kaity🍓

𝕷𝖚𝖑𝖆 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖚𝖒𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖕

𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝕭𝖆𝖘𝖊 (𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗)

𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖚𝖗𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖙 – 𝕻𝖆𝖉𝖉𝖞 𝕸𝖆𝖞𝖓𝖊

𝕷𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖓 𝕲𝖗𝖆𝖘𝖘 – 𝕮𝖔𝖔𝖐

𝕷𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 – 𝕷𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝕶𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖐𝖎

𝕽𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖓 𝖂𝖔𝖔𝖉 – 𝕾𝖎𝖗 𝕷𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝕵𝖎𝖒𝖒𝖞 𝕮𝖞𝖗𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖑

𝕸𝖎𝖓𝖙 – 𝕰𝖗𝖎𝖈 𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊

𝕲𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 – 𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖒𝖎𝖈𝖐

𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖒𝖎𝖉𝖉𝖑𝖊 (𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐)

𝕽𝖔𝖘𝖊 – 𝖘𝖕𝖆𝖓𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐

𝕻𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖔 – 𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌

𝕾𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖆𝖑 𝖜𝖔𝖔𝖉 – 𝖍𝖆𝖎𝖗 𝖕𝖚𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 & 𝖉𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞 𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖐

𝕾𝖆𝖋𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖓 – 𝖉𝖔𝖒 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗/ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗

𝕬𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 – 𝖘𝖚𝖇 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗/𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗

𝕻𝖊𝖆𝖈𝖍 – 𝕭𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖆𝖌𝖊

𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖊 – 𝖘𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌

𝕮𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖘 – 𝖉𝖆𝖉𝖉𝖞 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐

t𝕿𝖔𝖕 – 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖛𝖎𝖇𝖊&𝖘𝖙𝖞𝖑𝖊

𝕷𝖎𝖑𝖞 – 𝕯𝖆𝖗𝖐 𝖋𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖊

𝕿𝖔𝖓𝖐𝖆 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖘 – 𝕾𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖕𝖕𝖊𝖗

𝕸𝖎𝖑𝖐 – 𝕾𝖍𝖞 𝖁𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖎𝖓

𝖂𝖍𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝖑𝖔𝖙𝖚𝖘 – 𝕾𝖊𝖝 𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖆 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖐𝖊𝖗

𝕮𝖍𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖎 𝖕𝖊𝖕𝖊𝖗 – 𝖓𝖚𝖗𝖘𝖊/ 𝖉𝖔𝖈𝖙𝖔𝖗

𝕺𝖕𝖎𝖚𝖒 – 𝕽𝖎𝖈𝖍 𝖌𝖎𝖗𝖑

One of the others laughed—Johnny Cooper, though you did not know his name yet.

“Oh, definitely trouble.”

The sharp-eyed one beside him sighed. “Ignore him.”

David Stirling.

You eventually learned all their names over the next hour as they occupied the corner table near the window: Paddy Mayne, David Stirling, Johny Cooper, Pat Riley, Jim Almonds, and Reg Seekings. Men traveling through quietly during a brief leave from the war.

They ate like starving wolves.

You watched them between serving customers. They moved differently from ordinary men—always aware of exits, speaking low, instinctively facing the room instead of each other. Even relaxed, they looked dangerous.

Especially Paddy.

He sat slightly apart from the others, one arm draped over the back of his chair, blue eyes following the street outside whenever the café door opened. There was a scar near his jaw you noticed when he tilted his head toward the light.

You brought over another bottle of wine.

“You’re staring,” Paddy said without looking up.

“So are you.”

That finally earned his attention.

Up close, he was unfairly handsome in a rough sort of way. Wind-burned skin, tired eyes, broad hands covered in old cuts. A man built for violence trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t.

You smiled.

“You’re very pretty, you know.”

The entire table went silent.

Then Johnny nearly choked on his drink.

Pat Riley barked out a laugh while Reg Seekings buried his face in his hands. Even David Stirling looked mildly impressed.

Paddy blinked once, genuinely caught off guard.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“You call all your customers pretty?”

“Only the dangerous-looking ones.”

Jim Almonds grinned into his cup. “Oh, this is excellent.”

Paddy leaned back slowly, studying you now with open suspicion mixed with amusement.

“What makes you think I’m dangerous?”

You gestured vaguely toward him.

“The shoulders. The scars. The way you checked the windows when you walked in. Also,” you added lightly, “you keep sitting like someone’s about to shoot you.”

The men around him burst into laughter.

Even Paddy smiled then—small and crooked and unexpectedly warm.

“Careful,” he said. “You sound like you’ve met soldiers before.”

“Haven’t we all?”

That silenced the table for a moment.

Outside, distant church bells rang through the evening air.

You softened your voice. “You don’t wear civilian clothes naturally. None of you do.”

David Stirling raised his glass toward you slightly. “Observant.”

“It’s my business to notice people.”

Paddy kept looking at you in that unreadable way of his.

“And what else have you noticed?”

You pretended to think about it. “You’re the one they follow.”

The quiet that followed was answer enough. Johhny muttered, “Christ.”

Pat Riley grinned wickedly. “She’s smarter than you, Paddy.”

Paddy ignored him completely. For a long moment, neither of you looked away. Then you smiled again, gentler this time.

“You don’t have to worry,” you said softly. “Whatever war you boys came from stays outside my café.”

Something shifted in his expression at that. Relief, maybe. Or exhaustion.

He exhaled quietly through his nose before finally reaching for his drink.

“Well then,” Paddy murmured, eyes still fixed on yours, “perhaps we’ll stay awhile.”

They did stay awhile.

Long after the dinner crowd disappeared and the rain began again outside, the six men remained crowded around the corner table with empty plates, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling beams. Your café had become warmer through the evening, filled with low laughter and the soft crackle of the stove.

You should have closed an hour ago.

Instead, you found yourself listening to Johny Cooper tell an outrageously exaggerated story involving a stolen truck, three angry officers, and a goat somewhere in North Africa.

“There was no goat,” David Stirling said dryly.

“There absolutely was.”

“There wasn’t.”

Pat Riley pointed across the table. “There was definitely a goat.”

Reg Seekings nodded solemnly. “Mean little bastard too.”

You laughed despite yourself, carrying over another tray of coffee cups.

Paddy watched you the entire time.

Not in a rude way. Just… attentively.

Like he was trying to understand something.

“You keep looking at me like you’re suspicious,” you told him as you set down his cup.

“I am suspicious.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

That made you grin. “Terrifying. A café owner with bread and coffee.”

“A café owner who reads people too easily.”

You leaned one hand against the table. “And you dislike that?”

“No,” Paddy admitted after a pause. “I think I dislike how quickly you read me.”

The others wisely pretended not to listen. You tilted your head slightly. “You’re tired.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Go on.”

“You act calm because the others expect it.” You glanced toward the men around him. “You’re the largest one here, which means everyone assumes you’re unbreakable.”

Johnny coughed loudly into his drink.

You ignored him.

“But,” you continued softly, “you haven’t relaxed once since walking through that door.”

Paddy’s eyes stayed on yours. The room had gone quieter now.

Even the others sensed something delicate unfolding between you.

Finally, Paddy leaned back in his chair with a low chuckle. “Christ,” he muttered. “You do notice everything.”

“It’s useful.”

“For what?”

You smiled faintly.

“Knowing when someone needs another cup of coffee.”

That finally drew a real laugh from him.

Deep. Warm. Tired.

It transformed his whole face.

And unfortunately for you, it made him even prettier.

You pointed at him immediately. “There. That.”

“What?”

“That smile. You should do that more often.”

