𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐲

He said it was the way you talked, too nice, too careful. The way you waved at everyone, even people who didn’t deserve it. The way you looked like you believed the world was good when he’d long decided it wasn’t.

He told his brothers at Delta Chi Alpha that you were “too perfect,” “too fake,” “too much lip gloss and not enough substance.” He said it every time your name came up, every time someone mentioned that you’d politely turned down yet another guy from his house.

But really? You just got under his skin.

He’d watch you at parties sometimes, pretending he wasn’t. You’d be there with your friends, laughing over neon cocktails, hair catching the string-light glow, politely side-stepping drunk guys who tried to flirt.

Always untouchable. Always just out of reach.

And the more he told himself he didn’t care, the more he did. You were everything he wasn’t. And that drove him crazy

The problem was, the feeling wasn’t one-sided, not completely.

You didn’t like Rafe Cameron (no, definitely not), but you noticed him.

Everyone did. The easy confidence, the way his laugh cut through music, the way people followed his lead like it was law. He was trouble, obvious and magnetic. The kind of boy your friends warned you about while secretly hoping to end up in his sweatshirt.

So you avoided him.

You perfected it, actually. A polite smile here, a soft “hi” in passing, and then you’d vanish into a crowd of safer boys.

And it worked. Until it didn’t.

“Man, Rafe’s got it bad for the Sigma sweetheart,” Topper joked one night, elbowing him as you walked by. You smiled, that soft, automatic smile you gave everyone, and Rafe’s jaw tightened.

“Yeah, right,” he said, tipping back his drink. “She’s not my type.”

Except you was exactly his type. Pretty. Smart. The kind of good he didn’t know how to be around.

He’d tried ignoring you. He’d tried teasing you, the sarcastic comments, the smirks, the “careful, princess, you’ll get glitter on my shoes” kind of lines that usually made girls roll their eyes and then lean closer anyway. But not you. You just smiled that infuriating, patient smile and walked away.

It drove him insane.

So when he saw you at the Delta Chi house again, pink dress, perfect curls, laughing with your friends in the kitchen while the bass thumped through the floorboards, he made a decision.

“Cameron, don’t,” Kelce warned, already seeing the look in his eyes.

Rafe smirked. “What? I’m just gonna say hi.”

He crossed the room like he owned it, because he did, technically, and leaned against the counter beside you, all casual arrogance and expensive cologne.

“Didn’t think Sigma Theta girls were allowed to fraternize with the enemy,” he said.

You turned, half-smile polite, eyes glittering. “Didn’t think Delta Chi boys were capable of complete sentences.”

Rafe’s grin deepened, lazy and practiced. “So, sweetheart,” he said, pushing off the counter just enough that the space between you hummed, “what would it take for a Delta Chi guy to get a minute of your time? Dinner? Coffee? A moment under the fairy lights out back?”

You blinked, surprised by the smoothness of it, then folded your arms. “You mean like the minute you gave Lindsey Carver last month?”

His smirk faltered for a beat.

“She’s still telling people you’re texting her, by the way,” you added, tone all sugar but eyes sharp.

Rafe’s jaw worked. “Ah. That.” He exhaled a soft laugh, the kind that pretended to be amused but wasn’t. “Look, Lindsey and I—we’re cool. Just part of the… inter-Greek exchange program, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you call it?”

He leaned closer, voice dipping low enough that you caught the faint smell of expensive aftershave and beer. “Come on, princess, you’re really gonna hold a harmless mistake against me?”

“It didn’t look harmless to her,” you said, lifting your cup. “Besides, I don’t think you’re exactly Sigma Theta material.”

“Oh, no?” he asked, smile curling again. “Because I was thinking the opposite.”

You shot him a look that was half amusement, half warning, but he wasn’t done.

“Every year,” he continued, tipping his bottle toward the crowd of mingling Greek letters, “there’s this unspoken tradition. One Delta Chi, one Sigma Theta, solidify the alliance.” His gaze locked onto yours, stripping away the party’s noise.

“We fuck. Plain and simple. Tradition. Like my dad did with some Sigma president back in ‘92. Topper’s cousin did it last fall.” He leaned in, heat radiating off him. “Keeps things smooth between houses. Avoids petty rivalries, or whatever bullshit they tell pledges. It’s practically history by no” His grin sharpened, predatory.

You hesitated, just long enough for him to notice.

“That’s not fair,” you said, half-laughing, half-flustered.

"Hell, ask your sisters, they’ll tell you.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that scraped against your ear. “Wouldn’t want to break tradition, would you? Imagine the disappointment in your sisters’ eyes if their sweetheart chickened out.”

The music thumped, someone yelled from the living room, and for a heartbeat you wondered if maybe, just maybe, Rafe was right, maybe you were still standing there because something about him, about this dangerous mix of confidence and charm, pulled you in despite every reason not to.

You stared at him, the practiced politeness crumbling. This wasn’t charm; it was coercion wrapped in frat-boy mythology. The scent of cheap beer and his expensive cedar cologne clashed in your nostrils. "Bullshit," you breathed, voice tight. "You made that up five seconds ago."

Rafe’s grin didn’t waver, but his eyes flickered, minute, almost imperceptible. "Ask Kelce," he countered smoothly, gesturing vaguely towards the porch where Kelce nursed a beer, oblivious.

"He did it last year with Sarah Miller. Solidified the whole semester. Smooth sailing since." He leaned closer, his knuckles brushing your bare arm. "You wouldn’t want Sigma blamed for starting a war over some… reluctance, would you?"

The implication landed like a slap.

Tradition?

More like sanctioned degradation. Your cheeks burned, but beneath the humiliation, anger coiled, cold and sharp. He was cornering you, weaponizing your reputation against you.

Your throat tightened, a phantom pressure remembering Lindsey Carver’s tearful whispers about Rafe’s promises vanishing faster than morning mist.

"You think threatening my sisters works?" Your voice dropped low, surprising even you with its steadiness.

The polite Sigma veneer cracked, revealing something harder beneath. "That’s low, Cameron. Even for you." You watched his smirk falter again, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise.

Good. He hadn’t expected fight.

He leaned back slightly, reassessing. The predatory grin softened into something more calculating, almost intrigued. "Threatening?" He chuckled, a dry sound devoid of humor. "Nah, princess. Just stating facts. The tradition." He emphasised the word, letting it drip with implication.

His gaze swept over you again, lingering on the defiant set of your jaw. "You know what really pisses me off?" His voice dropped, rough and intimate against the thumping bass. "That fucking smile. That perfect, polite Sigma smile you give everyone. Like you're above it all." He took a step closer, invading your space until the cedar-and-beer scent was overwhelming.

