nala.

CHAPTERS …

DROP DEAD , abbot

STUPID SONG , abbot

HONEYBEE , abbot

MAGGOTS FOR BRAINS , abbot

U + ME = <3 , abbot

MY WAY , abbot

PURPLE , abbot

THE CURE , abbot

BEGGED , abbot

WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME , abbot

LESS , abbot

EXPECTATIONS , abbot

CIGARETTE SMOKE , abbot

YOU SEEM PRETTY SAD FOR A GIRL SO IN LOVE , abbot

He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all. 

He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to ‘fuck off and stop bothering his girl’ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.

Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips. 

God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. He’s hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants. 

It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.

But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.

Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you. 

The girl he couldn’t take out of his brain for the past seven days. 

Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast. 

Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself.  

"My name is-"

But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again. 

Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.

For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.

And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.

He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. 

He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.

"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.”

His eyes catch yours. 

“It'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."

You’re this close to fucking shitting your pants. 

The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what you’d deem an outfit way too slutty. 

Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs. 

And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room. 

What’s worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you don’t give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator. 

As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. It’s a wedding ring. 

You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didn’t have it on that night in the bar, you would’ve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut. 

You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. You’d hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.

But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt. 

Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina. 

By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting. 

But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.

Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.

He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.

After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.

At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.

He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.

You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled. 

"Could you stay for a moment?"

Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.

By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.

As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ. 

He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.

"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.

Jack clears his throat.

"Right. Yes."

Very articulate. 

"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."

You blink.

"The situation?"

"The fact that we've met before."

"Oh."

You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.

"Yeah. I noticed."

The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.

"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."

Jack immediately shakes his head.

"No, it's okay. You're good."

Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening. 

"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."

Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.

"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."

His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence. 

"I wasn't suggesting-"

"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."

Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.

You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of “casualness” is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.

"Right," he says finally.

A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down. 

You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there. 

Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."

The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.

For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.

Then you nod, still staring at the floor. 

"Okay."

"Okay. Yeah, good."

Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.

"I should go."

"Yes, thank you for staying back."

You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him. 

“Goodbye, Dr Abbot.”

Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he can’t help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.

The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff. 

That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.

Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare.  

It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick. 

You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked… mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake. 

And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, you’re not special. 

And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. You’re doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing you’ve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way he’d protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before. 

God you sound fucking pathetic. 

And specifically, his suggestive line of “my office hours are listed on the syllabus” reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations. 

In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbot’s class at that too. 

Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face. 

Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.

As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise you’ve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you. 

Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.

And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.

The feedback only makes it worse.

Critical analysis underdeveloped.

Needs greater engagement with course material.

More depth required.

Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.

Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.

Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.

You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.

Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.

Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not. 

Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes. 

And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.

The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.

Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.

After stalking the stupid university website you’ve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak. 

Doesn’t he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.

Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.

You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a “come in”. You walk in.  

Fuck your life. 

His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop. 

“Oh it's you. Hello sweetheart.” He winces at the slip of the pet name. 

“Sorry Miss-” he pauses. “Um, just have a seat, please.”

You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him. 

You set your paper on his desk and mumble.

“I just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.”

“Yeah of course, what’d you want to ask?”

You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything. 

"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."

He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints. 

He sighs.

“Wait, let me get my readers on.”

You sneak a glance up. 

Oh fuck. 

He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles. 

Yeah, pussy exploded. 

You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart. 

When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk. 

"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."

Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.

"It's actually the opposite."

“What?"

"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."

The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.

"But?" you whisper.

His mouth twitches.

"But I don't think you pushed yourself."

Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.

"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.”

Right, so you’re failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you can’t even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-

“Hey sweetheart, are you feelin’ okay?” 

You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap. 

Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack. 

“I’m so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- I’ve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all so…” your voice cracks. “I don't even know what I’m saying I just-”

He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.

He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes.  

“Hey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.”  

He inhales. 

“Look, follow my breathing.”

You try to, but it comes out stuttered.

"Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Nothin’ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. C’mon, take a deep breath in, and out."

He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.

“In, and out, just like that.”

It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries. 

Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest. 

“You breathin’ better now?”

You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.

“I’m so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didn’t mean to-”

“Hey, it’s okay, sweet girl.”

He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.

You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.

"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."