Pat Riley slapped the table triumphantly. “Ha! I told you she fancied him.”

“Oh, she definitely fancies him,” Reg added.

Jim Almonds looked delighted by the entire situation. “Paddy’s blushing.”

“I am not,” Paddy growled.

He absolutely was.

Only slightly—but enough.

You tried not to smile too hard as you moved back behind the counter. “He’s pretty when he’s embarrassed too.”

Johny Cooper nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

David Stirling pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe this is happening to him of all people.”

Paddy shot them all a look that probably terrified enemy soldiers.

It did nothing to his friends.

“You lot done?” he muttered.

“Not remotely,” said Pat.

The storm outside worsened, rain rattling against the windows while thunder rolled somewhere over the distant hills. The streets would be flooded now; nobody would be leaving anytime soon.

You began stacking chairs onto empty tables.

“You boys have somewhere to stay tonight?”

“A hotel,” David answered.

You looked toward the storm outside.

“In this weather?”

“We’ve survived worse.”

You glanced toward Paddy. “Have you?”

His expression flickered at the question.

Not because of the words themselves—but because you sounded like you genuinely cared about the answer.

Slowly, Paddy stood from his chair and wandered toward the counter while the others resumed arguing over whose fault the nonexistent goat incident had been.

Up close, he felt even larger somehow.

You suddenly became very aware of how near he was.

“You always flirt this shamelessly with strangers?” he asked quietly.

“Only pretty Irishmen.”

“That word again.”

“You dislike it?”

His mouth twitched.

“No,” he admitted. “Just not used to hearing it.”

You studied him for a moment beneath the warm café lights.

For all his size and roughness, there was something oddly careful about Paddy Mayne. Like he was perpetually holding back parts of himself the world had taught him were too dangerous to unleash.

War did that to men.

You reached forward before thinking too hard about it and adjusted the collar of his coat slightly.

“There,” you murmured. “Now you almost look civilized.”

Paddy went completely still.

Behind him, six years of military discipline failed instantly as his friends erupted into scandalized shouting.

“OH, HE’S FINISHED—”

“Look at his face!”

“Paddy, say something!”

David Stirling looked moments away from laughing himself.

Paddy ignored every single one of them. His eyes remained fixed on yours.

Then, very carefully, he covered your hand with his.

His palm was warm and rough with old scars.

“You’re bold,” he said softly.

You smiled.

“You came into my café looking like a wounded wolf. What did you expect me to do?”

Rain hammered against the windows while the wind rattled the shutters hard enough to make the hanging lights sway gently overhead. The café had emptied entirely now, leaving only the six soldiers and the smell of coffee lingering warmly in the air.

Or rather—

Five soldiers.

Because Paddy had somehow ended up leaning against the counter beside you for nearly half an hour while the others sat watching the situation unfold like spectators at a sporting event.

“You know,” Johnny Cooper announced loudly, stretching in his chair, “some of us are exhausted.”

No response from Paddy.

Johnny exchanged a meaningful look with Pat Riley.

“Tragic,” Pat agreed. “Absolutely tragic. We may have to leave without him.”

Still nothing.

You hid your smile behind a coffee cup while Paddy calmly continued speaking to you as though his friends weren’t being insufferable on purpose.

“So you’ve owned this place long?”

“Since before the war.”

“And you stayed?”

You shrugged lightly. “Someone has to make decent coffee for wandering soldiers.”

“Hm.”

He looked around the café again, quieter this time.

There was fondness in the glance now. Familiarity. As though the place had become something restful after too many months of dust, gunfire, and uncertainty.

David Stirling finally stood, pulling on his coat.

“Well,” he said deliberately, “we should probably get some sleep before tomorrow.”

Reg Seekings immediately caught on. “Right. Sleep. Very important.”

Jim Almonds nodded gravely. “Essential, really.”

Pat Riley looked directly at Paddy. “You coming then?”

Paddy did not move.

“No.”

The table erupted.

Johnny slapped his knee victoriously. “I knew it!”

David sighed toward the ceiling like a disappointed schoolmaster. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re all acting like idiots,” Paddy muttered.

“Are we?” Reg asked innocently.

“Yes.”

Pat grinned wickedly. “Funny, because from here it looks like you’ve forgotten we exist.”

You busied yourself wiping down the counter so none of them could see your expression.

Paddy, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered by their torment.

Which probably meant they did this to him often.

David stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly though not enough to stop you hearing.

“Paddy,” he said carefully, “we are leaving now. The hotel still exists several streets away. You do remember the hotel?”

“Yes, David.”

“And you are aware we should probably avoid being arrested in a foreign country?”

Paddy gave him a flat look. “I’m not planning to start a riot.”

“That’s reassuring considering your history.”

Johny burst into laughter again.

You glanced between them curiously. “He starts riots often?”

“Frequently,” said David.

“Allegedly,” Paddy corrected.

“Paddy,” Reg said, standing and grabbing his coat, “you realize we all know you’re not following us anytime soon, yes?”

“Goodnight, Reg.”

“That’s not a denial,” Jim Almonds pointed out.

Pat Riley leaned toward you conspiratorially. “He likes you, by the way.”

“Pat.”

“Oh, he really likes you.”

Paddy finally looked mildly murderous.

Unfortunately, this only encouraged them further.

Johny stood next, grinning broadly. “Careful, miss. He’ll pretend to be mysterious and dangerous, but deep down he’s just Irish.”

“I can hear you,” Paddy warned.

“Yes, but you’re distracted.”

David Stirling adjusted his gloves calmly. “We’ll see you in the morning, Mayne.”

“You assume I’m returning.”

The entire group froze dramatically.

Then Johny pointed at him. “Did you hear that?”

Pat clutched his chest. “He’s already planning a future.”

“Good God,” Reg muttered. “He’s gone.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Paddy looked over at you immediately at the sound, and something in his expression softened again—that same quiet warmth from earlier.

For a moment, the others all noticed it too.

The teasing eased after that.

Because beneath all the jokes, these men knew each other intimately. Knew exhaustion. Knew loss. Knew how rare it was to see someone like Paddy Mayne genuinely at ease.

David was the first to notice the change fully.

His gaze flicked from Paddy to you thoughtfully before he gave a small nod.

“Well,” he said more gently, “don’t stay up all night.”

Paddy snorted. “Get out.”

One by one they headed toward the door, still muttering smug comments under their breath.

Johny paused before leaving entirely and pointed between the two of you.

“If he starts reciting poetry, run."

The door slammed shut before the argument could continue.

And suddenly—The café was quiet. Only the storm remained outside now. Paddy exhaled slowly beside the counter, rubbing a hand over his face.

“They’re never going to let this go.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“They’re animals.”

You smiled, setting another cup of coffee in front of him.

“They seem fond of you.”

His expression turned faintly thoughtful as he looked toward the rain-streaked windows where his friends had disappeared into the night.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Unfortunately.”

You leaned your elbows on the counter.

“And what about you?” you asked softly. “Are you fond of them too?”

Paddy looked back at you then.

There was something unguarded in his face now. Something honest.

“With men like that,” he said, voice low and rough, “you don’t survive together without it.”

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The storm softened outside into steady rain, tapping gently against the café windows while the lamps burned low and golden around the room. Paddy sat at the counter with his coffee untouched now, broad shoulders relaxed for the first time all evening.

You noticed it immediately.

The tension had finally left him.

Not entirely—perhaps men like him never fully relaxed anymore—but enough.

Enough that he no longer looked ready to fight the shadows.

“You’re staring again,” he murmured without looking up.

“You’re less frightening now.”

“That so?”

