a

He checks the answering machine. The red light is steady. No messages. The last thing you said to him—actually said, out loud, in person—was I'm closing tonight, don't wait up. He'd grunted. Hadn't looked up from the TV. He remembers that now.

You stood in the doorway with your keys in your hand and your jacket half-on, and you looked at him. He realises now that you looked at him, really looked, like you were waiting for something, and he grunted.

He calls the store. Clark picks up, says you didn't show for your shift last night. Or the night before. Didn't call in either. Clark sounds worried, but not in a panicked way. Just the clipped, pragmatic worry of a man already calculating how to cover the hours. 

Bobby tries to sound like he already knew, like he's been handling it. He's the kind of boyfriend who would obviously know that his girlfriend's been missing for three days.

He hangs up, stands in the kitchen and looks at the apartment.

Your coffee mug is still on the drying rack. Your jacket's on the hook by the door. Your shoes—the white ones, the ones you wear everywhere, the ones he's made fun of a hundred times—are sitting by the mat. You didn't leave, didn't pack anything. You didn't take your shoes or anything at all.

Bobby files a missing persons report that afternoon. 

The cops tell him to come in the following morning.

The detective's name is Moreno. He's got a desk in the back of the precinct, a cup of coffee that's been sitting there long enough to develop a skin, and an expression that Bobby doesn't like. There’s no hostility. It’s the other thing, the worse one. Interest. 

“So,” Moreno begins, flipping open a notebook. “Three days.”

“Yeah.”

“And you noticed this morning?”

Bobby's jaw tightens. “I thought she was working doubles.”

Moreno lifts his eyes briefly. “For three days.”

“It's happened before,” Bobby says a little defensively. 

“Has it?” Moreno writes something down. Slow, purposeful, the pen moving like he wants Bobby to watch it, to feel the weight of each letter being recorded. “Walk me through the timeline, Bobby. When's the last time you actually saw her?”

Bobby tells him. The doorway. The jacket. The don't wait up. The grunt.

Moreno nods. Writes. “And after that? What'd you do that night?”

“Watched TV. Went to bed.”

“Alone?”

Bobby stares at him. Jesus Christ. “Yeah. Alone.”

“Okay.” Moreno takes a sip of his dead coffee. Sets it down. “We talked to your neighbours, Bobby. Just routine. The couple in 4B, the Nguyens, mentioned hearing arguments. Through the walls. More than once, over the past few months.” He looks up from the notebook. “You want to tell me about that?”

Bobby's chest goes tight. “Couples argue.”

“Sure they do. What were you arguing about?”

“I don't—stuff. Normal stuff. Dishes. Schedules.”

“They said it sounded pretty heated sometimes,” Moreno remarks. “Mrs Nguyen used the word volatile.”

Bobby feels something cold move through his stomach. “I never touched her. If that's what you're—”

“Nobody said that,” Moreno's voice is easy, perfectly calm. The practised calm of a man who's done this before. “But I've got a missing woman who was last seen by her boyfriend, who didn't notice she was gone for three days, whose neighbours describe an argumentative relationship. You can see why I need to be thorough.”

Bobby can see alright. Bobby can see exactly what this looks like from the outside, and the cold thing in his stomach turns to ice because it looks bad. It looks like exactly what it isn't, and there's no way to explain the difference between I was a shitty, negligent boyfriend who took her for granted and I hurt her without sounding like he's making excuses for both or covering his ass.

“We'd like to take a look at your camera equipment,” Moreno says. “Your footage. You're a camera guy, right? Clark at the store mentioned you're always filming.”

Bobby nods. Numbly.

They take the camera. They take the tapes, too. 

Bobby sits on the couch in the apartment and stares at the empty shelf where the equipment used to be, and feels naked in a way that has nothing to do with clothes. The camera was the last layer between himself and the world. They've taken it, and now there's just Bobby, sitting in an apartment full of evidence of his own failures, waiting for strangers to watch his footage and decide what kind of man he is.

They call him back in four days later. Moreno's got a different look on his face now. Still interested, but muddied, thoughtful. Like he's found something he wasn't expecting.

“We reviewed the tapes, Bobby,” Moreno says.

Bobby waits.

“There's a lot of footage of her,” Moreno says carefully. Neutral. Watching Bobby's face the way you'd watch a surface for ripples. “A lot. Some of it she doesn't seem to know about. You filming her while she's sleeping. While she's cooking. While she's reading.”

“The light was good,” Bobby says automatically, the old excuse, and it sounds hollow even to him.

Moreno lets the silence sit. Then, “Bobby. I've got a missing woman. Her boyfriend has hours of footage of her, some of it taken without her apparent knowledge. Her neighbours describe fights. The boyfriend didn't notice she was gone for seventy-two hours.” He leans forward, knotting his fingers on the table. “You see the picture I'm looking at, right? It doesn’t look good. If you want to tell me anything, I can help you—”

“That's not—I never hurt her. I was—”

“What were you?”

And Bobby opens his mouth to snap back with something defensive, sharp. Bobby, who uses his tongue like a blade when he feels cornered, rears up to go, and what comes out instead is:

“I love her.”

Not loved. There’s no past tense here. This isn’t careful distancing of a man constructing an alibi. Present tense, raw, graceless, blurted out like a cough. Like something expelled from deep in his lungs against his will. His voice breaks on her, and Bobby’s eyes burn. 

Moreno is staring at him, and Bobby is sitting in a police precinct with his chain tangled and his crop top wrinkled, his earring catching the overhead fluorescent light. And he looks, in that moment, exactly like what he is: a twenty-something-year-old asshole who didn't know what he had until the world seemingly swallowed it whole.

“I love her,” he repeats, quieter now. Like now that the word is out, he can't stop saying it, like the dam has cracked and the only thing behind it was this. “I love her, and I was—I wasn't good to her, I know that, okay? I know what it looks like, but I didn't—I would never—”

Moreno watches him for a long time. The precinct hums in the background. Phones, footsteps, murmur of voices.

They let him go. No evidence. No body. They're able to confirm his alibi, and ten again.

There’s no proof of anything except the fact that Robert Franklin is a man who films the woman he loves while she sleeps because he can't bring himself to tell her she's beautiful while she's awake.

He goes to the store that night.

Not because he thinks he'll find anything. The cops already searched it. Half-heartedly, briefly, the way you search a place when you've already decided the boyfriend did it, and the crime scene is somewhere else. 

They walked through the showroom and poked around the loading dock. Went down to the storage level, shone flashlights between the flatpack bookshelves and the plastic-wrapped headboards, and found nothing. Because there's nothing to find. 

Bobby just knows that this is the last place you were. 

That your hands touched the furniture down here. The inventory sheets, the shelving units, the boxes of cabinet hardware and drawer pulls you organised on the night shifts he couldn't be bothered to stay for. Your fingerprints are on everything. The ghost of your routine is embedded in the layout of this room. The way the boxes are stacked, the system you developed for sorting shipments by vendor, and the little handwritten labels in your writing on the bins. 

Bobby stands in the middle of it, and he can feel you. He can feel you the way you feel someone in a room they just left—the displaced air, the warmth fading from a surface, the sense that if he turned around fast enough, he'd catch the edge of you disappearing around a corner.

He sits down on the concrete floor. Puts his back against the wall. The far one, behind the shelving unit full of cabinet hardware, the one that feels different from the others in a way he can't articulate. Cooler. Thinner somehow. 

He doesn't plan to talk. But at one point, the silence gets too much, and it just… comes out. 

“Hey, baby. It's Bobby.”

His voice sounds strange in the empty room. Too loud, too small. Bouncing off the concrete and the flatpacks and coming back to him slightly changed, echoed.

“I don't know if you can hear me. I don't—this is stupid. This is really fucking stupid. Obviously, you can’t hear me because you’re not here. But I just—” He stops. Presses the back of his head against the wall. Stares at the ceiling. “The cops think I did something to you. They looked at me like—” He swallows. “I don't care about that. I don't care what they think. I just need you to know I'm looking. Okay? I'm looking, baby. I'm not gonna stop.”

The draft brushes against his palm. Cool. Steady. Like a pulse. 

He comes back the next night. And the next. And the next.

It becomes the only thing that makes sense. The apartment is a museum of his failures. Every unwashed dish, every unanswered question, every space where your things are slowly being buried under his carelessness. 

But the store is different. The store is where you were. The last place your body occupied space. Sitting in it feels like sitting in the shallow end of your absence rather than drowning in the deep. He can think down here. He can talk. He can say the things he should've said when you were standing in the doorway with your keys in your hand and your heart in your eyes, and he was looking at the TV.

Hey baby. It's me. Found one of your socks behind the dryer today. The fuzzy ones. I put it on the dresser. Just in case.

I keep thinking about Thanksgiving. When you burned the rolls, and I said, "guess we're going to my mom's next year", and you laughed, but you weren't really laughing. You were hurt. I knew, and I didn't fix it.

I'm sorry about the rolls. They were good. They were a little burnt, but they were good. You made them, and I should've eaten every single one.

Bobby pauses. Picks at the concrete with his thumbnail. The storage level smells like particleboard and cardboard. Somewhere deep in the room, he can feel that draft again. That impossible nowhere-breeze he still hasn’t found a source of.

I was thinking about that morning. In the kitchen. You were making breakfast, and you turned around with a spatula and asked if I wanted toast, and the light was behind you, and I—I felt this thing. This huge thing. Like my chest was going to crack open. And I said, "sure." I said SURE. You were standing there in my kitchen looking like that, and I felt the biggest thing I've ever felt, and I said sure and loaded film into my camera like it was nothing.

It wasn't nothing. It was everything. I just didn't know how to—I couldn't—

Bobby stops. Presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

I was so scared you'd see how much I needed you and you'd leave. So I made you leave by not letting you see. That's the dumbest shits anyone's ever done. Baby. I'm so stupid.

He comes back every night. Even when there are no words. Even when he just sits with his hand on the wall and his eyes closed, breathing in the sawdust and the nothing-draft, feeling the concrete thrum against his palm like a second heartbeat.

No leads. No calls. No breaks in the case because there's no sightings, no signs of a break in, nothing. Eyes follow him around town, full of questions and suspicion. There's those who genuinely believe he did something to you. It's stupid, so fucking stupid. He's many thins, but he would never—

Except he did. He did hurt you. Just not in the way these people think.

So Bobby keeps coming because this room is the last place you were. And as long as he keeps sitting in it, as long as he keeps talking to the walls, you're not gone. 

You're just somewhere he hasn’t found you yet.

Month two.

The news spreads the way news does in a place like Santa Clara.

A slow seep through the neighbourhood, through the strip mall. The regulars who used to come to Clark's store for dining sets and bed frames and the occasional impulse-buy end table. A girl went missing. She worked there. The police questioned her boyfriend. No arrests, but you know.

People stop coming.

Not all at once. But the thin trickle becomes a drought. 

The regulars find reasons not to visit. Other stores, other errands, a sudden preference for the furniture place on Stevens Creek that doesn't have a missing-person case attached to it.

The showroom gets quieter. The displays gather a fine layer of dust that Clark used to wipe down every morning, and now he only gets to it every other day, then every third day, then whenever he remembers. Which is less and less because Clark is a man watching his business die and his marriage fracture. 

He can feel both things slipping through his fingers at the same speed, and the bourbon is the only thing that makes the slippage feel like someone else's problem.

So Clark hires Kat. 

Not because he needs a full-time replacement. Frankly, customer traffic no longer justifies it, but the showroom needs a body in it. A presence. Someone to make the store look like a place where things are still happening. Kat is bright and cheap, and she doesn't ask about the missing girl, at least not at first, and Clark is grateful for that.

Bobby notices her the first time he comes in for his nightly visit to the basement. 

She's behind the register, leaning against the counter with a pen behind her ear, doing something with a stack of delivery receipts. Radio plays something tuneful from a boombox she's brought from home. Dark hair. Quick smile. She looks up when the door chimes and gives him that particular once-over that Bobby used to live for. The slow sweep, the lingering, the way women's eyes always catch on the chain, the earring, the slice of toned stomach under the crop top. 

She says, “We're closed.”

“I know. I'm not shopping.”

She watches him walk past the display couches and the dining sets, then down the stairs, all with undisguised curiosity. Bobby doesn't turn around.

The second time, she asks.

“You're the boyfriend, right? Of the girl who—” She catches herself. Has the decency to look uncomfortable. “Sorry. Clark mentioned it.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm Kat,” she says. “I'm covering her shifts.”

“I know.”

Bobby keeps walking. Past the model bedrooms with their fake pillows and fake lamps, down the stairs, into the storage level where the real furniture waits in boxes. He sits on the floor. Presses his palm to the wall.

Hey baby. It's me again.

That night, back in the apartment, Bobby can't sleep. He lies on his side of the bed with his hand on your side and stares at the ceiling. The silence is so complete it has a texture, thick and too heavy. He gets up. Goes to the living room. Stands in front of the shelf where the cops put the tapes back, lined up in a neat row they were never in before.

He picks one up. Turns it over in his hands. The label is in his handwriting. A date, nothing else.

He tells himself he's looking for clues. That's the reason he gives himself as he threads the tape into the camera, plugs it into the TV, and sits on the floor with the remote in his hand.

The apartment is dark except for the blue wash of the screen. He's going to watch the footage with detective's eyes, with Moreno's eyes, looking for something everyone missed: a person in the background, a car that didn't belong, a moment where your face changed because you knew something was coming. He's going to be useful. He's going to be the kind of boyfriend who solves this.

And there you are. In the kitchen. In the morning light. Turning around with a spatula in your hand, your hair messy from sleep, one of his t-shirts hanging off your shoulder. You're saying something—he can't hear it over the lump in his throat, but he can read your lips, do you want toast—and the light is behind you, exactly the way he remembered. 

You're so beautiful, so real and so present on this tape that for a second Bobby forgets. For one perfect, idiot second, his body forgets you're gone and his hand almost lifts to touch the screen. 

Then the moment passes and you're still in the TV and he's still on the floor and the distance between those two things is the rest of his life.

He watches everything. All of it. Hours. The sleeping footage that made Moreno look at him like that. Bobby sees it now, sees what it looks like from the outside, and he also sees what it actually was: a man so stunned by the existence of this person in his bed that he needed the camera between them to survive it. 

You in the kitchen. You reading on the couch with your feet tucked under you, turning pages with one hand, the other hand resting on Bobby's thigh without thinking about it. He filmed that too, the hand, just the hand. Five minutes of your fingers against his jeans because he couldn't say you touching me is the best thing in my life, so Bobby recorded it instead. You at the store, sorting inventory, your lips moving along to the radio, and you catch the camera, and your face does that thing—the mock-exasperated smile, the Bobby, stop that you never really meant—and your eyes are warm. 

Your eyes are so fucking warm. Alive.

He watches until the tapes run out, and then Bobby rewinds them and watches again. He can't help it. The apartment fills with the sound of you. Your voice, your laugh, the particular way you said his name, Bobby, half-scolding and half-tender. For a few hours, the silence has a crack in it and something warm leaks through.

He starts watching them every night. Before the store, after the store, sometimes both. It becomes a ritual. Some sick twin devotions, the basement and the tapes, the wall and the screen, one hand pressed to concrete and the other pressing play.

Month three.

Kat starts leaving coffee on the counter for him. 

It's hot, and it's there every night when he walks in, balanced on the edge of the register next to a ceramic lamp that's been on display since before you vanished. 

She doesn't make a thing of it. Doesn't say I made this for you, or I thought you might want. It's just there. An object in his path. Bobby takes it because refusing would require a conversation he doesn't have the energy for.

She starts sitting on the stairs when he's in the basement. Not coming all the way down, just perching on the third step, legs crossed, chin in her hand, talking to him through the open stairwell. 

She tells him about her day. About the customers, mainly. The couple who spent three hours testing every sofa in the showroom and then bought a lamp, the woman who wanted to return a bed frame she'd clearly had for two years, and some guy who asked if they sold waterbeds. Clark apparently almost threw him out. She's funny, in a way that's different from you. Louder, broader, more direct. 

You were a scalpel. Kat's a blunt instrument, and right now Bobby is so hollowed out that even blunt force registers as contact.

He doesn't laugh. He doesn't encourage her. But he stops telling her to go away, and Kat reads that correctly as the only invitation Bobby knows how to extend right now.

It's the tapes that start to bother him first.

Not anything he can really name at first. It's more like a feeling. Particular unease of looking at something familiar and sensing, at the periphery, that it's shifted. He's watching the kitchen footage—the toast morning, his favourite, the one he's rewound so many times the tracking wobbles at the edges—and something feels off. Bobby stops the tape. Rewinds. Watches again.

You turn around with the spatula. The light is behind you. You say do you want toast. Everything is exactly the same.

Except your face.

Bobby leans closer to the screen. Squints. Your face is… fine. It's your face. Your eyes, your mouth, the way your hair falls. It's you. But there's… something. Some flicker of wrongness so faint it's less than a shadow. Like the difference between a photograph and a photocopy of a photograph. The information is all there. It's just one generation removed from real.

He tells himself it's the tape. Old footage, cheap equipment, the kind of VHS degradation that happens when you rewind the same section a hundred times. He tells himself it's his eyes, his exhaustion, the fact that he's watching the same clips at two in the morning in a dark apartment obsessively. 

His brain is doing what brains do when they're tired and desperate: finding patterns in the static.

He believes it. For a while. He presses play.

One night, Kat is quiet for longer than usual. Bobby can feel her watching him from the stairs, her chin on her knees, the stairwell light behind her making her silhouette sharp.

“You loved her a lot, huh,” she says. Soft. Not a question.

Bobby goes rigid. His hand is flat on the wall. The draft tickles against his palm.

He turns his head. Looks at her. And whatever's on his face, he knows it’s not warm. It's the Bobby that bites, the one who gets mean, and Kat sees it happen, feels the temperature drop. The wall goes up behind his expression like a bulkhead slamming shut.

“I still love her,” he says, cold and flat. Corrective. Present tense.

He turns back to the wall. Kat is quiet for a long time. Then she gets up and goes back upstairs, and Bobby hears her footsteps cross the showroom floor above him. He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to the concrete. He hates himself for being cruel to one more person who didn't deserve it or ask him but did you do it?

But he can't— 

He can't let her use the past tense. He can't let anyone use the past tense. Because that means it's over, and it's not over. It's not. You're somewhere, he can feel it. 

Bobby is a man sitting on a concrete floor talking to nobody, and the only woman who ever mattered to him is gone, and the last thing he gave her was a fucking grunt.

He can't live in that version. He won't.

Month four.

Bobby starts going through the inventory records. 

Your handwriting is everywhere. The logs, the labels on the bins, the sticky notes on the shelving units, reminding Clark which shipments need to go out first. He sits in the storage level with the binder in his lap and traces your letters with his fingertip. He can hear your voice in the loops and slants. The way you wrote like you talked, quick and slightly messy, always abbreviating things so he had to ask you to translate.

The tapes are getting worse.

He can't deny it anymore. The wrongness he felt at month three has deepened into something visible, a decay he doesn't need to squint to see. 

Your face has lost something in the kitchen footage. Nothing he could point to, nothing a stranger who'd never met you would notice. But Bobby has watched this clip a thousand times, and he knows the terrain of your face the way a sailor knows coastline.

Something has shifted. 

Your eyes are the right colour, but the light behind them is dimmer, muted, like watching a candle through frosted glass. Your mouth moves and the words come out (do you want toast), but there's a fraction-of-a-second delay. The audio arriving just a breath after the lips, and it gives your voice a quality that makes the hair on Bobby's arms stand up. A dubbing. A sense that someone else is speaking through you, almost perfectly synchronised but not quite. 

He goes through the other tapes. One by one. Methodical. The sleeping footage first. And you're there, you're sleeping, but the quality of your stillness is wrong. Too still. A person breathing doesn't look like that, doesn't have that uncanny smoothness, that mannequin-serenity. 

The footage of you at the store next. Sorting inventory, lips moving to the radio is the worst affected so far. Your hands look right, but they move in a way that's almost, almost correct. The way a marionette's hands move when the puppeteer is very good. Bobby watches your fingers sort through drawer pulls and cabinet hardware, and he knows that those are not the hands that touched him.

He doesn't tell anyone. Who the hell would he even tell? Moreno? Hey, detective, the girl on my tapes is turning into something else? Yeah, same one that went missing and everyone thinks I secretly killed! His mom? Terrence? They already think he's losing it. Or, worse, they would think he’s high again.

They already use that voice with him now. The careful tone people use when they're managing a dangerous animal. This would be the thing that tips it, the thing that sends Bobby from grieving boyfriend to guy who cracked.

He starts making a list of his failures instead. 

An erosion in reverse. Every day, some new memory surfaces, a moment he discarded when it happened and now can't stop replaying. Each one is worse than the last because each one is a place where he had a choice and chose wrong and didn't even realise it. Or maybe he did. And that’s worse.

The night you came home excited about something—a movie, a book, something a friend said, he can't even remember what it was, and that fact alone makes him want to put his fist through drywall—and you'd been lit up, talking fast, gesturing, and he'd been reviewing footage on the couch.

He'd said uh-huh without looking up. Not even once. Not once during your entire story did he lift his eyes from the viewfinder. You trailed off mid-sentence and went quiet, and Bobby hadn't looked up then either.

He tries to find that moment on tape. He knows he was filming that night. The camera was always running, always capturing, the viewfinder his permanent excuse for not being present. He scrubs through the footage looking for it. Looking for your face lit up. Looking for the moment you dimmed.

He finds the timestamp. And what Bobby sees makes his stomach drop.

You're sitting on the couch. He can tell it's you by the posture, the clothes, the way you're tucked into the corner cushion with your legs folded. But your face. Your face is… smeared. Like a thumbprint pressed across wet paint. The features are there, technically. But only technically. Eyes, mouth, nose. But they've lost their arrangement, their specificity.

The uniqueness that makes a face your face instead of just a face. 

Bobby is looking at you, and he can’t tell what you look like. He’s lived with you, slept beside you, fucked you in every spot in your shared apartment, filmed you obsessively for months, and yet he’s looking at a tape from four months ago, and he can’t reconstruct you.

The audio is worse. Your voice—the one he knows better than his own, the one that said his name like a bell, half-scolding and half-tender—is distorted.

Vowels flattened, consonants dissolved. That familiar melody of your speech now reduced to a low warbling tone that doesn't sound like language anymore. It sounds like a recording of a recording of a recording. Each new generation losing fidelity, losing you, until what's left is just the shape of where a voice used to be.

Bobby ejects the tape. His hands are shaking so hard he almost drops it. He puts it back on the shelf and sits on the couch in the dark and doesn't move for an hour.

He sits with the inventory binder the next night and reads your handwriting and says to the wall:

Something's happening to you, baby. I can't—I don't know how to explain it. But something's happening to the tapes, and I think it means something's happening to you. I need you to hold on. Okay? I need you to hold on because I'm still here, and I'm not leaving. I need you to still be you when I find you.

I think I got scared of how much I needed you. So I stopped letting myself need you. And that's not an excuse. I know that's not an excuse.

The truth is, I wanted to be there so much that it was destroying me. I wanted you so much it made me fucking mean. I loved you in a way I couldn't control, and I've always been an idiot who quits everything. Who gives up when things get too big and scary. You were the one thing that made my hands shake, and I hated it, and I needed it. I needed you because you saw me. I didn't know how to need something without resenting it.

So I resented you. For making me believe in myself. For making me need something other than the weed. And I showed it by turning away and turning away and turning away until you thought I didn't feel anything at all, when the reality is I felt everything. I felt too much. I've always felt too much, and I've never once known what to do about it except hide behind the camera and make a dumb joke and let the moment pass.

He pauses. Slams the binder shut. Runs his hand over the cover where your coffee ring stains the cardboard.

I should've told you about the toast morning. The spatula. The light behind you. I should've put the camera down and told you right then.

I should've told you every morning.

Baby. I can still see your handwriting. I need to—I need that to mean you're still somewhere. That this is just the tapes. That the tapes are old and I'm tired and you're fine, wherever you are, you're fine and you look like you and you sound like you and when I find you I'll know your face.

Month five.

Kat touches his arm.

It happens on a Wednesday. She's handing him the coffee, and her fingers brush his wrist and stay there. A half-second too long. Warm. Intentional.

Bobby stares at her hand. Looks at her. She doesn't look away.

“You know,” she says cautiously, “you don't have to sit down there alone every night. You could stay up here. Sit on one of the display couches. They're actually pretty comfortable for fake living rooms.” She smiles. Not the interested once-over from the first night. Softer now, more careful.

Bobby takes the coffee. Goes downstairs.

His pager buzzes against his hip later that night. He unclips it, tilts it toward the light. Kat's number. She must've pulled it from the staff contact sheet Clark keeps.

He looks at the little green screen for a long time. Clips the pager back to his belt. Presses his forehead to the wall.

That night, at home, he puts in the toast tape. It's become a test now, a compulsion. He checks the way you'd check a wound, needing to see if it's gotten worse, even though looking makes it worse too. He sits on the floor in front of the TV and watches the kitchen footage load.

The spatula is there. The counter. The window with the morning light. The t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. Everything in the frame is crisp, real, and correctly rendered.

Except there's no one holding the spatula.

Bobby's breath hitches. He leans forward, hands shaking. Rewinds. Plays it again.

The spatula lifts. Turns. The t-shirt shifts on a shoulder that isn't there. Or is there, maybe, but wrong. A smudge of colour where a body should be, a heat-shimmer distortion where your outline used to sit. The light comes through the window and falls on the kitchen counter and on the empty space where you stood, and there is something in that space.

Not nothing, or blank tape, but a presence that has no edges, no features, no face. A blur. A smear. The visual equivalent of a word on the tip of your tongue that won't come.

The audio says — — toast — and then dissolves into a sound that Bobby can only describe as the noise a voice makes when it's being pulled apart from the inside. Each syllable stretches thinner and thinner until it snaps, and what's left is a low, sustained hum that sounds like buzzing lights in an empty hallway.

Bobby presses stop. Ejects the tape.

He goes to the shelf. Pulls another. The one where you're reading on the couch, your hand on his thigh. He puts it in.

Your hand is gone. His thigh is there. Bobby can see his own jeans, the denim folded at the knee. That specific wear pattern on the left leg. But the hand that used to rest on it has dissolved into a faded wash, a blurry disturbance on the surface of the image, like someone pressed their palm to a fogged window and then the fog closed over the print.

He puts in another. The store footage. You sorting inventory.

The bins are being sorted by no one. Cabinet hardware moves through the air. Drawer pulls lift and settle into containers by themselves, organised by a system invented by a person the tape can no longer render. The radio plays in the recording. Bobby can hear the music. Unchanged. But the voice that used to sing along to it is gone. Replaced by a low, pulsing tone that rises and falls in a pattern that almost, almost resembles the melody you used to hum, if he listens hard enough, if Bobby presses his ear to the speaker and closes his eyes and believes—

He can't. He can't believe it hard enough. The tape runs, and the inventory sorts itself. The radio plays somewhere underneath it all in a frequency that used to be your voice.

Bobby puts every tape in, one by one. Every single one. And on every single one, you’re fading. The early tapes—the oldest ones, the ones from before the store, from the first months—are the worst. 

On those, you’re gone entirely. The frame exists, as does the light. But the space you occupied is smooth and empty, the image healing the wound of your absence like skin closing over a wound.

Reality itself seems to be deciding you were never there and quietly, methodically, is editing you out.

On the very last tape he checks, the most recent, he can still see you. Barely. A silhouette that won't resolve. A shape in the doorway that could be a person or could be a trick of the light. He pauses the tape and stares at the shape, and it looks like you the way a cloud looks like a face. If you want it to, if you squint hard enough and ignore the parts that don't match.

Bobby sits on the floor, holding the remote, staring at the paused frame. He understands, with a certainty that bypasses logic and settles directly into his bones, that you’re being erased. Not just from his life. Not just from the apartment, the store, or the neighbourhood that forgot you. From reality. From any evidence that you existed at all.

The tapes were his proof. Not for Moreno, or the cops, but for himself. Proof that you were real. That the toast morning happened. That your hand rested on his thigh. Love, in all its messy, imperfect shape between you, was real. That you sang along to the radio and burned rolls at Thanksgiving. That you stood in doorways waiting for him to look up. For once in his life, to just look up and see you. 

He filmed you because he couldn't tell you he loved you, and thought the films would be enough. They were going to be the evidence he'd have forever, the record of what he felt even when he couldn't say it aloud.

And now even that’s being taken.

He doesn't go to the store that night. He goes straight to the basement and puts his whole body against the wall. Not just his hand. His whole body, chest, cheek and palms flat against the concrete. Maybe he’s going insane, finally, properly insane, but he talks until his voice gives out.

Don't go. Whatever's happening, whatever this is—please. Don't go. I know I didn't earn you. I know I don't get to ask you to stay when I didn't give you a reason to stay. But I’m asking. I'm begging. Please.

I can barely remember your face, baby.

I looked at the tapes, and you're not—you're going away. You're going away, and I can't stop it. The last version of your face I have in my head is from the doorway, the night you left, and I didn't even LOOK at it. I fucking grunted. You were looking at me, and I was looking at the TV. Now your face is disappearing from my own tapes, and the last real look I had at you I wasted on a GRUNT.

Baby. Please don't make me forget what you look like.

The wall breathes against him. The draft. The nowhere-breeze, cooler than the room, steady, almost rhythmic. Like breathing. Like something on the other side pressing back, watching him.

Bobby lifts his head but he's alone down here.

He stays until morning anyway.

Month six.

The apartment is starting to forget you.

Your shampoo ran out first. Bobby couldn't bring himself to buy more, so the shower shelf has a gap now.

Your magazines are buried under his mail, his camera equipment that's migrated back to every flat surface because there's nobody to complain about it. The coffee mug—your mug, the one on the drying rack—he put it in the cabinet. High shelf. Behind his. He can't see it when he opens the door, but he knows it's there. 

The tapes are blank.

Completely blank. Clean, smooth, unrecorded type of blank. As if the camera was never pointed at anything, as if the record button was never pressed. Hours and hours of footage simply un-happened. 

Bobby put in the toast tape last week, and what played was thirty minutes of soft grey nothing. The gentle hiss of virgin magnetic tape, the sound of a medium that has never held information. He put it in the camera, connected it to the TV, and watched nothing. Rewound it. Watched nothing again, ejected it, held it in his hands, turned it over and read his own handwriting on the label. 

The date, just the date. The label is the only proof left that something was once on this tape, because the tape itself has forgotten.

All of them. Every single one. He checked them all, one after another, on a Saturday afternoon with the curtains drawn. By the time Bobby reached the last one, he wasn't even surprised. Just hollow. The shelves are full of labelled cassettes that now contain nothing.

A library of blanks. An archive of absence.

He has no pictures of you. 

He realises this with a physical lurch, sitting on the floor surrounded by dead tapes. He has no pictures of you. 

Bobby the camera guy, Bobby who filmed everything, Bobby who pointed the lens at you while you slept because he couldn't survive the sight of you without a barrier, and somehow, he has no proof you exist. The tapes are blank. He never took photographs because the camera was always rolling. And the only image of your face he has left is the one in his head, and that one is fading too. 

Just the ordinary human erosion. The way memory smooths out detail over time. Six months of absence turns a face into an impression, an atmosphere, a feeling-where-a-face-used-to-be.

He remembers your eyes. He thinks. He remembers warmth, colour, the way they changed in kitchen light, and the blue wash of the TV at midnight. But he doesn't remember their exact shape. Doesn't remember if the left one was slightly different from the right. 

The details are blurry; the tapes can't tell him anymore, and no one else can, either. You’re being unmade—from the record, from the world, from his own goddamn memory—and Bobby is the man who was supposed to preserve you, who pointed a camera at you for years, and he couldn't even do that right.

He still goes to the store. Every night. Without fail. 

Even when it rains, or when he's sick, or when his hands shake on the steering wheel, driving down at eleven PM. He sits on the floor, and he talks. Sometimes he brings the coffee, your order, and a paper cup from the place on El Camino that makes it the way you like best.

Bobby sets it on the concrete beside him like a place setting at a table for two, and it goes cold while he talks. Eventually, he pours it out in the utility sink by the loading dock, rinses the cup and drives home.

It's getting harder to believe.

He can feel it. 

Faith eroding the way your shampoo scent eroded from the pillow, the way you eroded from the tapes, gradually, then suddenly. Six months. People don't come back after six months. The cops have functionally closed the case. 

Bobby's mom called and talked around the subject for forty minutes before finally saying honey, maybe it's time to— and Bobby hung up on her. His buddy Terrence sat him down at a bar and said, awkwardly, carefully, the way everyone talks to Bobby now, man, I know you don't want to hear this, but— and Bobby walked out before he could finish the sentence.

He knows what they're going to say. He knows because he's been saying it to himself at three in the morning, lying on his side of the bed with his hand on the cold spot you should be, a thought looping in his brain: she's not coming back. She's not coming back.

But Bobby goes to the store. And he sits on the floor. He puts his hand on the wall. The draft is still there—that impossible nowhere-breeze, cool against his palm—and it feels like breathing. Bobby presses his whole body against the concrete.

This space is the last thing that still holds you. The tapes gave you up. The apartment gave you up. The neighbourhood, the cops, his friends, his mother, everyone has let go. Bobby presses himself against the wall every night because this is the one place in the world that still has you in it. The last surface that carries your imprint, and he’ll not leave it. 

He will not let the last proof of you go.

Bobby thinks about who he was seven months ago, and the contempt is so total it's almost cleansing. 

A twenty-something-year-old asshole in a crop top who thought he was too cool to say I love you, who hid behind a camera lens because looking at things through glass was easier than looking at them with his bare, stupid, cowardly eyes.

He had a girl who made him breakfast and stayed up waiting for him. Who asked do you even want to be here anymore and answered her with don't be dramatic because the truth was too enormous and too terrifying to fit through his teeth.

The camera was supposed to be the thing that kept you. The proof, the record, the insurance policy against loss. He filmed you because he couldn't hold you, and now the film is empty. His arms are empty too, and the only thing left is a dusty basement with a strange wall and a man who doesn't deserve the comfort of it.

Robert Franklin, who quit everything, who let every good thing in his life rot through neglect and cowardice—Robert Franklin refuses to quit this. 

This is the one thing he will hold onto with both hands. Because if he lets go, he has to look at who he is without it, and that person has nothing. That someone is an idiot with a camera and a crop top sitting in an empty apartment full of blank tapes, where he ground something beautiful down to dust because he was too chickenshit to be soft.

So he goes. Every night. He goes.

Month seven.

Clark is drunk.

Bobby can tell before he's through the door. 

The showroom lights are on, but the sign is flipped to CLOSED, and the radio's playing louder than usual from somewhere in the back. When Bobby makes his way past the dining displays, he finds Clark sitting in the leather recliner. The expensive floor model, the one that's been here since the store opened, with a bottle of Jim Beam wedged between his thigh and that look on his face. 

The one Bobby sees in the mirror. The look of a man whose life is falling apart.

“Bobby.” Flat. Not unfriendly. Voice of a man who's been drinking past sloppy and into something cold and brittle on the other side. “Right on time.”

“Clark.” Bobby eyes the bottle. “Where's Kat?”

“Sent her home early.” Clark takes a long, gulping drink. He's still wearing his work shirt, that same button-down he always wears, but it's untucked and the collar's stained. He looks like he's been in that recliner for a while. “Sit down.”

“I'm going downstairs.”

“No.” Another wet gulp. His eyes are red but steady. “You're not. That's what I need to talk to you about.”