"But I see it. How you watch me when you think I'm not looking. How your pulse jumps right here," His thumb brushed the frantic flutter beneath your jawline, a touch that felt like a brand. "When I get too close. You hate me? Fine. But you want me too. It’s written all over you."

His words scraped raw against your nerves. He wasn't entirely wrong, the dangerous pull was undeniable, a sickening mix of revulsion and unwelcome heat pooling low in your belly.

The pressure built, a suffocating cocktail of anger, unwanted arousal, and the crushing weight of his frat-boy mythology.

Tradition. Reputation. Disappointing sisters.

And the phantom echo of Lindsey’s humiliation mingled with the pulsing music. Your resolve, meticulously constructed brick by polite brick, began to fracture.

"Fine," you hissed, the word escaping tight and brittle. "Your room. Now." You spun on your heel before he could see the tremor in your hands, marching towards the stairs without looking back.

The roar of the party faded behind you, replaced by the hollow thud of your heels on worn wood. Rafe followed silently, his presence radiating smug heat at your back.

Upstairs, the hallway was dim, littered with discarded solo cups and the faint smell of stale weed. He unlocked a door at the end, pushing it open.

Inside was predictably chaotic, rumpled sheets, clothes strewn everywhere, a faint scent of expensive cologne barely masking something muskier. He kicked the door shut behind you both, plunging the room into near-darkness save for the neon bleed from a frat house sign outside the window.

He leaned against the door, arms crossed, silhouetted against the garish light. "See?" His voice was low, dangerous velvet. "Knew you weren't just gloss." He pushed off the door, closing the distance in two strides, his hand gripping your waist possessively. "Now, about that tradition…"

His fingers traced your jawline, tilting your chin up. "It's gotta be thorough." His smirk was back, sharp and predatory. "Seal the deal properly." His other hand went to his belt buckle.

The metallic clink echoed harshly in the sudden quiet of the room.

You flinched as he popped the button, the zipper rasping down. Your eyes dropped instinctively, widening as he pulled himself free.

Thick, heavy, already half-hard and intimidatingly large. Your breath caught, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips. You'd given head before, a few awkward times with boyfriends who were polite and patient.

But this felt like looking down the barrel of a cannon.

"Problem?" Rafe’s voice was a low rumble, thick with mocking amusement. He stroked himself slowly, deliberately, his gaze locked on your face. "Sigma sweetheart suddenly shy? Thought you were experienced."

The slut shaming hit its mark, sharp and intended.

"Lindsey managed alright. Bit messy, but she got the job done."

Anger flared hot beneath the panic, mixing with the unwanted heat pooling low in your belly. You hated him. You hated that he saw your hesitation. You hated that he was right, Lindsey had managed.

And you refused to be found wanting. "Shut up, Cameron," you hissed, forcing steel into your voice. "Just… give me a second."

Dropping to your knees felt like stepping off a cliff. The worn carpet scratched your bare legs, smelling faintly of spilled beer and stale smoke. You stared at him, thick and heavy in your face, the tip glistening slightly in the dim neon light bleeding through the window.

Your hands trembled as you reached out, fingers clumsy against his shaft. You tried to mimic what you'd seen, what you'd half-remembered from fumbling experiences, wrapping your hand around the base and leaning forward tentatively.

The musky scent of him filled your nose, sharp and primal. You opened your mouth, taking just the head inside.

It felt alien, too warm, too solid. You tried to suck gently, your tongue clumsy against the underside. It tasted faintly of salt and skin. You pulled back slightly, breathing through your nose, trying to find a rhythm. Your jaw already ached with the unfamiliar stretch.

Rafe’s low chuckle vibrated above you. "Christ, princess," he drawled, his voice thick with condescension. "You weren't kidding about being inexperienced." He watched your awkward ministrations, his amusement palpable.

"Lindsey at least knew how to use her tongue."

The deliberate slut shaming landed like a physical blow. "Open wider," he commanded, his hand suddenly tangling roughly in your hair. "And relax your jaw. You're tighter than a fucking virgin."

He pushed forward, not violently, but with insistent pressure. You gagged reflexively as the head bumped against the back of your throat, tears springing to your eyes. You pulled back sharply, coughing, saliva slicking your chin.

Humiliation burned your cheeks hotter than anger.

"Pathetic," he muttered, but his grip in your hair tightened, holding you in place. "Again. Wider this time. Deep breath."

His thumb brushed roughly against your cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear with a mocking gentleness. "Think of it as… Greek relations training." He pushed again, slower this time, guiding himself deeper as you choked and trembled.

"There. Feel that?" His voice was a low rasp, devoid of kindness, focused only on the mechanics. "That's where you need to take it. Hold it. Breathe through your nose." He held you there for a torturous second, the pressure immense, the urge to gag overwhelming, before pulling back slightly. "Now, again. Deeper."

The mockery was a relentless tool, forcing submission through shame. "Show me Sigma Theta isn't just about cookies and charity drives."

His grip in your hair was unforgiving, forcing your head back down onto him. You choked again, tears blurring the neon smear outside the window. The taste, salt, skin, bitterness, coated your tongue.

Each shallow breath through your nose brought the thick musk deeper into your lungs. Your jaw screamed, muscles straining against the unfamiliar intrusion. He pushed deeper, past the point of gagging, holding you there until your throat spasmed violently around him.

"See?" Rafe grunted, pulling back just enough to let you gasp. "You're learning." His thumb traced the wetness on your chin, saliva, tears, with a detached curiosity. "Lindsey cried too. Said it hurt." He pushed forward again, relentless. "But she didn't stop. Because she knew her place."

The slut shaming was precise, surgical. "Yours is right here. On your knees. Taking it."

You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing only on the mechanics: breathe through the nose, relax the throat. The pressure was immense, a suffocating fullness that blurred thought.

When he pulled back slightly, you instinctively sucked harder, desperate for air, your tongue flattening against his shaft.

A low groan escaped him, the first sound that wasn't mockery. It fueled you. You hollowed your cheeks, drawing him deeper, ignoring the burn. Your hand tightened at the base, stroking in time with your mouth.

"Fuck," he hissed, hips jerking forward. The sudden movement triggered another gag, but you held, swallowing convulsively.

Tears streamed freely now, mingling with the slick mess on his skin. His breathing roughened, fingers tightening in your hair. "Yeah… like that. Keep going."

The praise was rough, almost grudging, but it ignited a spark of defiance. You weren't Lindsey. You wouldn't just endure; you'd conquer this.

You pushed yourself further, taking him deeper until your nose pressed against coarse hair, throat opening in a raw, involuntary swallow. He cursed, a ragged sound ripped from his chest, his control fraying.

The rhythm became frantic, his thrusts shallow and urgent. You braced yourself on his thighs, meeting each push, the humiliation momentarily eclipsed by a savage, unwanted thrill of power.

You were breaking him, too.