“Mhm.” You tilted your head slightly. “Now you just look tired.”

Paddy huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.

“Dangerous observation.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because most people know better than to study strangers.”

“But you’re not really a stranger anymore, are you?”

That made him glance at you.

The warmth between you had changed gradually throughout the night into something quieter. Heavier. Not flirtation alone now, but recognition. Two people seeing each other clearly despite the masks they wore for everyone else.

Paddy’s eyes lingered on your face for a long moment.

“No,” he admitted softly. “I suppose I’m not.”

The café suddenly felt very small.

Very warm.

You became aware of every little thing—the rain, the ticking clock behind the counter, the way his coat brushed against the stool beside him.

And the way he kept looking at your mouth before catching himself.

You set down the cloth in your hands carefully.

“The storm’s not stopping anytime soon,” you said.

“So it seems.”

“You’ll be soaked before reaching the hotel.”

“I’ve survived rain before.”

“I’m sure you’ve survived worse than rain.”

His expression flickered at that.

You stepped around the counter slowly until you stood directly in front of him.

Close enough now that you could smell tobacco, wool, and the cold night air still clinging faintly to his coat.

Paddy looked up at you quietly.

You could see the exact moment he realized what you were about to ask.

“There’s a room upstairs,” you said softly.

He held your gaze.

“And?”

Your heartbeat stumbled slightly beneath the weight of those blue eyes.

“You could stay there tonight.”

Silence.

Not awkward.

Just full.

Your eyes searched his carefully then, asking the question you weren’t quite brave enough to say aloud.

Not just stay.

Stay.

With me.

Paddy understood immediately.

You knew he did because something in his expression changed all at once—his usual rough confidence disappearing beneath sudden restraint.

As though he were trying very hard to behave.

“You’re certain?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

His jaw shifted slightly.

“That should concern you more than it does.”

You smiled faintly. “You haven’t frightened me once.”

“That doesn’t mean I couldn’t.”

There it was again—that carefulness. That constant awareness of his own size, strength, temper. Like he carried violence inside himself with both hands wrapped tightly around it.

But you had seen the gentleness too.

The way he listened when others spoke. The way his friends trusted him instinctively. The way he had not once touched you carelessly despite clearly wanting to.

You reached forward slowly, fingers brushing lightly against his rough knuckles where they rested on the counter.

“I think,” you said softly, “you’re much kinder than you pretend to be.”

Paddy stared at your hand for a long moment.

Then at you.

And God—

The look in his eyes nearly stole the breath from your lungs.

Not lust alone.

Something far more dangerous.

Want.

Real want.

The kind a lonely man carried quietly for too long.

“You keep saying things like that,” he murmured roughly, “and eventually I’m going to believe you.”

“Maybe I want you to.”

For a second neither of you moved.

He towered over you now, close enough that warmth radiated through the space between your bodies. One large hand settled carefully against the counter beside you—not trapping you, never forcing—just near.

Always giving you room to choose.

“You should know,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on yours, “I’m trying very hard to be respectful.”

Your pulse fluttered.

“And if I didn’t want respectful?”

That finally broke him a little.

A soft sound escaped him—half laugh, half disbelief—as he dropped his head briefly.

“Christ,” he muttered.

You smiled.

Then, very gently, Paddy lifted his hand to your face.

Rough fingertips brushed your cheek with startling tenderness, like he thought you might disappear if he touched too hard.

When he spoke again, his voice was low enough to melt straight through you.

“Lead the way then, love.”

The stairs creaked softly beneath your steps as you led him upward, fingers laced through his. Paddy followed without a word, his grip steady but unhurried. At the bedroom door he paused, letting you enter first, then closed it quietly behind him. The lamplight caught the rough lines of his face, but his eyes stayed soft.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, voice low.

You answered by stepping into him. His hands came up slowly, framing your face as he kissed you—deep, unhurried, tasting of restraint and whisky. He undressed you piece by piece, fingers working each button and clasp with care, pausing to press his mouth to every inch of newly bared skin. When your dress slipped to the floor, he knelt to help you step out of it, then rose again, letting his hands trace the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tightened under his touch.

He let you undress him in turn. When you freed him from his trousers, he was already hard, thick and hot against your palm, but he didn’t rush you. Instead he guided you to the bed, laying you down and settling between your thighs with deliberate patience. His mouth followed the path his hands had taken—kissing the hollow of your throat, the underside of your breasts, the soft skin of your stomach—until he reached the heat between your legs.

He took his time there, tongue moving in slow, thorough strokes, tasting you with quiet focus. Two fingers slid inside you, working gently, curling just enough to draw a gasp from your throat. He watched your face the whole time, reading every sound, every shift of your hips, adjusting his rhythm to what made you tremble.

When you pulled him up to you, he came willingly. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping most of his weight off you, and kissed you again as he pushed inside—slow, steady, giving you every inch with careful control. He stayed deep for a moment, forehead resting against yours, breathing through the sensation.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured.

You answered by lifting your hips, and he began to move—long, measured strokes that let you feel every part of him. His hand found yours, fingers threading together above your head. The other hand stayed at your waist, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his thrusts grew deeper, more insistent. He never lost the tenderness; even when your bodies grew slick with sweat and the room filled with the wet sound of skin meeting skin, he kept checking your face, kissing your mouth, your jaw, the corner of your eye.

When you came, clenching around him, he followed soon after with a low, broken sound against your neck, hips stuttering but never losing that careful rhythm until the last tremor passed. Afterward he stayed inside you for a while, stroking your hair, pressing soft kisses to your temple, murmuring quiet words in that soft Irish lilt until your breathing evened.

Only then did he ease out, clean you gently with a cloth from the washstand, and draw you against his chest, one arm wrapped protectively around you.

The first time James Cook ever spoke to you, he leaned his shoulder against the bank of mailboxes like he had every right in the world to take up space there and said, “You always look that fit collectin’ junk mail, or am I just lucky today?”

It was a Thursday. You remembered because Thursdays were when the building smelled faintly of bleach from the hall mop and somebody down on the second floor always burned toast badly enough for the scent to drift upward through the stairwell. You’d come downstairs in old lounge shorts and a thin tank, hair still half-damp from the shower, expecting nothing but a fistful of coupons and utility reminders.

Instead, you got him.

He lived two doors down. Flat 4C. You’d known that from the second week you moved in, because he was always there in pieces: stretched out on the front steps smoking with one foot braced on the railing, laughing too loudly in the corridor with his mates, heading out at odd hours in a leather jacket that looked like it had seen better days and a grin that suggested he had not. You’d noticed him before he ever noticed you. It would’ve been impossible not to.

He looked like trouble in the most obvious, unfair way—dark brown hair cut short at the sides and left messy on top, blue eyes that never seemed to settle anywhere polite, a lazy kind of swagger that made the dingy hallway outside your flats feel suddenly charged with something warmer and sharper. He always looked like he’d just come from somewhere more interesting than wherever he currently was. He moved like the whole world amused him.

And once he clocked that you were his new neighbor, he never shut up.

Not in an annoying way, exactly. In a relentless way. In a James Cook way.

Every shared moment turned into something.

A hello in the stairwell became, “Where you off to lookin’ like that, sweetheart?”

Passing each other at the building entrance turned into him holding the door and letting his gaze drag from your shoes to your face with no effort at subtlety whatsoever, smiling when you rolled your eyes.

Seeing you wrestle with grocery bags once had turned into him plucking the heaviest sack from your grip and saying, “I’ll carry this for you, but only ‘cause if you ask me in all sweet like that I’ll end up doin’ anythin’.”