Bobby stops.

“Linda kicked me out,” Clark says conversationally. The way he'd talk about lumber prices or a late shipment. He gestures around the showroom with the bottle. “So I'll be staying here. Back office. Maybe downstairs, if I can clear space between the Scandinavian imports.” The joke almost lands. Almost. “Which means I need the room, Bobby. All of it.”

“You're—what?”

“I'm saying you can't come here anymore.”

The words land like a slap. Bobby's hand tightens on the strap of his camera bag.

“Clark—”

“Seven months.” 

And there it is. That thing that happens when Clark drinks, when the bourbon strips away the politeness and the it's not my place and the careful middle-aged-man diplomacy, and what's left is just the raw compressed anger of a man who's been swallowing his own resentment for months.

Clark is a man who holds everything down until the whiskey lifts the lid and whatever's underneath comes out scalding.

“Seven months of you in my basement. Seven months of—do you know what's happened to this place since your girlfriend disappeared? Do you? Because I do. I watch it every day. I watch the customers not come in. I watch the phone not ring. I watch the neighbourhood look at my store like it's a goddamn crime scene and take their money to Stevens Creek because nobody wants to buy a dining set from the place where a girl vanished.” Clark's voice is rising, a deep rumbling anger spilling outwards. “I built this store. And now I'm sleeping in it because my ungrateful wife thinks I'm a failure and my customers think I'm cursed and the only person who walks through my door every night is you, Bobby, sitting on my floor, talking to my wall—”

“That's not my fault —”

“She's not down there.” Clark slams the bottle on the end table. It cracks the mahogany finish, and he doesn't notice or doesn't care. “She's not in the walls, or the ceiling or the goddamn floor, son. She's not inside a goddamn flatpack bookshelf.”

Bobby sucks in a breath. “You don't know that. Nobody does.”

“Yeah, I do.” 

Clark leans forward. Red-eyed. Steady. And the thing he's been holding between his teeth for months comes out. The ugly thing that isn't about Bobby at all, it's about Clark, about a store that was failing before you ever disappeared and a marriage that was cracking before the customers stopped coming.

A man who needs someone to blame because the alternative is looking in the mirror and seeing his own fingerprints on everything that's broken. And right now, tonight, drunk and newly homeless and sitting in a recliner in a showroom full of furniture nobody's buying, Clark has found his someone.

“She's either dead,” Clark says, and the word just hangs there, settling on Bobby's skin like hot oil spilling over— “or she left you. And either way, son. Either way. You need to stop. Because I can't have you down there anymore. I can't have this—this haunting—attached to my store. I'm trying to save what's left, and you sitting in my basement every night is—”

He stops himself. A crack appears in Clark’s anger, a fissure where the sober Clark underneath can see what the drunk Clark is doing. Using Bobby's grief to deflect from his own failure. Blaming a missing girl for a business that was haemorrhaging money long before she vanished, for a wife who kicked him out because Clark worked sixty-hour weeks and never once asked how her day was.

Clark knows. Underneath the bourbon, he knows. And the knowing makes his face twist with both sadness and fury.

“Bobby.” His voice changes. Drops. The anger drains out of it like water from a cracked glass, leaving only the exhaustion underneath. Clark rubs his eyes with one hand, and suddenly, he looks old. Older than he is, tired in a way that has nothing to do with the hour. “I didn't—that came out wrong. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it like that.”

Bobby doesn't hear him.

Because Bobby is already moving. Past the display couches and the model bedrooms with their fake pillows and fake lives. He shoulder clips the corner of a dining table hard enough to shift it on the showroom floor, and the door chimes behind him when he rips it open.

The night air hits him, and he's in the parking lot, his hands are on his knees, and he's breathing in short, ragged, tearing bursts that feel like they're coming from somewhere below his lungs. 

Somewhere that's been sealed shut for seven months and has just been cracked open with the words she's either dead or she left you.

Dead or she left you.

Dead.

Or she left you.

He can't fucking breathe. He can't—the air is right there. Santa Clara night air, warm and full of eucalyptus and car exhaust, but he can't get it into his lungs. Because Clark said dead, and that word is a door Bobby has refused to open for seven months, and now it's open, it's wide fucking open. 

And behind it is a version of reality where you’re in the ground somewhere and the last thing he ever said to you was a grunt and your last memory of him is the back of his head and the blue light of the television and the sound of a man who couldn't be bothered to look up.

And the tapes are blank. And your face is gone. And there is no record anywhere in the world that you existed except the label on a cassette in Bobby's handwriting and in a basement he's just been locked out of.

“Bobby. Bobby, wait—”

Kat. Coming around the side of the building, car keys in her hand. She didn't go home. She was sitting in her car, headlights off, engine off, just sitting there, and she's been doing that, he knows she's been doing that, waiting for him, watching the door. And he's never said anything because acknowledging it would mean acknowledging everything it implies.

“Bobby, hey, stop, are you okay? I heard him through the door, what did he—”

Bobby straightens up. Pivots toward her. And he knows—somewhere in the functioning part of his brain, in the part that isn't currently on fire—that she doesn't deserve what’s coming. She's been nothing but kind.

Coffee on counters, stairs and parking lots and pager numbers he never called back. She never once asked for anything in return. She’s a good person standing in a parking lot trying to help a man who’s bleeding out from a wound she didn't inflict.

But the thing inside Bobby right now is not rational. It's not kind. It's the wounded animal, the cornered dog, the part of Robert Franklin that has always turned his pain into teeth and aimed them at whoever's closest because the alternative is feeling it. And he…

He can't feel it; if he feels it right now, he’ll come apart on this asphalt, and he doesn't know if he'll come back together again.

“Don't do that. Don't chase me. Don't wait in the parking lot. Don't leave me coffee. Don't—” His voice cracks, and he hates it. Hates the sound of himself breaking in front of her. Another woman who's being kind to him, and he's going to ruin it with his inability to do anything with tenderness except flinch from it. “I'm not going to fuck you, Kat. Alright? Is that what you need to hear? My girl is missing. The girl I love is fucking missing, and I don't know where she is, and I can't—I can't do this. Whatever you think this is going to become. I can't.”

He presses the heel of his hand into his eye. Hard. Grinding the tears back because Bobby doesn't cry in front of people. Even though he's been doing it alone on concrete for seven months, even though the irony—Bobby Franklin pushing away the person trying to be there for him while grieving the person he pushed away by not being there—is so perfect and so cruel it feels engineered. Like the universe is holding up a mirror and saying see? You're doing it again. You learned nothing, idiot.

He knows. He knows he's doing it again. He can't stop doing it.

“I can't,” he rasps. Quiet, broken. “I'm sorry.”

Kat stands still. Her keys dangle from one finger, catching the orange glow of the streetlight. She doesn't step back. Doesn't cry or get angry or tell him to go fuck himself, though she definitely should. Bobby almost wishes she would because it would give him someone to push against.

The tapes are blank, and your face is a smear. Reality is closing over the hole you left like water closing over a stone, and soon there’ll be no evidence you were ever here at all except a man in a parking lot who can't stop saying your name in the present tense.

Kat shifts her keys to her other hand. Takes one step closer. Not touching. Just closer.

She looks at him, and she says, quietly, softly, “I don't need you to love me, Bobby.”

Quiet. Simple. Like she's telling him the time.

Bobby's mouth opens. Closes. His hand drops from his face. The parking lot is quiet. Only the buzzing streetlight fills the silence. 

He looks at her, and he looks wrecked, he knows. Absolutely wrecked, hollowed out and scraped clean from last seven months, standing in a place where the only options are forward into something he's not ready for or backwards into a basement he's just been locked out of, and he doesn't say yes.

But he doesn't walk away, either.

College, then a career, marriage, and after several comfortable years, maybe children could enter the picture. You were, after all, eighteen, and the prospect of kids had felt astronomically far away.

(Isn’t life funny sometimes?)

Then the car crash happened.

You don’t remember much of it—bits here, pieces there, some flashes if you think hard enough that it makes your head hurt—just that one moment you were in the backseat of your family’s car, buckled in and drifting to sleep, and in the next, you were staring up at the ceiling of Hawkins Memorial.

You had survived with some broken bones and a nasty concussion. 

Your family did not.

You were eighteen and alone, having graduated high school only a few weeks prior. And between all of the injuries that you’d sustained and the sudden lack of family to help pay for tuition, you were forced to drop out of college. Your days were instead spent planning funerals from a hospital bed, handling lawyers and life insurance and inheritance. You threw yourself into physical therapy and, once your leg healed, forced yourself into a car, refusing to let yourself vomit from the anxiety of being behind a wheel once more.

You survived it all, and you came out a stronger person on top.

Different, maybe, but stronger.

And throughout it all—through the long hours in the hospital and longer hours rebuilding your strength—was your boyfriend, Mark Lewinsky.

Mark was sweet. Mark was kind. He filled your recovery room with flowers, and once you were discharged, his parents allowed you to stay at their house as you healed.

But Mark also had a life outside of yours completely crashing down around you, and in August of ’85, he swept off to Purdue without a glance backwards.

And life moved on. Injuries healed, you moved back into your family’s home, and your days were spent with sorting through their belongings, figuring out which items you wanted to keep and which items would be better loved in another home.

Mark called often. Of course he called often! He was your boyfriend, the love of your life, and was even starting to talk about rings and weddings and marriage, and even if your life hasn’t gone the way that you thought it should, at least you could still have the other parts, right?

It was just as things were starting to feel normal again, that you were settling into your new existence, that the earthquake happened.

Mark spent the summer of ’86 bouncing between his parents’ house and your place, filling out the copious amounts of paperwork that the military required for him to be released to go back go college, and before you could wrap your head around it, he was gone.

He was gone, and you were left in this new, strange world by yourself. No Mark, no family, no friends.

Alone.

And it was fine. It was fine.

It was fine up until the military doctor informed you, during one of the mandatory checkups, that you were pregnant.

And then, suddenly, everything wasn’t fine, because it was October of 1986, the military was breathing down everyone’s necks, and you were scared and pregnant and alone and all Mark could say over the phone was, “Babe, are you even sure that it’s mine?”

You seethed. Of course you seethed—you were faithful! You’d been nothing but faithful for two years! You hadn’t even looked at another man, not since Mark asked you out during your senior year! And now you were pregnant with his baby, stuck in a nightmare scenario, he changed his phone number, his parents had moved from town, and you were alone.

Mark, clearly, did not care.

In fact, he didn’t really seem to care until long after you gave birth, not until your daughter, Mia, was nearly two, and he came skipping back into Hawkins after he graduated college, demanding a paternity test.

He demanded a lot of things, really, that you were too exhausted to fight him on. Not with the money behind the Lewinsky name. Not with the way you hadn’t slept for a full night since giving birth. Not with living through a military occupation, abandoned and scared, with a baby who depended on you for everything. 

So you got the test done, and wouldn’t you know it? Mark Lewinsky was, in fact, the father. Except Mark Lewinsky was no longer your boyfriend, and he had a nice, new woman at his side with a nice, new shiny ring on her finger and a nice, new lawyer to demand shared custody.

The only thing you refused to budge on was changing Mia’s last name from yours to Mark’s. You were, after all, the person that carried her in your body, the only parent she knew for the first two years of her life, and you were the one she cried for after nightmares. You were the one that she snuggled up next to after you rented Cinderella from Family Video for the umpteenth time and you knew exactly how she liked her pancakes made. 

She was yours in every way that mattered and nothing was going to change that.

And before you knew it, years passed, and Mia grew faster than you could keep up with. She developed thoughts and feelings and opinions—god, so many opinions that it makes you laugh—and, suddenly, an interest in sports.

(You’re not quite sure where that one came from, seeing as Mark’s athletic prowess had been comical at best and you were too busy in high school with other extracurriculars to even try.)

Which is how you find yourself here, the early June sun beating down on your neck, at Hawkins Middle School with an excitable Mia clutching your hand, surrounded by the newly formed Hawkins Little League Softball Team.

A team that had been spearheaded by none other than Steve Harrington, a familiar face that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

Shock spreads across your body at the sight of him jogging towards your ragtag group, and the first thought that crosses your mind is that he looks good. Better than he did in high school, back when the two of you spent a summer fooling around with one another like there was nothing better to do with your time. His hair is a bit shorter than it was back then, a little less styled with the tips curling from humidity, and a white shirt already drenched with sweat sticks to his chest.

Your throat goes dry at the sight of what should be considered indecently short athletic shorts and hairy legs stopping in front of the crowd, and not for the first time, you find yourself regretting that the two of you drifted apart once Mark became a more stable presence in your life.

(Were you ever really friends? You’re not sure, but you gave a piece of yourself to him that summer, and you’ve never once regretted giving it away.)

You rip your gaze away from his legs, tracing the line up his body—which is both so similar and so different from your memory—and find that he’s smiling sunnily at you, recognition crossing his face.

And then, he greets the kids and practice is started.

You make yourself way to the stands with the other parents, watching with no small amount of amusement as Steve corrals a gaggle of five year olds who want to do nothing more than sprint in dizzying circles around him. He takes it all in stride, however, and you find yourself impressed at the everlasting patience he has for the girls with no attention span. 

It would be a lot for any person to handle, you think, but somehow, Steve has a knack for getting the kids to listen to his instructions.

The first practice goes fine. Great, even, for a bunch of hyperactive, uncoordinated five year olds. And even though there isn’t a single kind who actually manages to hit the ball with the stupidly expensive softball bats, but afterwards, Steve gives each and every girl a high five, tells them that he’s proud of them, and reminds them all to drink plenty of water once they get home.

You watch Mia bound over to you, her twin braids flying as she yells, “Did you see? Did you see?”

“I saw!” you laugh, catching the bundle of energy in your arms as she babbles on excitedly about how much fun she had and how much she can’t wait for the next practice.

Your heart sinks, because despite how uncomfortable the metal bench was, you really enjoyed watching her tumble her way across the field. But… the next practice is next week, Mark’s week, and he was already reticent to pay for half of the fees. Would he even stay to watch? Would his wife—a lovely woman in her own right—stay to watch? Will there be anyone to cheer Mia on as she runs in circles? You’re not sure, and it makes your chest hurt to think about that.

Before you can dwell on it too long, though, a shadow crosses over the two of you, and you look up, up, up, to find Steve Harrington in all of his sweaty glory, your name dripping from his lips, and he asks, “Hey! It’s been awhile. How are you doing?

“I’m good,” you say at the same time that Mia, a clingy child on the best of days, does her best to burrow her way into your skin. “I was actually a little surprised to see you here. Didn’t know that you were moonlighting as a coach now, but it looks good on you.”

“Yeah?” he says, a little bashful as he pushes the hair from his eyes. “I coach the baseball little league, too, and was kind of annoyed that the girls didn’t have their own sport, so… yeah. Anyway, is this your niece?”

You open your mouth, ready to respond, but it’s in this moment that Mia chooses to peel herself from your arms and beat you to the punch.

“Uh, this is my mom, Coach Steve. Duh.”

“Mia!” you scold. “God, Steve, I’m so sorry, she’s a little—I mean—”

A booming laugh cuts you off. You watch, stunned, as his head tilts back, the evening sun catching on the column of his throat, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the force of his mirth. Everything about him screams All American Boy as the delight spills from him, and a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there eases.

“You’re right, Mia,” he says, holding a hand out to her as a peace offering. “I should’ve known better. Will you ever forgive me?”

Mia sniffs imperiously, eyes him a little warily, but clearly decides that he passes some invisible test when she places her little hand in his large palm. “I guess.”

You take this moment to pry her from your lap, instructing, “Go get a snack from the car, sweets. I’m going to talk to Steve real quick.”

She grumbles something under her breath, shooting you a sour look, but does as told, scampering towards your old sedan.

“So…” Steve starts, hands placed firmly on his hips and his gaze firmly trained on your daughter, as though he’s making sure that she doesn’t run into any trouble in the perilous twenty foot distance between you and her. “Daughter?”

“Long story,” you offer.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

You pause, thinking, and realize dimly, Oh, he should know. Especially if Mark drops her off next week. “Well… no, actually.”

You give Steve the abbreviated version—as abbreviated as it can be, anyway, for a tale that is both short and rather uninteresting. Knocked up at nineteen, gave birth at twenty, share custody with her father, Mark Lewinsky, so he’ll be the one at practice next week.

If possible, Steve’s brows raise higher at the mention of Mark. 

“The bench warmer?” he asks, then flushes as if he wasn’t supposed to say that.

But it’s your turn to laugh. “Yeah, him.” Glancing to make sure that your daughter is still out of earshot, you add, “Wouldn’t have been my first choice in fathers, but I got Mia out of it, so… Worth it, in the end.”

“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. “Picked up on what to do faster than the other kids. And I’m not just saying that to, like, stroke your ego or anything. She’s smart.”

“Yeah,” you smile. “She is, isn’t she?”

Life persists and summer continues to grow, the heat swells until it presses into every corner of your life, and the humidity wraps itself around you like a second skin. 

As always, Mia is at your house one week, goes to her dad’s the next, and inevitably she returns with her light a little dimmed and a trembling smile on her face, climbing into your bed every Sunday night after her dad drops her off.

(It breaks your heart, but what can you do? It’s not like they’re mistreating her or anything. She just doesn’t like going out over to Mark’s house, especially not since Mark’s wife announced her own pregnancy.)

And, against all odds, Mia sticks with softball, throwing her tiny little body into practice and drills. She takes to spending every evening with her bat in the backyard, swinging it around wildly as she asks, “Do you think Coach Steve can tell that I’m doing this?”

“Of course,” you reply amiably from your spot on the deck, a book propped open on the table next to you. “Coach Steve is very smart, you know.”

She preens under the thought of praise, and you heart clenches with gratitude that you get to be her mother.

Practices get bumped up to twice a week, too, meaning that every other week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your evenings are spent in the stands at your old middle school, watching your daughter flail across the field with the grace of a newborn kitten.

There’s a certain amount of affection that wells up in your chest whenever you watch Steve interact with her. He corrects her with a gentle efficiency, lifting her elbow into place, showing her how to stand. It’s hard not to notice just how much she blossoms under his roaring cheers from across the field when she manages to hit the ball, her little legs pumping as she sprints to home base. 

And then—faster than you can process it—she slides her way to the home plate. Tries to slide her way to the home plate, and it’s immediately evident that it completely went wrong when a shrill cry pierces the air. Your blood freezes, and in the next second, Steve’s at her side before you can even stand, scooping her sobbing form up. His big hand settles on her small back as he jogs towards the first aid kit. 

You scramble from the stands, forcing your way through the other parents, and as you make your way closer, you hear him say, “I bet it hurts a lot, Mia, but it’ll be okay. See? It’s just a little cut, don’t worry.”

“But—but—” Her lower lip wobbles, fat tears falling from her eyes. “What if I can’t run anymore?”

If this shocks Steve, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches out gently, dragging a thumb across her cheek as he wipes the tears away, promising in a soft voice, “You’ll be able to run again, I promise. You think a little scrape can prevent that? Come on, Mia, you’re a strong girl. You can do anything you want.”

Your heart melts at the assurance as you slip onto the bench next to her, tucking Mia into your side as he finishes cleaning and bandaging her skinned knees, saying, “There, all done. Look! No more blood. How about you sit here with your mom for a bit, okay? If it hurts a little less, you can come back out, but no worries if not.”

She nods, presses her face into your shirt, and Steve offers you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the rest of the team.

You offer her soothing words and squeezes, smoothing a hand down her back throughout the rest of practice, trying desperately to ignore the way your stomach flips at the mental image of her coddled against Steve’s chest.

It’s inappropriate, you think, to feel so electrified after seeing how kind his is with your daughter.

(But is it really your fault? You’ve seen Mark with her when she’s injured, the way he tends to hand Mia off to his wife when all she needs is a hug, a kiss to the forehead, and an assurance that all will be well. Because Mark is awkward and never quite adapted to fatherhood, and Steve—)

(Steve just seems so naturally step into that role, even for kids that aren’t his own.)

After practice, you stay sitting on the bench, watching as the rest of the team disappears in the parking lot and drives off. It’s only once the last family has left that Steve makes his way back over to the two of you, checks on Mia’s knees and opens his arms up. “Will you ever forgive me, Mia?”

She giggles and throws herself at him, wrapping herself tight around his neck as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.

“I guess,” she says in a way that you know, from experience, means yes. 

Your throat tightens at the sight, trying to remember the last time you’d seen her actual father treating her with so much tenderness.

Steve’s eyes, warm and brown, meet yours, and he asks, “Can I make this up to you? Both of you? There’s a new diner nearby that’s supposed to be good, and it’ll be my treat. I should’ve shown Mia how to safely slide before she ever attempted it, and…”

“Oh, Steve,” you say. “You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says firmly. “Please?”

“Please, Mom?” comes your daughter’s muffled voice.

You glance down at Mia, at her face still filled with baby fat tucked into his shirt, and find yourself nodding. “As long as Mia wants to, I’m fine with it.”

The smile Steve sends you is blinding.

He leads the two of you towards his car, having insisted on driving, with Mia held close to his chest after she demanded that he carry her as payment—where she learned that phrase, you’re not quite sure—and you find yourself shocked to find a silvery blue pickup in place of a maroon BMW, and you blurt out, “You got rid of the Beamer?”

Steve pauses where he’s opening the passenger door, glancing back at you with something unreadable on his face. Carefully, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, he says, “Figured that it was time for something better.”

“Still, we had some good memories in that car,” you say without thinking.

Steve coughs.

You freeze, face burning.

“Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry, that just—”

“It’s fine,” he wheezes, his cheeks turning a rosy red. “Can’t say you’re wrong, can I?”

And Mia, ever the nosy child, finally puts two and two together. “Mom, did you know Coach Steve before softball?”

“I did, sweets,” you say. “We were friends in school.”

(Which isn’t exactly the truth, but, well, you’re not exactly about to tell your five year old that you and Steve hooked up between relationships, are you?)

“Your mom was the prettiest girl in our grade,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, easing Mia onto the bench seat and nudging her towards the center.

“Mom’s the prettiest girl now,” Mia asserts.

“You’re right,” he seriously replies. Then, as your brain struggles to catch up with the conversation, he turns to you with a hand held out, saying, “Alright, Prettiest Girl, let me help you in.”

Your face feels hot as you slip your hand into his, an electric shock racing up your arm at the contact. His palms are warm and calloused, assured in the way he grips your fingers as his other hand settles on your lower back, helping you up into the passenger seat.

He lingers for a moment, peering up at you, the setting sun making his eyes appear more honey than brown, and he says, “Not so bad, is it? Not as nice as the Beamer, but she’s a sturdy gal.”

And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”

You blink, and you’re twenty-five once more, with Steve Harrington—who has long since fallen from his throne—giving you a shy smile as his hand slips from your back, and for a moment you have the delirious thought that he still sees you as you, not the role you’ve filled for the past five years. He sees you as the teenager you once were, stealing kisses in the summer sun, making the windows of his Beamer fog up. He sees the person who once stole seven of his shirts in one night—shirts that still sit in your closet—and the person who once snorted lemonade out of your nose in his backyard.

And then your daughter shifts next to you, clearly antsy, and his gaze dips down to her, reminding you of the person you are now, before meeting your eyes once more.

As if he can sense your thoughts, he quietly asks, “You alright?”

You force yourself to nod, saying, “Yeah, of course. Just, uh, hungry.”

Because if you don’t, you’re going to ask him, Do you still see me as me? Or do you only see me as a mother like everyone else does?

(You’re not sure if you could handle the answer, no matter what it is.)

The drive to the diner is filled with endless chatter from your daughter as she fills Steve in on how she’s starting kindergarten in the fall, every thought and excitement and fear she has pouring from her body, and you watch. You watch the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, you watch the way he leans over to ruffle Mia’s hair. You listen to the low, soothing timbre of his voice when he assures her that kindergarten isn’t hard, that she’ll have no problem making friends, that she’ll be okay no matter what. 

And for a moment—

For a moment, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve looked like, in another universe.

But you don’t let yourself dwell on that long, because in another universe, Mia wouldn’t be your daughter, and the thought of that makes your chest crack wide open from pain.

Steve helps the two of you out of the truck, doesn’t comment when Mia grabs his hand as well as yours, and holds the door open to the restaurant, ushering you both in and settling you into a corner booth.

Mia orders a stack of waffles—and you note the anguish that flashes across Steve’s face when she announces this to the waitress, wondering but not asking—and you order a sandwich, cautious of not spending too much despite his insistence to not worry about it.

It’s… it’s fun. It’s fun in a way you haven’t felt in a long time, a burden that you didn’t know was there easing from your bones. 

Steve, clearly, is phenomenal with kids, never flinching when Mia’s voice gets too loud or her stories too rambley. He meets her at her level like it’s the most natural thing to do, and you know from experience that it’s not. She’s a precocious child, too smart for her age and always getting into something, and it’s a common complaint you’ve heard from her father when he drops her off at your house. That she isn’t always controllable, as if it’s a crime to let a child roam free, as if a child is meant to be controlled.

(You can’t think about that one without righteous indignation burning through your veins.)

And when the food arrives, he waves you away when you move to cut up Mia’s waffles, saying, “I got it, just enjoy your meal.”

You think that you could cry.

Dinner passes without incident, and you’re nowhere close to surprised when Mia nods off onto your arm, her snores filling the space between you and Steve. He huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh, goes to pay the bill, and when he comes back, he leans down to gather her into his arms, asking, “You ready?”

He’s quiet as he takes you back to your own car, contemplative, and he wordlessly helps buckle Mia into her car seat, biceps flexing as he protects the top of her head from bumping against the roof of the sedan. 

It should be odd, you think, to let him do this. To let him take care of your daughter without question.

But it’s not like you don’t know him. It’s not like he’s never treated you with the same gentle reverence, either.

(Because you remember high school. You remember your first big breakup, sophomore year, and Steve finding you crying behind the bleachers in the outfield. You remember him sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling some napkins from his coat pocket to dab at your mascara stained cheeks. You remember his kindness, back when he was King Steve and you were someone on the outskirts of his universe. You remember him driving you home afterwards and helping you into bed. You remember coming into school the next day to see your ex with a black eye and fat lip, and the warmth in your chest that, for the first time, someone had taken care of you.)

“Thank you,” you say, even if it falls far short of anything else you really want to say. “This… this meant more than you know.”

Steve straightens, gently shutting the door. “It’s no problem, honestly.”

“Still,” you say. “You don’t need to be so nice, Steve. I know I’m just your…”

Your former fling. Someone you filled your afternoons with before Nancy Wheeler broke your heart. A person you probably haven’t thought about in years.

“My friend,” he gently finishes. “You’re my friend.”

You blink, taken aback. “But we haven’t—”

“I know,” he interrupts, still in that soft, soothing tone of his. “But I never once stopped considering you a friend. And…” He pats around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good time to give this to you.”

You take it, looking down to find a phone number scrawled out.

“I live in a place up near Forest Hills Park now,” he continues on. “Up in northeast Hawkins? Not the trailer park that has the same name, it’s on the opposite side of town. So my number’s obviously changed, but if, you know, you ever want to talk, I’m almost always home around eight. To catch up.”

“Oh.” Your throat feels uncomfortably tight. “Oh, this…”

“You don’t have to,” he quickly says. “Just figured I’d offer.”

Something in your chest warms at the thought. Catching up. Even if you’re confident that there’s nothing in your life interesting enough to catch up on, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so ardently, that you can’t deny him.

“I will,” you promise. “I will. And—my phone number never changed, so if you still remember that—”

“I do.”

You pause, smiling. “You can call me anytime.”

A shy, sheepish grin peeks from his face. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. And for what it’s worth, I’m still living in the same house I did in high school.”

“Really?” he asks, following you around the car as you reach for the driver’s side door. “What’s the story behind that?”

“I don’t know,” you say coquettishly, slipping into the seat. “You’ll have to call and find out, won’t you?”

Sunday comes, and Mia gets whisked off to her father’s house like she always does, and you’re once again left wandering around your house, trying desperately to fill up the time and space that’s usually allotted to parenting. It’s never easy to ignore the way that being a mother has been hardwired into each and every one of your molecules, a small tick tick tick that’s sounding off in the back of your brain like you’re somehow doing something wrong by curling up on the couch, watching reruns on the television instead of reading your daughter a bedtime story.

A few days pass, and Mia calls like she does every night when she’s at her dad’s, telling you about softball practice and feeling the baby kick and what she ate for dinner.

“I don’t think Dad likes Coach Steve,” she whispers over the line. “He always sits in the car at practice and never says ‘hi.’”

This doesn’t surprise you, but you’re not about to tell her that Coach Steve and Dad once got into it over Dad not being good enough at basketball to get off the bench in high school. 

“I’m sure he likes Coach Steve just fine,” you instead say. “Anyway, what else did you do today?

She continues to ramble, you continue to listen, and eventually, Mark takes the phone, saying, “Hey, listen, I had a question for you.”

You sit up straighter. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“I know this is short notice,” he begins. “But my parents bought plane tickets for me, Lisa, and Mia to visit them in Florida next week. They wanted to see everyone before the baby comes, you know? Anyway, I told them that it was your week, but they insisted on it.”

Something in your gut curdles.

And here’s the crux of the issue:

You don’t dislike the Lewinsky's. Sure, they did threaten to sue you into oblivion had you not agreed to the current custody arrangement between you and Mark, and sure, they ignored your calls when you were pregnant, trying to get in touch with Mark after he changed his number. But you can’t forget how they took care of you after your family’s death, either, nor can you forget that they’re your daughter’s family.

(As much as you might think they’re reprehensible people, that’s for Mia to decide when she’s older, and you do your best to keep your opinions away from her.)

You stay silent long enough that Mark says, “And so you don’t lose your time with her, I figure that when we get back, you’ll get the next two weeks before we go back to our normal schedule.”

You purse your lips together. “I’m not happy about this.”

“I didn’t think you would be,” Mark replies. 

“I’ll agree this time,” you say. “But don’t make a habit of it. Have you told Mia? She’s going to be upset.”

“Wanted to ask first,” he says. “Could you pack a bag for her, by the way? I’ll swing by Friday evening to pick it up, and she can say bye to you then.”

“Fine,” you tell him shortly. “Please take some pictures of her while you’re there and send me the copies.”

“You got it,” he says. “I’ll make sure to set some time aside for her to call while we’re down there, too.”

That’s the least you could do, you think bitterly, but force yourself say, “I appreciate it. Give her my love.”

And the line goes dead.

You let out an aggravated sigh, too annoyed to keep sitting. You make your way to the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing the scant dishes you’d left from breakfast. Laundry gets thrown into the wash before you climb upstairs, looking around your daughter’s room as you find a bag, tossing in clothes that Mark’s parents are the least likely to judge, tucking her favorite book in alongside in the fabric, and for a moment, you’re lost.

Adrift.

You’ve never spent two weeks away from your daughter. You had never gone more than seven days without her wrapping her small body around your chest, without hearing her mumble as she dreamed or watching her sleepily walk into the kitchen for breakfast. 

Your life, since May 1987, has entirely revolved around the role of Mom.

Who are you when you aren’t that?

You aren’t sure, and that scares you more than it should.

The rest of your evening is spent aimlessly, listlessly, as you try to find something to fill your time. Your time away from Mia is generally spent catching up on laundry and cleaning and getting ready for her to come back, making sure you have enough food in the house for her lunches and some new books from the library.

What did you do for fun before you were a mother?

You genuinely can’t remember.

Before you can consider it too deeply, your keys are in your hand, sandals are slid onto your feet, and the next thing you know, you’re in the parking lot at Family Video, easing your way inside the familiar store and nodding at the bored teenager behind the register. 

For a moment, you stare at the red curtain in the back, illuminated by the neon sign proclaiming ADULT above it, and you’re tempted. Really tempted. Honestly, when was the last time you had time for yourself like that? But the last time you’d been behind that curtain was the summer that Mia was conceived, when you’d snuck behind it with Mark, giggling like the children you were as you whispered the names of different titles, mocking and young and so, so in love.

If you go back there now, you’re not sure that you won’t meet the ghost of your former self, still being spun in a circle and covered in kisses with not a single care in the world.

So you pivot left, in the opposite direction of the pornos, towards the new releases and ignoring the door opening behind you as you search for something to fill your evening.

Rows of tapes surround you, some sticking out, movies you would’ve rented without second thought for Mia like 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. Films that are kid friendly, ones you can enjoy alongside her as you wait for a re-release of The Little Mermaid and fight half of Hawkins to snag a copy.

Just as a copy of Father of the Bride catches your eye, a warm voice behind you says, “Hey.”

You jump, spinning around, coming face to face with none other than Steve, who’s smiling down at you like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.

“Oh! Hi, Steve,” you say, clutching your chest. “What are you doing here?”

The second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like a complete idiot. What are you here for? What else would someone go into a video store for?

But he only shrugs, saying, “I caught sight of you walking in as I was driving home, so I figured I’d stop in. I was just about to call you, actually.”

Your heart beats harder than it should at the admission as you thump his arm softly. “Okay, creep.”

He laughs, and your gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he tilts his head back, carefree in a way you haven’t felt in years.

“You got me there,” he admits. Glancing around, he asks, “Is Mia at her dad’s this week?”

“Yeah,” you say. “And, uh, next week, too. Last minute vacation to Mark’s parents’ place in Florida, apparently, so she won’t be at practice.”

There must be something in your tone—a sadness you can’t force away—because Steve catches your wrist, his thumb pressing comfortingly into the pulse point where your heart flutters against your skin, his voice full of empathy as he says, “That sounds rough.”

You nod, blinking back the torrent of emotions threatening to overpower you. “It’s kind of weird having no kid around, if I’m honest.”

“Hence the movie?” he asks, tilting his head towards the racks.

“Yup,” you say. “Hence the movie.” 

An idea pops into your head, then. And, well, Steve is the one who said that he still considered you a friend, right? 

“Hey, uh,” you flounder for a moment. “Would you want to come by for dinner on Friday? If you’re free? I can cook, you know, to make up for you buying our dinner. We could, uh, watch—” Your eyes cut to the tape next to you, and you snatch it from the shelf. “—Father of the Bride together. Maybe drink beer or something?”

His shoulders soften, and he fixes you with a look that has your knees weak and your stomach flipping as though you were a teenager once more.

“I’d love that,” he murmurs, his thumb worrying a path down to your palm. “But let me get the beer, alright? I’ll feel bad not bringing something.”

“I can agree to those terms,” you say, suddenly giddy. “You said you’re usually home by eight, right? Or—if you want to come home—I mean, come by earlier—I get back from work around four.”

“Is five okay?” he asks. “I’m helping a friend build something during the day, so I want to make sure I can shower before I come over.”

“Five’s perfect!” A grin stretches across your face before you can stop it. “You haven’t developed any allergies since high school, right?”

He shakes his head. “No, and before you ask, I do still eat anything that gets put on a plate, so just make whatever you’d usually eat.”

You already know that you are going to make something nice, and you’re pretty sure he can tell, too, but you lead him towards the register, slapping the tape down on the counter and digging through your purse.

But while you’re pulling your wallet out, Steve’s already handed a ten dollar bill over, telling the cashier, “Have a good night, man.”

“I was going to pay,” you say as he leads you from the store. “Seriously, Steve, let me give you money for it.”

“No can do,” he says. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman, honey. She’d rip me a new one if she knew I made someone as beautiful as you pay.”

You stumble, heat coursing through your body, and his hand quickly puts you right, a steadying presence as you choke out, “Hold on, are you flirting with me?”

“I’ve been trying to since I saw you without a ring on your finger,” he confesses. “But I’m glad it’s working now.”

