mjxckson

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ January, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ An Undisclosed Location - Los Angeles, California.

Two weeks after the divorce papers arrived, (Name) found herself standing in the back corner of a Rite Aid, lingering near the pharmacy counter with a basket hanging loosely from one arm. Nothing particularly special in it; a little bottle of ibuprofen and some pads. Things that made this visit feel a little more normal. She was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes and a pair of oversized sunglasses, and scarf wrapped loosely around the lower half of her face.

It was funny. She’d become strangely good at blending in during the years she was with him. Michael had turned disappearing into an art form: fake noses, oversized jackets, wigs, and absurd disguises that left them both giggling in parking lots of a grocery store. She indulged him in all of it—somehow beneath all of it, they felt freer than they ever did as themselves at times. It was nice. But this visit didn’t feel that way.

Her managers would’ve insisted on sending an assistant if they’d known where she’d gone. Security would’ve cleared the counter and surrounding areas before she ever reached the pharmacy. Hell, someone else would’ve picked up the prescription, tucked it into a brown bag, and spared her the errand entirely.

But no one knew the perscription existed, and she intended to keep it that way.

Two weeks ago, a stranger in a suit had handed her a stack of papers and it felt as though something had climbed off the page, and directly into her body the moment she’d touched them. It burrowed through her the way an illness does, until it had rooted itself in places she couldn’t reach. It seeped into her bloodstream, threaded itself through her nerves, and nested behind her ribs.

The symptoms hadn’t arrived all at time, they spread slowly.

It fed on sleep and turned the simple act of hearing her own phone ring into something her heart interpreted as danger, taking several minutes to recover. Her appetite disappeared. Her pulse developed a mind of its own even when she was resting. She’d lie awake convinced something terrible was about to happen, only to realize the terrible thing already had.

It was astonishing how quickly grief could colonize a body.

She couldn’t scrub it off in the shower or outrun it. It had settled into the wiring beneath her skin, quietly rewriting instincts she’d trusted her entire life. Silence became suspicious. Even breathing sometimes felt like work.

The prescription was proof that whatever had entered her that afternoon had progressed far beyond heartbreak. A doctor had looked at her and seen something treatable. The shock of the impending divorce had lingered long enough to leave a trace in her nervous system and soil it, leaving behind disorder that wasn’t there previously.

The papers were still sitting somewhere in a drawer, she hadn’t signed a single one or read even a page. Yet somehow they were already changing her from the inside out. Truth be told, she physically couldn’t look at, touch or even be in the vicinity of the documents. Staff handled them that afternoon, locking them in a secure room because they seemed to be a trigger. Understandably so.

The woman beside her was buying children’s cough medicine and cartoon bandages. An older man stood quietly comparing two different bottles of vitamins before deciding on one. Somewhere near the greeting cards, a little girl begged her mother for a chocolate bar while the cashier laughed and told her she’d have to ask permission first. It was painfully, offensively ordinary. The world had gone on with its errands and grocery lists, with all the beautifully mundane rituals of ordinary life, as though her life hadn’t split neatly in half just fourteen days earlier.

(Name) stood among strangers holding the little numbered ticket she’d been handed at the counter and when her name was finally called, she walked forward on legs that didn’t quite feel like her own.

The pharmacist never looked up long enough to recognize her. He simply asked for her date of birth, confirmed her address, and then disappeared briefly before returning with a small amber bottle sealed inside a white paper bag. The exchange lasted less than two minutes. He explained the directions carefully, his voice slightly deadpan from saying the same sentences hundreds of times a day. Take one as needed. It may cause drowsiness. Avoid alcohol while taking this medication. Contact your physician if symptoms worsen. She nodded at all the appropriate moments, signed where he pointed, thanked him with a smile and accepted the bag with both hands.

As she turned toward the exit, her eyes drifted down to the bottle visible through the folded paper.

Twenty seven.

Twenty seven years old, and she was walking out of a pharmacy with medication because she could no longer convince her own body that it was safe. How pathetic is that? Because somewhere between her husband’s legal troubles, hospital visits, rehabilitation, to weeks upon weeks of silence, Lisa Maria, and an envelope full of legal documents meant to separate her from the love of her life, her hands shook for no reason at all. Sometimes she forgot to breathe until her lungs forced her to remember. The physician had called them panic attacks in the same exactly manner someone might use to diagnose seasonal allergies. He’d spoken gently, kindly even, explaining that her nervous system had been under extraordinary strain for a very long time. There was no shame in needing help, he’d said. Plenty of people needed help. She’d nodded then, too.

But there wasn’t a dosage for losing your husband.

There wasn’t a pill that could make her forget the sound of his laugh echoing through hallways he no longer walked. Nothing printed on that prescription label could explain how to wake up in a bed built for two people and remember, every single morning, that only one of the was laying in it. No pharmacist could fold that kind of grief into an amber bottle and slide it across a counter.

She placed the paper bag on the passenger seat beside her and drove home in silence.

That evening, after Aladdin had finally fallen asleep and the house settled into the stillness she had grown to despise, she wandered into the living room carrying a dusty cardboard box she’d pulled from the back of a closet. Inside were home videos she hadn’t touched in ages, each cassette labeled in her own pretty handwriting. Christmas. Aladdin’s birthday. Neverland. 1990. Valentine’s day. Paris. Wedding. Her fingers lingered over the last one before she carefully slid it into the VCR. The mechanical click sounded into the room, followed by the soft hiss of static before the image steadied into brilliant color.

There he was.

Happy. Smiling. Alive in a way that had nothing to do with breathing at all—it feels like watching a dream.

He turned toward the camera for only a second before looking back at her, his entire face brightening with that shy little smile she’d once believed she would spend the rest of her life watching. She saw herself laughing beside him, adjusting the sleeve of his tuxedo before he leaned down to whisper something that made her throw her head back with another laugh. The footage wobbled as the cameraman moved, catching fleeting moments no photographer ever could. His hand finding hers beneath the table. The sweet way he looked at her when he thought no one else was paying attention. The gentle brush of his thumb across her knuckles while guests applauded somewhere in the background.

On the coffee table sat three things.

The remote.

The small amber prescription bottle.

A bottle of vodka.

She stared at them as the television continued playing. Michael fed her a bite of wedding cake before laughing at something she couldn’t hear over the music. She remembered exactly how it had tasted. Sweet vanilla. Buttercream. The kiss they’d shared afterward, both of them giggling because they could still taste the frosting. She remembered believing with complete certainty that this was what her forever looked like.

Her thumb found the rewind button.

The tape whirred backwards.

She watched it again.

Then again.

Every replay felt less like remembering.. and more like searching. She thought that if she studied his face closely enough she’d find the exact frame where everything that came afterward had already been waiting. Some tiny hesitation. Some shadow behind his eyes. Some warning she’d somehow missed.

There wasn’t one.

Only a man hopelessly in love with his wife.

Only a woman who looked back at him as though nothing in the world could ever separate them.

The room grew darker as the evening wore on, lit only by the glow of the television. The prescription bottle opened, as well as the bottle of vodka. They sat side by side beneath the flickering light like two different promises, both offering relief in their own quiet, dangerous way. (Name) rested her elbows on her knees, her tired eyes fixed on the screen as tears slipped silently down her face.

She pressed rewind one more time.

Inside the television, Michael smiled at her as though he still couldn’t believe she’d said yes.

Outside of it, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her that way at all.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ February, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Spago Restaurant - West Hollywood, California.

It had taken nearly three weeks before anyone managed to convince (Name) to leave the house. Not for a recording session, an interview or for a rehearsal. Just lunch. Her manager had called it a ‘change of scenery’, speaking as though she were balanced on the outside of a twenty story window ledge, and they were all desperately pretending the conversation was about the weather. He’d gently suggested that four walls and perpetually drawn curtains weren’t doing her any favors anymore. Elizabeth had agreed immediately, squeezing her hand across the kitchen table and telling her that the world hadn’t ended just because it felt like it had. A few other members of her team quietly echoed the sentiment, though no one pushed very hard. They’d all learned over the past few weeks that this situation had made her extremely fragile. One wrong sentence and she’d retreat upstairs for the rest of the day, emerging only to check on Aladdin before disappearing behind another closed door. Eventually, more out of exhaustion than willingness, she’d nodded. Arguing required energy she simply didn’t have anymore.

Getting dressed felt very odd considering for the past few weeks, she’d only changed clothes out of basic necessity, and even then, it usually took gentle encouragement from one of the older women on the Neverland staff. She’d knock softly before letting herself in, lay out fresh clothes, and patiently coax (Name) through the motions of showering and getting dressed. The same woman reminded her to eat most days, lingering at the kitchen table until she’d managed at least half of whatever meal had been placed in front of her. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped feeling like an employee and started feeling more like the maternal presence everyone assumed was needed due to the situation at hand.

(Name) stood in front of her closet for several minutes before reaching for an oversized cream sweater that used to fit comfortably, only to watch it slip a little loosely over her shoulders now. The sleeves swallowed part of her hands which was the normal fit but the neckline rested lower against her collarbone than she remembered. She caught sight of herself in the mirror for only a second before looking away again. Her cheekbones had become a bit more angular. The gentle fullness that had always softened her face had disappeared a bit, replaced by a hollowness she hadn’t noticed was there. Makeup covered the worst of the dark circles beneath her eyes, but it couldn’t disguise the fatigue settled deep behind them. She tucked loose strands of hair beneath a baseball cap, slipped on oversized sunglasses despite the gray afternoon sky, and reached for a scarf.

As she stepped downstairs, someone offered a gentle, well meaning, ”Miss! You’re getting out? You look nice.” Someone else remarked without thinking, “Oh! ..You’ve lost a little weight..” And the room fell awkwardly silent. (Name) only smiled politely, adjusted the strap of her handbag and pretended she hadn’t heard the comment. She would be back later she said.

The restaurant had been chosen carefully, tucked away from the busiest streets behind rows of old palm trees and expensive storefronts where celebrities occasionally managed an uninterrupted meal if they were lucky. It wasn’t impossible to find, just inconvenient enough that most photographers didn’t bother waiting outside on speculation alone. For a little while, the plan actually worked. Warm afternoon light spilling across white tablecloths through tall windows, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates and conversations drifted lazily between nearby tables without anyone paying them much attention.

It felt ordinary, getting out like this. She.. she enjoyed it admittedly. Her team made a conscious effort to avoid the subjects hanging over everyone’s heads. They talked about work, albums other artists were releasing, Aladdin’s newest words, and whether he was going to inherit her stubbornness or her sweetness—perhaps even both, he’s a taurus after all. Elizabeth carried most of the conversation herself, launching into one of her wonderfully meandering stories that somehow involved three countries, two dogs, and an actor whose name she’d completely forgotten before arriving at an absurd punchline that made the entire table laugh. Against her own expectations, (Name) laughed too. It startled her more than anyone else. The sound felt rusty, like something her body remembered doing even if her heart hadn’t caught up yet.

For one fleeting hour, she almost believed she’d survive this.

Then somebody recognized her.

She never found out who it was. Perhaps another customer quietly excused themselves to make a phone call. Perhaps a waiter mentioned her name to someone outside. Perhaps word simply spread the way it always seemed to whenever famous people tried to exist in public. It hardly mattered anymore. Fame had long since taught her that privacy leaked away in tiny, ordinary moments exactly like this one until suddenly there was nothing left.

(Name) noticed the shift before anyone said a word. Her head of security, who until then had been standing comfortably near the entrance pretending not to watch the room, suddenly pressed two fingers against the earpiece hidden beneath his jacket. His expression tightened imperceptibly as he listened, eyes drifting toward the front windows where flashes of movement had begun gathering beyond the glass. Another member of security quietly stepped away from the wall to reposition himself closer to the table. Her manager stopped mid sentence, following their line of sight without turning his head too obviously. Even Elizabeth noticed, her smile fading as she reached instinctively for (Name)’s hand beneath the table, giving it one reassuring squeeze.

“They’re outside,” The head of security said quietly.

The words settled over the table like the forecast of an approaching storm everyone had secretly been hoping would pass them by. Conversation dissolved almost immediately. Chairs slid softly across the floor as everyone rose, years of navigating celebrity life taking over without discussion. (Name) lowered her gaze, adjusted her sunglasses with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, and drew a slow breath that caught somewhere halfway inside her chest. The scarf was pulled a little higher. Her baseball cap lowered a little further. None of it would matter. It never really did. She fell naturally into the middle of the group as they began walking toward the entrance, surrounded by security without feeling particularly protected.

The restaurant door hadn’t even finished opening before the noise—her name hit her before she even saw the cameras.

It came from every direction at once, shouted over itself until it no longer sounded like her name at all, just noise. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, the sidewalk erupted into movement. Photographers surged forward as one body, camera shutters firing in relentless bursts that sounded almost mechanical, flashes exploding even beneath the overcast sky until the world dissolved into violent pulses of white. For a split second she couldn’t properly see where the curb ended or where her security team began. People jostled shoulders, stepping into one another’s paths in a frantic effort to get closer, lenses stretching over heads, microphones thrust forward like weapons. The air itself felt crowded.

“(Name)! Over here!”

“(Name), is it true Michael left you?”

“Were you blindsided by the divorce?”

“Is the marriage beyond saving?”

“Who’s getting custody of Aladdin?”

“Are the reports about your health true?”

“Did Michael cheat on you?”

“Do you still love him?”

The questions were invasive. One voice crashed into the next before she’d even understood the first, each reporter trying to shout just a little louder than everyone else, convinced theirs would be the question that finally cracked her open. Camera lenses crowded so close she could see her own distorted reflection staring back at her through polished glass, sallow beneath oversized sunglasses and thinner than she remembered. Someone stumbled against her shoulder. Another photographer leaned so far over the security barricade he nearly fell. Hands reached into her path holding tape recorders, notepads, microphones bearing television station logos.

Somewhere beside her, one of the security guards repeated, “Back up. Give her room. Back up,” in the same firm voice over and over until it blended into the rest of the chaos.

Nobody listened, but nobody ever did. There was money to be made from other people’s misery, and her nightmare had become one of the biggest stories in the world.

Her heartbreak had stopped belonging to her weeks ago. Every grocery store checkout aisle carried another magazine promising the “truth” behind the separation, each issue displaying a different photograph beneath another confident headline written by someone who had never once stepped inside their home. Anonymous friends appeared everywhere, speaking in quotations she’d never heard before, somehow claiming to know exactly what had been said behind closed bedroom doors, exactly how she’d cried, exactly why her marriage had failed.

Daytime television hosts dissected their relationship between celebrity gossip segments and cooking demonstrations, nodding thoughtfully as if they had been invited to the wedding themselves. Entertainment programs replayed years of interviews, slowing footage to half speed in search of glances that supposedly predicted the divorce all along. Fans filled call in shows arguing over which one of them deserved sympathy. Radio hosts joked about whose breakup album would sell more records. Newspapers printed diagrams of their relationship like timelines from a criminal investigation, reducing years of shared memories into neat columns of dates and speculation. Complete strangers debated custody arrangements over breakfast. Opinion columnists confidently explained why the marriage had collapsed despite never having spent a single minute inside it. Every person with a newspaper, a television, or a microphone suddenly believed they understood the most intimate years of her life better than she did.

Everyone had an answer, but no one had been there.

She kept walking because there was nothing else she knew how to do. Her shoulders curled inward beneath the oversized sweater, she thought that making herself physically smaller might somehow lessen the attention. One hand clung so tightly to the strap of her handbag that her fingers had begun to ache, while the other remained tucked close against her body, hidden beneath the loose knit of her sleeve. She didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t. Looking at them felt too.. it was just humiliating. So instead, she fixed her eyes on the black sedan waiting just beyond the crowd, wishing that they parked closer. Every step seemed to take forever.

The flashes refused to stop. They illuminated every new hollow beneath her cheekbones, every collarbone now visible beneath the sweater she’d chosen specifically because it hid how much weight she’d lost in such a short period of time—the difference was noticeable considering where she was before, to where she is now. Tomorrow those photographs would be everywhere. Side by side comparisons from six months earlier. Headlines asking whether she was eating enough. Television doctors offering diagnoses they’d invented from still images.

HEARTBROKEN STAR SPARKS HEALTH CONCERNS. FRIENDS FEAR SHE’S WASTING AWAY. THE PRICE OF DIVORCE?

They would speculate about stress, exhaustion, dieting, overwork. Nobody would write that she’d begun measuring her nights by how many drinks it took to fall asleep. Nobody would know about the little amber prescription bottle tucked inside the kitchen cabinet behind the coffee mugs, or how some evenings she’d stand in front of it with a bottle of vodka in one hand, trying to decide which one might finally quiet her mind. Nobody would know she’d stopped looking into mirrors for more than a few seconds because the woman staring back looked unrecognizable every single morning.

A security guard opened the car door just as the crowd pressed forward again. She slipped inside without speaking, her manager climbing in behind her before another photographer managed to wedge a camera between the narrowing gap. The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, muffling the shouting almost instantly. For one second, there was silence. She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and leaned her head back against the leather seat, closing her eyes as if the darkness behind them might finally offer somewhere to hide.

Another flash burst through the tinted window.

Then another.

Even with the door closed, even with the engine starting, even as the car slowly pulled away from the curb, they were still taking pictures.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Early March, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ The Valley - Los Angeles, California.

The strangest part about looking for a house was that she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for.

She knew how to stand beneath stage lights and deliver a performance perfectly timed down to the second. She knew how to walk into a room full of executives and hold her ground. She knew how to negotiate contracts, handle interviews, memorize choreography, and carry an entire career on her shoulders without letting anyone see how heavy it became. She had spent years making decisions that affected millions of people.

But standing inside a potential home with a realtor asking her what she wanted, she felt completely lost.

The woman showing her around was kind it was sickening. She had the bright, professional warmth of someone who had done this hundreds of times before, moving through each property with an enthusiasm that felt untouched by the fact that this was not an exciting new beginning for her. This was something else entirely.

“This room would be perfect for entertaining,” The realtor said, opening the doors to a wide living space with tall windows overlooking the backyard. “I can already picture family gatherings here. Holidays, birthdays…”

(Name) smiled politely.

She could picture them too.

That was the problem.

She could picture Aladdin running through the room. She could picture toys scattered across the floor, little shoes abandoned by the doorway, Christmas decorations covering every surface. She could picture a piano sitting somewhere near the windows, music filling the house in the evenings.

She could picture a life, but she just couldn’t picture herself living it.

The first house was beautiful.

So was the second.

The third had a kitchen larger than her first apartment and a backyard big enough for Aladdin to spend entire afternoons outside. The fourth had everything people dreamed about when they imagined a perfect home: marble floors, a sweeping staircase, a pool that reflected the sky like glass. A tuscan estate, she called it.

Every realtor’s dream.

Every magazine’s dream.

None of them were hers. Because she wasn’t really looking for a house, she was looking for something that didn’t exist—the life she had lost.

The realization came quietly, somewhere between one perfectly decorated room and another. She stood in a bedroom listening as the realtor explained closet space and bathroom renovations, but all she could think about was how, when she was twenty and signing the lease for her first apartment, Michael had been there.

He had known what questions to ask.

He had noticed things she hadn’t.

He checked the cabinets. The windows. The water pressure. The little details she never would have considered because she had been too young and too excited to care about anything except making the place feel beautiful.

He had laughed gently when she admitted she hadn’t even looked at the lease terms before signing. The whole time he had sat beside her, patiently explaining everything.

Now she was twenty seven, standing in a big empty house with a stack of paperwork, realizing she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for. It unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

For as long as she could remember, there had always been a man standing beside her when life asked for grown up decisions. First her father, patiently explaining mortgages, insurance, and contracts but she was too young to care about. Then Michael, who she’d fallen in love with. From then on, the practical parts of life had become shared things.

And neither man believed she was incapable of these things, but they loved taking care of her. And she’d loved letting them.

Now, for the first time in her adult life, no one was reading the fine print before she signed it. No one was pointing out what she’d overlooked or assuring her she was making the right decision. Every choice landed squarely in her lap, and she found herself staring at them longer than she should have because she’d never had to make quite so many of them alone.

It wasn’t dependence she was grieving. It was the absence of the person she’d always instinctively turned toward whenever life became too large to carry by herself. No one warned her that the hardest decisions wouldn’t be the ones in front of cameras. They wouldn’t be the interviews or the performances or the moments where millions of people watched her and expected her to be perfect.

It would be this; mortgages. Insurance. Paperwork.

Choosing where her son would sleep.

The small, ordinary things that somehow felt more terrifying than standing in front of thousands of screaming fans.

After the fourth house, the realtor finally turned to her with a hopeful smile. “Would you like to make an offer?”

(Name) looked around the room. It really was beautiful. Perfect, even. She could imagine Aladdin growing up here. She could imagine birthday parties in the backyard. Christmas mornings. Family dinners. A piano in the corner.

Everything.

Everything except herself.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the folder in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. The realtor’s expression shifted, waiting. (Name) looked once more around the room before lowering her gaze. “I think..” Her voice caught for just a moment. “I’d like to keep looking.”

And the heartbreaking part was that she didn’t know what she was waiting to find.

Because no house was going to feel like home when the person who had made it one was the very person she was trying to learn how to live without.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Late March, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.

The closet was the worst.

She had avoided it for days, finding reasons to be anywhere else in the house whenever she walked past it. The kitchen needed organizing. Aladdin’s things needed sorting. There were phone calls she needed to make. Meetings. Interviews. A thousand little responsibilities that were easier than standing in front of the closet they had shared.

Because the closet didn’t look like their marriage that had ended. It looked almost exactly as they’d left it. As though they had simply stepped out for dinner and forgotten to come back.

His clothes were still there—jackets arranged by color because he’d insisted it somehow made getting dressed easier (a majority of his clothing was either red or black). A few empty hangers interrupted the line where assistants had quietly removed some of his things weeks earlier, but enough remained that her eyes continued filling in the gaps automatically. Her mind refused to accept absence. It kept correcting it. He’ll need that tomorrow. He always wears that one when it rains. That sweater belongs in the wash. It was astonishing how stubborn memory could be, continuing to perform little acts of love long after there was nowhere left to put them.

Those were the things that hurt the most.

She stood there for several minutes holding a sweater in her hands without realizing she had stopped moving. It still carried the faintest trace of him, his skin, his favorite perfume. It wasn’t strong enough that anyone else would notice—but she did. She had spent years knowing him in ways nobody else did. The smallest details had become part of her understanding of him. The way he smelled after a shower. The way his clothes felt softer after being washed too many times. The way he would leave things in places without realizing it because he always assumed he would come back to them.

Because he always had.

Until he didn’t.

She reached for one of his long sleeves almost without thinking. The fabric slipped easily between her fingers. Time had already begun doing what time always did, stealing little pieces first. But there was still something there. Something warm and familiar that immediately transported her to sleepy mornings where he’d wander into the kitchen wearing this exact shirt, his hair a complete mess, asking if she’d already made coffee before remembering he didn’t actually drink it. The memory arrived so vividly she had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, she caressed the material gently, honestly too tenderly. As if being gentle with it somehow meant she was being gentle with him. Even after all of this, she couldn’t help but to enately want to be careful with him.

She sat down on the floor beside the open boxes, surrounded by pieces of a life she had never imagined having to separate. Photographs. Letters. Small gifts. Things that had once represented years of love and now felt like evidence from another lifetime.

The strangest part was that she didn't know what she was supposed to take.

What belonged to her? What belonged to him?

At some point, there stopped being a difference. That was the entire point of marriage. You stopped keeping score. You stopped remembering who bought what, who brought what, who contributed which piece. Everything became theirs.

Packing was supposed to feel productive.

People packed because they were moving. Because they had accepted that one chapter had ended and another was waiting somewhere ahead of them. There was supposed to be a rhythm to it. Empty the drawers. Fold the clothes. Tape the boxes shut. Write a label. Carry them to the front door. Repeat until the room no longer belonged to you.

It wasn’t that simple with her.

By the afternoon, boxes had begun appearing throughout the bedroom in uneven little clusters. Some were half full. Others still sat open and untouched because she kept finding reasons not to decide what belonged inside them. Marriage had a funny way of blurring ownership until it barely existed. Nobody warned you about that part when you said your vows. They told you everything became ours and they neglected to mention what happened if one day someone asked you to separate it all again.

She knelt beside a lower cabinet near the back of the closet, reaching into the corner where they had spent years absentmindedly shoving things they didn’t know what to do with.

Old photographs. Ticket stubs. A disposable camera neither of them had ever developed. Then her fingers brushed against something soft.

She frowned and pulled it free.

It was a plush frog. A ridiculously oversized frog wearing a tiny sequined tuxedo and an equally ridiculous little top hat that sat crooked over one stitched eye. One arm had gone limp where the stuffing had shifted over the years, giving it the permanently exhausted appearance of someone who had simply accepted life was happening to them.

For a long moment she just stared at it. Then a giggle escaped her lips. Small. Breathless.

“Oh, my goodness..” She pressed her fingertips against her mouth, shaking her head as another quiet laugh slipped out before she could stop it.

She remembered.

They’d been wandering through a carnival years ago after insisting they were “just going to walk around.” He’d spotted the frog hanging from the top row of prizes and become completely determined to win it for her despite the teenage employee repeatedly explaining the game was nearly impossible.

Michael refused to believe him.

Twenty dollars later he’d won exactly nothing.

Forty dollars later he’d accused the game of being rigged.

Sixty dollars later she’d been laughing so hard she’d nearly fallen over.

Eventually, the poor teenager had sighed, looked around to make sure his manager wasn’t watching, quietly taken the frog down himself and handed it across the counter.

“I can’t watch this anymore,” He’d whispered.

Michael had accepted it with complete seriousness before turning to her as though he’d conquered Everest.

“For my beautiful lady,” He announced, presenting the frog with both hands.

She’d looked between him and the absurd stuffed animal. “You spent sixty dollars on this thing.”

“It was an investment.”

“In what?”

“Our future.”

Now she sat alone on the closet floor with the same ridiculous frog resting in her lap. The laughter disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Her thumb absentmindedly brushed over the crooked little hat.

“You were so stupid, kind of looks like you too..” (Name) whispered affectionately with the kind of fondness reserved for memories that hurt because they had once been so wonderfully ordinary. She smiled through tears that had begun gathering without permission.

The smile trembled, then it broke as she folded forward slowly, hugging the ridiculous frog against her chest hoping that a hug might somehow fix the pieces of her that had been broken for months.

The gift itself was absurd.

Cheap.

Completely impractical.

By every reasonable standard, it should have been one of the easiest things in the room to throw away. Instead, she reached for an empty box, placed the frog gently inside by itself, and wrote only one word across the lid.

KEEP.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ April, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Ashford Mediation Group, Beverly Hills, California.

The drive there felt like purgatory, honestly. The engine hummed beneath them, steady and smooth as it carried the car through late morning traffics. Buildings drifted past the window in slow succession, interrupted every so often by a red light or a pedestrian crossing. Somewhere in the front, her manager kept his voice low over the phone, discussing arrival times, entrances, making sure the press hadn’t caught wind of the meeting.

Beside her, her attorney rested a leather portfolio across his lap, turning over neatly tabbed pages as he reviewed everything one final time. Custody. Financial agreements. Property. Confidentiality. His voice remained calm and almost comforting in its neutrality, pausing now and then to reassure her that nothing unexpected would happen today. They had prepared for this. They had been over every document until he could practically recite them from memory.

She should have been listening. Instead, the words dissolved somewhere between his mouth and her ears, losing their shape before they ever reached her. She answered where she thought she was supposed to, nodding faintly, murmuring quiet acknowledgments she wasn’t entirely aware of making, her eyes fixed on the stitching of the seat in front of her until it blurred into a single uninterrupted line. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers woven together so tightly the joints had begun to ache. She loosened them forcibly and a minute later they were locked together again without her realizing.

Outside, the world continued. A florist arranged fresh bouquets beneath a striped awning. Two businessmen laughed together over paper cups of coffee as they crossed the street. A young mother stopped to kneel in front of her little girl, zipping her jacket before taking her hand and disappearing around the corner. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were headed. Everyone still belonged to someone or something. The thought settled somewhere beneath her ribs before she could stop it. Once upon a time, she would’ve been driving toward Michael. Toward home. Toward the man who reached for the door handle before the car had even come to a complete stop because he couldn’t seem to wait the extra few seconds. Now she was driving toward paperwork that would ask her to untangle years of her life into paragraphs and signatures.

A quiet pressure began blooming beneath her sternum. It was so faint at first she mistook it for hunger. She straightened in her seat and drew in a deeper breath, holding it for a second before letting it out slowly. It helped, until it didn’t. The feeling returned, just a little heavier this time, spreading through her chest like something patiently unfolding. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and reached for the bottle of water beside her, taking two careful sips before placing it back exactly where she’d found it. The relief lasted only a moment before her coat suddenly felt heavier than it had when she’d put it on that morning. She slipped the top button loose then adjusted the scarf at her neck. The air conditioning whispered steadily through the vents, yet warmth had begun creeping beneath her collar, collecting behind her ears and along the back of her neck until she wondered if she was getting sick. She crossed one leg over the other. Uncrossed it. Pressed both feet firmly against the floor instead. Nothing seemed to settle the strange discomfort growing quietly inside her.

Her attorney had stopped speaking. “...Mrs. Jackson?”

“Of course.” He offered her an understanding smile, glancing back down at the papers. “I was just saying that, if at any point you need a break, Mrs. Jackson, we can—”

She blinked. “I’m sorry,” She said, her voice quieter than she’d intended. “Could you.. could you repeat that?”

For a second, she simply stared at her own hands.

“Don’t call me that, please.” The words came out and silence settled over the car. She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t snapped, really. But the sentence landed with enough uncomfort that even her manager looked back over his shoulder.

Then, softer this time, embarrassed by how quickly the words had escaped her, she whispered, “Please.”

No one corrected her.

Her attorney gave a small nod, closed the folder for a moment, and apologized before continuing, avoiding the title altogether. She wanted to thank him, but the lump in her throat had grown too large to speak around. She hadn’t realized how much those two words still belonged to him until hearing someone else use them.

Mrs. Jackson.

A name she’d once worn with so much pride it hardly felt borrowed anymore. A name that had come to mean waking up beside him, dancing barefoot through the kitchen with a baby balanced on one hip, signing birthday cards together, whispered “I love yous” after midnight when the house had finally gone quiet. Now it sounded like someone describing a woman who no longer existed.

Not on a television screen.

The realization struck her so suddenly it stole the breath she’d only just managed to steady: in a matter of minutes, she was going to see him.

Not in photographs.

Not through lawyers.

Not through headlines.

Him.

The pressure beneath her ribs tightened and she inhaled, the breath stopped halfway down. She frowned and tried again, slower this time, but it still wasn’t enough. Her lungs worked. She knew they did. They simply refused to feel full. Without thinking, she lowered the window an inch, letting cool air drift against her face. It should have helped, but it didn’t. And she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, willing the sensation to pass if she ignored it long enough. It had to pass. She wasn’t going to lose herself in the backseat of a car. Not before she’d even laid eyes on him. Not before she had to sit across from the man she’d loved since she was twenty years old and somehow pretend she knew how to discuss the end of him in legal terms.

The realization struck her all over again, fresh enough to steal the air from her lungs.

She wasn’t driving to see her husband.

She was driving to negotiate the end of him.

Her breathing changed before she realized it had.

It came shorter now, each inhale still stopping halfway down her chest like there simply wasn’t room for the rest of it. She swallowed once. Then again. The knot in her throat refused to move as more heat crept up the back of her neck despite the air conditioning humming quietly through the car, settling beneath her collar and behind her ears until she felt almost feverish.

She cracked the window some more but the rush of outside air hit her face wasn’t enough.

Her attorney noticed first, lowering the papers into his lap and studying her for a moment before speaking carefully. “Are you alright?”

The car slowed for another light and she stared straight ahead. The nausea arrived sudden without a kind warning—not the vague discomfort she’d been sitting with all morning but something imminent and violent. Her stomach lurched so suddenly she jerked forward in her seat, one hand flying instinctively to her mouth because she could physically hold herself together.

She nodded before he’d even finished asking, too quickly that movement made her dizzy. “I’m fine.” The lie came. She’d become frighteningly good at saying it these days.

“I..” She swallowed hard. “Could we..” Her voice disappeared. She tried again. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

The conversation in the front stopped immediately and her manager turned around so fast his seatbelt caught against his shoulder. “Pull over,” He told the driver.

The car eased toward the curb and before it had even come to a complete stop, she was already reaching for the handle with shaking hands.

The cool morning air hit her the second she stepped onto the sidewalk, but it did nothing to steady the awful rolling in her stomach. She bent forward, one hand braced against her knee, the other pressed flat against her chest somehow attempting to slow the frantic pounding beneath it.

Nothing came up. Only dry heaves.

Again.

Again.

Her body kept trying to rid itself of something that wasn’t there. Tears burned behind her eyes from the force of it. She hated this. Because she knew exactly why. She knew. It wasn’t the meeting. It wasn’t the lawyers. It wasn’t even the divorce.

It was him.

In a matter of minutes she would be in the same building as the man she’d spent the better part of six years loving with everything she had, and she had no idea which version of him would be waiting on the other side of that door.

The husband who used to kiss her forehead before leaving for rehearsals. Or the stranger who had disappeared without saying goodbye. For the first time since leaving the house that morning, she allowed herself to think the one thought she’d been avoiding.

What if I look at him.. and I don't recognize him anymore?

The possibility frightened her more than the divorce itself.

Her manager was beside her before she even realized the car door had opened. “Easy,” He murmured, one hand settling carefully between her shoulder blades. “Easy, sweetheart. Don’t fight it, alright? That’s it..”

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t, wanted to tell him she had stopped fighting weeks ago. Instead another dry heave bent her nearly in half, her fingers curling tighter against her knee as tears sprang unwillingly to her eyes. Still, nothing came. Nothing except the violent ache in her stomach and the humiliating sound of her own body insisting it had something left to give.

His hand never left her back. Slow, steady circles the same pace every time. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe like people always did when they had no idea what breathing felt like anymore. He simply stayed there, letting her have.. whatever this was without making it feel like a spectacle.

The attorney lingered a respectful distance away, quietly telling the driver they’d need another few minutes. Traffic continued behind them. Cars rolled past. People walked by without sparing more than a curious glance. The world refused to stop.

“That's it,” Her manager said softly. “You’re alright.”

She laughed, or tried to. It came out broken, somewhere between a cough and a sob. “No,” She whispered hoarsely. “I’m really... really not.”

“I know.” Those two words nearly undid her. Because no one had said them. Everyone else had spent months asking if she was alright, telling her she’d get through it, reminding her how strong she was.

He simply acknowledged the truth.

She wasn’t.

Her breathing refused to settle. Every inhale felt jagged, stopping halfway before she had to pull another after it, her chest tightening with each attempt until it became difficult to tell whether she was breathing too much or not enough.

“I can’t..” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can do this.”

He waited. “I can’t look at him.” The words came quietly. So quietly she almost wasn’t sure she’d spoken them aloud.

“I know,” He repeated. “But you have to.”

“What if..” She stopped, squeezing her eyes shut. “What if he looks at me like I’m just..” She couldn’tfinish.

Just someone else.

Just another meeting.

Just another signature.

Just another chapter he’d already closed.

Her manager stepped a little closer, careful not to crowd her, his hand still resting reassuringly between her shoulders. “Listen to me.” He started, she kept staring at the pavement as he spoke. “You don’t have to be brave in there.”

She frowned. “I feel—“

“No.” His voice remained calm, unwavering. “You just have to get through today. That’s all anyone is asking of you.”

Fresh tears slipped down before she realized they had. “I don’t know who I’m walking in to see.”

His expression softened. “Yeah, I understand that. Trust me, I do..”

“The man I married wouldn’t..” Her voice broke. “He wouldn’t have let it get here.”

Silence settled between them.

After a long moment he reached into his pocket, withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief, and held it out without a word. She took it with trembling fingers.

“I keep thinking..” She whispered, dabbing uselessly at her face, “That maybe he’ll walk in and it’ll be him again.” She hated how childish it sounded. As though the husband she’d fallen asleep beside for years had simply gotten lost and might suddenly find his way back.

Her manager looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “You’re young.” Her eyes lifted. “But.. don’t walk in there expecting the past to meet you halfway.” He gently squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve already survived every day that brought you here.”

She let out a slow, trembling breath, the first one that felt as though it reached the bottom of her lungs.

“I’l walk in with you,” He said gently. “I’ll stay until I can’t. Your attorney will handle the rest. And if you need a break, you stand up. I don’t care who’s talking. I don’t care what's being discussed. You stand up, and we’ll take one.”