You hadn’t asked. That had been the point. He’d just wanted an excuse.

He flirted with you like it was breathing. Like nuance had been introduced to him once and he’d rejected it on principle. Filthy little jokes tossed out in the hall. A low whistle when you bent to unlock your door. His gaze landing on your mouth while you were talking and staying there just a beat too long.

The maddening part was that he did it so naturally you could never quite tell how serious he was.

He flirted with cashiers. With old ladies. With barking dogs if they looked at him long enough.

So you laughed him off. Flirted back sometimes, because you were only human and he was very, very pretty. Let yourself enjoy the electricity without ever fully trusting it.

You told yourself he was like weather. Warm when he passed through, impossible to hold.

Which was why, on that Thursday at the mailboxes, you lifted an eyebrow and said, “Do you rehearse these lines in the mirror?”

He grinned at once, as if that was the exact response he’d been hoping for.

“Nah. Comes natural.”

“Bit tragic, then.”

“Bit cruel, more like.” He opened his own box, yanked out a folded takeaway menu and a red envelope, then glanced sideways at you. “You wound me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“You sure?” His eyes flicked down, then back up again, brazen and bright. “Might need mouth-to-mouth.”

You laughed before you meant to.

That, more than anything, seemed to please him.

From then on, the game had a rhythm to it.

You’d hear his door open while you were locking yours and there he’d be, filling the narrow hallway with that infuriating energy, one shoulder brushing the wall, smirk already halfway formed. He’d ask where you were going. He’d say something outrageous about your legs or your mouth or the little dress you’d thrown on to go out with friends. He’d step too close when there was plenty of room not to, close enough that you could smell him—soap, smoke, something darker beneath it that was just him.

Sometimes, late at night, you’d hear laughter through the wall between your flats. Music. The occasional thump of something dropped. Once, when you’d opened your door to take out the trash, he’d been coming back in with two mates, a little drunk and full of easy noise, and he’d stopped dead when he saw you in oversized sleep shorts and one of your old university sweatshirts.

“Jesus Christ,” he’d said, hand flattening to his chest like he’d been struck. “You tryin’ to kill me now?”

His mates had cackled. You had gone hot all over and muttered goodnight. He’d called after you, “Sleep tight, neighbor,” in a voice so rough and amused it had followed you all the way back into your flat.

Neighbor.

He called you that all the time. Like the word itself was a private joke between you. Like proximity had become intimacy by default.

It was ridiculous how much you liked it.

By the time he knocked on your door on a grey Sunday afternoon a few months later, you already knew opening it was a bad idea.

You still did.

The knock itself was casual—three quick taps, no urgency—but when you pulled the door open he was standing there looking distractingly good in a black T-shirt and grey joggers, hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. One forearm braced on the frame above his head. Mouth tilted in that familiar half-smile.

“Alright?”

Your flat was warm from the oven. You’d been baking, and the air around you still smelled faintly of vanilla and sugar. Somewhere behind you the kettle clicked softly on its base.

He sniffed once, glancing over your shoulder. “Christ, smells good in there.”

You folded your arms, wary mostly because he looked too pleased with himself. “What do you want?”

He pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “You say the sweetest things to me.”

“Cook.”

“Right, yeah.” He dragged his lower lip briefly between his teeth, trying—and failing—to look serious. “Need a favor.”

That alone made you suspicious.

He saw it happen in your face and laughed under his breath.

“It’s not weird,” he said.

“That’s exactly what someone says before it gets weird.”

“Have a bit of faith in me.”

“I absolutely will not.”

His grin widened. “Fair.”

Rain tapped softly at the building windows farther down the hall. Somewhere upstairs, plumbing knocked in the walls. The corridor light buzzed overhead, casting that faint jaundiced glow cheap apartment buildings always seemed to have. And there he was in the middle of it, looking like he’d brought his own weather to the floor.

“My mate was meant to come help me film somethin’,” he said. “Bailed last minute. I’ve gotta get it done today ‘cause I’m meant to be uploadin’ tonight, and you’re the only one around I can ask.”

You blinked. “You’re filming something?”

“Yeah.”

“For what?”

He shrugged, too casual. “TikTok. YouTube. Whatever. Just a challenge thing.”

That earned him a full squint. “You do YouTube?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’ve literally never seen you do anything except loiter in the hall and harass me.”

He laughed, head dropping a bit. “That’s not all I do, sweetheart.”

The endearment came soft and easy, same as always, but there was a crackling undercurrent to it that made you look away first.

He noticed that too. Of course he did.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Won’t take long. Just need someone to sit there and do the challenge with me. Easy.”

You should’ve said no. The smart part of your brain knew that. Every instinct you had about James Cook told you he was a terrible idea wrapped in a charming face and a wicked mouth.

But there was the problem right there: the face, the mouth, the way he looked at you like every second of your attention was something he wanted to grab with both hands.

You enjoyed the attention. More than that, if you were being honest. It had become part of your day, the possibility of him. The little charge you got whenever you heard his voice in the corridor or caught sight of him at the mailboxes or felt his gaze slide over you while you fumbled for your keys.

And somewhere deep down, under all the common sense, was the stubborn little ache of wanting to know if any of it meant anything. If the heat in his eyes was real. If all that shameless flirting was just sport or if some part of him was actually serious.

“It won’t be weird?” you asked.

He lifted his brows. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

That should’ve been your second warning, because his mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh.

Instead, you exhaled and stepped out into the hall, pulling your door shut behind you. “Fine. Ten minutes.”

“Angel.” He pushed off the frame and straightened, satisfaction flashing across his face so quickly you nearly missed it. “You’re savin’ my life here.”

“I doubt that.”

“Still counts.”

His flat was only a few doors down, but the walk felt strangely intimate. You were acutely aware of him beside you, his bare forearm brushing yours once in the narrow space, the easy way he keyed open his own door and stepped back to let you in.

You’d never been inside before.

That felt bigger than it should have.

The first thing you noticed was the warmth. The second was him.

Or rather, him everywhere.

His flat looked exactly like it ought to: lived-in, a little messy, masculine without trying too hard. Trainers kicked off near the sofa. A hoodie thrown over the armchair. A half-open cupboard in the kitchen revealing mismatched mugs. A faint scent of laundry soap clinging to the place, mixed with something smoky and clean and unmistakably his. Music played low from a speaker on the kitchen counter—just enough bass to thread through the room without dominating it.

The sitting room was small but comfortable, with a worn grey couch pushed up against the wall and a coffee table scattered with remote controls, coins, and a lighter. Rain streaked the window over the radiator, blurring the afternoon outside into silvery smears.

“Sorry about the state of it,” he said, though he didn’t sound remotely sorry.

“It’s not that bad.”

He glanced at you sideways. “You sayin’ you expected worse?”

“Yes.”

“Rude.”

There was a tripod already set up near the television stand, his phone clipped into place. The sight of it made the whole thing feel slightly more real, which settled you a little.

Slightly.

“There,” he said, gesturing toward the couch. “Just sit there a sec while I get it lined up.”

You crossed to the sofa and sat, smoothing your hands over your leggings. The cushions dipped softly beneath you. He moved around in front of the tripod, adjusting the angle, frowning in concentration. Even that was unfairly attractive. The focused line between his brows. The flex of his forearm as he twisted the clamp tighter. The hem of his shirt pulling across his back.

You found yourself staring long enough that when he turned, you had to glance away quickly toward the rain-streaked glass.

He definitely noticed.

A smile ghosted across his mouth, smug as sin.

“Right,” he said. “Need to make sure we’re both in frame.”