He bucked hard, hips snapping forward, burying himself fully in your throat. The groan tore from him, raw, involuntary, as your muscles clenched around him.

The taste, salt, musk, faintly metallic, flooded your senses. His fingers tightened painfully in your hair, anchoring you as he thrust shallowly, chasing his own release. "Fuck, fuck—" he choked out, voice stripped of its mocking edge. "Just like that—don't stop—"

You didn't. You pushed harder, hollowing your cheeks, sucking with a desperate rhythm that mirrored the frantic pulse between your own legs.

Shame warred with a dark, liquid triumph. His thighs trembled under your palms. The air thickened with the sounds, wet gasps, ragged breathing, the slick slide of your mouth. His control shattered completely; his thrusts grew erratic, uncontrolled.

A sharp cry ripped from him as he came, hot and bitter, flooding your throat. You gagged, swallowing reflexively, tears streaming freely now. He held you there, buried deep, as the last pulses faded.

Slowly, he pulled out, leaving you gasping, saliva and come slicking your chin. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, trembling. Rafe leaned back against the door, breathing hard, watching you with hooded eyes.

The predatory smirk was gone.

In its place was something raw, almost stunned. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging his backwards cap. "Jesus," he breathed, the word ragged. He stared at the wet shine on your lips, then met your gaze. The usual arrogance was absent.

For a heartbeat, silence stretched, thick and charged.

Then, like flipping a switch, the mask slammed back into place. He straightened, adjusting himself with deliberate slowness. His gaze swept over you, kneeling, flushed, tear-streaked, and the familiar contempt curled his lip.

"Better," he conceded, voice rough but regaining its mocking edge. He gestured dismissively toward the rumpled bed behind him. "Now get your ass up there. Tradition's not finished."

You pushed yourself to your feet, legs unsteady. The carpet fibers clung to your knees. "What?" The word came out hoarse. "That was—"

"A warm-up," he cut in, stepping closer. His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, tracing the path of a drying tear. The touch was coldly clinical. "The deal requires sealing. Properly."

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then lower, lingering on the neckline of your pink dress. "You think swallowing earns you a gold star?" He chuckled, low and humourless. "Bed now."

You didn't move. The raw vulnerability of kneeling, the sting in your throat, the bitter taste still coating your tongue, it hung heavy in the air between you. Rafe’s gaze, however, wasn't lingering on your tear-streaked face or trembling hands.

It was fixed on your collarbone, exposed by the sundress strap that had slipped slightly down your shoulder. His thumb pressed against the dip where your pulse hammered wildly.

"Still racing," he murmured, almost to himself. His other hand slid roughly beneath the strap, pushing it down further, exposing more skin. The fabric bunched awkwardly.

He leaned in abruptly, his lips brushing your ear. "Was that your first time?" he demanded, voice low but stripped of its earlier mocking cadence. It was flatter.

Needing confirmation.

The question hung suspended, sharp as broken glass. You flinched, pulling your head back slightly to meet his eyes. The practiced arrogance was fractured; beneath the hooded lids was something raw, almost unnerved.

He needed to know.

Needed to categorize this violation. "No," you whispered, voice raspy from his abuse. "Not… not first." You swallowed, the motion painful. "But… it’s been a while."

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. Not triumphant. Calculating. "A while?" He echoed, dragging the words out. His fingers traced the edge of your exposed shoulder.

"Define 'a while', princess." The nickname dripped with renewed venom. "Semester? Year? Since your high school sweetheart?" His gaze sharpened, dissecting your hesitation. "Lindsey said Sigma girls talk. Said you were… selective." He paused, letting the implication sink in. "Too selective. Practically frigid."

The slut-shaming was back, precise and aimed.

He pushed the strap down further, the pink fabric catching precariously on your arm. "So," he continued, his breath warm and unwelcome against your temple. "Who was the lucky bastard? Before me?"

His hand slid from your shoulder down your arm, rough fingertips grazing your bare skin. "Some soft-handed poli-sci pledge?" his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper laced with malice, "Did he teach you that pathetic little trick?" He jerked his head vaguely towards where you’d knelt moments before. "Or was that all… natural talent?"

You pulled back sharply, the movement dislodging his hand. "None of your business, Cameron." Your voice scraped raw, but held defiance. "Doesn't matter."

His laugh was short, sharp. "Oh, it matters." He stepped forward again, closing the space you’d created.

One hand snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The other cupped your jaw, forcing your gaze up. The sudden proximity, the heat radiating off him, the lingering scent of sex and cedar, it was disorienting.

His thumb brushed roughly over your bottom lip, wiping away a trace of moisture you’d missed. "Because," he murmured, his voice losing its mocking edge, dipping into something lower, almost contemplative, "if it’s been a while…" His gaze locked onto yours, stripping away the frat-boy bravado for a fleeting second.

"Then this," he leaned in slowly, deliberately, his lips hovering a breath away from yours, "…is gonna hurt."

The kiss wasn't brutal.

It was soft, unnervingly so.

A slow press of his lips against yours, testing, almost questioning. His hand remained firm on your jaw, holding you still. It lasted only a heartbeat, a shocking counterpoint to the violence of moments before.

Then he pulled back just enough to see your eyes, searching your face. "Well?" he breathed, the word ghosting over your lips. "Still pretending you don't feel it?"

The unexpected gentleness was more jarring than the roughness. Your breath caught. The taste of him, faintly minty now, overlaying the salt and bitterness, mingled with the phantom pressure still constricting your throat. You stared at him, the polished Sigma composure utterly shattered.

What flickered in his eyes wasn't triumph, but a raw, predatory curiosity. He saw the confusion, the unwelcome tremor running through you, and his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

"Thought so," he murmured. The softness vanished instantly, replaced by the familiar, biting contempt. His grip tightened on your jaw. "Good. Means you’re paying attention."

He jerked his chin towards the rumpled bed again. "Now get on it. Face down. And lose the dress." The command was flat, final. "Let's see if 'selective' Sigma girls can take more than just a cock down their throat."

You hesitated. The unexpected gentleness had been a trap, a flicker of false intimacy designed to disarm.

Now, stripped bare by his gaze, the pink sundress felt like childish armor. You fumbled with the zipper at your side, fingers clumsy. The fabric pooled around your ankles, leaving you in only your underwear. The air felt cold against your exposed skin.

Rafe didn't touch you. He watched, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes raked over you, lingering on the curve of your hip, the dip of your spine, with clinical detachment. "Panties too," he ordered, voice devoid of inflection. "Don't make me ask twice."

You obeyed, stepping out of them, the worn carpet rough beneath your bare feet. Shame burned hotter than anger now. He gestured impatiently towards the bed. "Face down. Ass up. Now."