You splutter incoherently. “Steve!”

Embarrassment flushes at your skin, and in the next moment, it feels as though your entire being is overpowered by him. He leans down, his nose brushing against your own as the smell of his cologne, something deep and woodsy, fills your head. Fingers skim down your arm, and you can practically taste the sweat on his skin as he murmurs, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you were the prettiest girl. And, well…” His gaze very obviously drops down to your lips. “I’d like to rectify that and say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice,” you breathe, heart beating erratically against your rib cage.

“Am I?” he asks.

For a moment, you think he might do something more, and you feel like that sixteen year old who spent her summer wrapped up in his arms, but the only thing he does is press a chaste kiss to your cheek.

You touch it gently, blinking up at him, and he whispers, “See you Friday?”

And then you’re left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Father of the Bride clutched in your hand as you watch him drive off.

You don’t remember much of the drive home. You don’t remember much of anything, really, just that the second your front door is locked, you’re climbing the stairs to your bedroom, arousal burning it’s way through your entire body.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—since you had the freedom to feel this way—that it crashes into you all at once, almost blinding you with how much you want. Want Steve, want pleasure, want something.

Your shirt gets shed first, your bra is thrown towards the hamper in the corner, and you kick your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before collapsing onto the bed. 

There’s no slow buildup the way you might have once done it, no teasing of your breasts, no swirling around your clit, because god, you are wet and aching in a way that you haven’t felt in so long. Too long.

While one hand roughly grabs your own tit, your other creeps down to the apex of your legs, drifting through the thatch of pubic hair to swipe through your slit, gathering slick on the pads of your fingers. 

You remember, suddenly, the first time you ever slept with Steve, a few months after that breakup in tenth grade. How he had gripped your hips with his big, warm hands—hands that were soft and free from callouses at the time—and brought his mouth down to your cunt, licking a stripe from your hole up, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks in a way that had you seeing stars. How you had never felt such pleasure before, how you’d never had someone pay so much attention to you wholeheartedly before, and it’s the image if him peaking up at you from over your pussy that has you plunging two fingers inside, using the heel of your palm to grind into your clit.

It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s mesmerizing, becoming reacquainted with a part of your body that has long lived dormant inside you, to have the thrill of desire run so freely through all of your senses. To have your breasts peak in the cold air of the bedroom, to be able to moan loudly and freely, to so unabashedly become reacquainted with yourself once more.

You pinch a nipple between two fingers, twisting it in a way you once remember Steve doing, gasping breathlessly as your hips jerk up into your hand.

It’s intense, and your orgasm builds fast, faster than it usually does in quick, stolen moments. Your toes curl as heat pools in your stomach, your core aching, and with one more circle of your clit, everything explodes.

You lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of pleasure fissures through your limbs, pulling your soaked hand from between your legs.

If there is one thing that you know, you cannot wait for Friday to arrive.

The rest of the week passes quickly, and you find yourself thrumming with anticipation at the thought of Steve coming over.

(Not that you’re expecting anything, but you can’t even find it in yourself to feel guilty for fantasizing about the feelings of his hands against your thighs.)

Mia still calls every evening, and any happiness of the thought of seeing Steve gets doused when she quietly admits, “I wish I could spend the week with you.”

“I know, sweets,” you tell her. “But you’ll have so much fun with Nana and Grandpa. And I’ll take a week off of work, so we can have a whole week to ourselves when you come back, okay? Plus I’ll give you such a big hug and so many kisses when you come to get your bag tomorrow that you’ll be set for a whole week of hugs and kisses.”

“Mom, I don’t think it works like that,” she whines. “Don’t be silly.”

“Uh, it absolutely works like that,” you say. “Are you questioning me? The same person you called the smartest person in the world?”

“You’re not being smart when you’re being silly!”

You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. “I love you too, Mia.”

It isn’t until later in the night when you’ve finished washing your face and have slipped into pajamas that it hits you.

Mark is coming over. Tomorrow. When Steve is going to be at your house.

Fuck.

You scramble for the phone on your nightstand, punching in the number to Steve’s house that’s sat by your alarm clock since he gave it to you, and you hope and pray that it isn’t too late for you to call.

And for once, luck is on your side.

His voice is a little rough when he answers with, “Henderson, I swear to god, I love you, man, but I haven’t gained any opinions on quantum physic theories since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, good for you,” you wryly say. “I’m not here to ask your thoughts on quantum physics.”

There’s a silence, a spluttering, and then Steve chokes out, “Yeah, you weren’t who I thought was calling.”

“Clearly not.” You sit down on the bed, running a finger along a fraying thread on your quilt. “I, uh, needed to warn you about something.”

“Ominous,” he says. “Hit me with it, honey.”

Your face warms at the epithet, and you quickly explain the scheduling blunder you made, rushing to say, “Just—if you’re here when Mark and Mia come over, could you—uh—stay hidden? I’m not embarrassed or anything, but, well, you are Mia’s coach, and Mark has been kind of weird when I’ve had men over before—and you two do have a history—and you can park in the garage and everything so Mia doesn’t see the truck, and I’m so sorry to ask this of you, and—”

“Honey,” he gently interrupts. “I get it. You don’t need to worry about offending me.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth.

“Am I sure?” He huffs out a laugh, soft and full of affection. “I was sure when we were sixteen and you pushed me into my pool. I was just an idiot back then, but, you know, I had to thump my head a few times to figure it out.”

“I just…” You press your eyes shut. “I haven’t… it’s been a long time, Steve, and I don’t want to mess this up, but… I’m not the same girl you knew then. ”

“You won’t,” he assures. “And I’m not the same boy you knew, either. I want the woman you are now, in whatever way you’ll let me have you.”

Something in your chest eases at the admission, and you whisper, “Okay.”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “Maybe we can talk more about this tomorrow? In person, over some beers?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. Of course—just—I’ll leave the garage door open for you, okay? And you can come in through the side door. Just shout so, you know, I know when you’re in my house.”

“Anything for you, honey,” he says. “See you then?”

“See you then,” you promise.

The next day passes slowly, and you end up taking a half day, feigning illness convincingly enough that your boss lets you go without complaint.

Your house gets scrubbed from top to bottom, new bedding gets spread across your mattress, dinner is prepped, and you take a gloriously long shower, scrubbing every inch of your body until you’re satisfied.

You make your way back into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your body, digging through your dresser to find something, well, sexy to wear.

(Not to be presumptuous or anything, but… you didn’t want to be caught off guard, either.)

It’s as you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears when you hear the creaking of the screen door. Seconds later, Steve’s voice calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”

You roll your eyes, affection blooming in your chest, and you call back, “One moment!”

With one more glance in the mirror to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, you make your way down to find Steve in the living room, a six pack of beer in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, smiling nervously as you make your way closer to him.

“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers towards you.

You take in the sight of him slowly, savoring it as your fingers brush against his, accepting the bouquet. His hair’s curled at the ends, like he’d taken a shower and didn’t dry his hair all the way afterwards, and he has a nice, linen button down tucked into dark wash jeans, clearly having put effort into looking nice.

For you.

“You look handsome,” you say shyly.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You look beautiful.”

You shake your head, moving past him towards the kitchen. “You have to say that,” you say. “I made you dinner.”

“I’d say that even without the promise of food,” he tells you, falling into step behind you. “But I won’t lie, the food is a motivator.”

It should be a little awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but the only thing you feel is safe.

It’s easy, you think, to share a space with Steve. Even if you hadn’t talked to him in nearly a decade, even if the shape of your life has changed so much since you first befriended him, he still knows you at your core. He knows what makes you laugh and what you like. He remembers how to work your oven, preheating it for the ziti that you prepped, and he slides an open beer across to you without prompt, bumping his foot against yours underneath the breakfast table you’re both sat at as you wait for the pasta to bake.

It’s almost enough for you to forget who you are outside of this small bubble you’ve created, for you to forget the person you’ve become in the years you didn’t see Steve. 

Almost, up until the doorbell rings, and Steve hangs back as you bring the bag of Mia’s clothes to the front porch, easing the door shut behind you.

You’re not shocked when Mia throws herself at you, tears already streaming down her face as Mark taps his foot impatiently behind her, blubbering incoherently about missing and sad and Mom in a way that has your heart shattering into a million, tiny pieces.

“Oh, sweets,” you murmur into her hair, holding her tightly to your chest. “It’s just a week, sweet girl. You’ll be home before you know it, and you’re going to have so much fun.”

“But I don’t wanna,” Mia sobs, little hiccups bubbling from her. “I wanna stay here, Mom, I don’t wanna go to stinky Florida!”

Mark scowls. “Amelia, honestly. This behavior is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that we’re visiting Disney. Don’t you want to meet Minnie Mouse?”

You shoot Mark the nastiest glare you can manage. 

“Not without Mom!” wails Mia, gripping your shirt even tighter.

“Baby,” you try again. “It’ll all be okay. You won’t even have time to miss me!”

“You’re lying,” she shouts, though her words are muffled from the way her face is pressed into your throat. “I always miss you!”

(And if that doesn’t make you want to pull her into the house and lock the door.)

Mark lets out an exasperated noise, glancing towards the idling car, and you know it’s time for them to go. Forcing yourself to stand, you gather Mia up in your arms—even if she’s just a bit too heavy for you to comfortably carry—and make your way towards the backseat.

She screams the entire way, tiny fists pounding on your back as you pull open the door. Mark’s wife, Lisa, gives you a sympathetic look when you’re forced to pry Mia’s hands from the fabric of your shirt, choking back your own tears as you buckle your daughter into her booster seat. You capture her face between your hands, pressing kisses to every surface of her face that you can reach, even as she screeches in protest.

You barely manage to utter out one final I love you so much, sweets before Mark nudges you out of the way, slamming the door shut as he says, “If you didn’t coddle her so much, she wouldn’t act like this.”

There are plenty of things you want to say. You could say, words that have been simmering under the surface for years. Insults, injuries, all sorts of horrible thoughts you’ve buried ever since Mia came screaming into the world on an early May morning, but you choke all of it back, snapping, “Have you considered that, maybe, if you’d wanted to be a father when she was born, she would have more of an attachment to you, Mark.”

“The town was in lock down,” he argues.

You shake your head, not pointing out the fact that he changed his god damn phone number so you couldn’t to reach him. “You could’ve tried, asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” he snips, stomping his way over to the driver’s side. “At least I’m not an uptight bitch.”

The only thing that stops you from losing it entirely is the knowledge that your daughter will hear it, and you refuse to be the parent who does that to her. Instead, you say, “You better call once you’re settled at your parents’ house. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, slamming the car shut, effectively cutting the conversation off.

You stand there, waiting in the driveway as he pulls out, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face pressed against the window, the way her little fingers claw at the glass, and you hold yourself tightly, trying desperately to not let her see just how much pain this situation is causing you.

(You would do anything to prevent her from shedding another tear again, and it kills you to be the cause of her anguish now.)

Once his car disappears from sight, and you force yourself back into the house, kicking the door shut behind you. 

Steve looks up from his place on the couch, takes one look at your face, and opens his arms up in the same way he had for your daughter just a few weeks prior. It’s easy, then, to crawl onto his lap the way you once did in high school, to let yourself be held tightly, to press your ear against his chest and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, dragging a hand down your back.

You sigh, pressing your eyes shut. “Mark’s just an asshole, and Mia hates spending more time with him than she has to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s still so young, and even if I had the money to take him to court for full custody, it would be hard to when the courts wouldn’t take her opinion into consideration. I try my best, but… but seeing her cry, I don’t know. Makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not letting her choose now, you know? But despite everything, they’re her family, and she should know them.”

“What a douche bag,” Steve bluntly says. 

A laugh bursts from you, unbidden. “Did I ever tell you that he accused me of cheating on him when I announced that I was pregnant?”

A scandalized noise erupts from his throat. “No.”

“Yes!” You sit up, meeting Steve’s eye. “And because he was at Purdue, I had to call him. He asked, ‘are you sure it’s mine?” then changed his number so I couldn’t contact him! He only showed up when Mia was two and demanded shared custody after the paternity test said that he was the father.”

“Seriously?” Steve scoffs. “What an asshole. You know, he never watches Mia at practice, either, and always looks annoyed when she tries to talk to him about it. I’ve even told him that she was really good and he just glared at me! Glared! He doesn’t deserve her.”

“No,” you agree. “He really doesn’t.”

“You know…” A small smile crosses Steve’s face. “I bet the reason he’s so pissy about it is ‘cause he’s mad that she’s better at softball than he ever was at basketball.”

“I bet you’re right,” you say. “He can’t handle the blow to his ego.”

A beat passes, his grin widens, and before you can stop it, giggles spill from your lips as all tension leaves your body. 

It feels good to talk to someone about your daughter’s shitty father, to have Steve so easily validate every annoyance you’ve ever felt towards the man. It feels like you’re not as crazy as you're left feeling half the time after interacting with the man, to know that you’re not as alone in the world as you felt even five minutes prior.

The timer on the oven goes off, and the two of you make your way into the kitchen. Steve pulls plates from the cabinet, talking about the baseball team he coaches as you pull the baking dish from the oven, putting it on the breakfast table while he sets silverware down.

And dinner is…

It’s nice.

It’s simple, and it’s easy, and you feel like you, but in a way that doesn’t feel at war with your role as a parent. Like Steve sees both sides of you, understands that they are two sides to the same coin, and he likes you that way.

He talks about his life since high school. A shitty job at the mall, a shittier job at Family Video once the mall burnt down. The years spent working weird jobs, taking care of a gaggle of kids you vaguely remember seeing him with in high school. He tells you how he lied to his parents about how he couldn’t get into college, having not known what to do with his life and not wanting to disappoint them.

“I guess I thought they’d find it easier to accept that I was too stupid to be accepted,” he explains. “Though, as it turns out, they wouldn’t have had an issue with me just saying that I wanted to take a gap year.”

“Did you end up going?” you ask, sipping at your beer. “To college, that is.”

He leans back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. You don’t miss the flash of tummy, the trail of hair leading south that had not been there the last time you saw it. 

“I did,” he says with no small amount of pride. “Graduated this past May, actually. Got a degree in physical education from Ball State. I’m starting at a gym teacher at the middle school in the fall.”

“Holy shit!” You reach over, squeezing his leg. “Congrats! That’s huge!”

He beams, but shrugs bashfully. “It’s no big deal.”

“Don’t be modest,” you scold. “That’s amazing. Mr. Harrington, gym teacher. Has a nice ring to it.”

“You think?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden tabletop. “So… you told me to call and ask why you’re still living here. Do I still need to do that, or can I ask now?”

“Hm.” You pretend to contemplate it, dragging your gaze across the kitchen, your eyes catching on the fridge covered in your daughter’s drawings. “I guess I can tell you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a fun story.”

“Not everything has to be,” he says.

And that’s all the assurance you need.

He listens attentively as you describe the car crash you don’t really remember, the one that ended the lives of your family just a couple of weeks after you graduated high school. The physical therapy, the fact that you lost your spot in college from all the medical issues. The way you planned to go once you healed, just somewhere closer to home, somewhere more affordable so you didn’t blow through the money you inherited. But then one thing led to another—the earthquake, the quarantine, the pregnancy—and your life had once again flipped upside down.

You talk about the early years with Mia. The labor that had lasted for thirty-one hours, the nurse who all held your hand as you pushed, the one for whom you named Mia after. The exhaustion, the late nights and early mornings, how you felt so, so much love for the tiny creature that you created from nothing, who felt so alien and so familiar at the same time. You tell him about her first laugh and first words and first steps, her propensity to get into trouble even from such a young age. How you bawled at her first birthday party, an event that was only attended by neighbors because, at that point, all of your friends had moved on with their lives while yours was completely centered on Mia.

You tell him about the day that Mark came crashing back in, the fury that you felt, how you had screamed at him so loudly that a neighbor came over to see if they needed to call the police on him for trespassing. The way you felt so small when his parents came in with money and lawyers and more things than you could ever hope to provide your daughter on a meager salary, how you’d been bullied into giving up more of your time with Mia than you ever wanted. 

You tell him everything that you can think of, and when you’re done, you steel your nerves, look Steve straight in the eye, and say, “There’s another thing.”

He nods. “Yeah?”

“I can’t…” You chew on your lip. “I won’t do anything to hurt her, Steve. I can’t have you in my life as… as someone who’s flirting with me, or doing something more. Not if you don’t understand that we’re a package deal. She’s everything to me, and I would rather die than have her hurt over a choice I made. And I know this is a lot, and I know this is intense, but—I’m telling you right now. You’re either all in or you’re out. We can be friends, and we can hang out, but if you want anything more… you have to understand that she will always come first.”

“I know,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honey. Whatever you’ll let me have, whatever parts of your lives I can be in, I want that. I want you. Both of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”

Something in your chest eases at the admission, a nervousness dissipating.

Slowly, he leans in, the gap between the two of you closing, and he whispers, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.

And his lips crash into yours.

Your fingers scramble up, gripping his chin as he pulls you forward, off your chair and onto his lap.

It feels as though you’re on fire, sparks shooting across your skin with every rough drag of his lips, with every nip of his teeth. You tilt his head so you can have a better angle, and when he lets out a wanton groan, you feel alive.

His calloused palms skim their way under your shirt, settling on your waist as you moan into the kiss, open mouthed, drawing his tongue in. 

It’s messy, and it’s a little clumsy, but you find that you don’t care. Not when you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, and not when he whimpers against your lips as you tug on his hair.

“Honey,” he whispers. “Don’t torture me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, pulling away. A trail of spit connects the two of you, and you take in just how incredibly wrecked he looks already, with his pupils blown wide and a heavy flush on his cheeks. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”

“More than anything,” he admits.

You stand and capture his fingers between your own, tugging him through the house and up the stairs.

It isn’t until you enter the expanse of your bedroom that the nerves start to get the better of you, and you put your hands on his chest, stopping him from ducking down to kiss you once more as you say, “I have something else to tell you.”

“What is it?” he asks, pressing his forehead into yours.

“Just… I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment flooding your system.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me, honey. Are you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do anything—honestly, I wasn’t expecting—”

“It’s not that,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s not—it’s just that—I’m different now. My body—it looks different from how you remember it. It’s softer, and I have stretch marks, and—I’ve had a baby. I don’t look the same.”

A kiss, gentle yet effervescent, is pressed into your temple. “That doesn’t matter to me at all. You grew a person. You think I’m supposed to feel anything other than awe over that?”

“I’ve had—other people have told me it’s gross,” you confess. “I just… I wanted to prepare you, is all.”

“Oh, honey.” It’s said so softly that you barely hear it. “I could never be grossed out by you.”

Your eyes fly open. You see the honesty on his face, along with the unbridled desire as his gaze dips down, and before you lose your nerve, you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off and tossing it somewhere out of sight.

The reaction is immediate.

It’s gratifying, honestly, how clearly he wants you. How clearly he desires you, and everything that comes with it. Enough so that you’re pushing your pants down, asking, “Am I the only one getting undressed tonight?”

He grabs the end of his shirt with a fervor, completely and utterly uncoordinated, and you can’t help but giggle from his enthusiasm.

That is, however, until you see his chest. The way a forest of hair has completely taken over, yes, but the mottled silver scars that cover the tanned skin, tracing down his sides and stopping mere inches from his boxers.

You want to ask, but when you look back up at his face, you recognize the situation for what it is: A conversation for a different time, a different day, where you have the time and space to become reacquainted with one another on a deeper level.

He steps closer, then, and you remember thinking how much of a man Steve had seemed back in high school, back when you were just a girl yourself and he was the most grown person you’d slept with. All confidence and bravado and hard lines, a tendency towards your pleasure before his own like it was his solemn duty. But you had been utterly wrong about whatever masculinity that you assumed he had back in high school. 

The boy he was then has nothing on the man he is now, the kind of man who has grown into his own body, who is comfortable in who he is above all else. One that’s softer, less toned, but somehow more powerful than before. Covered in the kind of hair that can only come with life experience and age, a surety in his hands that no one else has ever had as he reaches for your hips.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he warns, his lips brushing over your own.

You tilt your chin up, grinning, and he presses forward.

It’s softer now, less frenzied. He takes his time mapping every part of your face as he presses you back into your sheets, covering your body with his own. You reach behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it away, desperate to feel the wiry hair on his chest brush against your nipples, and you mewl at the sensation. 

Steve huffs a laugh into your mouth, planting his lips down your chin, ghosting his teeth over the column of your beck and down to your collar.

He pauses, then, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging over the peak, and he whispers, “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more beautiful than you are.”

“You’re cheesy,” you say.

“Only for you,” he replies.

A kiss is pressed onto your sternum, then a little bite, and before you can process it, your entire nipple is sucked into his mouth, his tongue lavishing circles around the bud as his hand comes up to play with your other breast.

“Fuck, Steve,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair.

He peeks up at you, his brown eyes glowing in the darkness of your room, and grins with your tit still in his mouth.

It’s obscene, yet you feel so, so hot, especially as his hand travels down your body, making its way to your wet, aching core.

“So pretty for me, honey,” he murmurs, releasing your breast with a pop. “So, so pretty.”

He traces a path down, his tongue leaving a trail of spit as he goes, and for a moment, you think he’s going to just dive in, ripping your panties off and feasting the way he once did, but he doesn’t. He stops at your stretch marks, and carefully, begins to plant a kiss on every single one that he can find, mumbling beautiful and gorgeous as he goes. 

Your entire head goes fuzzy at the sight, and you think he can tell by the dopey grin he shoots you as he asks, “Do you still think I don’t love this?”

“You’re a perv,” you moan, his thumb pressing down on your clit through your panties. “And a freak. I can’t believe—”

“Only for you,” he promises. “Only for you, honey.”

Fingers come up to the elastic of your underwear, and with your permission, he begins the torturous process of peeling them down your legs, tossing them to the side without a care before spreading you open once more.

You aren’t surprised when he pampers kisses along your inner thigh, easing his way towards your core, to where you want him the most. You can feel the mess you’re making despite the fact he’s barely touched you, and you see the delight on his face when he makes his way home, stroking a hand through your pubic hair before spreading your lower lips apart.

“I missed this,” he says, then dives straight in.

The next thing you know, his tongue is everywhere. Dipping inside your cunt, swirling around your clit. He flattens it, licking a long stripe up as he peers at you through the thatch of hair, and you feel completely and utterly incoherent as pleasure builds faster than you’ve ever felt before.

Two fingers nudge their way inside, curling, finding the spot that has your thighs squeezing Steve’s head. You can feel his laugh, rather than hear it, as it vibrates against your pussy in a way that has your hips jerking up, desperate, chasing—

“That’s it,” he says, twisting his hand. “Come for me, honey.”

And you do.

Loudly.

A moan is ripped from your throat, bouncing around the walls as you tangle your fingers into his hair, stars shooting across your eyes as he holds you in place.

You feel like you’re on fire, like you’ve somehow been born anew as he works you through your orgasm, brushing a thumb against your clit as you shake and shake and shake, coming down slowly from the highest high you’ve ever felt in your life, until slowly, finally, your limbs stop trembling, and every single one of your muscles goes lax.

“Wow,” you whisper, forcing your eyes open and down towards the man still planting kitten kisses against your pussy. “Wow, Steve. You got—a lot better at that.”

“Yeah?” He shoots you a lopsided grin. “I’m glad.”

You tug on his hair once more, pulling him back up your body. “Come here.”

He follows, and you pull him towards your mouth, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply.

It’s perfect.

You reach down, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, and he pulls back suddenly, saying, “Uh, when I said I wasn’t expecting anything—I meant it. I don’t—I didn’t bring protection.”

“It’s alright,” you say. “I have an IUD.”

His eyes blow wide open at that, and the next thing you know, his lips are crashing into yours once more as he helps you shuck his underwear. You take him into your hand, finding him warm and somehow bigger than you remember, but still so utterly him and utterly real.

His hips stutter as you give a few, testing pumps, and he whimpers against your mouth, pleading, “Don’t tease.”

“Not teasing,” you say. “Just feeling.”

His forehead drops to your collar as you continue to stroke him, up and down and up and down, dragging your nails across sensitive skin, soaking in the way he moans so beautifully under your ministrations. 

“Honey,” he groans. “Please, please, may I fuck you?”

“Well,” you giggle. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

You yelp when he catches you under your knees, pushing up, up, up until you’re practically folded in half, the tip of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering wetness. He looks up, locking his eyes on you, before slowly—torturously slow—he pushes in. 

Your mouth drops open as a loud moan is punched from your throat, savoring the feeling of how he drags against your walls, filling you up in a way that you could go crazy over.

He eases out, testing, and gives a shallow thrust, testing, teasing, as he carefully fucks each and every single inch back into you until finally, finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with your pussy.

And for one, small, excruciating moment, you know what it feels like to be home.

He leans over your body, capturing your hands in his own, winding your fingers together as he presses your foreheads together, the obscene sound of him fucking you gently filling your head.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your open mouth. “So, so beautiful, so mine—so lucky, honey, I’m so lucky—”

Tears of pleasure spring in the corners of your eyes, falling down your cheeks, and you let out a breathy laugh when he licks them up, loving the feeling of his tongue against your oversensitive skin. 

It’s never, not in any of your years of sleeping with people, made you feel as whole and complete as you do now, with Steve making space in your body for himself, with the unbridled pleasure he gives you with each and every thrust. 

It almost slips from your lips—an inappropriately timed expression of love—and you think he can tell, because he whispers, “I know, honey, I know.”

“Steve,” you gasp. “Steve.”

He picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, punching the air from your lungs as bliss lays claim on every single one of your senses.

“Please,” you babble, “please please please, come in me, please—”

“Fuck,” he grunts, then captures your lips so roughly that they’ll no doubt be swollen by the time morning rolls around.

He gives a last few, harsh, stuttering thrusts as warmth spills inside you before collapsing on top of you entirely.

It takes a few minutes, ones you spend stroking a hand down his muscular back, becoming reacquainted with the feeling of his skin, before he pulls out and rolls off, saying, “I could do that every day.”

You tilt your head, giving him what is no doubt a dopey smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

It takes a bit for the two of you to clean up, with Steve insisting on carrying you to the bathroom and laughing when you slip from his sweaty grip.

He finds a wash cloth in the linen cabinet, taking care to be mindful of any sensitivity on your end as he drags the cloth through your folds, washing his spend from your skin.

He also, in the years apart, has apparently lost all sense of shame and insists on staying in the bathroom as you pee, holding your hand like you were at risk of flying away if he were to turn away for just a single second.

It should be embarrassing, but you find that you’ve long since moved past any sense of shame when it comes to Steve Harrington.

Back in your bedroom, he tugs soft pajamas from the dresser and insists on dressing you, kneeling on the ground as he helps you step into underwear, his hands warm against your legs as he pulls up the fabric. 

The two of you move back to the bed, crawling under your old quilt, and instinctively you reach over to the alarm clock, flicking on the radio as Jimmy Lee’s Late Night at the Squawk plays.

“You know,” Steve murmurs against your cheek. “One of those weird jobs I mentioned earlier? One of them was at the radio station.”

“Yeah?” you ask, a little too sleepy to say anything else.

He nods, his hair ticking the soft skin of your face. “Uh-huh. Back during lock down, in ’87. I did the late night set at the Squawk, Monday through Friday.”

Everything in your body stills. “Are you serious?”

His eyes peel open, fixing you with a curious look. “Yeah. Robin—my best friend, she handled the morning show—always said that she had to put me late at night, ‘cause my music choices were too boring.”

“No, it’s not—” Your heart pounds erratically, and it feels as though flowers have wound themselves around your ribcage, blooming under the admission. “Steve.”

“Yes?”

“Mia was born in ’87.”

“I know,” he says.

“No, no, you don’t—”

A laugh bubbles from you, and he hitches himself up on an elbow. “I’m missing something.”

“That was you!” you say between giggles. “Oh my god! No wonder she likes you so much!”

“Honey?”

“After Mia was born,” you start, grinning like a madman. “When it was just me and her, the only way I could get her to sleep was by tuning the radio to the Squawk whenever your show was on. But I had no idea it was you—I was so exhausted, you know?—and your voice—oh, god, your voice—it was the only thing that ever soothed her to sleep without fail.”

“Are you…” He licks his lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Are you serious? She…”

There’s something in his expression—hesitation, wonder, affection—that brings tears to your eyes, because you know that look. You know it intimately, because it’s the same way you feel every single time your daughter does something that surprises you, every time she grows just a little more into her own person.

And it’s a look that you have never, not a single time, seen on Mark’s face when he looks at her.

Something in you bursts, a swell of tenderness, of hilarity, over the fact that it took so long to find someone who might even remotely feel the same way about Mia that you do. And that person—that man—the one who so carefully cleaned her scraped knees, is the same man who once applied the same, careful precision to wiping tears from your face when you were nothing but a stranger to him.

It took so long, and he’d lived so close the entire time.

“You know,” he says, sounding rather choked up. “I—don’t kill me for saying this, but—I wish I’d run into you sooner.”

You find his hand in the dark and squeeze, hoping and praying that it conveys every single thing that you feel.

He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes back. 

“I’ve wasted so much time that I could’ve spent with you, with her,” he whispers. “I… I was serious earlier, when I said that I’ll take the two of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.  I’m all in, honey. She’s just—god, she’s an incredible kid, and you—I don’t even know where to begin, but—fuck.”

But he doesn’t need to explain.

he always seemed to be around.

not in a way you could easily prove, not in a way you could point to without sounding ridiculous, but enough that you started recognizing him in passing. at the corner store. near the bus stop where you waited with your headphones in and your keys looped around your fingers.

the first time you noticed aerion was at the corner store near your father's house. you'd been sent out for milk and bread, and he was leaning against the brick exterior, cigarette dangling from his lips, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

his eyes followed you as you approached.

"need help with that?" he'd asked, his voice gravelly as he gestured toward the paper bag threatening to tear in your arms.

"no, i've got it," you'd replied, trying to sound casual even as your heart hammered against your ribs.

he'd smirked, taking a long drag from his cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke that seemed to frame his face. "suit yourself. just trying to be neighborly."

after that, you started seeing him everywhere. at first, you thought it was coincidence, but then you began to notice the pattern, the way he always seemed to know where you'd be, the way his eyes would find yours across a crowded room.

your father noticed too. "that boy's always hanging around," he'd grumbled one evening over dinner. "don't like the look of him. stay away from him, you hear?"

but you couldn't stay away. there was something magnetic about aerion, something that made your pulse quicken and your palms sweat. he was mean sometimes, his words cutting and sharp, but then he'd do something unexpectedly sweet-

the requests started small. "let me walk you home," he'd say, and you'd find yourself agreeing despite your father's warnings. then came the invitations to hang out, to grab a bite, to see a movie. each time, you'd hesitate, remembering your father's disapproval, but each time, you'd find yourself saying yes.

"come on, just one date," he'd plead, his blue eyes pleading in a way that made it hard to refuse. "i won't bite. unless you want me to."

you'd laugh at that, even as a shiver ran down your spine. there was something dangerous about aerion, something that should have sent you running in the opposite direction, but instead, it only made him more intriguing.

the breaking point came on a rainy tuesday evening.

you'd just finished your shift at the diner, and as you stepped outside, you found him leaning against the building, sheltered by the awning.

"aerion? what are you doing here? you're going to catch your death."

he shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "waiting for you. figured you might need a ride."

your heart did that little flip it always did when he did something unexpectedly thoughtful. "you've been waiting long?"

"an hour or so," he admitted, stepping closer and opening an umbrella to shelter you both.

you looked up at him, at the intensity in his gaze, and you knew you couldn't keep saying no. "okay," you whispered, the word barely audible over the sound of the rain. "one date. just one-”

the grin that spread across his face was brilliant, transforming his usually serious expression into something boyish and charming. "deal," he said, his voice low and triumphant.

that first date was nothing like you'd expected. he took you to a small place on the other side of town, he held doors open for you, pulled out your chair, and listened attentively as you talked about your classes and your dreams. he was still rough around the edges, still aerion, but there was a gentleness to him that you hadn't seen before.

over the next few weeks, you'd meet after your shifts, steal kisses in dark corners, and talk on the phone until the morning rays streamed through your window curtains. aerion was attentive and caring, always seeming to know what you needed before you did.

he made you feel like you were the only person in the world. you saw the kindness beneath the rough exterior, the vulnerability behind the tough guy act.

sure, he irritated you, but he made you laugh when you were trying not to.

he was the best boyfriend you had ever had….he was the only boyfriend you had ever had up until that point….but not because he was easy, because he wasn’t. not because he was sweet, it was because he paid attention. because he showed up. because when he looked at you, there was no doubt in it, no games, no half-measures. he loves you more than he had loved anything in his whole life and it showed.

just that dangerous, unwavering kind of devotion that made your whole life feel somehow, impossibly, safer….

but as they always do…good things come to an end, it happened on a thursday night, after work, you had called aerion twice. then a third time. then you stopped because the ringing started to make you feel stupid.

you caught up to him three days later. three days of unanswered calls. three days of wondering if he was hurt, if something had happened, if he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

you found him in the parking lot behind the convenience store just before sunset, when the light had gone thin and gray and the pavement still held the heat of the day. there was a dark bruise starting along the side of his jaw, fresh enough that it had not been there the last time you saw him. his hair looked messier than usual, his mouth set in that hard line he got when he was trying not to show anything at all. he glanced up when he noticed you coming, and for half a second his face changed, almost like he had expected this and still didn’t want it.

“aerion,” you said, stopping in front of him. your voice came out sharper than you meant it to. “you could’ve answered one text.”

aerion gave a short, tired exhale through his nose and looked away instead of answering right away, like he was buying himself a second. “i wasn’t really looking at my phone.”

you stared at him, disbelief flashing hot and immediate. “you disappeared for three days.”

“it wasn’t three days.”

“pretty sure it was.”

a muscle moved in his jaw. he looked past you toward the lot, at the faded white lines and the half-empty row of parked cars, like anything out there would be easier to deal with than your face. “i’m not doing this in a parking lot.”

he looked like he wanted to say something rude, something easy and defensive, but when he spoke, his voice came out quieter than before. “i knew you were going to be mad.”

“mad?” your throat tightened before you could stop it. the next words came out smaller, stripped of some of the heat you’d been carrying the whole drive over. “i thought something happened to you.”

“i thought maybe you were hurt,” you admitted, and now your voice was rougher, less angry than before. “i called and called and you just-” you stopped, swallowing hard. “you just vanished. that’s not what boyfriends are supposed to do just by the way!”

he rubbed a hand down his face, dragging it slowly over his mouth and jaw like he was trying to wipe away exhaustion that sat too deep to be physical. “i had stuff to handle.”

“then tell me.”

“i can’t.”

the answer was so immediate it made you stare. “why not?”

he gave a small, humorless shrug without really looking at you. “because i just can’t.”

“you tell me what you can tell me, and half the time that’s nothing, and then you look annoyed when i’m upset about it.”

he let out a low breath, his frustration finally showing in the tight set of his shoulders and the sharp flick of his eyes toward you. “jesus fuckin’ christ.”

you pointed at the space between the two of you, your hand shaking slightly with how hard you were trying not to cry. “this is exactly what i’m talking about.”

his expression had gone hard again, but there was something strained underneath it now, something worn thin. “what do you want from me?”

you looked at him for a second, stunned by how genuinely confused he sounded.

“i want you to talk to me.”

“i am talking to you.”

“no, you’re not.”

he stared at you like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to tell you you were being unfair, but instead he just dragged a hand over the back of his neck and looked away again. “then what the hell is this?”

you didn’t answer right away. the noise of the parking lot seemed to swell around you, the hiss of a passing car, the buzz of a broken light over the store entrance, the dull rush of blood in your ears.

your chest felt tight. your mouth went dry.