Before you could answer, he came and dropped onto the couch beside you.

Not beside you, exactly. Close. So close the cushions shifted sharply beneath his weight and your thigh bumped his at once. Heat shot through the side of your body. The whole sofa suddenly felt much smaller than it had thirty seconds ago.

You looked at him.

He looked right back, wide-eyed in mock innocence. “What?”

“There’s loads of room.”

“Yeah, but camera’s there.” He jerked his chin toward the tripod. “Need us both in.”

“You’re taking the piss.”

“A little.”

He didn’t move.

The music hummed low from the kitchen. The rain kept ticking softly at the glass. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed and footsteps echoed down the stairwell. Inside his flat, though, it felt oddly insulated, the air thickening in slow, subtle layers.

He picked up a ceramic bowl from the coffee table and set it between you.

Inside were folded slips of paper.

“It’s simple,” he said. “We take turns. Pull a dare, do it, move on. Good fun, yeah?”

You eyed the bowl. “What sort of dares?”

He rocked one shoulder. “Nothing mental.”

That answer was suspiciously vague.

He saw that too and grinned. “You can say no if one’s too scary.”

“Scary isn’t the word I’d use with you.”

His brows lifted. “What word would you use, then?”

You should not have looked at his mouth when you said it.

“Annoying.”

He laughed softly. “Liar.”

The word landed warm and low between you.

Before you could decide what to do with that, he leaned forward toward the tripod and tapped his phone screen.

“Right,” he said. “We’re on.”

You nodded, more to yourself than to him.

“Ladies first,” he said, offering the bowl.

You reached in and pulled out the first folded slip. Your fingers weren’t quite steady, which irritated you. You unfolded the paper.

“Read it out,” he said.

You cleared your throat. “Hold eye contact with your partner for ten seconds.”

A smile pulled at his mouth immediately. “Easy.”

“Stupid,” you corrected.

“Still easy.”

He shifted on the couch to face you more fully, one arm slung along the back cushion behind your shoulders. Not touching, but close enough for the awareness of it to sit hot against your skin.

“Go on, then,” he said quietly.

Looking at James Cook when he wanted to be looked at felt different than looking at anyone else.

He had one of those faces that was always changing shape—mocking one second, bright with laughter the next, then suddenly still in a way that made you feel like you’d stepped into something deeper before you noticed the water rising around your ankles. Up close, his eyes were bluer than they looked in the hall. Not soft. Just vivid. Alive with mischief most of the time, but capable of turning sharp enough to pin you.

Ten seconds should not have felt like a lifetime.

One.

Two.

Somewhere around three, your pulse started climbing.

At four, the smile on his mouth faded just a little.

At five, you realized he wasn’t joking around anymore. Not fully.

By seven, the room itself seemed to hush around you.

At ten, you looked away first.

“Alright,” he said, voice roughened at the edges. “Your turn to lose your nerve, then.”

“I didn’t lose my nerve.”

He gave you a look.

You put the slip down and reached for another from the bowl before he could say anything else.

“Let your partner fix something about your appearance.”

He leaned back, considering you with exaggerated seriousness. “That’s broad.”

“You wrote them.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Accusin’ me already?”

“You absolutely wrote them.”

He only grinned.

Then he reached up and touched the strap of your top where it had twisted slightly against your shoulder. His knuckles brushed your skin first—light, barely there—and even that nearly undid you. He pinched the fabric gently, straightened it, then let his fingertips slide once down the line of your upper arm before taking his hand away.

There was nothing remotely necessary about that last touch.

Your breath caught anyway.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

“Fixed,” he said.

The next few dares were easier on paper and somehow worse in practice.

Whisper something you’d never say out loud.

He leaned close, close enough that his breath skimmed the curve of your ear, and murmured, “Been thinkin’ about your mouth since the first week you moved in.”

You froze. Heat rushed all at once up your throat and into your cheeks.

“That’s not fair,” you said when he drew back.

He tilted his head. “Didn’t say it had to be.”

Then it was your turn.

Your slip read: trace a finger over your partner’s lips.

That one landed between you like a lit match.

You looked at the paper. Looked at him. Looked back down.

He said nothing. He didn’t need to. The anticipation coming off him was almost visible.

Slowly, feeling foolish and hyperaware and a little bit breathless, you lifted your hand.

His mouth softened—not into a smile, exactly, but into something more watchful. He let you touch him without a joke, without a single smart remark. Your fingertip grazed the shape of his lower lip, warm and softer than you expected. He inhaled sharply through his nose.

That sound alone nearly wrecked you.

When you pulled back, his gaze followed your hand like he wanted it back where it had been.

“Next,” he said.

The word came out quieter.

Sit on your partner’s lap for the next round.

You laughed outright at that, a brief nervous sound. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is ridiculous.”

“Bit late to notice that.”

“You do it, then.”

His grin returned at once, wolfish and pleased. “Happily.”

Before you could process what he meant, he caught your wrist and tugged.

You let out a startled sound as he pulled you sideways over his thighs.

Not roughly. Not gently either. With the kind of easy certainty that suggested he’d imagined putting you there a hundred times before ever trying it.

And then you were in his lap.

His hands settled automatically at your waist, big and warm through your shirt. The couch dipped beneath the combined weight of you. The whole world narrowed to pressure and heat and the hard line of his chest so close to yours.

You became acutely aware that one of his knees was bracketed between your thighs.

“There,” he said, a little smug, like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Sorted.”

Your hands had ended up on his shoulders to steady yourself. He noticed that too, glance dropping briefly to where your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt.

“Bit handsy,” he murmured.

“You pulled me.”

“And you stayed.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

He smiled like he knew exactly why.

The dare after that should’ve been the point where a sensible person left.

Suck your partner’s finger.

You read it aloud and immediately stared at the slip like the words might rearrange themselves into something less obscene.

He let out a low whistle. “That’s bold, innit?”

“You absolutely wrote these.”

“Maybe I’ve got a creative streak.”

“Psychotic streak.”

“Harsh.”

But he was looking at you in a way that made the joke feel thin.

You were still in his lap. He still had his hands on your waist. The room had gone so charged it felt one spark away from combustion.

“You said I could say no,” you reminded him.

“You can.”

He said it easily. Meant it, you thought. For all his chaos, there was something oddly attentive in him right now, like he was reading every shift in your face and weighing them.

But then his thumb moved once where it rested at your side, slow enough to feel deliberate, and you knew he wanted you to say yes.

Your pulse thudded.

It was ridiculous. All of it. You knew that. You were sitting in your neighbor’s lap in his living room pretending to take part in a YouTube challenge that had somehow turned into… whatever this was.

And still.

Still, you lifted your gaze to his.

“Which finger?” you asked.

Something flashed across his face—surprise, triumph, hunger, maybe all three.

He raised his hand between you. The middle two fingers extended just slightly, then changed his mind and offered only one, index finger crooked like he was afraid of pushing too far too fast.

You took his wrist first, mostly so he wouldn’t see your own hand shake.

Then you parted your lips.

The second his fingertip touched your tongue, the air changed again.

It should not have been as intimate as it was. It was just a finger. Just a stupid dare in a stupid game on a Sunday afternoon with rain at the windows and low music in the kitchen.

But the moment your mouth closed around him, his entire body went taut beneath you.

His inhale was sharp enough to hear.

Your eyes flicked up automatically.

He was watching you like he’d forgotten how to blink.

Color rose faintly along the tops of his cheekbones. One of his hands tightened at your waist. Not enough to hurt. Enough to tell on him.

You drew back after only a second, because anything longer would’ve shattered whatever fragile line still existed between this and the inevitable.