She nodded faintly. And no matter how desperately she wished the car would simply turn around and take her home, there was no road left that led back to the life she’d been trying so hard to keep.

He waited until the trembling in her hands had eased enough that she could uncurl her fingers.

“Come on,” He said quietly, offering his hand instead of reaching for her. “Let’s get you sitting down.”

She looked at it for a second before slipping her own into his. Her grip was weaker than usual, cold despite the warmth lingering beneath her skin. He steadied her as she climbed back into the car, one hand lightly supporting her elbow until she settled against the leather seat once more. Before closing the door, he leaned down just enough to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to say anything in there until you’re ready—or anything at all for that matter.”

She nodded, the door clicked shut and no one spoke for the rest of the drive. The attorney quietly returned the papers to his portfolio, deciding against continuing whatever explanation he’d been giving before they stopped. Her manager remained turned slightly toward the window in the front seat, giving her the rare kindness of not watching her every few seconds to make sure she was still holding together. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was respectful, really.

She kept her eyes on the city as it slipped past. Every block carried them closer. Every red light felt shorter than the last. She found herself counting them without realizing she was doing it.

One.

Two.

Three.

Anything to keep from counting the minutes instead.

By the time the car slowed for the final turn, the nausea had settled into something quieter. It hadn’t gone away. It had simply become part of her, resting heavily beneath her ribs like a stone she’d accepted wasn’t moving anytime soon.

The building came into view through the windshield.

Large. Modern. Too much glass. It reflected the gray afternoon sky so perfectly it almost disappeared into it. The driver eased to a stop beneath the covered entrance and for a moment, no one moved.

Her manager glanced back. “We’re here.”

The words hung in the air as she stared through the windshield at the revolving glass doors ahead of them, watching strangers pass effortlessly through them. A man in a navy suit exited while adjusting his tie. A woman carrying a briefcase disappeared inside without slowing her pace. Her attorney stepped out first. Her manager followed, circling around to open her door before she had the chance.

When she didn’t move immediately, he crouched slightly beside the car. “You alright?”

She swallowed. “Yeah.” Another deep breath, this one reached a little farther just before she stepped onto the pavement. The cool air kissed her face, carrying with it the faint scent of rain that hadn’t quite arrived yet. She smoothed invisible wrinkles from the front of her coat and adjusted her heel.

Her manager gently rested a hand on the small of her back. Together, they crossed beneath the overhang and approached the entrance. The glass doors slid open with a mechanical hum, revealing a lobby that was painfully pristine. Marble floors reflected the overhead lights in muted pools across the room. Everything smelled like polished wood, fresh coffee, and expensive cleaning products. It was immaculate in the sort of way places often were when difficult conversations happened inside them every day.

The receptionist looked up almost immediately. “Good afternoon.”

Her attorney quietly introduced them, speaking in the same composed voice he’d maintained all morning. The receptionist nodded once after checking a schedule on her desk, offering a polite smile that stopped well short of familiar.

“They’re expecting you.”

Of course they were. She hadn’t.. considered the possibility that they could had already arrived. She was under the impression that they would have been there first and she could at least prepare herself before..

The thought tightened something in her chest again.

“This way.” The receptionist stepped out from behind the desk and led them across the lobby toward a bank of elevators tucked against the far wall. The walk wasn’t long, but it felt endless, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble with each measured step. No one spoke. The only sounds came from the gentle chime announcing the elevator’s arrival and the muted conversation of strangers somewhere deeper inside the building.

The doors slid open and they stepped inside, the receptionist pressing a button near the top of the panel.

As the doors closed, the lobby disappeared behind brushed steel, leaving only the gentle vibration of the elevator climbing floor by floor. She watched the numbers illuminate one after another above the door, each soft chime settling lower in her stomach than the last. When the elevator finally came to a stop, the receptionist led them down a corridor lined with frosted glass offices and framed artwork she couldn’t have described a second later. The hallway seemed impossibly quiet, the thick carpeting swallowing almost every footstep until the only thing she could hear with any clarity was the steady beating of her own heart.

They stopped outside a closed wooden door and the rreceptionist turned toward them, offering another small, professional smile.

“They’re ready for you.” Then she stepped aside.

The hallway fell silent.

(Name) couldn’t move.

At some point it stopped being hesitation. It stopped being indecision, grief, fear, or any emotion she could neatly identify and tuck away beneath a sensible name. It became something far older than that. It was instinctive. Something buried so deep inside the part of the human body that recognized danger long before the mind had time to reason with it. Every muscle seemed to arrive at the same conclusion without consulting her first. Don’t go in there. Don’t open that door. Turn around. Leave. Run if you have to. It wasn’t a thought she was having anymore. It was a command her body had already obeyed, planting her feet so firmly into the carpet that it almost felt as though the floor itself had grown around them.

The trembling began again, just the faintest vibration in her fingertips where they’d been laced together in front of her and subtle enough that no one walking past would’ve noticed unless they were looking for it. She wasn’t herself, even. Not until she felt the tiny, involuntary quiver travel into her knuckles. She instinctively pressed one hand over the other, squeezing hard enough to leave crescent shaped marks in her skin, hoping the pressure might somehow force the shaking to stop.

It didn’t—it spread. Slowly, with nowhere else to be. From her fingers into her wrists. From her wrists into her forearms. Tiny muscles fluttered beneath her skin without permission, a low, constant vibration that made her feel strangely disconnected from her own body. Her body had long since decided it was no longer taking instructions from her and she stared at her hands with detached confusion, willing them to be still.

They refused.

A careful breath caught somewhere halfway down her chest. She frowned. Tried again. Another shallow inhale. Another unfinished exhale.

It still felt like her lungs had abruptly forgotten how much air they were supposed to hold, every breath stopping just before it became satisfying, forcing another after it and another after that, until she couldn’t tell whether she was breathing too much or not nearly enough. A dull pressure settled beneath her sternum, expanding outward until it wrapped itself around her ribs like tightening wire. She swallowed hard against the dryness gathering in her throat, but even that simple movement felt strangely difficult, like something invisible had lodged itself there.

Then came the heat but not the ordinary warmth of nerves. It crept upward beneath the collar of her blouse in slow waves, spreading across her chest before climbing her neck with alarming speed. She shifted uncomfortably, fingers instinctively reaching toward the irritated skin just beneath her throat. It felt hot to the touch. Too hot.

She looked down.

Angry red blotches had already begun surfacing across her collarbone, blooming beneath her skin in uneven patches that spread almost as she watched them, climbing toward her neck like watercolor bleeding through paper. Another appeared just below her jaw, then another.

Stress hives.

She hadn’t broken out like this since she was nineteen, and she could only stare at them strangely fascinated by hrr own body was rejecting this.

Not even metaphorically but,

Literally.

Every system inside her had reached the same conclusion at once. Her pulse had accelerated. Her breathing had shortened. Her muscles had begun shaking. Her skin was erupting in protest. She felt like an animal standing at the edge of a forest fire, every instinct screaming to flee before she could even see the flames.

Run.

The word echoed somewhere deep inside her.

Run.

Her manager noticed before she managed to hide it. His eyes drifted from her face to the spreading rash creeping over her neck, then softened almost immediately with the concern of someone watching another person come apart in slow motion.

“..Hey.”

She didn’t answer but she wasn’t sure she could.

He stepped closer, careful not to crowd her, lowering his voice until it barely carried beyond the space between them. “Look at me, (Name).”

She tried.

God, she tried. But every time she lifted her head, her eyes found the door instead.

It seemed to pull at her attention with force, everything inside her understood that on the other side of it sat the dividing line between the life she’d had and the one she would be forced to live afterward.

“I can’t,” She whispered, voice distant.

“You can.”

She shook her head before she realized she’d moved. “No..” The word barely escaped her lips. “I can’t.”

Fresh tremors rippled through her arms. She tucked them tightly against herself, folding one over the other in a futile attempt to hide the shaking, but it only made it more obvious. Her shoulders had begun trembling too.

“I can’t go in there—I can’t even..” A breathless, broken laugh escaped her, so close to becoming a sob it frightened her. “I can’t even stop shaking.”

He reached up with careful hands, gently smoothing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so grounding it nearly undid her. “Just stay with me for a second.”

She nodded and his voice remained slow. “Can you feel your feet?”

She blinked at him, confused. “..What?”

“Your feet.”

She frowned, attention reluctantly leaving the door. “..Yes.”

“The floor underneath them?”

Another swallow. “Yes..”

“Good.” His hand rested lightly against her upper arm. “You’re here.”

Fresh tears blurred her vision almost immediately. “I don’t want to be. I want to go home.” The confession escaped before she could stop it. Raw. Childlike. Entirely honest. “I just..” Her voice cracked so completely she had to press her lips together before trying again. “I want to go home.”

His expression shifted—a flicker. Gone as quickly as it appeared. Because they both understood the thing she’d just said was nonexistent. There wasn’t a “home” waiting for her anymore. Not the one she meant. Not the one built around shared mornings and baby giggles and a man whose absence had hollowed every room he’d once occupied. There was only whatever came next.

“I wish I could come in with you,” He admitted quietly.

Her head snapped toward him so quickly the movement made her dizzy. “What! You can’t?” The panic returned with astonishing speed. Her knees threatened to give beneath her.

“No. Sweetheart, I told you that.” He hated the answer as much as she did. “They’ve only approved legal representation.”

She stared at him. “No..”

“But I’m staying right here.”

“No..”

“You’ll walk back through these doors, and I’ll still be here.”

“No!” Her voice rose just enough to tremble around the edges. "Please.. please don’t make me go in there.”

For the first time all morning, he looked completely helpless.

Helpless.

If there had been any way to walk through that door instead of her, he would’ve done it without hesitation. She knew that, and he knew she knew it. Which somehow made standing there feel even lonelier. Before either of them could speak again, her attorney’s voice drifted gently down the hallway.

“(Name).”

Neither of them turned.

“It’s time.”

The hallway seemed to narrow around her and air felt heavier. Even the lights overhead appeared suddenly too bright. Her manager’s hand squeezed her arm once, a reminder that when she came back through those doors, someone would still be waiting to catch whatever pieces remained.

She closed her eyes and drew in the deepest breath her body was willing to give her but it still wasn’t enough. Then, with legs that felt borrowed from someone else and a heart that seemed determined to escape her chest before she reached the handle—she took the first step toward the door.

One moment she was standing in the hallway, every muscle in her body pleading with her to turn around, and the next the door had already begun to swing inward beneath the quiet push of a palm.

The room was larger than she’d imagined—too bright from the large floor to ceiling windows and so sterile. A long conference table stretched through the center, polished to the point it reflected the overhead lights in muted streaks across its surface. Leather chairs sat neatly arranged around it, folders already opened, glasses of water placed with almost mathematical precision. Everything had been prepared hours before she arrived, every seat assigned, every document waiting patiently for signatures that would dismantle a life.

She felt them before she saw them.

Eyes.

They settled over her the instant she crossed the threshold, not invasive, not intentionally cruel she thinks, but impossible to ignore all the same. His team was.. ridiculously large: Lawyers who paused mid conversation. Assistants quietly setting down pens. People who had been expecting her arrival and now watched it happen in real time, each carrying the uncomfortable awareness that they were about to witness something far more intimate than legal.

She kept her gaze lowered.

One step.

Then another.

The carpet swallowed the sound of her heels, leaving only the dull rush of blood filling her ears. Halfway across the room, another sensation reached her.

Familiar.

Warm.

The faint trace of cedarwood, bergamot, and something softer she had once associated so instinctively with home that she’d stopped noticing it years ago.

His cologne.

It hung lightly in the room, barely perceptible to anyone else. But to her, it was overwhelming. The smell struck with such force that her stomach lurched before she could brace for it. Every memory attached to it arrived all at once, uninvited. Jackets borrowed on cold nights. Sleepy embraces before dawn. The hollow of his neck beneath her cheek. She had spent years breathing it in without thought.

Now it made her feel violently ill.

She swallowed hard as the nausea climbed steadily into her throat.

Don’t look up.

The thought repeated itself with quiet desperation.

Don’t look.

If she looked too soon, she was afraid everything holding her upright would simply.. stop. So she fixed her eyes on the table instead. On the grain of the wood. On the edge of an unopened folder. On her own hands, clasped together tightly enough that the faint tremor running through them almost disappeared beneath the pressure.

Someone quietly pulled out a chair for her and she thanked them automatically, though she couldn’t have said who it was.

The leather creaked softly as she sat. Her knees felt a sense of reliving beneath the table, bouncing once before she forced them still. She rested both palms against her thighs, pressing down as though she could anchor herself.

A glass of her favorite juice had already been placed in front of her and she stared at it. The condensation gathered in tiny droplets along the outside, slowly slipping toward the polished wood beneath.

It was something to look at.

Something that wasn’t.. him.

Silence settled over the room for one lingering moment, heavy enough that even the quiet rustling of paper sounded intrusive.

Then a chair shifted, a folder opened and the mediator cleared his throat: “Thank you all for coming.” His voice was carefully emptied of emotion. “We’re here today to discuss the terms that remain outstanding and, if possible, reach an agreement that serves the best interests of everyone involved.”

The words floated somewhere above her. Professional. Orderly. Clean. She heard every one of them but none of them felt real. Because all she could think was how absurd it was that the end of seven years could fit inside a folder no thicker than an inch.

The attorney on Michael’s side spoke first, sliding one of the folders forward.

“On the matter of custody,” He began, voice even and courteous almost, “Our client is requesting a standard shared arrangement. Equal time. A fifty-fifty split, alternating weeks, with flexibility for travel schedules given both parties’ professional commitments.”

The words landed in the center of the table, balanced and reasonable on paper—designed to sound like cooperation.

She kept her ⁠eyes fixed on the edge of her glass.

Fifty-fifty? As though fathers simply disappeared for weeks at a time, served their wives divorce papers through attorneys, built new lives somewhere else, and then returned expecting to divide a child neatly down the middle. Like time with a child could be weighed out evenly, as though it was something that could be portioned and exchanged without consequence. She never thought her own child would be subject to this kind of thing—life was cruel.

He wanted equal time. Equal responsibility. Equal claim. After everything he’s done.

Her own attorney shifted beside her, glancing once in her direction before responding. “We’ve reviewed that proposal,” He said calmly, “And at this stage our client is not in agreement.”

A pause.

The room tightened slightly.

Then he continued. “Given the current circumstances, she is requesting primary custody, with structured and supervised visitation.”

There it was, out in the open. Her stomach twisted again slower this time, bracing for impact long after the words had already been spoken. But she still didn’t look up—didn’t trust herself to see him yet. She wondered what his expression was..

Across from her, pens stopped moving. Someone exhaled quietly, the kind of sound people make when they’re pretending not to react.

Michael’s attorney adjusted his posture. “Supervised visitation is a.. significant limitation,” Je said, carefully choosing each word, “Especially in cases where both parties have been primary caregivers. On what basis is that being requested?”

Her pulse ticked harder beneath her skin.

Her attorney didn’t look at her, only answering immediately. “Stability,” He said. “And continuity of care during a period of documented instability.”

Documented instability.

A clinical phrase for something that felt anything but clinical when it lived inside her.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was dense. Heavy with everything no one wanted to say directly in front of everyone else. She could feel it then, faintly, the shift in the room’s attention. Not hostility but something more complicated. Assessment. Quiet recalculation. The way people looked at decisions when they realized they were about to become precedent.

Her fingers tightened under the table again.

Fifty-fifty.

Supervised visits.

The phrases repeated in her mind without sound, colliding against each other until they stopped meaning anything at all except conflict.

Michael’s attorney spoke again, softer this time, “Our client has no intention of being removed from his child’s life. If anything, he is requesting increased consistency. Predictability. Equal access to daily care, schooling routines, and—”

“He’s not being removed,” Her attorney interrupted gently. A pause followed by: “He’s being structured.”

She felt the nausea return in a slow wave, not as sharp as before, but deeper. More settled. Something that sat under her ribs and refused to move.

Across the table, paper turned softly. Someone marked a note. Another cleared their throat. And the discussion continued anyway, the shape of their child’s life simply another item to be negotiated between professionals who had never once had to hold him when he cried.

The attorney on his side spoke first, sliding a neatly tabbed folder toward the center of the table with practiced ease.

Her attorney shifted almost imperceptibly beside her.

“As stated before, we reviewed the proposal,” He said. “My client cannot agree to that arrangement.” The room remained silent as he continued. “She is requesting sole physical custody, with supervised visitation until a consistent pattern of stability has been established.”

Across the table, Michael’s attorney folded his hands together. “Could you clarify the basis for supervised visitation?”

Her attorney answered without hesitation. “The events of the past year.”

“I’m going to need something more specific than that.”

“As documented,” Her attorney replied evenly, “Mr. Jackson entered treatment following prolonged substance dependency. There were also extended periods of physical absence from the child, interrupted communication, and the abrupt dissolution of the marriage.”

His attorney gave a small nod.

“We don’t dispute treatment. In fact, your client voluntarily sought it. Rehabilitation is generally viewed as evidence of recovery rather than evidence of parental unfitness, that isn’t a factor in this.”

Michael attorney spoke again. “Our position is that whatever difficulties existed between husband and wife should remain separate from the child’s relationship with his father.”

Husband and wife.

As though those were just words.

As though the marriage had ended because two people had simply grown apart.

As though she hadn’t spent months bathing him when he couldn’t stand long enough to bathe himself. Feeding him because he forgot to eat. Sleeping beside him through endless nights when every phone call brought another problem. Holding together a household, a career, a child, and a man who no longer had the strength to hold himself together.

As though she’d stayed through every unbearable moment only to be discarded the second he was strong enough to leave.

And now..

Now he wanted fifty fucking percent.

(Name) didn’t want to keep a father from his son. But somewhere in the midst of disappearing, serving her with divorce papers through strangers, and forcing every conversation to happen through attorneys, he had somehow convinced himself he was entitled to walk back into fatherhood like nothing had broken in between? The thought was so staggering she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry.. Or stand up and leave because she felt offended.

Her attorney let the silence settle for a moment before folding his hands neatly atop the folder in front of him.

“We appreciate the sentiment,” He said, his tone remaining unfailingly courteous. “But respectfully.. we find that position difficult to reconcile with the circumstances that brought us here.”

Across the table, no one interrupted.

He continued. “My client has been the child’s primary source of consistency throughout the better part of the last year. She has maintained his routines, his medical appointments, his education, his home, and his day-to-day care while simultaneously managing an unprecedented level of public scrutiny surrounding the dissolution of this marriage.”

He glanced briefly toward the documents. “During that same period, your client voluntarily entered treatment, ceased regular communication for an extended length of time, and elected to initiate divorce proceedings through legal counsel rather than direct communication with his wife with another woman in his life.”

His voice never rose. “Against that backdrop, requesting an immediate fifty-fifty custodial arrangement is, ridiculous and not a proposal we consider realistic.”

The discussion continued for another two hours.

Nothing changed. Every proposal was met with another counterproposal. Every compromise unraveled the moment someone followed it with, “However..” Custody schedules became calendars spread across polished wood. Holidays were divided before they had even happened. Birthdays were discussed in alternating years. Christmases became odd numbered and even numbered. Every sentence sounded perfectly reasonable on its own.

Together, they sounded grotesque.

The conversation had long since stopped being productive. It was two immovable objects politely colliding with one another over and over again, dressed up in professional language and careful tones.

Finally, her attorney closed his folder, “I don't believe we’re making meaningful progress.”

No one disagreed. Across the table, opposing counsel gave a small nod. “I think a brief recess would be appropriate.”

“Perhaps twenty minutes,” Another someone added. “Give everyone a chance to speak with their clients privately and reassess before continuing.”

There was a quiet chorus of agreement.

Pens were capped. Legal pads were gathered. Someone reached across the table to collect a stack of exhibits that had slowly migrated into the center during the discussion. Chairs eased backward with soft scrapes against the floor, the room immediately feeling larger now that everyone had permission to move.

(Name) didn’t Her hands remained folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes stayed fixed on the untouched glass of water in front of her, the same glass she’d been staring at for nearly two hours. She heard the rustle of jackets, the quiet exchange of voices, the metallic click of briefcases closing. The meeting was ending, at least for now.

Then, for the first time since she had walked through the door.. Michael spoke: “..One moment.”

The room stilled.

It wasn’t that his voice was loud. It was almost the opposite. It was quiet enough that everyone instinctively stopped moving to hear him.

“I have a request.” Every eye shifted toward him and he wasn't looking at the attorneys. He was looking at her. “If everyone is comfortable with it..” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I’d like a few minutes alone with my wife.”

Silence settled over the room.

One attorney glanced toward another and (Name)’s attorney looked toward her, saying nothing as he wasn’t answering for her this time. He was waiting for her to speak while the request lingered between them.

Finally, opposing counsel spoke. “Well.. provided both parties consent, I don’t have an objection.”

Her attorney remained still for another moment before turning slightly toward her. “You don’t have to.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt painfully dry. “I know.”

"If you’d rather I stay, I stay.”

She closed her eyes briefly. This was the conversation she’d spent weeks dreading. It had been waiting for her whether there were lawyers in the room or not.

Slowly, she nodded. “It’s okay, Mark.”

Her attorney studied her face carefully, making sure she wasn’t agreeing out of pressure or obligation. Then he gave a small nod. “We’ll be right outside.”

One by one, the attorneys gathered their files and made their way toward the door. Their footsteps were quieter than before, everyone understood they were leaving behind something no legal training could prepare them to witness.

The door opened, then closed and the latch clicked softly.

And for the first time in months, there was no one left in the room except the two people whose names had been written across every page of the divorce file.

The silence that followed was worse than the situation at hand had been. At least that had given them something to hide behind: numbers, schedules, legal terms, the careful language of attorneys who could take something unbearably personal and reshape it into something that fit neatly inside a folder. Now there was nothing between them. No one interrupting. No one redirecting. No one stepping in when the weight of everything they had avoided finally settled into the room. For several moments, neither of them moved. (Name) remained exactly where she was, her posture still rigid from the hours she had spent forcing herself to stay composed. She didn’t need to look at him to know he was there, and that was the part she hated most. After months of distance, after everything that had happened, some part of her still recognized his presence before she ever saw him.

The quiet scrape of his chair shifting made her body react before her mind could. Her shoulders tensed, her fingers tightening together in her lap, her breath catching slightly. She wasn’t afraid of him, but some part of her was afraid of what would happen if she finally allowed herself to see him. The anger she had carried from a distance felt much easier to hold than the reality of having him sitting only a few feet away. Anger did not remember the good mornings, the private jokes, the years of knowing someone so completely that their absence felt like a missing piece of your own body.

“Can you..” His voice stopped.

An uncertain pause.

Her eyes remained fixed on the untouched glass in front of her, watching the faint reflection of the room distort across the surface.

“Can you look at me?”

The request was painfully simple. Almost too simple for everything that existed underneath it. Her fingers tightened further, but she didn’t answer. For a moment, neither did he. He didn’t push. He didn’t repeat himself. He simply waited.

That somehow made it harder.

“Please.” The word was quiet. Not a demand or even an expectation. A simple request of her.

She hated that he still had the ability to reach the parts of her that wanted to soften. She hated that one small word could pull at years of memories she had spent so long trying to bury beneath anger, paperwork, and silence. She had convinced herself that enough distance would make him easier to face, that time would turn him into someone she could look at without feeling everything at once.

But she was still sitting there, unable to lift her eyes. Because looking at him meant admitting he was real—that this was real. That the person who had once felt like home was sitting across from her, and she had no idea what to do with that anymore.

Her silence stretched for several seconds longer, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of silence that came when too many things were being held back at once, when every sentence she wanted to say had been swallowed before it could reach her mouth because none of them felt big enough to contain what she was actually feeling.

Her hands had started shaking again and she noticed it before he did. A faint tremor at first, barely visible beneath the table, her fingers twisting together. She pressed her thumb against the side of her hand, grounding herself, reminding herself that she was sitting in a room, that she was safe, that she was not back in those months of waiting for a phone call that never came.

It didn’t work, because the truth was she wasn't afraid of the room. She was afraid of the answers.

She finally lifted her eyes, but only for a moment. Long enough to see his face. Long enough for the anger and hurt she’d been carefully organizing for months to collide with the reality of him sitting there.

And then the question came out before she could stop it.

“Did you sleep with her?” Her expression changed the moment the question left her mouth, she looked exhaustion and wounded—the question itself had reached a place he had been desperately trying not to confront. For a moment, he simply stared at her, and when he finally spoke his voice was quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the weight of the room.

“(Name).. oh, God, please.” He looked down, his fingers shifting slightly against the edge of the table as he was searching for the right words and finding none of them. There was no defensiveness in him, no attempt to turn the question back on her. Somehow, that made it worse. She had prepared herself for anger. She had prepared herself for him to tell her she was being unfair or emotional or that she didn’t understand. She had prepared herself for a fight because a fight would have been easier than this careful, painful silence.

“Why are you asking me this?” The softness of it made something inside her crack. Her hands tightened together in her lap, feeling the frustration building beneath her ribs-she couldn’t.. she couldn’t fucking believe he didn’t understand why she needed to know. After months of unanswered questions, after watching her entire life collapse through headlines and whispers and conversations she wasn’t invited into, hearing him ask why felt unbearable.

“..Why am I asking you?” Her voice came out quieter at first, almost disbelieving. She looked at him for a moment, tears already gathering in her eyes, before shaking her head. “Why am I asking you?!”

“You know why I'm asking you, Michael!”

“(Name), please..”

“No!” The word came quickly, sharper than she intended. She swallowed, trying to steady herself, but the effort was useless. The control she had walked into the room with was gone, stripped away piece by piece until there was nothing left but the person underneath it.

“No, no, nonononono! Don’t do that!” She stood suddenly, a detached smile pulling at her lips. “I thought this was going to be an honest conversation! Don’t say my name like I’m the one being unreasonable!”

He went quiet and looked away as she pressed her lips together, she trying to keep herself from falling apart in front of him. It was almost humiliating how much she was still affected by him. How after everything, she was still sitting across from him hoping he would say something that made any of it make sense.

“I spent months trying to figure out what happened—look at me!” She snapped, her voice shaking as she watched him reluctantly look. “I spent months wondering if you were okay, wondering if you hated me, wondering if I did something wrong. I was trying to understand how we went from what we were to this, and then suddenly everyone else seemed to know things I didn’t!”

Her fingers curled against the table. “So yes, I am asking you.” She looked back at him. “Because I deserve to know!”

He inhaled quietly, but before he could respond, she continued.

“Tell me.” Her voice rose, the restraint finally snapping under the weight of everything she had been carrying. “Tell me!”

Her palm struck the table before she even realized she had moved. The sound startled even her, echoing through the empty conference room. Aggression and rage, yes. It was desperation. The kind that came from someone who had spent too long swallowing every question because she was afraid of what the answer might be.

“You at least owe me that much.”

The anger vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the grief underneath. Her shoulders shook, tears spilling freely now as she looked at him. “You owe me the truth.”

Michael didn’t say anything. Then his expression shifted, and when he finally answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“No.”

She blinked. “What?”

“No.” He shook his head slightly. “Nothing happened.”

The answer should have relieved her. It didn’t. Instead, it created an entirely new kind of confusion. She stared at him, almost unable to process the words. “Nothing?”

“Nothing happened between us.”

Her brows furrowed as she searched his face, waiting for the rest of the explanation. Waiting for the part that would make everything fit together again. But there wasn’t one.

A small, broken laugh escaped her. “What the fuck? Then what am I supposed to do with that, Michael?”

He didn’t answer. Because that was the question neither of them wanted to confront.

If nothing happened, then why?

Why had everything changed?

Why had she been left behind?

Why had another woman become the center of every conversation surrounding the end of their marriage?

Her breathing became uneven as she looked at him, her anger slowly shifting into something much more painful. “What does she have?”

His expression changed slightly. “(Name), please don’t do this right now..”

“Shut up!” She shook her head, tears continuing to fall. “What does she have?” She pressed. “What has she done for you that I haven’t!”

He looked away.

That movement broke something in her. “I was there! I was there!” Her voice cracked. “I was there when things were difficult! I was there when nobody else understood what was happening! I stayed when it was hard—I stayed when it wasn’t convenient! I stayed when I had every reason to walk away! I love you!”

She wiped at her face, but it did nothing. “Tell me what I didn't give you!” He remained silent. “Tell me what I wasn’t!” The room seemed to shrink around them. ”What did she have that I don't, Mikey? Please!”

Michael couldn’t look at her. And that silence was its own answer. Not the answer she had been expecting. Her expression slowly changed as another realization began settling into place. It wasn’t sudden but a quiet, horrible understanding that arrived piece by piece.

If nothing happened between them.. then something else had.

Something before.

Her voice lowered. “Were you were talking to her before all this? Is that why you were coming home late?” He went still as she stared at him, watching his reaction. “You were.”

A pause. “You had to have been.” The tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t look away. “Because people don’t just wake up one day and end up here.”

Her voice trembled. “She didn’t just appear outta nowhere.” And for the first time, the thought that had been circling her mind for months finally became something she could say aloud. “You—you were already letting her into your life while I was still trying to save ours! To fix you!”

He was quiet for so long that she felt the answer before he ever spoke it. She searched his face desperately for the instinctive denial that never came, for the immediate shake of his head that would let her believe she had spent months torturing herself over nothing. Instead, he lowered his eyes, his jaw tightening subtly as though the effort of choosing his next words had become physically painful. It was such a small movement, so insignificant to anyone else, but to her it felt catastrophic. She had spent the better part of eight weeks replaying every conversation, every silence, every headline, trying to identify the exact moment she’d stopped being enough. Now she was watching it happen in real time, watching the man who had once answered every fear before she could even voice it suddenly become incapable of giving her the one reassurance she needed most.

“Yes.” The word landed with almost no force at all and her expression didn’t change. He swallowed before continuing, unable to meet her eyes for more than a second at a time. “Yes.. we were spending time together. We were friends.” He said it carefully, almost cautiously like there was a version of those words that existed without causing harm. “It wasn’t..” He paused, rubbing absently at his thumb with the opposite hand. “It wasn’t anything you’re making it out to be, honestly.”

She stared at him for several long seconds, trying to reconcile what he’d just said with the reality she’d been living. Friends. Such an ordinary word. Such an innocent word. It almost made her laugh. Months of silence. Months of unanswered phone calls. Months of waking up alone, wondering whether her husband still remembered she existed, only to discover that while she’d been clinging to the ruins of their marriage, he’d been building a “friendship” with another woman. The same friendship he and her once shared seven years ago? Oh, she bets, Whether he believed it had been innocent no longer mattered. Innocent things didn’t grow in secret. Innocent things didn’dmt survive only because one person had been left completely in the dark.

“It wasn’t anything I’m making it out to be?” She repeated quietly, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief. “Michael, I’m your wife!” The last word nearly caught in her throat. “I was sitting at home wondering why you wouldn’t speak to me while you were talking to somebody else, and you’re telling me I'm making something out of nothing?” She laughed then, but it was a broken sound, one born entirely out of exhaustion. “Do you even hear yourself?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but she was already shaking her head.

“No, no, don’t explain it away. Just answer me.” She leaned forward slightly, “Are you planning to be with her?”

The question lingered between them.

He didn’t answer, of course.

He tried. She could see him trying. His lips parted, his chest rose with a slow breath, and for one impossible second she thought he was finally going to give her something, anything, that she could survive. Instead, nothing came. His eyes drifted away from hers again, settling somewhere over her shoulder, as though even the possibility of speaking the truth aloud was more than he could bear.

She felt the air leave her lungs.

“If the answer was no,” She whispered, “You would’ve said no—is that what you do, Michael? You fuck all your girl friends?”

Still nothing.

The room seemed to tilt around her. She could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner somewhere overhead, the muffled footsteps of people passing outside the conference room, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding so violently in her ears that it drowned out almost everything else. It was astonishing, she thought, how quickly a person’s entire world could be rearranged by someone refusing to answer a single question.

“Do you love her?” She hadn’t meant to ask it.

It escaped her the way all the worst truths did, before pride had the chance to stop them. There was no anger left in her voice now, only desperation. It was the question beneath every other question she’d asked since sitting down. Not whether he’d betrayed her. Not whether he’d lied. Simply whether there was still anything left of the man who had once loved her so completely she had built her entire life around it.

Michael couldn’t answer that one either. His eyes closed for the briefest moment, and when he opened them again, they still wouldn’t meet hers. “I..” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

(Name) simply stared at him, then something inside her gave way. A short, breathless laugh escaped her, so hollow it barely sounded human. She sat back in her chair as tears spilled unchecked down her face, looking at him not with hatred but with a kind of horrified disbelief, as though she no longer recognized the person sitting across from her.

“You don’t know?” She repeated, almost whispering. “After everything.. after seven years.. after everything I gave you, everything we survived together, you don’t know?” She shook her head slowly, wiping at tears that refused to stop falling. “You’re a psychopath.”

“I have spent so long convincing myself that I missed something. That I wasn’t enough. That maybe there was something she could give you that I couldn’t.” Her breathing had become ragged now, every sentence interrupted by the effort of trying not to break completely. “So tell me.” She looked at him then, really looked at him, her eyes red and glistening with grief. “What has she done for you that I haven’t? What does she have that I don’t? I stood beside you through everything. I loved you when the rest of the world decided you weren’t worth loving. I built my life around yours because I believed we were building something together.”

Her voice cracked so sharply she had to stop and swallow before continuing. “And now you’re sitting across from me telling me you don’t know if you love this bitch?”

The realization arrived almost imperceptibly, settling over her in slow, unbearable pieces. If nothing physical had happened, if he was telling the truth about that much, then there had still been something. Something that had begun long before the divorce papers arrived, long before the headlines, long before she had any reason to suspect another name belonged in the story of her marriage. She lowered her eyes for only a moment before lifting them again, and when she spoke this time, her voice had become frighteningly calm.

Neither of them spoke after that.

The silence that settled over the room no longer felt tense. It felt exhausted. There was nothing left to argue about, nothing left to explain. Every question she had carried into that building had either been answered or answered by omission, and somehow the omissions hurt more. She sat motionless in her chair, staring at nothing in particular as tears continued slipping down her face, too emotionally spent to wipe them away anymore. Across the table, he remained just as still, his hands folded together in front of him, his gaze lowered to the polished wood between them. Whatever words either of them might have found earlier had long since abandoned the room.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Neither of them responded.

Another knock followed, more tentative this time, before the conference room door opened just enough for one of the attorneys to lean his head inside.

“I’m sorry,” He said carefully, his eyes moving between the two of them almost immediately. It didn’t take legal training to recognize that whatever had happened during the recess had not gone well. “(Name).. Michael.. are we interrupting something?”

She blinked once, she’d forgotten where she was. The conference room slowly came back into focus. The legal folders. The glasses of water. The yellow legal pads scattered across the table. Her attorney stood just beyond the doorway with her manager beside him, both of them studying her face with immediate concern. She could almost watch the realization spread across their expressions as they took in her swollen eyes, the mascara beginning to gather beneath them despite every attempt she’d made to hold herself together.

Her manager instinctively took a half-step forward. “(Name)..”

She lifted a hand before he could come any closer.

It wasn’t to stop him. It was because she couldn’t bear for anyone to fuss over her right now. She drew a slow, uneven breath that caught halfway through her chest before finally managing to speak.

“..Could I..” Her voice disappeared as she swallowed hard and tried again, this time barely above a whisper. “Could I have.. just a few minutes?”

Everyone remained still.

She looked toward her attorney, unable to quite meet anyone’s eyes for more than a second. I just..” She pressed trembling fingertips against the corner of one eye, frustrated when another tear escaped anyway. “I need to.. get away from him.”

No one said anything immediately.

There wasn’t anything to say.

Her attorney gave a small nod first. “Of course.”

She pushed her chair back carefully, surprised that her legs still worked beneath her. They felt disconnected from the rest of her body, numb, and she had to steady herself against the edge of the conference table before taking her first step. No one tried to stop her as she crossed the room, though she could feel every pair of eyes following her. Her manager instinctively moved as though to accompany her, but she offered him the smallest shake of her head.

“I’ll be alright,” She lied quietly.

He knew it was a lie.

She knew he knew.

Still, he respected it.

The receptionist looked up from her desk just in time to see her emerge, immediately rising from her chair with the professionalism of someone accustomed to recognizing distress without drawing attention to it.

“The ladies' room is just around the corner,” She said gently, gesturing toward the end of the hall.

(Name) managed a faint nod. “Thank you.”

Her heels echoed softly against the marble floor as she walked away. She kept her chin lifted until she rounded the corner and disappeared from everyone’s view.

Only then did she let herself unravel.

The hotel suite was unnaturally quiet.