You moved stiffly, climbing onto the unmade sheets that smelled faintly of stale beer and other girls. The mattress springs groaned beneath your weight. You buried your face in the pillow, trying to disappear into the scratchy cotton.

The silence stretched, thick with anticipation and humiliation. You heard the rustle of his jeans, the clink of his belt buckle again. Then, footsteps approached the bed.

His palm landed hard on your bare ass cheek. A sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the small room. You jerked, a gasp ripped from your throat.

"Still tight," he observed, his voice dripping with mock appraisal. He ran a calloused finger down the cleft of your ass, making you flinch. "Bet that poli-sci boy didn't know what to do with this." His finger pressed, against your entrance. "Been that long, huh?"

You clenched your teeth, pressing your face deeper into the pillow. His finger withdrew. You heard the slick sound of him spitting onto his palm, then the wet slide as he coated himself.

The blunt pressure returned, pressing against your entrance. You braced, muscles locking tight.

"Relax," he muttered, his voice unexpectedly low, almost rough. His free hand landed warm on the small of your back, pressing down firmly. You flinched at the touch, expecting pain.

But then his lips brushed the knobs of your spine, soft and fleeting. The kiss was startlingly gentle, a ghost of warmth against your chilled skin. "Just relax," he breathed against your skin, the words muffled, almost lost in the pillow. His hips nudged forward slowly, easing just the thick head inside you.

The stretch was immediate, burning, but he didn't shove. He held there, letting the pressure build gradually.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice thick with something that wasn't anger. His lips moved again, pressing another soft kiss against your shoulder blade. "Hate this."

His hips pushed forward another fraction, unbearably slow. "Hate how perfect you look like this." His palm smoothed up your spine, a strangely soothing gesture. "Hate how tight you feel."

He eased deeper still, the burning stretch intensifying, but his movements remained measured, controlled. "Hate that fucking smile you give everyone else."

Another inch, slow, deliberate. His breath hitched. "Hate that you make me want to do this slow." The contrast was dizzying.

The soft kisses trailing your spine, the deliberate gentleness of his invasion, clashed violently with the venom in his mumbled words. His hand slid around your hip, fingers splaying possessively over your lower belly, pulling you back onto him as he sank the final inch.

You gasped, the fullness stealing your breath, the initial burn settling into a deep, aching stretch. He stayed buried deep, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, breathing hard.

"Perfect," he groaned, the word sounding ripped from him, laced with disgust and something else, raw, undeniable desire. "Fucking hate how perfect you are." He began to move, finally, but still slow, a deep, grinding roll of his hips that dragged against every nerve ending inside you.

A whimper escaped you, torn between protest and a treacherous surge of pleasure. You wanted more than this torturous slowness, wanted the friction to chase away the lingering humiliation, the sharp sting to overwhelm the confusing tenderness.

Yet, the deliberate pace was unraveling you, each measured withdrawal and deep thrust hitting spots you hadn't known existed, building a heat that coiled low and tight.

You pressed your face deeper into the pillow, muffling another sound, part gasp, part plea. His hand tightened on your hip, fingers digging in.

But his own breath was ragged, his thrusts losing their strict rhythm, becoming slightly quicker, deeper. His other hand slid beneath you, fingers finding your clit with startling accuracy.

The rough pad of his thumb circled you, not gently, but with brutal efficiency. The dual assault, deep inside, sharp friction outside, made your vision blur. You arched instinctively, pressing back against him, seeking more of that maddening fullness, more of the rough pressure.

A low, choked moan escaped despite yourself.

"Fuck," Rafe hissed against your shoulder blade, his hips snapping forward harder. "That's it." His thumb pressed down harder, grinding against your clit. "Begging without words now? Pathetic." But his voice lacked its usual cutting edge; it was strained, thick with exertion and something darker.

The slow, deliberate torture had built a pressure inside you that threatened to rupture. His relentless rhythm, the deep, grinding drag, the insistent pressure on your clit, it coiled tighter, tighter. Your fingers clawed at the scratchy pillowcase, muffling another whimper that sounded suspiciously like a plea.

"Louder," he demanded, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. "Let me hear how much you want it." He shifted his angle slightly, driving into you with punishing precision. "Want it faster? Deeper?" His thumb flicked sharply against your clit. "Tell me."

The command ripped through the haze. "More," you gasped, the word ragged, involuntary. "Faster. Please." The humiliation burned, but the need was stronger. "Deeper, Rafe—please."

He groaned, a raw, guttural sound. His hand tightened painfully on your hip, fingers digging into flesh as he drove into you with brutal force.

No more slow torment.

This was pure possession, each thrust slamming deep, the friction white-hot. His thumb kept its brutal pace on your clit, relentless. "There," he panted, his voice cracking. "That's what you needed. Couldn't admit it, could you?" He slammed home again, burying himself to the hilt. "Had to be made to beg."

The coil snapped.

Pleasure detonated, sharp and blinding, radiating out from your core in violent waves. Your body clenched around him, spasming uncontrollably, pulling a ragged shout from his throat as he followed you over the edge.

His hips jerked erratically, emptying himself deep inside you with short, sharp thrusts, his groan echoing your own gasping cries. He collapsed heavily onto your back, his weight pressing you deeper into the mattress, his breath hot and uneven against your neck.

The room was silent except for your shared, ragged breathing and the faint thump of bass still bleeding through the floorboards. His hand, still resting possessively on your hip, trembled slightly.

Neither of you moved. The air hung thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and something dangerously unresolved.

Then, a soft brush of lips against your shoulder blade.

Gentle. Almost hesitant.

It startled you more than the slap had. A small, involuntary sound escaped your throat, a mewl of confusion, exhaustion, the remnants of shattered nerves.

Rafe froze. His breath hitched.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head. You felt his gaze burning into the side of your face. You couldn't turn, couldn't meet his eyes, buried as you were beneath him. His lips touched the curve of your cheekbone, just below your temple.

Another feather-light kiss. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't cruel. It felt… bewildering. He sighed.

A long, slow exhale that seemed to deflate him, his weight settling heavier for a moment before he pushed himself up onto his elbows. The sudden coolness on your sweat-slicked skin made you shiver.

You remained face down, utterly still, waiting for the axe to fall, for the contempt to flood back in. "You liked that," he stated flatly. Not a question. An accusation devoid of its usual venom.

The silence stretched. Your throat felt raw, scraped. You swallowed painfully. "Yeah," you whispered, the word muffled against the pillowcase. It sounded absurdly small, impossibly awkward.

Admitting it felt like surrendering another piece of yourself. "I… I liked it." The kisses. The terrifying gentleness woven through the hate.

A beat. Then another rough sigh escaped him, closer to a groan this time. He rolled off you completely, landing beside you on the rumpled sheets with a soft thud.