His finger slid from your mouth.

For one stretched, dangerous beat, neither of you said anything.

Then he swallowed and said, “Right.”

His voice was wrecked.

You could not stop the thrill that went through you at that.

The next paper in the bowl read kiss your partner’s neck for five seconds.

You gave a disbelieving laugh. “Five seconds?”

“Specific,” he said, though his attention had fixed on the side of your throat as if the words had put it there.

“You first.”

“Gladly.”

The arrogance of that would’ve annoyed you if it hadn’t been for the fact that he sounded less arrogant now than intent.

He shifted one hand to the back of your neck, not forcing, just guiding, and tipped your chin the slightest bit to the side.

The first brush of his mouth under your ear made every thought in your head scatter.

He wasn’t kissing you. Not really. Not at first. More the warm drag of his lips along the sensitive skin there, then lower to the curve where neck met shoulder. His breath hitched once against you. His stubble scraped faintly in the most maddening, thrilling way.

One second. Two. Three.

By four, your fingers had knotted in his shirt.

By five, you were the one breathing hard.

He lifted his head slowly.

You didn’t realize your eyes were closed until you opened them and found him already watching you.

“Christ,” he muttered, almost to himself.

The next slip should have ended it.

Lick Cook’s abs.

You stared at the words.

Then at him.

He made a show of leaning back into the couch cushions, one arm stretched along the top, mouth curling at one corner. But under the swagger there was an edge to him now, a restless current just beneath the skin.

“That one’s got my name on it,” he said.

“Very observant.”

“You gonna do it?”

You hated how much the answer mattered.

He could joke all he wanted, but by now there was no pretending the game was harmless. Not after his finger in your mouth. Not after his lips on your neck. Not after the way he’d looked at you every time your breath hitched like he was collecting those moments for later.

You should’ve gotten up.

You didn’t.

He saw the answer settle in you and went very still.

Then, slowly, with a faint flare of triumph in his eyes, he hooked his fingers in the hem of his shirt and dragged it up enough to bare his stomach.

It should have been absurdly theatrical. Somehow it wasn’t.

He leaned back farther, head tipping against the couch, gaze never leaving your face. The hard lines of him were unfair at this angle—defined stomach, warm skin, the dark happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband of his joggers. He was all easy confidence on the outside, but you could see the tension in him too now, the subtle brace through his body like this mattered to him more than he’d planned for.

“Well?” he asked softly.

Your heart was battering itself against your ribs.

You shifted forward where you still straddled one of his thighs, bracing a hand lightly against his side. His skin was hot under your palm. He sucked in a breath.

And then, because there was apparently no saving yourself anymore, you bent your head and dragged your tongue once in a quick stripe over the center of his stomach.

The reaction was immediate.

His whole body jerked.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

The word dropped low and rough into the room.

You started to sit back at once, heat flooding your face, but his hand shot out—not rough, not grabbing, just firm at the nape of your neck—and held you there.

“Again,” he said.

Everything in you went still.

You looked up at him.

His pupils were blown so wide his irises were just thin blue rings. Mouth parted. The practiced grin had vanished completely. What was left in its place was hotter and more honest and infinitely more dangerous.

“Cook—”

“Again,” he repeated, softer this time. “Please.”

That did something catastrophic to you, the please of it. The roughness cracked open by want. The fact that he looked half-dazed and half-starved over something as simple as your mouth on his skin.

So you did it again.

Slower this time.

His hand tightened once behind your neck. The other dropped to your hip. A shudder moved through him so visibly you felt it under your palms.

When you lifted your head, his chest was rising harder now.

“Again,” he said.

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah.”

No denial. No apology. Just those bright ruined eyes fixed on you.

Rain whispered at the window. The music from the kitchen seemed very far away now, the bass just a faint pulse under everything else. The air in the flat felt thick enough to drink.

You bent again.

This time you traced the line more deliberately, feeling the jump of his muscles under your tongue, the sharp intake of breath he couldn’t hide. His fingers flexed at your waist. You had just started to lift away when something on the other side of the room caught your eye.

The phone.

At first it was just a flicker of wrongness. Then your gaze sharpened.

The screen was black.

Not dimmed. Not on a countdown. Not showing two people on a couch in a cheaply lit flat.

Black.

You stilled.

So did he.

Slowly, you turned your head toward the tripod.

Then back to him.

His hand slipped from your neck.

For one long second, neither of you moved.

“You’re not filming anything,” you said.

It didn’t come out angry the way you meant it to. It came out stunned.

Something almost sheepish crossed his face, which was so unlike him it only made the moment stranger.

Then he exhaled once through his nose and sat up a little, shirt still half-pushed up, hair a mess now from your fingers.

“No,” he said.

You stared at him.

“What the hell?”

“Alright, don’t do that face.”

“What face?”

“That one like I’ve skinned your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Exactly.”

“James.”

He went still at that.

Not Cook. James.

You almost never called him that.

The room seemed to sharpen around the sound of it. He dragged a hand over his jaw, suddenly looking less like the smirking menace from the hallway and more like a man who’d finally run out of places to hide his nerve.

“I was gonna tell you,” he said.

“When?”

He had the decency to look away for half a second. “At some point.”

You laughed once, disbelieving and breathless. “So you lied to get me in here and make me—”

“Asked you.”

“You tricked me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours. “Would you’ve come otherwise?”

That shut you up.

Because no. Probably not.

And the bastard knew it.

The edge in your anger dulled slightly, replaced by something hotter, more complicated. Embarrassment. Curiosity. A furious throb of relief at the fact that all this—his attention, his hunger, the crackling tension that had built itself up like static every time he saw you—had not been in your head after all.

He saw you thinking. He always saw too much.

“I’ve been tryin’ to talk to you for months,” he said, and for once there was no grin attached to it. No joke. “Properly, I mean. But every time I do, you look at me like I’m full of shit.”

“You are full of shit.”

“Yeah, well.” His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t smug now. Just rueful. “Not about this.”

Something in his voice made your pulse kick harder.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, close enough that your knees nearly touched where you’d shifted awkwardly on the couch.

“I have been wanting you,” he said, quiet and direct and devastatingly serious, “for months.”

The words seemed to move through the room like heat.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He kept going, gaze fixed on yours with an intensity that made you forget to breathe.

“Wanted you the first time I saw you at them mailboxes in them little shorts,” he said. “Wanted you every time you smiled at me in the hall like you thought I was a joke. Wanted you every time you shut your door and I could still smell your perfume out there after.” His voice roughened. “Wanted you when I heard you laughin’ through the wall. Wanted you when you’d open your door in them tiny little sleep shorts and look all soft and sleepy and—”

He cut himself off with a harsh exhale.

You were staring now. Helplessly. Heart tripping over itself.

“I kept thinkin’,” he said, lower, “if I didn’t do somethin’ about it, I was gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

That should not have been romantic.

From him, somehow, it was.

Not sweet. Not polished. Not safe. Just honest in the most James Cook way possible—messy and too much and impossible to mistake.

You swallowed. “So your big plan was fake YouTube dares?”

His mouth finally tilted again, just a little. “It got you on my couch, didn’t it?”

You let out a breath that might have been a laugh.

He watched your face with maddening concentration, as if he could tell the exact second your anger had stopped being the main thing in the room.

“Say somethin’,” he murmured.

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

“You lied.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re proud of it, too.”

He gave one slight shrug. “Bit.”

You should’ve been more furious than you were.