Michael hadn’t spoken once during the drive back. His attorney had attempted conversation exactly twice before recognizing the futility of it, and the remainder of the ride had passed in silence, broken only by the dull rhythm of tires against pavement and the occasional crackle of the radio that nobody bothered to turn off. By the time he let himself into the room, the exhaustion settling over him wasn’t physical. It lived somewhere much deeper, clinging stubbornly beneath his ribs. Lisa looked up from the sofa when she heard the door open, quietly closing the magazine resting in her lap the moment she saw his face.

“How’d it go?” she asked softly as he slipped his jacket from his shoulders without answering, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair before rubbing both hands over his face. Every muscle in his body felt tight.

“..I don’t wanna talk about it.” There was no irritation in his voice. Just fatigue. A kind of emptiness. She watched him for a moment before giving a small nod.

“Okay.” That was all. No questions. No, What happened? No, What did she say? No, attempt to coax the conversation out of him. She simply returned the magazine to her lap, allowing the silence to settle naturally between them. And somehow… that had become unhealthy for him.

Michael lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently at the carpet. He wasn’t thinking about the meeting anymore. Not entirely. He was thinking about everything that had happened before it, about the strange way memory had begun rearranging itself somewhere between the intervention and the weeks he spent in rehabilitation. Rationally, he knew the people around him had been trying to save his life. The doctors. His attorneys. His family. Even (Name). She had wanted him sober, healthy, present, alive. He knew that. He truly did. But memory was rarely interested in fairness. But looking back, he didn’t remember feeling protected. He remembered feeling cornered. Every concerned expression had become another reminder that something was wrong with him. Every difficult conversation became another decision someone else was making on his behalf. Doctors telling him what he needed. Lawyers explaining what was best. Friends watching him with careful eyes, silently evaluating whether today was a good day or a bad one. Even the woman he loved most had slowly become another voice asking him to stop, to change, to get help, to fight harder. She hadn’t been wrong. That wasn’t the point. Pain had a remarkable way of convincing people that love and pressure were the same thing, and by the time he left rehabilitation, he could no longer separate the two.

Then Lisa had called. She hadn’t asked whether he’d been taking his medication. She hadn’t questioned the decisions he’d made or reminded him what his doctors wanted. She never looked at him with that quiet mixture of hope and worry everyone else seemed unable to hide, as though they were all waiting for him to fall apart again. When he complained, she listened. When he sat in silence for minutes at a time, she never rushed to fill it. When he admitted he was tired, she didn’t tell him how to fix himself. She simply stayed. Around her, he didn’t feel like a patient. He didn’t feel like someone everyone was desperately trying to repair before he broke again. He didn’t feel like the center of another intervention. He felt like himself. Or at least, the version of himself he had been before every conversation became about what was wrong with him. He could breathe. The realization should have frightened him. It didn’t. Because nowhere in his mind had he labeled it betrayal.

When (Name) had looked across the conference table that afternoon, tears streaming down her face as she asked, Did you sleep with her? the answer had come effortlessly. No. Nothing happened. He believed it. He still believed it. There had been no affair. No kiss. No stolen night hidden from the world. Nothing physical had crossed the line his conscience had always considered unforgivable. To him, fidelity had always lived in actions that could be seen, touched, named. By that definition, he had remained faithful until the end. What he refused to examine were the things that couldn’t be photographed.

The phone calls that gradually became longer than the conversations he had with his own wife. The fears he confessed to another woman because they somehow felt easier to say aloud there. The loneliness. The frustration. The parts of himself that had once belonged inside his marriage but had quietly migrated somewhere else. He hadn’t chosen another woman in one catastrophic moment. He had simply stopped choosing the first one in hundreds of tiny, forgettable ones, each decision so insignificant on its own that none of them had felt capable of ending a marriage until they had all accumulated into exactly that.

His jaw tightened as her voice returned to him with startling clarity.

“What has she done for you that I haven’t?”

He closed his eyes.

Because there wasn’t an answer. Not an honest one.

Lisa hadn’t sacrificed more. She hadn’t stood beside him through years of scrutiny, impossible expectations, and relentless public judgment. She hadn’t watched him crumble and stayed anyway. She hadn’t built a home with him, celebrated birthdays with him, learned the invisible ways he unraveled when the world became too loud, or spent years believing in him when believing had become difficult. (Name) had done all of that. She had given him years. Lisa had given him relief. Those were not the same thing. Yet somewhere inside him, relief had quietly begun masquerading as understanding. It had become easier to sit beside someone who expected nothing from him than to face the woman whose expectations existed only because she had spent years believing he could survive. He had mistaken the absence of conflict for peace, the absence of accountability for acceptance, and by the time he understood the difference, it was too late to explain it without sounding like he was searching for excuses.

He leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly toward the ceiling as the room settled once again into silence. For the first time since leaving the conference room, he allowed himself to hear her final words exactly as she’d spoken them.

“You don’t even know if you love her.”

He wanted to tell himself she was wrong. He wanted to believe the distinction mattered. That friendship was friendship. That nothing physical had happened. That he hadn’t crossed the line she believed he had. But lying alone in the quiet, stripped of attorneys, explanations, and carefully chosen language, he found himself confronting a possibility he had spent months avoiding. Perhaps the cruelest betrayals were never the obvious ones. Perhaps they happened so gradually they were almost impossible to notice while they were occurring. Conversation by conversation. Confidence by confidence. One ordinary day after another, until the person who had once known you better than anyone else slowly became the last person you allowed inside your heart.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ June, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ 1994 MTV Video Music Awards.

It hadn’t been one thing that made her spiral. If it had been one thing, maybe she could’ve gotten through the night.

But walking into her first award show since the divorce and realizing every hallway, every dressing room, every stretch of red carpet carried memories she hadn’t asked to revisit, was a lot. It was seeing him again for the first time not as her husband, not even as someone she could still pretend belonged somewhere in her future, but as another woman’s husband. It was watching them move through the room together with the kind of love she remembered once belonging to her. Then came them taking the stage. The applause. The cameras. And when they kissed beneath the lights, the room erupted around them as if the entire world had collectively decided to celebrate the life she’d spent months grieving.

That was her melting point.

Her manicured nails fumbled with the tiny bottle in her clutch, the bathroom lights too bright as they glinted off the pill caps. The celebrity style mirror mocks her—this is supposed to be a night of rebirth for her, and yet here she is squeezing five little white lies into her palm like they’re candy. A shaky breath hitches in her throat as she dry swallows them one by one, tasting salt and dissolving on the back of her tongue.

She stares at herself in horror through the mirror because who would cry for someone else’s husband? He wasn’t hers anymore. Her reflection wavers when a knock sounds at the door: “Two minutes ‘til hair and makeup, Miss (Name)!” calls an assistant whose name tag she didn’t remember reading.

There was a point where she stopped feeling like she was in the room at all, like her attention had slipped a few inches behind her actual body and was now watching everything happen from slightly off angle, delayed just enough that nothing lined up cleanly anymore. Voices reached her, but they didn’t land where they were supposed to. They skimmed across the surface of her awareness and kept going.

Someone said her name and she thought she answered, but she wasn’t entirely sure she had.

Her hands were being touched, adjusted, moved into place. Nothing aggressive, just corrective like she was a product on a conveyor belt that needed alignment before being sent forward. The feeling that accompanied it wasn’t panic yet. It was something flatter and an uncomfortable absence of ownership, because her body was no longer something she was directly responsible for managing.

There was a mirror somewhere near her, and she caught herself in it without meaning to. The reflection looked correct in the way costumes look correct on mannequins, everything in place without necessarily belonging to anything living. She stared at it for a second too long, waiting for recognition to catch up, but it never came.

There was just a murmur of thought forming underneath everything else.

I don’t feel well enough to be perceived right now.

But there was no space to say it out loud, and even if there had been, it felt like the kind of statement that wouldn’t change anything. The show would still happen. The lights would still open. The audience would still exist on the other side of whatever threshold she was being pushed toward.

A voice near her said something about timing, something about cues, something about being ready, and she tried to attach meaning to it, but the words kept arriving too late, like subtitles out of sync with dialogue. She focused instead on breathing, because breathing was still something she could technically confirm was happening. In and out. In and out. A system she didn’t have to negotiate with. But even that started to feel slightly detached, like it was happening near her rather than inside her.

From somewhere beyond the curtain there was applause again. It didn’t feel like it belonged to her world anymore. It felt like it belonged to people who still had consistent access to themselves. She wondered, distantly, what that must be like. To be fully inside your own life while it was happening.

A curtain shifted.

Someone said her name again, closer this time, like they were trying to bring her back into range. She tried to respond properly. Tried to find the version of herself that was supposed to be here, ready, contained, professional, whatever word people used for being intact in public.

But she’s not there tonight. The fact is, she’s fucked up on medication no one even knows she’s taking.

The backstage corridor felt so congested, everything moved in a delay. Voices came through water. Hands touched her arm and didn’t fully register as contact until after they had already let go. Someone said her name more than once before she realized it was directed at her and not the general atmosphere of panic forming quietly around her.

She was sitting, or maybe she had been sitting and was no longer, it was hard to tell where one state ended and the next began. The dress was already on. Hair fixed. Makeup finished in a way that looked correct under stage lighting and slightly unfamiliar up close, but it belonged to someone she had seen before but didn’t fully recognize as herself. The award show monitor down the hall flickered with rehearsals, applause, other people’s certainty.

There were voices around her that had shifted from instruction to hesitation.

“She’s not—” Someone started.

“She can’t go out like that,” Someone else said, lower.

A hand adjusted something on her shoulder. Another voice asked if she could hear them. She could hear them. She just couldn’t decide what hearing meant anymore. Words arrived, stayed for a moment, then dissolved before they could attach themselves to meaning. Everything felt slightly out of sync with itself, her body had agreed to show up but her awareness had not signed the same contract.

Someone was talking about timing.

Someone else was talking about canceling.

Her name again, more urgent this time. She blinked slowly at the floor as if it might offer instructions. The thing was, no one was really looking at her like she was a person anymore. That was the first thought that came through clearly enough to hurt— a distant, clinical recognition that she had become a variable in a situation that needed to be resolved.

Another mirror caught her reflection when she turned her head slightly. It looked like her. That was the most confusing part. Everything was correct but nothing matched.

Someone said, “We can push it. We can stall—”

Another voice cut in, “No, she’s on next.”

And that was when the room changed shape again. A stage manager appeared at the edge of her vision, speaking carefully, like approaching something that might break or bite or simply stop responding if handled too quickly.

“You’re up in a minute.” … “Do you understand?”

She tried to answer again. The attempt happened somewhere between thought and speech and didn’t fully complete as either. Instead, she nodded, or thought she did, or maybe just moved her head in a way that could be interpreted as agreement.

The corridor tightened around that decision immediately.

Someone stepped closer, checking her posture, adjusting her position like she was something that needed alignment rather than reassurance. There were words about marks on stage, about timing cues, about breathing. None of it landed in sequence. It came in fragments that refused to assemble into instruction.

Then there was the sound of applause from beyond the curtain. Not for her but for whoever had just finished.

A hand touched her back lightly.

“You go when it opens,” Someone said. “Just follow the light.”

The stage manager looked at her for a long moment longer than necessary, like there was still time to reverse something if enough certainty was introduced quickly enough.

There wasn’t.

The curtain up ahead shifted.

And her body, whether she agreed with it or not, began to move.

Michael almost didn’t attend.

The invitation had been sitting on his desk for weeks, accepted more out of obligation than enthusiasm. Industry events had become exercises in endurance lately. Smile when expected. Shake hands. Congratulate people whose names blurred together before the conversation had even ended. He had become remarkably good at appearing present while feeling entirely elsewhere. Lisa sat beside him as the lights dimmed, the auditorium gradually sinking into darkness as conversations softened into scattered murmurs. Applause rippled through the crowd when someone stepped onto the stage to introduce the next act.

Then her name echoed through the theater, carried through the speakers with practiced enthusiasm. Michael felt his stomach tighten before she had even appeared. He hadn’t seen her since the mediation. Not really. Not outside the memories that seemed determined to replay themselves whenever the world became quiet enough for him to hear them. He still heard her voice sometimes with startling clarity, still heard the accusation she had leveled at him across that conference table.

You dont even know if you love her.

It had followed him home. Followed him to bed. Followed him into every quiet moment since. The curtains parted. She stepped into the spotlight. For one fleeting second, she looked exactly as she always had. Beautiful. Poised. Elegant. Untouchable. The kind of performer capable of commanding an arena simply by standing still. Then the music began, and almost immediately something felt wrong.

Not obvious. Not enough that anyone unfamiliar with her would have noticed. The audience certainly didn’t. To them she was mesmerizing. Magnetic. Yet Michael found himself sitting forward almost instantly. She missed a mark by half a step. Barely noticeable. The kind of mistake most people would never catch. But he did. Then she remained still during a transition where choreography should have carried her across the stage. Her eyes drifted beyond the audience for a fraction of a second too long, lingering somewhere far away before she seemed to remember where she was and continued. Even her smile appeared delayed, arriving a beat late before disappearing altogether. Around him, thousands of people watched in complete silence, captivated by what they believed was an extraordinarily emotional performance.

Michael knew better. This wasn’t artistry. This wasn’t a creative choice. Every movement felt detached from her body, it looked like she was remembering the cues rather than inhabiting it. There were moments where she seemed–drunk. This was not a part of the performance. The realization settled heavily in his chest as the song continued, growing more devastating with every passing verse. Her voice never faltered. If anything, it became stronger. But strength wasn’t what made it unbearable. It was the rawness beneath it. The feeling that every note carried something she had never managed to say aloud. For the first time since the divorce meeting, he wasn’t hearing lyrics. He was hearing everything she’d swallowed. Every unanswered phone call. Every night she’d spent waiting. Every apology he had never given her. Every question he’d never truly answered.

By the middle of the performance, unease had settled so deeply beneath his skin that it became impossible to ignore. He shifted forward in his seat without realizing he’d done it. Beside him, Lisa noticed immediately.

“You okay?” she asked quietly. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the stage. Something was wrong. The sensation crawled through him with growing certainty.

“I’m gonna go backstage for a minute.” Lisa frowned slightly, glancing toward the stage before looking back at him.

“Michael..”

“I’ll be right back.” He was already standing, beneath reason and logic, an older instinct had begun sounding an alarm he couldn’t ignore. He had spent years beside her. Years learning the subtle signs most people never noticed. The shorter breaths. The thousand yard stare. The way she’d lock her knees when she was trying not to collapse. The tiny changes that happened before panic arrived. Before exhaustion arrived. Before she admitted she wasn’t okay. He knew them all. His body recognized them before his mind could fully process what he was seeing.

The applause erupted behind him as he slipped through the auditorium doors. The sound followed him down a maze of unfamiliar hallways lined with security personnel, production staff, equipment cases, and cables taped neatly across the floor. He walked quickly at first, then faster. The muffled sound of the performance echoed through the walls until, somewhere near the dressing room corridor, the music stopped altogether. Then came shouting. Panicked. Urgent. Sharp. The kind of voices people used when something had gone wrong and everyone was trying not to make it worse. Someone yelled for a medic. Another voice shouted for space. Footsteps thundered down the hallway as crew members rushed past carrying equipment, forcing him against the wall. Security began converging toward a dressing room farther ahead. Michael’s stomach dropped instantly. He didn’t think. He started moving faster. Then running. By the time he reached the doorway, a crowd had already formed. Security personnel. Production assistants. Crew members speaking rapidly into radios. Two medics knelt somewhere beyond the bodies he couldn’t see through. He caught only the briefest glimpse of her sequined fabric disappearing beneath someone’s shoulder before another person stepped into his line of sight.

“What happened?” he asked.

Nobody answered.

The hallway was chaos. People moving in every direction. Radios crackling. Equipment being carried inside.

“What happened?” he repeated, louder this time.

A production assistant glanced toward him only long enough to recognize who had spoken.

“She collapsed.”

The words struck him with almost physical force.

“What?”

“She passed out after she came offstage.”

For a moment everything else seemed to disappear. The hallway. The noise. The people. His feet were moving before he’d consciously decided to move.

“I need to see her.” He barely managed three steps before someone intercepted him. Her manager stepped directly into his path firmly enough to make it clear he wasn’t getting through.

“I’m sorry.”

Michael stared at him in disbelief. “I need to see her.”

“I can’t let you in.” The words sounded unreal. His voice cracked despite himself. “Please.”

For the briefest second, sympathy flickered across the other man’s face. Sympathy. Regret. Understanding. Then it vanished. “She doesn’t need this right now.”

The sentence landed harder than anything that had been said during the divorce meeting. Because for years, he had been the first person people called when something went wrong. The first person through the door. The one sitting beside hospital beds. The one holding her hand. The one making decisions. The one people automatically looked toward in a crisis. Now he wasn’t even allowed inside the room. His gaze drifted instinctively past her manager’s shoulder, searching desperately for some glimpse of her through the crowd moving around the doorway. He saw nothing. Only medics. Only crew members. Only a closed circle of people trying to help her. A circle that no longer included him. His hands hung uselessly at his sides. There was nothing to argue. No legal language to hide behind. No compromise to negotiate. No loophole to exploit. The divorce had quietly altered something he hadn’t fully understood until this exact moment. He still possessed every instinct that had once made him her husband. Every urge to protect her. To sit beside her. To make sure she was okay. But instincts and rights were not the same thing. He no longer had the right. After a long moment, his shoulders sagged.

He lowered his eyes. “..Okay.” The word barely escaped him. Then he turned and walked away, each step feeling disconnected from the last. Behind him, the dressing room door remained closed. The people inside continued working.

It all started slowly — the first month was bliss. You were home for him every single night, dinner hot and steaming on the stove as you smiled and dished up his fill. Every night, you'd wait up for him, posed in revealing sleep clothes as he crawled in next to you. Of course, the sex was good — mindblowing, almost, and a common multi-week occurrence. Kento hasn't reached for his right hand since he laid eyes on you, and that was proof enough that he needed to have you as his own.

What those first three months didn't warn him about was when things would start to fizzle out. It started with your lack of company, blaming it on your restlessness and how you wanted to see and be with your friends after giving him all of your time. Kento agreed when you asked him to duck out so you could have a night to yourself, understanding that nurturing female friendships meant more to you than he could have imagined.

Then, you got too comfortable doing that same thing — ducking out once he was already in bed without notice, leaving him to wake up in the middle of the night with the left side of the bed lonely and cold.

Tonight, though, was the first night that you weren't home at all when he returned from work. As he pulled into his parking space, he felt the shift of abnormality almost immediately, warning his body to calm its racing heart as he turned the ignition, grabbed his briefcase, and stepped out onto the pavement.

All the lights are off, the wind is steady, and his footsteps echo against his polished soles as he walks the path to his front door.

Just as he thought, and much to his dismay, the door is locked, and you're not waiting for him when he steps inside. Still, like the hopeful idiot he thinks he is, Kento calls out into the space, "I'm home, my love,"

Silence bites him back like a whip to the spine, jolting him back to life after a stressful day crunching numbers behind the blue light of his company computer. His case falls at his side in a dull, lifeless thump, echoing through the empty space like an insult to his sanity. He scans the dark room, planting an open palm to the wall as he toes off his dress shoes. He sighs around the mundane action, wishing it were you at his feet, looking up at him with those sweet eyes, begging to take his shoes off so you can properly welcome him home.

Instead, he pads into the kitchen, flicking on the lights, hoping for a sign that you're home and waiting for him. It's cruel — a long day leading into an even longer, unforgiving night seemingly without you at his side.

A note sits on the marble countertop, lit by the bright overhead lights, drawing attention. Kento sighs as he approaches, already up to his ears in annoyance and slight disappointment, though he'd never explicitly tell you as much. To him, this is still a new… arrangement. Sure, after the wedding, you two sat and spoke tirelessly about what you both need in a relationship, but you're still young, in your twenties, so Kento gave you grace.

But now it seems like he's offered too much as he squints at the note, his free hand bunched in a fist at his side.

Hi, sorry i missed you, love i hope your day wasn't too stressful and i'm sorry i couldn't greet you. in fact, you just missed me

i portioned out some leftovers for you in the refrigerator, all you have to do is just warm it up in the oven.

don't worry about me, i'm safe, just visiting a friend going through a shitty breakup. she needs me, so i hope you can understand. i shouldn't be back too late and would love to make it up to you when i get home if you're still awake. see u soon.

Kento can't be mad…

Scratch that — he's pissed.

He takes the note, bunching it in a solid, crumpled ball in his fist and tossing it towards the sink, rolling his eyes and dropping his head. His slicked blonde locks fall from their jelled hold, and all he truly wants to do is call you, but he understands your distance. He can't understand why you're so quick to rush to a friend's aid when he's here, lonely, aching for you in ways he's far too modest to explain.

Kento plants both open palms on the countertop, sighing heavily through his nose and letting his head fall. He stays like that for a moment, still trying to calm the racing of his heart, unable to swallow down the bone-deep disappointment and exhaustion he feels. Kento catches himself suppressing a… whine, eyes screwed shut as he tries to distract his pounding head from your sweet memory.

He's not hungry for leftovers; Kento is hungry for you. He wants to devour the way your back looks, hunched over his stove, and not the aftertaste of melded flavors all joined together by the cool prison of the refrigerator.

"She must think I'm a fool," Kento whispers to himself, looking up to snatch the crumpled note in his grip and toss it into the garbage as he leaves the kitchen. He doesn't think he's above leftovers, but he's definitely above letting you tiptoe and avoid his presence when he needs you now, more than ever.

You come back home well after midnight, silently pulling open the front door and wincing at the creak in the hinges. Kento's shoes are tossed by the door, neatly sitting side by side where you'd usually pick them up and place them on the shoe-shelf. His work bag hangs lazily, where you'd usually unpack the scattered papers, straighten, and place them in his home office.

He doesn't have to tell you that he's disappointed; you can smell it in the air, and the lack of the sweet, wafting smell of the dinner you left for him.

With a silent sigh, you shrug off your light jacket and step into your home, flicking on some lights in passing. You move to the kitchen, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes to check and see if he ate your prepared meal, only to find it sitting untouched on the third shelf in the refrigerator. That, in itself, is enough of a sign to know what you're doomed to walk into when you retreat to the bedroom. Still, it doesn't scare you, Kento isn't a scary man when he's upset — just a bit… elusive, hard to grasp, and avoidant.

You love every season of his mood, but you find yourself lingering in the hallway, heart racing as you try to balance the scales in your mind. He could be asleep, or he could be waiting for you with his glasses perched low, a book on his propped knee with the light of the bedside lamp playing on his brow. Perhaps he'd crack a cynical joke to bring the atmosphere down and welcome you into his space, but more likely than not, he'd be asleep, back to the door, avoiding you until his alarm rings at the crack of daylight.

You take your chances with a steady breath, wrapping your hand around the slim doorknob and slowly turning it. The bedroom is dark — no lamplight giving you a welcome sign to his presence. In a way, you're grateful for it, but in the same breath, you're devastated that he couldn't wait up for you. You noticed the absence of the letter you'd left, a good sign in and of itself, but a sorry one, because you didn't know where he'd put it or if he'd shrugged it off in annoyance.

The letters aren't a new key to your relationship. They're something that you two carried on throughout dating — just small little notes that he didn't want to translate via text or call. You'd drop off dinner at his place with a sweet note, and he'd return your dishware with a similar note, crooning his love and appreciation for you. At the bar where you met, he slipped you his number and name on a ripped-off work letter, wordlessly slipping out through the front door as you unfolded your destiny in front of the bartender. You would text him, and the endearments would go unresponded to until he saw you next, making sure he slipped his daily letter close to you when you weren't looking. He was… shy, now he's distant when he's nervous or tired.

You close the bedroom door slowly behind you, careful not to disturb the rest he needs so he can endlessly provide for you and your non-working lifestyle. Still, the tiny click of the lock makes him stir, his shadowy frame shifting onto its side, holding his fluffed pillow close like it's your body. It makes you smile just a touch, and you so badly want to wake him and fall into his arms, but you hold back.

Bypassing the bed, you shrug off into the en-suite to change out of your clothes and shower off, hoping the soft stream of water would be enough to gently lull him out of his rest so he can dote on you.

It only takes twenty minutes, then the bathroom is full of steam and the familiarity of your perfumed body wash. You slip out the door, wet, warm footprints leaving a disappearing path on the wood as you pad over to the bed. Kento shifts again, and when you get close enough, you can see the whites of his eyes against the darkness of the moonlight. It startles you in a way that makes you smile as you climb into bed, waiting on your knees as he blinks up at you.

Wordlessly, you reach for him, combing a hand through his night-drenched locks. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I'm sorry you weren't here when I got home."

Your heart falls, a small frown settling over your face. You keep your hand in his hair, your thumb rubbing across his soft forehead, collecting the oils in his skin to melt with yours. "I'm sorry."

Kento doesn't respond. He turns to his side, blocking you out with his back to you as you settle in, shellshocked at his distance.

It's not like this is the first time you weren't able to greet him after a long day, but this time feels so utterly different. He shrugs you off, and it feels like your world is ending — your heart is in your ass, racing like a million hares running a marathon atop your lovebed.

"Me, too."

After that night, nothing was really the same.

Kento pedaled back, and he did so, hard. His distance created distance with you, feeling like you have to walk on tiptoes around him in fear of getting under his skin again. A week has come and gone — no intimacy, just casual "I love you's" before work and "Sleep well's" before bed. You're making a better effort to check off his invisible checklists, making sure you're home whenever he needs you, and letting friendships fall by the wayside in favor of saving your marriage, which already seemed to be fraying around the edges.

Kento tries dates — taking you out in dresses and heels on the weekend and parading you around the city like you're more of a prize rather than his wife. Still, you put on a face and let him hold you however he needs to, if it means saving everything you built together.

You try to crack jokes against a pale mood, if only to see how his cheeks pinch up in a slight smirk, and he does, but it's not enough.

"Maybe we should take a vacation." You elect, holding his huge, strong fingers between each of yours, kissing the veins over the back as he drives you home from dinner. "Just you and I, somewhere lonely."

"What makes you propose that?" His tone is even — not accusatory, but soft and questionable. His free hand circles the wheel expertly, a small detail you always catch yourself lingering on. It's like Kento wants you to admit your distance, just like you want him to admit his. Neither of you can place it, so it sits heavily in your chests, festering until you both blow.

"I want more time with you. Just you."

"Have I been working too much?" He starts, again— not accusatory, but almost too gentle for the conversation you two are having. Kento has a bad habit of facing every question with further questions, leaving you buzzing around like a bee trying to find a place to land. "I hope you would just tell me rather than reaching for escapism."

"I'm not trying to escape, I'm trying to be closer to you." You let his hand fall towards your chest. Kento glances over at your painted face, streaked with passing city lights, and nods.

"I'll see what I can do about my work schedule. You know it's quite difficult for me to take time off."

"You know… just yes or no would be enough."

Kento doesn't answer — he doesn't pick at useless conversations. If you want him to reapproach his answer, so he shall. "I will see what I can do."

It's not good enough, but it'll do. You nod, letting his hand rest in your lap, petting over his knuckles with your polished thumb.

Halfway through the drive home, Kento opens his mouth. "I'll take you wherever you want to go. Just choose."

"What made you change your mind?"

"I can tell you're not too happy with me for some reason." He leaves it at that, taking a few idling seconds as he pulls back into your home lot, parking his bone-white foreign car in the driveway and letting the ignition hum.

You don't answer. Shifting in your seat, you nod slowly, peeking at his side profile against the dark background of the night.

"It's my fault?" You decide after a moment of pondering how to speak. Kento turns to you, unblinking, sitting up as he pulls off his seatbelt. "That I'm not too happy with you?"

"I didn't say that." He offers, and it's deft and short, making you suck in your cheeks to fight the dull, stabbing taste he leaves in your mouth. He stares at you for a moment, and you stare right back, blinking and nodding silently.

Then, it takes an act of courage — one of God and self-preservation when he leans over the console and reaches for your chin in his hand. You don't react at first, lips rolled under your teeth as he shifts closer, closing the distance so he can kiss you back into his good graces.

"How about we both stop talking for a bit." He mumbles in the heat of the moment, stroking your cheek as he leans in and kisses you the right way for the first time in forever. It starts slow — just his lips on yours. Then his tongue peeks out, licking over your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth. You sit with a slack jaw, reaching over to dig your fingers in his strong thigh over the console.

Kento is better at kissing than speaking, or he prefers the lack of words and the movement of lips. You could talk him into circles if he's not careful, and that gets tedious when all he wants to do is sit and watch you exist. Kisses tend to do you in when you're upset and screaming — when your mouth is dry, and your soul is on fire. This time, you're mellow as you give in, hoping this opens a space for intimacy that you both have been too nervous to give.

He pulls away after a few moments of breathlessness, letting his lips linger against yours like he's trying to suck the lifeblood from your kissed lips.

"I'll do anything you want me to." He whispers, stroking your cheek as you will your breath back down into normalcy. Kento has a bad habit of spiking your blood and leaving you to simmer with it, but this time feels different. He's thorough — incredibly, heartbreakingly so. "We'll do whatever we have to do to make this work."

"It's not…" You start, tongue-in-cheek, as he holds your face. "Not working." You don't know exactly what you're trying to say, but you say it anyway. Kento nods as if you're speaking a language he knows. "We just need some time to work on communication… especially."

He drops his forehead, letting it rest against your clammy, wind-whipped skin. Pressed forehead to forehead in this incredible, silent heat, Kento makes an internal promise to you and himself that he doesn't intend to break for the rest of his life. "I know it's me—

"Stop, I'm not implying that you blame yourself."

He shakes his head before you can finish your thought. "I can't live without you."

"Kento, sto—

"I married you for a reason, and I know I have no purpose anymore outside of pleasing you — making sure you're satisfied."

"I am." You rush, sitting back to give yourself more space to breathe. Kento drops his hand from your cheek, and you reach up to cradle his sharp, stubbled chin. In the darkness, you can't see much in his twisted expression, but you can make out the slight crip in his voice — cutting his throat every time he tries to make good with his words. "All marriages have problems. Who are we to be the exception?"

"That doesn't make me feel any lighter, love."

"Then, let me tell you — vacation or not, we're still going to be the same."

"You're so wise beyond your years."

"Is that not why you love me?" Your lightness makes him crack a smile, and for the first time in the ten minutes you two have been idling, progress peeks out from the ether. He feels it, so do you, and it feels like a chance. As you reach to run your fingers through his combed-back hair, he leans into the affection like a starved toddler, and you conclude that you never want to let him go — through the good and ugly, you promised yourself to him, and that's the most important part keeping you two tied at the waist.

Then, the day comes. It's a particularly sunny Sunday, giving the space an air of ease and happiness as you zip up the last of your and your husband's luggage. It's a day off for him, and instead of helping you pack for a trip he's funding, he's in the sitting room with a book on his knee, feeling the sun's rays burn his corduroy-covered legs.

You're exhausted with it — insane and melancholic as you sort through your wardrobes, picking and choosing a week's worth of clothes so he has options. Sure, it's mundane, but it's what he needs from you, so you comply.

You have to kneel over the final suitcase to actually secure it, and it winds you. Still, you hop back and pull it upwards, face hot and flustered.

"Kento," You call as you step outside of the bedroom door, hands on your hips as you pad barefoot. "I just finished packing up the last one."

He's sitting in the enclave, a foot propped up on his lap as he thumbs a page in a nonfiction book aged well before your time. The words are scrawled in English, and he studies with a furrowed brow — it almost hurts to interrupt him.

"Did you hear me calling you?"

"About the suitcases? Yes." He mumbles, sitting up in his chair, but not closing his book. He couldn't be bothered to reach for a bookmark, hoping this interaction would be short above all. Kento tries to usher you over, waving towards you with a bent finger. "Darling, I'm sorry, I actually just got a call while you were away that they need me to pull some extra time at work, I don't—

"Wait, what?" You shake your head, cutting him off.

"Just for tonight, but we can switch our train to an early one tomorrow morning, we'll leave for Kyoto then." He sits back, retracting his initiation for touch as he leans back over his book.

"N-no, we have to go tonight, we have reservations for dinner and a whole tour planned out."

"Then, we'll fly tomorrow morning."

"You're completely missing the point, Ken, really—

"I don't know what arguing about this will solve." He clears his throat, pushing his glasses over his nose as he flips a page. He's purposefully shrugging you off, treating you like a nuisance when all he wants is his alone time. "You are not getting on that train tonight, verdict dealt."

"Oh, you are such an asshole." You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard that it hurts. "That work excuse? It's bullshit."

He doesn't respond, merely raising his brows at the sudden profanity you're shooting his way when you're usually so polite. He just… flips a page and lets you fester like an open, infected wound next to him. Kento knows just how to work you up, and it's the ignorance. It's you standing there with your heart on your shoulder, gutted that you can't spend a long-planned romantic evening with the man you're destined to spend the rest of your life with.

"Then, I'm getting on that train. I'm going alone."

"Don't be ridiculous." He shrugs you off like the leftovers he so despises, treating you like a yapping pet. "I have just a few hours before I have to go back to work, so we can go out for dinner."

"Or we can get on the fucking train that you paid for — that we planned!" You raise your voice to a slight yell, pointing out towards the door like it'd remind him of where you're destined to go. "You're a liar — all of those things you promised…"

"Would you like to call my boss yourself? Talk him out of his decision?" He can't even look at you, and that's what kills you. Whatever is in that foreign book about space travel has to be more interesting than the person he married. "Be my guest."

"I want you to actually put in some effort. We planned this for two weeks, and you promised."

"We're done talking. What's done is done."

"Yeah, you say that because you know you're in the wrong.

Then, it comes — the ignorance. He clears his throat again and flips to his next page, bouncing his right foot up and down like he's mocking you. You scoff again, unsure of where to stand or what to do. You have two options lying over you — missing your entire night in a different city, or sleeping next to the man who just raised your blood so hot that you're still due to explode.

"I'm going." You whisper after a solid three minutes of silence, once more for good measure. "I'm going alone, and I don't want you there at all. Pick up all the overtime you need this week; I'll be in Kyoto."

Now, Kento wants to respond. He sits up swiftly, polished brows knit together like he doesn't actually believe you. When he goes to speak, you've already stormed off, ready to take the one suitcase you just packed and leave for the week you were promised, not the six days he wants.

Kento calls your name from his corner, standing up and leaving his book face down in his heat so he can chase after you. "Don't be ridiculous, I paid for the trip!"

"Verdict dealt, Kento."

"You don't get to override my verdicts like that."

"Just stop talking. I'm done listening."

"You're going to leave me… for a week?" It dawns on him that he hasn't been that far from you since before he knew your name. It's painful to think about, something that makes his throat burn. "One whole week? Just like that?"

"We planned this trip together." You grunt, pulling the handle on your suitcase up as he crowds you in the bedroom. "It's not 'just like that', I gave you a chance."

"Wait," He stops you with a hold on your arm, so close that you can make out the veins in his eyes. "Please don't go."

"It hurts, doesn't it?" You whisper, and it's not a question — your tone flat as a plate before you snatch your arm away. "Move. Let me go."

"The train we booked doesn't leave for another hour and a half."

"I don't care." You decide on a whim, shouldering past him through the entryway, dragging the suitcase behind that's half your height and made for him to lug around in your stead. "I need some time alone."

"A-are you serious? Babe—

"Kento, stop."

"I won't do it." He starts, reaching back out for you before you walk out of arm's reach. "Hey, I told you I'll call out, I don't care anymore about demerits or overtime, I just want you."

You scoff, eyes sore from how hard you've been rolling them. You knew this would turn into that — baseless promises and excuses that he's not even thinking about before he speaks them. "A little too late, don't you think?"

"If you would just give me a chance—

"I give you so many that I'm chanceless, now." You shrug, mirroring his big emotions with pure indifference when you're usually the emotional one in this marriage. Kento stands in the doorway to your bedroom, completely shell-shocked, hands suspended in midair where he tried to reach for you. "I'm done talking." You remind him, disappearing into the hallway and leaving him to swallow the dust.

Kento knows he has to follow you, ready to patch up his wrongs, but something inside of him makes it hard to move. So, he listens to you leave, glasses stuck between his fingers, limp at his side as his arm finally drops.

Distantly, somehow removed from it all, he finally takes a step forward several minutes after he hears the door slam. Kento manages a small, "Babe?" Then sighs, rolling his head back to stare into the wood-paneled ceiling.

To him, it feels like he just can't win.

Kento goes through the night without you. He doesn't beg or touch himself in your image — he sits with it in the spot you left him in. By his window, a book propped on the knee you used to shimmy over when your body was so hot and real at his side. Now, he feels some kind of emptiness.