“i can’t do this,” you said.

aerion went still.

then, very carefully, he asked, “what does that mean?”

for a second, you wished he would interrupt you. tell you to stop being dramatic. tell you to calm down. tell you this didn’t have to be this big. tell you literally anything that would keep you from saying the thing you already knew was waiting in your throat.

he stayed quiet.

“i don’t think this is working.”

for one second neither of you reacted, and in that pause you could feel your own heart thudding hard enough to hurt. aerion just stared at you. “you want to break up?”

your eyes burned immediately. you hated that they did. you hated the way your body betrayed you at the worst possible moment.

“i don’t know,” you said, but even to your own ears it sounded weak.

his expression changed, just slightly. “sounds like you do.”

aerion was quiet for a long time after that. long enough that you started to think he might argue, instead he only nodded once.

“alright,” he said. the word was so quiet you almost missed it. he shoved his hands into his pockets like he needed something to do with them. “if this is what you need,” he said, and now his voice was lower, rougher, “then okay. i'll give you time.”

you looked at him, your vision blurred at the edges.

he just stood there.

then you turned away.

your feet felt strange, heavy and unreal, like they belonged to someone else. you kept waiting for him to call your name. to reach for you. to say he was sorry. to say anything at all.

he didn’t.

the first few months after the breakup were miserable. the truth was that sometimes you'd leave work late at night and get the strange feeling that someone was nearby. the uneasy certainty that if something happened, if you broke down on the side of the road or got stranded somewhere at midnight, aerion would somehow know.

you hated that feeling, you hated that part of you found comfort in it.

then you met calvin.

at first, he seemed normal, after aerion, normal felt refreshing. cal was charming. easygoing. he didn't disappear for days at a time. he answered texts. he remembered birthdays….people said he was good for you and you tried very hard to believe them.

but things again, are never perfect,

he'd mock your music, he'd roll his eyes when you talked too much, every disagreement somehow became your fault, you'd leave conversations feeling guilty and confused without understanding why.

a month passed and his temper got worse and somewhere out there, aerion watched it happen.

he saw the way your smile had changed, saw the way you flinched when calvin raised his voice in public, saw the way you apologized constantly now. for everything.

the first time aerion witnessed calvin grabbing your wrist hard enough to leave marks, he nearly got out of his car. the only thing that stopped him was you, you had laughed it off afterward and smiled, pretended everything was fine.

the memory haunted him for weeks. by then he hated your new boyfriend, not the irrational jealousy he'd expected but hate, true vile hate.

because every time he saw the man, he saw someone taking pieces from you, little by little, until the bright, stubborn girl he'd fallen in love with seemed tired all the time, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

until the night everything finally broke.

rain hammered against the windows, the storm had rolled in around sunset and never let up, turning the neighborhood into a blur of water and flashing headlights.

cal came home drunk enough that you knew it the second you heard the front door open.

it was in the uneven drag of his footsteps across the entryway, in the pause that came before he shut the door too hard behind him, in the way he stood there for a second like he had to remember what room he was in.

you looked up from where you were sitting with your knees tucked under you, your phone resting in your hand, half-forgotten.

“where were you?” he asked.

you stared at him. “what?”

cal took a few more steps into the room, one hand braced against the back of the chair as if he needed it to stay upright. his eyes were glassy and unfocused, but the look on his face was sharp enough to make up for it.

“where were you today?” he repeated.

“at work,” you said carefully. “cal, what is this?”

he let out a short, humorless laugh and shook his head, like your answer had offended him. “try again.”

you set your phone down slowly, suddenly very aware of how quiet the room had become. “what are you talking about?”

he reached into his pocket, fumbled with his keys, and tossed them onto the kitchen counter with a loud metallic clatter. the sound made you flinch despite yourself.

“him,” he said.

the word hit you like a drop in body temperature.

you already knew who he meant. for a second, you just looked at him. you could feel your pulse in your throat. “cal-”

“you still talking to him?”

“no.”

his jaw tightened. “you expect me to believe that?”

“i haven’t spoken to him in months.”

“then why is he always around?”

you stared at him in disbelief. “i don’t know.” and that was the truth. you didn’t know why.

he dragged a hand over his mouth and looked at you like you had personally done this to him. “you think i’m a joke.”

“no,” you said immediately, you tried to keep your voice steady. “cal, you’re drunk.”

that made him stop moving for half a second, like the words had landed somewhere they weren’t supposed to. then his hand slammed against the counter the sound cracked through the room.

you jerked back before you could stop yourself, your heart thudding hard enough to hurt. cal stared at you, chest rising and falling, his breathing heavier now.

then he took a step toward you.

you stood up without thinking, putting the couch between you for a second, though it didn’t make you feel any safer. “cal, stop.”

“answer me.” the words came louder this time, bouncing off the walls with a force. rain tapped against the windows, soft and constant at first, then harder as the storm outside picked up. the sound made the house feel sealed in, cut off from everything else.

“nothing is going on,” you said, and hated how thin your own voice sounded.

he stared at you, then his expression changed, it was quick so quick you almost missed it.

his hand came up before you had time to move and the slap rang through the room.

your head turned with the force of it. your vision flashed white for a second. you stumbled back into the edge of the couch, your hand flying to your face as heat burned across your cheek.

cal froze, he looked just as shocked for half a second, as if even he hadn’t expected it to go that far. “don’t look at me like that,” he said, his voice low and ugly now.

you stared at him, breathing hard, your fingers pressed to your face. “don’t. cal, don’t come near me.”

he took another step, you backed away immediately, panic flooding so fast you could hardly think over it. “no. stop.”

he was still moving.

so you turned and ran.

you took the stairs two at a time, your feet slipping slightly on the runner as your heart slammed against your ribs. behind you, you heard him follow, the heavy, uneven sound of his footsteps thudding up after you.

you reached for your bedroom door and slamming the it shut behind you. your hands fumbled at the lock, shaking so badly you nearly missed it. maybe he’d stop. maybe he’d stay downstairs and cool off and this could become some horrible thing you never talked about again.

then you heard him on the other side. a scrape of something heavy dragging across the floor.

furniture.

“no,” you whispered, stepping back from the door. “no, cal, stop.”

“i think you need some time in here to think about how your actions have consequences!” he shouted from the other side.

you rushed forward and grabbed the handle, yanking hard, but it wouldn’t budge. the weight on the other side held it shut. something had been pushed up against the door. the realization hit you hard enough to make your knees go weak.

“cal!”

your voice cracked on his name.

you slammed the palm of your hand against the wood. you could hear your own pulse. you could hear the blood rushing in your ears. the silence on the other side of the door was unbearable, because it meant he was still there. still deciding. still close enough to scare you even when he wasn’t speaking.

then, from downstairs, came a crash.

you froze.

another one followed almost immediately, louder this time, something heavy hitting the floor hard enough to make the house shudder. voices rose below you, you couldn’t make out the words at first- just shouting, the strain of anger and force. something broke, or was thrown, and the sound sent a sharp jolt through your chest.

you backed away from the door without meaning to, both hands lifting to cover your mouth.

another bang rattled through the house.

then, suddenly-

silence.

you stood in the middle of the room, frozen, every muscle in your body locked tight as you listened for movement below. for breathing. for footsteps. for anything.

nothing.

then came the sound of footsteps on the stairs and stopped outside your door.

for one heartbeat, there was nothing but the rain and the sound of your own breath catching in your throat.

the silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until it was broken by the scrape of furniture being dragged away from your door. you flinched back, pressing yourself against the far wall of your bedroom, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

the door swung open.

and there he was.

aerion.

he stood at the doorway, a silhouette against the dim light of the hallway, but the dim light couldn't hide the truth. it was slick and dark and wet, painted across his chest, splattered on his forearms, matting his hair to his forehead. it dripped from a cut above his eyebrow.

a sob, raw and ragged, tore from your throat. it was relief, you crossed the room to him, not thinking, just moving. you crashed into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.

"oh my god," you sobbed, you pulled back just enough to press frantic, desperate kisses all over his face- his cold cheek, his nose, his jaw, anywhere you could reach. "aerion, aerion, what are you doing here? cal-he's-he's- we have to go, we have to go now!" you grabbed his arm, trying to pull him, to make him understand the urgency. "he'll come back, he'll hurt you, he'll-"

aerion just stood there, letting you panic against him. his hands came up to rest on your back, a steady, grounding weight. "hey," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "hey. it's okay."

you shook your head, tears blurring your vision. "no, it's not okay, you don't understand-"

and then you really looked at him. you looked at your hands, still gripping his arms, and saw the dark, viscous liquid coating your own skin. you looked at his shirt, not just wet with rain, but soaked through with something else. you looked at the dark spatters on the wall behind him, trailing down the hallway from the stairs.

a choked sound escaped you, a mix of a gasp and a whimper. you stumbled back, your hands flying to your mouth as if you could physically hold back the scream building in your chest. you stared at him, at the man you had just been kissing, the man you had just run to for safety. the blood was everywhere. on him. around him.

your relief curdled instantly into a cold, sharp terror. not of cal anymore, but of the man standing in front of you. the man who had come to you covered in blood.

aerion saw the shift in your eyes. he saw the fear replace the relief, and his own expression softened, a flicker of something desperate and pained crossing his face. he took a half-step toward you, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender.

"no, no," he said quickly, his voice urgent, trying to catch you before you completely unraveled. "don't worry, it's not mine, baby."

but it didn't help. it only made it worse. it wasn't his. which meant it was someone else's. it meant the silence downstairs wasn't just cal passed out. it meant the crash you heard wasn't just a lamp falling over.

"no," you breathed, the word a puff of air. you scrambled backward, your feet tangling in the rug until you hit the wall with a soft thud. you pressed yourself flat against it, as if you could disappear into the plaster. "don't. don't come near me."

his hands, which had been raised in placation, slowly dropped. the desperate look on his face hardened into something else- a grim determination. he took another step, and you flinched.

"stop! just stop right there!" you shouted, your voice trembling but high with panic. "aerion, what did you do? oh god, did you…did you kill him?"

the question hung in the air, heavy and obscene. he didn't answer it, not directly. instead, he kept moving, a slow, deliberate advance that was more terrifying than a rush.

"i was watching," he started, his voice low and intense, his eyes locked on yours. "i saw how drunk he was."

"aerion, please," you whispered, shaking your head, tears streaming down your face. you slid along the wall, trying to put more distance between you, but there was nowhere to go.

"i heard him yelling," he continued, ignoring your plea, his voice growing thicker with a dark, possessive rage. "i heard him call you a liar….he hit you.” he took another step, and the space between you vanished. "what was i supposed to do?”

"get away from me!" you cried, shoving at his chest. your hands met the solid, wet fabric of his shirt, and the tacky feel of cal’s blood on your skin made you sob.

he didn't budge. he caught your wrists in his grip, his hold firm but not painful. it was the kind of hold that said i am not letting go. "it was a mistake," he said, his voice dropping to a raw, ragged whisper. his face was so close you could see the fleck of blood on his eyelash. "letting you go. it was the biggest mistake of my fucking life. thinking you'd be safer…”

"letting this asshole touch you- he was going to hurt you," he breathed, his thumbs stroking the frantic pulse in your wrists. "he was going to hurt you much worse than a slap. i saw it in his eyes. but its okay now, he’ll never hurt you again.”

you were trapped. pinned between the wall and his body, his words wrapping around you like a shroud. he had saved you, but in doing so, he had become a monster of his own making.

survival instinct, raw and primal, surged through the terror. you shoved against him with every ounce of strength you had. he was momentarily off-balance, his focus on his confession, and the sudden force made him stumble back a single step.

you wrenched your wrists from his loosened grip and ducked under his arm, scrambling away from him and the suffocating presence of the wall. you didn't look back. you fled, slamming the bedroom door shut behind you. the solid wood of the door was a pathetic barrier, but it was something.

he called out your name, his voice muffled by the door, but still you could hear the heat of his anger. you were taking the stairs two at a time, slipping and careening down the wooden steps. you didn't want to see. you didn't want to know. you just wanted out.

you hit the bottom landing and your eyes were forced to take in the scene. the living room wasn't just a mess. it was a slaughterhouse.

cal was on the floor, halfway between the overturned coffee table and the front door. he wasn't just bleeding. he was… broken. the shape of him was wrong, contorted at an impossible angle. his face was a ruin you couldn't process. a dark, thick pool of blood was spreading out from beneath him, seeping into the fibers of the rug, creeping toward the baseboards like a living thing. it was splattered on the walls in violent, arterial arcs, a grotesque abstract painting against the beige paint. a lamp lay shattered nearby, its bulb blinking weakly, a dying star in a sea of red.

the sound that came out of you was a pure, animalistic shriek of horror.

"FUCK! i-it’s okay now! stop- fuckin’ running away!" aerion's voice was behind you now, at the top of the stairs. he was coming.

you didn't think. you ran, your shoe skidding in the slick blood on the floor but you made it to the door, the deadbolt groaning in protest, and stumbled out into the rain-swept night. the cold air hit your face like a slap, but it was nothing compared to the ice in your veins.

he yelled your name again from the doorway, his voice chasing you into the darkness.

you didn't stop. you didn't look back. you ran from the house, from the blood, from the body, from the monster you had once loved. you ran across the wet lawn, your shoes sinking into the mud, until you hit the edge of the property and plunged into the open field beyond. the tall, wet grass whipped at your legs, soaking your tank top and little shorts. you kept running, your lungs burning, your heart a frantic, painful drum against your ribs. you ran until the lights of the house were just a distant, hazy glow, until the only sounds were the rain, the howl of the wind, and your own choked, sobbing breaths.

you could escape. you could make it to the road. you could-

an arm like a steel band snaked around your waist, lifting you off your feet. the momentum sent you both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and wet grass. the impact knocked the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping like a fish on land. before you could draw breath to scream, a large, calloused hand clamped over your mouth.

"don't. make. a. fucking. sound." he growled, his voice a low, furious rumble right against your ear. his body was a heavy weight on top of yours, pinning you effortlessly. you thrashed wildly, your hands clawing at the arm around your waist, your legs kicking, but it was useless. he was immovable.

“shhhh sh sh sh.” his grip on your mouth tightened, a clear warning. you could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him in waves, a stark contrast to the cold rain soaking you both.

"where did you think you were going? hmmm?" he demanded, his voice laced with a dark, incredulous fury. "did you really think you could just run away? from me?" he shifted, pressing his weight down more firmly, stilling your struggles. "i just fixed your mess. i just saved your life. and this is how you thank me?”

you were sobbing against his palm, hot, useless tears mixing with the cold rain on your face. you couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

"i told you," he hissed, his lips brushing against your temple. the gesture was almost tender, a horrifying contrast to his words and his strength. "i told you i'm not losing you again. now you're going to stop. you're going to calm down. and you're going to listen to me.”

Wench, 

I find myself despising you more and more each passing day.

I have spent the better part of four moons surrounded by filthy mercenaries who smell of sweat and blood, and somehow you remain the most aggravating creature I have encountered in all of that time. I blame you entirely for the state of my mind. The men here seem convinced I am moments from slitting someone’s throat over a misplaced goblet, and perhaps I am. If you had not made me so accustomed to your company, I would not find everyone else so intolerable by comparison.

The fighting is dull now. It was enjoyable at first—I am sure you would understand. There is a clarity in battle that Lysene politics lacks. But the novelty has worn thin. We spend more time waiting than fighting, and idle men are irritating company. 

The captains insist that this contract is a worthwhile endeavor, but I fail to see how squabbling over half-starved bandits is meant to impress anyone. The men here fight well enough, I suppose, but they lack refinement. Most of them are brutes with more scars than sense. They stare at me after battle as though they have never seen a man fight with real skill before, which, considering the company they keep, may very well be true, but it is at least preferable to the simpering cowardice of Lyseni nobles. I have carved through enough men these past weeks to satisfy lesser appetites, yet I remain in poor temper regardless. Curious, that.

You, meanwhile, have written almost nothing of substance. Three lines in your last raven, and one of them was mocking me. You do not even bother to properly address or sign your letters. If you insist on corresponding so infrequently, you might at least have the decency to be detailed when you do so. It is nearly time for the midsummer festival, is it not? I wish that I were there. I am tired of this.

You’d best not entertain that pretender too heavily during the festivities either. You may think yourself clever for provoking this sort of reaction from me when I am too far to do anything about it, but I warn you now that my patience is not infinite and I do not forget insults easily. In fact, I forget very little where you are concerned, which is precisely why one particular detail in your letter has… stuck with me. You wrote that you returned to your chambers “late.” A curious choice of wording. Late with whom? Late doing what? You see how readily such vagueness invites suspicion. If you wish to avoid interrogation, you should be more precise.

Regardless, I suppose if you insist on tormenting me from afar, I deserve some form of repayment. Tell me exactly what you plan to wear for the festival this year. In detail.

Do not take too long responding this time. If your next raven contains another useless two sentences, I will see to it that the next time we meet, you will not have hands to waste with your mediocre writing skills anymore.

Yours,

A.T.

————————

My most illustrious and brilliant dragon prince,

You are becoming terribly dramatic in your exile from exile. I returned to my chambers late because the festivities lasted late, as festivities tend to do. There’s naught to do here but drink and fuck. Am I not allowed to entertain myself anymore? Haegon remains alive and moderately entertaining—he is enthralled by the tales of my campaigns in the east. Though I must say, your fixation with him is becoming somewhat concerning.

I plan to wear the black silks I wore to Magister Lorento’s revel—I am sure you recall the ones. You were quite fond of them. 

Your most beloved wench

(I do hope this address and signature suffice.)

————————

Wretched woman,

I send you half a dozen paragraphs detailing my days, and you only respond with barely two, and that loathsome address and signature? I would almost prefer the letters without them. 

You are fortunate that this raven reached me after battle rather than before it, otherwise I might have gutted the first man who spoke to me out of sheer irritation. “Moderately entertaining,” you say, as though that is meant to reassure me. I know precisely the sort of man Haegon Blackfyre is—vain enough to mistake your attention for affection and stupid enough to think himself special because you allow him near you. I dislike him more every time you mention his name. In fact, I am beginning to suspect that you only bring him up because you enjoy imagining how foul my temper becomes while reading your letters.

And yes, it does concern me. I am stranded on the mainland while you lounge about Lys in black silk beside a Blackfyre pretender who is apparently “moderately entertaining.” I think my fixation is entirely justified under the circumstances. Frankly, I find your lack of concern for my deteriorating state somewhat offensive. Another man is hearing stories that ought to be told to me and receiving smiles that ought to be directed elsewhere. Meanwhile, I am left in the company of mercenaries and whores. I find myself missing your incessant insults and aggravation—that alone should convey the severity of the situation.

As for the black silks, you should not wear them while I am away. I am entirely serious. The thought of you walking through the festival dressed in them while that Blackfyre whore trails after you has already ruined my evening. I hope this pleases you.

I miss you,

A.T.

————————

It pleases me immensely. You should not be so needy, prince—it makes you ugly. 

Though if it soothes your deteriorating state at all, you need not concern yourself with the black silks anymore. The First Magister’s guards caught a thief in my chambers several nights ago. A thief who curiously did not take any of my jewels, but instead tossed my favorite silks into the hearth. I assume this was your doing. Frankly, I find it difficult to believe anyone else would be deranged enough to send someone sneaking into my chambers over a dress.

Anyway, the festival was boring. Too much incense, too many musicians, too many people trying far too hard to impress one another. Haegon spent the better part of the evening attempting to convince me to accompany him back to Tyrosh after all of this is over—I’m sure you will enjoy imagining that. I drank enough cherry wine to tolerate the conversation and watched the First Magister interrogate half his household over my poor, murdered silks.

You would have hated it. I almost missed you enough to become sentimental about it. 

————————

Wench,

I did warn you that the Brightflame’s reach is endless, once, did I not? You only have yourself to blame, and you ought to consider yourself fortunate that I had them destroyed when you weren’t wearing them. Honestly, I thought the restraint displayed was admirable. 

In fact, I resent that you sound so amused by the entire affair. You accuse me of derangement while describing the incident with enough fondness that I suspect you enjoyed knowing someone was possessive enough to burn the damned thing in the first place.

As for Haegon Blackfyre, I am beginning to suspect he suffers from some lingering injury to the head if he truly believes you would willingly follow him anywhere. The fact that he asked at all offends me on your behalf. Even tolerating the offer was idiotic of you.

The company has become insufferably dull these past few weeks. The men drink, gamble, whore, boast about battles I could have won half-asleep, and then expect me to sit amongst them as though I find any of it remotely engaging. I have taken to sleeping later simply to avoid them. 

One of the captains attempted to drag me into some tavern two nights ago because he claimed I looked “morose.” I nearly split his skull for the observation alone. I am not morose. I am simply tired of sleeping in hot tents and waking to men shouting before sunrise. There is no conversation worth having here, no one capable of holding my attention for longer than a few minutes, and the whores have become intolerable now that I know what it is like to share a bed with someone who actually bites back.

Do not let this inflate your ego too terribly. I am merely observing that exile is considerably less entertaining without someone nearby to aggravate me properly.

A.T.

————————

Dragon prince,

You have become alarmingly soft, haven’t you? Complaining about lonely tents and disappointing whores in writing now? I’ll keep the proof of this tucked away safely, don’t you fret. What would your captains say if they knew the terrible Bright Prince spends his evenings sulking because no one nearby can keep up with him properly?

Still, I understand the feeling. 

I miss you. Try not to die of boredom before you return to me.

————————

Wench,

I have reread your pathetically short letter so many times over the past three days that one of the men finally asked whether the raven had delivered battle plans or a love confession. I nearly fed him his own teeth for the question. You should feel honored. Very few people survive long after becoming irritating in my presence lately.

Your timing, as usual, was atrocious. The raven arrived shortly before dawn, just as I was preparing to ride out with the others, and I made the mistake of reading your letter immediately. 

Do you have any idea what it does to a man to march into battle after reading the words “I miss you” in your hand?

Things here have worsened. The waiting is the worst part of it. Battle at least occupies the mind for a few glorious moments, but the hours before and after drag endlessly. The men drink and shout and boast while I sit there wondering what you might be doing in Lys. I find myself imagining your chambers with alarming frequency—whether you have filled them with half the city, or whether you are draped across that ridiculous nest of cushions on your balcony, a cup of wine in hand. Most days, I suspect you have found some unfortunate magister to torment for your own amusement.

It has become a genuine problem. I wake in foul moods now for reasons that have nothing to do with the campaign. Every morning, there is a brief moment where I expect to hear your endless complaints, only to remember that you are several hundred leagues away, making yourself everyone else's problem.

I dislike it immensely.

Before you, solitude was uncomplicated. I was perfectly content with my own company. Most people were tolerable only in small doses and became tiresome shortly thereafter. Then you appeared and ruined the arrangement entirely by insisting on inserting yourself into my life. 

Now I know things I never wished to know. I know the sound of your footsteps in a crowded hall. I know when you are drunk before you have spoken a word. I know the look you get when you are about to say something outrageous simply because you know it will irritate me. I can tell the difference between when you are genuinely angry and when you are merely seeking attention. Do you understand how disastrous this is for me?

And despite all of that, I think the truly humiliating part is that I would endure every miserable mile of this exile twice over if it meant returning to find you still waiting for me at the end of it. You see what you have reduced me to? It is revolting, and you will pay for it.

Do not take too long writing again. I find myself growing restless whenever the ravens are delayed now, and I dislike the sort of thoughts that begin occupying my mind in the silence between your letters.

Lamentably yours,

A.T.

————————

Aerion,

I received a raven from my brother this morning. The first in six years. 

Lys suddenly feels very small. Everyone keeps speaking to me, and I can scarcely hear them properly. Even Haegon has noticed something is wrong, which is irritating in its own right.

I do not know what to do anymore. I think things are changing. I am so tired.

————————

You are being terribly vague again, and ordinarily I would accuse you of doing it intentionally just to worsen my temper, but I suspect this time you scarcely realize you are doing it at all.

What did your brother say? More importantly, what do you intend to do now?

You write as though the ground beneath your feet has suddenly shifted. I do not like it. I like it even less because I am not there to see your face while you write these things.

The men here have begun speaking of movements within the Golden Company at last. I would ask directly whether you intend to leave Lys with them, but I suspect you would only become evasive out of spite if I did. So instead, I will simply remind you that disappearing without warning would be a very poor decision where I am concerned.

Write again soon. 

A.T.

————————

Your silence is beginning to aggravate me beyond reason.

At first, I assumed you were merely being cruel again. After several days, I concluded you had most likely become distracted by some revel or you were ignoring my ravens for your own amusement. It has now been twelve days, and I am running out of explanations that do not involve either catastrophe or deliberate malice on your part. I find both possibilities equally offensive.

I warned you before that I dislike silence where you are concerned.

Answer me immediately, even if it is only to insult me properly. 

A.T.

————————

You are testing my patience now.

Four ravens unanswered ceased being amusing weeks ago. If this silence is meant to provoke me, then congratulations—you have succeeded. Now answer me.

If your brother has filled your head with dreams of home and you intend to leave Lys with the Golden Company, then say it plainly instead of vanishing like a coward. I expect you to tell me yourself before I hear it from anyone else. Gods know you have never lacked for cruelty before, so why begin sparing me now? Do not make a fool of me.

And if you have truly decided to disappear from my life after spending months convincing me that I mattered to you, then I swear to every god still listening that I will never forgive you for it.

A.T.

————————

Wench,

It has been two moons. I have sent over half a dozen ravens. 

If you are alive, write back.

If you are angry, write back.

If you have decided to abandon Lys and chase whatever ghost your brother’s letter awakened in you, then write back and tell me that, too.

Just do not leave me waiting in this silence any longer.

A.T.

————————

“Oi, Brightflame,” a familiar voice drawls from his left as Aerion finishes cleaning his blade—your blade. The one you pressed into his hand before he left Lys a full year ago. His gaze flicks up, already incensed by the thought of you crossing his mind, and he raises his eyebrows questioningly. “We received word from Lys.”

Aerion’s heart skips a beat, grip tightening on the hilt of the sword. He rises to his feet, casting a questioning look over to the sellsword. A letter from you, maybe? You stopped sending them three moons ago, but what else could—

“The Golden Company raised their sails at dawn. Every ship in the harbor has sailed east.” 

East?!

————————

Ford stood at the stove in a grey t-shirt and jeans, working through an impressive stack of pancakes, a celebratory breakfast for the champions. The kitchen smelled warm and sweet, butter and syrup and coffee. Josie sat in her highchair beside the island, happily smearing banana into her tray with both hands while periodically kicking one socked foot against the chair leg.

You sat on the counter near the coffee machine with your legs crossed at the ankle, nursing a mug of tea while Ford slid another pancake onto a plate.

Maggie crossed through the kitchen after opening the back door, letting a stream of fresh morning air roll through the house. She paused briefly beside the island, sunlight catching against the gold frames of her sunglasses where they rested on top of her head.

“This sun better stick around for tomorrow,” she said. “You could wear that cute summer dress, baby.”

Your mind flashed to the dress hanging in your closet, the one you’d bought with Maggie last week. White cotton, drop waist, lace hem, corset-style bodice, low neckline. And your scar, entirely visible.

You lifted your tea toward your mouth to buy yourself a second.

“Mh-hm,” you murmured. “Maybe, yeah.”

Thankfully, before Maggie could start in on the subject properly, heavy footsteps sounded overhead.

Tucker and Walker appeared at the top of the stairs a second later in sweatpants, hair still sleep-mussed, moving with the loose-limbed soreness of boys who had spent the previous night throwing themselves into other people at high speed for fun.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ford announced, “Dickinson High’s very own Regional Champions, Tucker and Walker Heaton.”

You burst into applause instantly, laughing as Maggie joined in. The twins groaned through their grins.

“Thank you, thank you,” Tucker said, waving one hand like he was accepting an award.

Walker moved carefully down the stairs, one hand briefly pressing against his ribs as he reached the bottom.

“How are the ribs, Walker?” You asked.

“Sore,” he admitted. “But the ice helped. Imma get another out the freezer.”

Tucker wandered behind you as Walker headed for the freezer and without warning, he dropped both arms over your shoulders and leaned his full weight against your back. You made a protesting grunt noise, slapping backward at his arm.

“Jesus Christ, Tucker.”

“How about you, huh?” he asked lazily. “How’s Gator?”

Ford barked out a laugh from the stove. You twisted and jabbed Tucker sharply in the ribs. He yelped and stumbled backward laughing.

“That’s enough out of you,” you said. “Gator’s fine.”

Tucker grinned to himself as he dropped into a stool beside Walker at the island. Ford slid two loaded plates across the counter toward them.

“What a way to start the summer, huh?” Ford said.

“Still got, like, three weeks of school.” Tucker spoke through a mouthful of pancake.

Walker pointed his fork at him.

“But Coach did buy us those hoodies though. Like winners hoodies. It’s in my-- Where is my bag?”

“I dunno,” Tucker said. “Ask Baby’s boyfriend.”

“Gator put it in the car,” you said. “You want me to go get it?”

Walker was already halfway through another bite.

“I can go.”

“Eat your breakfast,” you told him. “I got it.”

You pushed off the doorway and crossed back through the kitchen toward the key bowl, fingers sifted briefly through the familiar clusters before finding the Suburban keys.

The morning air felt warmer outside than it had through the kitchen windows, the sun already high enough to heat the gravel beneath your feet. Walker’s duffel sat shoved awkwardly in the back of the Suburban beneath a pile of football gear and Josie’s pram. You grabbed the strap and hauled it free, realising it weighed significantly more than expected.

“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath, letting out a small grunt as the full weight dragged onto your shoulder. What the hell was in this thing? Bricks?

You reached up onto your toes to pull the trunk shut again and had just pressed it closed when the low growl of an engine rolled across the yard. A truck crawled up the smaller gravel road leading from the Cabin and came to a slow stop beside you. You glanced toward the driver’s seat long enough to meet Logan’s eyes through the open window before looking away again. Then you adjusted the bag higher onto your shoulder and started toward the Big House. The truck door opened behind you.

“Hey, wait up.”

You kept walking.

“What do you want, Logan? I’m in a good mood. I really don’t need you to ruin it.”

“Just gimme a second.”

A hand landed lightly against your shoulder. You stopped more out of annoyance than willingness and turned sharply toward him.

“Why?” you asked. “You got more names you wanna call me?”

Logan moved around in front of you before you could keep walking. For once, there was no grin on his face. No teasing glint in his eyes either. He looked uncomfortable in a way you had honestly never seen before.

“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not… I wanna apologise.”

“You want to apologise?”

“Yeah.”

He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said. About you being desperate. I just… I saw the jersey, his hands on you, I was just mad and…” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “I dunno. Fucking shocked, I guess.”

“So you decided to take it out on me?” you asked. “In front of everyone?”

The bag dug painfully into your shoulder as you shifted it higher.

“Yeah,” Logan admitted quietly. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You’re saying sorry because Brooks told you to, or Ford, or Maggie.” You shook your head. “You aren’t sorry. You're an asshole.”

“Was Gator,” Logan said.

That made you pause.

“He’s the one who wanted me to apologise.”

You lifted one hand slightly like that proved your point entirely. Logan saw the gesture and pushed on anyway.

“But I ain’t doing it just ‘cause he told me to,” he said quickly. “I am sorry. I mean it.”

The weight of the bag finally became too much. You let it drop heavily into the gravel with a dull thud before looking back at him properly.

“Logan, you've been making your stupid little comments at me for years. Why do you suddenly wanna apologise now, huh?” Your throat burned unexpectedly. “Because this time you pissed off Gator? Someone you actually care about?”

There was enough venom in the words that you hated hearing it yourself. Logan’s face changed; his brows knitting together and in his eyes he looked… hurt?

“You think I don’t care about you?”

“Well do you?”

“You’re like my sister,” he said quietly.

His voice cracked slightly around the words.

You stared at him, caught off guard enough that you forgot to respond. Logan looked down briefly at the gravel before meeting your eyes again.

“Last night I was mad,” he admitted. “And I weren’t thinking, alright? Like… it was you and him. My cousin, basically my sister, and my best friend. Like that’s not… I just wasn’t… it was a lot.”

He let out a long exhale.

“I thought he saw you like I did,” he said. “Like our kid sister who we were allowed to poke fun at, but no other jackass was allowed to look at.”

You sighed heavily and dragged a hand across your forehead.

“And all the other times? All the comments about me, my fucked heart, you pulling my hair like we’re in second grade?”

“I dunno, I was just… messing with you.” He shoved both hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t get to mess with Noah. He’s all serious and fucking… weird.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched slightly.

“And they all treat you like glass,” he continued. “I didn’t wanna…” He frowned, struggling for the words. “I dunno. You never said anything. You never told me it was upsetting you.”

You looked at him properly then, he meant it. The realisation settled strangely in your chest. Because when you thought about it honestly, Logan had always treated you differently than everyone else. Not cruelly. Never truly cruelly. Irritatingly, definitely. Insensitively sometimes. But refreshingly… normal.

Ford checked your pulse absentmindedly during hugs sometimes. Maggie could spot exhaustion in your face from across a room. Everybody around you adjusted instinctively, softened instinctively, watched instinctively.

But Logan never did.

If you were breathless, he made jokes until you laughed again. If you looked tired, he annoyed you until you snapped at him instead of sinking into yourself. Even after your second surgery in high school, when everybody else had hovered around your hospital bed speaking softly like you might shatter apart in front of them, Logan had shown up every day after school and acted exactly the same as always. Loud. Irritating. Normal.

You looked down at the gravel for a second before shaking your head slightly.

“I never thought about it like that.”

Logan tilted his head a little, watching you carefully now. A crooked smile tugged faintly at his mouth.

“So,” he said cautiously, “can you accept my apology?”

“Depends,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. “Are you gonna be weird about me and Gator?”

“Depends,” he shot back automatically. “You gonna keep eating his face in front of me?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it, you shoved hard at his shoulder as you bent to grab Walker’s bag again.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Apology accepted.”

You hoisted the strap back onto your shoulder and started walking toward the house again. Behind you, Logan spoke more quietly.

“You really like him, huh?”

You glanced back over your shoulder.

“Yeah, Logan,” you said honestly. “I really like him.”

“He really likes you too.”

You arched one eyebrow.

“Yeah? He tell you that?”

“He ain’t gotta tell me,” he said. “I know him. He likes you. A lot.”

You held his gaze for a second before nodding once.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Then you turned and kept walking toward the front porch.

You didn't look back again, but a second later you heard the slam of his truck door and the low growl of the engine starting up again. Somewhere beneath the warmth of the morning and the weight of Walker’s stupidly heavy football bag, one thought kept circling quietly through your head.

Logan Heaton had apologised to you.

And he had actually meant it.

You stepped back into the Big House carrying the duffel over one shoulder. Cartoons still blared from the living room, Rhodes sprawled half upside-down across the sofa cushions while Nicky sat cross-legged beside him, utterly absorbed in whatever brightly coloured trash was unfolding onscreen. Neither of them even looked up as you passed.

You rounded the corner into the kitchen where the twins were still sat at the island with Ford. Maggie had now joined them, one elbow resting against the counter, coffee mug in hand.

“Walker,” you complained, “what is in this thing? It weighs more than me.”

Walker stood and crossed toward you, taking the strap from your shoulder before the weight could properly drag you sideways.

“I did tell you I’d get it.”

“Excuse me for being helpful.”

