasps your ankle, thumb brushing from your ankle bone to your calf. "You know me, I don't say things just to say them. I'm envious of you."

"You should be," you say, letting out a watery laugh that sets Keys off too, his dimples reappearing as he chuckles with you. "Apparently I'm the best developer in my program."

"I mean it," he says, reaching to wipe the last of your tears with a brush of his knuckles. "You're good, but you're also, like, a real person. You go out, and you have so many friends. You're better than all of us without being a shut in."

"You don't have many friends?"

"Not good ones," Keys says, shrugging a little. "I don't like the guys in the program either, so I hang out with some other CompSci people, but they aren't great. They're…weirdly elitist about game design, like it's not serious work."

"That's tough," you console. "I'm lucky to have friends that pull me away from my computer."

"Maybe I'm lucky to have a friend like that now?" He asks, cheeks flushing a little.

A little giggle that you can't suppress escapes you, endeared and amused at his shyness—nervous at the thought of being friends despite the fact that you guys fucked mere hours ago, and that he was still in front of you in only his underwear.

"Yeah," you say softly. "That sounds good to me."

"I'm ready to have friends that are nice to me," Keys confesses, his own voice catching a little around the sadness in his throat.

"I'm sorry I smacked the shit out of you," you say, looking down at your lap bashfully. "That wasn't very nice."

"No, don't be," he insists, with a little dismissive wave of his hand. "I've had it coming to for a while. It was pretty hot, too."

You share another laugh with him, the shake of his freckled shoulders and wrinkle of his nose filling your chest with a long needed ease and warmth.

"The industry has been overrun by people like me for way too long," Keys muses, offering his hand with an upward palm to you, and you accept it gladly, melting at the way his thumb slides affectionately across your knuckles. "This world needs people like you, really. I can't wait to see what you make."

"You're not bad yourself, Mr. Robot," you say through a smile, gently squeezing his hand. "You made me this mad for a reason, you're good at what you do. I wouldn't mind having you look at my projects."

Keys laughs again, a little shy as his chin tips towards his chest for a moment.

"As long as I get a spot in the 'Special Thanks' once the credits roll."

His eyes meet yours again—warm, and soft, and eager for the chance at a place in your future. A future he's known would be bright as long as he's know you.

"Deal."

He wasn’t jealous. 

He just wasn’t a fan of the way you were being looked at while you refilled tea. The way multiple pairs of eyes followed your every move, and illuminated from your infectious laughter. You sauntered about the room in service, and their eyes followed in hunger. 

He also did not love the way Lord Layro would beckon you over, thanking you for your work over and over. Zuko could hear the way he praised your tea, establishing the talent your hands held all the while adoring you in every way he could. 

It wasn’t that Zuko wanted this, but his malicious thoughts wished that he would step on a boundary. Say something that was unwelcomed by you, or touch you in discomfort. Anything to give him reason to keep you away from these beasts. 

But alas, Lord Layro knew how to play his cards. Despite his sweet demeanor, Zuko knew just how experienced he was with buttering up women. The way he’d flash these toothy grins, and gracious winks whenever you serviced him. He was unknowingly good at tussling Zuko’s feathers, worsening his already bad mood. 

“Firelord Zuko?” A calm tone beckoned him. Leaving his trance, he looked up from his throne to meet eyes with Lady Kira. She, like the rest of the women, was adorned in beautiful dressware. He pats the side of her arm, silently asking what she needed, “would you like more food or a refill of tea?” 

Zuko shakes his head, “no, thank you, Lady Kira. I’m, um, pretty full right now. Everything is really delicious– thank you all for working so hard.” 

Lady Kira had to keep herself from laughing, considering how barely touched his food was. But, she couldn’t hide her smile when she noticed his cup of tea was completely downed and emptied. “Are you sure you don’t want a refill of your tea? You’ve drunk it completely, Firelord Zuko.” 

His amber eyes traced you like it was his job. It was like a fear– as if you should ever leave his sight, you’ll be taken from him forever. He finally registers her words, “I will wait when Lady Sai comes to refill it for me.” 

Lady Kira giggled, becoming a bit too aware of the situation at hand. She watches as Lord Layro speaks with you, conjuring all sorts of smiles and laughter from you. His eyes glistened to see you so loose, so content. Strangers meeting, and suddenly finding themselves in a cliche trope, much to Zuko’s detest. 

“Are you sure you can wait?” Lady Kira egged him on, her unrelenting support for your happiness weaved in her tease. “It looks like she might be occupied for a while…” 

While Zuko was busy fuming in his throne, you were busy with your own problem. 

You had no interest in these men, who were clearly interested in you. They were careful not to cross any boundary, considering word had moved quickly regarding Lord Indra. But, it did not make the eyes on you any easier to deal with. 

Especially with your scar so exposed, you felt just a twinge vulnerable. At the same time, it played as a warning. You had a slow recovery to your dignity, and you did not want to seem fragile, despite what happened. It happened, and you remain here, able to work and smile again. 

To hell with Lord Indra, and the expected shame and embarrassment from something you did not provoke. 

You had to admit; you were exhausted though. It was a lot to go from being bedridden for weeks to being on your feet, running about to serve tea and speak with men whose main goal was to conquer you. Even the praise of your delicious tea was becoming stale, and you were exhausted from saying ‘thank you’ a million times. 

But, Lord Layro was particularly exhausting in the sense that he was a bit too astute. 

As you pass him by (perhaps for the 6th time) with a small kettle in hand, he gestures for you to stay. “I was trying to think of a different way to continue complimenting your tea,” he hums quietly into your ear, “but I couldn’t, so please don’t be too disgusted by my words… but, you truly do have a way with herbs.” 

You immediately snort, looking away to conceal your wide grin. It was silly, and dorky, but at least he was honest. He primed you with the corny compliment, so you were truly warned ahead of time. “...thank you very much for your words, Lord Layro,” you reply, still doing your best not to laugh too much, “‘m glad you all have been enjoying it. I’ve had to refill the kettle quite a lot to satisfy the need.” 

“It’s extremely delicious,” Lord Layro says with ease, taking his empty cup in his hand. He sheepishly lifts it near you, silently asking for a refill. “I’m especially surprised at how you’ve used guava to make it taste so sweet.”

Your eyes widened as you carefully poured tea into his cup, “...I made a guava syrup that was used to sweeten it… sorry, I’m just so surprised you’re familiar with the flavor.” 

Lord Layro’s eyes also widened with surprise, “its more surprising to hear that you all have guava accessible here. It makes sense, considering this is the Palace. But, it’s quite the price and effort to get guava imported here, considering it is not native to any Fire Nation islands.” 