He stared up at the ceiling, the neon light from outside painting harsh stripes across his face. His jaw was tight. "Fuck," he muttered, the word thick with self-loathing. He ran a hand over his face, dragging it down hard.

"Lindsey didn't…" He trailed off abruptly, clamping his mouth shut. He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. The implication hung heavy.

Lindsey didn't make me do that. Lindsey didn't elicit confusing tenderness. Lindsey didn't get kissed on the shoulder blade after being fucked into the mattress. Lindsey didn't make him sigh like the world was ending.

Slowly, tentatively, you shifted.

Not away, but towards the heat radiating off him. Your body moved of its own accord, curling against his side, your head finding the hollow beneath his collarbone. His skin was damp, salty, the frantic pulse in his neck gradually slowing beneath your cheek.

You felt him stiffen, a full-body flinch, but he didn't push you away. Didn't mock. His arm, trapped beneath you, remained rigid.

Then, impossibly, his lips brushed the crown of your head. A whisper of contact, fleeting and clumsy. "Tradition's done," he mumbled, the words thick and muffled against your hair. The expected dismissal, the shove off the bed, didn't come. Instead, his rigid arm shifted.

Hesitantly, almost cautiously, his fingers brushed, hesitant, clumsy, through the tangled mess of your hair near your temple. It wasn't tenderness; it felt like surrender.

Like a circuit overloaded and sparking malevolently.

Silence pooled thickly around you, broken only by the distant thump of bass and the frantic drumming inside your own ribs. You clung tighter, pressing your face harder against his chest, inhaling the complex scent of sweat, sex, cedar cologne, and something uniquely him, sharp and vaguely metallic.

Your fingers curled into the damp cotton of his t-shirt, anchoring yourself against the bewildering undertow pulling you both down. You felt the hitch in his breathing, the subtle tremor in the hand resting on your back.

His lips moved against your hair again, the words barely audible, muffled and raw. "Fuck," he breathed, the curse sounding strangely soft. "I… like this."

The admission hung suspended, fragile as blown glass. "Having you here." His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against your spine. "Like this." He paused, the silence stretching taut.

"Not… not just the fucking." The words sounded clumsy, alien on his tongue. "This." He gestured vaguely with his chin against your head, encompassing the tangled limbs, the shared heat, the unbearable intimacy. "You… quiet."

You sighed against his skin, the sound escaping without permission, a release of tension, confusion, the sheer exhaustion of navigating his jagged edges. "Yeah," you murmured back, equally soft, the word tasting unfamiliar.

"I… like it too." You didn't elaborate. Couldn't.

Admitting you liked the quiet closeness felt infinitely more dangerous than admitting you liked the rough, hateful sex. It was a surrender to something far deeper than submission.

His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer against the hard plane of his chest. The rigid tension in his muscles began to bleed away, replaced by a heavy, almost drowsy warmth. His fingers, still tangled in your hair, resumed their clumsy stroking, smoothing down the tangles he’d likely caused himself.

It was awkward, unpracticed, but undeniably tender. "Shut up," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and something suspiciously close to embarrassment. "Just… stay."

You did.

The silence wasn't empty now; it hummed with the quiet rhythm of your breathing syncing, the distant bass fading into insignificance. You traced the faint ridge of a scar on his collarbone with your fingertip, a relic from some forgotten frat brawl, probably. He didn't flinch.

Instead, his thumb rubbed a slow circle against your shoulder blade, a silent acknowledgment. The raw intimacy felt stolen, fragile. His arm, the one pinned beneath you, shifted.

Slowly, awkwardly, it wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you infinitesimally closer. His palm settled flat against your upper back, holding you there.

Anchoring you.

Or anchoring himself. You couldn't tell which. The neon stripes from the window crawled slowly across the ceiling, the muffled bass downstairs a distant heartbeat. His thumb began a slow, unconscious stroke against your shoulder blade, tracing the same spot his lips had touched minutes before.

The silence wasn't comfortable. It was fragile, charged with the aftershocks of something terrifyingly new.

“ What are you doing here ? I thought you had an event at noon . “ You inquired. Two fingers held the cotton pad you were using to rub off the heavy make up you wore for today’s filming . Vanessa had been fond of make over, looking good, neat, presentable . . But that funky make up you was forced to use to look decent on screen always bothered you more than the creepy men you had to film with from time to time . 

“ I still do .” From the mirror you watched him rise from his seat with a grunt . He strode his way , wrist twirling the brown liquor sitting at the bottom of its glass . “ Told them to go fuck themselve . I’m not a fucking preacher .”

“ Oh .” Was all that exited your lips . Many religious associations had been built off from normal people, choosing supes as the faces of many . Of course, the skilled PR team engaged by Vought America thought it was a good idea, and pressed many supes into accepting even though many of them didn’t care as much about God as they pretended to . Ben wasn’t a pretender . This was useful in many ways but so bad in so many others . 

You could feel him stand tall behind you thus even with the wedged sandals in your feet . 

“ Smell good, babydoll.” 

“ I smell like a kid who played too much in the mud .” Vanessa easily brushed off the compliment . Who knew pretending to have sex and enjoying it could be more exhausting than the real thing ? “

A hand grasped your hip and soon enough his lips met the behind of your ear where he pressed a kiss. “ Forgot you were a fucking slut .” He huffed and released your hip to roughly get a hold of your tits . A hum escaped from your lips, your hands reached for his, helping him to feel your breast through the layers of fabric .

“ I don’t really have sex with them . It’s choreographed , it’s more . . aesthetically pleasing . We actually have standards to respect-”

“ Same shit as a stag . Shit gets it done because you’re cock hungry . Hm ? “ He sets down his glass and forces you to look up at him . His grip tightens slightly where he holds her under your jaw . His hand squeezed your tit hard and you let out a small whimper that made him smile and he bowed over to press a kiss to your mouth . It wasn’t soft , sophisticated . It was rather messy ; his mouth swallowed yours and his tongue found itself entangled with a confusing and sloppy dance you weren't one to ever refuse . It turned you on , your cunt throbbed furiously in the panties that soon clung to your lips due to the wetness already soaking the lace . When he parted away he gave you an abrupt jolt as he released you free from his grasp . The voluminous lashes battled at him through the looking glass and you dramatically fanned yourself with your hand .

“ Jesus, I’m already hot. You aren’t helping.”

“ Stop fucking whining.” He spits harshly and you're quick to give him a tap on the arm while he settles next to you and examines the make up scattered across the vanity with indifference. He doesn’t look at you but he knows you’s still looking at him as if he’s a fucking puzzle.

“ Why are you here ?  I’ve had a busy day . I just wanna go home . ”

“ I can call someone and ask them to drive us to your place .” He said it so casually you almost thought he had already done it before . With other girls . Her eyes followed every move of his .