Walker grinned faintly as he hauled the bag up onto the island and unzipped it. A second later he pulled out a dark blue hoodie and held it up proudly for inspection. The Bears logo sat over the left breast. Regional Champions stretched across the right. His surname and number were printed across the back in thick white lettering. Ford gave an approving nod.

“Sweet. Coach sort them?”

“Yeah,” Walker said. “Apparently he ordered them before we even got to the Semi’s.”

“Well,” Ford laughed, “he has you two. Knew it was a safe bet.”

You crossed toward Josie’s highchair while the boys kept talking, lifting her easily onto your hip before grabbing the dishcloth beside the sink to wipe syrup and banana off her hands.

“Is it just the cake you need me to pick up?” you asked Ford.

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged. “Do we need balloons and stuff? She’s turning one. She doesn’t know it’s her birthday.”

Maggie cut him a look sharp enough to stop traffic.

“You sound like Brooks,” she informed him. “Miserable old man.”

Ford rolled his eyes, Maggie ignored him completely and turned toward you instead.

“I want it all,” she declared. “Balloons, banners, all of it. She gets the same fuss everyone else gets. Don’t care if she’s just a baby.”

She stepped over and pinched Josie lightly on the cheek before smoothing a hand over the baby’s hair.

“Still your birthday, ain’t it, baby girl?” Maggie murmured. “Want to see you in a pile of presents.”

You smiled and looked over at Ford, he sighed like a man who knew he had already lost the argument before it began.

“I guess we need balloons and stuff.”

Maggie moved behind him and reached straight into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Ma!”

She ignored the protest entirely, pulling his wallet free before flipping it open with expert efficiency. A second later she removed his bank card and handed it directly to you.

“Get whatever you think,” she said. “Find her a cute little dress too.”

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered. “Just rob me.”

Maggie slapped his cheek lightly with one hand before reclaiming her coffee.

“Quit whining.”

She wandered back toward the living room while Ford rubbed dramatically at the side of his face. You balled the damp dishcloth up and tossed it at him. Ford caught it one-handed without even looking.

“Uh-oh,” you teased. “Ford’s in trouble for being a grumpy old man.”

Ford answered by raising a middle finger toward you, though the grin tugging at his mouth ruined any real offence. You laughed and stepped closer to pass Josie over to him. Ford took her, settling her against one arm while she started grabbing for his beard.

“Seriously though,” he muttered, “she’s a baby. I didn’t buy her nothing. Mags is gonna kill me.”

“Well lucky for you, I know how to shop.” You patted your pocket lightly. “And I just so happen to have your card.”

“I don’t know if I like it when you two team up on me.” Ford groaned softly.

You laughed again before glancing toward the twins.

“Did you two get your sister anything?”

Tucker and Walker looked at each other, then back at you.

“Like… what?” Tucker frowned.

“Walker?” You sighed.

“I actually did get her something,” Walker admitted. “It’s already wrapped in my room.”

You pointed at him immediately.

“And the award for Best Heaton Man goes to Walker. Congratulations.”

Walker grinned smugly, Tucker shoved him hard in the shoulder.

“What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve gone halves.”

“Watch the ribs!” Walker complained, shoving him back. “And why are we going halves? We’re not six. I just ordered something off Amazon. Not difficult.”

You shook your head fondly at both of them while gathering up the empty breakfast plates. The dishwasher door was halfway open when the front door opened and shut again behind you. Then came the familiar voice.

“Mornin’.”

You closed the dishwasher with your hip and turned. Gator stood just inside the kitchen entrance in a fitted grey t-shirt and dark jeans, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt, backwards cap low over his hair. Tucker and Walker twisted around on their stools.

“Morning,” Tucker said. “You here to donate some more of your clothes to her wardrobe?”

“Probably best she keeps the jersey,” Walker added. “Won’t be worth nothing when I beat your record and make all-state as a sophomore.”

Gator barked out a laugh as he crossed toward the island and slapped a hand against Walker’s back hard enough to jolt him forward.

“Keep dreamin’,” he said. “You’re good but y’ain’t as good as me.”

Gator’s eyes had already found yours across the kitchen. His mouth tipped slightly at one corner before he winked.

“You ready, baby?”

The word still did something strange low in your stomach every time he said it. You nodded as you rounded the island toward him.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just need to put my shoes on.”

The second you got close enough, his hand slid around your back and pulled you gently into him, easy and familiar now in a way that still startled you. Both twins groaned instantly.

“Alright, we get it,” Tucker complained. “You love each other. Can you just do it somewhere else?”

Ford laughed loudly from behind the island. But your entire body went tense. Love. The word landed sharp and sudden in your chest. You hoped, desperately, that Gator either hadn't heard Tucker properly or hadn't thought anything of it.

Because even if it was true, even if somewhere deep down you thought maybe you did love him already. It was too early for that. Wasn’t it?

Gator felt you tense the second Tucker said it. You love each other. It had been tossed out carelessly, teenage teasing, nothing more than that. But Gator heard it and he knew from the way your shoulders tightened beneath his hand that you had heard it too.

The thing was, Tucker didn't know how right he was.

Gator had been thinking about it more than he wanted to admit over the last few days. Quiet moments mostly. Driving alone. Lying awake at night staring at the ceiling. Standing in the shower too long with his mind running circles around the same thought over and over again.

Love.

At first, he hadn’t even been sure he understood the word enough to apply it to himself. He didn’t really have much experience with it.

His mother was gone. Had been gone so long now that she barely felt real sometimes. He couldn’t say whether he remembered loving her or just remembered missing the idea of having one.

And Roy…

Gator’s jaw tightened instinctively even thinking about him. He didn’t love his father. Most days he barely even liked him.

Love had always seemed like one of those things other people got handed naturally. Families. Good homes. Mothers who hugged too long. Fathers who looked proud when they spoke to you. Gator had spent most of his life feeling slightly outside of all that, watching it happen around him without ever quite touching it himself.

He had never really felt loved by anybody and because of that, for a long time, he had quietly assumed maybe he just was not built for it either.

Then there was you.

Every road in his head always seemed to end there eventually. You and the feeling you gave him that he still did not fully know how to explain. Warmth. Relief. Want. Safety, somehow, even though he was twice your size and had spent most of his life believing he was the one meant to protect people.

It had to be love.

Because what else could it possibly be?

He thought about stupid things now with the kind of clarity that made his chest ache. How back in high school, when he drove you and the boys home, he used to put songs on he knew you liked just because he wanted to hear you sing softly in the backseat. How he watched for your reflection in the rearview mirror more than he watched the road some days.

How after your surgery, when you had been stuck at home recovering for months, he had gone back to his room every night and sat awake googling medical terms he barely understood because he wanted to know how to help if something happened. Wanted to know what to do. Wanted to know how to keep you safe.

How your contact in his phone had a different ringtone from everyone else’s so he would always know it was you calling.

But Tucker didn’t know any of that. And neither did you. So you had gone tense in his arm like the word itself might scare him.

Gator didn’t want that. Didn’t want you uncomfortable or panicked or overthinking something that was supposed to feel easy between you. So instead of kissing your mouth the way he had first intended, he turned slightly and pressed the kiss softly against your hair instead.

Then he looked toward Tucker.

“Don’t worry, Tucker,” he said easily. “You’re a winner now. Girls’ll be all over ya.”

Your laugh came immediately beside him; still his favourite sound in the world.

Tucker held up a middle finger from his stool while Walker started cackling beside him. Gator chuckled under his breath and gave the back of your waist one last gentle squeeze before letting you go. Then he followed you toward the front door while you bent to pull your boots on near the bench.

He waited quietly beside the door until you were done then pulled it open for you, one hand resting against the frame while the bright North Dakota sunlight spilled across the porch between you both.

You called a quick goodbye over your shoulder as you stepped out onto the porch. The front door closed behind you, muting the noise of the Big House down into a warm blur of voices and laughter. A second later Gator took your hand and tugged you gently toward him.

“Now we ain’t got an audience,” he said softly.

He kissed you properly. Not one of the quick little kisses you’d stolen around family lately. This was slow and deep, his hand settling against the small of your back. You melted into him instantly.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes stayed fixed on yours.

“Y’look really pretty.”

The softness in his voice made heat creep into your cheeks. You smiled shyly and reached up to straighten the backwards cap on his head.

“Thank you.”

You kissed him once more, lighter this time, then took his hand and led him down the porch steps toward his truck. Gator opened the passenger door for you, one hand steadying you as you climbed up into the seat. Then he rounded the hood and climbed in beside you.

He tugged his cap off and hooked it onto the cupholder, his hair was loose instead of slicked neatly back like usual. You liked it better this way. Without thinking much about it, you reached across and let your fingers slip into the loose hair at the back of his head.

Gator leaned into the touch and sitting there beside him, morning sunlight spilling warm through the windshield, his hand resting heavy against your thigh, you found yourself thinking how perfect it all felt.

・❥・

The drive into Dickinson felt slow in the nicest way, the kind of morning where neither of you seemed in any hurry to speak. Your legs were folded up beneath you in the passenger seat, one shoulder tipped toward Gator while your hand rested behind his head, fingers absentmindedly twisting through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Every so often your nails scratched lightly against his scalp, and you felt him shiver.

The truck windows were down, letting the warm air rush through the cab. Sunlight poured across your face in bright bands, the wind lifting strands of your hair as fields rolled endlessly past outside. You let your head fall back against the headrest and closed your eyes for a moment.

The warmth of the sun. The rumble of the truck beneath you. Gator’s thumb moving slowly against your thigh. You felt calm in a way you’d never felt before. So safe. So happy.

Your eyes opened again when the truck slowed and Gator flicked the indicator on, turning into the crowded mall parking lot.

You made a soft noise of protest as you pulled your hand from his hair and started untangling yourself enough to unbuckle your seatbelt. Before you could properly climb down, Gator was already out of the truck and rounding the hood. He opened your door, slid one hand behind your waist and lifted you easily down onto the asphalt like you weighed nothing at all.

He shut the door behind you, locked it, then slid the keys into his pocket before taking a few steps toward the entrance. He held one hand back toward you, fingers flexing impatiently in a silent grabby gesture. Your chest warmed stupidly at how naturally he did things like that. You slipped your hand into his and followed him toward the mall entrance.

Inside, the mall was bright and loud in the particular way only malls seemed to be. Fluorescent lights reflected harshly off over polished floors while some aggressively upbeat pop song echoed through the speakers overhead. Plastic shrubbery sat beside the escalators in giant beige planters, the distant sounds of the arcade drifting faintly from somewhere further inside.

The whole place felt oddly frozen in time, like stepping halfway back into the eighties. You loved shopping. You hated malls. There was something about them that always felt vaguely clinical and claustrophobic at the same time. You moved a little closer to Gator, tucking yourself into the side of him and sliding the hand not holding his into the crook of his arm.

“What shop first?”

“Decorations,” you pointed ahead toward the party supply store near the centre of the mall.  “Apparently Josie needs the full royal treatment.”

Gator huffed a short laugh and steered you both in that direction.

The party supply store smelled faintly of cheap plastic. Every surface was aggressively colourful, aisles crammed with paper streamers, novelty candles, plastic tablecloths and themed birthday decorations for every possible age and interest. Bright foil balloons floated near the ceiling in crowded clusters while handwritten sale signs hung crookedly from shelves that looked older than you were.

You and Gator stood halfway down an aisle lined floor-to-ceiling with banners and balloons organised by colour. Gator frowned thoughtfully at a wall of pastel pink decorations.

“Pink? Ain’t that girly?”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “But it’s not very Maggie.”

“I thought it was for Josie?”

You laughed softly, a smile curling at your mouth.

“It might be Josie’s birthday, but this is all Maggie. Woman lives to make a fuss.”

You stepped closer to the display and started pulling down packs of white and yellow balloons along with a white birthday banner.

“Last year for Rhodes’ birthday she had some company come in with full-size dinosaur statues. It was insane. Rhodes was more interested in the bouncy castle, but people still compliment Mags on the décor all the time.” You shook your head fondly. “Hosting is like… her thing.”

You turned with your arms full, and Gator took everything from you before you even had to ask, barely interrupting the conversation as he shifted the decorations into one arm.

“I remember that,” he said. “Those dinosaurs were cool.”

“And expensive.”

“Ain’t that Maggie’s middle name?”

You laughed again and followed him toward the register. The girl behind the counter looked up the second Gator stepped forward. Her expression shifted almost immediately, posture straightening slightly as her eyes travelled over him with obvious interest.

You felt the flicker of jealousy before you could stop it. Girls had always looked at Gator, that part wasn’t new. But somehow now it felt different, you felt… possessive, almost.

Before the feeling had time to properly settle though, Gator looped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you lightly into his side, pressing an absentminded kiss against your temple while the cashier started scanning the decorations.

The cashier’s smile tightened just slightly.

“That’s $11.98,” she said.

Gator reached into his pocket; you caught his wrist immediately.

“Absolutely not,” you said. “I’ve got Ford’s card. He’s paying.”

You pulled the card from your pocket and tapped it against the machine while Gator took the paper bag from the counter.

The cashier’s eyes flicked toward you briefly, then back to Gator again. You slipped the card back into your pocket as she tore the receipt from the printer with a little more force than necessary before handing it over.

By the time you looked back up, Gator already had one hand held out toward you. You smiled and slipped your fingers into his.

“Thanks,” you called politely over your shoulder to the cashier as Gator led you back out into the mall.

You drifted from store to store together, past perfume counters and overcrowded sale racks and screaming children dragging exhausted parents through toy shops. Gator followed beside you with steady patience, never once complaining, even as the pile of bags hanging from his hands steadily grew more ridiculous.

You picked out a handful of presents for Josie; books she would probably chew more than read, soft toys, tiny shoes she would outgrow in five minutes flat. Then, in a toy store near the far end of the mall, Gator spotted a little wooden rocking horse painted cream and pale yellow.

You immediately shook your head.

“No.”

Gator looked over at you.

“What?”

“You do not need to buy her that.”

“She’ll like it.”

“She’s one,” you argued. “She likes electrical cords and dirt.”

Gator ignored you entirely and lifted the rocking horse box down anyway.

“It’s also huge,” you added as he carried it toward the register. “You have to drag that around the mall now.”

“S’fine,” he said easily.

And somehow, despite carrying a rocking horse under one arm and approximately six shopping bags in the other hand, he still kept reaching for you. You tried more than once to take some of the bags from him and every time he refused.

“S’fine, I got it,” he repeated.

“Gator--”

“Ain’t havin’ my girl carryin’ bags,” he said. “People thinkin’ I don’t look after ya.”

You rolled your eyes at the ridiculous touch of caveman masculinity in the statement. And then, traitorously, found yourself thinking: have I just set feminism back seventy years by finding that incredibly attractive?

In another shop you found Josie’s birthday outfit; a soft yellow summer dress with little bows on the straps and a ruffled skirt.

The whole morning carried on with the same ease. Gator’s hand in yours. His palm resting against the small of your back while you looked through shelves. His arm slung loosely around your shoulders while you walked. Even overloaded with shopping bags, he always seemed to find some way to keep touching you. Like he needed the contact as much as you did.

People moved around you both automatically in crowded walkways, giving space without being asked. Gator barely noticed anyone else, his attention fixed entirely on you whenever you spoke.

And maybe that was the thing you liked most. The attentiveness. The way he listened to you like everything you said mattered. The way his focus settled fully on you whenever you spoke, steady and unwavering. It made you feel important.

By the time you finally left the mall, the afternoon sun had turned the parking lot hot enough to shimmer slightly off the asphalt.

Gator loaded the shopping bags carefully into the truck bed, setting the rocking horse in last, then rounded the truck to open your door for you. One hand settled at your waist as he helped you climb back up into the passenger seat.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Gator glanced up at you, sunlight catching against his eyes.

“Anytime, baby.”

He drove you back through town with one hand loose on the wheel and the other resting heavily against your thigh while the bags rustled softly in the backseat behind you.

Dickinson rolled past outside in familiar pieces. Gas stations. Feed stores. Sun-faded signs. Pick-up trucks parked crookedly along the roadside. Saturday traffic drifted lazily through town beneath the heat of the afternoon sun. By the time Gator turned onto Benton Street, you had half melted into the seat beside him.

“There,” you said, pointing ahead toward the bakery.

Gator pulled into a roadside space just outside. Before you could properly unbuckle yourself, he was already climbing out and coming around to your side like before. But then something caught your eye. Across the street, outside a café with little metal tables out front, two men stood beside a pair of motorcycles. And both of them were staring directly at you. Your stomach tightened instinctively.

One of them was bigger, broad through the shoulders with a thick grey beard and dark hair swept up into an old-fashioned quiff. A cigarette burned slowly between two fingers as he leaned against the bike. The other man was smaller, thinner, wearing dark sunglasses despite the shade from the café awning. He was speaking to the older man casually enough, but his attention stayed fixed on you the entire time.

A strange uneasy feeling crept over your skin.

Your door opened, Gator stood there with one hand against the frame, sunlight behind him.

“Y’good, baby?”

You pulled your attention away from the men across the street and blinked up at him.

“Sorry,” you said quietly. “Just… those men were staring. Like, intense staring.”

Gator glanced briefly over his shoulder toward the café before leaning in to help you down from the truck. The second your boots hit the pavement, he pressed a quick kiss against the side of your head while reaching back to swing the truck door shut.

“Well,” he said easily, taking your hand again, “they better find someone else t’stare at. ‘Cause you’re mine.”

You let him lead you toward the bakery. But halfway across the pavement, you glanced back once more over your shoulder. The two men were still watching you.

The little bell above the bakery door chimed as Gator pulled it open for you. Cool, air-conditioned air smelling of sugar and fresh bread wrapped around you instantly, a welcome change from the heat outside. Glass display cases stretched along the counter filled with frosted cupcakes, pastries and cakes decorated in soft pastel swirls while old country music crackled quietly through a radio somewhere in the back.

Gator let the door swing shut behind him and his hand slid naturally from yours to the small of your back as you walked toward the counter.

The bakery was owned by Donna Reeves, Brooke’s mom. Which unfortunately meant there was roughly a ninety percent chance whatever happened in this interaction would end up becoming town gossip before dinner. Donna looked up from the till and recognised you immediately, her face breaking into a bright smile.

“How are you, hon? Keeping well?”

“Hi, Mrs Reeves.” You smiled back politely. “I’m good. How are you?”

“Oh well, can’t complain.”

Then her eyes shifted past you toward Gator, her smile faltered ever so slightly as she took in his hand resting against your back. She recovered quickly, but not quickly enough to miss. You could practically hear the gears turning in her head already. By tonight, she would absolutely have you filed away as the main topic in whatever terrifying middle-aged women’s group chat she belonged to. Her attention settled fully onto Gator.

“Deputy Sheriff,” she said warmly. “How are you?”

Gator gave a short nod.

“Ma’am.”

That was it.

His hand dropped from your back as he turned away from the counter, gaze drifting toward the bakery windows and the street outside. Donna looked mildly offended by the lack of charm for approximately half a second before overcompensating with another broad smile.

“You here for Ford’s order?”

“Yes please.”

Donna brightened instantly again as she turned toward the back shelves.

“I can’t believe little Josie is already turning one!”

You kept talking to Donna beside him, all soft smiles and polite conversation, asking after Brooke, nodding along while Donna launched into some story about her sister visiting from Bismarck. Gator only half listened. His attention stayed fixed out through the bakery window toward the street opposite.

The two bikers were still there. They were not openly staring anymore, at least not while you were inside, but Gator knew the second you walked back out onto the sidewalk their eyes would find you again. A pair of old pervs. His jaw tightened slightly.

The bigger one flicked ash from his cigarette while the other leaned back against his bike, talking lazily enough to anyone watching from afar. But Gator noticed the way their attention kept drifting back toward the bakery windows.

Toward you.

Something ugly and protective stirred low in his chest, then he felt you shift beside him. Gator glanced back automatically. Donna was lifting a large white cake box onto the counter while you reached both hands out to take it. Nope, that’s my job, he thought. Before you could even touch it, Gator stepped in and intercepted smoothly, taking the box from Donna with one hand.

You looked up at Gator, already half smiling.

“I could have-”

He arched one brow at you and the sentence died immediately. You pressed your lips together to hide your grin and looked back toward Donna instead.

“Thank you, Mrs Reeves.”

“My pleasure, hon.” Donna beamed at you. “You should come by the house this summer. You and all the girls can sit by the pool. I’ll get Brookie to text you.”

“Yeah,” you said politely. “Sounds good.”

In reality, the thought of spending an afternoon around Brooke’s deeply strange older brothers while wearing swimwear sounded like a nightmare. Beside you, Gator shifted the cake box more securely into one arm before his free hand settled lightly against the middle of your back again.

“Bye, hon,” Donna called.

Gator held the bakery door open for you and the little bell chimed overhead as you stepped back out into the heat of the afternoon.

Immediately his hand found yours again. You crossed the pavement together toward the truck, sunlight glaring off the windshield hard enough to make you squint. Gator opened the passenger door first, helping you climb back up into the seat with one arm before carefully settling the box into your lap.

“Precious cargo,” he murmured.

You smiled as he shut the door and rounded the front of the truck toward the driver’s side. Only then, sitting alone for a moment in the passenger seat, did you glance back across the street. The bikers were still there and they were still staring at you.

・❥・

By the time the sun started dropping low behind the treeline, Gator was still at the ranch. He had brought you home from town and somehow never really left after that.

Ford had invited him to stay for dinner in the casual automatic way people invited Gator into family things. Dinner ended up happening outside on the back porch because the weather was too nice to waste indoors. Maggie lit the citronella candles along the table while the boys argued over barbecue sauce and Josie threw bits of cornbread onto the deck.

Afterward, while Maggie and Ford cleared plates and you packed leftovers away inside, Gator had ended up out in the yard throwing a football around with Tucker and Walker while Nicky chased after them trying desperately to join in and Rhodes launched himself bodily at anyone holding the ball.

Watching him out there had you feeling some type of way. Not because it looked unusual, but because it didn’t.

Gator blended into your family so naturally. He moved easily through the noise and chaos, shoulder-checking Tucker when he got mouthy, letting Nicky cling onto his arm while scooping Rhodes upside down with the other when he got too feral.

He had always been around but now he seemed comfortable. Part of it all, on the inside rather than glimpsing in from the edges.

Now the younger kids were finally in bed, and the Big House had settled into that softer nighttime rhythm it always seemed to find after.

Ford and Tucker were outside on the back porch hanging birthday banners and bunting while Walker sat cross-legged nearby blowing up balloons with the miserable focus of someone deeply regretting volunteering for a task. Maggie sat on the sofa in the living room with a glass of wine in one hand, supervising the whole operation through the open back doors like a tiny glamorous foreman.

“A little higher,” she called. “Tucker, if that banner falls down overnight I’ll bury you in the pasture.”

“Love you too, Mags,” Tucker called back.

You sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the coffee table wrapping Josie’s presents while beside you Gator quietly assembled the rocking horse he had insisted on buying earlier. You folded wrapping paper carefully around one of Josie’s toys before reaching automatically for the tape. But it wasn’t there, you looked around briefly and spotted the roll half under the sofa.

Trying not to lose the carefully folded wrapping paper, you leaned awkwardly sideways and stretched your arm beneath the couch cushion. Your fingertips brushed the tape but not enough to grab it. You adjusted again, trying to pin the paper seam in place with one hand while reaching further with the other. The second your fingers loosened, the wrapping paper started to slip apart.

You were trying to figure out how to reach the tape without losing the entire wrap job when suddenly a hand appeared beside yours. Gator pressed one finger calmly against the paper seam, holding it perfectly in place, he hadn’t even looked away from the rocking horse. One hand still tightened a screw while the other stayed resting against your wrapping. You blinked at him for a second before finally grabbing the tape.

“Thank you.”

Eventually the last present was wrapped and stacked beside the fireplace, little towers of pastel paper and curling ribbon waiting for morning. Gator helped you carry the bigger boxes over while Walker disappeared upstairs complaining dramatically about “permanent lung damage” from blowing up balloons. Tucker followed a few minutes later.

Ford came back in through the porch doors rubbing both hands down his face.

“Please tell me we’re done,” he groaned. “I’m knackered.”

Maggie lifted her wine glass lazily from the sofa.

“All done. You can go to bed, old man.”

“Thank Christ,” Ford groaned. “Night, everybody.”

He dragged himself upstairs without another word.

Maggie watched him go then downed the last mouthful of wine and got to her feet, eyes flicking between you and Gator.

“If you’re staying the night, that’s fine,” she said casually. “But you kids better be safe. I’m far too young to be a great-grandmother.”

“Maggie!” You stared at her in horror.

She passed the empty wine glass into your hands with complete composure.

“Night, baby.”

Then she winked and disappeared down the hallway before you could recover enough dignity to argue. You looked at Gator immediately.

“I’m sorry about… her.”

He just smiled, you shifted awkwardly with the wine glass still in your hand.

“Do you…wanna stay?”

Gator crossed the room in one stride and promptly threw you over his shoulder. A startled squeal left you as you clutched the wine glass with both hands.

“Gator!”

He laughed quietly under his breath and kept walking. As he passed the kitchen, you lifted your head enough to point toward the counter.

“Hang on. Pause.”

He stopped obediently while you carefully deposited Maggie’s glass beside the sink. Then he carried you the rest of the way down the hall. Your bedroom door kicked shut behind him and a second later he dropped you onto the mattress in an undignified heap before collapsing beside you with a heavy exhale. You rolled onto your side toward him, knees tucking up slightly as you edged closer until your nose almost brushed his cheek.

“Thank you for today,” you murmured. “You really didn’t have to take me shopping or carry everything or stay for dinner…”

Gator rolled onto his side too, propping himself up on one elbow. His other hand settled against your hip naturally, thumb slipping beneath the edge of your shirt.

“Y’gotta stop sayin’ it like y’made me do somethin’ I didn’t wanna do.”

His fingers traced slow circles against your skin.

“I wanna do stuff with you,” he said quietly. “Normal stuff. Don’t care what it is. Jus’ wanna be near you.”

You slid your fingers through his hair, enjoying the unfamiliar softness of it without all the gel and careful slicking-back he wore for work.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

His gaze drifted downward toward where his hand rested against your hip instead of meeting your eyes.

“Everythin’s easy when m’with you. Ain’t gotta think ‘bout nothin’.”

“I don’t know if I believe that.” Your hand slid from his hair down the side of his neck before resting flat against his chest. “That you don’t think about anything.”

“I don’t.”

A quiet laugh escaped you.

“Gator, your brain is literally always working.” You rubbed your thumb slowly against his chest. “You’re opening every door before I get there, carrying all my bags. I see you watching exits and rolling my window up before I even realise I’m cold.” You shook your head slightly. “I feel like your brain’s in overdrive all the time. You don’t have to do all that for me.”

His hand stilled briefly against your hip, then resumed its slow movement. Gator lowered himself onto the mattress properly until his face was only inches from yours.

“Don’t gotta think ‘bout that stuff. Treatin’ you right.” His eyes flicked over your face. “S’just… like my body knows what t’do. Knows it’s you.”

Your breath caught quietly and you edged closer until the tip of your nose brushed his. His eyes fluttered shut instantly.

“M’not good at this,” he admitted in a rough whisper. “Like… the talkin’ part.”

You brushed your thumb lightly over his cheekbone.

“I think you’re doing a pretty good job.”

A shaky breath left him.

“I jus’…” His brow tightened slightly. “Feels like m’fuckin’ vibratin’. All the time. An’ then when m’with you it jus’… stops.”

The confession hit somewhere deep inside you. Gator rolled slowly onto his back after saying it, staring up at the ceiling now, his hand slipping away from your hip. You stayed perfectly still beside him, sensing instinctively how much effort this was costing him.

“S’like I got this…” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Feelin’. An’ I don’t know the name for it. Or maybe I do, an’ m’scared t’say it,” he admitted. “’Cause I don’t wanna… m’gonna fuck it up.”

You looked at him for a long moment before resting your hand gently over his chest again.

“If you say it,” you whispered, “I’ll say it back.”

Gator turned his head toward you then. His eyes looked soft in a way you had never seen before. Open. Almost frightened by how much he meant it.

“That’s not…” He shook his head slightly. “I want you t’mean it.”

“If you say it,” you repeated softly, “I’ll say it back.”

Then you leaned closer until your lips nearly brushed his when you whispered.

“And I’ll mean it.”

Something in his expression broke open. Slowly, disbelievingly, he smiled.

“Yeah?”

You pushed yourself upward until you were straddling his hips, both hands framing his face as you looked down at him.

“If you say it,” you whispered again, smiling now too, “I’ll say it back.”

His smile widened helplessly beneath you. You kissed one of his cheeks softly.

“Say it.”

Then the other.

“Say it.”

Gator’s hands came up suddenly, holding your face carefully between both palms while he looked directly into your eyes.

“I love you.”

The words hit you like sunlight breaking through clouds. Your smile widened so hard it hurt.

“I love you too.”

He kissed you hard then, both hands tightening at your waist as your fingers curled against his jaw. You pulled back only enough to whisper it again against his mouth.

“I love you.”

A kiss against his nose.

“I love you.”

Another against his cheek.

“I love--”

Gator laughed softly and rolled you beneath him in one smooth movement, careful with your body even now, bracing himself above you as he kissed you again.

“I love you,” he murmured against your lips.

Another kiss.

“I love you.”

You giggled helplessly now, fingers catching in the hem of his t-shirt. He kissed you again, slower this time, mouth lingering against yours.

“I love you.”

Your laughter melted softly into the kiss as you tugged his shirt upward. Gator leaned back just enough to pull it over his head and toss it carelessly onto the floor, a crooked smile still sitting warm and boyish across his face.

You watched him shove himself upright with sudden urgency, grinning helplessly as he kicked off his jeans in a rush that nearly sent him straight off the side of the bed.

“Careful,” you laughed. “Jesus Christ.”

His hair had fallen completely loose now, cheeks flushed slightly, chest rising quicker than before as he finally managed to free himself from the second pant leg.

The sight of him standing there in nothing but his boxers, broad shoulders bare, the outline of his cock beneath the fabric impossible to miss, sent warmth curling low through your stomach. You reached for the button of your own jeans, pushing them down your legs before lifting your hips enough to kick them carelessly toward the floor.

Gator immediately started moving back toward you. You stopped him with the sole of your socked foot pressed lightly against his chest. He blinked down at you, and you wiggled your foot pointedly.

“Socks off, please.”

A slow grin spread across his face.

“Yes, ma’am.”

One large hand wrapped gently around your ankle as he lifted your foot toward him. His thumb brushed slowly over your skin while he peeled the sock off inch by inch before tossing it somewhere over his shoulder. Then, unexpectedly, he pressed a soft kiss to the arch of your foot.

“Gator…”

He only smirked against your skin before reaching for your other foot. This time the kisses lingered longer. The arch of your foot. The inside of your ankle. The top of your foot. You were still half laughing softly through your embarrassment when he suddenly caught both your legs beneath his arms and guided them around his waist as he crawled back over you onto the mattress.

The weight of him settled between your thighs, careful even now. His hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt. You lifted your arms automatically and he tugged it over your head before tossing it aside somewhere into the dark room. Then his hand came to the base of your neck, thumb warm beneath your jaw as he leaned down to kiss you again.

You parted your lips for him instinctively, fingers curling into the loose hair at the back of his neck as his tongue brushed softly against yours. His hand slid around your back, fumbling briefly before your bra unclasped. You laughed quietly into the kiss and tugged the straps free yourself, tossing it aside without ever really breaking away from him.

Gator lets himself be pulled toward you, putting an arm out beside your head to catch himself, resting over you and leaning his weight comfortably on his arm. His tongue continues to swipe deep into your mouth, slow and claiming, as his other hand strokes down over your warm skin, skimming your waist before tracing the thin line of the waistband of your panties.

He nudges your legs wider apart with his thigh, pressing firmly until you open for him, and his fingers dip beneath the elastic of your underwear, gliding over the soft curve of your mound before slipping easily between your folds.

You are already so wet for him, slick and hot and ready, and he honestly cannot understand how he got this lucky. That you even acknowledge he exists at all is a miracle, but to be here, to have you beneath him, soaked just for him, so pliant and reactive to every touch… to have you kissing him like he’s something precious, touching him like he matters, knowing that you love him? It’s more than he ever thought he’d deserve.

His fingers glide freely through your slick, rolling steadily over your clit, watching your face change, and when you break from his mouth to gasp sharp and breathless, he leans in close and inhales the very air that leaves your lungs, breathing you in completely.

Your hands smooth over his broad shoulders and down the tops of his arms, gripping tight to the firm, thick muscle of his biceps as his fingers glide lower, teasing slowly at your entrance, circling the tight ring of muscle there before he slips one finger inside with absolute ease. He withdraws it almost immediately, only to add a second as he re-enters, stretching you slow and perfect, and your grip on his biceps tightens instinctively, nails pressing in.

He lowers his face to the crook of your neck, painting small, soft sucking kisses all along the sensitive line of your throat, marking you, claiming you. One of your hands leaves his arm and dives into his loose hair, stroking through the strands at first, then raking your nails lightly along his scalp, making him shiver against you.

His fingers curl deeper inside you, searching, finding that spot, while his thumb comes up to brush firm circles across your clit, and you widen your legs further, desperate to give him more access, to bring him closer, to feel everything he’s willing to give.

His mouth moves down from your throat, along your clavicle, and begins to travel slowly down the line of your scar. You think, not for the first time, about how he does this, whether on purpose or just because it’s you. You’d told him about the men who came before, the ones who looked at that jagged pink line and made you feel like some sort of Frankenstein’s monster, broken and ugly and wrong. But Gator… he has never made you feel that way. His lips glide along the raised skin as if it were any other part of your body, just another piece of you to taste, to adore, to worship completely.

His kisses continue down across your stomach, burning paths over your skin, while two fingers remain curled deep inside you, working you open, and his other hand strokes softly over your shoulder then trails down the centre of your chest.

“Gator… please…” you whimper, unable to wait any longer, needing him closer, needing all of him.

He withdraws his fingers from you agonisingly slow, making you ache at the loss, then pulls back slightly as both his hands come to rest on your hips. He drags your panties down your legs, and you lift your hips to help him, eager to be rid of the fabric, then immediately pull your knees tight up to your chest so he can remove them completely without having to move too far away from you.

He tosses the garment carelessly to the side, and you begin to lower your knees again, but he stops you; grips your ankles together firmly in one hand, holding them in place above you, keeping your knees still tucked tight into your chest.

He uses his other hand to awkwardly tug his boxers down his hips; he doesn’t bother removing them fully, just pulls them down enough to let his cock spring free, heavy and hard. He uses his free hand to grip himself at the base, giving himself a few short, rough pumps, before bringing the tip right to your entrance.

He keeps hold of your ankles, pushing your knees a little tighter into your chest, as he teases the broad, slick head between your folds, gathering your wetness, coating himself in you. He rubs the head up and down, teasing over your clit and your hole in turn, driving you wild, before finally sinking into you in one long, slow motion.

You let out a breathy, drawn-out “fuckkk” as you feel the stretch, the way he fills you up completely. This position has him deeper inside you than he’s ever been, pressing into places no one else has ever reached, and he stills fully inside you, releasing his grip on your ankles so your feet rest against his chest. He strokes a soothing hand slowly down the length of your calf, watching your face carefully.

“Y’alright, baby?” he asks, voice thick and strained.

“Mhmm… s’fuckin’ deep,” you breathe out, head tipping back into the pillow.

“Too much?”

You shake your head quickly, frantically, and deliberately clench your muscles tight around him, sending a clear message that he better not dare pull out.