You blinked a few times, “is that right?” 

He nods, “the Firelord must love guava a lot to have such effort be done to bring that here. That, or it must be a Palace favorite.” 

“You know a lot about exotic fruit,” you mention, stirring the conversation. “Are you interested in pomology?” 

Lord Layro chuckles, “I’m not a crazy fruit man, I assure you. My grandmother though was an herbalist and studied fruit as part of her research on herbs and natural remedies.” 

Your heart jumped, and he saw in real time your excitement. You gushed about herbs, and how your interest aligned with his grandmothers, more towards the realm of apothecary. And he couldn’t help but melt into you, your words and your enthusiasm. 

He happily drank his refill with a quickened pace, keeping you there to refill his cup all the while continuing conversation. A Lady in Waiting noticed this and pulled a nearby, unused chair, offering it to you to sit. “Oh– I’m just about to go back to work–” 

“We have everything under control,” the woman reassured, giving you a wink as she walked off to attend to a lord, who definitely had his eyes set on her. Lord Layro offers his hand, helping you lower yourself to your seat, much to Zuko’s disgust. 

He chuckles as you shyly settle into the chair, “it’s sweet that you ladies are not jealous or envious of one another.” 

You nod, and with a simple tone, “this isn’t a competition. We want one another to be happy, and whoever is chosen has the right to live that life they desire.” You gently place the kettle on your lap, careful to not let it spill. 

He nods, respecting how you all treat and care for one another. He takes a look around, seeing the eyes thin out, with few still taking interest in you. “It must feel nice to be desired this much. Has any lord caught your attention yet?” 

No, you thought to yourself immediately. None of these men, despite their looks and kindness, interested you at all. The man you sought was busy sitting on his throne, your broken heart sat far in his legacy. 

“It would not matter if I did choose one of you,” you say quietly, “I am not considered a candidate… at least not technically.”

Lord Layro sat on your words, grinning before taking another sip of tea. He then meets your eyes once more, “is this your way of saying you are not interested in being courted?” 

You shake your head, “it’s the rules. The women who are of nobility or higher class are to be selected first. And should there be any remaining lords, then they are permitted to consider the remaining candidates who come from lower rank backgrounds.” 

“You mean to say you are not of nobility?” Lord Layro gestures to your dress. “You look priceless. It’s a shame I cannot fully see your beauty, but I very much appreciate what I can see.” 

You finally get to approach this subject, “if I may ask, Lord Layro… are you seeing impaired?” 

“Color blind,” he let out easily. He’s been asked this many times, you thought to yourself. 

You quickly bow in your seat, “I apologize if I’ve offended you by asking…”

He quickly calms your concern, “I’m grateful not to be completely blind, ‘else I wouldn’t be able to see what a sight that sits right in front of me. Though, I still envy my fellow lords who could see you completely.” 

He was good with his words, you could not deny that. You imagine he’s won many women over like this. But clearly he was here because he was still not wedded. It made you curious why he had yet locked a woman down. 

It was obvious the man was not ugly at all. Tall, physique seemingly maintained, and an inviting smile. He could not contest Zuko in looks, but he was not unappealing to the eye. 

“You are too kind,” you say quietly. You rise from your seat again, bringing the kettle back into your warm hands. “I hope you find the woman you seek here. They are all gems, so I can only imagine it will be difficult to choose.” 

Lord Layro smirks, his finger tracing the rim of his already finished tea cup. “I appreciate that,” he says simply. He gives you a toothy grin, “but it was very easy to choose the moment I saw you.” 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ 

Night came quickly, and many of the lords have settled with their chosen ladies. 

The few remaining candidates continued to service the remaining lords, still trying to entice them. The chosen ladies have already gone with their lord, either back to their home or to their temporary resting chambers outside the Palace. 

Zuko long approved the entanglements, thanking the ladies for their service and wishing them a happy life. He maintained his belief for the women of the Palace to decide what they seek, as many of them refused to participate and sought to remain in his service. It bothered some of the lords, who knew that a few of them would go home without a lady around their arm. 

Alas, such is life. 

The remaining lords were also seeping with envy, noticing that the remaining candidates had oogly eyes for Lord Layro. And you had to admit– among all of the noblemen, he truly was the most attractive choice. 

You took it upon yourself to take on the bulk of cleaning up dinner, knowing your fellow coworkers were busy trying to solidify the remainder of their lives. But most of the work had been done, leaving you to do your true assignment and clean up the Firelord’s dishes. 

You make your way up to the Throne, with a slumped Zuko. His eyes watched as you slowly made your way towards him. He adjusted his posture and sat up, clearing his throat when you made it to his level. 

“Lord Zuko, Master Iroh,” you say quietly, offering them both a bow. “Allow me to take your dishes for you.” 

Master Iroh knew his plan had worked when he lent his eyes to his nephew. Zuko tried acting unbothered, but he could tell that the young man was fuming in his seat. His eyes followed your every movement, watching you silently as you collected their dirty dishes on their shared table. He was bothered, but still was not quite there. 

But the final push finally came, and it came in the form of a Lord Layro with a request in mind. 

“Firelord Zuko,” he greets quietly at the very top of the staircase, offering him the expected bow. “As usual, your Palace always does a phenomenal job in hosting. The food, and particularly the tea, was quite amazing.” 

You jumped at his bold words, considering you were within their conversation while attending to the Firelord’s finished meal.

Zuko wanted nothing more than to dismiss him, but he still had to be respectful as Lord Layro has not done anything to offend. “I’m glad you found everything to your liking,” he rasped out, unentertained. 

“It was much more than I expected,” Lord Layro admits quietly. His eyes then zip over to you before meeting Zuko’s gaze again. “Hence why I have come to make a selfish request.” 

Zuko did not like this one bit, “...go on.” 

“I have found the woman I seek among the candidates,” Lord Layro says easily, his confidence oozing out of his words. “But I am unable to make my decision until the other women are no longer candidates according to the rules.” 

“Right,” Zuko says deadpanned, “so…?” 

“So, I come to request that I can attempt to court her first,” he hums, his hands flattening against one another in hope. “My fellow brothers have also taken interest in her, and I wish to prove my desire for her first.” 

Zuko already knew the answer, but he needed to confirm it, “and she is…?” 

“Your personal attendant,” Lord Layro says, his voice and words fully intentional. You quickly jump, giving him a shocked look. “Lady Sai is the woman I wish to court.” 

There were fireworks in Master Iroh’s head. 