“ No . I’m good .” You turned around and grabbed the hem of your dress to pull it over your head _ while also making sure your slicked back hair stayed impeccable- and threw it over the back of the chair. His eyes immediately went to your butt , his tongue darted out to swipe the alcohol from his bottom lip . “ You’re gonna walk home ? ”

“ I have my own chauffeur and I bet he’s as impatient as me to drop me home so he can go about his evening . “ Ben admired both your backside and the bit of attitude you were giving him . Women would throw themselves at him , eyefucking or sweet talking him into falling in his favor which always worked because he liked being liked . He was a fucking national treasure . Whenever you refused him , that made him hard . Painfully hard . He lifted a brow at the sight of you stepping into a yellow dress . Your hands went behind your back and You managed to zip it up. You flipped your ponytail in place and faced your counterpart again .

“ I don’t like that dress on you.” He comments . 

“ I . . . don’t really want you to like it ? ” 

Like the spoiled kid he secretly was, he rolled his eyes and walked to you . 

“ When will your movie even come out ?” He asks and you blinks a few times.

“ Oh , somewhere about November .” Ben huffed and quietly walked towards the exit without adding anything else .

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One cheek pressed to his chest. One knee hooked over his thigh. One hand loose against his ribs, nails resting there like punctuation. Your curls spilled over his shoulder, his arm, the pillow — dense and wild from his hands and the hours neither of you had spent sleeping.

Toji turned his face and spat the curl away.

“Menace,” he muttered.

You made a sound into his chest. It was not a word. It had too much gravel in it to be a word, and too much attitude to be sleep.

His mouth twitched.

Morning had not done either of you any favors.

The fitted sheet had given up sometime before dawn. The blanket was twisted low around your hips, the rest kicked halfway onto the floor. The glass of water on your nightstand sat dangerously close to a paperback you would have mourned for three days if it got wet. The air carried the warm, ruined smell of sweat, skin, stale coffee from the kitchen, and the clove-and-smoke candle you insisted was subtle.

It was not subtle.

He liked it anyway.

That was the problem with most of your things.

He liked them.

The dark green curtains you bought after telling him his old blinds had “the emotional temperature of a parking garage.” The brass dish where your rings lived at night. The bad lamp that buzzed when the apartment got too warm. The blankets draped over the couch because you claimed every room needed an emergency soft thing. The plant on the kitchen counter that looked dead to him but apparently was “dramatic, not deceased.”

His boots were by your door, his watch in your ring dish, his spare shirt on your floor.

His duffel sat under the chair in the corner, half-swallowed by one of your sweaters. He had not packed it in weeks. Maybe longer. At some point, you had cleared the bottom drawer of your dresser and shoved his clothes into it without looking at him.

“You keep leaving that ugly bag where I can trip over it,” you had said.

“Don’t trip.”

“I’m giving you a drawer, asshole.”

He had stared at you.

You had stared back, one hand on your hip, curls piled high on your head, mouth set like you were daring him to make it sentimental.

He had not.

He had only said, “You got room?”

You rolled your eyes so hard he almost smiled.

Now his socks were in that drawer. His toothbrush was in the bathroom cup beside yours. His razor lived under the sink. His cash was in the old tea tin because you found loose bills in his pockets before laundry and told him, with real disgust, that money did not belong in the washing machine.

He had moved into your life the way he did most things: without announcing himself, and too late to pretend he had not.

You shifted against him.

He felt the wince before he saw it.

His hand loosened at your hip, his fingers easing away from the marks he had left the night before. He did not press. He only let his thumb pass close to the darkening shape of his grip, careful around the tender places because careful was not the same thing as soft, and he had learned the difference with you.

Every time your breath had changed wrong, he stopped.

Every time he tried to ease up and you dragged his hand back where you wanted it, he listened to that too.

Now you lay limp across him, warm and wrecked, breathing slowly enough that his own body kept trying to follow.

He should have gone back to sleep.

Instead, he stared at the ceiling and let the apartment give him evidence.

Your mug on the windowsill. The black one with the chipped handle and the little gold moon painted on the side.

His mug in the kitchen. The brown one with the bear on it. A stupid mug. An ugly mug. A mug he used every morning because the handle was good and for no other reason.

Your books.

His knives in your kitchen drawer.

Your candle.

His shirt under your thigh.

Your apartment.

His side of the bed.

A direction, whether he liked naming it or not.

Your fingers twitched against his stomach.

“Stop thinking so loud,” you mumbled.

His mouth curved. “Didn’t know you were awake.”

“I’m not.” You shifted again, then went carefully motionless. “I have passed away.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm. Tragic.”

“You sore?”

One of your eyes opened. Slow. Accusing. “That is an insane question.”

“Can you walk?”

“Unclear.”

“Good.”

“Good?” You lifted your head enough to glare at him. Your curls fell forward around your face, one side crushed from the pillow and the other doing whatever it wanted. “Do not sound proud of yourself.”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

He let his hand settle at your hip again, lighter this time. “Need anything?”

The glare gentled before you were ready for it. He saw you try to stop it.

Failed.

“Water eventually.”

“Now?”

“In a minute.”

He grunted.

You dropped your cheek back to his chest but kept your eyes open. Your gaze moved lazily around the bedroom, taking in the same things he had been staring at. The ruined bed. His watch in your dish. His duffel under the chair.

Your mouth curved.

“What?” he said.

“You live here.”

“Do I?”

“Toji.”

“What.”

“You have a drawer.”

“One drawer doesn’t mean shit.”

“You have opinions about my dish towels.”

“They’re bad towels.”

“You replaced my showerhead.”

“Water pressure was pathetic.”

“You know which mug is yours.”

His eyes narrowed.

“The brown one,” you said, smiling wider, “with the bear on it.”

“That mug’s ugly.”

“You use it every morning.”

“Handle’s good.”

“You like the bear.”

“Don’t start.”

“You are the bear.”

“I said don’t start.”

Your laugh came out low and rough, and the sound moved through his chest before he knew what to do with it. It settled somewhere behind his ribs. Stayed there. Made itself comfortable with all the other things you kept putting inside him without permission.

You pressed your face into him as if you could hide your smile there. “You are so easy.”

He snorted.

You touched the bite mark on his chest, the one you were absolutely going to deny later even though it was shaped exactly like your mouth.

His brow lifted.

“You were being annoying,” you said.

“That why you bit me?”

“You laughed at me.”

“You looked funny.”

“I was naked.”

“You were still funny.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then you groaned and dropped your forehead to his chest. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your hand went slack against his stomach. “No,” you admitted, quieter. “I don’t.”

The words should not have landed like that.

You said it often enough. Usually after he ate the last of something you wanted. Usually after he moved you out of the way by your waist instead of saying excuse me. Usually after he made you laugh when you were trying to stay mad.