It's not like before he met you; it's different. The shallow, dull taste of loneliness tastes sour this time, like it's his fault and not just lax timing. He had a world of possibilities in his hands and let it all slip with a split-second bad decision. He's never turned down big projects at work — he honors the career he built before he met you, but now he thinks he honors you more. The runaround he's juggling in his head is devastating; he can't focus on his book.

Gazing out of his second-floor windows to this quiet, residential part of the city, he ponders where you are and how you're doing. He's counted down the seconds, knowing you arrived in Kyoto nearly ten hours ago with no word. No call, or even a text, and he thinks that's what hurts the most.

Sure, he could pick up the phone and will you home till his voice is hoarse with it, but you've never acted out like this before. For the first time in your three months of marriage, he's seen your walls completely go up. It's not something you could laugh or shrug off; it was pure betrayal. He chose a job — a check over you and all the energy you put into him, and whether he believed it or not, it was the first true, real crack in your relationship. Not the avoidance, pleas for peace and space, and demands for perfection; it was this and his brainless response afterward.

Still, Kento can't grasp it. He needs you home.

His book stays open on the same page as the hours tick by. He sits, crossing and uncrossing his knees, then his legs — anything to keep his body moving as he gazes out of his window, down the desolate, lonely road that only sees foot traffic when you and he walk hand-in-hand to and from the market on his days off. If he squints, he can almost see your shadows among the flimsy tree-shade, then he blinks and realizes just how far he's gone after less than a day without you.

As the sun sets over the spot he's watched all day, Kento realizes that he hasn't really moved. His phone is in another room, likely alight with calls and messages from his supervisor, promising punishment for him not keeping up on the promise of overtime. Kento thinks he cares, but when he stands up, knees cracking with a sigh, he realizes that there's just absolutely nothing on his mind but you.

The house feels suffocatingly empty as he moves around it, keeping a steadying hand as he ventures into the kitchen for the first time all day. Against the marble, he places an open palm, letting the coolness shock his soul back to life as he lifts his hanging head.

His heart beats faster as he drags to the refrigerator, but not for food — he stumbles about the soulless expanse of his home on a mission, digging for one thing that could remind him that you're still real, even though you feel worlds away. When you two first married, he kept every single handwritten note for himself, hanging some of them in his office, and others folded in the center console in his car. When moments get hard, he reaches for you, so it's only natural that he'd rummage through the miscellaneous drawer for anything with your penmanship. It feels like cruel fate when he stumbles upon the tiny crumpled page he swore he had done away with those days ago.

 You, on the other hand, have been worse.

Your husband still lingers close behind, caught in the afterglow of everything you do, but you haven't spoken to him in twenty-four hours — the longest you've ever gone without him.

Usually, you'd think you'd be at your wits' end — clawing at your skin to feel needed and close to him, but you're stagnant. You've spent the day out in the city, enjoying a meager, solo breakfast and a relaxing massage, where you closed your eyes and saw your favorite head of blonde hair so close that you could run your fingers through it in your dreams. You miss him, of course, you do, but you don't miss the submission that comes with loving him so wholly and close to your mind. Being around him turns you into someone built for him, and not for yourself, though he never asks you to change; it just comes second nature, and you're not sure you're able to change.

As demeaning as it sounds, you let him become your strength, and now you're weak and boneless without him, free in a city that doesn't know who you are.

You book a reservation for dinner that night, and it's under his name. You didn't stutter or correct yourself when the hostess asked for a name; you just gave it, then froze when you realized how pathetic it felt to be without him like this. You two are both too stubborn to reach out first, but it didn't stop you from keeping your phone and his number close. Hopefully, you think, Kento will finally see your side and admit defeat.

But you eat dinner alone with your phone as your date, dodging the gleam of couples that saunter through the door in your stead. Dining alone isn't new for you, but it's not the norm, and you just almost reach for that contact.

Three days later and hours away, sunken into his sofa and heavy with dark liquor, Kento wants to reach for you. His clothes feel two sizes too small, and his spirit feels like it's doomed to explode now that the alcohol has touched it. Through the haze, he wonders… craving some hint of you in the chaos of his mind. It's been as long without even a call or text from you, let alone a courtesy message letting him know you're safe in Kyoto, and not unconscious on the side of a road.

His mind ventures there like it's a normal thing, now. He grieves you if you've died, and misses you like you're only a few miles away from work. Kento didn't know your loss would feel so monumental, but his life is falling apart, and there's nothing more he can do but call you home.

On day four, Kento caves.

It was another sleepless night — one of him staring out of the night-drenched window, sweating and uncomfortable as he tried to imagine your body behind him. He gave up right as dawn began to break, dark purple bags under his eyes as he sat out of bed and stared out the window. His hair is unbrushed — beard five days old and long enough to feel stubbled and uncharacteristic.

He doesn't walk into the bathroom to deal with himself, nor does he even have the strength to get out of bed anymore. Kento lifts his sleep-laden head and rushes for his phone, half-dead and dimmed over the picture of you posed as his lockscreen. His hands shake so badly that he has to stop himself from calling you for a moment, just so he can calm himself down.

So, he calls you, but you don't answer.

Then, he calls again… and again… and, once more.

Every single time, he gets the same cheery, robotic playback that makes him want to crawl out of his skin: This caller is not available.

Kento doesn't leave a message; he doesn't even let the script play all the way through. He hangs up his phone after the fifth try and tosses it back on his bedside, before turning and falling back into bed. He stares at your side of the bed as the sight of it being empty physically pains him. Kento doesn't make a noise as he reaches up to caress the soft pillowcase, pulling it closer to his face so he can inhale the stale scent of you.

Then, day seven comes, and Kento feels like a shell of himself. He doesn't know how to win you back, or if it's even possible at this point. He's given some piece of himself to his solitude, finally going back to work after day five, when he was too far gone on excuses and the slim few opportunities he had at time off. It's a blessing that he didn't get fired, but Kento knows how much he's needed there, seemingly more than you need him. That is the only thing that brings him back to reality when everything feels so unstable — suspended in space.

He's at work when you come home, just like you suspected — as you had perfectly planned out. If you're lucky, he'll give you a solid three hours to pack your things and go, leaving him with the Kyoto-stamped stack of divorce papers for him to sign and send off once he's made his peace.

You're expecting this all to be an easy process — Kento seems just as removed as you are, especially after the fact that you haven't heard from him in the week you've been away. He had kept all the shared cards and accounts open for you, showing you that respect, if anything, but he was silent, and all you needed was a call. If it were anything that'd save your marriage, it'd be a plea for closeness.

You come home suitcase-first, pushing them through the silent doorway with a sort of full-body exhaustion only travel, and no sleep can bring on. The whole exchange is quick — you park your luggage in the entryway, toe off your shoes, and dig in your bag for the secured envelope.

On the countertop where you cooked all of his meals — served an indifferent face that would always crack into a smile when you stepped into his gaze, you slid the promise of divorce over. The entire train ride back, you wondered if you had made the right choice by signing on those dotted lines, but you truly weighed it. Whether or not Kento signs it, you'd be comfortable.

Heartbroken if it ended, but less suffocated — more real. more you.

You slide the envelope on the counter, but just as you step off to run for the hills and wait by the phone, the front door unlocks.

You stand there, red-handed, in the kitchen as Kento walks back inside. He stops as soon as he sees your luggage in the door, heart stilling as he thinks of a million useful things to say in the moment.

Right now, he doesn't know where you are, but he's paralyzed, eyes wide and jarred. "L-love?"

You laugh, equally as stunned at your shitty luck. The sound of his meek voice cuts through the shock like a knife, and you're freed from your weakness before it can really take hold. It was your idea to bring the papers, so it's up to you to give them, and not drop them and run like a coward — you owe him more than that for his love.

"Kento, can you meet me in the kitchen?"

To him, that doesn't sound good. It sounds like his mother calling for him to be scolded when he was a child. Little Kento would always walk in with his tail tucked between his legs, and big Kento hasn't changed a bit. He peels off his shoes, case, and blazer, hot and beading at the brow at the pressure of your presence.

"I missed you so much, baby doll—

Kento starts the second he rounds the corner and sees you. His body lightens up from the shy tuck your voice pressed him in, and he just… wants to be close to you. He instinctively walks close enough to wrap your hoodie-covered body in a hug before he sees it next to you.

"Kento, look—

"What is that?" He starts, redirecting his attention to the counter so he can slide the item in his hands. You lean over the opposite side, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you watch him examine the wordless front. Still, as respectful as he always is, he asks, "Is it for me?"

"Yeah, open it." You make it sound like a birthday gift, with your tiny and hoarse voice.

So, he does. You're both silent, breathing against the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rush of breeze against the paper-thin windows. The text is sprawling and professional when he glances at the title, but it doesn't really register until he stumbles upon your full name placed dominantly above him.

"You don't have to sign it… today."

"Divorce?" Kento flicks his gaze over to you, unintentionally giving off some sinister sort of air that breeds when he has more to say. "Is this really what we've come to?"

"It's not you, it's me."

"Oh, here we go—

"And I realized when I was alone, that this is not what I want. I love you—

"Don't do this to us—

"I love you so much, I do, but I love me, and I can realize that I'm never really happy anymore. In love, yes, but not… happy and fulfilled."

So, Kento starts firing off blanks, "What do you need me to do? We can move to Kyoto. Did you like it over there?"

"This isn't about Ky—

"W-what about… Baby, we can take a long trip somewhere like you wanted from the beginning, just don't do this."

"I'm sorry." You reply, tears threatening to start burning in your eyes as you watch him drop his elbows on the counter and let his face fall into stretched palms. "I really am sorry. Look, you don't have to sign them today, okay?" You chew on your words, repeating the only thing that comes to mind as you slowly start to inch over to him on the other side of the counter.

"I know I'm just springing this on you, but I just couldn't sleep at night."

"Did I make you that unhappy that it could warrant a divorce?" He mumbles into his hands, voice broken in a way you haven't heard, really, ever. It stops you in your tracks, heart pounding as he sits up quickly, crowding you before you have the opportunity to close the space.

Kento reaches for your hands, taking you all at once as he finally touches you again. Huge palms splayed out over your wrists, you step back in shock, taking a sharp breath that you don't swallow down. "Ken—

"Therapy, classes — maybe a little communication." He spits out like he's angry, nose-to-nose with you and so kissably close, but mentally as far away as he could possibly be. "What have I done? Why can't we work through this?"

"Because I'm tired—

"I'm going to need a little more than that."

"You treat your job like a wife, already. You don't have it in you to juggle both me and it." You give him some chewed version of the truth, only a half-thought, you were navigating around while you spent your 'vacation' in a legal office.

Kento can't argue. "Don't do this to me."

"I'm doing it to me, too!" You're close to your breaking point, letting your emotions bubble over. If he says one more thing to you but 'okay', you're doomed to a pile of tears on your kitchen floor.

Then, Kento reaches for something that you never thought he'd ever do for you — he drops to his knees at your feet. "Please, don't go."

"Oh, my— Get up."

"Baby, love," He whines like a boy, dropping his forehead into your pelvis, digging into you like he wants in. "Please, we can do better — I'll do better."

"Please." You plead right back, staring at the ceiling to stop the tears from rolling down your face. Failing miserably, you sniffle and step back off balance, shaking your head as he continues.

"I know you don't think so, but when you left, you took all of me with you." He begs, thick fingers turning into fists in the fabric of your pants. You shake your head again, feeling him right in your chest, pulling your heart from its connectors. "What do you— What do you want, do I need to scream for you?"

"Ken—

His grip tightens, bordering on the cusp of fabric burn as he pulls you as close as possible. You stumble into him, needing to steady yourself on the counter with a hand as he lays it all on the line. You've never heard him speak above an enthusiastic height, so it cuts you to the core when you hear him yell, "Please, baby! Please, please…"

"Ken— all of this isn't going to change my mind." You power through your emotions for just a moment, pushing him back so you can catch your breath without him begging into your core. "Even before I left, I was thinking about it."

He shakes his head, not stopping as he yearns, "Let me try again, baby, please. Just one more time."

"I've made my choice." You decide in a weak voice, trying once more, the final time you push him away. "Stand up, we can be mature about this."

"It's not about being mature, it's about getting you to stay." He looks up at you, hazel eyes wide and pleading. It takes all of your willpower not to give in, running your fingers through his hair and welcoming him back. "I'll do anything, absolutely anything."

It seems like his definition of 'anything' was the one thing you needed. His body is so completely devoted to you, gentle and strong as he helps you step out of your pants and rest back against the counter, still kneeling in front of you. He guides your knee over his shoulder, unbuttoning the first three buttons on his work shirt so he can stay decent as he flows his devotion back into you.

"I don't really know what you aim to fix with this," You start, just to make it sound like you weren't as easy as you were letting on. After serving him the papers, you had every mind to run for the hills and only see him on occasion — surely you weren't expecting to be back in this position with his fingers in your panties, pulling them down so he can get impossibly close to you.

Before your week of being away, it had been equally as long since he touched you, and vice versa. Neither of you commented on it, though the change was drastic and uncomfortable. Now, Kento has every mind to make it up to you — tears in his eyes that he refuses to let spill over as he scoots in close to you, gathering the cotton of your shirt against your lower stomach so he has ample space to go down on you and spell his devotion out in ways that his own words can't.

He doesn't speak as he guides your hips forward, looking into your eyes as you breathe expectantly, heat already rising up your throat as he takes this moment as his own. You don't have to ask him more than once to make you feel like a woman; you just have to silently beg for him to make you feel real. Now, you won't beg. You'll stare down at him as he parts his lips and dips down, shoulders hunched so he can press his lips against the softness of your exposed thighs, barely ghosting past your core like he's teasing you when he knows he has everything to lose.

Before he touches you there, you reach down to slip your fingers in his hair, silently urging him forward, desperate for even a whisper of his tongue against your heat, burning so hot that you're starting to drip and stain your skin. He smells it before you can voice your need and takes that as fuel to dive in, tongue peeking out of his mouth as he fists the skin on your hips, licking a straight, confident line down from your hole, all the way up to your clit, eyes stuck open to gauge your reaction before he squeezes his shut and repeats.

You're not giving him much — just scrunching up your face when the harshness of his tongue pokes and prods at your clit. He flattens it out, tracing delicate circles into your flesh before diving back in, collecting your dripping slick onto his tongue and closing his lips around you suck the concentrated moisture back into his mouth. It makes your eye twitch, back arching against the back of the counter, where it uncomfortably digs into your rear. Steadying yourself on open palms splayed against the cool surface, you push your hips forward into his being, asking for more touch without using your words.

Kento gives himself willingly and without constraints, jaw working like he's chewing you alive, when he's really working his tongue into overdrive, spinning out of control as he laps at your cunt, reaching up to keep you spread apart so he can claim every single inch of your sex as his. It's always been his, even since you were born — he's told himself that every other man that got a chance with you was just warm-up for the real thing, and he was not going to let that construct slip away just because you don't know what you want.

He eats you out, and you're a mess about halfway through, head thrown back, spilled moans dripping down your chin, mixed with drool. Still, you refuse to speak or to say his name, much more stubborn than he is, right now, even with an aching jaw and shot demeanor. Kento's face is red with the effort, his grip tightening over your thighs when you clench them together, too overcome to realize how you're trapping him.

His wedding band leaves an indent in your thighs, eyes flicking open and up as he breathes out a soft groan against your clit. The vibrations send tingles down your spine, and they're so hot that you reach down to push him away, afraid of finishing right now, like this. This isn't how it usually goes — Kento riles you up just enough to get you excited, then finishes you off in the bedroom, buried inside of you, planked over your body like he was afraid you'd run away.

"It's okay, give it to me."

"N-not like this." You rasp for the first time since he started on you, voice wrecked and feeling like razors cutting the walls of your throat. "We have to do it r-right."

"There is no right way to make love to you." He tries, replacing his tongue with his fingers — running two of them sensually, slowly through your wet, cleaned-out folds. "As long as we're both satisfied."

Your breath catches as he focuses on your G-spot, crooking his thumb just right, so gently that his effort pushes you closer to your breaking point. "This…" You stop, thighs instinctively closing as he backs up, hand still huge and strong between your thighs. "This is your issue, not everything needs a rebuttal."

"So, you just want to feel right all the time?"

"Maybe, yeah!"

"Okay, shh— Shh…" He cuts you off the second things start slipping out of his hands again. Kento licks over his you-flavored lips, then stands up, sliding his hand from between your thighs, back to the thickness of your hips. "Fine. I said I'd do anything you want."

So, you take him to the bedroom, already shedding the rest of your clothes while he takes stock. Kento doesn't bother turning the lights on — letting the cruel, harsh bite of dusk run over the room to highlight this sensual moment. You crawl on the bed in a position he doesn't usually prefer you in — hands and knees, arms outstretched, and chest kissing the mattress as he slugs over to the bedside.

You can see from the tent, in his plaid dress pants, that he needs you, but Kento is so nervous about saying something wrong and losing you forever. So, he walks on his tiptoes, not spending too much time readying himself like you already have.

You watch as he unbuttons the rest of his shirt— eyes running over the strong, rippling expanse of his chest, the airbrushed nipples, and flecked skin. He hesitates before situating behind you, just out of eyeshot, ready to detach and give you what you need.

Without thinking, he mutters, "This position is demeaning—

"Then demean me,"

If you were any more on his side, Kento would reprimand you to hell and back, but he abstains for a moment, swallowing down the weight of your words that came so easily. He shakes his head, propping one knee on the bed, running a hand against the familiar swell of your ass.

He's trying to take a moment to calm down, but it's hard when his heart is beating out of his chest. All of his breaths are measured, and his emotional regulation is shot. Kento fishes his erection out of his designer briefs, sloppily licking over two of his fingers so he can spread the soft promise of his arousal into the flushed tip of his penis.

"I promised, I'll love you right, anyway you need it."

You reply wordlessly into the sheets, pushing your ass back into his strong, safe grip. The reason for this position isn't as shallow as he thinks it is — it's so you don't have to face him, and in turn, face your disgusting shame.

Because divorce papers or not, you've let egos get in the way of your intimacy for far too long, and you both deserve each other right now. You wouldn't swallow it down and settle with icy eye contact in missionary, and Kento wouldn't feel like a toy propped under you as you rode him.

You can feel the effort he's showing with this compromise, even though it's jarring when you feel his thick tip — hot, aching for you, drag across your entrance. He doesn't press inside of you just yet, letting you shiver and shake your hips to ready yourself, letting him know you're willing and waiting without uttering a word.

Kento speaks, but it's so fleeting that you can't hang onto it. "Will you talk to me, baby?"

You shake your head, buried in the sheets, after a few seconds of his words filling the space. It doesn't feel awkward or weighty; it just feels like the wordless environment you needed right now. Nothing he can say to you would say more than what he chooses to do with you, right here, propped up damn near like his sex doll, just waiting.

Twenty more seconds ring by — you're counting. "Kento—

As soon as your voice hits, he drags his hips forward, using his thumb to guide his length inside of you, shutting you up with the tiniest whisper of friction. You make a face, eyebrows scrunching up as you lift your head from the sheets, feeling him so deep inside of you already, and you're sure he's not even halfway in. It's this new position — all the pressure going straight to your tummy as he guides your hips back with every inch.

He doesn't speak again until he's fully seated inside of you, and you let your head back down on the bed. Breathing heavily through the nose and out through the mouth, you try to get used to this position you two have never, ever done before. He feels about two sizes bigger, and you swear it's not the dry spell faced beforehand that makes it that much harder to take. It's the emotion — you're huge and swollen with it.

"Arch," He whispers, dragging a hand from the swell of your hips to the small of your back. His palm presses over your bare skin, forcing you into an even deeper arch than you knew you could possibly do. Kento shivers, the new position making you clamp down on his length. That's the first true moan he gets out of you, and he doesn't even have to really fuck you for it to break loose.

But when he does, you're a moaning mess.

He knew it'd come to this — you're not so vague, and completely under-touched for what you're used to. Every time he pulls out, he does so fully, then guides his cock back inside of you, giving all of him in one slick stroke, then repeating until tears fall from your eyes. You're taken and limp, fists pulling at the sheets as he keeps your hips pinned, a single knee on the mattress as he fucks you so hard that he's starting to sweat with it.

Kento gives it to you like he knows he has something to lose. His chest is rising and falling like he's due to pass out, hair darkening and sticking to his forehead as he pulls and fists at the flesh of your ass, doing anything to keep this pace even if it means bruising you through the next week. It's a fleeting thought when he takes a hand away, slowing down in his fucks just enough to slide it between the two of you. He slips two fingers between your folds, finding and rolling your clit between his fingers, so he can take a second to slow down and catch his sanity.

You cry, back arching, then bowing so deeply that Kento steps back, needing to keep you pinned with better balance on his foot. For some reason, he doesn't catch it when you cum — and it's right there, eerily silent and deadly as his hard fingers toy at your pleasure button like you're just a doll, destined to come undone with whatever he has to give.

"I-i'm don—

You can't finish, because Kento takes the moment of weakness, when you're still jelly in the sheets, to carefully flip you over, still buried inside of you as he guides you up the bed. You blink your eyes open to him, tall and broad, blocking the harsh sunlight so you can admire his nakedness. The hair that starts soft around his belly button is dark, unlike the hair on his head, and without thinking, still in a daze, you reach out to touch him as he climbs over you.

"Need to see you… So I can finish…" He mutters out his excuses as he pins you into his favorite, missionary, guiding your left leg over his hip as he leans in close. "My beautiful wife," Kento whispers, choppy and quiet, as he leans in to kiss you for the first time in a week. Halfway to heaven and certainly not in a space to pull away, you part your lips and almost smile into the kiss, mouth dry and welcoming as his tongue slides in. You kiss back lazily, humming and panting into his open mouth as his hips squeeze and pump in and out of you, slowly, not heated and passionate like it just was. "Stay with me… my love."

You take that for what it is right now, struggling to keep your eyes peeled and focused on him, because you're so overwhelmed and overtaken. You shake your eyes, eyes hazy and dodging his as he stares right back into your soul. Your thighs tremble as he fucks you through his height, but still conscious, needing you to say something to bring him back down.

"I'm t-trying."

Kento lets you sleep next to him that night, tucked up under his arm, but he can't sleep. In fact, he's drained like he just worked for twelve hours straight, when he had only worked for half the day, then came home to make love to you. You hadn't said much after everything was said and done, but Kento took that as a good sign. You're usually exhausted after sex, limp-bodied, and too tired to even step out of bed to shower. It feels good to see how one thing hasn't changed.

Still, it doesn't warrant him to sleep. He's awake with the thought that you were still due to divorce him come morning, and the mental strain is exhausting. He spent the rest of his mental energy fighting that, then the rest of his physical energy pouring it back into you. He's just as jellified as you, but something inside of him brings his body to its feet.

You don't budge as he steps out of bed, just cozying back into his heat as you get comfortable with his loss. He makes sure your eyes don't open before sliding out of the door, heart racing like he's nervous to just exist around you, now. It's a new feeling when it comes to you — he's afraid of faltering, pedaling back over all of his thoughts and words that are about you.

He walks into the kitchen where you two left the notated file of his demise — open to the first page and blissfully forgotten about as the darkness of night swallows the dark, inked letters. Kento approaches it like he approaches everything evil, with no hesitancy, folding it closed and marching it to his home office, where he sits back in his chair and shoves it off into the bottom drawer of his desk.

In that tiny moment of reflection, Kento takes a second to stare out of his office window — a different window he yearned for you in, and let reality crash over him for a bit. He ponders the idea of feeling a bit… shallow, like just the thought of being without you gutted him like a fish. He doesn't expect to ever feel the same with you, and you with him, but you're sure that you'll always stay, especially because, now, Kento knows exactly what to do to make you stay.

 Kento doesn't sleep again that night; he calls his boss the next morning, standing outside in his slippers with a dark coffee you made him in his hands, and says a select few things:

"In accordance with our written agreement, after I got this promotion, we agreed that my overtime would never see five hours a week, correct?" He chooses his words like an artist chooses their shade, pacing the front stoop so he can stay busy. "And I understand that, but given how this isn't my department, I was only doing you a favor."

Cutting through that mental, professional haze, Kento stills when he sees you float to the front window, holding out a traditional breakfast plate in his direction. Knowing better, but still caught up in the moment, he holds up a finger to you, then turns and finishes his conversation.

"There's nothing more to say about it — enough overtime. I've made my demands, and I feel I am being much more graceful than I should be, given my position."

Staring at him through the hazed-over window, dewey with the morning heat, you catch his eyes just before he lowers them again. Feeling his shame through the pane, you lower the plate to your waist and try to plant a smile on your face, letting him know everything he needs to hear, right now.

"Come on,"

a/n: how i feel after understanding that she only gave him the divorce papers so that he'd make a conscious effort to change for her, and it wasn't actually the sex, but the effort he made to change for her above all that made her stay at the end

nanami/all char taglist: @ionly-wantsleep @galaxeecat0210 @winkii @thywiaa @p1a9u3 @cocoamores @hiraxh @joongshive @blu3berryies @raikantopini27 @wavetojulia @cowboyvsshop @verykittenwombat @restingoasis @starfalldragondreamer @00zerona @luvleixo @lovewitchss @riana4life @kalihrts @slut4gojo @raashluvsff @mspinkpanties @palanggaaa @yarimarjane @liasacountgothacked @lisabelhyhn @aonvoide @lisabelhyhn @yesiimorada22 @gradmacoco @dazed-lavender @magicalpeenpoo

He is currently cutting the grass belonging to the old farm couple across the way from your aunt’s estate; the epitome of Southern luxury under magnolia trees. To anyone else passing by, they would admire your aunt’s home, but you? 

You’re more enraptured by the craftsmanship and beauty of the gorgeous blonde rancher flexing his alarmingly (and arousing-ly) large muscles glistening in sweat in the hot sun. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing by the kitchen window gawking at the rancher, but it isn’t like you’re measuring time anyway. Not like how you’re measuring the radius of the blonde’s slim waist to his plump ass in his jeans. No, I’m not,” you mutter, not even looking at your brother. 

Ino cackles, grinning at you. “Yes, you are. C’mon, sis, the birds can’t be that amusin’…or arousin’.” You smack his arm hard, nearly smacking the apple out of his hand. “Hush up! That ain’t funny, Ino!” 

That’s when your aunt makes her grand appearance in her polka-dot apron and lace gown, her hair pinned up in a bun to keep the strands off of her face. “What’s not funny? Ino, please put on a shirt, for heaven’s sake!” She grabs a dish towel and smacks him hard on the ribcage, making him hiss. “Ow, ow, alright, Auntie! Jeez!” 

Ino gives you a cheeky grin as he walks out of the kitchen to throw on a shirt. He should’ve known your aunt would blow a gasket at the mere sight of skin that isn’t considered ‘proper’. “And you,” she hisses, turning to you with a pinched expression. “Quit starin’ at those animals and check on the pies! They have to be ready for tonight’s annual festival!” 

You roll your eyes behind her back as you pop open the oven, letting a plume of sweet-smelling smoke explode from within. Six different types of pies—apple, blackberry, sweet potato, cherry, and pecan—in addition to a small pound cake, peach cobbler, and a tray of chocolate-chip cookies sit in your aunt’s $100,000 oven, baking away. 

“I am, Auntie,” you sigh. “I was just takin’ a quick break.” 

You only give the baked goods a quick look before your eyes are back on the rancher, drinking in the way sweat drips down his muscular arms fit for crushing watermelons and over his broad chest. You can see a slip of his pecs and chest hair peeking through his wife beater that he so seductively uses to wipe his sweat, giving you a sliver of V-line and happy tail above the waistband of his jeans. 

How can a man be so irresistibly sexy yet so off limits? Nanami Kento, divorcee, single father, and local rancher, should be tossed into an institution just for that…and to be protected from horny college girls like you. 

Your aunt side-eyes you from the fridge, taking her bowl of potato salad out. She always goes all out when preparing dishes for town events and festivals. Like you, she is a slut for praise. “Well, that quick break is takin’ you quite a long time. Bakin’ is no laughin’ matter, darlin’; especially if you want to find a man at this event.” 

You twist around to face her, giving her a side-eye right back. “Yes because your famous apple pie and peach cobbler is gonna do wonders and catch me a husband.” As you turn to close the oven door, you feel a sharp smack from the dish towel on your thigh exposed from under your sundress. “Ouch!” you shriek. “I was kiddin’!” 

But your aunt isn’t. She never is when it comes to her cooking. “Do not disrespect my bakin’ skills. Not to mention that you’ve got an apple AND a cherry pie bakin’ in there alongside mine.” 

“The cherry one is for the festival. The apple pie is for Nanami’s kids.” You open the door to check the pies out again, having spent all morning preparing them alongside your aunt, waking up at the ass crack of dawn to do so. Your aunt looks appalled at this, placing a hand on her hip. “Wastin’ MY granny-smith apples for some snot-nosed little–” 

“Auntie!” you criticize her. You spare a look out the window at Nanami still cutting your neighbors’ grass, mowing along and not at all noticing you several yards away peeking out the window to gawk at him. “Don’t talk about Mr. Nanami’s kids like that. I know how you feel about children, but not all kids are bad.” 

Your aunt spares a glance at the rancher too even though he most likely can’t hear you. “No, just quite irksome. They pester me like those damn fruit flies around my fruit orchards, not to mention all that playin’ they do late into the night.” 

“They’re just kids,” you giggle. “I doubt as a rancher that Mr. Nanami would have them act any other way than be polite and respectful of their elders.” 

You might have a bit of a sweet spot for the Nanami children—two boys named Yuji and Megumi and a girl named Nobara who you have known since they were little toddlers coming up to your knees when you’d babysit them. They’ve grown so much since you were away at college in the city, so it’s like whiplash…especially given the appearance of their father too. 

Nanami has always been hot as fuck. The blonde heartthrob that lit up your winters and emblazoned your summers living in your small Southern town. You’ve had an embarrassing crush on him since you were a teen, as did most of the girls in your town. 

During your sleepovers, you and your friends always giggled over popcorn and soda about Nanami’s big arms and dreamy eyes…even what he looked like down below, wondering if he was just as big as the rest of him. You were quite a naughty teen, daydreaming about the older man you babysat for. 

Especially since this older man was married at the time. His wife was the one who hired you to watch her and Nanami’s kids during the summer and on the weekends. You had to pretend not to be starstruck over Nanami’s dashingly good looks while you were in the presence of his wife.

Though he has gotten older and has considerably noticeable changes (a bit of dark blonde in his short-cropped hair; whiskers of a beard; fine lines by his eyes; the bulkiness of a dad bod), he still has that quiet seduction that makes you simmer. Nanami as an older DILF is the hottest he has ever been. He is just so damn sexy and yummy and— 

Bzzz! Bzzz! 

You flinch, snatching your phone out of the pocket of your sundress to see that the time has shifted to noon. “Oh, that’s my timer! I have to head over to babysit the kids. Good thing the apple pie is done.” You purposely put your pies in the oven at the same time as the very hour you had to leave to babysit Nanami’s kids. 

“Wait, wait,” your aunt protests, staring wide-eyed at you as you slip your apple and cherry pies out of the oven. You leave the cherry pie to cool on the windowsill while you begin to place the apple pie in a dish to take over to Nanami’s house. “Babysit?! When did you plan this?!” 

You roll your eyes, knowing she wasn’t listening the moment you told her. She was too busy stressing over pie ingredients. “I told you yesterday that I offered to babysit Mr. Nanami’s kids. He’s goin’ into town to run some errands and I told him that I’d help volunteer to watch the kids before he gets back.” 

As you rummage around to grab a grocery bag for the baked goods and your items, your aunt looks on, visibly distraught. “Dammit, Y/N, what about the festival? What about the pies a-and your dress?! You won’t have any time to get your hair done!” 

You roll your eyes at her dramatics and pour her a glass of iced tea from the fridge that you brewed this morning. “Auntie, relaaax,” you sigh, passing her the cool glass. “Drink this before you have a heart attack. I’ll be back in time for the festivities, but those little munchkins need me right now.” 

You turn to stare in the window, fluffing out your hair and checking your lipgloss. You can feel butterflies fluttering about in your stomach, mostly because this is the first time you’ll be back over at Nanami’s house after his divorce and since you’ve visited. You’ve only gone over there a few times since being back in town to deliver baked goods for the kids…with his insistence, of course. 

As you primp, your aunt watches, suspicious. “Are you sure this isn’t just a ploy for you to skip out on the festival?” she huffs, crossing her arms over her amble bosom. You turn to her, gobsmacked and offended. “What?! Noooo! I said that I’d go, didn’t I?” 

Judging by your aunt’s arched brow, she doesn’t believe in your acting whatsoever. Truth be told, you don’t want to go to this festival at all. While you used to love the town’s annual festival every summer because of the endless display of baked goodies, ice cream, and water ice, now it’s just a campaign to see who the best possible husband for you will be. 

Your aunt only invited you on this little summer vacay after you graduated to find you a decent suitor. According to her, now that you have your degree, it’s time to start looking. And she doesn’t want anything going against her plans. "Fine. Then we’re goin’ over there together so Mr. Nanami can confirm your statement. Off we go.” 

You can’t stop her or argue with her, not when your aunt is such a proud lady. So, despite your resistance, you trudge after her minutes later down the road to Nanami’s cozy little home and farm. He doesn’t live in a big, fancy house like your aunt and the many clients he has, helping them maintain their farms, but Nanami isn’t broke by a long stretch. 

As the owner of his own farm and a man with a green thumb, he constantly makes bank with his crops, maintenance skills, and tours around his farm. His animals are well fed, his fruit orchards are plentiful, and the town always approves of his land. You used to always ride past it just to get a look at him, hoping to see him. 

And now here you are, standing with your aunt in the pretty sundress you planned to wear for him. Knock-knock-knock! 

Your aunt’s fist is firm against the cherrywood door, making you flinch. Comin’!” a deep, gentle voice calls out. It gives you shivers. But as the door opens, it’s little Yuji who stands there in his father’s place. “Nanami residence!” he announces with his cute self, his pink hair so soft like cotton candy. When he sees you, he beams with a whole tooth missing. “Hi, Y/N! Daddy, Y/N is at the door!” 

And then there he is: the DILF of the hour. Despite Nanami’s casual attire of flannel and jeans, he still makes it hard to breathe. His pecs push against the flannel and denim looks good as fuck on him. 

“Yuji!” he grunts, scowling at Yuji as he comes to get him. “I told you not to get the door unless I…” He pauses, seeing you and your aunt standing there. “O-Oh, pardon. I wasn’t expectin’ guests.” 

Shit. Caught in your little white lie. Your aunt side-eyes you and quickly, you try to save yourself, thinking on your toes. “U-Uh, sorry, Mr. Nanami!” you chirp. “I had to rush over here just in case you left early for the road. Sorry, I should’ve called.” 

Nanami blinks at you, confused. “Yknow…to babysit the kids? I volunteered to watch ‘em like before?” 

Nanami is still giving you that clueless expression and you start to sweat buckets in the hot summer sun. “Y/N is gonna babysit?!” Yuji excitedly asks. “Can we make pizza for lunch today?! Ooh, ooh, and can we watch movies?!” 

“We can do that and more, kiddo!” you giggle, ruffling his pink hair. You look at Nanami again, hoping and praying that he’ll take the hint and throw you a bone. “So I’m good to come in now?” you ask, your heart thundering in your chest, your aunt’s look a haunting presence. 

Nanami looks between you and your aunt, silently sizing you up. “Uh…y-yeah,” he replies, clearing his throat. “Yes, of course. You’re welcome to come in and get settled with the kids. Megumi and Nobara are out back with Maple.” You are more than happy to oblige. “Great! See ya soon, Auntie!” 

Without another word, you run into the house, home free. “Ma’am,” Nanami greets your aunt with a respectful nod. “Always a pleasure to see you. I will tend to your orchards this weekend.” And after an exchange you don’t hear because you’re in the kitchen, the door shuts. 

Nanami ventures into the kitchen in his boots, smirking slightly. “She’s gone.”

“Oh, thank Christ!” you huff. “I thought for sure she’d catch on. Thanks so much for the save.” The rancher leans against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. “No problem. I take it she’s pesterin’ you about that town festival tonight?” 

“Oh, more than that,” you sigh, rolling your eyes as he takes your bag from you, lying it on the breakfast table. “It’s been all about pies and dresses and the perfect shoes for days now! I’ve only been back in town for a couple weeks!” 

And after a boring couple of weeks, things started becoming more exciting when you ran into Nanami one day at the park. You were sitting on a picnic blanket in your sundress, reading a very smutty romance book, when the sudden sound of panting interrupted you. 