Zuko’s eyes narrow, curious at the man's bold request. It was very audacious that he requested his personal attendant's hand. His jealousy finally broke his own meter, and he felt the need to test if your confession was still honest and true. 

“You don't need my permission to have a chance at her hand,” Zuko said simply. You were a person before you worked for him. And this decision pertains to the rest of your life, not his. Although if you were to allow Lord Layro to court you, Zuko would finally crack. “You must first ask if she even wants to be considered for courtship.” 

Lord Layro then looks at you directly, his enticing gaze attempting to seclude you. You note the determination in his eyes, his stare unrelenting. He was serious, and sounded genuine in his words. But, your feelings for the Firelord had no intention to budge, despite your recent rejection. 

You did not want to admit it, but you didn’t think you could love another being as earnestly as you love Zuko. But, an incredibly small part of you also knew you could not live the rest of your days waiting for him. That part of you could not be satisfied with this attendant/lord relationship. 

As you see the glimmer of hope in Lord Layro’s eyes, you knew you could not let his silent question go unanswered. “I am flattered, Lord Layro,” you say quietly, carefully choosing your words. “But, I cannot accept.” 

Lord Layro had a feeling you’d say no, but he still wanted to push on. To see if you could flip. “What could I do for you to at least reconsider?” 

You glance over at Zuko before quickly returning your eyes to Lord Layro. “I have given it thought… I do not wish to simply be courted,” you say quietly. You shuffle in place, the rawness of your feelings seeping out with your words, “...I wish to be loved. If you believe that you could fall in love with me, then… perhaps I will reconsider.” 

“I know I can fall in love with you,” Lord Layro hums. Zuko’s eyes study him aggressively, wanting nothing more than to shut him up. “Consider the thought that maybe… I already have.” 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ 

You had never seen Zuko like this. 

As the night ended and everyone went to their respective realms, you silently walked with Zuko back to his quarters. He was very clearly upset, but you had not an ounce of an idea as to why. You anticipated he’d tell you as soon as you were behind a closed door, but this felt different. 

He was pensive, and it seemed he was actively being tormented by his mind. But no words left his mouth, and you were too cowardly to traverse these scalding waters. All you could do was walk beside him as he was entrapped in thought, refusing to even look your way or anywhere else for that matter. 

As you finally make it to his bedroom, he silently opens the door and steps aside to allow you in first. You slowly walk in, refamiliarizing yourself with the space you had known for a couple of years. Despite it all, it didn’t change. 

The door closes behind you, and your favorite shadow swallows your own. You turn around to see Zuko, who didn’t dare meet your eyes. There was a sort of weird look in his expression, like a sort of shameful anger. He looked discontent, either at you or at himself. 

Either way, from the looks of it, you’ll be the first one to face it head on. 

“...I thought you did not wish to be courted,” Zuko rasped out quietly, his hands forming into softly clenched fists. “Did you change your mind?” 

This is what he’s mad at? “...I have always wanted to get married,” you say quietly, “but my desire to remain here in the Palace and my courtship are aligned… and you know that better than anyone." 

“y/n,” Zuko says your name shakily, trying to control his feelings. It was difficult, but keeping his eyes away from you helped. “I thought your plans were to remain here, in the Palace, for the rest of my days, and from what I remember, for the rest of yours, too.” 

You stare at him, surprised at his clinging to a previous statement from time ago. “Lord Zuko,” you begin, the formality stabbing his heart. “Perhaps you have taken my words a little too literally…” 

He did not like your words. “I took your words too literally?” He questions, his tone filled with a tone foreign to you. “So I should believe nothing you have ever said to me.” 

“Lord Zuko, what in the world are you talking about?” You quickly catch him. “That is a saying– and we were joking, but my desire is to remain here in the Palace, just not as your attendant. You know exactly what I am referring to.” 

Zuko gulps, his throat completely hitched. It felt heavy and burned as it went down his throat. Still keeping his eyes from you, he shook his head, “I gave you my answer.” 

The audacity of this man. “And I do not accept it,” you challenged, your eyes disgusted by his greed. “I do not accept that I am not to be with the person I wish, nor can I be courted by anyone else. I wish to remain here, but I wish to fall in love, too.” 

“We all can’t have what we want, y/n,” Zuko replies slowly, “you must choose one or the other.” 

You wanted to burst, but you were not quite there yet. “I chose you,” you hissed out, your eyes threatening to well up in tears. “But you… you did not choose me back.” 

He was bested. “...that has no relevance here,” he murmured. 

“Oh, but you can reference things from the past?” You continued to challenge him, unable to accept his hypocrisy. “You are the Firelord, but you should not permit your title to blur your sense of rationality.” 

Fuck. He was losing his hold on his emotions, feeling it tip the glass and pour out. Even as he looks away from you, the sight of you in that beautiful dress has been permanently branded in his head. He knew what you looked like all too well because he spent all day looking at you. 

“You know you are not bound to this Palace,” Zuko painstakingly admits. “If you seek to be relinquished from your life here, know that you are not tied here, to me.” 

“...But I wish to be,” you said quietly, your confession once again resurfacing. “I wish to remain here, by your side, as yours.” 

“Y-you… cannot,” he quickly rejects again, his fists only getting tighter. He melted at the sound of you being his. “We cannot.” 

“Why?” You were feeling a little too bold, “whose word is above yours?” 

“y/n,” he pleaded with you. It was the first time you had truly heard his desperation. You could only watch him as he endures his own enacted mental warfare. 

He didn’t want to force you in this life, considering how things had ended with Mai. 

Your scar. How could he keep you safe when you’d be in the spotlight as the Firelord’s wife? 

What right did he have to you? To your delicious tea? To your infectious laughter? To your addictive smile? 

Don’t look. He tries to keep himself at bay, warning himself of the consequences should he ever meet your eyes. But, the way his heart quickened, and his body trembled, there was a need that was threatening to overpower him. 

It was all so… overwhelming. Nails begin digging into his palms. He could feel his self restraint loosening like tied ribbons. He held onto the delusion that perhaps keeping his eyes from you would benefit him against his treacherous feelings. 

But there you were, standing before him. The scent of vanilla and spice engulfed him in your trance. His eyes couldn’t help but glance over, landing on your shoulder, with one of your dress straps down and now hung beside your bicep. Your skin looked so soft–

Zuko was spiraling. His emotions put him in a seemingly endless state of push and pull. Fighting his looming expectations over his feverish desires. The build up finally poured over. He couldn’t do anything about it now. 

He looked up, finally finding your eyes. You jumped from the sudden stare, keeping completely still right after. His skin was shiny from sweat, with loose black strands sticking onto his forehead and cheeks. Those dark honey eyes held an intention you could not make out. 