“Good… so good. Don’t stop.”

You shift your hips a little, inviting him to move, and he does, slowly pulling back until just the very tip remains inside, then sinking back into you with a roll of his hips that makes you see stars. You let out another low, throaty moan. Gator lifts your ankles from his chest, repositioning them to rest either side of his broad shoulders, and again he slowly pulls out, leaving you empty and aching, only to lean over you and kiss you deeply as he buries himself into you once again, all the way to the hilt.

Your hands grip hard into the sheets beside you, knuckles white. He is so deep now, nudging right against the walls of your cervix, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach, everywhere at once. You deepen the kiss, slipping your tongue boldly into his mouth, and he takes the cue, picking up the pace. His hips roll into yours with a steady, heavy rhythm, and you hear the wet, slick squelching sound of your bodies meeting, loud and wanton in the quiet room.

Gator can feel you clenching around his cock in a vice-like grip, squeezing him tight every time he pushes in, and he knows instantly there is no way he is going to last like this. You feel too good; hot, wet, tight, perfect. Fuck.

He reaches down between your bodies to brush his thumb rapidly back and forth over your clit, and you break the kiss immediately to moan right against his mouth, loud and unrestrained.

His eyes lock on, forehead resting heavy against yours, breaths mingling. He flicks his thumb faster, harder, back and forth over that sensitive bundle of nerves, and watches the way your face changes, the way you struggle to keep your eyes open under the overwhelming stimulation from both his fingers and the deep, driving rhythm of his thrusts.

He picks up the pace, driving into you harder, faster, and your eyes finally fall shut, too heavy, too good to keep open. Gator brushes his nose softly along the side of yours, presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, then returns his forehead to rest against yours, grounding you, keeping you with him.

“Uh-uh… eyes open, baby. Need t’see you. Look at me.”

He feels you clench around him again, hard, like you’re trying to physically pull him in deeper, to merge your bodies completely. He watches as you force your eyelids to lift, only for your eyes to immediately roll back in your head, completely lost to the pleasure he’s giving you.

He’s not going to last, you feel too good, but he needs you there with him, needs to see you fall apart. He pistons his hips faster, sharper, his fingers brushing quickly, relentlessly over your nerves, and he feels you quiver beneath him, your pussy pulsing and fluttering around his girth, signalling you’re right on the edge.

“Gator… ohfuck… yes… m’gonna… I’m--”

He singles all his focus onto his fingers dancing over your clit and the hammering motions of his thrusts, pushing into you over and over, hitting that deep spot every single time.

Your thighs are trembling violently beneath him; he can feel the muscles in your calves tensing against his shoulders, your toes curling tight. Then your hands fly up to grip his back, nails sinking sharp and deep into his skin, leaving trails of fire. Gator lets out a little hiss at the initial pain, but it feels incredible, better than anything he’s ever felt. He hopes you leave marks; hopes he carries the scars of you on his skin for days.

And then he feels it, the band snapping tight as you shudder beneath him, moaning out a mix of breathless curses, but it’s the broken, desperate groan of his name falling from your mouth that pushes him right over the edge. His hips stutter and falter, rhythm breaking apart, as he spills himself deep inside you with a raw, guttural groan, emptying everything he has into you.

You continue to shudder and twitch as the aftershocks of your orgasm work their way through your body, every nerve still firing, skin hypersensitive. Gator’s forehead is still resting against yours, his breathing ragged and heavy. His hand has moved from your clit now, instead rubbing slow, grounding strokes over the curve of your hip, calming you, soothing you back down.

He finally pulls out, holding your ankles steady as he gently lowers your legs back down to the bed, one at a time, careful not to jolt you. He shifts to lie beside you, pulling you close instantly. You can’t bring yourself to move yet; your body feels heavy, boneless, still tingling and shaking from the intensity of it all.

Gator pulls you tight against him, your back to his chest, wrapping his arms securely around you, holding you together. He kisses your shoulder softly, his lips warm against your cooling skin.

“I got you, baby. I love you.”

Your hands come up to close over his where they rest against your stomach, lacing your fingers through his, and you sink back into him completely, safe and whole and loved.

“I love you, Gator.”

He’d told the story before. There was a version he liked to wheel out when he was coked up, the sandbox-or-whatever version that made people laugh. It had Topper crying over a kite at six, or maybe it was Rafe crying over a kite. And that was the short joke of it, and neither of them could keep it straight and it didn’t matter, because the point was they were the kind of friends whose beginnings had dissolved into pure fact. ‘We’ve just always known each other.’ People liked hearing that. It sounded like belonging. It sounded like the thing Rafe had been failing to convince his own father he was capable of since approximately birth. It sounded like there was a reason for their friendship despite their family’s tax brackets.

The problem was that he couldn’t get to the kite anymore without going through you.

That simple fact made him want to put his fist through a wall. He’d try to land on a clean memory; Topper at twelve, sunburned and furious, reduced to tears, because Rafe had out-fished him at the dock. It was something Rafe thought he’d hold over Topper for the rest of his life and then, characteristically, never used. The memory of it would start fine and then it would bend, routing itself towards you. Topper at twelve became Topper at eighteen describing his future with you in it, because Topper’s hand on your knee in over-furnished basements, became the simple pride in Topper’s voice when he talked about you like you cured cancer. Every road into Topper now had you standing somewhere on it, and Rafe couldn’t reach past you to the kid he’d genuinely considered a friend back when he cared about something like having a best friend. You’d colonized the whole territory without trying.

He resented you for it the way he resented the good food at the Thorntons’ table, the unfairness of being made to want a thing and then made to feel like garbage for the wanting.

Topper was good. Yeah, he was good-family, good-school, good-on paper. But Rafe found that Topper was good in the way that should have made him insufferable. Topper had decided, somewhere back before either of them remembered, that Rafe was worth keeping, and then he had simply never revisited the decision. He didn't keep a tally. He'd watched Rafe show up fucked up to a hundred things, watched him pick fights with golf clubs and bigger men, watched him be cold and mean and impossible, and Topper had kept clapping him on the shoulder like his father did, kept being there that it had taken Rafe to realize this was rare.

And Rafe was going to take you from him anyway. Had already started. Was, in the part of his head he didn’t visit in daylight, fully planning to. That was the whole obscene buildup of it, that the one person who’d never once made Rafe earn his place was the person Rafe was robbing. He wasn’t even doing it out of hatred, which would have at least been clean. He was doing it because of a hundred small things he'd had no business collecting and had collected anyway. How you laughed half-a-second late at jokes, always, because you were checking the room first to see if it was safe to, and how that half-a-second was the only honest thing when the laugh actually came. The way you ate the crust off of people’s plates, Topper’s, Ruthie’s, like the food tasted better when it wasn't yours and nobody was watching you want it.

None of it was Topper’s fault. Topper’s only crime was being there for two years and never noticing the half second, never wondering what you were checking for, just hearing the laugh and taking it at face value the way he took everything, gratefully, completely, without the suspicion that there was a whole second self standing behind it.

There was a thought Rafe had, late, that if it had been the other way around, if Rafe had gotten to you first, Topper would not have done this. He wouldn’t have wanted to. It was far from the idea that Topper was weak or because Topper didn’t have it in him to want a thing; it was because Topper was built somewhat right. Topper had been loved correctly and consistently and on time, and so Topper had turned out to be someone who could be trusted around the things other people loved. Rafe had been loved the way Ward did everything, which was to say conditionally, expensively, and from a distance, and so Rafe had turned out to be the kind of person who, handed something good that belonged to a friend, could not keep his hands off it.

He’d been on the boat for nineteen minutes and he was being so good it was fucking annoying. This was day eleven. He had a streak going. Day eleven of not texting you, not driving past the library on Tuesdays, not allowing his brain to build a small detailed house for the two of you and then moving you both into it. Eleven days, for Rafe’s standards, was basically monastic. He’d told himself after he’d dropped you off at your house—after you made that sickly-sweet confession then passed the fuck out, sparing you the indignity of remebering you’d said it. That two weeks was the number. If he could do two weeks, the wanting would sand down to a manageable size, the same way a callus made a thing stop hurting by making the skin too thick to feel it.

He didn’t actually believe this. He had never once in his life successfully made himself want something less. But he wanted a number, and two weeks was a number, and he was eleven days into it and the boat smelled like sunscreen and diesel.

He took a hit off the bong because it was there, and clearly Topper’s parents hadn’t been on the boat because it wouldn’t have been there if they had. He found the stash of weed in the same place Topper always kept it, inside the couch. He’d been making good use out of Topper’s things given Topper was late.

Topper was always late. It was one of the few genuinely annoying things about him, and Rafe had a theory that Topper thought the thing wouldn’t start without him at some point in his life, and decided he never had to make himself hurry. Ward did it too. Rafe, who had spent his whole life arriving places early and then sitting in his truck so nobody would see him be early, found it unbearable in a way he never said out loud.

He was being good. He was being so good. And your foot landed on the gangway and the boat took your weight, and Rafe felt the small dip and correct of it through the hull. He knew it was you before he turned to see who it was. He’d gotten like that. It was nothing to have been proud of. 

You came down the cockpit and didn’t see him at first, which meant he got a second of you before you did of him. Rafe took the second, because Rafe took every second of you he was handed and a number he wasn't.

You looked like hell. Not actual hell, you’d have to work much harder than you’d ever worked in your life to look actually bad, and Rafe resented this about you in a low background way, the unfairness of it. But you did look like you’d been crying somewhere with the door closed, and had then done the small expert repairs and come out, and Rafe knew that particular finish on a person because it was the finish he saw in his own mirror. The eyes slightly too clean. The mouth set in a straight line. Yo’'d put something pink on the mouth on the way over. He noticed that. 

Then you saw him and your face moved slightly, like you were recalibrating and deciding which version of yourself this required.

“Someone looks happy,” Rafe said.

It came out lightly, a little meanly, and exactly how he’d intended for it to. He was good at this. It was, if he was honest, the only thing he was good at; saying a thing that closed a door so quietly the other person wasn’t sure a door had been there. He'd been doing it to you for two years. He'd done it to you because the alternative was doing the other thing, and the other thing could not be undone, and so he had picked, every single time, the small mean sentence over the catastrophe.

You didn’t rise to it. You didn’t do much of anything, in fact. 

“He’s not here yet?” you asked, and your voice sounded so even Rafe wanted to tear the edges off of it. 

“Nah. Late,” Rafe said, letting it sit. “Shocking. I know.”

“Right.” A small laugh, the half-second one, except there was no room to check and so it came out hollow, on cue. The type of shit you’d give another guy for describing an unfunny encounter. 

And that should've been it. The two of you should’ve stayed exactly where you were, not looking at each other, until the rest of the people showed up to act as witnesses. He could do that. 

But you stood at the bottom of the cockpit steps with your bag still on your shoulder and looked around the room. 

“Did they ever fix the—” You tipped your chin at the cleat. “Topper said his dad was going to have someone look at it.”

Rafe raised a brow. You were talking to him like he’d heard you talked to everyone else, a good fucking voice that asked absolutely nothing and gave absolutely nothing. And you were using it on him, as if asking shit like this to him was normal. Something in his chest did a small ugly turn, and he heard himself before he’d decided to talk.

“You don't have to do that,” Rafe said.

You blinked. "Do what?"

“That.” He tipped the bong toward you, at the bag, the mouth, the cleat. “That voice. The—” He almost got to the end of it, but the end was a cliff, so he took a hit instead and let the smoke buy him the half second you were so good at stealing. “I don’t give a shit about the cleat. Neither do you.”

He sounded more annoyed than he’d meant, and it was real but not about you; mainly about the fact that you’d decided you were going to pretend nothing happened, even though that was exactly what he needed from you. Still, getting it felt like being handed a glass of water and told it was the fucking ocean.

You stayed silent. The water did its small work against the hull. Somewhere across the marina a halyard was tapping against a mast, that thin patient sound that Rafe normally didn't hear and now could hear individually, every strike of it, because the boat had gone that quiet. He looked at the bong. He looked at the cooler nobody had opened. He was aware of you not moving.

You moved then, setting your bag down onto the cushion of the bench seat and you crossed the cockpit. Three steps. Four. Past the table, past Rafe, close enough that he got a wash of you, the floral scent, clean and expensive and so aggressively innocent it had always made him want to break something just to have something to apologize for.

Behind the couch he was sitting on was a door. The head, the boat’s bathroom, a closet of a room, teak and a mirror and not quite the square footage to turn around in. You put your hand flat on it and opened it. 

And Rafe didn't understand. He watched you open the door to the head and his brain, his stupid traitor brain that had a whole drawer with your name on it, did not produce the thought it should have produced. It produced something sadder. It thought that he’d made you isolate yourself from him until everyone arrived. And now you were going to go stand in front of Topper's mirror and come back out with the distance reinstalled, and it would be his fault, and he'd earned it.

He even opened his mouth to say something. Sorry, maybe. He wasn't sure. He hadn't gotten there.

You were standing in the doorway of the head with one hand still on the frame, and you weren't going in, and you weren't fixing anything, and you turned your head and you looked back at him across the small bright cabin.

“Rafe,” you said.

He was up off the couch before he'd finished understanding. The bong went onto the table too hard, making the water move in it. Two years of holding still, of the mean sentences, of the moat he'd dug with his own two hands, and it turned out the whole mechanism had been resting on you never once asking him not to hold still, and you hadn't asked him anything, you'd just said his name and left a door open, and the mechanism was already on the floor behind him.

He crossed the cabin in three steps and he did not let himself count them.

You stood in the doorway, the head behind you flooded with the harsh, blue-white of the marine bulb, and you looked at him like you’d always known he’d follow. 

He stopped close, and the head was small enough that close was the only thing available, and Rafe found that he had no words ready. That was new. He always had words ready. He'd built a whole personality out of having the word ready. But the apparatus that supplied the words was on the cabin floor with everything else, and so he just stood there in the blue-white light, breathing, looking at you looking at him, and said nothing at all.

Your hands came up. Rafe’s eyes were fixed on them as they reached up, shy and sudden, to the sides of his face, just to hold. You were just holding, palms careful against his jaw like he was someone who deserved to be held carefully at all. 

His whole body leaned down to it before his brain had been consulted. His head just went where your hands asked it to go, the way water went downhill, the way Topper was late; some law older than choosing.

“Can I—” you started, then the sentence went out of track.

You just stopped, and the third word wouldn’t come. Because the third one was a want, and you were someone who Rafe knew had spent years not saying those out loud, and Rafe watched the question strand there an inch from his mouth, watched you not be able to finish it, and understood that finishing it was a thing you could not do and were never going to be able to do.

So he did it for you. That was the deal, apparently, the complete contract of whatever this was. You couldn’t say the thing and he’d say it; you couldn’t finish and he’d finish. He'd be doing it for the rest of his life and he already knew that, standing there.

“Yeah,” Rafe said against the space where your sentence had been, throwing eleven days outside the window completely. “You can.”

You reached past him instead, one hand leaving his face, and you pushed the door shut behind him. It made a small sound of a click, and it landed in Rafe like a gunshot, because you'd done it. He hadn't reached back and done it for you. You'd closed the door yourself, with your own hand, taken the last out off the table and folded it up and put it away, and Rafe stood in the new confines of the room understanding that he had just watched you say yes in the only language you had.

And then you kissed him. It was careful at first—both of you were, for about a second and a half, careful—and then your fingers slid back into his hair and you breathed yourself through a small, relieved sound.

It was barely a sound at all, but it was a sound you had not chosen to make, Rafe could tell the difference, he’d spent two years watching you choose every sound and every breath and every tilt of your head, and this one had just slipped out of you. He’d spent the last few times he was in your proximity getting a closer read on you. And this was just involuntary proof, that this was happening to you as much as he was making it happen, that you were in here with him rather than being there for him.

He’d run the tape on this so many times it embarrassed him, and in every version you were careful. Soft, a thing he had to coax and gentle and be slow with. 

So when your hand came up and fisted the front of his shirt and pulled—like you’d been the one standing on the wrong side of a door for two years—Rafe's entire model of you went out the porthole, and the loss of it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“Okay,” he said to nobody, to the new discovery of you. “Okay.”

Rafe's control didn't snap so much as it discovered it had never really been there. You kissed him, and he’d been expecting to be the one to do it to you, Rafe the corrupting agent, Rafe with the dirty hands. He didn’t know this one. It felt like being handed a part of you that he couldn’t have witnessed from across rooms, and it turned out to be this—appetite, slow, a little mean—and he wanted it so badly it scared him sober.

His fingers went to your hair, fingers closing at the root and pulling your head back just enough to change the angle, and his other arm came around your back to haul you in past there was room to be hauled. The size of the room was nothing and he wanted you closer than nothing. 

Your chest pressed flat to his and he could feel you breathing through the cotton of your top, could feel the ridge of your bra and the heat of your skin underneath it. His arm tightened across your back.

Somewhere in it, he heard himself say “fuck—you—” against your mouth and didn't get the rest of it out. The rest of it was two years long anyway and wouldn't have fit in the room.

“Rafe,” you said, voice breath-shaped against his jaw, the vibration of it traveling down his neck and settling somewhere at the base of his spine. 

“Mhm.”

“I—” You let his teeth catch onto your bottom lip and gently tug on it. You rose to your toes. “I haven’t been able to—stop—”

“Hm?” He was already gone. His hands found the hem of your denim skirt. His fingers traced the seam where the fabric ended, running along the edge of it, before his palms slid underneath and made contact with bare skin. His palms caught against skin still slick from the humidity, and the give of you under his hands briefly wiped every coherent thought from his head. “Stop what?”

“Being able to think—about you.” Your words came out in two short breaths as Rafe’s fingers palmed the curve of your ass with more greed than finesse, pulling your hips forward into his.

“Shit—yeah?” His voice had gone somewhere low and ruined. A stupid part of him wanted to ask why, hear you say it again, spell it out, tell him exactly what you thought about. “Me too.” 

The same broken noise slipped out of you again, urgently, like the next one and all of the ones after that were owed to him. 

He walked you backward until the bulkhead caught you. You hit the teak with a dull sound and your spine arched off it, pressing your hips into his. Rafe’s vision briefly went white because the pressure of you against him—specifically where he was already hard and had been since you closed the door—was a feeling his body processed before his brain got anywhere near it.

He kept one hand flat behind your shoulder blade so the boat's roll wouldn't knock your skull into the wood. Some backroom part of him was still telling him to make sure you didn’t get hurt.

His hand found the hem of your skirt again and pushed it up slowly, gathering the denim in his fist, and the scrape of the fabric against your skin was loud in the small room. 

You shifted your hips off the teak to help him—lifted without being asked—and Rafe had to stop.

He put his forehead against your shoulder and breathed, because your unconscious cooperation did more to him than everything before it combined. He'd imagined it, and in every version you were hesitant, uncertain, something he had to ease into, and the reality was that you'd just lifted your hips for him like you wanted this as much as he did.

“D’you—” His voice was gone. He couldn’t recognize it. “Tell me to.”

“Rafe.”

“Say it.” He turned his mouth against your neck, found your pulse point, and it felt it hammering against his lips. He tasted the salt on your skin. His hand was on your thigh, fingers spread wide, thumb pressing to the soft inside of it where the skin was the thinnest, and he could feel the muscle twitching under his touch. “Say it?”

You let out a breath into his ear, body loosening up under his hold. “Please.”

“Jesus fuck,” Rafe muttered, and it came out wrecked, halfway to a laugh, because you kept finding things he had no defense for without even trying.

He pushed the lace aside with two fingers, careful at first because the carefulness was a reflex even now, and then he felt you—your warmth and the give and the fact of it—and the careful went the way of everything else. Warmer than he’d imagined, softer, wetter. His fingers slid against you experimentally, testing his touch out, afraid you’d vanish if he made the wrong move.

Your eyes squeezed shut and your thigh clenched against his hip. 

Everything was replaced by the single present-tense reality of his hand between your legs, and the reality was so much more than the fantasy that he understood, suddenly and completely, that he wasn’t going to recover from knowing this.

He pressed his forehead to the side of your head and shut his eyes. Looking at you was too much information all at once; he needed to subtract a sense or he was going to embarrass himself.

He bit down the inside of his cheek, hard, on principle, because the sound that wanted to come out at just this—just his fingers against you, nothing more, the most preliminary fact of you—was a sound that would have told you everything.

It would have laid the whole two years out on the floor, and Rafe was ready to give you a great deal tonight but he was not, yet, ready to give you that.

You made a short, desperate sound. Your hand came off his shirt and gripped his wrist to keep him, to make sure his hands stayed, the fingers wrapping around the bones of his wrist and holding on.

“Not going anywhere,” he said against your temple, which was true in the small immediate sense and a lie in every other, and he chose, this once, to mean only the small one.

Your free hand moved between you, down, and found the waist of his jeans. You fumbled at the button. It was clumsy—your fingers weren’t sure, and Rafe wondered if you’d ever done the reaching before, or if you’d only ever done the reaching before—and that clumsiness nearly took his legs out; the fact that you were trying, that you’d decided his wanting was a thing worth tending to. You, who tended to everything, were turning all the careful attention now onto him. 

He caught your wrist with his free hand before you got to the button.

“Hey. No.” It came out rougher than expected. He pressed his mouth to your jaw so he wouldn't have to look at you while he said it. He could feel your pulse in your wrist, fast under his thumb, and he held it there. “Not—Just you right now. Okay?”

You went still, uncertain, and he felt the small recalibration in you. He couldn’t have that either.

“S’not—” Rafe huffed, frustrated at his own mouth, at the fact that the truth was right there and he had no clean way to hand it over. The truth being that if you touched him, he was done, and he needed it to last longer than that, he needed more of you before he let it be over. He had no way to say any of it that wouldn't crack him open.

So, he said, against your skin, “Let me have this one. You can deal with me later.”

He felt the curve of your smile against his cheek. “Promise?” you asked, like it genuinely could have been that simple.

He chose to believe it could be.

“Yeah, okay.” His fingers moved inside you again and your breath broke and the smile went with it. “Yeah. Promise.”

You made a noise, broken, your hips chasing his hand like the wanting had gone out ahead of you. He almost said it then. The thing. It got all the way up his throat and he swallowed it down because saying it here, like this, with his fingers inside you on Topper's boat, would've made it the cheapest it could ever be, and the one thing Rafe was sure of was that it wasn't cheap. He curled his fingers instead to find the place that made your whole body forget its manners.

His hips pressed forward against your thigh just once off their own accord, moving in a slow grind.

His body was finding pressure where it could, chasing the friction he’d denied simply because of the fact that he was so hard it had passed uncomfortable a while ago and entered something closer to pain.

The pressure sent a wave of relief through him so acute his breath came out shaky against your temple, and his hand stuttered inside you for half a second before he caught the rhythm again.

He locked his hips and stayed still and put everything he had back into you instead, into the curl of his fingers and the pace you needed, and the dull throb of himself went unanswered and that was fine.

That was fine. He could sit with it. He'd been sitting with wanting you for two years; what was another few minutes?

“Look at me.” It came out slow, almost a plea, far from having an order in it. He’d had his eyes shut a second ago and now he couldn’t survive not being able to see. “C’mon. Lemme see.” 

Your eyes dragged open, gone glassy, unfocused, and he held them. He’d wanted to see this for so long and he wasn’t going to spend it blind. 

Your hand twisted in his shirt. You were shaking. He could feel it building in you, your peak, close, and he kept his rhythm exactly where you needed it because for once in his life he wanted to give perfectly, get one act completely right.

“Rafe.” Your voice cracked on it, warning, almost.

“I know,” he said. “I got you.” 

You broke. He felt it happen—felt you go tight, squeezing his fingers, and then gone, your forehead dropping hard to his shoulder, a sound against his neck that you didn't choose and couldn't have stopped—and he held still inside it and let you have all of it, every second, until you went heavy and loose against him and the only thing holding you up was him.

Rafe kept his hand where it was one second longer than he should have, just to feel the last of it, then drew it back slow and fixed the lace with more care than he’d taken with anything in his life. He settled it back like he was hiding the evidence, which he was. He pressed his forehead to yours. Your hands had found his shirt again. Your eyes were shut.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, shaken, as you tried to recover yourself. He saw your jaw tighten like you wanted to say more and were physically biting the words down.

He already knew what was coming. He'd watched it happen enough with you now, the way the wanting closed over and the apology surfaced. He just didn't know it would land the way it did.

The words landed wrong in him, because ‘sorry’ was a thing people were for Rafe, a thing that arrived in his direction with his name attached. 

If you were going to keep reaching for him and you were going to be sorry every time, and he was going to let you, and the wanting was always going to come to him pre-wrapped in your regret.

He couldn't have that. Of all of it—the wrongness, the boat, Topper—that was the one thing Rafe found he could not stand in the room.

He brought his hand up and brushed his knuckles along your cheek, slow, and shook his head, just slightly, just enough. 

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out rough. “You see me complaining?”

You looked at him, and Rafe got the full, sober weight of your eyes for the first time since the door had clicked. In them was something he had no idea what he could with, the furrow of your brows and the frown on your lips, like you didn’t want to go.

That made something between his ribs sore, because he could deal with you regretting it; he’d dealt with people regretting him. What he had no capability for was you standing so, so fucking close to him looking like leaving him was the hardest part.

“Hey.” He had reached the edge of what his mouth could do. So he kept the knuckles against your cheek, because moving them was beyond him, and the two of you stood there in the bright nothing for a second that Rafe would later try and fail to make last longer in his memory than it had any right to last.

Then your eyes moved past him—to the door, to the world on the other side of it—and he watched the second you started leaving. 

He watched your face close over. Then your hands left his shirt—he felt the complete loss of them, a cold where they’d been tugging—and went to work; you smoothed the denim of your skirt where he’d greedily bunched it, the shirt next that had, at some point, lifted up, then your hair, fingers finding the loose pieces and threading them back into the shape they were supposed to hold. 

Forty seconds, maybe less, and there was almost nothing left of you that Rafe had put there. That meant you’d walk out into the sun and stand next to Topper, and Topper would look at you and see his girl, intact, unmarked, and returned to him in good condition. 

But you’d been sad to go. Rafe held onto that with both hands. He’d take it up the stairs with him; he’d take it home; he’d take it out later and look at it. He knew, even now, that keeping that would be the worst thing to keep, because the fact that you hadn’t wanted to leave didn’t mean you were going to stay. You were still going. Sad to leave and leaving weren’t opposites; you could do both. In fact, you were about to.

“You should head up,” he said. “Before anyone else comes.”

You nodded.

Rafe reached out one more time, the last time he could, and ran his thumb along the corner of your mouth where the pink had smudged, where he’d smudged it. He wiped it clean, almost carefully, and he tucked the one piece of hair you’d missed.

“I don’t know what—I’m sorr—”

Rafe cut your words off by placing a finger under your chin.

He knew while doing it that he was putting Topper’s girlfriend back together. He was reassembling you with his own hands so the seams wouldn't show, gentle as anything, and he hated himself the exact right amount and did it anyway, because the alternative was you walking up there with the truth still on you and Rafe was not—whatever else he was—going to be the reason it showed.

“Go,” he said, stepping back to give you the door. He found something like a smile somewhere and got it up onto his face and held it there with what he had left. “You look perfect.”

It was at the lawn party that happened every year because the Murrays had a lawn and a reason was not, on Figure Eight, something that was required to have a party. Rafe had come anyway, because not coming was its own kind of information, and another week into a thing like this he started doing calculation on what your absence said as carefully as what your presence did.

He’d been there an hour and he watched you the whole hour. He was good at it by now; he’d had years of practice so it didn’t look like anything, the trick of keeping his face pointed at the person talking to him while the rest of you stayed aimed at the far side of the lawn. Nobody saw him do it, and he watched you move around the grass in a green dress with a drink you hadn’t taken a single sip of.

You were bright and frictionless and doing that stupid fucking laugh exactly on time. Your hand found people’s forearms when you said a kind thing, and the whole set-up of it was so smooth and so total that he had a hard time believing you were the same person who’d asked him to come into a tiny bathroom on your boyfriend’s boat. 

By seven, the parents had thinned out and left Brad and Charlie Murray in charge of the lawn. It was by eight when Rafe noticed Topper leave. It was with some guy Rafe half-knew, a friend of a friend, who looked like he was going to be a problem, and Topper had peeled him off from the keg to deal with him. Topper was doing the small, good thing and taking a guy home before he woke up the next morning with an earful of everything he’d done.

He got his phone out before his mind even processed it. 

where are u, he texted you, making use of that almost-empty chat thread with you that was mainly filled with small logistic details he never cared about that you did. It was deniable, a sentence that would make him look like he was only keeping an eye out for his best friend’s girlfriend. 

He told himself that, too. He just wanted to know where you were; he’d also spent his time unable to decide if the boat had been a real thing or a girl having the worst night of her summer in a small room he just happened to be in. He didn't know which, and not knowing was its own kind of hell. 

about to catch a ride w ruthie

Rafe immediately read it and his mind snagged on the fact that you’d answered him at all. You could've gotten in Ruthie's car and let the question rot. Rafe felt something ugly and electric go up his spine that he had the decency, at least, to be disgusted by.

come by the pool in the back

The typing bubble didn’t come back up. He picked the label off the beer in wet strips and watched the path up to the pool. And you did come up the path, and Rafe got his answer, that the boat may not have been a fluke. 

He should've felt like he'd won something. He'd been telling himself for three weeks that knowing would feel like winning. 

You came around the hedge and saw him sitting on the pool ledge with his feet in the water and his beer on the stone beside him. 

“Hey,” you said. You looked at the pool, the empty chairs, the dark windows of the Murray house where the party noise was muffled into bass and the occasional shriek. You looked everywhere that wasn't him.

“You been avoiding me?” Rafe asked, trying to make it sound as even as possible. 

“No,” you said quickly. Your hand went to the chain around your neck and turned the pendant once.

He huffed out a breath. “Yeah?”

“I’m here, am I not?”

Rafe had no fucking clue how he’d managed to get you in this position, head between your thighs as you laid on the top of his white duvet.

The room was dark except for the dock lights off the marsh throwing slow, liquid patterns across the ceiling. Tannyhill was empty, and Rafe usually hated that, but right now, the silence was his and it had you in it, and that made it the best fucking room he’d ever been in. 

Your thighs were shaking with a small tremor, barely there, and his hands were holding them apart. His thumbs pressed into the soft inside of your skin as your whole body tried to close around him. He could feel the tension in the muscle under his palms, the restless shifting of your hips, and the way your hand had gone to his hair and stayed there.

He’d barely started. His mouth was working up from the inside of your thigh, tasting the salt on your skin, and you were already breathing like you’d been running. He could hear the short, caught inhales that you kept trying to smooth out. 

He said your name against your skin, and you jolted. “Stop thinking,” he murmured.

“I’m not—”

“I can feel it.” He looked up at you from between your legs. Your face in the dim was already flushed with eyes too wide and your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “Relax.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try less,” he drawled, thumb doing a gentle stroke against your skin. “That’s the whole point.”

His mouth moved higher, and your thighs clenched against the sides of his face before you caught yourself and relaxed it. He let his tongue drag down the slit, savoring the taste as your hips came off the bed. The sound you made was small and shocked; you immediately bit it back, swallowed it behind your teeth.

He wanted to stay like this. He wanted to take his time, learn you like this, take in every sound and shift of your body. But your body was rigid underneath him in a way that wasn't anticipation. You were lying on his bed with your legs apart and his face between them and some part of you couldn't stop being aware of it. He could feel your self-consciousness like a physical thing, the way you kept adjusting, kept shifting your hips.

“Rafe,” you said quietly.

He lifted his head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s—wrong.” You pressed your lips together. Your hand in his hair loosened, then tightened, then loosened again. “Can you come up here?”

“But I’m good here.”

“I know. I just—I wanna—” You stopped, letting out an almost-frustrated breath he found deeply amusing. Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and furrow between your brows had deepened in a way that wasn't just arousal. You were embarrassed. You were lying in his bed asking for something and you were embarrassed about the asking. “I want you like—closer.”

Rafe tugged his lip between his teeth, and he was sure his own pupils were blown as wide as they could be. “Closer how?”

Your eyes found his in the dark, and the shy wanting in your face hit Rafe in a really, really, difficult fucking way because he had no idea how to deal with it. You held his gaze and your hand gently tugged at his hair, pulling him upward and toward you.

“We don’t have to—” He went, because there was no version of this where he could deny you. He was already crawling up your body because his own was making the decision, his brain, his mouth dragging up your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. “I don’t mind.” 

Your hands went down from his hair and cupped the sides of his face with your palms, practically forcing him to look at you. “Do you—you don’t want to?” 

The question was so far from reality that his brain physically stalled. He was hovering over you, hands on your shoulders, and you were looking up at him with genuine uncertainty. 

“Are you—” He almost laughed. “You’re really asking me that?”

You grumbled something under your breath, causing him to chuckle then.

He moved his thumb to your lip, pulling it down, as he said, “I wanna. Just wanna make sure you’ll be fine.”

Your lips closed around his thumb, as if relieved at his answer, and Rafe’s brain went to place it wasn’t coming back from.

Your eyes stayed on his, still carrying the shy uncertainty from a second ago, and Rafe was supposed to reconcile that with the warm press of your tongue against his thumb. 

“Okay,” he said flatly. “Yeah. Thanks for that.” 

The corner of your eyes creased. You would’ve laughed if you weren’t currently occupied. 

He pressed his thumb down against your bottom lip, dragged it slow across the fullness of it, and watched your eyes go heavy. His cock was pressed against your thigh and he was fairly sure you could feel exactly what this was doing to him, which was fine, whatever, he'd abandoned dignity somewhere around the second week of wanting you.

“So fucking annoying,” he said, almost conversational. 

He pulled his thumb free, letting it drag. The wet shine it left on your lip caught the silver light. You looked up at him with your mouth still parted and an expression that was dangerously close to being pleased with yourself. 

He leaned down to press his forehead against yours, bracing his arms against your sides as his hips came flush against yours, cock grinding over the wetness of you. He let out a broken gasp at the feeling, eyes closing for a moment. 

Your breath hitched underneath him and your hips tilted up—chasing—and the friction made both of you go still for a second. Your hands were on his shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle, and your eyes were shut and your mouth was open and you looked like someone at the edge of a cliff deciding whether to jump.

He rocked against you again, watching intently the way your brow creased and your lips pressed together. He could feel you—the heat, the slick of it, how easy it would be to just push forward—and the restraint of not doing it yet, of keeping this unbearable almost-contact, was winding something tight behind his ribs.

“Why’re you letting me do this to you?” he asked, unable to stop the words from stumbling out. He rolled his hips again.

“Huh—”

He shifted his hips, unfair. He knew it was far from fair, but whatever deflection you’d been making lost its integrity. “Why?” he asked, voice quieter.

Your hands slid from his shoulders to the sides of his neck. You held him there, thumbs against his jaw, and he watched you try to find the answer while his body was making it very difficult to think. Your hips moved against his again; small, restless, like your body was having its own conversation separate from the one your mouth was attempting.

“Why are you doing this?” you said, turning it back around on him.

“I’ve got my reasons,” he said without missing a beat. 

Something flickered across your eyes, curiosity, maybe, then washed out. “And I’ve got mine.”

That was enough for Rafe. That was more than enough, that there was something in you that wanted to do this.

His hands went down to find his cock and align himself against you. He pushed forward in one, slow continuous motion, and any words you had for him dissolved into a sound that started as a gasp and ended nowhere. Your lips parted and your eyes widened just slightly at the newfound intrusion in your body as your nails sunk into the sides of his neck hard enough to leave crescents. 