Suddenly, you were staring at a golden retriever who ran right up to you and began licking your chin. “Hey, buddy!” you giggled, ruffling his long, soft fur. “Thanks for the kisses! Now who’s your owner, hm?” 

You heard a whistle then that made the golden dog whisk around. “Maple! Come!” someone shouted. When the dog barked and excitedly ran towards their owner, you looked over and felt your heart stutter. 

Nanami stood there in a white tee and khaki shorts that looked entirely too tight on his muscular legs sinewy with hair. He gave Maple a pinched look as he kneeled before her, ruffling her fur and scratching behind her ears. “Silly girl,” he muttered. “Runnin’ off on your own. What am I gonna do with you?” 

Maple just happily panted as you got up on wobbly knees, taking your book and bag with you. You couldn’t stop yourself or the swarm of butterflies that exploded in your tummy. Here he was–your childhood crush after years of being in the city, still hot as ever. “M-Mr. Nanami?” you gasped. 

Nanami paused and looked up at you, his eyes squinting behind his glasses. “Uh…sorry, do I know you?” 

You giggled, making his cheeks turn pink for some reason. “Damn, did time age me that much? I thought for sure you’d recognize me.” 

That was when he looked at you. Really looked at you. And then his hazel irises flickered with recognition. “Y/N,” he replied. “It’s you?” You felt your heart stammer at the way he said your name. “It is,” you giggled. “I grew up quite a lot, haven’t I?” You placed a hand on your hip, smiling at him. 

Nanami swallowed hard, clearing his throat as he stood. “You surely did,” he muttered. “U-Uh, sorry about my dog here. She tends to run off on her own.” Maple panted beside him, that wet tongue and innocent eyes so endearing. “Aww, but I’m sure she always comes home to his daddy,” you giggled, scratching Maple’s ear. “How are the kids? And the wife?” 

That was when Nanami’s face fell. “Uh…we’re not together anymore,” he explained. “We divorced shortly after you left for school.” You felt a cold pit in your stomach at the news, guilt wracking you. “I-I’m sorry,” you stammered. “I didn’t–”

“Of course, you didn’t know,” he interrupted. “You were in the city. The whole town knew within a week though.” He passively shrugged, giving you the impression that it wasn’t a big deal to him anymore. “As for the kids, they’re off from school for summer break, bein’ pains in my ass.” 

“Cute pains in the butt,” you corrected him. “Maybe one day I can come buy and visit them…i-if that’s okay.” You simmered with embarrassment, realizing the implications behind your offer. What if he thought you were some wanton slut trying to sneak your way into his heart after his divorce?

Luckily for you, Nanami seemed happy with the idea. “Why wouldn’t it be? You used to babysit them, so I’m sure they’d love to see you again.” You beamed, happy to hear this, missing those little munchkins for the last four years. “Same here. I can bake y’all a pie just like old times.” 

The idea of using your baking skills to create some delicacies for your favorite rancher was already becoming your favorite pastime. The tips of Nanami’s ears grew red as Maple embarrassingly sniffed at your ankles. “O-Oh, you don’t have to. I’m sure you’re relaxin’ too now that you’re off from school.” 

But you tutted, waving a hand. “Nonsense! I’d love to make you somethin’ sweet…a-and the kids too!” Speaking of his kids, they made their grand appearance seconds later when a frisbee came flying by, nearly taking your head off. As soon as they saw you, all playtime was over. 

“Y/N!” Nobara shouted. “You’re back, you’re back!” 

She came flying at you, nearly knocking you over with a hug. You had to force Megumi to give you one while Yuji practically shoved his sister aside for a hug. “Y/N! Hey, can you make me one of those blackberry cobblers?!” You laughed, giddy to see them, while their dad was embarrassed by his kids’ shenanigans. 

“Kids, let her breathe,” Nanami huffed. “We were just leavin’. Y/N will be visitin’ us this summer, so you guys can help her bake then.” At your clueless look, he gave you a wink that made heat pool between your legs and a stupid grin appear on your face.

Fast-forward a couple weeks of delivering pies later, here you were. “How’d you know I was even headin’ out of town today?” Nanami asked as he began pouring you a glass of fresh iced tea.

You thanked him, sipping the refreshing, mint-and-lemon spiked liquid. “You told me, silly,” you giggle. “Or rather, I eavesdropped on you and my auntie when you came by yesterday to tend to her lawn.” The rancher gives you a smirk like a dad who caught your hand in the cookie jar. “Still the same sneaky girl you always were, I see.” 

“Never!” you mockingly gasp. “I am a good Christian farmgirl! Would a bad, sneaky girl go out of her way to bring you baked goods?”

You then reach in the grocery bag and produce the apple pie in the serving dish, its sweet aroma hitting Nanami’s nostrils. His eyes actually grow hooded as he gazes at the pie in your hands…or is he actually gazing at the tender sliver of your cleavage? 

Alas, the sudden barking of Maple and pitter-patter of running footsteps ruin the magic. You turn to see the little munchkin trio standing there, all dirty and sweaty from running. “Is that pie?!” Nobara squeals. Yuji beats her to it, grabbing at the dish when you put it on the counter. “Hey, I saw it first! Let me get the first dibs!” 

As they start to argue, Megumi sneaks by with a plate, but it’s snatched away from him. “Hold it,” Nanami firmly says. “One at a time. Megumi, gather some plates. But thank Ms. Y/N first.” 

He gives them each a stern dad look that even intimates you. Together, the three turn and bow their heads at you. “Thank you, Ms. Y/N,” they obediently say. 

“Ms. Y/N?” you giggle as they run off to gather plates. “They never called me that before.” Nanami shrugs, carrying cutting some slices of pie with a sharp knife. “Well, you used to babysit them when they were babies. Now, you’re older…a college graduate…” He trails off, paying close attention to his cutting.  

“Yep!” you reply, popping the p. “Fresh out of college and ‘bout to get my first big girl job before I go to culinary school. Oh, speakin’ of which…” You reach into the grocery bag again and produce a small red dish neatly wrapped in plastic. You hold it out to Nanami, your cheeks hot.

“Green-fried tomatoes for you. I snuck some from the dish I made for the festival tonight if you can’t make it.” 

You remember how much Nanami used to love them back when you were young, always wanting to bake them for him one day. He now stares at the fried tomatoes in awe like he’s never seen them before. “O-Oh,” he stammers. “You really didn’t have to.” 

“Well, you always loved that dish, so I wanted to try ‘em out. Plus, if you can’t come to the festival, I wanted you to get some.” He awkwardly takes the dish in his big hands, holding them, staring at them still. 

“So you’ll be there?” he suddenly asks. Silently, you nod, feeling hotter than the sun. “I’ll try to make it tonight…f-for the kids. They love your bakin’ and the town festival.” You nod, smiling, heart pounding in excitement. Could it be that he’ll actually be coming? 

After finishing up cutting some slices, Nanami gathers his belongings and slaps on a sexy ass cowboy hat before venturing to his truck sitting in front of the house. You bid him farewell on the porch, almost like a wife saying goodbye to her hubby before work. 

“Thanks again for watchin’ the kids,” he says as he pushes a wooden carton of apples in the truck bed. The bed is crowded with all kinds of crops and plants for selling, meaning Nanami is about to land himself a deal.  

“Don’t thank me. Just tell me how the green tomatoes are,” you giggle. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes do, crinkles appearing by his eyes. You try not to stare at his firm yet plump ass as he walks off to his car, feeling like a harlot even watching. “See ya later, Mr. Nanami!” you call, waving at him. 

He slowly turns and tips his hat at you. “Nanami,” he corrects you. “Goodbye, Y/N. Have fun tonight and call me if you need anythin’...seriously.” 

“How many kids do you want to have? Because I want about four, all boys.” 

The handsome, young doctor flashes a smile at you, all charm and dimples. You feel nothing as you stand there nursing your second Long Island, the mixed alcohol quickly working its wonders the way this man should be…but he’s not. 

The night is warm, opting for sundresses, cut-off shorts, and flip flops. You decided to wear a pretty yellow sundress with white flowers and wedges for the festivities…also for a certain rancher, but he isn’t going to be making an appearance tonight to your disappointment. That’s why you’re here wasting time on the doctor your auntie introduced you to tonight. 

“O-Oh, I’m not sure,” you stammer. “I love kids, but I just don’t think I’d be the best at raising that many.” You avert your eyes, opting to admire an old woman’s vendor of mini cakes and homemade ice cream two feet away from you. 

The doctor–Sasuke, his name is–gives you a smile, the summer wind wafting through his black hair. “Well, from what I saw earlier, I’m convinced you’d be an excellent mother. I would need someone who has a motherly instinct.” He sips from his cup of punch, the Rolex watch on his wrist glistening. 

You smile, flattered. “Thank y–” 

“And a woman who can cook. I’m quite busy with my legal work, so I’d inquire someone to bake for me. That’s the way of a housewife, after all.” Sasuke has the nerve to flash you a smile after he says this, like it’s such a compliment to be resorted to such duties. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you manage to hold it together long enough to smile at him. 

Luckily for you, when you hear a familiar whistle, you turn to see Ino and Yuki sitting at one of the picnic tables set up on the grass. “Oh, I believe you’re gettin’ summoned!” you announce, a little too happy to do so. Sasuke nods, taking your hand in his. “Of course. Come find me durin’ the fireworks.” He kisses your knuckles before he gives you a wink and bids you farewell. 

You hightail it out of there, feeling like you were about to melt from boredom instead of the summer heat. The night is warm, causing the townsfolk to opt for sundresses, cut-off shorts, and flip flops. You decided to wear a pretty yellow sundress with white flowers and wedges for the festivities…also for a certain rancher, but he isn’t going to be making an appearance tonight to your disappointment. 

“I regret to say, but I may not be able to make it to the festival,” Nanami sighed over the phone. “I got caught up in some errands and the traffic here is awful.” You were standing in the kitchen with homemade pizza for the kids, watching them run around the backyard with Maple. Your stomach pitted from the announcement, but you hid it with your bubbly tone. “O-Oh, don’t worry! I wouldn’t mind takin’ the kids over myself.”

“I will have Haibara accompany you,” Nanami replied. “He’s their uncle, so he can watch ‘em too. You should be havin’ fun.” You only met Haibara once–he’s Nanami’s childhood friend and a sexy firefighter that your aunt always had her eye on. 

“I always have fun with your kiddos,” you giggled. “They were little angels while you were gone.” You stared at your nails coated in dirt, reminiscent of the came of tag you played with them earlier. “You ain’t lyin’ ‘bout that, are you?” he chuckled.

You sucked air through your teeth, leaning against the counter. “Well, Nobara and Megumi did have a little scuffle in the mud, but they got all cleaned up.” Nanami softly chuckled, the sound making you feel warm all over. “You’re good with kids,” he praised. “That’s a good quality to have. I’m sure your auntie is flauntin’ that to every doctor and politician in this town.” 

You rolled your eyes, not even wanting to think about it. Not that you were opposed to being matched up, but your aunt always chose the worst men to fix you up with. Men who lived with the mindset that all women were good for was sexing them up and cooking for them. 

Nanami cleared his throat then, preparing you for his next statement. “You know,” he began. “The kids really liked that apple pie you bought over. If you’re up for it and you got some left, you should bring over leftovers tomorrow. I’ll pay you for it.”

“Oh, no, no! You don’t have to do that!” you protested. But you couldn’t stop the flood of joy and pride at the fact that Nanami loved your cooking. “I know I don’t, but I’d like to,” he gruffly said. You deserve it for bein’ such a doll with the kids.” 

‘For you? Anything.’ The thought popped into your head as soon as he called you a doll. You wanted to be his doll. His sweet little doll who would do anything for him. Realizing his slip-up, he cleared his throat again while you stood there about to melt into the floor. “W-Well, you should be headin’ out soon, right? Don’t want your aunt to come by with a shotgun.” 

Despite your disappointment at him not being here, the sugary scent of your body mist and pretty pink nail polish couldn’t go to waste, so you stuck around for the festival. After all, your aunt needed help tending to the loving fans fawning over your baked goods. Plus, free Long Island iced teas couldn’t be missed. 

You stumble over to the picnic table and slump down beside Yuki, your childhood friend, sipping her spiked punch. “That was soooo painful to watch,” Ino groans, sitting on the table. “He woulda gotten any more sexist, I would’ve socked him.” You side-eye him as he sips his Jack n Coke. “Not if you didn’t want a slap from our aunt.” 

“Still no luck in the love department?” Yuki jokes, running a hand through her long blonde ponytail. You shake your head, giggling when she clinks her cup with yours in solitatory. “Why is she settin’ you up with these uptight assholes?” she wonders aloud. “What about that hot rancher guy?” 

You gape at her while Ino snorts into his cup before taking a puff of his cigarette. “Nanami?” you gasp. “You’ve been drinkin’ waaaay too much, girl. There’s NO WAY she’d ever set me up with a man like that.” Yuki eyes you curiously, cocking her head at you. “Like what?” she scoffs. “Sexy? Good with his hands? Great with kids and knows how to ride a horse?”

She gives you a suggestive smirk while you depressively lean your chin into your palm, your daydreams about the dancer conjured. “I mean divorced and already saddled with kids. I don’t care, but she and my family definitely would.” You don’t even want to think about the tongue lashing you’d get if you bought Nanami for a Thanksgiving dinner. 

“Yeah, she’s right,” Ino parrots. “To our family, Mr. Nanami is considered “used goods”. Not good enough for our precious Y/N.” He reaches down to tease your hair, trying to cheer you up. You playfully swat him away. 

“You still got that cute lil’ crush on him?” Yuki giggles, poking at your side. It’s more than a crush at this point, but you just roll your eyes, playing the part. “Please,” you scoff. “I've grown up since then, Yuki.” But the blonde isn’t convinced, still giving you that knowing smile. “Soooo was that a no or…?” 

Before you can admit or deny, you are summoned once again to festival duties. “Ms. Y/N, Ms. Y/N!” Yuuji shouts, running over to you. “Can we have the rest of your blackberry pie?!” 

Haibara jogs over too, his pecs bouncing so enticingly under his firefighter merch tee. “I insisted they ask first. They sent Yuuji over to do it.” The pink-haired boy beams at you, his mouth already coated in blackberry juice, making you giggle. “Sure! Y’all go right ahead! Just wash your hands first.” 

Yuuji thanks you before running back over to tell his siblings standing by your aunt’s pie vendor. 

The entire festival is surrounded with children, from middle schoolers playing ball to babies in strollers that you coo at. “You’re really good with kids, y’know,” Haibara comments with a smile. “Nanami would be lucky to have ya.” 

As soon as he says it, his smile fades and he facepalms himself. “Shit, forget I said that! Too many Long Islands!” You blink at him, confused at where this even came from. Was he already thinking about it? Perhaps…did Nanami mention this to him? 

But before you can ask, Yuuji yells to his uncle about Nobara not giving him a sparkler. Haibara sighs, giving you an apologetic smile. “Duty calls. Enjoy the festival, Y/N.” 

Then he runs off to deal with his niece and nephews’ drama, leaving you reeling and gulping down the rest of your Long Island iced tea. For the next fifteen minutes before the fireworks, you try to enjoy yourself. You dance, you eat, you chat. But it isn’t real. It isn’t genuine. You can’t enjoy the festival, you realize. Not without seeing the handsome rancher. 

So after making sure your aunt is busy socializing, you seek your brother out chatting up a hot guy over by a cotton candy stand. “Hey, Ino?” you say, tugging on his shirt. “I’m not feelin’ too good. I think I’m gonna head back.”

Your brother looks concerned at first, but then slowly, his lips curl into a knowing smile. “Uh-uh,” he chuckles. “I’ll check on ya later, sissy.” He gives you a one-armed hug, squeezing you tight. 

“Now go get your man,” he whispers before disappearing into the crowd with the cotton-candy guy, leaving you to your own devices. 

And you take off running home. 

You don’t know what the hell you’re doing. Maybe you had one too many Long Island teas at the festival. 

You don’t know if alcohol has the power to make you bake an entire pie from scratch, jump into a hot shower, slather yourself in cocoa butter, fix your curls up with a nice red bow, and dress in your tightest cut-off shorts and prettiest floral blouse…but here you are having done all of that and more as soon as you got home. 

Now you’re standing on your crush’s porch carrying a serving dish, drunk and feeling totally stupid. You know Nanami is home since his truck is parked, but what happens if he doesn’t answer? What if he does? 

The sounds of cicadas buzz and owls hoot around you, seemingly laughing at you. ‘You should leave while you still can. Just turn your drunk ass around and go home. This man is way too old for you, your aunt would strangle you, and–’ 

Then the door opens and there stands Nanami in denim jeans and a white tee pressed snuggly against his muscular form. You both stare at each other in silence for a moment, unable to speak. “Y/N?” he questions, his brows narrowing in confusion. 

Finally, your brain catches up to your situation and your mouth snaps in action. “U-Um…hi!” you chirp, a little too forcefully. “Sorry it’s so late. I should’ve called, I know, b-but I…” You trail off, tongue tied and burning with embarrassment. This is going so, so wrong. 

Nanami raises a brow at you, concerned and confused. “You okay?” he asks. You quickly nod, doing your best impression of a bobblehead. “Yeah! I just had some pie for you and the kids, so I figured that I’d bring it over before it got bad.” You raise the serving dish at him, your smile hurting your cheeks. 

But Nanami barely even looks at the dish, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “What are you doin’ here? Aren’t you supposed to be at the festival?” 

His soft yet authoritative tone and expression is reminiscent of a dad…or a very good Daddy Dom. You feel your cheeks grow hot and you pull at the collar of your low blouse. “U-Uh, w-well, I wanted to bring you over that pie you wanted. I-It's apple this time. Are the kids back?” 

Nanami slowly shakes his head, finally looking at the dish held in your hands. “No, they’re still at the festival. I didn’t mean you had to bring it over tonight…or any day. It was a joke.” 

Suddenly, you feel disappointment roll over you like a cold tidal wave. Like a flower, you wither and flush hot with embarrassment. “O-Oh. I misunderstood. Sorry, I should just leave then.” You go to turn and rush off before you can start crying and humiliate yourself more, but Nanami stops you. “At this time of night, it isn’t ideal,” he argues. 

You scoff with laughter, giving him a reassuring look. “I live just down the road, Nanami. Don’t worry, I won’t get kidnapped.” 

Nanami scowls and you worry that you somehow offended him with the bad joke. “Y/N, have you been drinkin’?” he suddenly questions. He’s looking at you so scathingly that it’s impossible to lie. “Uh…just a little,” you weakly admit. “B-But don’t worry, m’fine! I…oh.” You pause, feeling your head pound from too much alcohol and press two fingers to your temple. 

The rancher watches, assessing the damage, and opens his door wider to let you inside. “Alright, that’s it. Let’s get you inside and get you some water.” You stare at him and then inside his house. His very empty house without his kids inside. “U-Um, I really shouldn’t,” you mutter. 

But instead of listening to that little angel on your shoulder, you give into temptation and step inside the cozy house. Nanami leads you to his living area where he sits you down on his couch. “Take a seat and I’ll get you some water. Feel free to kick off your shoes.” Then he takes the pie and leaves you to relax (and stare at his muscular back and impressive ass). 

As you kick off your wedges and wait, flexing your toes, you hear the pitter-patter of claws against the floor. There stands Maple with her cute, wagging tail and panting tongue. “Hi, sweet girl!” you giggle. Your smile tempts her to come closer and you start petting her immediately. “Awww, am I glad to see you tonight!” 

As Maple happily pants and licks your hands, Nanami comes back with an ice cold glass of water. “She’s glad too. Here’s your water. And an Aspirin.” He passes both to you and you give him a smile of gratitude. “Thank you. O-Oh, and the pie is fresh, by the way.” 

You don’t know why it pops into your drunk little head, but you start explaining how you made an extra pie just in case but because you had so much, you froze this one with the intention of giving it to Nanami. The rancher scowls in surprise, fixing his spectacles as if to see you clearer. 

“This isn’t a leftover from the festival? You made this fresh for me?” 

You nod, sheepishly smiling. “Yeah, for you and the kids. I’d never give y’all no leftover pie!” 

Nanami looks perplexed, leaving you confused. Doesn’t he like it? Isn’t he happy? “That’s…very sweet of you.” He says this as if he doesn’t know how else to articulate how he feels or what bringing over another baked good means to him. “I was actually in the middle of whippin’ up some apple dumplins’ for the kids.”

You cock your head at him, pleasantly surprised. “Oh…your kids?” 

“Tourist kids,” he explains with a sigh. “I got a summer camp comin’ up tomorrow from the city over to tour the ranch.” 

“Aww!” you coo, scratching Maple behind her ears. “That’s so sweet of you! I didn’t know you could bake!” The hot blonde rolls his eyes, looking evidently frustrated. “I can’t. But I figured I’d do it myself instead of botherin’ somebody else to do it.” You now notice the flour coating his jeans, a testament to his attempt at baking. 

“Well, I’d be happy to help you…i-if ya want! It’s not that I think you can’t do it or anythin’!” You clamp your lip shut, mentally licking yourself. 

“Well, now I do,” he replies, his hazel eyes lit with mirth. “Kiddin’. You really shouldn’t be up at all though.” You tut, appreciatively sipping the water. “The water and the Aspirin help. It’s the least I can do for you helpin’ me out. Pleeeease?” 

You don’t know why you beg him. Or why Nanami’s eyes seem to flash at the little whine. “At least you got manners. Fine, but don’t make fun if I don’t know what I’m doin’.” You slowly stand from the couch, going in front when he leads you from behind. “I’d never!” you gasp, twisting around to give him a wink. “I’m a good Southern gal, don’tcha know?” 

“I know,” he murmurs from behind you. You think you feel his eyes on your ass in your denim shorts, but you can’t be too sure. You’re afraid to turn around and look. Finally in the kitchen, you assess the mess he made on the counter: bowls and pots stern everywhere; flour coating the floor; ingredients left discarded. 

Nanami blushes red at the mess while you giggle. “No problem for me, Mr. Nanami! Now let’s take a look at the recipe.” As he passes the recipe sheet to you and you read off the ingredients, he gathers them one at a time: eggs, cinnamon, yeast for dough, granny-smith apples, etc. And your favorite part: buttercream frosting. 

“I can fix the frostin’,” you volunteer, holding up the whisk and a bowl. “It’s my favorite part.” Nanami smirks at you as he starts to chop apples the way they are presented in the recipe, standing side by side with you. “If you really must.” 

You giggle, putting your hair back and sliding on the apron he gives you–pretty and flowery, just the way you like. “It used to be my wife’s,” he explains. “I never got rid of it.” The admission makes you feel down, like something is weighing on your back. Does Nanami feel this way, you wonder? Is the constant wondering and hoping for a new love to come along weighing on him?

Silently, you work together, moving from slicing apples to seasoning the dough in flour. It is peaceful and serene. You find it easy to be quiet around Nanami, not because you don’t want to talk to him but because you don’t have to. It’s so easy to just…be. 

However, you don’t mind hearing his smooth-like-butter voice when he finally speaks to you while trying to pound out the dough. “So how was your school? I heard you graduated. Congratulations.” 

You smile at him as you slice more apples for him, each movement you make careful and skilled. “Thank you. It went as good as you can expect four years in an Ivy League.” Your family wouldn’t have had you gone anywhere else but an Ivy League school, wanting you to have the best of everything for your education. 

THUD! You turn, watching Nanami slam down the dough, pounding it out the way you’d want to be. His big, veiny hands mold and knead the dough rather roughly, making butterflies flutter about in your stomach.

“You’re gonna leave lumps that way,” you giggle, making him pause. “Here, let me show you.” You lower the knife for slicing and scoot closer to him, unbeknownst of his blush. “Spread the dough out like this,” you instruct, spreading the dough out with your hands until it’s semi flat. “Then use the rollin’ pin to make it real smooth.” 

You pass Nanami a rolling pin and, not even thinking about it, take his hands and position them the correct way on the pin. He allows it, quiet, watching your hands move his, rolling the pin back and forth. Once he’s got it, you let go, ignoring the zing of electricity that exploded through your veins from his touch. 

Mentally berating yourself, you go right back to your post and put all the apple slices in a bowl to be seasoned. “A-Anyway, now I’m just here for a vacay before I go back to the city for work. And to find a husband.” 

“....What?” 

You begin to gingerly season the apples with cinnamon and nutmeg. “But truthfully I wanna stay here to build my own bakery and—“ 

“Wait, hang on,” Nanami interrupts, staring at you in utter confusion. “You’re here to find a husband you said? 

At his narrowed brow and hot, hazel eyes behind his glasses, you flush. “O-Oh, that slipped out. My bad. My auntie is convinced I need to start lookin’ for a suitable man as a husband since I ain’t gettin’ any younger.” 

You pause just enough to breathe while Nanami begins slicing the dough for the dumplings. “So now I’m here gettin’ tossed around to every event at every doctor, lawyer, and rich college boy in town and she’s tried hitchin’ me up with this young doctor at the festival and…aw, hell, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be talkin’ about this to you.” You brew with embarrassment, realizing that you’re rambling. 

But Nanami isn’t perturbed by it one bit “It’s fine. I’m the one who asked…so would you ever wanna be married?” He passes the little dough squares to you and together, you begin to put apple slices in each one before clamping the squares shut, building little pockets for the apples to bake in. 

“Of course! It’s been my dream ever since I was a little girl. I just wanna meet the right one and start a family with them.” You feel slightly uncomfortable with how safe you feel talking to Nanami about things like this. Private things. How does he have such power over you? “Did you….” You pause, biting your lip. 

“Did I what?” he gently pushes, his gaze locked on you. You contemplate even asking the question, unsure if you’re warranted to do so. But under the rancher’s prying look, you feel your lips move before your brain can stop them. “Did you ever think someone was ‘the one’ at first?” 

Nanami takes a moment to think on this as you begin to place the dumplings on a baking sheet. He takes a little brush and brushes them with melted butter, careful and delicate…the way he would be with you and your body. “My ex-wife. We were high school sweethearts. Her parents didn’t approve of a farmhand courtin’ their daughter, but she loved me just the same…”

You remember his wife–the woman you envied when you were young. It was stupid. Just dumb teen stuff, crushing on an older man you could never have. Finding out about Nanami’s divorce was like whiplash. You always thought they’d be together for a long time, especially with three kids. Then you started wondering how anyone could give up a man like Nanami.

“Tiill she cheated with one of her wealthy colleagues years later,” Nanami finishes. 

You pause, gaping at him in quiet shock. How the fuck could ANYONE cheating on this fine ass man?! Is she stupid?! 

After finishing up the dumplings, Nanami takes them over to the oven and slides them in for  thirty minutes. He slams the oven door shut, making you flinch. “After that, you know the rest: divorce, she took off, and I got left with our farm and our three kids.” 

He doesn’t look upset. If anything, he is calm and collected about it. “I’m so sorry,” you murmur. He shrugs, slowly shaking his head. “It’s alright. It happened quite a long time ago. The good thing is that she still wants to be an active mother.” He then takes the dirty dishes from the counter and places them in the sink. 

Nervously, you toy with the ties of your apron, wanting to fill the tension with some sweetness. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a great father,” you softly praise him. You pause, murmuring, “And you were a great husband too. You deserve someone you can count on.” 

You didn’t think Nanami would hear it, but he does, and he turns to you, mouth parted in shock. “Y/N,” he says in that deep, captivatingly sexy voice. 

MOOOOOOOO!

You jump at the sudden sound, looking out the window to see a black-and-white cow galloping in the backyard. “Goddammit,” Nanami grunts. “Damn cow got out again. Stay here; I’ll take care of it.” And then he’s gone, allowing yourself to properly breathe. The kitchen is getting too hot…and not just from the dumplings!

You should leave while you still can. Salvage your friendly relationship while it’s still intact. But instead, you pick up the mixing bowl and get started on the buttercream frosting. You hum as you pour, mix, and whisk, the cooking taking you out of your body for a while. 

But then your mind wanders and you picture yourself mixing just like this, standing in a pretty dress while Nanami comes home to you from work, his hands on your hips and his soft lips on your neck. 

Your fantasies are only ruined when Nanami comes back inside the kitchen, huffing from the cow situation. “Oh, you’re back!” you happily exclaim. “You can be my guinea pig and try this frostin’ for the dumplins’. I think it’s kinda sweet, but a lot of kids love sweet stuff, but what do you think?” 

The ranger stands there as stiff as a board, coming off like he doesn’t understand your bubbly rambling. “Erm…I’m not much of a sweets person,” he coughs. “My only exception is the pie.” 

Still, you smile, giggling so sweetly. “That’s okay! You can still try the frostin’, right? It’s for you, after all.” You take a clean spoon and scoop up a bit from the bowl, holding it out to him. “Here ya go,” you chirp, smiling brightly at him, but that smile quickly fades after what Nanami does next. 

In a flash, his hand is wrapped around your wrist and he’s bringing your hand to his mouth for a lick. His pink tongue juts out between his lush lips to taste the sweet, vanilla-flavored cream, the sight of it making you feel hot all over. Your smile fades and the tingles you felt earlier with him so close return, traveling straight to your panties. 

His eyes flutter shut as he licks the cream off the spoon, his blonde lashes fanning his cheeks. A sift him leaves his lips, making you teem with arousal. When he finally finishes licking every bit of frosting off the spoon, he comes back to his senses and stares at you in total horror. 

“I’m sorry,” he immediately says. “I-I shouldn’t have…I don’t know why I…fuck.” He steps away from you, running a hand through his hair. 

“I-It’s okay,” you stammer, shocked you can even speak. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you to try it…um, you got some here.” You point at the the curved if his mouth where a dot of frosting lingers. He wipes at his chin, not quite getting it, causing you to giggle. “I got it.” 

You reach toward him and wipe the frosting from his mouth. And before you stop yourself, you reach out to wipe the cream off of his chin and lick it off of your finger. Everything tastes good coming from Nanami. You wonder briefly if you’d taste as sweet if you were on his tongue.  

But the brief thought disperses once you come back to your senses and see how Nanami is staring at you. ‘Oh, no, no, no! What did I just do?’

“I don’t know why I just did that,” you weakly say. “I-I should go.” Immediately, you put the bowl down and try to untie the apron but your fingers are shaking too much. 

You turn to face away from Nanami as you wrestle with the apron, but Nanami stops you, placing his hands on your arms. “No. Don’t leave,” he says, his voice gruff and deep, but his tone almost pleading. 

His hands gently lower yours off of the apron and trail down to your hips, holding you against the counter. He holds you like he’s desperate for you to stay, his fingers clutching the apron. 

You are frozen. Totally and completely. “Nanami?” you exhale. “What are you doin’?” 

Nanami is silent for a moment, simply standing there behind you, making you feel all of his muscles pushed against your back. “You make this so hard for me, y’know,” he huffs. “I’ve been tryin’ so hard to fight this since I ran into you at the park.” 

Your heart is pounding against your ribcage, so fast and loud that you’re sure he can hear it. His fingers grip the loops of your shorts as he presses his nose into the crook of your neck. "I know I shouldn't feel these things for you. This primal need...but God, angel...you entice me. Your heavenly cookin' don't make it no better for a man like me." 

Your mind is racing. You can’t believe this is happening. You don’t even know how you can speak: “A man like you?” you parrot. Nanami moves away to allow you to look at him, the sheer closeness of him making it so hard to breathe. “Y’know. Older. Divorced. Saddled with kids.” 

He gives a wry chuckle; one that makes your stomach flip-flop. “You deserve so much better than me, angel–someone younger and richer. Someone who your family will approve of. Someone who–” 

But his words are silenced by your kiss. You place a soft hand on his broad shoulder, stand on your toes, and place your lips on his with all the quickness of how long it takes for you to pop a baked good in the oven: five seconds. 

It is a split decision that you may or may not regret later, but you don’t care if you do. You can’t care. Not when Nanami’s lips feel so damn good against yours.

The kiss is soft yet passionate. Tender yet longing. Nanami’s lips taste like blackberry and sugar from the pie you brought over and the sweet, vanilla taste of the frosting for the apple dumplings. 

He doesn’t make a sound as you kiss him except for the soft, smacking sounds of your lips connecting over and over again. The slight prick of his beard against your cheeks makes you tingle and his smell–cologne, evergreen, and wood chips–makes wetness pool into your panties. 

How you’ve longed for this kiss. To kiss him. To finally see how an older man feels compared to someone in your age bracket. To finally make your fantasies into a reality. You’ve never been so pleasantly surprised and satisfied by anything in your life, not even tasting one of your desserts or baked goods that come out the way they’re supposed to!

When you finally pull away, your heart is racing. So is Nanami’s; you can tell from his labored breathing. He stares at you, quiet shock in his hazel eyes. “Stop,” you whisper, staring up at him longingly. “You are the one for me, whether you believe it or not. I’ve been crushin’ on you since I was a teen.” 

All those days of riding past his farm on your bike hoping to catch a glimpse of him; agreeing to babysit the kids just to be near him; hoping your cut-off shorts and sundresses interested him enough. 

You give him a smile now, one full of maturity and seduction. “But I’m grown now, Nanami, and I know what I want...” Your hand travels up to press against his hard chest, your fingertips right over his beating heart. “I know who I want. It’s you.” Nanami continues to silently stare at you and for a second, you think he’ll kick you out.

But instead, his big hand finds your cheek and he swoops down to kiss you again, making you moan in surprise. This kiss is still soft and sweet as Nanami, but it is also impassioned. Possessive. Hot. So, so hot the way he securely cups your cheek and presses himself against you, his muscular body flush against your smaller frame and softer curves. You grasp his forearms as he holds your waist, pushing you against the counter before wedging himself between your thighs. 

Now your hands find his waist, grasping it, pulling him deeper into you. Nanami’s groan arouses you the way a cute, rich college student never could as he pulls his lips away from yours to take a breath. “We really shouldn’t,” he pants into your mouth. “W-We can’t–” 

“We can,” you softly moan, pressing your lips to his again. You can’t get enough of them. “I want this, Nanami. I want you.” He pauses, staring into your face, his hand still on your cheek. “Kento,” he grunts. Your body tingles at his government the way it does at his touch, his calloused palm so warm against your skin. 

“So you want the divorced farmhand as a suitor? Not the doctor that was workin’ for your heart at the festival?” He walks you further into the counter, firmly pressing you between himself and the counter edge so you can’t get away…but you wouldn’t want to even if you could. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here. 

“No,” you whimper. “Just you, Kento. Only you.” You press your cheek into his touch, his thumb just inches away from your lush bottom lip. 

Temptation gets the best of him and he runs his thumb against your lip, making you silently purr. His eyes grow hooded and lustful, exciting you. “Prove it then. Show me how much you want this.” 

Your brows knit in confusion. What does he mean? Didn’t your kiss just a few minutes ago indicate your undying want and need (and love) for him? But then you feel something: his hard cock pressing into your panties, hot and throbbing. You gasp into his kiss as you feel it, feeling like someone just poked you with a hot rod and now you’re on fire. 

You gently pull away from him and smile, sexy and dimpled. “You must be so tired from today,” you purr, running your hands over his broad chest, indulging in his muscles. “You should sit down for a bit and relax.” 

Your words are like liquid temptation to him, dangerous but irresistible. Without a word, Nanami pulls up a chair from the breakfast table and takes a seat in the middle of the floor. He manspreads, sitting back and opening his thighs for you, laying his palms flat on his lap. Seeing him throb in those jeans seems so forbidden, but you can’t take your eyes away. He’s so fucking big! How you’ve imagined so many times sliding his pants off and seeing him for yourself.

And now, finally, that time has come. Nanami’s eyes are playful as he regards you, staring at you so intimately that you nearly melt into the kitchen floor. “Well, you’ve got me here now, little miss,” he says, his voice a deep purr. He cocks his head to the side, smirking slightly. “Now what are you gonna do to relax me?” 

Something switches in you that makes you bolder than you were earlier. Not the alcohol, but something else. Something he caused. You find yourself slinking to the floor and slowly crawl towards him, one move at a time, slinking across the kitchen floor like a predator stalking its prey. A she-wolf or a tigress. 

Nanami watches you like you have shapeshifted into one of the two, his gaze hot and thrilling, making your insides tingle. His bulge throbs and chubs against his jeans, begging to be released. You notice the way his eyes drink in your swaying tits in your dress and the way the ruffles hike up to expose the lace of your panties and your ass moving in such a lewd way that it makes his Adam’s Apple bob.

A newfound confidence rushes through you, as intoxicating as any Long Island iced tea. To turn a sexy, older man on the way you are turning Nanami on makes you feel like the sexiest bitch walking the earth. And you are prepared to show him your gratitude as you finally make your way over to him and kneel before him in your little sundress.