But, you were exhausted from trying to figure him out. “Lord Zuko, I think I understand why you’ve avoided me for this long.” You let out a sigh, feeling your tears finally form. “And I apologize if my feelings have proven to be inconvenient to you.”

Rough hands find their way to your shoulders, his body bursting from the touch of your supple skin. You were soft and warm, with your skin shining beautifully under the dimly lit torches of the room. He thumbed at the little muscle between your shoulders and collarbones. 

“H-hey–” you stammered, unsure of what Zuko was intending to do. You weren’t afraid of him, never, but you weren’t sure what exactly he was doing. 

“Are you considering Layro?” He asks quietly, his eyes burning through you. He was breathing heavily now, as if the weight of the world had returned to his shoulders. He looked like a man addicted and in need of a hit. “Tell me if you wish to be courted by him, and I will stop.”

“Stop? Stop what exactly?” You say hush, completely perplexed by Zuko’s sudden behavior. 

“Answer my question first,” he demanded, his face now just centimeters from your own. You weren’t sure what to do, as the tip of his sharp nose barely grazed your own. You now began to move backwards, but was immediately stopped by a wall behind you. “Do you wish to go with him?”

You hold him in a stare, attempting to read him. It was how flush his cheeks were, and the tenderness in his eyes that made you realize. Everything started to click. 

“...his words are sweet,” you begin quietly, breaking your glance towards Zuko. You firmly press your hands against the wall behind you, feeling how cool it was. “But I cannot reciprocate earnestly when I wish those words came from someone else.” 

Zuko felt like he could burn up. His entire body felt as if it was set ablaze. His breath felt hot against your face, your periphery locked onto the way his chest heaved from his relentless panting. 

“Then…” Zuko rasps out quietly, meandering his head to try and grab your eyes again. After you refuse, he frees one hand to latch his fingers gently to your chin. He does not force you, no, but he persuades you to meet his eyes once more. “Remind me again what you want… from me.” 

And embarrass myself again? “...Absolutely not,” you immediately spew, anger beginning to rise. “I’ve already told you– many times now, and I’ve still been met with the same response. I respect you very much Lord Zuko, I do, but…” 

“‘But…?’” He repeats. 

Tears finally escaped you once more. You were too emotionally charged, and being in this moment, with him– it was all too much. “Zuko… please, I beg you… just sp-spare me…”

“Confess to me again,” Zuko practically begs, “please, confess to me again– I have… a different answer.”

Your hands find their way to his stiff chest, giving him a slight push. You try to look away, but Zuko still has a hold on your chin. He keeps you in his gaze, not forcefully at all. Those amber eyes looked stricken, and scared. “Stop messin’ with me,” you say abruptly, your face shiny from crying. 

That was it. Zuko was coming undone. 

“Damn it all…” he murmured to himself. He drops his hands to your own, completely cupping them in his. He takes a deep breath in before letting it out, hollowing his lungs completely. “Listen… ‘m gonna be super honest here, and I just need you to not say anything ‘til I’m done… okay?” 

All you could do was nod. 

“To start, I won’t let Layro court you,” he said darkly, his eyelids slightly lowered. “I tried to convince myself that it would be your choice, but I could not stand the way he made you laugh today.” 

Your eyes widen, the stream of tears taking a pause. 

“I don’t like the way he touched your hand, and how much of your tea he drank,” Zuko struggles out his point, embarrassment clearly present in his words. “I wish to respect your choice, but I wish more for my sanity and might lose it all if I let you go.” 

Your body relaxes, but the tension heightens. He squeezes your hands a bit more. 

“I wanted to rip out everyone's eyes when they looked at you,” Zuko continues, his shameless thoughts finally coming out. “I wanted nothing more than to take you away, pry you from their sight and banish them from ever seeing you again.” 

You tried to interrupt, but Zuko’s words continued. 

“When you confessed to me,” he begins, his bottom lip quivering. You could see those yellow orbs soften, replaced with something familiar. There was a sort of longing in his gaze, like you were slipping away from him. “I gave you a shitty answer.” 

You snorted, but the tension quickly took your smile.

“You have a home here– forever, that is true,” he begins to slowly close the space between you two. You could feel his hot forehead against your own. “But, I only said that because the real answer kind’ve scared me.” 

He lets go of your hands, moving them to cup your cheeks instead. Your breath now hastens, excited but anxious for the unknown to come. You bring your hands to his wrists, trying to find some semblance of calm. 

“But when I saw just how close Layro was to taking you from me, I just…” Zuko looked pained, grimacing at the painted picture of you with another man in his mind. “I hate to give him credit for any of this, but he made me realize just how much I want you to be mine.” 

You gulped, the sound being incredibly loud in such quiet tension. “...L-Lord Zuko, I–” you try, but he does not allow you on the stage. 

“I admit to being bad, because I am bad,” Zuko’s voice strained. “I’m selfish, I’m jealous– my list of shortcomings will only get larger. But, I will court you, and I will make you fall for me because I want you to fall for me because I’ve long fallen for you.” 

You finally break his streak and shake your head, “how am I to believe you– after all this time, after you’ve rejected me? My feelings?” 

“How can I convince you? I– I will beg, if need be–” Zuko lets go of your face, and slowly slides down, keeping eye contact. You watch as he’s brought down to his knees, his hands latching to the sides of your thighs. 

“L-Lord Zuko, p-please rise!” You urge him, grabbing at the shoulders of his garment. You desperately pull upward to no avail, seeing as his knees were firmly dug to the floor. “You must not beg like this– you are the Firelord, and I am nothing.” 

He shook his head, but obeys your words. He rises, his hands once again finding themselves holding your face. “You are everything,” Zuko murmurs quietly, his face once again so close to yours. The very tips of his lips graze yours, yet they do not firmly touch. Those dazzling eyes burned through yours, “because when I look into your eyes, I see myself in them. Not the Firelord, not the Prince… just me.” 

Your fingers tighten your hold on his robes, your breath shaky. “Lord Zuko…” 

“Zuko,” he corrects you, his breath tickling your lips. His eyes kept flickering down at them, fighting himself between staring at them and your wondrous eyes. In a hush, desperate whisper, he spoke, “may I…?” 

It only took one nod before he finally closed the gap. Hot, chapped lips connect with yours, a brief clatter of teeth before a gentle pace proceeds. You were inebriated by his usual minty scent, suddenly completely engulfed in him. 

There was a desperation in the way that he kissed you. He was too hurried, too needy, as if you were to disappear if he stopped. Every few moments you pulled away to breathe, he’d just recollide with you. When you would sneak a peek at him, you saw nothing but a completely flush face. 