This time, the apartment heard it too.

The refrigerator kicked on in the kitchen. The lamp gave its faint electric buzz. Outside, a car door shut, and the rest of the world continued without knowing that his whole life had just narrowed to the weight of you breathing against him.

Toji looked past you, toward the nightstand.

The drawer was not fully closed. It never was. One of your charging cables was always getting caught in it.

Inside were the usual things. Receipts. Lip balm. A book light. Two batteries that might have been dead. A loose packet of painkillers. A lighter he was not allowed to use in the bedroom. One satin scrunchie. His pocketknife.

And the small box pushed to the back.

He had bought the ring three weeks ago from a man who talked too much.

The man asked about cut and clarity and setting and budget until Toji considered whether murder in a jewelry store would be worth the inconvenience. Then he saw the ring in the corner of the display case and pointed.

“That one.”

The man hesitated. “That’s a less traditional choice.”

“Didn’t ask.”

Warm gold. Hammered lightly so it caught the light without looking polished to death. A small dark stone set low into the band, deep enough that it would not snag on your sweaters, your pockets, or your hair.

Practical.

Pretty without begging for attention.

Sturdy enough for daily wear.

You, basically.

That had pissed him off.

He bought it anyway.

For three weeks, it sat in your apartment, in your drawer, under your things, because he had no better plan. He considered restaurants and dismissed the idea in six seconds. He considered asking after dinner one night, but you fell asleep on the couch with your head tipped back and your mouth open, and he decided he was not proposing to a woman drooling on herself no matter how much he liked her.

He considered saying it during sex.

Even he knew that was a bad idea.

Mostly.

Now you were here, warm across his chest, your hair in his mouth, your body carrying the proof of him because you had wanted him close and made him believe it. His things were already inside your life. His side of the bed had become a fact. He had been living here without saying so because saying it made the thing real enough to lose.

You let him not say it.

That was the part that got under his skin.

You made room for him without making a spectacle of the room. You bought the extra towel and never called it his. Added his coffee to the grocery list and never watched his face when he noticed. Cleared a drawer, insulted his duffel, and moved on. You folded him into the apartment like staying could happen quietly, if nobody scared it off by naming it too soon.

His hand moved before he finished deciding.

You felt it immediately. “Where are you going?”

“Drawer.”

“Why?”

“Need something.”

“If it’s a cigarette, I’m throwing you out the window.”

“Relax.”

“I am very relaxed. I have no bones.”

“Noticed.”

“Toji.”

He reached past you and pulled the nightstand drawer open.

The charging cable caught, as always. He yanked it free with more patience than it deserved, shifted the lip balm aside, moved the lighter, and found the box.

You went still against him.

He knew that kind of silence.

Not frightened. Not wrong. Just aware.

He brought the box out and set it on the mattress between you.

The apartment did not rearrange itself for the moment. The bad lamp kept buzzing. Your hair clung to his shoulder. Somewhere outside, someone laughed too loudly for the hour. His chest still carried your teeth. Your hip still carried his hand.

Nothing gave the moment permission to be important.

It was important anyway.

“Marry me,” he said.

You stared at the box.

Then at him.

Then back at the box.

Your voice came out careful. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I have your handprints on my hips.”

“Yeah.”

“And I can’t feel my legs.”

“You’ll live.”

“This is when you’re asking?”

“You busy?”

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

He watched you process it, which was worse than getting shot in several places. Your eyes sharpened first. Then softened. Then narrowed, like you were offended by your own softness.

Your fingers flexed once against his chest, directly over the bite mark.

“Are you serious?” you asked.

His jaw shifted.

That was all.

The smile left your face.

That was the trouble with you. You knew when his mouth was being useless. You knew when his body had started telling the truth without asking him first.

“Toji,” you said, quieter now.

He looked at the ceiling for half a second because looking straight at you was going to make the apartment too small.

“Been carrying it around,” he said.

“In my drawer?”

“Wasn’t carrying it the whole time.”

A breath escaped you. It might have been a laugh if it had not been shaking.

“You hid my engagement ring in my own nightstand?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

“I use this drawer every day.”

“Bad hiding spot.”

“Terrible hiding spot.”

“You didn’t find it.”

“Because apparently I trusted the drawer.”

“Your mistake.”

You pressed your lips together. Your eyes were bright now, but he was not stupid enough to mention it. You reached for the box, then stopped before touching it.

“Why now?”

That question landed harder than the proposal.

He had three jokes waiting in his mouth. All of them bad. All of them safer than the truth.

Because your hair was in my mouth.

Because you look like hell.

Because I keep waiting for a better version of me to do this, and that guy’s not coming.

Because I woke up here.

Because I keep waking up here.

Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t know which way home is.

His throat worked once.

You saw that too.

“Got tired,” he said.

You waited.

He hated you a little for that.

He loved you more.

“Of what?”

He looked back at you. Your curls were a mess around your face. The sheet had slipped low enough that he reached for it without thinking and pulled it higher over your back because the morning air had cooled and your skin had pebbled under his hand.

You noticed.

Your face did something he could not stand.

He finished roughly, “Of acting like I’m not already here.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The apartment sat around you in small, damning pieces.

Your mug. His watch.

Your lamp. His shirt.

Your books. His boots.

Your drawer. His ring.

You swallowed.

“You are already here,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“You live here.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re asking me to marry you because you finally noticed?”

He gave you a look. “I noticed.”

“Did you?”

“Woman.”

“No, I’m asking.” Your voice stayed soft, but the edge was there, the stubborn line he had learned to respect because it held. “Did you notice, or did you wake up with my hair in your mouth and panic?”

His mouth twitched despite himself.

“Could be both.”

A sound broke out of you then, half laugh and half sob, and you covered your face with one hand.

Toji stopped moving.

He did not reach. Did not crowd. Did not make the moment easier on himself by trying to take the answer before you gave it.

He let you have the breath.

When your hand dropped, your eyes were wet.

“You’re such an asshole,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

“You’re terrible at this.”

“Yeah.”

“You couldn’t ask over breakfast?”

“You’re not standing long enough to make breakfast.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’ll make it.”

That did it.

Your face crumpled into a smile you tried to bite back and failed. He watched the heat gather under your skin, deepening through your cheeks and throat until you looked alive with it. Wrecked and wild-haired and sore and staring at him like he had handed you something too heavy to hold alone.

He wanted to look away.

He did not.

You reached for him.

He leaned in, then stopped when two of your fingers touched his sternum.

Light pressure.

Wait.

So he waited.

His jaw tightened. You saw that, of course. You saw what it cost when his whole body wanted to close the distance and put his mouth on whatever answer you were about to give.

Your fingers slid up his chest, over the bite you had left, then curled into the chain at his neck.

You pulled.