Nanami’s eyes drink you in as your hands glide along his belt, working it off along with his fly. “This is very improper, you know, honey,” he murmurs. “What would your aunt think of this?” 

Zzzzzip goes his fly as you pull it down and he helps you work his belt off, loosening it so you can see his deliciously dark blonde happy trail. “I don’t care,” you reply. “I’ve wanted this for so long.” With his bottom lip sunk between his teeth, finally, he slips his hand under the waistband of his briefs and pulls himself out for you.

Jesus. He’s bigger than you thought. He is all thickness and veins, protruding from a nest of neat, blonde curls with muscular thighs and a bulbous, pink head dripping with pre-cum for you. You can’t help but gape at it as your pussy gushes, satisfied with such a sight. “So when I was a married man, you were thinkin’ about suckin’ my cock?” he bluntly asks. “That’s very naughty of you, angel. And I thought you were such a good girl.” 

His dirty words make you shiver, loving how such a proper rancher can be so salacious too. “For you,” you whisper. “If you want me to be.” You wrap a hand around him and begin to stroke him, up and down, up and down, keeping a rhythm that gets you both used to each other. 

Nanami softly groans at your soft touch, his cock throbbing in your palm. “I do,” he growls. “You know I want this. Clearly.” His eyes tick down to his cock pulsing in your hand. You look too, staring in awe at the way your pretty pink nails barely fit around his thick shaft. “You’re really…big.” 

Your voice is soft and in awe, dripping with arousal and a bit of anxiousness. How would it feel stretching out your pussy once he’s inside of you? “Would that be a problem for you?” he asks. 

There is a bit of playfulness in his tone, obviously challenging you. You take it and make him eat his words by wrapping your full, lush lips around his cock. “Mmm, fuck,” he groans. “That’s my good girl.” 

He is definitely the biggest man who has ever been in your mouth. As his cock slips past your lips and you begin to suck him like your life depends on it, the gummy walls of your mouth and your jaw bones stretch to accommodate his size. But his sexy, deep groans and gasps from your hot, wet mouth sucking him off makes it a bit easier to take him. 

As you suck, you hollow your cheeks and focus on breathing through your nose as his natural scent and seductive cologne fills your senses. Whatever you can’t fit in your mouth, you pump him, your spit dripping down his cock to lubricate your palm so you can stroke him better. Nanami’s fingers lace through your hair, gripping the strands in an effort to keep you where you are: on your knees sucking his dick. 

“God,” he groans. “You’re gonna get me in so much trouble, baby. W-We—oh, fuck me—we shouldn’t be doin’ this.” You pause, staring up at him through your lashes, spit coating your glossy lips. “Do you want me to stop?” you ask. “‘Cause I can if you—mmph!” You can’t say much more because he’s pushing your head back down to gag on his cock.

Finally, the sweethearted, respectable rancher persona fades, leaving only a pent-up single dad in need of some TLC. “Don’t fuckin’ stop,” Nanami grunts. “You caused this, so now you need to handle it. Just like a big girl should. Ain’t that what they taught you in Ivy League?”

Really, the only thing that remotely stuck with you from college is how to suck dick. The only difference is that Nanami isn’t a rich college boy who either cums too quick and doesn’t call the next day, or lays there like a dead fish while you’re putting in major neck to make him bust. He is a grown ass man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to show it.

He tilts his head back against the chair, showing off his sexy neck and the vein pulsing there. “Ngh, fuck!” he groans. “A-Ah…oh, angel, your mouth feels so fuckin’ good. You can take me deeper, can’t you?” 

“Mmmph-hmm!” you mumble around his cock, still sucking and slurping away. Slowly, he brings your head up, helping you take a breath that you wouldn’t have taken yourself because you just love tasting him. “Sorry, angel, I didn’t quite get that. Do you think you can take me deeper?”

You stare into those hooded, hazel eyes, shuddering and gushing freely from his intoxicatingly seductive, sultry stare. “Yes, Daddy,” you whisper. Those two little words ignite a forest fire in Nanami, wild and untamed. You can feel it in the way his hand grips your hair as he pushes you down and makes you take the rest of his cock down your throat. 

Your throat squelches around him as he slips in deep, nearly brushing the back of your throat. Nanami groans aloud, the sound bouncing off of the kitchen walls as the cicadas buzz and the cows moo outside. “That’s it! Fuckin’ take that cock, angel!” He thrusts up to slowly fuck your throat, drawing his spit-covered cock in and out, in and out, watching the way your lush lips stick to his dick.

“Deeper,” he groans. “Take it all, baby. Show me what you did with all those college boys.” To your surprise, you take him deeper and pay the price by gagging when you feel that little tickle. But you persevere, gagging and sucking on his cock, giving him the best head he’s had in his life. 

“None ‘em can make you feel this way,” he huffs. “None of ‘em can fuck your pretty throat like I can.” Your pussy throbs in agreement, hot and ready for him. None of ‘em. Not like him. You wonder if he can fuck you just as deeply as he is your throat. Can he be just as rough and sloppy as he is right now? 

You suddenly feel his cock throb and his grunts grow more intense, louder, filling your ears like the sweetest music. “Oh…oh, God, angel! You’re gonna m-make me fuckin’ c-cum!” he pants. “You want it? You wanna take all of my load down that throat?” You feel butterflies swarm in your tummy, excited and thrilled. “Mmm-hmm!” you mumble around his cock, ticking your eyes up to stare into his with his cock nestled in your mouth. 

There is nothing you want more than to feel every ounce of his creamy cum shoot down your throat and coat your tastebuds…but instead, he stops fucking your mouth off its hinges and pulls out of your wet mouth with a moan. “No. Not yet. I wanna make this last a little longer. Stand up f’me.”

Though you’re confused, you stand up on wobbly legs, damn near soaked through your shorts. Nanami stands too, his stiff cock standing at attention between you. “C’mere,” he murmurs and suddenly, you’re in his arms. He kisses you deeply, shoving his tongue in your mouth. You welcome it with a soft whimper, falling head over heels for his taste. “Jump,” he whispers. 

You do so and you’re suddenly wrapped around him like a kolala bear. Nanami carries you effortlessly to the counter, his pants at his ankles, moving carefully to not trip and fall with you still in his arms. He sits you up on the counter, being careful to not stain your clothes. He kisses you for a few more magical minutes before he pulls away and grabs the frosting bowl. 

You watch him as he takes a dollop and plops it on his bottom lip. “What are you doin’?” you giggle, before you’re silenced by his sultry kiss. You moan at the mix of him and the frosting on your tongue, everything so sweet and yummy. “Makin’ you taste your greatness,” he huskily replies against your lips. “Somethin’ this sweet needs to be shared and appreciated.” 

He takes another dollop and holds his finger out for you. You suck the sugary, buttercream frosting off of his finger, staring deep into his eyes as you do. He then sloooowly pulls it out and drags it down between your thighs. “Just like this here,” he purrs as his saliva-coated digit swirls around your shorts, an embarrassing wet spot appearing in them. “What a mess. Guess you won’t be needin’ these no more.” 

He helps you slide off your shorts, leaving you in just your lace panties. He whistles low at the sight of you, soaked for him through the thin fabric. “Do ya get this wet f’me often, sweetness?” he whispers, his hooded eyes staring into yours. He begins to stroke you through your panties, making you moan. “Tell Daddy. Don’t be so coy now.” 

He presses his thick index and middle fingers against your puffy slit, making you gasp and grasp his shoulder. “A-Ah…yes,” you brokenly moan. He smiles and pulls your panties aside, revealing your soaked, puffy pussy lips to him. After getting over the gorgeousness of you, he gently slides his digits against your slit, groaning when they come back coated in your honey. 

“Taste yourself,” he demands and you do so, sucking your wetness off his fingers, staring into his eyes. “I wanna taste your honey now, angel. Is that okay?” he breathlessly asks. 

You nod, unable to properly speak. But that isn’t good enough for him. “Words, darlin’. Tell me if you want my tongue in you or not.” He then kneels and presses a kiss against your clit, making you throb with need. “Yes, Daddy,” you plead. “Please taste me.” You’re so wet that you’re dripping down your thighs for him. 

He grins at you, proud of your obedience, and it’s like the sun prying through stormclouds. “That’s my good girl. Now lemme show you how a real man eats pussy.” And after putting a tiny bit of frosting on your tummy and sucking it off, smiling when you giggle, Nanami proceeds to give you head like you’ve never experienced in your life. 

Nanami is a skilled pussy eater. If is ranching business doesn’t work out anymore or he finds that he’s tired of it, he would consider taking up cunnilingus professionally…or maybe that’s just your delirium as he slides his fat tongue along your clit and engulfs your pussy in his hot, wet mouth. 

Your eyes widen and your toes curl as he curls his tongue against your clit, flicking it in a way that makes your mouth fall agape. Your moans are loud and uncontrollable. He has turned you into a total slut. And then his tongue slides inside of you. “Oh, fuck!” you gasp, your eyes rolling back. “Yes, Ken, just like that! Fuck me j-just like…” 

Your words fail you, only coming out as pathetic huffs of air, gasps, and moans that reverberate against the walls. Slosh-slosh-slosh goes his wet tongue as he slowly slides his tongue in your hole and curls it up, filling you up the way he would with his cock…probably even more. 

Nanami eats you out like a starving man, holding your thighs apart as you fall apart in his hands. It’s so good that the tingling sensations that his mouth causes travel up to your nipples, causing you to pull down your top to free your tits and hard nipples. His hazel eyes flicker up to watch your sweet titties sway and your hands massage them, using his tongue to bring you pleasure.

Soon, his tongue becomes something of a weapon, fucking you until you’re nearly screaming.

“Mmm, shit!” you moan, gripping his hair with one hand. “M’gonna cum soon, Daddy! P-Please slow down!” You hold the counter for dear life with the other, his tongue lashes just too addictive and intense. 

But Nanami won’t let you pull away. In fact, he firmly grips your hips so you can’t run, forcing you to take the pleasure he’s giving you. “No way in hell,” he growls against your clit. “I want you to cum for me now, angel. Give me what I’ve wanted for years. Cum for your Daddy nice an’ pretty.” 

He then uses his tongue to thrust it upward, nuzzling his face deep into your pussy. Your whines and moans grow loud, echoing throughout the kitchen. You can only hope you aren’t scaring Maple as you feel that bubble in your core about to pop as you get closer and closer to the edge of your intense orgasm. “Ohhh, I’m gonna cum! Yes, yes, fuck, I’m gonna…ah, Daddy, yes! I’m cumming!” 

Your orgasm is as intense as a dip in cold water on a hot summer day, shocking you to your core and making your toes clench. Your fingers clutch Nanami’s blonde locks as his nose rubs your clit, making his glasses foggy. You moan so sweetly as you cum all around his tongue, drenching him in your taste, your thighs clenching around his head. 

Nanami welcomes it all, his tongue still slashing your insides and drinking you in as you writhe above him, using one hand to massage your tits and tweak your nipples. Sparks of pleasure explode through you, hot and explosive, making you feel so heavenly and new. When your orgasm finally fades, you slump against the counter, breathless and brand new. 

Nanami’s tongue slashes slow down, becoming gentle as he cleans you up. He pulls his tongue out of you and sucks the sweat off of your inner thighs before he pulls away, an animalistic hunger in his gaze. “Sweet,” he murmurs. “Just like you…but now I need more of you.” 

His cock confirms, bobbing and throbbing between your thighs. You watch, mouthwatering and pussy clenching around air. You need him like you need to breathe and eat. You need to fill him stretching you. Filling you. Fucking you until he dumbs a load in you, maybe even a few babies. 

“Yes, please,” you whisper, clutching his shirt, pulling him closer. “How do you want me?” He stands firmly between your thighs, his cock just inches from sliding inside of your tight, hot, wet cunt. “Exactly like that. Just the way you are.” 

You both can no longer resist the temptation. He’s already wrapping a hand around himself and pushing in, prying your lips apart with his cock head. And finally—finally—he slides inside, fulfilling every fantasy and dream you’ve ever had. “Fuck!” you both gasp in unison, sharing the same exact reaction to him filling you up. 

He feels perfect. Nothing at all like you thought, but you love that your fantasies have been uprooted. Nothing compares to the real fucking thing. Nanami presses himself flush against you, his hands gripping your hips as he slowly thrusts between your thighs, your feet dangling off the counter. “Is it—ngh—exactly what you thought I’d be?” he pants in your ear. “‘Cause, angel—fuck—you are to me. Do you have any idea how many times I thought about fillin’ you up like this?” 

You grip his shoulders, your pink nails digging into them. “R-Really?” you stammer. To hear such a forbidden confession makes you wetter, your honey dripping down his cock. “So many times,” he groans. “What if I told you that I wanted this to? That I thought about fuckin’ you while I fucked my ex-wife?” 

His big hand wraps around the back of your behind to grip it, his cock sliding in and out, in and out, his pelvis rubbing against your clit. You moan into the air smelling of cinnamon and sugar from the steaming oven, the apple dumplings completely forgotten about. You don’t care about anything but Nanami’s cock inside of you. “Ken-to,” you moan, each syllable broken. “F-Fuck, more! I need more, Daddy, please!” 

He gives you more, rocking his hips a little faster into you, speeding up his slow tempo for something faster. He locks eyes with you, drinking in your slutty little expression, eyes glazed and mouth agape. “God, you take me so fuckin’ well, darlin’!” he grunts. “Take all of me. Every bit of me is fuckin’ yours.” 

You couldn’t have asked for anything more. You want all of him the way he wants all of you, his hands pawing at your tits as you rock into him, desperate to take him deeper. At some point, you take some frosting and swipe it on your hard nipples, beckoning his mouth onto each one. 

He licks the frosting from your tits, sucking on one nipple after the other, his fat tongue coating your tits in saliva. 

You do the same to your bottom lip, moaning from his cock massaging your gummy walls as you swipe frosting along your mouth. “Kiss me,” you beg, the sweet frosting coating your lips. He does so, firmly grasping your chin as he sloppily kisses you, sucking the frosting from your lips. 

His kiss is demanding and possessive, stealing the air from your lungs. The clink-clink-clink of his belt hitting the counter edge combined with the plap-plap of his fat cock plunging in and out of your soaked pussy is a sweet, seductive symphony that drags you closer to the edge, unable to stop yourself. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer, soaring higher and higher. “Kento,” you whimper. “I-I’m gonna—“ 

“PAPA!” 

The sudden chorus of the little trio of Nanami kids rings out from the living room. “We’re back!” Haibara shouts. “You in here, Kenny?” Your heart stops and you nearly die right there, not even focusing on Nanami’s adorable nickname. 

Nanami pauses in his fucking, but he doesn’t lose his cool the way you are….even though his fucking children and best friend are right outside the kitchen! He places a finger to his lips, keeping you quiet. “In the kitchen,” he calls, his voice level and steady despite being balls deep inside your tight, wet pussy. “Don’t come in here, kids.” 

That’s when you see Nobara’s little shadow across the tiled floor. You nearly yelp, only silenced by your own hand clapping on your mouth. You expect Nanami to pull out in fear of his daughter seeing, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps himself there, plugging you up with his fat, veiny cock. You stare at him in confusion and horror. Is this man insane?!

“Why not?” Nobara asks. “I smell apples! Are you makin’ apple dumplins’, Dad?! You never bake!” 

“Now I see why,” he huffs. “I broke somethin’ and there’s glass all over the floor. I need y’all cuttin’ yourselves. Just go out and play.” The lie is so effortless and believable that even you’re impressed. Nanami locks eyes with you, the lust still burning within them, causing your pussy to clench around his cock.

“You need help in there, Ken?” Haibara asks, concerned. “‘Cause I can—“ 

“M’fine,” Nanami chokes out as you squeeze him, locking him inside of you. “Just watch the kids, alright? Take ‘em to ride the horses in the orchard.” Haibara seems like he still wants to protest, but goes with his friend’s wishes anyway. “If you say so.” Then, fortunately, you see his and Nobara’s shadows vanish. “C’mon, kiddos, let’s go have a race!” 

Finally, they disappear and enter through the front door. You hear the screen door creaking and the kids’ laughter in the night until all sounds disappear. Nanami doesn’t move for a moment, listening for more noise. When he hears nothing, he releases a heavy sigh and so do you.

“That’ll give us about 20 free minutes…if you still want to.” 

He holds your gaze, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. You to see him want to fuck you sooo badly, to be as close to you as humanly possible, makes your heart swell and your pussy gush. “I’ll always want to with you,” you purr. “How d’ya want me now, Kenny?” 

The little petname makes Nanami’s cock throb inside of you, making you whimper as he holds your chin with a firm, ever-seductive grip. “Bent over this counter,” he softly growls. “Forgive me, but I’m an ass guy and you fit the bill, angel.” You smile, practically singing the body electric. You would do anything for this man; be anybody for him if it meant getting a slice of that dick and another kiss. 

So you slide off of the counter after Nanami pulls out and bend over for him, presenting your ass to him. You can faintly hear the sound of the kids screaming and the horses whinnying from outside, making you shiver with anticipation. The idea that you could be caught is a major turn on for you…minus the kids part. 

Obviously, it’s a turn on for Nanami too when slaps his hard dick against your clit, the stickiness of your pussy lips making him groan. Then slowly, agonizingly slow, he pushes himself back inside of you. You gasp, eyes growing wide as saucers and your mouth dropping open as he grips your hips to hold you still. “Fuck!” he hisses out, your pussy gripping him tighter in this new position.

You never cared too much for doggystyle with the guys you’ve been with in uni, but with Nanami? He makes it seem new and exciting. He takes his time getting to know your body, paying attention to the sounds you make and your body language. Each thrust inside of you sends sparks of pleasure exploding through you, starting from your buzzing clit down to your toes. 

Nanami presses his lips to your ear as his hands firmly grasp your hips, secure but not hard. “Is this okay?” he whispers. “I’m not bein’ too rough, am I?” You turn to him over your shoulder, your lips mere inches from his. “Not enough. It’s okay, Nanami; I won’t break.” 

You give him a sexy little smile as you toss your back back into him, earning a loud moan from his luscious lips. “Fuck me, Daddy,” you whine. “Please. I can take it.” 

Nanami doesn’t need any more confirmation or convincing than your sweet plea or your ass grinding back into him. So he yanks you against him and proceeds to fuck you with everything he has. Every drag of his cock inside of you wakes you up, emitting all kinds of slutty sounds from his throat. 

He grabs your hair and pulls on it, making you grunt at the bite of pain as the strands are yanked on as he fucks you into the counter. The time you spent on your hairdo is ruined, the red bow now crooked. “Such a naughty little girl, lettin’ a older man fuck her brains out like this. This is just what you wanted, right?”

You don’t answer, too lost in the electric pleasure he’s giving you. You’re lost in a world of great sex with a hot DILF, his hands gripping you and his cock massaging your G-spot just right. But then it only gets better.

SPANK! 

You yelp as Nanami’s big, calloused hand smacks your ass, lighting it on fire. You love it. “Right?” he firmly asks. He spanks you again, the bite of pain mixing with the pleasure, making your brain foggy. It only intensifies when he speeds up, the plap-plap-plapping of his hips slamming against your ass growing more frequent, filling the air.

You grip the counter for dear life as he fucks you stupid, loud moans and whines leaving your lips as you fly closer and closer to your blissful end. “Yes!” you chant. “Yes, yes, yes! Omigoddaddyi’mgonnacum!” The words are a high-pitched, rushed yelp of jumbled words. You are tongue-tied and mushy-brained, nothing but a tight hole for Nanami to fuck. 

He takes his hand and cups one of your tits, squeezing it as he nails your G-spot from behind. “Do it then, angel. Cum all over that cock.” He spanks you again, making you see stars, and presses himself so deep inside of you that you feel him in your tummy. “Cum for me,” he growls in your ear. “Give it to me, darlin’. Cum for me!” 

At his deep, gruff voice in your ear, so demanding and wanton, you can’t help but spill all over his cock. You shake and shudder in his arms as you drip your wetness all over his dick, down to his heavy balls sinewy with blonde hair. Your orgasm is intense, explosive, and euphoric, pulling you out of yourself and forcing you into the clouds, high, high above everything and everyone.

Nanami continues to fuck you through your orgasm, making it much more intense. So much that you can barely take it. His pornographic grunts and moans are your drugs, filling you with such euphoria that you smile. “Ngh—too goddamn tight!” he grunts. “Gotta pull out before I breed you.” 

‘Breed me?’ The idea of Nanami filling you up with his babies and making you one of his baby mamas sounds like an amazing idea in your dick delirium. Still, because he somehow still has his common sense, Nanami pulls out of you and you hear the wet sounds of him furiously stroking his cock behind you. 

“Look up at me,” he pants. “Let me see those eyes.” Slowly, you turn around and kneel before him, all eyes on him and his hand that turns into a blur with how fast he’s stroking. His body is tense, all of his muscles bulging for you, his handsome face flushed. “Cum for me, Daddy,” you purr. “Please. I want it.” 

You drag your nails up his body, staring at him through your lashes. You are more addictive to him than you realize, but soon, you get the message. He grabs the counter as he furiously pumps his cum out with one hand, letting out delicious moans as he does. With a long, loud groan of pure release, he tilts his head back and releases himself all over your face and your juicy tits. 

You gasp as each warm droplet of spunk hits your skin, quickly drying and marking you as his. It is a strangely addictive experience–being given a facial by your older crush. You feel like no other man can take you now. No other man can compare. Not with the way your pussy aches for more despite just cumming. Though Nanami fucked you out of your head, you ache for it again, horny as ever. 

Nanami finally relaxes, his muscular body unfurling like a flower. After his nut, he seems like a new man, glowing from the inside out. But when he gets a look at you, he blushes a hot red, horrified at the sight of you coated in his cum. “Oh, my…I made a mess. Here, let me get you a towel.” 

Quickly, he gets a soft dishtowel and soaks it in warm water before wiping his own cum off of your face. What a gentleman! You giggle as he hands it to you to get the rest. “Thank you, Daddy,” you purr as you wipe off your tits. “For the towel and the treat.” 

Nanami gives you a sheepish smirk, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he huffs. 

“I’m not,” you giggle as you dab at your face, getting the rest of his jizz off of you. “That was needed for the both of us, it seems.” 

The rancher smiles, capturing you with his beauty, sinking his hooks straight into your heart. “Definitely. You were perfect, angel.” You smile, unable to resist moving closer to him, needing to be near him. “So were you. Better than I ever dreamed.” Nanami wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer for a kiss when– 

Ding!

You gasp, rushing over to the oven. “Oh, the dumplins’ are done!” you chirp. Quickly, you open the oven door, sending a plume of smoke hitting you in the face. Nanami slides an oven mit on and slides the pan of golden-brown dumplings out. “They came out quite nicely, didn’t they?” you dreamily sigh, humming at the sweet aroma. 

Nanami peers down at the dumplings as he sits them on the windowsill to cool. “Well, you’re the bakin’ expert. I’ll take your word for it.” You nod excitedly, happy to see him look so pleased. Soon, you’ll be able to sprinkle them with powdered sugar. Your favorite part! 

….Or rather, he and the kids will be able to do it. 

That little thought pulls you back to reality and suddenly, you’re completely sober from the Long Island teas and the great sex. Quickly, you pull up your panties onto your soaked, sensitive pussy and your shorts. Nanami watches curiously as you zip up your shorts and then begin to fix your top. 

“W-Well, I guess I should get goin’,” you awkwardly stammer. “I’m sure you wanna spend time with your kiddies, so I’ll—“ 

“Go?” he parrots, confused. “You’re leavin’? Just like that?” He has begun to pull his clothes on too, dragging his pants up to hide his flaccid cock. 

You stare back, just as confused. “Don’t you want me to?” you ponder aloud. You thought that’s what this was: just a hot hookup. A one night stand with no strings attached. But the rancher stares at you like he wants more without saying it. “Why would I? You helped me bake for the kids tomorrow and we…” 

He pauses, clearing his throat. Just the mere memory of what you did minutes ago makes you sweat. “You can leave if you want to, but I’d love for you to stay. You’re welcome here anytime; you always have been.” Slowly, he takes your hand in his, his big palm encasing your smaller one. 

You stare at his fingers, unsure of what to say. You want to say a lot of things, but you feel like you can’t. It’s too early. You’re overthinking. This can’t possibly be something. 

Nanami senses your apprehension and slowly tilts your chin up to face him. His gaze is soft and understanding, making you melt into the floor. “You’re thinkin’ what this can be, aren’t you?” he coos. You don’t want to answer, but his soft, molten gaze is enough to make you pop. 

“Yes,” you admit with a sigh. How can he read you so effortlessly? He nods, wrapping an arm around you to hold you close. Together, you stand in the kitchen, soaking up the last moments alone with each other. 

“This can be whatever you want, darlin’. It’s all up to you. But for now, stay and have some pie with us.” He presses a soft kiss to your forehead and, like a moth to a flame, you are dragged back in, unable to break away from this and what it could be. You place a hand on his chest, nuzzling your cheek against him.

“Besides,” he murmurs as he begins to tenderly fix your hair, wrapping it back up in the neat little bow. “Who’s apple pie is gonna taste as good as yours, hm?” He snakes a hand down to your ass, squeezing it possessively. 

And you don’t know when you’ll be able to fuck Nanami again, but you’ll look forward to it for whenever it happens. Any chance to get your hands on this fine ass rancher again, you’ll take it. 

Finally, the moment is broken when the kids and Haibara come back inside, sweaty and out of breath from playtime. The kids gape at the sight of you, but luckily it’s just because they aren’t expecting you. Not because you’re standing there buck naked with their father’s spunk all over you.

“Y/N came to deliver us some more pie,” Nanami announces. “You guys want a slice?” The kids quickly answer with yells of excitement as they fight for plates and then run out into the living room. 

Haibara’s eyes switch between you and Nanami, knowing something neither of you do. He smiles, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “Good to see you again, Y/N,” he chirps. “Welcome to the family!” 

He then takes a plate from the counter and bumps his hip with Nanami on the way out. “Oh, and, Kenny? Your fly is down.” 

THE END.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 arrives hidden beneath your press folder, no envelope, and no name. Just folded cream paper tucked carefully between your notes before the conference begins. Your stomach drops immediately. Because you already know.

You glance around the crowded backstage press room instinctively, reporters talking loudly, cameras stacked everywhere, assistants rushing around with coffee trays.

Nobody notices you unfolding it beneath the table, Good.

You smooth the paper carefully open. Michael’s handwriting curls neatly across the page.

—

You looked at me differently today. At least I think you did. Maybe I imagined it. You always get quiet when I catch you staring. I like that about you. You know somethin’? Everybody asks me questions all day long, but you’re the only person who waits for the real answer. That scares me a little. A lot actually. I heard you didn't get lunch again. That’s twice this week. Stop doin’ that. And stop lookin’ so pretty when you’re concentrating because it’s making these interviews difficult for me. I mean it. Yesterday during rehearsal I forgot lyrics because you walked in late carrying that little tape recorder against your chest. That never happens to me. You’re distracting. I think you know that already though. Ain’t fair. I know you think this is a bad idea. Maybe it is. But every night before interviews I still catch myself wondering what color you’ll wear. And every time you leave first after conferences I get irritated for the rest of the evening. That probably means somethin’. You never answer my letters back. I wish you would. — M

Your heart pounds so hard it almost hurts.

This man is insane. Like Actually insane. “Five minutes till conference!” somebody shouts across the room.You fold the letter shut instantly, cheeks burning. This cannot keep happening... Seriously.

One wrong person sees these and your entire career disappears overnight.

You shove the letter deep into your notebook right as movement stirs near the hallway entrance.

And then—

Michael walks in.The entire room changes immediately, Reporters straighten, Assistants rush faster, Everybody suddenly becomes aware of themselves.

Meanwhile Michael enters calmly while security trails behind him.And despite the entire crowded room—he looks directly at you first.Your cheeks are heating.

What a fucking Dangerous man. You immediately look down at your notes pretending deep concentration.

But thats a little bit Too late.. Michael already saw you. Of course he did. The conference starts quickly after that. Questions fly everywhere.

Tour schedules. Awards. Album sales. Michael answers smoothly, charming everybody effortlessly.

But every few minutes, his eyes drift back toward you, And worse? You feel it every single time.

“So Michael,” another reporter asks loudly, “how do you handle all the attention from women during tours?”

The room laughs lightly, Michael smiles politely.

Then—

completely unfairly, his eyes flick toward you while answering.“I try behave myself.” Your pen nearly slips from your hand.

Idiot.

You refuse to look up again after that.The conference finally ends forty minutes later in a blur of camera flashes and exhaustion.

Reporters begin packing equipment quickly.You stand immediately too, desperate to leave before Michael gets any ideas.

“Excuse me,” a quiet voice says beside you. Your breath catches instantly.. Michael.

Very close to you already.

You turn quickly.

“M-Michael.” His security stands farther down the hallway purposely not looking over. Which somehow makes this worse.

“You got my letter,” he murmurs softly. Not a question.

You clutch your notebook tighter against your chest. “You need to stop doing that.”

“Why?” He copies your face expression. “Because somebody could see.”

Michael tilts his head slightly. “But they didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.” You look around you. A small smile touches his mouth. God.. that smile..“You read it though.” Your cheeks warm immediately again.

“You cannot write things like that to me.”

“Which part?” He teases. “All of it!” Michael laughs softly beneath his breath while leaning one shoulder casually against the hallway wall. Completely relaxed. Meanwhile your heartbeat is trying to kill you.

“I meant everything.” He says softly.

“That’s the issue.” His expression softens slightly after that.

Not teasing now. More real. “You really think I don’t know this dangerous?” he asks quietly. The hallway noise fades around you strangely.

You swallow hard. “Then why keep doing it?” Michael looks at you for a long second before answering.

And when he finally speaks—his voice lowers. Gentler now. “Because every time you walk away from me after these conferences...”

He pauses. “I think about you all night anyway.” Your chest aches instantly. Because no way the king of pop thinks about you all night.

“Michael.” You lowered your face.“Mhm?”

“We shouldn’t even be standing here.”

“I know.”

Neither of you moves. That’s the worst part. People pass through the hallway around you carrying equipment and paperwork while the tension stretches tighter between you both.

Then Michael glances briefly toward your notebook.

“You’re dress tonight,” he murmurs softly. Your stomach flips fast. “What about it?” His eyes lift back to yours slowly.

“That was mean.” You stare at him in disbelief.

“Mean?” You know damn wel what he means.

“You knew you looked pretty.” The words come so sincerely it almost ruins you.

You glance down the hallway quickly, panicked somebody might overhear.“Please lower your voice.”

Michael smiles softly at your reaction.

And somehow that feels even more dangerous. “You get nervous around me now,” he says quietly. “You make me nervous.” The confession slips out accidentally.

it went quiet for a minute.

Michael goes still for half a second.

Then he wanted to whisper something.

But The Second He comes closer, The photographer notices you both standing together—and your stomach drops.

fuck.

© 𝙢𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚

𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨. ౨ৎ oops thats bad..🫣😙 who's bad..?

the neon of miami doesn't shine for everyone, at least not yet. right now, the city is just sticky heat, the smell of cheap gasoline, and the endless hum of cicadas drowning out the radio. michael sits at a rusted metal table behind a sun-bleached sandwich stand, the kind of place that smells permanently of burnt onions and stale cuban coffee.

he’s wearing a shirt that’s a little too big for his frame, the collar slightly frayed, but his eyes are entirely too sharp for a guy scraping grease off a griddle for a few crumpled dollars a week.

across from him sits frank—or what’s left of him. the man is a walking cliché of a mid-level boss who peaked five years ago, half-bald with a few sad strands of gray hair plastered across his damp scalp, sweating through a silk shirt that has seen better days. frank talks with a toothpick wedged between his teeth, gesturing with a heavy, gold-plated ring that looks as cheap as the advice he’s giving. to frank, michael is just another desperate face off the boat, another pair of hands willing to do the dirty work for a fraction of the profit.

but michael isn't listening to the lecture about loyalty and patience. he’s watching the way frank’s hands shake just a little when a car backfires down the street. he’s counting the seconds it takes for frank to look over his shoulder. michael knows the hierarchy here is fragile, built on fear and borrowed time, and he has absolutely no intention of staying at the bottom of it.

outside the shadow of the awning, the miami sun bleaches the pavement white-hot. the money is out there, moving through the pastel-colored hotels and the quiet docks at midnight, and michael is just waiting for the first crack in the door to push his way through.

it doesn't take long for michael to get his hands dirty. frank starts throwing him the scraps—the late-night drop-offs at quiet docks, the collections from nervous shopkeepers who owe more than they can pay, the silent monitoring of local clubs where the money changes hands under neon lights. it’s grunt work, but to michael, it’s a masterclass.

he moves through the humid miami nights like a ghost, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes wide open. he quickly learns the rhythm of the business, figuring out who really holds the power and who is just putting on a show. he realizes that cocaine isn't just a product here; it’s the fuel running the whole city, turning regular streets into gold mines if you know how to claim them.

frank thinks he has michael figured out, looking down at him as just another loyal runner who will do the heavy lifting without asking questions. but while michael counts the stacks of dirty dollar bills for his boss, he’s actually measuring the cracks in frank’s crumbling empire, learning the routes, the suppliers, and the prices. he absorbs every detail of the trade, waiting for the perfect moment to stop taking orders and start giving them.

wherever michael goes, manny is right there beside him. they’re two sides of the same coin, inseparable since the day they stepped off the boat onto the scorching miami pavement. while michael is all intense focus, sharp edges, and quiet ambition, manny is the easy smile, the unbuttoned shirt, and the laugh that can de-escalate a tense situation—or start a fight, depending on the night.

they complement each other perfectly in this dangerous new world. when frank hands them a sketchy pickup at a dimly lit motel, michael is the one watching the door with his hand near his waistband, calculating escape routes, while manny is cracking jokes with the dealers, smoothing over the tension with pure charm. manny handles the charisma; michael handles the strategy.

frank looks at them and just sees two hungry kids he can exploit, but he doesn't realize that their loyalty isn't to his second-rate empire—it’s entirely to each other. they share the same cramped, suffocating room that smells like humidity and cheap takeout, spending their late nights whispering about the future. while manny dreams out loud about the flashy cars, the silk suits, and the beautiful women they’re going to win over, michael listens in the dark, his mind focused on the raw power it will take to get them there. they’re in the gutter together right now, but neither of them plans on staying there for long.

the afternoon sun cuts through the heavy curtains of the mansion, but michael barely notices the heat. he’s standing in the center of the room, looking effortlessly sharp and focused, his posture perfectly poised. beside him, manny is sitting on the edge of a couch, nursing a slight injury from their latest job, talking fast.

"where'd they get you?" manny asks, looking over at a minor scrape on his own side. "right there in the side? it's nothing, man. it went right through me, you know? hit the wall. i ran out of bullets like an asshole, and while i'm standing there changing the clip, a little motherfucker who i had killed already—but was not dead—shot me."

"you shot?" michael asks, his voice calm, smooth, and laced with a quiet intensity.

"no, the guy was behind me, i killed him," manny insists, gesturing wildly.

"how many bullets you catch?" michael asks, a slight, knowing tilt to his head. "bullets? one bullet. nine million, nothing. but was lucky once..."

before manny can finish recounting the chaotic shootout, the double doors at the end of the room swing open. frank walks in, looking half-bald, sweating through his silk shirt, and completely oblivious to the tension. but he isn't alone.

michael’s breath hitches slightly, though his face remains a mask of pure discipline. she steps into the room just behind frank. she looks stunning, a vision of cold elegance in a sleek, flowing emerald dress that catches the light with every step. her eyes are distant, completely bored by everything around her, yet she commands the space effortlessly.

"come here," frank calls out to her, his voice loud and demanding. "where the hell you been? it's ten o'clock, baby, i'm starving."

"you're always hungry," she replies, her voice dripping with beautiful, icy sarcasm as she barely looks at him. "you should try starving."