There was something primal in his behavior. His tongue aimlessly entered your mouth, as if he didn’t know what to do. And he didn’t, but he paid no mind to that. He was here, kissing the one woman he had wanted to kiss for so long. And somehow, with every second passing in this moment, he became increasingly more insatiable. 

“Ha…” he whined, as if he wasn’t getting what he wanted. The wet sounds of his lips lapping at yours, the sounds of his jagged breathing making your mind fuzzy. 

“Z-Zuko, h-hang on–!” He didn’t want to give you the chance at all. His calloused hands held your face, his body now pressed against your own. And your escape routes only narrowed, considering you were against the wall and powerless against the man before you. 

But, he then takes hold of your bottom lip, his teeth sinking in gently to nibble at its puffy, plump state. You watch as he gently tugs it before letting go, your lip a deeper pink from his pull. You stared at his cocky flushed faze, a shiny string of saliva still connecting you both. 

Allowing you both a moment to take a breath, Zuko takes the opportunity to look at you. Face flush, cheeks hot, lips puffy and eyes larger than the moon. He slides down one of his hands from your face, rubbing down the side of your neck before looping your loose strap in the web between his thumb and index. He pulls it up, allowing it to hang on your shoulder once more. 

“‘m sorry, f-for everything,” Zuko whispers, his hand resting on the crook of your neck. “But, I will give you what you want… because again, I want you.” His words are jagged from catching his breath. “You will be loved, I will court you– you will remain by my side, and I will give you the entire world… and then some. That is, though…” he licked his lips before giving you a smirk, “if you will let me.” 

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The first time you saw J, he was carrying a box of books up the stairwell and you nearly walked straight into his chest.

Not that you would have minded.

He was taller than you. Brown curls pushed back from his forehead, damp at the temples from the July heat. And the mutton chops. God, the mutton chops. They shouldn't have worked. On paper, they belonged on a Civil War reenactor or a man who owned a barbershop quartet. On him, they looked like they belonged there.

"Sorry," you said, stepping sideways. "Didn't realize anyone was moving in."

"J." He shifted the box to one arm and extended a hand. Just J. No last name offered, no explanation. The kind of introduction that assumed you'd want to know the rest.

You shook it. His palm was warm and calloused in a way that made you think he built things with his hands. Furniture, maybe. Or trouble.

"Apartment 3B," you said, nodding toward your door. "Welcome to the building."

"Thanks." He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that started slow—just the left corner of his mouth lifting first, like he was deciding whether you'd earned the rest of it. You must have passed, because the right side caught up. "I'll try not to be too loud." he joked.

"Promise?" 

"Can't promise anything." He hefted the box higher and continued up the stairs. "But I'll try."

That was the first conversation. Forty-five seconds, maybe. The kind of exchange you have a hundred times in a city this size and forget by Tuesday. Except you didn't forget it. You replayed it twice while making dinner that night, once while brushing your teeth, and once more lying in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why a man's mutton chops had lodged themselves in your brain like a splinter.

The next week was quieter. You’d hear him through the wall—the thump of furniture being positioned, the low murmur of what sounded like a podcast or a phone call, the occasional burst of laughter that was just loud enough to make you wonder what was funny. You’d pass in the hallway occasionally. Once, he was carrying a grocery bag and you were carrying your laundry, and you both did that awkward shuffle where both people move the same direction and then correct and move the opposite direction and then somehow end up exactly where you started.

"After you," he said, finally, and stepped back against the wall.

"Thanks." you squeezed past, your arm brushing his chest. Not on purpose. Mostly not on purpose.

"Nice detergent," he said as you passed.

You looked down at the bottle of unscented hypoallergenic detergent you’d been buying since college. "It's the least exciting detergent on the market."

"Exactly." That half-smile again. "I appreciate a woman who commits to boring laundry."

You laughed, which was embarrassing because it wasn't that funny. But the way he said it—like he'd been waiting all day for you to walk by with laundry just so he could deliver the line—made something warm settle behind your sternum.

The third week, things shifted.

It was a Saturday morning. You were on the fire escape with your coffee, barefoot, wearing the oversized t-shirt you'd slept in and nothing else, which you realized the moment J's window slid open directly next to yours. Close enough that you could see the sleep still in his eyes, the way his curls were flattened on one side, the plain blue shirt above a pair of gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

You stared at each other for a beat too long.

"Morning," he said. No embarrassment. No rush to look away. Just that easy, unhurried confidence, like he'd been expecting to find you there.

"Morning." you pulled the t-shirt down an inch. Not because you wanted to cover up. Because you wanted to see if he'd notice that you’d pulled the t-shirt down. He did. His gaze tracked the movement and then came back to your face, and something behind his brown eyes shifted—a door opening in a house you hadn't been invited into yet.

"Coffee?" you asked, holding up your mug.

"I'd love some, but I'm out of creamer."

"I have creamer."

The silence that followed was thick enough to spread on toast. He leaned against his window frame, arms crossed, and you watched the muscles in his forearms shift. "That's a dangerous offer at eight in the morning."

"Only if you make it one."

He smiled—full this time, both sides, teeth showing. "Give me five minutes."

He disappeared inside. You sat on the fire escape, heart doing something stupid against your ribs. You went inside, pulled on shorts, and poured him a cup of coffee you didn't know how he took.

He knocked on my door at eight-oh-four.

That was the first real conversation. It lasted forty minutes. You talked about the building's terrible water pressure, the bakery on the corner that closed too early, the way the subway smelled like wet cardboard after it rained. Safe topics. Mundane topics. But the whole time, his leg was pressed against yours on your tiny kitchen counter stool, and neither of you moved. And when he left, he paused in your doorway and looked at you the way someone looks at a painting they're trying to memorize.

"Thanks for the coffee," he said.

"Anytime, neighbor."

After that, it became a thing. Not a scheduled thing—nothing that formal, nothing that either of you would have to admit to—but a pattern. Saturday mornings on the fire escape. Wednesday evenings when we'd both coincidentally arrive at the lobby mailboxes at the same time. The night you came home late from work and found him sitting on the front stoop with a six-pack, and he held up a bottle and said, "Long day?" and you sat down beside him and didn't get up for two hours.

The flirting was exquisite in its ambiguity.

Once, he lingered at your door after dropping off a borrowed skillet, thumb rubbing the edge of the handle. You held on to the skillet too long, both of you refusing to let go, until you finally said, “You ever gonna tell me what’s actually on your mind, or is this a long game of chicken?”