Instead, all you could think about was the way he’d just said wanted you like it cost him something. The way he’d admitted to listening for you through the wall. The fact that this wasn’t casual for him, not really, not in the way you’d always told yourself it had to be.

“You’re impossible,” you said.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “And you’re still here.”

The words went through you like a struck match.

The silence after that felt alive.

Then he leaned in, slowly enough to stop him, and said, very softly, “Tell me to piss off and I will.”

You looked at him. At the mouth that had spent months making you laugh and blush and lose your train of thought in dingy hallways. At the eyes that had gone startlingly unguarded just now. At the man who had apparently staged an entire fake challenge because ordinary flirting had stopped being enough.

You should’ve told him off.

Instead you caught a fistful of his shirt and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't graceful. It was months of tension collapsing at once, all that stupid hallway banter and charged glances and what-ifs finally finding somewhere to go.

He made a sound into your mouth that was half surprise and half triumph, then he was kissing you back like he’d been waiting for permission from the universe. One hand cupped your jaw. The other dragged you over him until you were half in his lap again, bodies knocking awkwardly against the couch cushions.

He kissed like the rest of him lived—reckless, eager, devastatingly sure of himself when he wanted something. But underneath the bravado there was real hunger there too, and relief, and something almost disbelieving that made your chest ache even as your whole body sparked.

“You are such a prick,” you breathed against his mouth.

He laughed softly, forehead knocking once against yours. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Still kissin’ me, though.”

So you kissed him again to shut him up.

That worked for all of three seconds.

Then his mouth slid from yours to your jaw, your cheek, the place under your ear he’d already discovered made your breathing go funny. His hands were everywhere now—your waist, your back, your thigh—like he’d been restraining himself for too long and had no interest in doing it anymore.

“You’ve got any idea,” he muttered against your skin, “how hard it’s been livin’ next door to you?”

You laughed breathlessly. “Poor you.”

“Cruel woman.” His teeth grazed lightly at your throat. “All them little dresses. Them shorts. You bend over in that hall on purpose?”

“I do not.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you like me.”

The horrible thing was that he sounded so pleased by it.

You grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him again, deeper this time, the filthy wet slide of your tongue against his enough to break his answer into a low groan and his grip on your hip went almost painful in its intensity. Rain kept skating down the window. The music in the kitchen had changed songs without either of you noticing. The room smelled like warm skin and his soap and the faint sugar still clinging to you from your flat.

Everything had narrowed to heat and movement and the couch beneath you.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you properly.

Not at your mouth. Not your body. At you.

A strange seriousness moved through his expression, brief but unmistakable.

“You sure?” he asked.

The question cut cleanly through the haze.

You nodded once. “Yes.”

His eyes searched your face another heartbeat, then he smiled—not the cocky grin from the hallway, not exactly, but something rougher and warmer.

“Good,” he said.

He shifted you until you were straddling him, fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans as your knees bracketed his hips, tugging you closer until you felt him through the cotton—hard, obvious, a desperate strain against his joggers that made your breath catch. "Been thinkin' about this for months. Every time you walked past, bitin' your lip like you didn't know exactly what you were doin'."

You should've said something clever, something that regained the upper hand. Instead your hips rolled forward on instinct, and the sound he made—a low, wrecked groan—sent heat flooding through you.

"That's it," he breathed, hands sliding up under your shirt, palms hot against your ribs. "Been imaginin' you like this. Right here. Grindin' on my cock like a good girl."

His mouth found your throat, teeth scraping along the pulse point, and your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there. He bit down—just enough to sting—and you gasped, hips bucking harder against him.

"Fuck," His voice cracked on your name, reverent and desperate. "Nearly came in my trousers the first time you bent over to grab your post. Had to stand there with my back to the door for five minutes before I could walk straight."

You laughed, breathless, and he pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, pupils blown wide, that perpetual smirk softened into something raw.

"Take this off," he said, tugging at your shirt. "Want to see you. All of you."

You pulled it over your head, and his hands were on you before the fabric cleared your face—palms cupping your tits through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened under the lace. He groaned, dropping his forehead to your chest.

"Been dreamin' about these tits. Wanted my mouth on 'em since the day you wore that thin white top without a bra."

His fingers found the clasp, and when the bra fell away, he didn't wait—mouth hot and wet on your nipple, tongue circling, sucking until your back arched and you were pressing yourself deeper into his mouth. His hand sli down your stomach, palm flat against your jeans, pressing exactly where you need him.

"So fuckin' wet for me already, aren't you?" He flicked the button open, dragging the zipper down slow. "Can smell you from here, love. Sweet and desperate."

You lifted your hips, and he peeled your jeans down your thighs, leaving you in nothing but your panties—a damp patch already spreading on the cotton. His breath caught when he saw it.

"Look at that." His thumb traced the wet fabric, featherlight, and you whimpered. "Soaked through. And I haven't even touched you proper yet."

He hooked his fingers into the waistband, pulled them down your legs, and then you're bare beneath him, spread open on his lap while he stared like you're the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your folds, and he groaned at the slick heat he found.

"Jesus Christ." His middle finger circled your clit, slow and deliberate, and your hips rocked into his hand. "That's it. Let me feel you. Want you to ride my fingers before I fuck you."

He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and you cried out—the stretch, the sudden fullness, the way his palm pressed against your clit as he curled them, searching, finding that spot that made your vision blur. His thumb circled your clit while his fingers pumped, slow and deep, and he watched your face the whole time.

"That's my good girl," he murmured, voice wrecked. "Takin' my fingers so pretty. Gonna come for me? Gonna soak my hand before I even get my cock out?"

You were close already—too fast, too much, but his thumb was relentless and his fingers were crooked just right and the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the world, pushed you over. You came with a broken moan, clenching around his fingers, and he worked you through it, whispering filthy praise until you slumped against his chest, trembling.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, brings them to his mouth, and sucking them clean—eyes locked on yours. "Taste even better than I imagined."

Then he's guiding you off his lap, onto your knees on the floor, and he stood to unbuckle his belt. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, and he stroked himself once, slow, before gripping the base and holding it out to you.

"Open that pretty mouth, love. Been waitin' months to feel them lips wrapped around my cock."

Your lips parted before he finished speaking, and his thumb traced your bottom lip, tugging it open wider. The taste of your own arousal lingered on his skin, salt and musk, and your tongue darted out without thinking, catching him.

"That's it," he breathed, and the rasp in his voice made your thighs press together. "Open. Let me see that pretty mouth."

His cock stood thick and heavy before you, the head flushed dark, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. He stroked himself once, slow, spreading it down his shaft, and your mouth watered.

"Been thinkin' about this," he said, his free hand threading into your hair, fingers curling against your scalp. "Lyin' in bed at night, hand wrapped around my cock, wonderin' what you'd look like on your knees for me." He guided your head forward, not forcing, just present, a gentle pressure you could resist if you wanted. You don't. "Wondered if you'd be shy. If I'd have to coax you. If you'd take me deep the first time or make me work for it."

Your tongue flicked out, catching the tip of him, and his hips jerk. A low sound—almost a whimper—escaped his throat, and the power of it flooded through you.

"Fuckin' hell." His grip tightened in your hair. "Do that again."

You did. Slower this time, your tongue tracing the ridge beneath the head, tasting him—salt and heat and something raw that made you dizzy. His breath stuttered above you.

"Open wider, love. Take me in your mouth. Let me feel that tongue."

You parted your lips and he guided himself inside, the head sliding past your lips, and the weight of him on your tongue is more than you expected—thick, heavy, the pulse of his blood against the soft tissue of your mouth. He filled you, and you'd barely taken half.