"where you going?" frank mutters, grabbing her arm gently to pull her closer to the guests. "come on, come over here. i want you to meet a friend of mine. come on." frank turns to michael, flashing a proud, possessive grin. "michael..."

she stops, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor as she finally looks up. her cold gaze slides right past manny and locks directly onto michael.

michael doesn't break eye contact. he stands perfectly still, his eyes burning with a sudden, deep fascination, entirely captivated by her presence. the unspoken tension between them pulls tight, right under frank's blind nose, as the introduction is made.

the babylon club is drowning in a sea of magenta neon, synthetic smoke, and the heavy, pulsing beat of a live disco band. the air is thick with the scent of expensive champagne, spilled gin, and the suffocating humidity of a miami midnight. everyone who is anyone in the city is here, packed onto the glowing glass dance floor or tucked away in the plush, velvet-lined VIP booths that overlook the chaos below.

at the premier table in the center of the upper tier, frank is already three glasses into his scotch, laughing too loudly at his own jokes, his half-bald head glistening under the strobing lights. manny is leaning back, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes scanning the crowd for anyone beautiful who might look his way.

but michael isn’t looking at the crowd. and he certainly isn't listening to frank.

he sits perfectly composed in his crisp, white suit, looking like an island of calm in the middle of a storm. his dark eyes are fixed entirely on her. she is sitting directly across the table, looking like a midnight dream wrapped in silk. a thin strap of her dress has slipped slightly off her shoulder, and a delicate diamond necklace rests against her collarbone, catching the pink and blue neon flashes from the dance floor below. she holds a slim, burning cigarette between two manicured fingers, watching the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling with an expression of pure, unadulterated boredom. she hasn't touched her drink. she hasn't smiled once.

frank leans over the table, his breath smelling heavily of alcohol, and tries to pull her into the conversation. "hey, baby, look at this. i was telling michael here about the shipment from the keys. tell him how good the numbers looked last week."

she doesn't even turn her head. she just takes a slow drag of her cigarette and lets the smoke out in a long, quiet sigh. "frank, if you talk about your numbers for one more minute, i might actually throw myself off this balcony. it’s exhausting."

frank huffs, a little embarrassed in front of his new runners, and stands up with a groan. "yeah, yeah, you're always complaining. i gotta go see a guy by the bar anyway. manny, come with me, let's talk to those guys from the docks." manny immediately slides out of the booth, throwing a knowing, warning glance at michael before following the boss down the steps.

suddenly, the table feels much larger, and the noise of the club seems to fade into a dull hum.

michael doesn't rush. he doesn't lean in aggressively or try to flash a cheap smile like the other guys in the club. instead, he moves with a slow, deliberate grace, adjusting the cuff of his white jacket before leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. his dark eyes are soft, but intensely focused on her.

"you look beautiful tonight," michael says, his voice a low, smooth melody that cuts effortlessly through the thumping bass of the music. it isn't the loud, arrogant catcall she’s used to hearing from frank’s associates. it’s quiet, polite, and entirely sincere.

she finally turns her head, her heavy lids lifting just enough to look at him. she takes another slow drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke directly to the side, deliberately avoiding his face. "you know, michael—or whatever your name is—you shouldn't waste your compliments. they don't buy anything in this place."

michael lets out a soft, genuine laugh, a rare, beautiful sound that catches her slightly off guard. he tilts his head, a playful spark in his eyes. "i wasn't trying to buy anything. i was just making an observation."

"well, observe someone else," she replies smoothly, her tone icy but elegant. she rests her chin in her hand, turning her gaze back to the dance floor, completely dismissive. "i have enough people staring at me. it gets tedious."

any other man in the drug trade would have been insulted, their fragile ego bruised by the rejection. frank would have yelled; manny would have moved on to the next girl. but to michael, her indifference is the most intoxicating thing in the room. he is surrounded by people who are terrified of him, or people who want something from him, or women who throw themselves at any man with a little bit of money in his pocket. but she doesn't care about his sharp eyes, his ambition, or the dangerous aura he carries. she looks right through him like he’s made of glass. and michael absolutely loves it.

he shifts closer, his movements smooth and respectful, never invading her space but making sure she can hear every quiet word. "you don't belong here," he says softly, his eyes scanning her face, noting the slight shadow of fatigue beneath her beauty. "in this club, with these people. with frank."

she stiffens for a fraction of a second, her mask cracking just enough for him to see the sharp defensive wall behind it. she turns back to him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "and you do? you're just another kid off the boat running frank's errands, trying to play the big man in a cheap white suit. you don't know anything about me."

"i know you're bored," michael says, his voice remaining incredibly gentle, completely unfazed by her sharp words. he reaches out, his fingers brushing the stem of his champagne glass with perfect composure. "and i know that everything frank gives you—the silk, the diamonds, the big house—it doesn't make you happy. he thinks he bought you, but he doesn't even know who you are."

she stares at him, her breathing altering just a bit. for the first time, she really looks at the man sitting across from her. he isn't loud. he isn't crude. he has the manners of a gentleman and the eyes of a king waiting to take his crown. there is a dangerous, magnetic charm to the way he speaks to her—so respectful, yet so incredibly fearless.

she takes a final, long breath of her cigarette and crushes it out in the crystal ashtray between them. she leans back, pulling her cold, indifferent mask right back over her face, though her heart is beating just a little faster than before.

"you're very sweet, michael," she says, her voice returning to that bored, melodic drawl as she slides her gaze away from him once more. "but you're dreaming. don't get confused. i don't mix with the help, and i certainly don't mix with boys who have nothing but big ideas."

michael just smiles, a quiet, knowing smile that promises everything. he doesn't push any further. he just sits back, enjoying the view of her profile against the glowing neon lights, entirely satisfied with the knowledge that she is the only prize in miami worth fighting for.

as the weeks bleed into a long, suffocating miami summer, michael becomes a regular fixture at frank’s sprawling estate. his efficiency on the streets earns him more responsibility, which means more frequent meetings in frank’s private office. but while frank thinks michael is entirely focused on the ledgers and the drug routes, michael’s eyes are always searching the grand hallways, the sunlit courtyard, and that mirrored elevator.

almost every single time he visits, he crosses paths with her.

sometimes she’s lounging by the massive, turquoise swimming pool, hidden behind oversized dark sunglasses with a glass of iced white wine melting in the heat. other times, she’s gliding through the cool, marble hallways, looking like an unattainable ghost wrapped in silk robes that trail softly behind her.

and every single time, without fail, michael finds a way to step into her path.

he never pushes himself onto her, and he never breaks the strict, polite boundaries of a gentleman. instead, he uses his quiet charm like a weapon. as he passes her on the wide staircase, he’ll pause, slide his hands smoothly into the pockets of his sharp trousers, and deliver a low, melodic compliment that cuts through the silence of the house.

"that color suits you perfectly today," he’ll murmur, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a warmth that contrasts completely with the cold atmosphere of the mansion. or if he catches her looking particularly exhausted by frank's endless shouting from the upper balcony, he’ll offer a subtle, knowing smile and say, "you deserve a much quieter afternoon than this."

every single time, she plays her part perfectly. she treats his charm like a minor inconvenience, a fly to be brushed away. she’ll lift her chin, look at him through heavy, hooded eyes, and let out a soft, dismissive sigh. sometimes she’ll just offer a dry, sarcastic retort—"don't you have a job to do, michael?"—before walking right past him, her heels clicking a sharp, indifferent rhythm against the floor. she acts completely unbothered, as if his words don't even register.

but michael absolutely thrives on it.

any other woman in miami would have melted under the intense, magnetic focus of his eyes, but her stubborn refusal to give in is exactly what keeps him hooked. he loves the thrill of the chase, the deliberate slow burn of it. he watches the slight, almost imperceptible tension in her jaw when he gets too close, and the way her fingers tighten around her wine glass when he speaks. he knows she’s listening. he knows that behind that icy, bored facade, she is secretly waiting to see what he will do next. to michael, her indifference isn't a rejection; it's a challenge, and he has never lost a game in his life.

the rain is pouring over miami, turning the neon lights of the babylon club into blurry streaks of pink and blue against the wet asphalt. inside, the bass is thumping violently, vibrating through the floorboards. frank had been too strung out and paranoid to leave the mansion, but he needed a presence at the club to secure his premier table. she had initially refused to go alone, but frank, in one of his classic loud outbursts, had practically forced her out the door.

"take michael with you," frank had snapped, waving his hand dismissively. "he'll look after things. he’s responsible."

she had rolled her eyes, letting out a sharp, irritated breath, but she didn't argue. when they arrived at the club, she made sure to walk two steps ahead of michael, her emerald silk gown brushing against her heels as she ignored him completely. but michael didn't mind. he walked just a step behind her, looking effortlessly sharp in a dark silk suit, his eyes quietly scanning the perimeter with the calm posture of a bodyguard and the hidden aura of a king.

they sat at the vip booth, the silence between them heavy but charged. she immediately lit a cigarette, staring out over the crowded dance floor, her shoulders tense. michael just sat back, adjusting his cuffs, watching the way the strobing lights flickered across her profile.

the fragile peace didn't last long.

frank’s absence hadn't gone unnoticed. within an hour, a guy from a rival crew—a loud, heavy-set enforcer wearing too many gold chains and smelling of cheap cologne—spotted her sitting alone at the table while michael was subtly reviewing some papers at the far end of the booth. the man slid right into the velvet seat next to her, invading her space instantly.

"well, well," the guy slurred, his voice loud enough to cut through the music as he leaned in way too close, resting a heavy arm along the back of her seat. "look what frank left behind tonight. you shouldn't be sitting here all by yourself, beautiful. a girl like you needs a real man to show her a good time."

she stiffens completely, her posture turning ice-cold. she pulls away, blowing smoke directly into his face. "get out of my booth," she says, her voice sharp, but there is a faint flicker of unease in her eyes. the guy is big, loud, and clearly looking for a reaction.

the guy just laughs, reaching out to touch the diamond necklace at her collarbone. "come on, baby, don't be like that. frank's old news. why don't you leave with me tonight?"

before his fingers can even brush her skin, a hand appears out of nowhere.

it’s a slim, elegant hand, but the grip is absolute iron. michael intercepts the guy's wrist in mid-air, stopping him completely dead in his tracks. the movement is so blindingly fast, so smooth, that it doesn't even look like a struggle.

the music continues to thump as the heavy-set man blinks, startled, looking up into michael's face. michael doesn't look angry. his expression is perfectly serene, almost polite, but his dark eyes are completely devoid of warmth. they are burning with a dangerous, quiet intensity that makes the entire atmosphere in the booth drop ten degrees.

"i think you're mistaking this table for one where your presence is welcome," michael says. his voice is incredibly low, a smooth, soft murmur that is somehow terrifyingly clear over the loud bass of the club. he doesn't raise his voice. he doesn't draw a weapon. he just stands there, perfectly composed, tightening his grip on the man's wrist just enough to make the gold rings dig into his skin.

the guy tries to pull away, but michael doesn't budge an inch. "who the hell are you?" the man stammered, his bravado instantly slipping as he looks into the unblinking, fearless gaze of the kid in the dark suit.

"i'm the one telling you to leave," michael replies softly, offering a brief, chillingly calm smile. "now, stand up, turn around, and walk out of this section before you make a mistake you won't live to regret. have a good night."

michael releases the wrist with a sharp, synchronized flick of his hand. the man stands up, looking around nervously, realizing that michael’s posture is completely ready for a fight, completely unbothered by the size difference. swallowing his pride, the enforcer mutters something under his breath and quickly disappears into the crowded shadows of the dance floor.

michael watches him go for a split second, making sure the threat is gone, before he effortlessly adjusts the lapels of his suit jacket and slides back into his seat across from her. his breathing hasn't even changed.

across the table, her heart is thumping wildly against her ribs. for a second, just a fraction of a second, her cold mask completely shattered. she had watched the way michael handled the situation—no shouting, no clumsy brute force, just pure, magnetic charisma and a quiet, lethal authority that commanded the entire room. it sent a sudden, unfamiliar shiver down her spine. it was the first time in years a man had actually made her feel safe, rather than trapped.

but she catches herself. she swallows the sudden warmth in her chest and immediately forces the icy, indifferent expression back onto her face. she takes a slow, shaky drag of her cigarette, leaning back into the cushions, trying desperately to pretend her hands aren't trembling slightly.

she looks at him through her heavy lashes, her voice dripping with her usual defensive sarcasm, though it lacks its usual bite. "you know, you didn't have to intervene, michael," she says smoothly, crossing her legs and looking away toward the neon lights. "i can handle myself. i'm not a baby."

michael just sits back, a slow, incredibly charming smile spreading across his lips. he hooks one thumb into his waistcoat pocket, his dark eyes sparkling with absolute amusement. he knows exactly what she’s doing, and he loves her even more for it.

"i know you're not," michael murmurs gently, his voice like velvet in the dark club. "but a queen shouldn't have to waste her breath on street rats. i was just saving you the trouble."

she lets out a sharp, irritated huff, rolling her eyes to hide the way her heart is still racing from his words. she doesn't say another word, crushing her cigarette into the glass ashtray with a definitive snap. grabbing her small silk clutch, she slides out of the velvet booth and walks away, her emerald dress trailing behind her as she cuts through the heavy smoke and the flashing neon lights of the club.

michael doesn't hesitate. he stands up smoothly, grabbing his black umbrella from the corner of the booth, and follows her with a calm, effortless stride.

the moment she steps through the heavy glass exit doors of the babylon, the brutal miami storm hits her. the night air is thick and heavy, and the rain is coming down in sheets, bouncing violently off the pavement and turning the street into a dark, reflective mirror of neon signs. she pauses at the edge of the awning, shivering slightly as the damp wind catches the bare skin of her back. she glances around desperately for a taxi or frank’s driver, her lips tightening in frustration.

before a single drop of rain can touch her hair or ruin her silk gown, a wide, dark canopy snaps open above her head.

the heavy sound of the downpour is instantly muffled. she looks up to see the black fabric of the umbrella shielding her perfectly, and when she turns her head, michael is standing right there beside her. he has stepped completely out from under the safety of the club's awning, willingly letting the freezing rain soak the shoulder of his own expensive dark suit jacket just to make sure she stays completely dry.

"i told you, michael, i don't need a babysitter," she says, her voice sharp as she tries to step away from him.

but as she moves down the wet concrete steps, michael moves with her, perfectly synchronized. he holds the umbrella high and steady, his eyes focused entirely on her path. "the steps are slippery," he says softly, his voice low and steady against the roar of the thunder. "just let me get you to the car."

she tries to quicken her pace, her heels splashing through the shallow puddles, but michael keeps up effortlessly. he adjusts his stance, shifting the umbrella entirely over her side so that she is completely enclosed in a dry, safe bubble. the wind blows a fierce spray of water toward them, and without a second thought, michael steps into the path of the wind, using his own body as a shield to block the rain from hitting her.

she stops dead in her tracks on the sidewalk, turning to face him. the rain is dripping down the side of michael's face, soaking into his dark hair, but his eyes are completely calm, staring down at her with that same respectful, intense devotion.

"why are you doing this?" she demands, her icy facade cracking under the sheer weight of his stubbornness. "you're getting completely soaked. look at your suit."

michael just looks at her, a soft, incredibly charming smile touching his lips despite the freezing storm. he doesn't care about the rain, the ruined silk, or the cold. all he cares about is the woman standing in front of him.

"suits can be replaced," michael murmurs gently, stepping just an inch closer so the umbrella covers her completely. "you can't. now come on, the car is right here."

she looks from his soaked shoulder up to his warm, unyielding gaze. for a brief second, she completely forgets to play the indifferent queen. she lets out a soft, defeated sigh, stepping closer into his side to stay out of the downpour. as michael walks her the last few steps to the waiting car and opens the door for her, she slides into the dry backseat, looking up at him through the window as he closes the door with a gentle click. she might still pretend she doesn't care, but in the dark of the backseat, she can't stop her hands from trembling—and this time, it isn't from the cold.

the interior of the luxury sedan is dead quiet, save for the steady, rhythmic slapping of the windshield wipers against the glass and the muted hum of the miami rain outside. the dashboard glows with a soft, amber light, casting long shadows across the leather seats. she is pressed against the passenger door, staring out into the dark, blurry streaks of neon passing by on the highway, her arms crossed tight over her chest as if trying to rebuild the walls michael had just cracked.

michael sits perfectly relaxed beside her, the wet shoulder of his suit jacket the only proof of the storm they just left behind. he doesn't say a word. he doesn't try to fill the silence with empty conversation. instead, he slowly moves his hand across the space between them, his movements deliberate and entirely unhurried.

with a gentle, smooth confidence, he slides his fingers over the top of her hand, wrapping his palm around hers.

his skin is warm, a striking contrast to the cold dampness of the night. the moment his fingers touch hers, she tenses up. a sudden jolt of electricity rushes straight up her arm, catching her completely off guard. her immediate instinct—the defensive instinct she has used for years to survive in frank's world—screams at her to pull away. she starts to twitch her fingers, preparing to yank her hand back and deliver a sharp, icy remark to put this runner back in his place.

but something stops her.

it’s a strange, heavy pull in her chest that she can't quite explain. his grip isn't aggressive or forceful; he isn't holding her down. it’s an open, inviting warmth, steady and protective, and for some reason, her muscles simply refuse to cooperate with her brain. the sheer comfort of someone holding her like she actually matters—not like a trophy, not like property, but like something precious—paralyzes her.

realizing she can't bring herself to pull away, she quickly doubles down on her only remaining weapon: her absolute indifference.

she refuses to look at him. she doesn't turn her head even a fraction of an inch, keeping her chin lifted and her eyes locked firmly on the rain-streaked window. she lets her hand go completely limp in his grasp, pretending that she doesn't notice his fingers softly brushing against her knuckles, pretending that her skin isn't burning everywhere they touch. she acts as if his hand is nothing more than a piece of fabric left on the seat, staring blankly at the passing headlights of the miami night.

michael watches her profile in the dim light of the car. he sees the slight, stubborn set of her jaw and the way she’s deliberately ignoring him, and a small, knowing smile touches his lips. he doesn't mind the act. in fact, he finds it incredibly beautiful. he slowly tightens his grip just a fraction, squeezing her hand gently, letting her know that he’s not going anywhere, and that he’s completely willing to play this game for as long as it takes.

the silence of her bedroom is deafening compared to the thumping bass of the club, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of the miami rain tapping against the panoramic windows. she stands in the center of the dark room, the emerald silk dress pooling on the floor around her feet as she slips into a loose, ivory satin robe. she doesn't turn on the lights. the only illumination comes from the glowing pastel neon of the city skyline outside, casting long, dramatic shadows across the high ceilings.

she sits down at her mirrored vanity, her movements heavy with a deep, exhausting fatigue that has nothing to do with sleep. she stares at her reflection in the glass, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face, but she isn't really seeing herself.

all she can see are his eyes.

she looks down at her right hand, resting on the cold marble of the vanity table. her skin still feels strangely warm, almost tingling in the exact spots where his fingers had wrapped around hers in the back of the car. she lets out a long, shaky breath, her mind racing at a million miles an hour as she tries to make sense of everything that happened tonight.

why?

the question echoes repeatedly in the quiet room, keeping her awake. why is michael looking at her like that? why does he treat her with a reverence that borders on dangerous?

she is used to men being interested in her. in the brutal, sun-drenched underworld of miami, she knows exactly what she is to people. to frank, she is a trophy—a beautiful, expensive piece of property to show off to his associates, a symbol that he made it to the top. to the other men in the drug trade, the enforcers and rival bosses who leer at her in the clubs, she is just a challenge, a prize to be stolen from a crumbling empire. they look at her with hunger, with greed, with the desire to possess.

but michael is different. and that is what terrifies her.

he doesn't look at her like he wants to buy her or show her off. when he speaks to her, his voice carries a quiet, unyielding respect that she hasn't felt in years. he stepped out into the freezing rain tonight without a second thought, ruining his own clothes just to keep a single drop of water from touching her. he stood up to a man twice his size with the calm, lethal confidence of someone who has absolutely nothing to fear, all just to protect her peace.

she wraps her arms tight around herself, leaning back against the chair. is it just a game to him? is he just trying to use her to get to frank, playing the charming gentleman to worm his way into the boss's inner circle? she tries to convince herself that’s all it is. it would be easier if he were just a regular, ambitious criminal using a woman to climb the ladder.

but deep down, she knows that’s a lie. the sheer intensity in his dark eyes when he looked at her under that umbrella wasn't fake. there was a terrifying sincerity in his voice when he murmured that she couldn't be replaced. he looks at her like he sees right through the icy, bored mask she wears to survive. he looks at her as if he knows the real woman hidden behind the silk and the diamonds—the one who is suffocating in this house.

she closes her eyes, pulling the satin robe closer to her skin, but she can't shake the memory of his slow, knowing smile. she has spent years perfecting her indifference, pushing people away before they can get too close. but michael isn't running away. the more she ignores him, the more his quiet devotion seems to grow. as she finally lies down in the massive, lonely bed, she stares up at the shadows on the ceiling, realization settling heavily in her chest: michael is going to change everything, and no matter how hard she tries to pretend she doesn't care, she is losing the strength to stop him.

the next morning, the miami sun burns away the memory of the storm, leaving the city trapped in a bright, humid haze. frank had ordered her to go with michael to a car lot near the edge of the docks. "help him pick something that doesn't scream 'delivery boy' but gets the job done," frank had grunted before turning back to his mountain of powder. she hadn't wanted to go, but finding herself in the passenger seat of michael’s regular sedan felt less like an errand and more like an unspoken routine she was growing helpless to fight.

when they arrive at the lot, the heat bouncing off the concrete is brutal. the owner of the dealership—a greasy, loud man in a sweat-stained short-sleeved shirt—comes jogging over, smelling of stale tobacco and desperate for a sale.

"you looking for power, kid? i got some beautiful cadillacs over here," the owner talks fast, sizing michael up as just another kid trying to look big. michael listens silently, his eyes dark and totally unblinking, his posture carrying that terrifyingly calm authority. when the owner gets a little too close, gesturing aggressively, michael steps forward just an inch, his voice dropping to a low, icy murmur that instantly shuts the man up. the salesman immediately swallows hard, his smile turning stiff and nervous as he realizes michael isn't someone to be messed with.

but the second michael turns back to her, the dangerous edge completely melts away.

it’s a transformation that catches her entirely off guard. with the salesman, he is cold steel; with her, he is pure velvet. as they walk through the rows of shining metal, the midday heat starts to make her feel slightly lightheaded. michael notices the subtle shift in her posture instantly. without saying a word, he gently takes her by the elbow—his touch incredibly light, respectful, and soft—and guides her over to the shade of a wide canvas awning.

"stay here where it's cool," michael says softly, his voice an absolute melody of kindness that contrasts completely with the cold tone he just used on the dealer. he reaches into the car they just arrived in, pulls out a cold bottle of water he had prepared beforehand, and presses it gently into her hand. "i'll handle the rest. you don't need to stand out here in the sun."

she stands in the shade, the cold condensation of the bottle dripping onto her fingers, watching him walk back over to the cars. she observes the way he carries himself—the smooth, disciplined grace of his movements, the sharp authority he uses to command the greasy salesman, and the absolute softness he reserves only for her.

her mind starts racing again, the same exhausting questions from last night flooding her thoughts in the bright daylight.

why is he like this with me?

she watches him inspect a dark sedan, his fingers tracing the edge of the door with perfect precision. *he could have any woman in this city if he wanted to. he’s smart, he’s dangerous, and everyone can see he’s going to take over sooner or later. yet he treats me like i'm made of glass.* she is used to men using power to intimidate her, or using money to demand her attention. but michael doesn't demand anything. he just gives her this quiet, unyielding sweetness that she doesn't know how to handle.

is he trying to make me fall for him? is this some kind of sick strategy to ruin frank completely? she tries to force herself to believe the worst, trying to build that protective wall of indifference back up. he’s a criminal. he kills people for a living. he shouldn't be this gentle.

but as she watches him look back toward the awning, offering her a private, incredibly charming smile that nobody else on the lot gets to see, her heart gives a quiet, dangerous thump. she crosses her arms tight, leaning against the shade structure, staring blankly at the shining cars as the terrifying realization sinks deeper into her chest: she is looking for reasons to doubt him because she is absolutely terrified of how much she actually wants him to be real.

the late afternoon heat begins to settle over the city, turning the sky into a bruised shade of purple and gold. michael has finally picked out the car—a sleek, dark sedan that sits quietly near the edge of the lot, away from the salesman's office. she is sitting in the passenger seat, the door wide open to catch whatever breeze moves across the concrete, while michael stands just outside, leaning casually against the frame.

the tension between them is thick, a slow-burning wire that has been tightening all day. she is trying her absolute best to look completely unaffected, staring straight ahead at the horizon, her manicured fingers tapping a slow, bored rhythm against her leather clutch.

michael watches her, a playful, incredibly handsome spark dancing in his dark eyes. he knows she’s hiding behind her walls again, and he finds the whole act utterly captivating.

without a word, he leans into the car, his sudden proximity making her breath hitch slightly. he doesn't invade her space aggressively; instead, he moves with that magnetic, deliberate grace that defines him. before she can even blink, his slim fingers reach up and gently lift the wide-brimmed sun hat right off her head.

she tenses, turning her eyes to glare at him, her lips parting to deliver a sharp remark. "michael, what are you—"

but the words die in her throat.

michael takes her hat and, with a perfectly synchronized flick of his wrist, tilts it smoothly onto his own head. it looks completely ridiculous on him—an elegant, oversized woman's sun hat sitting atop his sharp, handsome features—but he wears it with the absolute, fearless confidence of a king wearing a crown.

he leans in just a fraction closer, resting one hand on the back of her seat, looking down at her with a completely serious face, though his eyes are absolutely dancing with mischief.

"would you kiss me if i wore the hat?" michael asks, his voice a low, smooth, velvety murmur.

she freezes, staring at him. the absolute absurdity of the question, paired with the sight of this dangerous, highly respected street enforcer standing under a giant sun hat, catches her completely off guard. for the first time since she met him, her cold, indifferent mask completely shatters.

a sudden bubble of amusement hits her chest. she bites the inside of her cheek, her shoulders shaking slightly as she desperately tries to hold back a laugh. she forces her eyes away, looking down at her lap, but the corners of her mouth are twitching violently. she has to press her lips tight together, fighting with everything she has to keep from bursting out into genuine, happy laughter right there in front of him.

michael doesn't miss it. he sees the way her eyes soften, the way her stubborn composure completely cracks, and a triumphant, beautiful smile spreads across his own face.

"no," she finally manages to squeeze out, her voice muffled as she desperately forces the coldness back into her tone, though it sounds completely fake now.

michael just chuckles, a soft, warm sound that completely fills the small space of the car. he gently places the hat back onto her head, adjusting it perfectly with a light touch of his fingers against her hair.

"playtime is over, okay," michael murmurs gently, giving her one last, lingering look full of absolute devotion before he straightens up and walks around to the driver's side.

she sits perfectly still in the passenger seat, her heart pounding wildly against her ribs. as she adjusts her hat, she realizes she isn't hiding behind her walls anymore—because michael had just bypassed them completely with nothing but a smile and a question.

the bedroom is pitch-black tonight, the glowing magenta and teal neon from the miami strip bleeding through the sheer curtains, casting long, fractured shadows across her bed. she lies awake, staring up at the white plaster of the ceiling, listening to the muffled, rhythmic hum of the air conditioning. the silence feels heavy, almost suffocating, trapping her with the thoughts she has been running from all day.

no matter how hard she tries to erase it, the image of michael in that ridiculous sun hat keeps flashing in her mind, alongside the low, velvety sound of his laugh. she rolls onto her side, pulling the silk sheet tightly around her shoulders, a deep, anxious ache settling into her chest as her thoughts inevitably drift to frank.

she thinks about the life she has built here—or rather, the cage frank built for her. frank is loud, crude, and paranoid. he treats her like a prized piece of marble, something to display at his table to prove his power to the rest of the city. she is suffocating under his possessive grip, tired of the shouting, the white powder lined up on the mirrors, and the constant, lingering threat of violence that follows his crumbling empire.

what if i leave him?

the thought enters her mind like a forbidden whisper, making her heart skip a beat. what if i actually walk away from frank and give in to michael?

but as soon as the hope sparks, the cold, cynical voice of survival cuts it down. she stares blankly into the shadows of the room, a wave of bitter exhaustion washing over her. would it even change anything?

she lets out a quiet, shaky sigh into the dark. michael is a criminal, just like frank. he’s younger, sharper, and carries himself with a quiet, magnetic grace that frank could never dream of having, but he is still a man climbing his way to the top of a dirty, blood-soaked ladder. he moves through the same dark docks at midnight, handles the same blood money, and commands the same fear on the streets.

she closes her eyes, her knuckles whitening as she grips the silk sheet. if i leave one king of the gutter just to stand beside a new one, does my life actually change? or do i just change the color of the silk sheets I'm trapped in?

she wonders if michael’s intense, gentle devotion is just a beautiful illusion, a sweet trap designed to pull her away before he claims everything frank owns. she tells herself that a man who can silence a rival dealer with a single icy look cannot truly be as soft as he pretends to be with her. he’s going to take over miami, she thinks, a cold realization settling in her throat. and if i let myself fall for him, i’ll just be the prize waiting for him at the top. it’ll be the same clubs, the same guns, the same paranoia. just a different face.

yet, even as her mind logically tears the dream apart, she can still feel the lingering warmth of his hand wrapping around hers in the back of the car. she turns back over, staring out at the distant pastel lights of the city, utterly terrified because she knows that even if it changes absolutely nothing, she is already losing the will to stay with frank.

the morning sun is blinding, turning the turquoise water of the swimming pool into a sheet of shattered glass. she is lounging on a white wicker chair, hidden behind her oversized dark sunglasses, looking effortlessly detached. a glass of iced white wine sits melting on the small table beside her, and the gentle breeze barely stirs the sheer fabric of her cover-up.

the heavy glass doors of the patio slide open, and the quiet rhythm of her afternoon is broken.

michael walks out onto the sun-drenched deck. he is wearing a crisp, short-sleeved silk shirt, his dark hair damp from the miami heat, moving with that slow, panther-like grace that always makes the air feel a little heavier. he doesn't pause or wait for an invitation. he walks straight over and sits on the very edge of her lounge chair, leaning one arm on his knee as he looks down at her.

she doesn't move. she keeps her sunglasses on, staring straight ahead as if he isn't even there, but her fingers tighten slightly around the stem of her wine glass.

"come on, sit here," michael says softly, his voice a low melody that carries over the sound of the splashing water. "i want to talk to you. come on, sit down, i'm not going to bite you."

she lets out a slow, deliberate puff of smoke from her cigarette, tilting her head back just an inch. "i'm already sitting, michael. and i'm listening. what do you want?"

michael looks out over the sparkling pool for a split second, taking a breath before turning his dark, burning eyes right back to her face. his expression is completely serious, devoid of the playful mischief from the day before. this is raw, unshielded ambition.

"okay, here's the story," michael begins, his voice dropping into that smooth, velvety cadence. "i come from a gutter, i know that. i got no education, but that's okay. i know the street, and i'm making all the right connections with the right people. there's no stopping me. i could go right to the top."

she doesn't interrupt. behind the dark lenses of her glasses, her eyes are wide, her heart thumping against her ribs as she listens to the sheer conviction in his voice.

"anyway, what i got to tell you is this," michael continues, leaning in just a fraction closer, his warmth radiating against the cool shade of the umbrella. "i like you. i like you the first time i saw you. i say... she’s a tiger. she belongs to me." he pauses, his gaze locking onto her lips before rising back to her hidden eyes. "and as a wife, i want you to marry me. i want you to be the mother of my children."

the words hang heavily in the humid miami air. any other man saying this would sound absurd, but michael says it with such an intense, frightening sincerity that it takes her breath away entirely.

she slowly pulls her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, letting her cold, defensive mask slip just enough for him to see the conflict swirling in her eyes. she looks at his sharp jawline, his perfect composure, and the deep, unyielding devotion burning in his gaze.

"me?" she asks, her voice a soft, breathless whisper that she quickly tries to mask with a dry, ironic smile. "are you crazy, michael?"

"i'm not crazy," michael murmurs, his voice incredibly gentle but steady as iron. "i'm just telling you the truth."

she looks away, staring at the shifting blue water of the pool. the heavy questions from the night before come crashing back into her mind, suffocating her. if i leave frank for him, does it actually change anything? or am i just choosing a younger, more dangerous cage? she wants to say no. she wants to deliver a sharp, cutting remark to push him away and protect herself from the inevitable storm he is bringing to miami. but the memory of his hand in the car, his sweetness at the car lot, and the pure safety she felt under his umbrella holds her tongue.

she is completely torn, caught between the terrifying reality of her life with frank and the beautiful, dangerous promise of a future with michael.

"what about frank, michael?" she asks quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on the water, her voice trembling just a fraction. "what are you going to do about frank?"

michael lets out a quiet, knowing chuckle, standing up smoothly and adjusting his shirt. he looks down at her with a confident, brilliant smile that tells her he already knows he’s won, even if she hasn't said it yet.

"frank is not going to last, okay? he's finished," michael says softly, stepping back toward the glass doors. he pauses, giving her one last, lingering look full of absolute warmth. "just think about it, okay? i want you to really think about it. i go now. take care."

the glass door slides shut behind him with a quiet click. she sits entirely still in the brilliant sunshine, slowly putting her sunglasses back on. she doesn't give him an answer, and she doesn't call him back—but as she stares blankly at the rippling water, she knows she is already thinking about nothing else.

the midnight neon bleeds through the sheer curtains, painting the dark bedroom in strokes of toxic pink and cold blue. she is lying perfectly flat on her back in the middle of the massive mattress, one arm draped over her forehead while the other holds a glowing cigarette toward the ceiling. the smoke curls lazily into the shadows, a physical manifestation of the heavy, tangled thoughts running through her mind.

frank is not going to last, okay? he's finished. michael's low, melodic voice keeps echoing in the silence, refusing to let her rest.

suddenly, the quiet click of the bedroom door latch breaks the hum of the air conditioner.

she tenses instantly, her eyes snapping toward the entrance. she expects to see frank’s heavy, clumsy frame stumbling into the room, smelling of cheap scotch and paranoia. but instead, a silhouette moves through the dark with absolute, silent fluidity.

it’s michael.

he steps into the ambient glow of the neon, looking effortlessly sharp even in the late hours. his dark eyes find hers instantly in the dim light, his expression perfectly calm, carrying that dangerous, magnetic composure that always disrupts her gravity.

she quickly sits up, propping herself up on one elbow, her cold, indifferent mask snapping right back onto her face to cover the sudden thrill of panic and excitement hitting her chest. she takes a slow, deliberate drag of her cigarette, trying to keep her voice steady and sharp.

"michael," she says, her voice a bored, icy whisper that cuts through the dark. "what the hell are you doing in here? you're out of your mind."

michael doesn't answer right away. he just closes the door softly behind him, never taking his eyes off her as he walks a few paces into the room, sliding his hands smoothly into his trouser pockets.

"where is frank?" she demands, her eyes narrowing as she looks past him toward the empty hallway. "if he catches you up here, michael, your little miami dream is over before it even starts. where is he?"

michael stops near the foot of her bed, the pastel neon light catching the sharp line of his jaw and the quiet, triumphant spark in his dark eyes. he looks at her sitting there in her silk robes, completely unfazed by her sharp tongue or the danger of the situation.

"don't worry about him," michael murmurs gently, his voice a low, velvety purr that completely fills the quiet space between them. he steps just a fraction closer, offering a slow, incredibly reassuring smile that makes her pulse skip a beat. "he's not here tonight."

the space between them vanishes as michael moves with that slow, hypnotic grace. the mattress shifts slightly under his weight as he sits on the edge of the bed, bringing with him the faint, clean scent of the night air and expensive cologne.

she doesn't pull away, but her breathing hitches, her body freezing completely under the intensity of his gaze.

slowly, deliberately, michael raises his hand. his long, elegant fingers brush against her jawline before his palm settles gently against her cheek. his skin is incredibly warm, and his touch is so soft, so filled with a reverence she has never known in this house, that a sudden shiver runs straight down her spine. his thumb traces the line of her cheekbone with a slow, soothing rhythm, erasing the cold distance she had spent weeks building up between them.

she stares up at him through the dark, her heavy lids fluttering as she tries desperately to maintain her icy composure. but up close, looking into his deep, unblinking eyes, the mask completely fails her. her heart is hammering wildly against her ribs, loud enough that she’s certain he can hear it.

"michael," she whispers, her voice shaking just a fraction as she looks at his hand against her face, then back up to his lips. "what are you doing here? really."

michael lets out a soft, breathy sigh, his thumb continuing its gentle, rhythmic stroke across her cheek. the warmth of his palm feels like the only real thing in the entire dark room. he leans in just a fraction closer, his eyes dropping to her lips for a brief second before locking back onto hers with an intensity that makes her lightheaded.

"i'm here because i can't stay away from you," michael murmurs, his voice a low, velvety whisper that vibrates in the quiet space between them. "and because you don't belong to this house anymore."

he pauses, his gaze searching her face, tracing the conflict written in her eyes. his hand slides down from her cheek, his fingers brushing softly against her neck before resting gently on her shoulder.