He just smiled—lazy, slow, eyes serious despite the grin. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

You rolled your eyes, but the truth was you liked that he didn’t rush things. You liked that you could sit close on the stoop, knees almost touching, and he’d watch you with the kind of attention that made you more aware of your own skin. You liked that nothing was expected, and everything was possible.

Except sometimes, late at night, you wondered why “possible” seemed content to just float there—never landing, never declared. There were moments you wanted to grab him by his ridiculous facial hair and see if he kissed the way he talked: easy, direct, a little dangerous. But you never did, and neither did he.

Then, on a Tuesday in late September, you invited him to dinner.

Not on the stoop. Not on the fire escape. Not the accidental collision of two people who happened to be in the same place at the same time. You knocked on his door at six-thirty with a bottle of wine and a "I'm making pasta, come over."

He showed up at seven and the sight of him in your doorway—not passing through, not borrowing something, but arriving—made your stomach flip in a way that felt distinctly adolescent.

"You're feeding me now?" he smiled.

"Don't get used to it."

"I won't." 

The conversation was easy. It was always easy. He told you about the video projects he'd started. You told him about the promotion you'd been angling for at work. The wine went down smooth, and the space between you shrank by invisible degrees.

Then he said it.

Casually. Like he was telling you the weather.

"My girlfriend’s been on me to clean out the closet." He took a sip of wine. "She's got this whole organizational system mapped out. Color-coded bins and everything."

You stopped mid-twirl of pasta. "Your girlfriend?"

"My girlfriend." He said it the way someone says my dentist or my dry cleaner—a fact, a fixture, a thing that existed in the world. He didn't even look up from his plate. "She's been staying at her sister's place in Jersey to help her renovate her bathroom. Should be back next week.”

The fork in your hand suddenly weighed twelve pounds.

Of course there was a girlfriend. Of course there were color-coded bins and a renovated bathroom and a life that existed parallel to the one he'd been building with you on fire escapes and front stoops. The math rearranged itself in your head with a sickening click—every loaded silence, every held gaze, every moment his knee stayed pressed against yours. Not restraint. Not patience. Not a man playing the long game.

A man who had a girlfriend.

You set the fork down carefully, because you didn't trust your hands. 

"Right." you nodded.

You leaned back in your chair and studied him—really studied him, the way you study a map when you've taken a wrong turn and need to figure out where you actually are. The mutton chops. The brown eyes. All of it belonged to someone.

"You know what I find interesting?" you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. Calm. Almost amused. "You're very careful."

He tilted his head. "Careful?"

"Careful." You gestured between the two of you with your wine glass. "All those Saturday mornings. All those times you stood in my doorway looking at me." You took another sip. "But you never actually did anything, did you? Never crossed the line. Never said the thing. You just... danced right up to it and stopped."

He didn't deny it. Didn't defend himself. Just watched you with those brown eyes, and you could see something moving behind them—calculation, maybe, or regret, or both.

"You're very deliberate, J." You set your glass down with a soft click. "Always staying on the right side of the law. Never doing anything outright criminal."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Is that what you think this is? A crime?"

"I think it's the closest thing to one you've been willing to commit."

He was quiet for a moment. His thumb traced the rim of his wine glass—slow, methodical, the same way he'd traced the skillet handle in your doorway weeks ago. Then he looked up at you, and his eyes were dark and steady and completely unreadable.

"I wouldn't mind spending a night in jail," he said.

You paused.

"Then consider yourself under arrest," 

You both stood up at the same time.

Not a discussion. Not a negotiation. Just the scrape of two chairs pushing back simultaneously, like the air between you had finally snapped a thread that had been stretching thinner and thinner for months. He was already moving around the table before you'd fully straightened, and you turned toward the hallway without looking back, because looking back would have meant slowing down, and slowing down would have meant thinking, and thinking was the last thing either of you needed right now.

He followed.

Your apartment was small enough that the walk to your bedroom took maybe eight steps, but each one felt like a separate negotiation with yourself. You know what he is. You know what he has. You know what this makes you. Your hand found the doorknob.

"So this is where you sleep." He was standing in your doorway, one hand braced against the frame, taking in the room with the unhurried appraisal of someone cataloguing evidence. His gaze traveled over the unmade bed, the books stacked on the nightstand.

He picked up the book at the top of the stack—The End of the Affair— because of course it was, because your subconscious had a sense of humor. He turned it over in his hands. "Subtle."

"Put that down."

He set it down. Slowly. Deliberately. Then he looked at you, and the playfulness drained from his expression like water through a crack. What replaced it was something rawer—hungry and unhurried at the same time, the look of a man who'd been rationing himself for weeks and had just been handed an open bar.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.

"Every morning for three months."

He closed the distance between you in two steps.

Not rushed. Not frantic. Just deliberate, the way he did everything—each footfall landing with the quiet certainty of a man who'd already made his decision and was simply executing it. You met him in the middle, right at the foot of your bed.

"Say it," you said.

"Say what?"

"That this is wrong."

His hand found your hip—not grabbing, not pulling, just resting there. His thumb pressed into the ridge of your hip bone through the thin cotton of your shorts.

"This is wrong," he said, and his voice was rough in a way that turned the admission into something that sounded exactly like its opposite. "This is so fucking wrong, and I've been standing in your doorway every week pretending I didn't want to do exactly this."

"Then stop pretending."

He kissed you then, and it was nothing like you'd built it up to be in your head. It was better. Messier. His mouth was warm and tasted like red wine and the faintest hint of cigarettes, and his hand slid from your neck into your hair, gripping just hard enough to tilt your head back. You made a sound you didn't recognize—something low and involuntary—and he swallowed it, kissing you deeper, his other arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

"This is a terrible idea," you said against his mouth.

"The worst." His thumb traced the line of your jaw. "Tell me to stop."

"Don't you dare stop." 

And then his mouth was on your neck, teeth grazing the tendon there, and you arched into him because your body had apparently stopped consulting your brain about what was appropriate. His hands found the hem of your shirt and you raised your arms without thinking, and the cool air hit your bare skin and then his hands were everywhere—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your hip—and you were pulling at his belt because the buckle was cold against your stomach and you wanted it gone.

"Off," you said, and it came out ragged, breathless.

"Bossy." He was smiling against your collarbone, but his fingers were already working the clasp, and then his jeans were sliding down his hips and your hands found the waistband of his boxers and—

"Wait." He caught your wrist. Not roughly. Just held it, his pulse hammering against your fingers. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and he was looking at you like you were the last thing he'd ever want to see. "You sure about this?"

"You have a girlfriend in Jersey."

"I know."

"You have color-coded bins."