"Christ." His head fell back, his hand still tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding. "That mouth. Been dreamin' about that mouth around my cock for months, and it's better than I imagined. So fuckin' warm. So wet."

You holloed your cheeks, suck gently, and his hips thrust forward an inch, involuntary, before he caught himself.

"Easy," he breathed, but his voice was wrecked. "Easy, love. Gonna let me fuck that pretty throat? Gonna be good for me?"

Your eyes met his, and you nodded as much as you could with your mouth full. The sight of him above you—jaw slack, eyes dark, that perpetual smirk replaced by something raw and desperate—made heat pool between your thighs.

"Good girl. Such a good girl." His hand guided your head forward, slow, and you took him deeper, your throat opening to accommodate the stretch. He groaned when your nose brushed his pelvis, when you were full of him, when you held there for a second, just breathing through it. "That's it. Look at you. Took all of me like you were made for it."

He held you there, and your throat contracted around him, and the sound he made was broken, animal. His hips twitched, fighting the urge to thrust deeper.

"Gonna move now," he warned, voice barely a whisper. "Tap my thigh if it's too much. But I need—fuck, I need to feel your mouth while I—"

He didn't finish the sentence. He drew back, slow, until only the head remained between your lips, and then pushed forward again, deeper this time, setting a rhythm that had you gripping his thighs for balance. His cock slid slick and hot across your tongue, and you relaxed your throat, let him take what he wanted, and the noise he made—a broken litany of your name and curses and praise—was the most beautiful thing you'd ever heard. Your tongue traced the vein on the underside as he thrust, and his whole body shuddered.

"Fuck, love, your tongue. Right there. Keep doin' that, keep—" His words dissolved into a groan as he pushed deeper, and you felt him hit the back of your throat, felt yourself open for him, and you were dripping onto the floorboards, empty and aching and desperate for more.

You pulled off his cock with a wet sound, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip, and he made a noise like you'd wounded him. His hand tightened in your hair, trying to guide you back, but you resisted—pressing your palm flat against his thigh, holding him still while you caught your breath.

His voice is wrecked, desperate. "What're you—"

"I want you to fuck me." The words come out rough, raw, and you watched his eyes go dark at them. "On the couch. Right now."

Something broke behind his gaze. He pulled you up by your arms, lifted you like you weigh nothing, and deposited you on the worn corduroy—your back hitting the cushions, your legs dangling over the edge. He stood over you, chest heaving, cock slick and hard and still glistening with your spit, and the sight of him like that—undone, hungry, barely holding himself together—made you spread your legs without thinking.

"Look at you." His voice was low, reverent. "Spread open for me already. So fuckin' ready."

He climbed onto the couch, knees bracketing your hips, and the weight of him settled over you—warm, solid, the corduroy rough against your bare back. He didn't push inside. Instead, he dragged his cock through your folds, slicking himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit with every pass, and you whimpered, arched into him, trying to angle yourself onto him.

"Not yet." His smirk returned, just a flicker. "Been waitin' months for this. Gonna take my time."

He shifted his weight, and his mouth found your throat—teeth grazing your pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. His hips rocked against yours, his cock sliding through your slick folds but never pushing in, the teasing pressure building an ache that made you dig your nails into his shouldes.

"Please, James." The name fell out of you, broken. "Please, I need—"

"Need what, love?" He bit your earlobe, tugged. "Use your words. Tell me what you need."

"Need you inside me. Need your cock. Please, I've been so empty, I can't—"

He cut you off with a kiss—deep, filthy, his tongue sliding against yours as he lined himself up. The head pressing against your entrance, just the tip, and you gasped into his mouth.

"Look at me." His voice was barely a whisper. "Want to see your eyes when I finally fuck you."

You met his gaze—blue gone dark, pupils blown wide—and he pushed in.

The stretch was everything. He was thick, filling you inch by inch, and your body opened for him like it was made for it. He didn't stop until he was buried to the hilt, his pelvis pressed against yours, and the fullness of it made your vision blur.

"Fuckin' hell." His forehead dropped to yours, breath ragged. "Feel that? Feel how perfect you are around my cock? Been dreamin' of this—dreamin' of bein' inside you—and it's better. So much better."

He pulled out slow, almost all the way, and then thrust back in—deep, deliberate, hitting something that made your back arch and a cry tear from your throat.

"There." His voice is triumphant. "Found it."

He set a rhythm—deep and relentless, each thrust driving him into that spot until you were clawing at his back, whimpering his name. The corduroy scratched against your skin, and the lamp cast their shadows against the wall, and all you could feel was him—his weight, his heat, the way he filled you completely.

"That's my good girl," he groaned against your throat. "Takin' me so deep. So fuckin' wet. Can feel you drippin' down my thighs."

His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and you sobbed at the pressure—too much, not enough, exactly what you needed. He circled it in time with his thrusts, and the pleasure built, coiled tight in your belly, and you were so close you could taste it.

"Gonna come for me?" His voice was wrecked, desperate. "Gonna soak my cock? Want to feel you come around me, babe. Want to feel you squeeze me while I'm buried inside you."

You nodded, unable to speak, and he kissed you—messy, open-mouthed, swallowing your moans as his thumb pressed harder and his thrusts got sloppier, and the coil snapped.

You came with a cry, your cunt clenching around him, and he groaned your name like a prayer, fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

"That's it. That's my good girl. Fuck, I'm gonna—can I come inside you? Please, love, let me fill you up. Want to feel you dripping with my cum for the rest of the night."

"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, James, please—"

He buried himself deep, and you felt him pulse inside you—hot, thick, filling you as he groaned your name against your throat. His hips stuttered, and he held there, emptying himself into you until there was nothing left.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the cushions, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. The quiet settled around you—the hum of the fridge, the distant traffic, the sound of two people breathing in the same rhythm.

And then he shifted, just enough to look at you, and that stupid, beautiful smirk spread across his face. "Told you I'd make it worth your while."

Later, you lay half-curled against him on the couch beneath the rumpled throw he’d dragged over the two of you at some point. The window had darkened to a blue-grey mirror. The music had long since stopped. Somewhere outside in the corridor, footsteps passed and a neighbor’s door clicked shut, life in the building continuing as if your whole world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

His fingers drifted idly over your bare shoulder.

You turned your head to look at him.

He was staring up at the ceiling, hair even more of a mess now, one arm crooked behind his head. When he felt you looking, he glanced down.

“What?”

“You really made up an entire fake video.”

He grinned without shame. “Was a good idea.”

“It was insane.”

“Worked, though.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth gave you away.

He looked unbearably pleased by that.

“Neighbor,” he said after a second, voice gone low and lazy.

“Hm?”

“Now that you know I’ve been after you for months…”

A warning prickled at the back of your neck. “What?”

His grin widened slowly. “Means I can stop pretendin’ to be subtle.”

You laughed so hard you had to shove at his shoulder.

He caught your hand before you could pull it back and kissed your knuckles, surprisingly gentle for a man who had conned you into his flat with a fake social media challenge.

Then he turned his head, mouth brushing your wrist, and said, almost idly, “Though fair warning, sweetheart—”

“Oh no.”

“Now I know what you sound like in here, hearin’ you through the wall’s gonna be absolute torture.”

Your face went molten at once.

“James.”

He laughed, bright and wicked and entirely too pleased with himself, and hauled you closer when you made another scandalized noise.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, warm under his arm in the little flat two doors down from yours, it felt like the beginning of something you’d been standing on the edge of for longer than you’d realized.

And for the first time since you’d moved into the building, James Cook wasn’t just a possibility in the hallway anymore.