He came down carefully, one forearm braced beside your shoulder, his weight held off you even though your hand in his chain told him you wanted him close. He lowered himself only as much as your body allowed, close enough that your curls brushed his mouth again.

“Menace,” he muttered.

You laughed under him, breath catching around it.

“You proposed to me while I’m naked and one bad movement away from seeing God.”

“Dramatic.”

“Toji.”

“You remember your name?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” you said, softer now. “I really don’t.”

His breath went uneven once.

Just once.

You lifted your left hand between you.

He looked at it.

Then at you.

“Yeah?” he asked.

One word. Low. Rough. The closest thing to trembling he had ever let touch his voice.

Your eyes held his.

“Yeah.”

His hand moved to the box.

For all the things those hands had done, all the damage they knew how to make cleanly and without hesitation, he was almost absurdly careful opening it. The hinge resisted. He scowled at it.

You laughed again. “Please don’t fight the ring box.”

“Thing’s cheap.”

“You bought it.”

“Still cheap.”

“It is not cheap.”

“You haven’t seen it.”

“I know you.”

He gave you a look, but the edge had gone out of it.

The box opened.

Your breath stopped.

That was enough to make him watch your face instead of the ring. He saw the exact moment you took it in: the hammered gold, the low-set dark stone, the warm glint of it in the weak morning light. Nothing too clean. Nothing too delicate to live in. Nothing that asked you to become another woman to wear it.

Your fingers touched the edge of the box.

“Toji,” you said.

He braced himself for something soft and unbearable.

You looked up at him. “Did you ask whether it would catch in my hair?”

His expression flattened.

You stared.

He stared back.

Then your mouth fell open.

“You did.”

“Shut up.”

“You asked.”

“Didn’t ask like that.”

“Oh my god, you asked.”

“Woman, you want the ring or not?”

You were laughing now, fully laughing, and it made your whole body shift under him. You winced immediately.

“Don’t move,” he said.

“I am experiencing joy.”

“Experience it without moving.”

“You are so romantic.”

“Put your hand out.”

You did.

The laughter thinned when he took your hand in his. His palm dwarfed yours, rough and warm, his thumb dragging once over your knuckles before he could stop it. Your nails caught the light, dark and glossy, and the ring slid over your finger with slight resistance that made something in his chest go settled and strange.

The ring fit.

Of course it did.

He had taken one of your rings from the brass dish two months ago and brought it back before you noticed.

Mostly before you noticed.

You stared at the dish for a long time that night, then looked at him with narrowed eyes.

He had said, “What?”

You had said, “Nothing.”

You had known.

He had known you knew.

Neither of you said a word.

Now the ring sat on your hand like it had been waiting there longer than either of you had admitted. Warm gold against warm brown skin. Dark stone catching the morning in one small, stubborn spark.

You looked at it.

Then at him.

“Hi,” you said, very quietly.

His brow creased. “Hi?”

“I don’t know. I panicked.”

He huffed once, almost a laugh, and dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

Your hand came up immediately, fingers sliding into his hair. Holding him there. He went because you pulled him and because he wanted to, because honest requests from you were the one thing he did not resent answering.

His mouth found the mark on your shoulder and stopped just shy of it.

For once, he did not put his teeth there.

He only breathed.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Does this mean I can officially throw away your duffel bag?” you asked.

“No.”

“Toji.”

“Bag’s fine.”

“The bag is a biohazard.”

“It’s not.”

“It has blood on it.”

“Not fresh.”

You made a sound of deep, exhausted disgust. “We’re engaged for thirty seconds and already I want a divorce.”

“Can’t divorce me from engaged.”

“Watch me.”

His mouth dragged against your skin. This time, he did laugh, low and private, the sound pressed into your shoulder because he did not know how to hand it to you any other way.

You went quiet again.

Your fingers moved through his hair more slowly, less teasing now. The ring touched his scalp, cool for a second before your warmth found it. He closed his eyes.

There were things he could say.

Maybe.

Things other men would know how to arrange.

I love you.

I want to stay.

You are the first place that has ever made leaving feel stupid.

But the words were too clean. Too easy to ruin by saying them wrong. His body was better at this than his mouth, so his body did what it knew.

He kept his weight off you.

He left his hand open on the mattress where you could take it.

He breathed against your shoulder until your breathing matched his.

After a while, you touched his hand.

He turned his palm up.

Your fingers slid between his, ring and all.

“Breakfast,” you said.

He groaned. “Now?”

“You offered.”

“You said eventually.”

“I’m hungry now.”

“You can’t walk.”

“You said you’d make it.”

“Should’ve known the ring would make you bossy.”

“I was bossy before.”

“Yeah.” He lifted his head and looked down at you, your curls spilled everywhere, your eyes tired and bright, your mouth swollen from him and smiling anyway. “I noticed.”

Your expression softened again, and this time he looked away before it killed him.

He pushed himself off the bed carefully. You watched him stand, your gaze moving over the scratches down his back, the bite on his chest, the sweatpants he dragged off the floor and pulled on without bothering to find underwear. He caught your eyes in the dresser mirror.

“What?”

“You look like shit,” you said sweetly.

His mouth curved. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He bent, picked up his shirt, and threw it at your face.

You caught it badly because your arms were apparently still not working. “Rude.”

“Put that on before you get cold.”

“It smells like you.”

“Then don’t.”

You pulled it on.

He watched for half a second too long as the shirt settled over you, loose and worn soft from too many wash cycles in your machine, the collar slipping off one shoulder and leaving his mark visible above the fabric. The ring flashed when you pushed your curls out of your face.

His ring.

Your hand.

Your choice.

The difference mattered in a way he would never be able to explain without sounding like someone else.

He went to the kitchen.

It was small and badly arranged, though you insisted it was “efficient if certain large men would stop standing in the way.” He knew where everything was. The good pan on the left. Coffee in the tin with the broken clasp. Mugs on the second shelf because you had once said the top shelf was ableist and he had not known whether you were joking. Bread in the drawer. Eggs in the carton, with one cracked one he should use first.

The brown bear mug waited at the back, handle turned toward him.

He took it down without thinking.

From the bedroom, your voice floated out, hoarse and pleased.

“I saw that.”

He looked at the mug in his hand.

Then toward the bedroom.

“Go back to sleep.”

“You love the bear.”

“You want breakfast or you want to talk shit?”

“Both.”

He shook his head and filled the kettle.

The apartment moved around him in its usual small sounds. Pipes. Floorboards. The spoon against ceramic. Your lamp buzzing in the other room. The city waking badly outside the window. Nothing special. Nothing clean enough for a wedding story your family could hear without clutching their pearls.

Good.

He did not need clean.

Clean could be packed in ten minutes and left behind.

This was better.

The ring was in the bedroom. You were in the bed. His boots were by the door, and he had no plans to put them on.

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