"I know that too."

"You're a terrible person."

"The worst." He released your wrist and his hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. "And you're letting me be terrible, so what does that make you?"

You grabbed the front of his boxers and pulled him against you.

He moved fast—faster than you expected from a man who'd spent three months proving he could take his time. His hands found your shoulders and pushed, and you went down onto the mattress with a gasp that was half surprise and half something far less dignified. The springs protested beneath you, and then he was there—his weight settling between your thighs, knees pressing yours apart, the heat of him through those thin cotton boxers already making your brain go static.

"God," he breathed, and it wasn't a prayer. It was an inventory. His hands bracketed your head on the pillow, and he looked down at you like he was trying to memorize every detail—your hair fanned out, your chest rising and falling too fast, the way your hips had already tilted up to meet him.

"You're killing me," he said.

"You started it."

"I know." He dropped his forehead to yours, and for a moment you just breathed together—his exhale warm against your mouth, your pulse hammering in your throat. Then he kissed you again, slower this time but no less desperate, his tongue sliding against yours while his hips rolled forward in a slow, grinding rhythm that had you seeing stars through your closed eyelids.

He was hard—impossibly, unmistakably hard—and the friction of his boxers against your shorts was maddening. Not enough. Too much. Every pass of his hips dragged the fabric between you in a way that made your thighs shake.

"We can't do this," he said, even as his hands slid under your back, pulling you harder against him. "We absolutely cannot do this."

"You're doing it right now."

"I know." His hips stuttered, pressing deeper. "I know, and I should stop, and I'm not going to."

You arched into him, chasing the pressure, and he made a sound like he'd been punched. His forehead dropped to yours, and you could feel his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

"She's coming back next week," he said. His voice was wrecked. "She's coming back, and I'm lying in your bed, and I don't—" He swallowed hard. His hips didn't stop. "I don't even feel guilty. That's the fucked-up part. I should feel guilty and I don't."

"Maybe you will tomorrow."

"Maybe." He kissed you again, deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours. "But right now, all I can think about is the way you taste."

His mouth left yours and found your jaw, then your neck—open-mouthed kisses that trailed downward with the kind of unhurried precision that told you he'd been planning this route for weeks. Every inch of skin he exposed got the same treatment: his lips, then his tongue, then his teeth. He sucked a mark into the hollow of your throat that you'd feel for days, and the sound you made was embarrassingly loud in your quiet apartment.

"J—"

"Shh." He did it again, lower, and then lower still, leaving a trail of bruises that you'd have to cover with scarves and high collars for days. His lips grazed the swell of your breast over your bra, and you whimpered, and his hands tightened on your hips.

"Fuck," he muttered against your sternum. "Every time you make a sound, I lose a year off my life."

"Good."

He laughed, breath hot against your skin, and kept going. Lower. His mouth found the soft skin of your stomach, and he pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, then another, working his way down with the patience of a man who'd been thinking about this exact path for longer than either of you would admit. 

His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your shorts, and he pulled them down in one smooth motion. Not rushed. Not tearing. Just steady and deliberate, the way he did everything, sliding the fabric over your hips and down your thighs and off your ankles like he was unwrapping something he'd been saving for a special occasion. The cool air hit you everywhere at once, and you were acutely aware of how exposed you were—no shorts, no underwear, just you and him and the stupid overhead light you'd forgotten to dim.

He didn't move for a moment. Just looked. His throat worked as he swallowed, and his hands settled on your inner thighs, fingers pressing into the soft skin there.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered.

"Stop staring and—"

His mouth was on you before you finished the sentence.

The first touch of his tongue made your entire body jerk off the mattress. He held you down with one hand flat against your stomach while the other gripped your thigh, and he licked a slow, devastating stripe that had your hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in those brown curls. He hummed against you—actually hummed, the vibration rolling through you like a current—and you moaned, loud and broken and completely beyond your control.

His grip on your thigh tightened. Not painfully. Just enough to let you know he'd heard it. That he was cataloguing it. That every sound you mde was being filed away somewhere behind those dark eyes.

He did it again—slower this time, his tongue broad and flat and unhurried, dragging through the wetness that was already building between your legs. You moaned again, and his fingers dug deeper into your thigh, the pressure sharp and grounding.

"Does your girlfriend moan like this for you?" you asked, and the words came out breathless and wrecked, barely recognizable as your own voice. You didn't know where the question came from—some dark corner of your brain that wanted to punish both of you, to make the wrongness of this real, to drag it out into the open where it couldn't hide behind morning coffee and borrowed skillets.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your inner thigh. "She doesn't sound quite as pretty," he groaned, and then his mouth was on you again, his tongue circling that spot with a precision that made your vision white out at the edges. His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to leave marks—you could feel the crescent impressions of his fingertips pressing into your skin—and every time you made a sound, his grip tightened, like he was trying to hold you together through sheer force.

You were close. Closer than you had any right to be, given that his mouth had been on you for what felt like minutes but could have been hours. Your hips were rolling up to meet him, chasing the pressure, and the sounds coming out of you were obscene—gasps and whimpers and his name, repeated like a prayer to a god you didn't believe in.

"J—I'm—"

He pulled away.

The absence of his mouth was so sudden, so complete, that you cried out—a sharp, desperate sound that echoed off your bedroom walls. Your hands were still in his hair, fingers clenched tight.

"I want you to save it." His voice was ruined—rough and low and wrecked, and he was looking up at you from between your thighs with his lips swollen and glistening and his eyes so dark they were almost black. His thumbs were still pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, holding you open. "I want you to save it for my cock. Can you do that for me?"

"J—"

"Can you?"

You nodded, because speaking required oxygen and your lungs had apparently stopped functioning. He climbed back up your body, his weight settling over you. The hard length of him pressing against your thigh through those thin boxers. You reached between you and slid your hands under the waistband, pushing them down over his hips, and he helped, lifting just enough to let you drag them down his thighs.

Then he was there. No barriers. No layers. Just the hot, heavy press of him against you, and you could feel how hard he was—how ready—and the sound that escaped you was something between a sob and a moan.

He positioned himself with one hand, his tip dragging through the wetness between your folds—slow, agonizingly slow, painting himself with you like he was savoring every second of contact. The head of him catching on your clit with each pass, and you were shaking beneath him, your hands clutching at his shoulders, your nails digging half-moons into his skin.

"Please," you whispered.

"Not yet." His voice was a low rasp against your ear. "Beg."

"J—"

"Beg for it."

"You can't just—"

"Beg." He pressed forward—just the tip, just barely, and the stretch was exquisite and not enough and your entire body arched off the bed. "Tell me what you want."