His own breath left him somewhere guttural and graceless, his face dropping to the crook of your neck. He held still, breathing through his nose against your skin, jaw clenched as every muscle tightened.

Your body was adjusting around him in increments he could feel; the tension in your thighs loosening, your hips shifting beneath his to find the angle, your breathing going from held to shaky. Your fingers moved from his neck to his hair, threading through it, holding on.

“Okay?” he managed to say through his teeth.

“Yeah,” you said, voice coming out through a breath. “Just—stay there a second.”

He stayed, and he would’ve done so for the rest of the night if you’d asked him to. Your legs were wrapped around his hips and your fingers were in his hair and he was inside you in his bed and the whole situation was so far from anything he deserved that he was fairly sure the universe was going to correct the error any second now.

Your hips moved first with a small roll, testing, and whatever you found made your head tilt back and eyes close. You let out a small, surprised sound like you’d answered a question. 

“Good?” he said against your neck.

“Move,” you said instead of answering.

He pulled back and pushed in again, and your body rose to meet him on the first stroke like it had been waiting. The angle you found together made you gasp and him swear and it something in motion neither of you could stop. 

He pulled back to look at you because he needed to see your face. You looked wrecked already—mouth open, eyes half-shut, heat spreading down your neck—and something about the expression was more than just pleasure. It was surprise, like you hadn't known it could feel like this.

Rafe thought about Topper—a brief flash, Topper in this position, Topper on top of you—and felt something ugly and possessive claw up his throat. He wondered if Topper had ever seen this face.

He pushed himself up to the hilt to shove the thought aside. Your body kept meeting his with a push that matched his own, your hips rolling up into every thrust, and the careful dissolved in the face of it. 

At some point, through the haze of too-much-pleasure, more than Rafe deserved, your mouth found his shoulder, breathing hard against his skin. On a thrust that went deeper, your teeth came down reflexively, the bite sharp and sudden, sending a jolt down through him. A bright sting that braided into the pleasure and amplified it, and his hips snapped forward hard in response, punching a sound out of you that vibrated against his shoulder.

You pulled back. “Sorry. I’m sorry—”

He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t really care. You do what you want.”

His hand found your thigh, hiked your leg higher around his waist. The angle shifted and your head tipped back and the sound you made was loud enough to fill the room. Your throat was exposed, the pendant resting in the hollow of your collarbone—the initial that belonged to every version of you that existed outside this bed—and it caught the light as your chest heaved.

Rafe's hand moved before his brain had signed off on it. It shifted from your thigh up your body, over your ribs, your collarbone, and settled against the side of your throat, resting. His palm was against your neck, fingers curving around the column of it, his thumb was against your pulse where it was hammering fast enough to count.

You let out a shuddered breath as your back arched off the mattress, and your hips ground up into him. “Rafe,” you said, sounding almost needier. 

Rafe sucked in an inhale. “Yeah?”

Your mouth opened and nothing came out for a second—your body processing—and then a sound that was so unguarded your hand flew up to cover your mouth.

He caught it and pinned it to the mattress beside your head, fingers lacing with yours. His other hand stayed on your throat, elbows resting against the mattress, as his fingers rubbed the skin under your jaw. “Don’t do that.”

Your fingers squeezed his where they were pinned. Your eyes were bright and locked on his. He could feel you everywhere.

Your legs tight around his waist, your hand gripping his, your pulse racing against his palm, the way you clenched around him every time his thumb shifted against your throat. He was keeping all of it. He was putting it in the drawer that had started as a nook and had overtaken every other room in his head. The specific rhythm that made your eyes roll back. The way your body curved into him when he hit the right angle. The small, bitten-off sounds you made.

His lips found yours, tugging them with his teeth rather than kissing at all. Your shaky breaths ghosted over his face.

He could feel you getting close, your breath fragmenting into short gasps and you clenching around his own pulsing. Your hands squeezed his against the mattress hard enough that the bones ached. 

“I think I’m—” you started saying against his lips.

“I know,” he said, letting himself find a rhythm—the perfect one, if there even was one, to make you fall apart under him—as his finger reached up to trace your jaw. “I know.”

Within three minutes of Rafe’s body rolling off of yours, he noticed your body stiffen like a fucking stone. He stayed where he was, on his back, and he let the quiet sit because it was, for now, holding. 

Your shoulder was against his arm and your knee was somewhere near his. The length of you was just there, warm and breathing, close in a way that the boat or the truck or your bathroom hadn’t allowed. Rafe had never had that with you. He found he didn't entirely know what to do with his arm.

He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and reaching for the jeans on the floor. He got his cigarettes out of the pocket and put his jeans back on. He crossed to the window and pushed it up with the heel of his hand and Rafe sat himself on the sill, half in the room and half out of it. He took the first drag and felt his hands finally have a job. He needed something to do with his hands; lying in bed next to you without reaching out for you again wasn’t, it turned out, a thing his body had been built to do.

He let himself look back at you. You’d propped yourself up on one elbow, the duvet pulled across you, and you were watching him, the way he did you, except he’d had the cowardice to do it across rooms and you were doing it from eight feet away with no apparent shame about it at all. 

When you realized he noticed you, your eyes went down.

Rafe huffed, smoke going with it. “Now you’re shy?”

“Shut up.”

“You can stare. I’m right here.”

You shifted under the duvet at his gaze, and your eyes came off him and went to the middle distance. Something in your shoulders drew in, like you were folding half-inch under a thing you had no cover for.

He shifted on the sill, opening the space between his knees so the foot still inside came down flat on the floorboards. He made the room and let it sit there, took another drag, and looked at the dark outside.

You pushed the duvet off and got up to cross the room in his t-shirt, the grey one, the hem of it at the top of your thighs. You sat down between his legs with your back to his chest, and Rafe forgot, for a second, what he’d been doing with his cigarette.

“You cold?” he said, because you’d drawn in against him.

“A little.”

He brought his arm around you and flattened it over your stomach to pull you back the last inch into him, and it sat there like a bar across your front. Your spine fell against his sternum and his chin landed somewhere at the top of your head without fully thinking about it. He smoked over your shoulder, angling it away so it wouldn’t go in your face. 

“Can I say something?” you asked after a moment.

“That’s never good.”

“It’s not bad.” you said.

“That’s worse.” He felt you huff, the small laugh going through your back into his chest. He tapped the ash out the window. “Go.”

“I didn’t know I’d—” You stopped, looking out the window. “I don’t usually—” The sentence continued to fall halfway, each version dying before it cleared your teeth. You sighed, longly, then gave up on saying it cleanly at all. “It’s usually never like that for me. That’s all.”

It took Rafe a moment to register you weren’t talking about the sex as much as you were talking about yourself. You’d been in one bed your whole life, and so the basic structure of the thing was a blank you were handing him, with no management on it, trusting him—him, of all people—to draw it in honestly.

“Yeah,” he said carefully. 

You nodded against his collarbone, and he felt the small loosening in your body, as though you’d been quietly worried about admitting it and just found out that it was fine. 

“Makes sense, though.” He took a drag, the cigarette going into its last embers. “One person your whole life. You don’t even know what you—” The words came out magnanimous, older, knows-better, and he tried to reel it back because he most definitely didn’t know better. “You gotta get out more. Figure out what you like. Who does it for you.” He shrugged, almost stiffly. “You’ve got catching up to do.”

It sat there for half a second, and then the picture loaded behind it—you, like this, and someone else being the one to go looking and find the same pieces he just found—and Rafe discovered the offer he’d made out of generosity was the single most intolerable sentence he’d said all summer.

You tipped your head back against his shoulder to look up at him. There was something small and amused in your face, because you'd caught the seam in his voice a beat before he'd even finished hating himself for it.

“How many more?”

He huffed, low and hot against the side of your head, and shook it once. “Yeah, alright.” His arm drew tighter across your stomach. “Pretty sure I should be enough.”

The cigarette was dead. He’d smoked it past the point of it being anything, down to the place where it was just paper and heat between his fingers, and he reached out and crushed it on the brick of the sill outside. His hand came back in with nothing to do, and he solved it the way he’d started solving most of it recently, which was to find some part of you and settle on it; the flat of his palm went to your hip and stayed, his thumb moving once over the bone of it and then going still. 

“I should probably drive you home soon, yeah?” he said into the side of your head. “It’s late.”

He felt your spine taking itself back, the slack going out of you, and the cold rushed back into the warm place at his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” you said quickly. “I’ll get dressed really quick.”

Before he could even process it all, you were already up, crossing for your clothes. He watched you put them on.

Stay was right there, but it wouldn’t come up. 

“Hey.” You stopped at his voice, one sandal on, the other one in your hand. “The catching up—” His thumb found the brick where the cigarette had been rubbed. “I’m right here. If you—want to—up to you.”

It was the most he could get out. 

“You’re bad at this,” you said, almost matter-of-factly. 

He huffed, eyes leaving the window to go back to you for a second. “Yeah, I know.” He laughed then, slightly. “Never really been in this situation before.”

“Yeah,” You bent and set the sandal down on the boards. “Me neither.”

Thick syrupy light that came down at six and made people you couldn’t even stand look like they were worth everyone’s time covered your entire vision. You were on a long teak bench against the pergola with Topper’s arm across the back of it, and you had a sweating glass of something pink you’d been holding for thirty minutes. The Devreux twins were in the pool; someone had fallen asleep upright on the Adirondack chair, a tray of those little crab things was going around, and the citronella candles were already lit. 

Topper’s hand was on your knee, it had been there a while. It landed the same way as it always had, without his eyes following it. Two years ago, one year ago, a month ago, it had been nothing, only a thing that came with being his. 

The problem was that it wasn’t anything anymore. You could feel exactly where his palm was, and your whole body had started to keep a completely different count this summer that had nothing to do with anniversaries. The count was three, and it was something your skin knew all too well, even when your face didn’t. So his hand sat on your knee in the gold light and you had to make yourself not move it, the way you made yourself not do a lot of things now, and you understood with a small flat horror that you'd become a person who had to be aware of your boyfriend’s touch.

“—no, that’s the thing about her,” Topper said, free hand sloshing as he gestured, and you pulled yourself back in as you realized it was you he was speaking about. “Last year for her birthday, I planned the whole thing, booked the place on the water and got everyone out—like forty people—and she just—” he tipped his head toward you, fond, the spotlight swinging, and you felt it land before you'd arranged your face for it. “She had the best time. Didn’t ask for anything. My mom says it all the time, she’s gonna be so nice to be married to.”

The bench made a unanimous warm and approving sound. Somebody said ‘we love her.’ You smiled, head tilting on autopilot, and you let yourself remember—for exactly one second—that you had wanted, very badly, to spend that birthday at home. That you’d told him so, gently, twice, and he’d heard you didn’t want a fuss because that was an easier version of you to plan around. 

Forty people on the water; you’d had the best time because you were good at your job. Topper was saying the truth, that was the unbearable part. Topper stood it was a true story about a girl who didn't want anything, and the girl who hadn’t wanted it had simply never made it across to him, had filed the wanting down small and smooth so he'd never have to notice her carrying it.

He loved to talk about that birthday. He’d talk about it for years. He’d talk about it at the wedding. 

Across the lawn, Rafe was leaning against the pergola post with a beer, angled half away from it all. You couldn’t see his face, and you didn’t need to. He was the only person who somehow knew you’d wanted to stay home—a fact that slipped out when your lips had been loose while you were in a haze, simply trying to fill silences—and you had to put your glass to your mouth and not drink just to have something to do that wasn't turning your head.

“You’re quiet,” Topper said, leaning in, the scent of sun and beer filling your nose. “Should I get the car? We can dip early.”

“No need,” you said, smiling. “I’m good.” 

You got up after a few minutes and said something about grabbing finger sandwiches and Topper asked you to grab a beer, already halfway into a discussion about a jetski. You said you would, which meant now you would be grabbing a beer. 

You went the long way, around the deep end, past the abandoned crab tray and the sleeper with his drink balanced on the side of his chair. You walked through all of it with your empty pink drink and the specific loneliness of being the only sober-feeling person at a party that was working perfectly for everyone else.

You stood in the far end of the pergola where the lattice cut the gold light into pieces, and you set the glass down on the ledge. You put both your hands on the wood and looked at the marsh going gold past the property line and let yourself, for one supervised minute, feel it. 

It came up fast once you let yourself feel it; it was the low, slick, swelling kind, the kind that had your name on it. Because Topper was good. Topper was sitting forty feet away being genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy, telling a roomful of people he loved how easy you were to love, how little you needed, how lucky he was. Every word coming out of his mouth was true to him, and he had driven you across the island when you were bored, had asked if you’d eaten, had loved the wrong version of you so correctly that you couldn’t even hate him for not finding the real one. 

He would continue being good, and you had spent the summer doing the single worst thing a person could do to another, to him, to the boy who’d done nothing but be exactly what everyone said he was. 

Your eyes went hot and you blinked hard as you felt the first one go before you could stop it. You wiped the tear fast with the heel of your hand because crying here would be a catastrophe, and you hated yourself with a completeness that almost steadied you, because at least the hating was honest, at least it was the one true feeling you'd had all day that you weren’t forcing for anybody.

You felt the change in the air, the quiet of someone arriving who knew not to announce it, and you didn't turn around because you couldn't, not with your face like this. Rafe had already seen you like this more times than you would have liked.

“Hey,” he said, voice low behind you, to the set of your shoulders. “You—”

“Not now, Rafe,” you said, voice coming out cracked. You kept your back to him and pressed the heel of your hand under your eye, fast, like you could get there before he saw, and you couldn't, and you knew you couldn't. “I can’t—I’m sorry, I can’t give you—” Your words were interrupted by a hiccup. “Not right now. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not trying to…” You heard Rafe suck in a sharp breath and let the words trail off. “That’s not why I—” He tried again, and he couldn’t get there again, sounding genuinely unsure about how to finish the sentence. “Jesus. No.”

You turned then, because he sounded too caught off-guard, and you got your first look at his face which was filled with genuine confusion, brows furrowed.

“Why would you think—I saw you walking off looking like—” He looked almost offended as he stared at you. Then, he gestured vaguely at your face, his motions moving awkwardly. “Like that. So I came over. That’s it.” He shook his head, frustrated at himself now. “I don’t—I’m not trying to fuck you or whatever. I just came over, alright?”

You let yourself sit with his words for a moment, feeling something like warmth cover your chest and then immediately feeling like a monster for feeling it. 

“Okay,” you said finally, voice small.

He nodded once, sharply. “He’s being an idiot.”

You let out a sound that was meant to be a laugh but just came out as a hiccup again. “No, he’s not.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, and you could feel how difficult it was for him to talk right now.

“No, he’s not,” you said again, shaking your head. “He’s good, Rafe. He didn’t do anything and I’m—” You took in a deep breath, forcing yourself to look away from him. “I’m just being a horrible person to him.”

“So fucking what,” Rafe said, the words coming out as the complete opposite of a question. “You’ve probably done a hundred good things for strangers in the last six months.” He scratched at his chin for a moment. “It’s annoying to even watch. Maybe you get one bad thing to do.”

You looked up at him with what should’ve been gratitude, but what came was the reflex. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you wanna keep sleeping with me.”

Your words came out smaller than an accusation, like you were just handing him the easy version on purpose. The one where this could stay a thing you understood, because a guy who said nice things to get something was a guy you knew how to be around, and a guy who said them for no reason was not.

Rafe’s face shifted—you’d stung him, you realized, a beat too late—and he chose to not take the out you’d given him.

“Yeah,” he said flatly, voice dry. “That’s it. That’s exactly why. Came all the way here just to lock that one down.” He looked at you with a look you couldn’t recognize. “Don’t be dumb.”

You wanted to let it end there, because it was all going out of left-field, into an area you couldn’t manage. But Rafe continued, like he was the one who hated silences, “I stole a turtle.”

“Today?” you asked, the word coming out of your mouth before you could process his words.

He shifted his neck back as he looked at you. “No, not today. Obviously.” He looked over you for a moment, reassessing. “Eighth grade. It was a class turtle.”

You let out a laugh that was mainly the aftershocks of your wet eyes and stuffy nose. “What’s wrong with you?” you said, and it came out clogged and unsteady and not unkind at all, almost grateful, the question you’d meant as an accusation arriving as something closer to relief.

“Lotta things,” Rafe said, then took a sip of his beer. “Connor’s mom was gonna keep it for the summer. I didn’t like him. Kept the turtle three months in my closet.”

“What’d he do to you?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged. “Something.”

You laughed then, and your hand went up your mouth. The corner of Rafe’s mouth went up. 

“Took care of it, though,” he said after. “Probably better than they would’ve.” 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm. They were going on vacation that summer, anyway.” He picked at the label on his bottle. “Let it go after. It’s fine out there somewhere.”

You wiped under your eye, the crying mostly gone now, just the wreckage of it left. “I’d look for it.”

He looked at you for a long second, like he was deciding whether you were serious and landing on, in this second, maybe. Then he shook his head, slow, the brows still up.

Rafe’s brows went up a little. “Yeah, that’s all you.”

The overhead lights of Kelce’s basement were off and somebody had plugged in the lamp with the scarf over it that Kelce’s mother did not know her son owned, and the room had gone a low amber colour that made everything look a little more like something was wrong. Upstairs, the party was loud. Down here, it was a circle—the deep couch and the floor and the coffee table that had cigarette burns Kelce blamed, every single time, on a cousin—of eight or nine of you, the number loose for people kept arriving then going. 

You were between Topper and Rafe, and you hadn’t chosen this. You’d come down the stairs and there’d been one gap on the couch, and it had Topper on one side of it and Rafe on the other. There was no version of the next two seconds where you would stand in the middle of the basement doing visible math to get out of the situation, so you sat on it. 

Topper’s arm went along the back of the couch behind you, which meant he’d stopped tracking where you were, which was its own kind of love and also the reason any of this had been possible all summer. He was already pitched forward into a conversation about a boat motor; Topper could run a conversation with no fuel at all, indefinitely, like a hybrid. So you sat in the loose bracket of his arm and did all the things you were good at, the nod and the small affirming sound and the face set to show you were listening, and you did not look to your other side. 

Your other side was Rafe leaning over the glass with a card and a folded bill, and you were spending real effort trying to watch him not do it. The effort was the tell.

You’d gotten frighteningly good at it over the summer; the alibis with no holes, the texts timed so the read receipts said the right story, the whole situation of getting away with it. The easy thing, the keeping your eyes where you put them, turned out to be the one you couldn’t do. 

It was difficult, and what came with it every time was the low unstable interest in watching him. There was this wanting to look directly at the thing you’d spent your whole life being walked quickly past. Rafe didn’t manage himself. Rafe had a whole room in him with the lid off, and your whole life had been lids—on drinks you didn’t finish, on sentences you didn’t end, on the want you folded up small and put away before anyone could see the shape of it—and watching him just not do that, just reach for the thing and take it in a basement full of people, did something to you that you couldn’t find a clean name for. 

The bill went around. Madi did hers with a wince. It traveled—a guy you half-knew, back across the table—and came near you, and you said, “I’m good.”

“Course you are,” Rafe said, a half-laugh in it. “You ever loosen up?”

“I loosen up,” you said, the words coming out before you could get a hand on them.

His head came around a few degrees. “Yeah?” He sat back off the table and looked at you. “Okay, then,” he said, soft, just for you. There was a dare folded in it only you could hear, because the only honest answer was sitting six inches to your left and getting off on this. “Name one thing you do.”

You felt the heat go up your neck and sealed your mouth. You watched a grin build itself across his face slow and unhurried, enormously enjoying the trap he’d set in plain sight. 

“Hey.” Topper’s hand came to your knees, squeezing. “She’s gonna stop humoring you if you keep doing that,” he said, laughing with no heat in it.

He wasn’t even facing Rafe—or you—half his attention already drifted back into the room, because to Topper this was nothing, just two people he liked talking beside him.

For a second, something flickered down behind Rafe’s face, ugly and fast, gone before it finished calcifying. You knew the look he’d swallowed a hundred times this summer watching Topper kiss your temple in front of people. 

Rafe leaned back against the couch, head against the cushion. He lifted his hand and dragged two fingers slow across his lip and held them there, and you understood now what the gesture was, forcing it down with two fingers because there was nowhere on God's earth he was allowed to let it out, least of all here, least of all at the person whose lap you were sitting across.

You sat with Topper's thumb moving idle on your knee and watched Rafe swallow a thing he had no business owning, and the awful part—the part you'd think about later—was how it answered something. How Rafe somehow made it feel better than being had.

Then Topper’s phone lit on his leg. He looked at it, said “My dad,” with the apology already on his face, and squeezed your shoulder and stood up, going to the stairs with his phone against his ear.

You saw Rafe’s head turn at the edge of your vision, his body staying exactly where it was, so that when he spoke it came angled at the side of your face. “You see Kelce with that girl earlier?”

You turned to meet him there. “Yes,” you said, too fast. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Visiting for the summer.” He shrugged, short. “Think he’s pretty into her.”

You weren't a gossip. You didn't do this—it was meant to be beneath the girl everyone had agreed you were—but it came up in you anyway, quick and a little mean and good. “Into her or the summer thing?”

Rafe huffed—almost a laugh, low—and you realized both your heads were turned all the way, that you were angled to him now, and that the two of you had built a tiny private room inside a basement full of people and not one person could have pointed at the thing you'd done to build it. 

“What’s gonna happen?”

“Dunno.” A corner of his mouth went up. “I’ll tell you later.”

You opened your mouth a little, then closed it again. You looked at the coffee table, at the cigarette burns, at anything that was not Rafe, and you found that your hand had gone up to the side of your neck on its own and you made it come back down.

Rafe watched you do all of it as a smile settled into the side of his mouth. 

“Don’t make that face,” you said.

“But it’s the only one I’ve got,” he drawled. The smile got worse, almost bigger and lazier, and he held your eyes for a second longer. Mercifully, he let you go and leaned forward off the couch and back to the glass of the table.

You watched him line it up, the quick work of his hands with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and the party was a wall of sound somewhere above you. Down here the tally you ran on every room you'd ever been in—who was where, who could see—had quietly stopped running, and you were watching Rafe with your whole stupid face.

He sat back up a few seconds after doing the line and his eyes met yours once again. 

“You’re staring,” he said.

“You’re in my eyeline,” you said.

“Move your eyeline,” he said without missing a beat.

“It’s my eyeline. You move.”

“Guess you’re stuck then.” He didn't look away. Neither did you.

He tilted his head a degree, slow, openly, the way a person looks at a thing when they've stopped pretending they're not looking. There were eight people in the room and one of them was upstairs on the phone with his father, and you let Rafe look, and you looked back, and for a second the not-hiding was so much more dangerous than anything you'd actually done.

“Since when,” Kelce started, apparently not by the stairs anymore, “are you two friends?”

Both of you turned to the sound. Kelce was just standing there, between the two of you, his face mostly amused.

“She’s Top’s girl, she has to—”

“He’s Topper’s friend—” you said at the same time as Rafe, the two of you landing the same beat and the same word and the same lie from two different directions, and you heard it happen, heard your voice and his voice arrive together like that, and so did he, because he stopped, and so did you.

Kelce laughed. “Jesus, I didn’t realize it was a sore subject.”

You should’ve gotten up then, but you remained seated exactly where you were when Topper came back down the stairs.

Topper looked at the couch, at the space between the two of you on the cushion—not a wide space, a space that had been closing all night by degrees each too small to be charged with anything on its own—and he stood on the last stair and looked at it, and something moved across his face that you had no name for, that you had never needed a name for, because in all these years you had never once seen Topper look at you like he was wondering something.

It felt like a snag—probably half-a-second where his face caught on the two of you with something close to confusion—and then it was gone, smoothed over, and he was Topper again, coming down off the stairs, sliding the phone into his pocket, saying something to someone about something.

It was the first time you’d fallen asleep. You would drift off sometimes after, heavy-lidded but you’d still surface if he moved wrong. This time you were actually asleep, all the way under, your breathing dropped into a slow even rhythm. It had happened maybe twenty minutes ago and Rafe had been lying very still since, on his back, one arm dead under you, not moving it. If he moved, he’d risk the chance of waking you, and if you did, it’d mean the end of this. He’d decided, at some point, he wanted to know long you’d stay if he just didn’t fuck with it.

He’d never quite had this part. He’d had the rest of it plenty; the wanting it, the having it, the after where they gathered their clothes because they had somewhere better to be. Nobody slept. Girls didn’t sleep at Rafe’s, that was a thing you did somewhere comfortable, and Rafe had never been once mistaken for comfortable. He had, in fact, spent a great deal of effort making sure he wasn’t, and so the sleeping went to other people’s beds. And now you were here, the one girl on the island who had the most reasons to keep one eye open around him, out cold on his chest. 

He had no idea what he’d done to earn it. He suspected he hadn’t earned it at all, that you’d simply gotten tired and this was an accident of exhaustion rather than a verdict of him. But he was choosing, for the length of your nap, to take it as a verdict. 

Your hand was open on his sternum, fingers half-curled. You’d kicked the duvet down to your knees at one point. You ran hot, he learned. You started every night wrapped up and ended it shoving the covers off—that you slept like being contained was a thing you couldn’t stand—which struck him as the single funniest fact.

He should’ve woken you. It was getting late, you had a home to return to with people in it. You had a phone lying on his nightstand that would start lighting up with the name he’d forced out of his mind while you were lying on him. 

Still, he laid there and let the minutes run on, and somewhere in the running, the minutes stopped feeling like luck and more like debt. A good thing arrived and sat with him long enough to stop being a surprise, and the second it stopped being that, it became something he owed, a thing with a price-tag faced down that he doesn’t get to keep this. 

So when you woke—your hands twitching against his chest—he was almost relieved. Awake, you were a problem he knew how to have. You made a small displeased sound and pressed your face harder into him, like you could climb back under.

“You’re out,” he said, voice coming out rough. He hadn’t used it in an hour.

“‘M not,” you said, voice muffled into his sternum. 

You pulled the duvet back up over the both of you instead, and hooked your leg over his, and settled your cheek back down with a weight that had staying in it, and Rafe lay very still under the fact of you deciding that, and felt the want come up hard enough to scare him.

“Can I say something?” you said into his chest.

He huffed slightly. “You don’t gotta ask.”

You breathed through your mouth into his chest. “Think I should end things with Topper.”

The first thing in Rafe was wrong. Fast, animal, up before he could get a hand on it—a kick of pure want, yes, do it, be free—and it was gone almost as fast as it arrived. The second thing came down on top of it like a ceiling; ending things with Topper meant this thing stopped being deniable. The cover would be gone, the frame would be gone, the whole careful system that let any of this exist would come apart in your hands.

So he went still. He felt the stillness travel down into you and turn into fear, felt you reach the conclusion you'd clearly already half-built and come braced for, and your hand went flat on his chest and you started speaking fast, into him, before he'd surfaced enough to get a single word out.

“Not for—” You stopped yourself, taking in a sharp inhale. “It’s not about you. I’m not—I wouldn’t be doing it because of that. It’s just me. For me.”

You’d handed him the out and all he had to do was take it. 

“Then don’t,” he said.

He felt you shake your head against him. “Don’t what?” you asked, almost tired, like you knew where he was going.

“End it.” He heard how it sounded yet he couldn’t stop the rest of the words from coming. “You’ve been with him two years. You’re not gonna—what? Throw that out over—” He stopped. Started again, flatter, building the case he needed to be true. “It’s not even—don’t let this be a thing, okay? It’s not me. You feel like this ‘cause you’re not supposed to be doing it. It’d feel like this with anyone who made the move. Just happened to be me.” 

You went quiet on him for a second. Then you lifted your head off his chest—something you almost never did, for you said the hard things angled away from him—and you brought your face up so he had to look at it. 

“Don’t say things like that about me.” Your words came out even. He’d braced for mad, that would’ve let him be an asshole and you the wronged party; everyone would’ve been in the right place. “I mean it. Don’t.”

And he, who had a hundred things he could’ve said, who’d built a personality out of always having something to say back, found that the only thing in him was the need to take it all back immediately.

“Alright,” he said.

“I’m serious.”

“Alright,” he said, lower this time, as if that would let you see he was listening. For some reason, he wanted you to know he listened. “I won’t. I won’t say it.”

You eyed him for a moment, then said, quietly,  “Don’t act like you’re better than me.” He was practically forced into staring at you. “Don’t sit here telling me to stay with Topper like you’re doing some favor, when the only reason any of this happened is ‘cause I’m dating him.” You took a breath, then. “You’d never have looked at me twice if I wasn’t with him.”

He let the words move through his body for a moment before he moved, turning to you, getting an arm braced over you as his weight came up onto his side, over you, close. 

“That’s what you think?” he said, and it was the furthest thing from a question. 

“Rafe—”

“No, s’fine,” he said quickly. His hand found your jaw and tilted it. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

He brought his mouth to the corner of your lips and stopped there, close enough to feel you breathing wrong, and let you sit in it, because he had nothing to say and a great deal to prove and he wanted you to feel the difference before he made it.

His palm flattened over your stomach and drifted lower, and yours followed behind, a little more hesitant but still determined. His body jerked slightly as your fingers curved around his cock, and he pushed himself unbelievably closer to you. His fingers found the waistband of your underwear, tugging them off your hips just the slightest, enough for him to press down against your heat.

He bit back a groan at the remnants of your everything you’d done before your nap sliding against him.

He got your underwear off the rest of the way without ceremony with one hand, you lifting your hips and bending your knees to help, eyes never leaving your face. 

His fingers came back to your jaw and it went slack, head tipping back, and he followed it with his mouth to your throat because he couldn’t not.

“Don’t,” you murmured.

He stilled for a moment.

“Mark.” 

Something in him went dark about it, fast and ugly, because it meant you had to go back up that bluff road in a few hours looking like nobody had touched you. He wanted to mark you so badly his teeth ached with it. He wanted to put something on your throat you’d have to explain, wanted Topper to see it and wonder.

Rafe wanted to leave a single piece of proof somewhere on you that this happened, that he had happened. He wanted to ruin the clean line of you on purpose. It was the most honest want he had and it was the one you'd just forbidden.

He lifted his mouth off the soft place and dragged it to the hinge of your jaw instead, somewhere safe and he hated it—and he hated it, hated the leash of it, hated that being good to you and being denied you were the exact same motion—and he let the fury of it pour into everything his hands were doing instead, because that, at least, left no marks if he was being careful.

He got his hand under your thigh and pulled it around his hip and felt you—the heat of you right there, nothing between it now—and had to press his forehead to the side of your face and breathe for a second. You turned your face slightly into his and your mouth found his cheek, the corner of his jaw, a want of a kiss rather than a kiss at all.

“Rafe, do it—”

He pushed in slow, slower than he wanted to. It was slower than his whole body screaming at him to. You made a sound against his temple, a small broken thing, and your fingers dug into his back hard enough to leave something.

He kept going until his hips pressed against yours, flush. He pulled back and drove forward and felt you take it, your whole body shifting up the mattress with the force of it, and he got an arm under your lower back, lifting you slightly, and held you where he wanted you and did it again. Your head fell back and his eyes focused on your throat move.

“Look at me,” he said fast, rough.

You did. You always did, when he asked, and every time it nearly took him apart.

He set a pace that was far from gentle and you rose to meet it, hips tilting, finding the angle, adjusting without asking him to, and he felt the precise moment you found what you needed because your whole body changed and you made a sound low in your throat that he felt in his sternum.

He pushed your leg higher and went deeper, pulling you up so you were almost off the bed, and your hand flew up to the headboard, bracing.

“Yeah,” he said, and didn't mean to say anything at all.

Your eyes were half-closed, your mouth open, and you looked like something he had absolutely no right to and was going to have anyway, had already decided, had already been unable to stop from the moment you'd said his name and left a door open.

His mouth found yours, messy, barely a kiss, more breath than anything. Your hips moved against his and he groaned into your mouth and felt you shiver at the sound of it, your whole body registering it, which meant he did it again deliberately and watched what it did to your face.

He moved his hand between you, finger finding the bundle of nerves, pressing down slightly before he found a smooth motion. He extended his other arm around your back, holding you up.

Your reaction was immediate and unguarded and your head went back against the air with a force that was almost funny, almost—he wanted to say something, he felt it come up—but he swallowed it and pressed his mouth to your jaw instead and kept his hand moving because he wanted you there, wanted to feel it, had earned it by two years of not having it.

“Please—” The word came out of you fractured halfway.

“I know. C’mon.”

You went tight around him and he felt it building, felt the shape of it in the way you gripped him and the hitch in your breathing and the small desperate sound you were trying and failing to keep from happening, and he put his mouth to your ear and said nothing, just let you hear what you were doing to his breathing, let that be the thing to let you know you weren't alone in it.

You broke apart quietly. A deep shudder moved through your whole body, your face open and unguarded, your fingers gripping his back hard enough that he'd find it tomorrow and not mind.

You could mark him.

He followed you over the edge with his face pressed into your hair, your name in his mouth, a low rough sound into your hair and his whole body giving up the careful hold it had kept on itself.

He stayed where he was for a moment, both of you breathing. Your hand was flat on his back, not gripping anymore, just resting. He held you for a moment longer before setting you down on the mattress.

At the dock in the last week of July, during the hour everyone else had gone up to the house before the mosquitoes forced them in, Rafe had stayed back because Topper had, and Rafe understood about ninety seconds later it was to get him alone. 

Rafe had spent his childhood being gotten alone by Ward, summoned to the study (to this day, Rafe still had no idea what he used it for)—or the boat or the living room, for conversations that always meant his father had decided something for him.

So when Topper stayed behind while the others left, Rafe felt the old thing tick over his chest, the same bracing. So, he stood at the end of the Thorntons’ dock with a warm beer he’d stopped drinking a while ago, waiting to decide what Topper had decided for him.

He was surprised when he realized Topper was nervous, the same guy who had never had to go looking for a sentence. He was doing something useless with the dock line—wrapping it then unwrapping it—and Rafe watched his hands and, for a moment, thought that Topper fucking knows.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” Rafe said, the word trailing off awkwardly.

“You think she’s happy?”

Rafe felt his mouth go dry. He kept his face pointed at the water. He had four or maybe fifteen answers and ran through all of them—he didn’t even know his brain could think that fast—and under all of them, traitor-fast, arriving before he could shut the drawer on it, Rafe heard your voice against his truck window, ‘I don’t know if that’s normal or if something’s wrong with me.’

Rafe had the answer to Topper's question. He'd had it cold for almost three months, carrying it around like a stolen thing he kept meaning to give back and didn't.

He shrugged, and he hoped it didn’t look as stiff as it felt. “She’s fine. I don’t really know her.”

“That’s not—” Topper stopped, then looped the line again. “I didn’t ask if she’s fine.”

Rafe felt himself turn to look at Topper, because the correction was so unlike him, the small insistence on the gap between ‘fine’ and ‘happy,’ a gap Rafe had never known Topper could see. For the first time, Rafe felt that Topper was acting differently.

Topper looked wretched. “I think she’s somewhere else. Lately.” He gestured with the line, at the dark water, at nothing. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“I don’t know, man.” The words came out of Rafe slow, as though he was reaching for it. “Girls get like that when you’re—” He made a vague motion with a bottle. “On ‘em too much.”

“I’m not on her.”

“I’m not saying you are.” He shrugged. “I’m saying you’re doing the whole—” He made another lazy motion. “Apartment. Rings. The you’re gonna do this with her, you’re gonna do that. Every time you talk about her.” He kept his eyes on the water. He kept his voice in the register that couldn't be weighed. “If some girl was telling me what to do with my life, I’d get weird about it, too. That’s my hunch.”