"did you think about what i told you today?" michael asks softly, his dark eyes burning with that quiet, unyielding hope. "about us? about leaving all of this behind?"

she looks at him, her defenses completely melting away under his touch. she doesn't try to pull back her hand or look away toward the window this time. the weight of her thoughts from the past few nights finally crashes down, and she lets out a long, heavy breath, her shoulders dropping as she exposes the raw vulnerability she’s been hiding for months.

"i don't know, michael," she confesses, her voice dropping to a vulnerable, shaky whisper. she looks down at the silk sheet, her fingers nervously tracing the fabric. "it's hard... it's so complicated with frank. he's paranoid, he's dangerous. what are you going to do?"

michael’s expression doesn't harden when she mentions frank. instead, a quiet, absolute certainty settles into his eyes, making him look completely invincible in the dim neon light. he slides his hand down from her shoulder, his long fingers finding hers on the bed, wrapping around them with that same warm, iron grip that always makes her world stand still.

"i told you," michael murmurs, his voice a low, soothing melody that feels like a promise wrapped in velvet. he leans in a little closer, his breath warm against her skin. "don't worry about frank. let me handle him. he's yesterday's news, okay? i'm going to take care of everything. you just have to trust me."

he speaks with so much confidence, so much quiet authority, that for a split second, she can actually see the future he’s offering her—a life where she isn't frank’s prisoner anymore, where she is protected and revered.

but the fear is still too heavy. she stares at their joined hands, her heart twisting with a painful, agonizing hesitation. she wants to give in, she wants to say yes and let him carry her out of this gilded cage, but the cynical voice in her head won't stop whispering. he's still a king in the gutter. what if nothing changes?

she looks back up into his dark eyes, her lower lip trembling just a fraction as she stays completely silent, caught in the middle of a terrifying crossroads, unable to give him the answer he’s waiting for.

michael slowly leans closer, minimizing the last bit of distance between them until she can feel the soft, steady rhythm of his breath against her lips. he doesn't rush her. instead, he lifts his other hand, his long, elegant fingers gently cupping the back of her neck, his thumb caressing her jawline to ground her, to stop her mind from spinning.

"look at me," michael murmurs, his voice dropping into a register so soft, so deeply intimate, it completely silences the heavy roar of her anxieties. "just look at me."

she blinks, her heavy lashes fluttering as she looks directly into his dark, soulful eyes. in the dim pastel glow of the bedroom, there is no ice, no calculation, and none of the cold hardness he shows the rest of miami. there is only an absolute, unyielding devotion meant entirely for her.

"i know you're scared," he whispers, his thumb tracing a comforting circle on her skin. "i know what you've been through in this house. but i'm not frank. i would never treat you like a trophy. i would never put a hand on you to hurt you."

he leans his forehead gently against hers, closing his eyes for a brief second as if to let her absorb his warmth, his strength.

"with me, you're safe. i'm going to build an empire, yes, but you won't be trapped in it. you'll be right there next to me, ruling it with me. no more hiding, no more fear," michael promises, his voice like velvet in the quiet night. "just trust me, okay? let me carry the weight for a while."

the last of her defenses crumble into the shadows of the bedroom. as his soft, reassuring words linger in the air, michael bridges the final remaining distance between them. his eyes drift shut, and he brings his lips down to hers with absolute gentleness.

the kiss is tender, slow, and completely devoid of the demanding aggression she has grown to expect from the world around her. it feels like a quiet sanctuary, a soft pause in the middle of a dangerous storm. michael's lips are warm and soft, moving against hers with a deep, patient reverence that tells her everything his words couldn't—that he belongs to her, completely and entirely.

for a fraction of a second, her mind tries to raise a final wall, a lingering instinct to pull away and protect herself. but the sheer sweetness of his touch is overwhelming. a soft, defeated sigh escapes her lips, and she completely stops fighting.

she lets herself go, her body softening against his as she melts into the embrace. her hand slowly rises, her fingers tangling gently into the dark silk of his hair, pulling him just a fraction closer as the cold indifference she had guarded for so long finally dissolves into the quiet night.

the tenderness of the kiss deepens, becoming a slow, intoxicating rhythm that makes the rest of the world fade completely into the dark. michael’s lips move against hers with a growing warmth, his hands sliding down her back, drawing her pliant body flush against his chest. the silk of her robe slips slightly from her shoulders under his touch, leaving her skin bare to the cool air of the room.

slowly, michael breaks the kiss, his breath hot against her cheek as his lips trace a path along her jawline. he moves down to the sensitive skin of her neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses there that make her gasp quietly, her fingers tightening in his dark hair.

he doesn't rush. every movement is deliberate, filled with that same intense reverence that has terrified her for weeks, but now it feels like a fire spreading under her skin. his lips trace lower, following the line of her collarbone before he shifts his weight, moving down the bed. his hands gently part the satin of her robe, his fingers warm against her skin as his lips trail down to her flat stomach, pressing soft, burning kisses against her skin as he moves lower, inch by inch.

the sudden wave of vulnerability makes her heart spike against her ribs. she looks down at him through the dim pastel glow of the room, her breath coming in shallow, uneven intervals as a final wave of hesitation hits her chest.

"michael," she whispers, her voice shaking, a breathless mix of anticipation and fear as she rests her hands on his shoulders. "what... what are you doing?"

michael pauses, his dark eyes rising to meet hers through the shadows. his expression is raw, completely stripped of any playful mask, burning with a deep, unyielding passion that takes her breath away entirely. he reaches up, his long fingers gently catching her hand and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.

"let me show you," michael murmurs, his voice a low, velvety rasp that vibrates straight to her core. "let me show you exactly how much i want you."

the midnight room completely dissolves around them, leaving only the sound of the soft rain outside and the heavy, uneven rhythm of her breath. michael moves with absolute, breathtaking gentleness, treating her body like a sacred space, a sanctuary he has been waiting his entire life to enter.

every touch, every kiss as he moves lower is filled with an intense, unyielding reverence. he holds her hips with a light, steady grip, his long fingers warm against her skin, never forcing, never rushing. when his lips press against her, it isn't with the rough, demanding possession she has grown to fear in miami; it is pure adoration. he honors her, worshiping every single inch of her body with a soft, patient devotion that completely shatters the last of her icy armor.

a soft, breathless gasp escapes her lips, her fingers tangling tightly into the sheets as a wave of intense, overwhelming pleasure rushes through her. it feels entirely different from anything she has ever known—it’s sweet, it’s deep, and it carries a warmth that melts away the years of loneliness and fear she had locked inside her chest.

she tilts her head back against the pillows, her eyes half-closed as she looks down at him through the dim, pastel glow of the neon light. michael pauses for a brief second, his dark eyes rising to meet hers, completely filled with a fierce, beautiful loyalty. he offers her a slow, incredibly tender smile, letting her see the sheer happiness it brings him just to make her feel this good, before he leans back down to continue his quiet, perfect worship in the dark.

the quiet bedroom is filled only with the soft rustle of the sheets and the shallow rhythm of her breath as the pastel neon lights trace long shadows across the walls. michael never breaks his gaze for long, his dark eyes continually rising to meet hers through the dim light, completely transparent and stripped of any armor.

as he touches her, his voice drops to a low, breathless murmur, a constant stream of soft, velvety words that anchor her to the moment and drive away the last lingering ghosts of her fears.

"you're so beautiful," michael whispers against her skin, his breath warm and soothing. "so beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes. you don't even know, do you?"

he slides his hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb gently catching a stray lock of hair and tucking it behind her ear. he presses a lingering, tender kiss to her inner thigh, his voice vibrating softly against her.

"from the very first moment i saw you at that table, i knew," he murmurs, looking up at her with a fierce, unwavering devotion. "i saw how they looked at you, like you were just a prize. but i saw you. i saw your soul. and i swore to myself right then that i would do whatever it took to give you the world. you deserve the whole world."

every word is spoken with a quiet, poetic reverence, a stark contrast to the brutal miami streets outside. he worships her not just with his hands, but with his voice, making sure she hears the absolute truth of what she means to him.

"you're safe now," he murmurs, his lips moving back up to trace her stomach, his long fingers intertwining tightly with hers on the mattress. "nobody is ever going to make you feel hidden or alone again. you're my queen. everything i build, everything i take... it's all for you. just hold onto me."

the overwhelming waves of pleasure finally break over her, leaving her completely breathless and shivering under his touch as the last of her tension dissolves into the cool night air. michael holds her gently, pulling her soft body up against his chest and wrapping his arms around her as their breathing slowly syncs up in the quiet room.

he presses one last, lingering kiss to her damp forehead, his long fingers softly smoothing down her hair.

the gentle bubble of the moment settles, and a heavy, serious calm returns to his dark eyes. he looks down at her face, his expression melting into a mix of intense protection and absolute authority.

"tomorrow, i need you to do something for me," michael murmurs, his voice dropping to a serious, low whisper that carries the weight of what’s to come. he tightens his grip on her waist just a fraction, anchoring her to him. "i need you to stay inside the house all day. don't go out, don't answer the door for anyone. just stay right here where it's safe."

she looks up at him, her heart skipping a beat as the cold reality of the miami underworld creeps back into the edges of the room. she opens her mouth to ask about frank, to ask what he’s planning to do, but michael gently places a warm finger over her lips, silencing her doubts before she can even speak them.

he offers her a slow, incredibly reassuring smile that completely melts the sudden flash of panic in her chest.

"don't worry about a thing, okay? just let me handle it," he whispers softly, leaning down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. "i'll come back to get you when it's all over, princess."

the deep, quiet dark of the late night handles the house like a shroud. she has finally drifted off into a heavy, exhausted sleep, her body tangled in the sheets after hours of agonizing waiting.

suddenly, the peaceful silence is broken.

she feels a firm, warm hand gently shaking her shoulder, pulling her out of her dreams. her heavy eyelids flutter open, blinking against the dim pastel neon light bleeding through the window. she expects to see the quiet, triumphant smile he promised her last night.

instead, her breath catches violently in her throat, and she sits bolt upright, her heart hammering like a trapped bird.

it's michael. but the pristine, elegant man from yesterday is gone. his crisp shirt is torn, heavily stained with dark, wet crimson patches across the chest and shoulders. his face is smudged with dirt and sweat, his jaw set in a hard, icy line. worst of all, a makeshift white cloth strap is wrapped tightly around his upper left arm, the fabric already turning a deep, leaking red where a bullet must have grazed him.

"michael!" she gasps, her voice trembling with pure terror as her hands fly to her mouth. she reaches out instinctively, her fingers hovering over the bloody strap, completely terrified to touch him. "oh my god, michael, what happened? you're bleeding... you're covered in—"

"shh, look at me," michael interrupts, his voice low, raspy, and incredibly intense. he catches her hands with his good arm, his grip tight and grounding despite the exhaustion clear in his dark eyes. the cool, lethal street enforcer is fully awake right now, moving on pure adrenaline. "don't look at the blood. i'm okay. it's not all mine."

he leans in closer, his eyes locking onto hers with an urgency that leaves no room for argument. "get your things together. right now. we have to leave miami tonight. make your bags, we're going."

"but frank—michael, did he do this? where is he?" she cries, her mind spinning into a panicked overdrive as she looks at the wound on his arm. "are they coming here? are you going to be okay?"

michael lets out a tight, sharp breath, a faint, dangerous shadow of a smile touching his lips for a split second before his expression turns completely reassuring. he reaches up with his clean hand, his thumb catching her chin to stop her from spiraling.

"don't worry about frank. he's gone. he's never coming back, okay?" michael murmurs, his voice dropping into that familiar, velvety tone, trying with everything he has to soothe her panic even while bleeding out. "i told you i'd take care of it. i got you. now trust me—go get your clothes, baby. we don't have much time."

the reality of the situation hits her like a wave of ice water. frank is dead, michael is wounded, and the entire city is about to explode.

she throws the silk sheets aside, her bare feet hitting the cold floor as adrenaline completely takes over. she runs across the dark bedroom, throwing open the heavy mahogany closet doors. her hands are shaking so violently she can barely grip the hangers, pulling dresses and jackets down in a chaotic heap. she grabs a massive leather suitcase from the top shelf, tossing it onto the bed and shoving her clothes inside in a frantic, disorganized rush, her eyes constantly darting back to michael as he stands guard near the door, keeping watch on the dark hallway.

while she rushes across the room, frantically tossing her dresses and jewelry into the bottom of the suitcase in a chaotic clatter of hangers, michael slowly steps away from the door. his movements are heavy with exhaustion, yet carried by a strange, sudden serenity. he approaches the massive glass patio doors and leans against the frame, ignoring the dull, throbbing pain radiating from his wounded arm.

outside, the miami night is thick, electric.

michael raises his eyes toward the dark, infinite sky. in the distance, hovering right above the neon-lit skyline of the city, a massive blimp floats lazily through the black clouds. across its side, bright luminous letters scroll through the darkness, flashing a brilliant white light that reflects directly into his dark eyes.

the world is yours.

the message loops over and over, briefly illuminating the bloodstains on his silk shirt. michael stares at it intensely. a tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

this is exactly what he had promised himself the very first day he stepped foot in this city. they all wanted to leave him in the gutter, but he survived frank, he survived the bullets, and he broke the cage.

behind him, the sharp zip of the suitcase echoes through the quiet room. he turns his head slightly and looks at her. she stands there, breathless, her hair a bit tangled, holding her bag and ready to abandon everything to follow him into the unknown, placing her entire life into his hands.

looking at her, michael feels a rush of heat more powerful than the adrenaline of the gunfight. it isn't the money, the power, or the bodies he left behind tonight that matter at this exact moment. right now, meeting her anxious but completely devoted gaze, michael realizes an absolute truth.

the blimp can keep shining in the night sky all it wants. the world is no longer a distant dream written in the clouds. the world is finally his, conquered and standing right in front of him, now that he has his woman.

Not because she had anything against the family, on the contrary, she was a fan of them. It just simply would have sounded ridiculous.

The first time she met Jermajesty, he had been sitting in the back row of a university classroom, half asleep and completely uninterested in whatever presentation their professor was giving. She remembered that much clearly. She also remembered arriving late that morning, rushing through the door with an iced coffee in one hand and her laptop tucked awkwardly under her arm, already embarrassed before the day had properly started. The room had been nearly full by then, forcing her to take the only empty seat she could find, which happened to be next to him.

Unfortunately, her entrance only became more humiliating from there.

The strap of her bag caught on the leg of a chair. She stumbled. The coffee tipped forward. Several drops splashed across the desk.

Including directly onto the notebook of the stranger sitting beside her.

For one horrible second, the entire room seemed to freeze.

Y/N remembered staring at the mess in complete horror, mentally preparing herself for an awkward apology and what would undoubtedly be a very uncomfortable semester.

Instead, the guy beside her looked down at the coffee staining his notes, then up at her.

'So,' he said casually, 'is this your way of marking territory?'

The laugh escaped before she could stop it.

That had been the beginning.

Looking back, Y/N couldn't pinpoint exactly when the friendship had become important. There had never been a specific moment. No dramatic event. No life-changing conversation. It happened gradually, settling into her life so naturally that she hardly noticed it happening at all. One day they were simply classmates exchanging notes before exams. A few months later they were spending entire afternoons together between lectures. Then came late-night phone calls, shared meals, study sessions that somehow turned into hours of talking about everything except studying, and eventually the kind of friendship where neither person needed a reason to reach out anymore.

Jermajesty became part of her daily routine before she even realized it.

There were days when they exchanged dozens of messages without thinking about it. Days when he was the first person she called after receiving good news. Days when he sat with her through disappointments she didn't want to talk about with anyone else. Their friendship had always been easy in that way. Comfortable. Neither of them needed to perform around the other.

That was probably why she had been so annoyed when she discovered he had conveniently forgotten to mention one very important detail about himself.

She still remembered the exact moment.

They had been sitting outside the university cafeteria during their second year, sharing fries and complaining about an assignment due later that week. The conversation had been completely normal until another student walked past and casually asked Jermajesty whether he was attending a family event for the Jacksons that weekend.

The Jacksons.

Y/N had blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then slowly turned toward him.

'JacksonS?'

Jermajesty had looked up from his phone. 'Yeah?'

She narrowed her eyes.

'Jackson as in…thee Jackson?'

'Yeah.'

The answer had come far too quickly. Y/N stared at him in disbelief.

'You are a Jackson?'

He shrugged. 'Technically.'

'Technically?'

'What?'

'Since when? You never told me that.'

'Since…forever? You never asked.' He said with a chuckle.

To this day, she hated that response.

Mostly because it was impossible to argue with.

Meeting his family had happened a few months later. Y/N had spent almost a week debating whether she should accept the invitation. She wasn't nervous about meeting people. She was nervous about feeling out of place. Family gatherings had always felt deeply personal to her. The idea of walking into someone else's family celebration made her feel like she would be intruding somehow.

The reality couldn't have been more different.

She had barely stepped through the front door before being welcomed inside.

Nobody treated her like a stranger.

Nobody made her feel as though she didn't belong there.

The atmosphere surprised her. There was laughter everywhere. Conversations happening over one another. Music playing somewhere in the background. Relatives moving from room to room. The house felt alive in a way that immediately put her at ease.

The second visit was easier.

The third felt normal.

By the fourth, someone had already sent her into the kitchen to grab plates.

By the fifth, she was helping clean up after dinner.

Eventually the invitations stopped feeling formal and started feeling expected.

Somewhere along the way, Y/N stopped being Jermajesty's friend who occasionally visited and became a familiar face everyone recognized.

The transition happened so naturally that she never noticed exactly when it occurred. Jermajesty often joked accusing her of stealing his family to which Y/N always reminded him that his family had made the choice willingly.

The only exception to all of this was Jaafar.

Over three years of friendship, dozens of family gatherings, countless visits and somehow she had never met him.

At first, she assumed it was coincidence and after a while, it became a running joke.

Every visit came with a different explanation.

Jaafar was filming.

Jaafar was rehearsing.

Jaafar was travelling.

Jaafar had work.

Jaafar had left twenty minutes ago.

Jaafar would be there next time.

Eventually Y/N started referring to him as a myth. A celebrity version of Bigfoot. Because everybody swore he existed, everybody claimed to have seen him. Yet somehow she always missed him.

Which was why, as she drove toward Jermajesty's birthday party that afternoon, balancing a gift bag on the passenger seat beside her, she had absolutely no reason to think the day would be any different from all the others.

As far as she knew, she was heading to another family gathering.

Another birthday.

Another afternoon surrounded by people she genuinely loved and appreciated.

The Jackson house was already buzzing with activity by the time Y/N pulled into the street.

She shouldn't have been surprised. After years of knowing Jermajesty, she had learned that no Jackson family gathering ever stayed small for very long. A birthday dinner somehow became twenty people. Twenty people somehow became forty. Relatives appeared from nowhere. Family friends arrived with extra food. Children multiplied the moment nobody was paying attention. The entire thing always unfolded with a kind of organized chaos that somehow worked despite looking completely unplanned from the outside.

Even before stepping out of her car, she could hear music floating from the backyard. The bass carried faintly through the afternoon air, blending with distant laughter and conversations she couldn't quite make out. A few cars were already parked along both sides of the street, forcing her to squeeze into a spot farther away than she would have liked. Grabbing the gift bag from the passenger seat, she made her way toward the house, smiling to herself when she noticed the front door standing wide open.

That was another thing she had grown used to.

Nobody knocked anymore.

At least nobody in the family.

People simply walked in.

The first time she had visited years ago, she had stood awkwardly on the porch for nearly five minutes trying to gather enough courage to ring the doorbell. Now she barely made it halfway up the driveway before the door flew open.

'Well, look who decided to finally show up.'

Jermajesty's voice carried across the front steps and Y/N immediately rolled her eyes.

'Hello to you too, birthday boy.'

'What took you so long?'

'What took me so long?' she repeated. 'I've been driving for twenty minutes.'

'You could've driven faster.'

'That's illegal.'

'It's a birthday.'

'That doesn't make it legal.'

Jermajesty grinned before stealing the gift bag directly from her hand and hugging her.

Some friendships changed over the years but theirs never really had. The teasing had remained exactly the same since university.

Before Y/N could continue arguing, a familiar high-pitched voice suddenly echoed from somewhere deeper inside the house.

'Nini!'

A smile spread across her face instantly.

She barely had enough time to turn around before a small figure came running through the hallway at full speed. Abu Bakr appeared a second later, tiny legs moving as quickly as they possibly could as he charged straight toward her. The little boy practically launched himself at her knees, forcing her to crouch down just in time to catch him.

'There you are,' she laughed, wrapping her arms around him.

'Nini came!'

'Yeah, Nini came.'

The nickname had followed her for nearly a year now.

Nobody really remembered when it started. When Abu Bakr had first begun talking, he struggled with pronouncing her name properly. After several attempts that sounded nothing alike, he eventually settled on 'Nini' and stubbornly refused to call her anything else. Every correction failed. Every attempt to teach him her real name ended with him repeating 'Nini' even louder than before. Eventually everyone surrendered.

Now half the family used it too.

Abu Bakr pulled back just enough to examine her face.

'You late.'

Y/N gasped dramatically.

'Excuse you?'

'You little bit late.'

Jermajesty immediately burst out laughing.

'I'm not late.'

'You late.' Abu Bakr nodded with the confidence of someone delivering undeniable facts.

Y/N couldn't even argue anymore.

The kid was too cute.

She stood up and lifted him onto her hip with the ease of someone who had done it dozens of times before. Abu Bakr immediately settled there, making himself comfortable as he absentmindedly reached for one of the bracelets around her wrist. The movement was so familiar that neither of them thought twice about it.

Their friendship had been unexpected from the beginning.

The first few times she visited, Abu Bakr had treated her with deep suspicion. He watched her from across rooms. Refused to answer questions. Occasionally hid behind family members whenever she tried speaking to him. Then one afternoon she accidentally built what was possibly the ugliest Lego tower ever created. The structure had leaned sideways before collapsing entirely. Abu Bakr stared at the disaster for several seconds before announcing, in complete seriousness, that it looked 'ugly.'

After that, they became inseparable.

Now he followed her around whenever she visited.

The moment she entered the house, he claimed her attention for the rest of the day.

The backyard was where most people had gathered. Strings of lights hung overhead despite the sun still shining brightly above them. Several long tables had been arranged across the patio, covered with food that would probably continue growing throughout the afternoon as more relatives arrived carrying dishes. Music played softly from speakers near the house while conversations overlapped from every direction. Some people sat together beneath umbrellas. Others stood around talking. Children darted between adults, occasionally stopping long enough to steal snacks before disappearing again.

The atmosphere felt familiar.

Comfortable.

Warm.

Y/N found herself relaxing almost immediately.

This was exactly why she enjoyed coming here because nobody expected anything from her, nobody cared whether she looked perfect or said the right thing.

She could simply exist.

Over time, the family had stopped treating her like Jermajesty's best friend and started treating her like someone who belonged. The difference was subtle, but she felt it every time she visited. Nobody introduced her anymore. Nobody asked who she was. Family members greeted her the same way they greeted each other.

She wasn't just a guest anymore.

After spending nearly half an hour moving between conversations and greetings, Y/N eventually settled into a chair beside Jermajesty near the back of the yard. Abu Bakr immediately climbed into the seat next to her before changing his mind and crawling directly into her lap instead.

Jermajesty shook his head.

'I don't know why I bother.'

'You sound jealous.'

'I am jealous, my little brother prefers my best friend.'

Abu Bakr didn't even acknowledge him.

Instead, he held up a small toy truck.

'Nini, look.'

'I am looking.'

'My truck.'

'That's a very nice truck.'

'It go fast.' The little boy nodded seriously.

Y/N matched his seriousness.

'That sounds dangerous.'

Abu Bakr seemed pleased by that answer.

The conversation drifted naturally after that. Relatives came and went. Stories were shared. Old memories resurfaced. At one point Jermaine was halfway through telling a story about something that had happened years ago when his attention suddenly shifted toward the entrance of the backyard.

His entire face lit up.

'Ah!'

The interruption caught everyone's attention.

'There he is!'

Several people turned.

Y/N followed their gaze.

A man had just entered through the side gate.

Jaafar. 

At first, she only recognized him from photographs she had seen online over the years, and the ones Jermajesty shared wit her from the family album. The family talked about him often enough that she already felt vaguely familiar with the idea of Jaafar despite never actually meeting him. Three years of near misses had created an oddly strange situation where she knew stories about him before knowing him.

The backyard seemed to brighten with energy as soon as he arrived.

People stood to greet him.

Several relatives immediately pulled him into conversations before he had even taken more than a few steps.

Y/N watched quietly from her chair.

After hearing his name for so long, curiosity was natural.

He moved through the crowd slowly, greeting people one at a time. Hugs. Handshakes. Quick conversations. The ease with which he navigated the gathering immediately told her everything she needed to know. He wasn't arriving as a celebrity. He wasn't arriving as the lead actor from a major film.

He was arriving as a son. A brother. A nephew.

Family.

As he drew closer, Y/N found herself noticing details she couldn't see from a distance. The tiredness lingering around his eyes. The relaxed way he carried himself. The curls. The easy confidence.

And then he smiled.

That was the first thing that truly stood out to her.

Not his appearance.

Not the fact that she already knew who he was.

The smile.

It transformed his entire face. The kind of smile that reached his eyes before it reached his mouth. The kind of smile that made other people smile back without realizing it.

For a brief moment, Y/N understood why everyone seemed so immediately drawn to him.

Beside her, Jermajesty stood from his chair.

'Finally.'

Jaafar laughed at whatever his brother said in response.

A few moments later, he reached their section of the backyard. Only then did Jermajesty seem to remember that the two of them had somehow never crossed paths before.

'Oh, right.' A grin immediately spread across his face. 'You guys haven't met.'

Y/N stood as well.

For the first time, Jaafar's attention shifted fully toward her.

'This is Y/N,' Jermajesty said. 'My best friend.'

The title wasn't new. He had introduced her that way for years yet hearing it always made her smile. Jermajesty then looked at her.

'And this is my brother, Jaafar.'

Finally.

After three years of hearing stories.

After three years of somehow missing each other.

The introduction happened in the simplest way possible. Jaafar extended his hand first.

'Nice to meet you.'

His voice was soft, calm and friendly, just like the rest of the Jacksons. Y/N accepted the handshake.

'Nice to meet you too.'

The exchange lasted only a few seconds.

Just a handshake. A greeting. Two strangers finally putting faces to names they had both heard countless times before.

Yet as they pulled apart, Y/N found herself thinking that meeting Jaafar felt strangely similar to finally meeting someone she'd heard about for years. Not unfamiliar exactly. Just new. Like opening the last chapter of a story everyone else had already been reading.

And judging by the amused look Jermajesty was trying very hard to hide, he was far more entertained by the introduction than either of them were.

The introduction should have been the end of it or at least that was what Y/N expected.

People were constantly arriving and leaving at Jackson family gatherings, conversations splitting and merging every few minutes as relatives moved around the backyard. Jaafar had only just arrived himself. There were still family members greeting him from across the yard, cousins trying to pull him into conversations, and several people who clearly hadn't had the chance to say hello yet. Y/N assumed he would disappear into the crowd almost immediately. It would have been the normal thing to do.

Instead, after speaking with a few relatives and exchanging greetings with people nearby, he eventually found his way back toward the table where she and Jermajesty were sitting.

The realization caught her slightly off guard.

Over the years, Y/N had become fairly good at reading social situations. She knew when conversations were driven by politeness and when they were driven by genuine interest. Family gatherings were full of both. There were always those brief interactions where people exchanged a few pleasant words before moving on to the next person. Nobody thought twice about it.

This didn't feel like that.

Not yet, anyway.

Jaafar settled into one of the empty chairs nearby while another conversation unfolded around them, and somehow the two of them ended up speaking again. The transition happened so naturally that neither seemed particularly aware of it. One topic became another. One story led into a second. Every answer somehow opened the door to another question.

The strangest part was how easy it felt.

For years, Y/N had heard stories about Jaafar without ever meeting him. Not intentionally. It was simply impossible to be friends with Jermajesty and not hear his brother's name occasionally appear in conversation. There were updates about filming schedules, travel plans, funny family stories, birthdays he couldn't attend, holidays he arrived late for. Over time, she had developed a vague picture of who he was without ever realizing it. Now, sitting across from him for the first time, she found herself quietly comparing the real person to the version she had built from years of secondhand information.

The real version was far more relaxed than she expected, funnier too, that became obvious fairly quickly.

'You know,' she said eventually, leaning back in her chair as a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, 'I think I'm mostly just relieved.'

Jaafar looked up from the drink in his hand. 'Relieved?'

'Yeah.'

'Why?'

Y/N laughed softly. 'That you're real.'

His smile appeared again. 'I had a feeling this was coming.'

'Oh come on, you can't blame me.' She gestured toward him dramatically. 'For three years I've been hearing the same thing every time I come over.'

Jaafar already looked amused as she continued.

'Jaafar's filming.'

A finger lifted.

'Jaafar's rehearsing.'

Another.

'Jaafar's travelling.'

Another.

'Jaafar just left.'

Y/N pointed at him. 'At some point I genuinely started wondering if everyone was lying.'

'They weren't.'

'See? That’s exactly what a myth would say.'

The laugh that escaped him this time was louder and for reasons she couldn't explain, Y/N found herself smiling back automatically.

Across the backyard, Jermajesty immediately noticed. He had actually tried to leave them alone for a while. Tried being the important word. The effort lasted less than twenty minutes.

Now he sat several tables away beside Randy Jr., pretending to pay attention to a completely unrelated conversation while very obviously keeping track of whatever was happening between his best friend and his brother.

'You need help.' Randy didn't even bother hiding his amusement.

Jermajesty looked offended.

'Why?'

'You've been staring for ten minutes.'

'I haven't.'

'You absolutely have.'

'I was looking around.'

'At them.'

'At the backyard.'

'Which part?'

Jermajesty hesitated. 'The...grass.'

Randy laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.

The truth was that Jermajesty couldn't help finding the situation entertaining. For years, Y/N and Jaafar had existed in the same orbit without ever crossing paths. It had become something of a running joke within the family. Every time Y/N visited, Jaafar happened to be elsewhere. Every time Jaafar stopped by, Y/N had already left. The timing became so ridiculous that even family members started commenting on it.

Yet now that they had finally met, both of them seemed surprisingly comfortable, as if they had skipped past the awkward stranger stage entirely.

Meanwhile, Jaafar found himself making a similar observation.

The longer the conversation continued, the more he understood why Y/N's name came up so often.

The realization became impossible to ignore once he started paying attention. She knew everybody. Not just their names. The actual relationships. The stories. The inside jokes. Family members greeted her without hesitation. Conversations picked up where they had apparently left off weeks earlier. Nobody treated her like a visitor.

At one point an aunt walked past and handed Y/N a plate to carry inside without even asking. Y/N accepted it automatically. Neither seemed to think anything of it.

That small moment somehow told Jaafar more than any explanation could. She belonged here.

The thought lingered in the back of his mind longer than expected.

Hours passed faster than either of them realized.

The sun slowly disappeared beyond the rooftops, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold before darkness settled over the neighborhood. The string lights hanging above the backyard gradually became the primary source of light, casting a warm glow across conversations that showed no signs of ending anytime soon. Music continued playing softly somewhere behind them. More food appeared. Someone started telling old family stories. Laughter erupted every few minutes from different parts of the yard.

It wasn't until Y/N glanced at her phone that she realized how late it had become.

The expression on her face immediately changed. 'Oh, wow.'

'What?'

She turned the screen toward herself again.

'I didn't realize it was this late.'

The statement seemed simple enough yet for a second, Jaafar felt oddly disappointed and the realization surprised him.

Eventually, the familiar ritual of goodbyes began.

It took significantly longer than it should have.

Jackson family gatherings made leaving almost impossible. Every goodbye turned into another conversation. Every conversation led to another hug. Every hug somehow delayed departure by another ten minutes.

By the time Y/N finally made it to the front of the house, she felt like she had already said goodbye at least six separate times.

She was searching through her purse for her car keys when footsteps approached beside her.

Looking up, she found Jaafar standing there.

'I'll walk you out.'

The offer felt natural. The sort of thing anyone in the family might have done. Even so, Y/N smiled.

Together they made their way down the driveway while the sounds of the party faded behind them. The evening air had cooled considerably since sunset, carrying the distant hum of traffic and occasional bursts of laughter from the backyard.

'I had fun talking to you today.'

The honesty of the statement caught Y/N slightly off guard.

She glanced toward him.

A smile appeared almost immediately.

'I had fun too.'

A brief pause followed.

Then she laughed.

'Although I still think you might be a myth.'

Jaafar groaned. 'You're never letting that go, are you?'

'Absolutely not.'

'Good to know.'

They reached her car.

For a second neither moved.

Then Y/N unlocked the driver's door.

'Well.'

'Well.' She smiled. 'It was nice finally meeting you.'

Jaafar returned the smile effortlessly.

'Likewise.'

'Hopefully it won’t take another three years to meet again.' She said chucking. 

'Oh, I will make sure it won’t happen.' He looked down at her while smiling. 

A few moments later she was pulling away from the curb, taillights disappearing into the darkness beyond the street.

Jaafar stood there a little longer than necessary before turning back toward the house. Jermajesty spotted him almost immediately. The grin on his face was a warning sign and Jaafar knew it.

'So.'

There it was.

Jaafar sighed. 'So.'

Jermajesty's smile widened and Jaafar already regretted sitting down.

Yet despite himself, despite knowing exactly what reaction he was about to receive, he found his thoughts drifting back toward Y/N anyway. Toward the stories she had told. The way she laughed. The fact that somehow she had become part of his family's life years before he ever met her.

'She is…very nice.'

'Right? Told ya.' 

'...Tell me more about her.' 

Jermajesty looked like Christmas had arrived early and practically sat up straighter in his chair. 

And somewhere deep down, Jaafar realized he had just made a very serious mistake. Because judging by the look on his brother's face, he wasn't going to hear the end of this anytime soon.

The drive home gave him too much time to think.

The roads were quieter now, most of the traffic having disappeared hours earlier. Music played softly through the speakers, but his attention barely registered it. Instead, pieces of the afternoon kept replaying in his head. Small moments. Random comments. Fragments of conversations that should have been forgettable but somehow weren't.

It was strange.

He had met her only a few hours ago.

Yet somehow she no longer felt like a stranger.

Meanwhile, several miles away, Y/N was experiencing a similar problem.

She had changed into an oversized T-shirt nearly twenty minutes ago. Her makeup was gone. Her hair was tied into a messy bun balanced somewhere on top of her head. She was curled up beneath her blankets, scrolling aimlessly through social media while half-watching a show she wasn't really paying attention to.

The day should have been over.

Instead, her phone suddenly vibrated beside her.

The screen lit up.

Jermajesty 🥳

you make it home?

She typed back:

Y/N

yes mother

The reply came almost instantly.

Jermajesty 🥳

good good

so

what did you think of jaafar?

Y/N immediately groaned and dropped her head back against the pillow.

Of course.

Of course this was where the conversation was going.

She should have seen it coming.

The introduction had happened hours ago, yet apparently that was enough to send Jermajesty into full matchmaking mode.n Not that she thought he was actually trying to set them up.

After staring at the screen for a moment, she finally replied.

Y/N

he seems nice

The answer lasted on the screen for approximately two seconds before another message arrived.

Jermajesty 🥳

damn, that’s it?

Y/N laughed despite herself.

Y/N

what do you want me to say?

Jermajesty 🥳

idk

you guys talked for like three hours

Y/N

we did not talk for three hours

Jermajesty 🥳

2 hours and 47 minutes

Y/N stared at the screen.

Then:

Y/N

why do you know that

Jermajesty 🥳

don't worry about it

Y/N

i hate you

Jermajesty 🥳

❤️

She immediately threw her phone onto the mattress beside her.

This idiot.

A smile still appeared anyway.

After a few minutes, she reached over, locked the screen, and set the phone on her nightstand. The room was quiet now. The only sound came from the television still playing softly in the background.

Slowly, her thoughts drifted back toward the afternoon.

Toward conversations beneath string lights.

Toward easy laughter.

Toward dark eyes and an annoyingly nice smile.

The realization made her groan into her pillow and this was exactly why she didn't want to entertain Jermajesty's questions. The last thing she needed was encouragement.

A few moments later, her phone lit up again.

One final message.

Y/N almost ignored it.

With a sigh, she reached for the device.

The notification preview showed only three words.

Jermajesty 🥳

he's asking questions

Y/N blinked.

Then sat upright.

Y/N

what does that mean

No answer.

She waited.

Nothing.

Another minute passed.

Still nothing.

Y/N

jermajesty jackson

Silence.

Y/N

JER!!!!

Nothing.

The message remained on delivered and somehow that was worse because now her curiosity had been planted. Now she wanted to know.