You hated him. You loved him. You wanted to kill him and kiss him and never let him leave this bed.

"Please," you said, and your voice cracked on the word. "Please, I need you inside me. I've needed it for months. Every Saturday morning, every time you stood in my doorway, every single time your knee touched mine—I was thinking about this. I was thinking about you. I don’t care about her— Please, J—"

He pushed in.

"Fuck," he breathed, and it sounded like it had been ripped out of him. His forehead dropped to yours, and you could feel his pulse hammering against your chest. "You feel—God, you feel—"

He pushed deeper.

"All of it," you gasped. "Give me all of it."

He did.

One long, slow, devastating push, and he bottomed out—his hips flush against yours, every inch of him buried inside you. You could feel him everywhere—the stretch, the heat, the weight of him filling you so completely that you swore you could feel him in your throat. Your eyes were watering. You were full—so impossibly, obscenely full—and the sound that came out of you was raw and broken.

"Jesus Christ," he groaned. His voice was shattered. "You're so tight. You're so fucking tight, and I've been—" He broke off, his hips rolling in a shallow thrust that made your toes curl. "I've been walking past your door every day for three months thinking about this. Thinking about you."

"Tell me," you panted. Your hands found his face, fingers threading into those ridiculous mutton chops, pulling him close. "Tell me what you thought about."

He pulled back slowly—so slowly that every ridge of him dragged against your walls—and then sank back in with a roll of his hips that made your back arch off the mattress.

"I thought about this," he said against your mouth. "Exactly this. You beneath me. Making those sounds. Taking every inch of me and asking for more." Another thrust, deeper this time, and you cried out—a sharp, guttural sound that echoed off your bedroom walls. "I thought about how you'd feel. How you'd taste. Whether you'd let me fuck you the way I've been wanting to since the day you nearly walked into my chest on the stairs."

"That was the day," you gasped. His cock hit something deep inside you that sent sparks cascading up your spine. "That was the day I knew I was in trouble."

"Yeah?" His thrusts were picking up speed now—still controlled, still deliberate, but harder, each one driving deeper than the last. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and the sound of skin against skin filled the room. "And what about now? Still in trouble?"

"More than ever."

He laughed—a low, wrecked sound—and dropped his mouth to your neck, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear. His hips snapped forward, and you felt him everywhere.

"And to think," you moaned, "your girlfriend doesn't know you're sharing." 

He drove deeper on the next thrust, and the sound he made was almost pained—a long, low moan that started in his chest and climbed through his throat. His fingers dug harder into your hips, pulling you down onto him as he pushed up, and the angle changed just enough that the head of his cock dragged across that spot that made your vision white out.

"She's got no idea," he gasped. His rhythm was faltering now—less controlled, more desperate. "She's texting me about paint swatches while I'm—fuck—while I'm fucking the neighbor next door."

"Tell her," you breathed. Your hands were in his hair, pulling, and your hips were rising to meet every thrust. "Next time she texts you. Tell her what you're doing."

He laughed. Nothing was funny, but the sheer disbelief elicited a sound.

"Tell her you're fucking me." The words felt dirty and perfect and exactly right. "Tell her you're fucking your neighbor on her back, and you've never been harder, and you don't even feel bad about it."

He moaned—loud, broken, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. His thrusts turned erratic, deep and hard and punishing, and the bed was rocking against the wall with a rhythmic thud that your downstairs neighbor would definitely hear. You didn't care. You didn't care about anything except the stretch of him inside you, the sound of his breathing, the way his hips stuttered every time your walls clenched around him.

"She's coming home next week," he said, and his voice was shattered glass. "She's coming home, and I'm going to lie in bed next to her, and all I'm going to think about is this. This exact moment. The way you sound. The way you feel."

"Good." You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back, and pulled him deeper. The angle shifted, and he hit something that made you see stars. "Think about it. Every time you're in bed with her. Every time she touches you. I want you to remember that you're mine."

"I'm yours," he groaned, and his hips snapped forward so hard that the headboard cracked against the wall. "Right now, she doesn't exist. I'm yours.”

You couldn't say anything, because the pressure was building at the base of your spine, radiating outward in concentric waves, and his cock was hitting something inside you with every thrust that made your vision go white.

"She's gonna wonder," he panted, his rhythm fracturing, "why I'm so quiet when she gets home. Why I'm not touching her. Why I'm lying in our bed thinking about—" He thrust hard, and you moaned out. "—thinking about your pussy wrapped around my cock."

"J—" Your voice cracked. "J, I'm—I'm going to—"

"Not yet." His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and he pressed—hard, firm circles that matched the pace of his thrusts. "I want you to come with me. Can you do that? Can you wait for me?"

You shook your head because waiting felt physically impossible, but your body was already spiraling toward the edge whether you wanted it to or not. 

He thrust deeper, and the friction sent a shockwave through you that started at your core and radiated outward. You felt the pressure building—that slow, inevitable tightening, the coil winding tighter and tighter until your breathing went shallow and your vision blurred at the edges. He shifted his angle, and his hand found your hip, tilting you just so, and—

You came apart.

The orgasm rolled through you in waves, your body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that you couldn't control and didn't want to. You heard yourself make a sound, something between his name and a moan, his control finally fracturing as your body gripped him tighter and tighter.

"Jesus—" His hips snapped forward and then he was coming, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he groaned against your skin. But he didn't stop. Even as the aftershocks still ripped through you, even as his own release pulsed inside you, he kept moving—slower now, deeper, each thrust pushing his cum further inside you with a deliberate, almost possessive intensity. His hips moved in long, rolling strokes, his breath hot and ragged against your neck, and you clutched at his back, feeling the muscles shift and tense beneath your fingers.

Finally—finally—his rhythm faltered. His thrusts grew uneven, then shallow, then stopped entirely, his body going heavy and still above yours. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, feel the sweat cooling between your bodies, feel the mess he'd made of you pooling between your thighs. He collapsed on the pillow next to you.

You turned your head on the pillow to look at him. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, and he looked—for the first time since you'd met him—completely unguarded.

"You know what's bold?" you said, and your voice came out rough and wrecked in a way you didn't recognize. "Cheating. That's bold enough on its own."

He lifted his head to look at you. His eyes were dark, unfocused, his curls stuck to his forehead with sweat.

"But not using a condom?" You raised an eyebrow. "That's not bold. That's insane."

He laughed, the kind that started in his chest and shook through both of you, and then he was moving—not away, but down, sliding under your comforter and pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest like he'd been doing it for years. 

His arm settled around your waist, and he pressed his mouth to the top of your head.