It wasn’t a hunch so much as it was him molding the exact words you’d said to him about Topper only a few nights ago. Rafe had taken it and scrubbed every fingerprint off of it, scrubbed you off of it, until it was dull and safe enough to hand to your boyfriend.

He watched Topper receive it exactly as that, as a hunch. 

“You think I should back off?”

“I think—” Yes. Back off. Loosen the hold you’ve got so the other guy can—“I have no clue. Girls come back around.”

And Rafe’s words may have meant even a little bit of something if, within two hours of the conversation, he didn’t have you on top of him, the tailgate down and the night doing its loud thing past the trees, and Rafe had his hand flat on your back between your shoulder blades.

Your cheek was on his chest and you weren't talking, and Rafe was finding out for the hundredth time that he didn't know what to do with this part.

The sex he understood. This—the after, your weight settled all the way down onto him like you'd stopped holding any of it up, your breathing gone slow—this he still had no instructions for. So he stayed still and let you be heavy on him and looked at the dark shape of the trees.

“Can I say something bad?” you said against his chest.

“Obviously.”

“Dean, that guy at the party tonight.” You picked at a thread on the moving blanket where it had pilled.  “I think he’s annoying. He was hitting on Madi and she wasn’t into it.” 

Rafe huffed, the laugh moving up through his chest under your cheek. “What’s annoying about him?” 

“He said my name like nine times in two minutes. He did the same thing to her. It makes me trust him less.”

“That’s so mean.” Rafe felt himself blow out an amused breath. “You’re so mean. Nobody knows.” 

“Don’t tell.”

That was even more amusing. “Who am I gonna tell? Barry?” His hand moved on your back, down, stayed. “He’d probably forget in two seconds.”

“I can’t believe he’s the person that makes you go to The Cut.”

“And he beats me up sometimes.” He felt his palm slightly push your body down against him, as if you could get any closer. “Barry would love you.”

“Your dealer,” you said flatly. “Thanks.”

"Don’t ever meet him, though.”

His hand flattened against your back, drawing you up the half-inch it took to put your face level with his. 

His lips found yours slow, a kiss with no chase behind it. His hand cradled the back of your skull off the cold metal, like there was all the time in the world. He felt you sink into it; that was getting easier, as though you’d stopped being scared of how easy.

When he pulled back, his mouth stayed close. “You going to that dinner with Top’s lacrosse buddies on Friday?”

“I’m supposed to.”

His thumb moved at your jaw. “You’ll want to die.”

“I told him I’d go.”

Rafe shrugged. “Tell him you’re tired. Pretty sure my house is gonna be empty Friday, too.”

You took a shaky breath and dropped your head into the crook of his neck. “That’s such a shitty thing to do.”

“Yeah.” His hand went still at your jaw, and he felt his chin involuntarily dip to rest against the top of your head. “You gonna do it?”

“Maybe,” you said, voice muffled against his body.

He moved his hand up to the back of your head again. “Good.”

That should have been all the night asked from him, the two of you going quiet, him heavy and stupid and content underneath you in a way he’d never tell a living soul he was capable of being. He’d half-decided not to move for an hour; he had the whole thing planned, to stay right there.

The phone went off on the floor of the backseat.

He groaned, low, the whole of it vibrating up his chest and into your cheek. “No.”

“Rafe—”

“No.” He pulled you in tighter, an arm banded across your back, like he could keep both of you out of range by its sheer hold. The phone continued buzzing against the floormat, ugly and insistent. “Not right now.”

You were laughing slightly, you'd tipped your face up off his chest, and he felt the warmth of it more than heard it. “Could be important.”

“Yeah? Could be your boyfriend,” he said, teasing.

You exhaled. “I hate you.”

He laughed then, feeling it move up him easily. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You’re the worst person I know,” you said it into his neck, where you'd tucked your face again, and your breath was warm there and your hand had gone back to the hem of his shirt, the idle pulling thing, no point to it. 

He tilted his chin slightly downwards to press his lips against the top of your head. “That’s okay.”

You were smiling, he could feel the shape of it against his throat. The phone was still going on the floormat and neither of you were looking at it, and Rafe thought, for a moment, that he would have signed anything to keep the night exactly here. Not further, not better, only here.

The phone stopped, and he let out a breath slowly. Then, it immediately started again. This time, he felt the change go through his body—the warmth pulled out of him in one motion, the loose gone, everything in him drawing up into the old brace—because nobody rang twice back to back at this hour. Except for the one person who had never, in twenty years, accepted a thing Rafe didn't pick up as anything other than a thing Rafe was going to pay for.

The smile went out of you against his neck, and you got very still, and your hand stopped its idle work and just rested flat over his chest, over the place his heart had started doing the wrong rhythm. 

“You should get it,” you said. 

“Yeah.” He kept you there through one more buzz, and one more, taking the last of it while it was still his to take. “Yeah. Okay.”

He got the phone off the floor without letting go of you. That took some doing; a long reach down the side of the seat with one arm while the other stayed banded across your back. He came back up with it and you stayed exactly where you were, your cheek over his heart, and he answered with his thumb and put it to his ear and did not move you one inch. 

“Yeah,” he said into the phone. He put his free hand into your hair, slowly dragging his fingers against your scalp, the small idle motion his body reached for the way it reached for the truck door, automatic, before the part of him that named things had any say.  “...No, I lost track of time.” 

Ward’s voice then came clipped down the line, and Rafe shut his eyes against the dome light and let it fill his ears, hardly processing it. His thumb found the shell of your ear and was tracing it, completely out of sync with the thing going up his spine. 

“Yeah. The Fischers. I know. I know.” He didn’t know. It was a blank where a plan should have been, one more thing he’d been told and lost. He listened through Ward’s of course you forgot speech, let it go on without interruption. “I’ll be there. Twenty minutes.”

He kept his hand moving on you the whole time, going down your spine now in one long stroke then back up. He half-forgot you could feel it, that you weren’t simply just a warmth but a person who could feel every inch of this. He pressed you down against his chest, firmer, on the hard part of it, and felt his own heart going at the wrong speed under where your cheek was and couldn't make it stop.

“I said I’ll be there.” The edge came up despite him trying to train himself to keep it out when talking to his father. He hated it the second it was out, because the edge was a tell, the edge told Ward he'd gotten in, and he should never let Ward know he'd gotten in. He flattened it back down. “Twenty minutes—yeah. Okay. Okay.”

He hung up. 

His hand was still buried in your hair, his heart still wrong under your cheek, and he kept his eyes on the roof of the cab and waited for himself to come back from wherever the phone had sent him.

That was a thing that took a beat, the return, and you knew it took a beat, and he could tell you knew because you didn't move and didn't ask, you just stayed heavy on him and let him do it.

Rafe thought, not for the first time, that you'd somehow learned the one thing about him almost nobody had ever bothered to; that the worst moment to reach for him was the moment right after, and the kindest thing was to just be there and weigh something and wait.

“Sorry,” he said to the roof, voice coming out rough. He tipped his face down then, into your hair, breathing you in. “M’Sorry. I gotta go. I’ll drop you home.”

“Right now?” you asked, voice muffled against him. 

“Mm.” His arm tightened around you, body lying to his mouth again. “Not yet.”

He stayed under you for a second he didn’t have. He'd be late. He was always going to be a little late to Ward; might as well earn it.

But he did push himself to sit up, and he got his arm that was around you to bring you up as he came off the seat-back, the blanket sliding. Your legs ended up across his lap and his hand stayed flat against your spine. He held you there a beat, upright now, your face level with his in the dome light, and he could see the leftover softness in you not entirely cleared yet, the you that came out here and nowhere else.

Rafe had no idea when he’d agreed to let you look through his closet, but he had. It was almost four in the morning, and you were standing in the open mouth of his closet in one of his t-shirts and nothing he was going to be able to think about clearly, going through his clothes like this was something you just really wanted to do.

He’d put himself on the bed on purpose; it was a safe distance from whatever that was happening, which was you, sliding hangers down the rail one at a time, considering. Rafe was lying back on his elbows pretending the sight of you in his bedroom like this wasn’t doing anything to him.

He’d let it slip on accident, post-haze, that he had to meet Ward’s friends for dinner tomorrow. He’d wanted it to come off as light, carry no weight, because he, three months in, still didn’t want you to see him as a person who was afraid of a simple, stupid dinner with his dad and his asshole friends flying in from fuck-knows-where.

“What’s the dinner for?” you’d asked him.

“Don’t know. Ward wants me there to—” Rafe rolled a shoulder, his lips involuntarily curving into a grimace. “Impress them or something. No idea. Don’t even know what I’m gonna wear.”

Rafe was mildly surprised when you asked him, voice so stupidly lighthearted, if you could help him. And now you were humming, low, as you pulled a jacket halfway out, looked at it, and put it back. 

Somewhere along the way, he’d understood that you’d started being able to read him, too. Maybe not in the way he had been reading you for years, but you’d started to understand his tells. He had a lot of those.

You were standing in his closet frowning at his clothes because you’d worked out, from a sentence he'd stripped all the weight off of, that he was scared, and you were trying to help. The way a person helps another person they don't want to watch walk into something alone.

And Rafe felt his whole body go wrong about it.

He was finding out the hard way that being looked after did the opposite of soothe him; he watched you take him seriously, and every reasonable part of him understood this was a good thing happening to him.

And the rest of him, the older and more reliable part, the part that had been doing Rafe's load-bearing since he was a kid, stood up and started checking the exits.

He couldn’t lose a thing he never had. And you, trying to help him be a son his father could stand to look at, you were a thing he was, very obviously, in the disastrous process of having. Maybe not completely, but it was the most he had ever had.

And the better it felt—and it felt like a hand on the back of his neck and being the right size—the more it was going to cost him later. And Rafe’s nervous system ignored the later was later, for it had started accounting now.

So he reached for the other thing. “C’mere,” he said.

You glanced over at him—a short look, unbothered, God, when had you started being able to be so fucking mean?—and then went back to the rail. “In a second,” you said. 

“Now’s good,” he said flatly. 

You pulled another shirt out and held it up against the dark of the closet. “I’m finding a shirt.”

“Yeah.” He pushed himself up off his elbows and sat up, feet against the floor. He heard his own voice drop a register. “Come find it here.”

“Doesn’t even make sense,” you murmured.

You slid another hanger down, completely unbothered by him, and that was the part of it all that had been killing him lately, you’d stopped being nervous around him. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, and he knew he’d never be able to undo it. 

“Are you cold?” he tried again.

“Not really.” You pulled out a navy button-down, considered it, turned. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re being so weird.” You looked at him, and Rafe had a feeling you were realizing that he was reaching for you because you were being so kind to him and it had gotten too big for Rafe to be in a room with, and sex was the only thing Rafe knew how to do with his hands that wasn't standing still inside something good. “You’re gonna distract me,” you said instead.

“Not trying to.”

“You’re completely trying to,” you said lightly, and then you went back to his clothes.

“This one,” you said after a moment. You'd pulled a shirt. You turned around with it, held it up against him from a few feet off, your head tipped, your eyes doing the careful work. “Navy. You look good in navy.”

“You think?” He wanted to hit himself for how fast he asked. “That the one?”

“Mhm,” you hummed breezily. “And it’ll make your dad shut up.”

Rafe sat there and let you look at him, and felt the fight go out of him the way air goes out of a thing, slow, and without much ceremony. He’d spent twenty years not being allowed things, mostly by himself, mostly on purpose, and he was sitting on his own bed with a girl holding a shirt up against his chest and trying to help him not get hurt tomorrow, and he found he did not, tonight, have it in him to keep the door shut. So he didn’t hold it.

He swallowed, then forced out a laugh. “Probably not, but that’s a good one.”

You crossed the room when you were done with the shirt—laid it over the back of his desk and everything—and came to stand between his knees. Rafe got his hands to your waist because they’d been idling the whole time just waiting for you.

You were warm through his shirt. You smelled like his room now.

“You’re gonna be fine tomorrow,” you said, voice completely sure.

“Mhm.” His palms tightened around your waist then, slightly tugging you forward. “You gonna come back to bed now?”

“You’re so impatient,” you said, but you let him pull you, your knees bracketing his as you settled into his lap like you’d done it a hundred times, which—Rafe did the calculation—you basically had.

His hands found the small of your back and stayed there. “Because you didn’t come to bed.”

“I was busy.” You looped your arms loose around his neck, looking down at him. “Someone’s gotta dress you.”

“I can dress myself.”

“Clearly.” You glanced at the floor, at the four shirts he'd left in a heap before you got here, and back at him, brow up.

He snorted, and you went quiet, your fingers playing idle with the hair at the back of his neck.

“Oh. Saturday,” you said after a minute, “Ruthie finally got Topper to do that lunch at the yacht club.” You shrugged. “Till like five.”

It took him a second to process the words. “The whole day?”

“Yeah, I think so. Whole day.” you said quietly. There was something almost shy folded into it, like you'd handed him something and weren't sure he'd want it.

“Yeah,” You reply, unable to think of anything else.

“He’s a strong guy, and he skated off on his own.” Another girl says positively, nodding.

“Right.” You nod with her, trying to convince your mind to agree with them.

Somebody calls your name, and your head whips sharply. Red hair. Blue eyes looking at you with a mixture of confusion and what looks like pity.

“He left already. His sister took him home.” Holiday says, stopping beside you.

“Oh, okay.” You breathe a sigh of relief, feeling like if he was sent home, then it wasn’t too bad.

“He’s fine.” He assures, voice firm. “We’re all tougher than we look.”

The walk to your apartment feels like forever as your finger hovers over the call button on your phone. You want to call him, to hear his voice, but you don’t know if your own voice will betray your emotions. If you seemed this emotional from one hockey injury, that could freak him out and send him running.

“Hey, partner,” Rafe’s voice as you turn the corner in the dorm hallway startles you into dropping your phone. You think you might be hallucinating, but as your phone clatters to the floor, you look up to see Rafe sitting in front of your room door.

“Jesus,” You stammer, grabbing your phone and checking for cracks in the screen. Thankfully, it’s fine. And Rafe looks fine. And real. Smiling at you like he didn’t just get pummeled. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you come with me to the bars, like you promised.” He says it so casually that you immediately stiffen.

“Rafe, seriously?” There’s an edge to your voice and you try to soften it. “You just got punched into the ice. Taken out of the game. They didn’t even let you go back in.” His eyes widen just for a second before narrowing, shrugging.

“All precautionary,” He insists. “They cleared me. I’m good.”

You scoff, nudging him aside so you can unlock your door. Thankfully, Katy was out of town visiting her family so she didn’t have to deal with you arguing with this idiot.

“Inside.” You demand, and he reluctantly follows. Taking a seat on the edge of your bed, you watch as he leans against your desk, eyeing you warily. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to go out and drink after something like that?”

“I won’t drink,” He promises, trying to force that cocky grin back. “And you can keep an eye on me.”

“Sounds fun.” Sarcasm drips from your voice.

“Listen, I’m fine. Everyone said I’m fine. I don’t get why you’re freaking the fuck out-”

“I saw your head hit the ice!” You interrupt, voice loud but shaking. Tears sting your eyes again, and you look away and try to force them to stop.

“That’s what the helmet is for.” He says, and your emotions simmer faster.

“You didn’t move, Rafe. You weren’t moving. Even if it was just for half a second, I don’t care what you say. That was terrifying.”

Rafe finally shuts his mouth, looking away from you now. The silence feels charged, thanks to your emotions boiling over.

“Hockey’s hockey,” He starts, voice measured. “We know what we signed up for. This shit happens.”

“I understand that,” You take a deep breath. “But I’m allowed to be scared for you. I’m allowed to give a damn about you.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t-”

“You’re acting like it!” You shoot back, eyes boring into his. “Fuck, Rafe. Just imagine, just for one second, if someone hurt me. Just try. What if they hurt me on purpose, and I wasn’t moving? How the fuck would you feel?” A tear falls down your cheek, and you wipe it away swiftly. He goes quiet again, eyes darkening, jaw clenching. He’s gripping your desk so hard his knuckles are white.

“I get it.” Rafe forces the words out. “Shit, I’m sorry. I just-” He stops himself again, releasing your desk and cracking his knuckles. “I’m not used to, um, people giving a shit, I guess.” The words tug on your heart a little bit.

“Well, I do. So, get used to it.” Your lips curve up despite how hard you try to keep your expression firm. He smirks.

“That’s a little terrifying.” His voice is mischievous, but there’s a little truth in it.

“Oh, fuck off. What’s terrifying is the bruise forming on the side of your head.” You point, and he turns to the mirror hanging by your desk, touching the spot softly.

“Huh.” He shrugs. “Not bad. You should see my torso. Banged me up pretty good.”

“I think I’m okay.” You swear, voice tight.

“Since when do you not want to see me shirtless?” He turns back to you, finally getting you to laugh a little.

“Whatever,” You wave him off. “Also, your sister clearly cares about you. Does she know you’re here and trying to go to bars?”

“No. And trust me, her giving a shit is new.” Rafe tries to keep his tone light but you can hear the edge in it. You don’t want to push him, especially after the night he’s had.

“If you wanna go out with the team, we can go. But no drinking.” You tell him sternly.

“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes you, leading the way eagerly. He takes you to a bar a couple blocks from his house, but thanks to it being Friday night after a rivalry hocky game, there’s already a long line to get in when you meet up with the team.

“Glad you made it!” Meghan hugs you as you all take your place in line. There’s Miguel, Holiday, and a handful of other boys you don’t recognize. Rafe introduces them to you, but the only name that sticks is Bobby Flynn. The boy Meghan had mentioned. He was huge, clearly a defenseman, with blonde hair cut short and brown eyes and freckled skin. His smile was much more friendly than everyone else’s.

“My dad’s calling,” Rafe announces with a sign as he pulls out his phone. “Sarah probably overexaggerated everything and made him think I’m in the fuckin’ hospital. I’ll be right back.” He walks off a bit to take the call, leaving you with Meghan and the team.

“Good to meet you finally. I think having you here will calm Cameron down a bit.” Bobby says to you as the team chuckles.

“Was he really that bad?” You wince.

“Oh, you have no idea how many times we had to talk him out of all the drunk ‘I miss you’ texts he wanted to send.”

“Seriously?” All the blood rushes to your cheeks, and you look away from the boys at Rafe, who is pacing while on the phone.

“Dead serious.” Bobby replies.

“That doesn’t sound like Rafe.” You shake your head, trying to imagine it.

“Well, maybe he wouldn’t have said ‘I miss you’. But he wanted to text you. All the time.”

“We all saw it.” Another boy says. A flash of baby blue takes your focus back up front in time to see a group of UNC boys ditching your group. You stiffen as the Duke boys around you curse under their breath, but they don’t move. Probably in enough trouble with their coach after the chaos of the game earlier.

“Great,” Meghan mutters. “Now I’ll have to wait even longer to finally pee.” Somehow, that was enough for you to do something. Maybe it was the hockey team behind you. Or the anger from watching Rafe get hurt. But something was building, and you weren’t afraid to be confrontational. You tapped the closest UNC boy on the back and waited for him to turn around.

“Excuse me,” You cross your arms, looking up into his dark brown eyes. “There’s a line, if you didn’t notice. You and your little friends should wait like everyone else.” The boy just laughs at you, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah? Whose puck bunny are you, huh? Holiday’s?” He sneers down at you, his friends turning to the commotion.

“She’s no one’s.” Holiday cuts in, voice laced with annoyance.

“Then what’s your deal? All sad your school lost tonight?” He mockingly pouts, and that makes your body tighten.

“Duke could’ve won if your team didn’t play so dirty. Y’all were so threatened you had to try to actually hurt us to win.” You retort, hearing the boys chuckle behind you.

“Oh, so you’re Cameron’s girl?” The boy’s grinning now, his friends egging him on. “Sorry your pussy of a boyfriend got a few more screws knocked loose in that fucked up brain of his.” Meghan gasps. Holiday steps up beside you. But you can barely hear anyone else, your heart lurching as your vision turns red.

“Shitty team, shitty fans. Of course, you have to ditch like a fucking child to make yourselves feel good. Pieces of shit.” You hiss.

“No need to be such a bitch.” The boy scoffs, ready to turn and ignore you.

“The fuck did you call her?” You hear Rafe’s voice before you see him. The UNC boy goes pale, looking behind you.

“Nothing.” He mutters as Rafe steps in front of you, solid but simmering with anger.

“Nah, say that shit again.” Rafe snaps, and the UNC boys practically cower.

“We were just going to the back of the line.” One of the other boys insists, and they sulk away like the past five minutes never happened.

“Cameron saved the day.” Miguel tries to soften Rafe, patting him on the shoulder.

“Only because they were scared shitless.” Bobby chuckles, shaking his head.

“What’d they say to you?” Rafe turns to you, still laser focused, still tense.

“Don’t worry about her, Cameron. She handled her own.” Holiday says, surprising you with the compliment.

“And we wouldn’t let anything happen to her.” Miguel promises.

“Looked like they weren’t doing jack-shit.” Rafe murmurs, leaning toward you so only you can hear.

“Like they said, I can handle myself.” You shrug, glad that he seems to be slowly relaxing.

“Did they say some shit about me? Is that why you were so mad?” He smirks, seemingly amused at the thought. You flush, clearing your throat.

“He just made it seem like he was glad you got punched. Called you a pussy.” You say evenly, watching his expression.

“Well, I am what I eat.” He winks, exaggeratedly licking his lips.

“Ew, nasty.” You chuckle, shoving him away.

“You like it.” He grins, and you’re relieved to see his smile. Even if it was brief. He definitely didn’t need to be getting in trouble for you.

“Hey, with all the free stuff you get, how come you can’t let us cut the line?” You change the subject, tapping your foot with fake impatience. He shakes his head.

“Best I can do is getting your 20-year-old friend in without a fake.”

“Aw, bars don’t care about hockey players?” You pout.

“Not enough.” He places a hand on the small of your back while you wait in line, like he’d lose you if he didn’t. His jaw was still ticking, a little too quiet. The moment you all got into the crowded bar, you asked the team for shots to help loosen you up. Bobby gets everyone a lemon drop, and you watch Rafe skip like he promised while taking your own. Without him able to drink, you didn’t know if he’d let himself relax. You order a drink for you and Meghan quickly, while you’re still at the counter.

It doesn’t take long for a group of girls to come up to the team. One of them, a girl with dark auburn hair, beelines for Rafe and tries to chat with him. But it’s like he doesn’t even hear her. His eyes dart around the bar, as if he’s expecting the UNC boys to show up again and cause trouble. As soon as the girl moves on, you pull Rafe to the side.

“Your head bothering you?” You ask.

“What? No.” He narrows his eyes.

“Then relax, please. Have fun with your team.”

“I am having fun.” His voice is not at all convincing.

“You just ignored a girl that tried to talk to you.” You point out, nodding at the girl who’s still sneaking glances at Rafe while she orders a drink at the bar.

“I did?” His brow furrows, meeting her eyes. “Damn. I got you, at least.”

“Rafe,” You give him a knowing look. “Don’t change anything because I’m here. Stop worrying about me. Go have fun, please.”

“What, you want me to go talk to another girl?” He smirks at you, straightening up.

“It’s not like it’s illegal.” You shrug, pushing him in her direction. That was the whole point of being casual. Either of you could do what you wanted. Those were his terms.

“Fine. If that’s what you want.” He walks away slowly.

“Do what you want, that’s the whole point!” You call after him, doubtful if he heard you over the crowd and the loud rock music playing. Meghan sees a chance to drag you with her to an open high-top table, taking a seat with you.

“Getting them to give you space during a night out feels impossible sometimes.” She commiserates, giving Miguel a flirty wave. “Although, I don’t know how you can stand watching him talk to other girls like that. Much less encourage him to do that.”

“We’re not dating.” You shrug.

“Which I understand,” Meghan assures you. “I just don’t think I could handle seeing that.” Truthfully, you hadn’t been watching Rafe since he left. You might’ve actually been avoiding looking at him. You sneak a glance, just in time to see the girl put her hand on his arm. It’s enough to make you feel very warm, your stomach twisting as you look away.

“I feel like jealousy is a little normal,” You try to justify it. “Or maybe I’m just not used to the whole casual thing.”

“Better at it than me, that’s for sure.” Meghan widens her green eyes.

“Ladies,” A slightly familiar voice interrupts you both, and you turn to see a slightly familiar face.

“Joker! From the Halloween party.” You say as recognition hits, and he laughs.

“Mike, actually.” He corrects lightheartedly. “Can I get you both another drink? Vodka cran?” He guesses.

“Yeah, thank you!” You smile at him, and he smiles back as he heads to the bar. Meghan gives you a sly smile as you giggle in return. Mike was definitely cute, even if you couldn’t really remember his name. And perfectly fine to talk to when things were casual.

But Mike is only just walking back with your drinks when you see Rafe. His eyes are ice, jaw tense from before, locked on the frat boy. At first, you feel anger itching under your skin. There wasn’t anything wrong with you talking to another guy. Having a guy buy you a drink.

And then, you’re startled. Rafe grabs Mike’s shirt and shoves him against the brick wall of the bar, drinks sloshing. You call out his name, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. The hockey team moves toward Rafe faster than you can even leave your seat.

“The fuck did you put in there, huh?” Rafe’s voice carries over the crowd, causing a few people to turn. “I saw you! You slipped shit in their drinks. Admit it.”

You freeze at his words, your body feeling numb and too warm all at the same time. Just like at the arena, you grab Meghan’s arm as if it would steady you. The hockey boys move for you both, Holiday stepping beside Rafe while the others stand to block Mike from both of you. Mike’s still protesting, struggling against Rafe, voice shaky and stuttering.

“Thompson, get the bouncer.” Holiday orders, and one of the boys takes off toward the front. “Okay, frat boy. You know this place has security cameras. You gonna fess up, or what?”

“Okay, okay, shit, I did it!” Mike whimpers.

“Did what, bitch? Say it.” Rafe hisses, somehow pressing him further into the wall.

“I drugged their drinks, okay? I did it.” Mike admits more firmly. A gasp slips past your lips, Meghan gripping you back enough to sting. But you barely feel it. True terror surges through you, because you would have taken the drink without thinking. Mike probably thought it was just you and Meghan, and that he could get one of you home. The thought made you nauseous.

“Alright, Rafe. Let him go. We got the confession.” Holiday says calmly, holding up his phone. He places his other hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Bouncer’s here.” Only when a burly man steps into view does Rafe let go, seeming to snap out of his rage.

“Where are the girls? Where is she?” Rafe stammers, eyes searching. Holiday reassures him, but you call out anyway, gently nudging Bobby aside.

“Rafe!” You call again over the noise, and his eyes lock on yours. So many emotions seem to flash through him all at once. Fear, sadness, relief. Both of you push through the crowd, and the second you’re close enough, you launch into his arms. He holds you tight enough you can barely breathe, like he has to remind himself that you’re safe now. Your body gives out against him, tears falling as the adrenaline fades.

“You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay,” He repeats like he wants to convince you and himself. You pull away just enough to look into his eyes again.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” You plead, your skin still crawling with the thought of someone spiking your drink and taking advantage of you. Rafe nods quickly, pulling away just enough to take your hand.

Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”

“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”

“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.

“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.

And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?

“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”

“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”

“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully. 

“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way. 

“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building. 

Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with. 

That’s when he sees you.

Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale. 

Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners. 

But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face. 

He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.

You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school. 

That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London. 

The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?

But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.

“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”

“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes. 

“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.

“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment. 

Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her. 

Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.

It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air. 

Dean drops his coffee. 

The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.

“Y/N?” Dean breathes. 

He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen. 

“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.

Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.

“Y/N!” 

You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus. 

Then, your eyes land on him. 

Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back. 

You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.

“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”

Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.

For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation. 

The entire courtyard seems to stop. 

“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”

“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”

“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”

Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief. 

When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”

You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”

Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.

Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor. 

“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”

“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”

“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”

“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up. 

Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer. 

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”

Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes. 

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”

You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”

Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”

“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”

“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”

“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”

Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”

“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed. 

Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing. 

“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”

You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you. 

“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”

The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid. 

“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”

“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”

You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”

Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest. 

“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours. 

“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”

Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment. 

“Where are you living?” Dean asks.

“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”

Dean makes a split-second decision. 

“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively. 

You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”

“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”

“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”

“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”

Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”

“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”

“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue. 

Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”

You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”

“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”

You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch. 

“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis. 

He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”

“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains. 

Dean shoots him a dark look. 

“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”

Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”

As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis. 

You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours. 

Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all. 

***

The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands. 

“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”

“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”

You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”

“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently. 

Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”

“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”

“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder. 

“I took pity on you,” you reply primly. 

Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”

“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans. 

“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”

You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”

“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”

You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”

“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”

Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”

“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.

“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”

His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected. 

You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor. 

When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor. 

Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”

“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase. 

“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”

Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags. 

“Is this everything?” Dean asks. 

You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”

“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. 

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”

You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil. 

“I know,” you whisper. 

For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it. 

Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house. 

As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact. 

Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.

The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters. 

“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”

“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”

“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”

“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”

“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly. 

You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more. 

“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home. 

Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first. 

You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater. 

“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside. 

“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”

“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs. 

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”

He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his. 

At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door. 

“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”

You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes. 

You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”

“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine. 

“Look at me,” he commands gently. 

You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes. 

“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”

His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance. 

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”

He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”

For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls. 

When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself. 

You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision. 

“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”

He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn. 

“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”

“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively. 

Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room. 

“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”

“I love pepperoni,” you say softly. 

“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house. 

“Welcome home, Y/N.”

And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart. 

You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes. 

But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound. 

For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid. 

By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM. 

You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style. 

When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen. 

You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate. 

Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled. 

Then he spots you. 

The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch. 

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife. 

The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you. 

“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust. 

“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”

“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”

“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite. 

“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”

Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”

You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”

Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”

You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”

“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”

His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you. 

“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”

“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”

The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

Someone clears their throat loudly. 

You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows. 

“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”

“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”

Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”

“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”

“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza. 

“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”

“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”

The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”

The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks. 

As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study. 

Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean. 

You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements. 

“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”

“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours. 

“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. 

“Y/N. Come here.”

He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”

You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here. 

“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”

Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white. 

“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”

Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”

“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”

You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”

“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely. 

“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”

You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”

“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”

You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away. 

“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”

Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender. 

“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes. 

The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames. 

Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours. 

BANG.

The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass. 

You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily. 

Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”

Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder. 

“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained. 

Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”

“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”

Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside. 

Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”

You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”

He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”

As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened. 

You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus. 

Welcome to Briar University.

***

It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon. 

There is simply no other logical explanation. 

“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”

Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”

“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”

“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.

“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists. 

Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”

They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room. 

You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean. 

And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious. 

“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”

“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”

“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”

In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus. 

“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble. 

You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”

Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”

“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book. 

“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”

As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle. 

You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking. 

Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you. 

You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”

“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder. 

“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”

Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”

Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks. 

“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”

The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you. 

When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory. 

“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out. 

You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”

You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust. 

But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored. 

“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation. 

“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”

The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room. 

“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was. 

“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”

You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.

Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party. 

The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are. 

You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you. 

“Are you okay?” 

You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens. 

“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”

“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”

Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”

“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you. 

“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”

The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering. 

Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean. 

“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”

She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them. 

You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this. 

But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid. 

“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth. 

“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”

“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”

He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it. 

“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”

Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd. 

You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”

“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes. 

“Hey, lovebirds!” 

The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers. 

“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand. 

“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”

You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”

Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you. 

Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest. 

“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious. 

Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”

As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London. 

You feel entirely safe.

The next evening is the first official home game of the season. 

The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air. 

You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate. 

The door swings open, and Dean steps out. 

He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you. 

He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats. 

“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you. 

“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”

Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”

“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully. 

Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly. 

“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion. 

You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”

“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”

“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”

“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”

The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely. 

But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.

You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears. 

Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in. 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”

He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”

“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly. 

Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent. 

“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”

When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”

The puck drops, and the game begins. 

It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards. 

But Dean is a revelation. 

He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless. 

Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway. 

Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove. 

The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts. 

You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air. 

On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench. 

But he doesn’t stop at the bench. 

He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you. 

He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you. 

The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.

Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors. 

You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait. 

The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud. 

When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder. 

He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides. 

“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you. 

“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”

“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else. 

“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly. 

The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles. 

“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker. 

“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you. 

The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks. 

Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey. 

“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”

You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship. 

“Dean,” you whisper. 

You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt. 

Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away. 

You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway. 

You press your lips to his. 

It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud. 

It lasts only three seconds. 

When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction. 

When you finally open them, you gasp. 

Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated. 

He looks like he has died and gone to heaven. 

His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back. 

“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips. 

He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened. 

“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest. 

“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning. 

“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”

The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade. 

You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”

Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender. 

“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”

He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours. 

“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”

You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely. 

You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.

***

The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind. 

It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.

It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind. 

You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.

A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.

“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”

“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”

A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands. 

“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”

“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”

At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”

You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder. 

You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp. 

Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy. 

“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”

The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”

“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward. 

Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest. 

“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm. 

Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms. 

You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle. 

“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”

The transformation is instantaneous. 

The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away. 

“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”

“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”

Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”

He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy. 

The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers. 

“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”

“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”

Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date. 

You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying. 

The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering. 

In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to. 

But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness. 

You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed. 

He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light. 

“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core. 

You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”

“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”

Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses. 

“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips. 

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently. 

You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time. 

He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee. 

You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. 

“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …” 

He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly. 

“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”

“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. 

Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders. 

You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now. 

Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders. 

The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze. 

Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach. 

Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower. 

He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind. 

“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin. 

“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”

He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you. 

He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat. 

He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. 

“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty. 

“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”

That is all it takes. 

Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you. 

You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate. 

Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”

And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck. 

He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot. 

You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you. 

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”

The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him. 

Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout. 

He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze. 

Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth. 

“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”

“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”

“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep. 

The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos. 

Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome. 

You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical. 

You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter. 

As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you. 

“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out. 

Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide. 

Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away. 

But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips. 

Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment. 

But Dean knows the truth. 

He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark. 

The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”

Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple. 

“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”

You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further. 

“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips. 

“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”

You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

***

The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow. 

You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”

“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”

“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”

“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”

Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad. 

“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”

A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion. 

“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”

Dean’s words cut off abruptly. 

You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat. 

Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism. 

“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock. 

Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile. 

“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement. 

You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”

“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”

You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector. 

“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious. 

Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding. 

“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”

“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly. 

You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”

Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”

Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat. 

“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”

Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”

“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”

You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder. 

“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”

“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”

A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob. 

Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable. 

“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”

“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”

You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University. 

“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”

The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic. 

Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely. 

The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there. 

Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar. 

Leave him.

Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest. 

He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours? 

It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover. 

Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science. 

You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap. 

Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do. 

You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes. 

Then, you turn your head to look at Dean. 

He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted. 

A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest. 

You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl. 

And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning. 

You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father. 

“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady. 

Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression. 

Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”

“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”

“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”

“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline. 

You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away. 

You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”

Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him. 

A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face. 

“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”

You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”

It isn’t a request. 

Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”

The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain. 

Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back. 

As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension. 

He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart. 

Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you. 

“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”

“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”

“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”

Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth. 

“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”

Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”

It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket. 

“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”

You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly. 

“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”

You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you. 

But your father doesn’t look angry. 

Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect. 

“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”

Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”

“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”

Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest. 

“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”

Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”

You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”