The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.

Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful. 

"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."

Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. He’s a widower. You don’t know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that he’s not married, and you aren’t a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again. 

“I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I don’t know, I don't want to assume-”

“Shh, take a deep breath for me. You’re good, sweetheart. 

 He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it.  

“Yeah? It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It was a long time ago.”

You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down.  

“You feelin’ better now?” He asks gently.

You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again. 

“Yes, thank you.”

It slips out before he can stop it. 

“Good girl.”

Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices.  You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes. 

“I could help you, you know.”

You blink, confused. 

He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral. 

“I could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.”

He pauses.

“Like that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.”

Your breath hitches, and you mumble a “yes.”

“Louder, sweetheart. If we’re gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.”

His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbot’s hands. 

Slowly, you nod. 

“Yes Dr Abbot, I’d like you to help me.”

He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up. 

“Atta girl. C’mon then, get up for me.”

You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair. 

“I’m gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then I’ll help you, yeah?”

You nod again. 

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Dr Abbot.”

He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.

He’s so handsome.  

Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.”  

Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under. 

“Please, please Dr Abbot, touch me.”

“Yeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?” 

He taps your head. 

You whine ‘yes, yes please sir.’ 

You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans.  

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.”

“Please, Sir, please touch me.”

“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”  

Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please. 

He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, “right here sweetheart?” and you nod, whining. 

He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on . 

“That’s it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

“Fuck- right there.”

You buck up in his hold. 

And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.

“Fuckin’ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank you’d like.” 

You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself.  

You nod tucking your head in his neck, “Yeah, yeah sir I’ll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.” 

“That’s my good girl.” 

And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring “yeah? yeah” as he inhaled your musk.

You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get.  

“Fuck I’m going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.”

“Yeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?” He groans, low and husky. 

And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over. 

You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.

In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling.  

“Fuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!”

The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you. 

Did he just… orgasm?

Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive. 

And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens. 

You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place. 

"Fuck."

The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.

You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you. 

“Fuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-”

The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.

“Yeah, you should leave,” he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows. 

What the fuck?

You’re so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.

And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes. 

Fuck old men. You hate old men.

After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and you’re going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.

He was embarrassed, that’s all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. You’re so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you. 

The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.

It's when you’re holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again. 

Because you get a text from an unknown number. 

Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.   That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.

Then two minutes later. 

And I wanted to check in.  Are you feeling better?

Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself? 

The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable. 

Stop.

Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm. 

And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant. 

So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half. 

Hey, i’m okay thanks 

Wow, look at you go. 

His reply is almost immediate.

Good.  Good girl. 

You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words. 

You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who can’t even formulate a reply and be flirtatious. 

You type something.

Delete it.

Type something else.

Delete that too.

Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely. 

What are you supposed to say?

Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?

Sorry for crying in your office?

Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?

After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you don’t even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again.  

Can I see you?  Please.

Your breath stutters. 

yeah sure When do your classes finish today? At 3pm Okay. I’ll meet you at Sapphos.

Fuck, you hate how he doesn’t ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once. 

But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes. 

And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.

So your dumbass agrees. 

Okay ! i’ll see u soon  See you soon, sweetheart. 

Sweetheart. Yeah, you're actually gonna kill yourself. 

Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a ‘lapse’ and starts becoming a conscious choice.

He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all.  

What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.

And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And you’re young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will. 

You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.

Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.

He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.

And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.

But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope. 

And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone. 

He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that. 

But if that was the only way he’d be able to get you out of his head, then so be it. 

And so despite all of that, despite every logical argument he could construct, despite every fucking university regulation he was violating right now, his eyes keep drifting towards the café entrance every few seconds.

Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.

And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up. 

Abbot, no. 

But the words slip out as you reach him. 

“Hey sweetheart.”

“Hi Dr Abbot.”

You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior. 

He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back. 

“Did you have a nice morning?”

He withholds a wince at the awkwardness. 

“Um, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?”

The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.

“Good, that’s good.”

Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.

For Christ's sake he’d called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.

Get your shit together, Abbot. 

"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."

Your eyes finally lift from the table.

“It was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I don’t even have an excuse I just…”

He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?

That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second I’d felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine I’d somehow started structuring entire days around whether I’d see you?

None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense. 

"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."

That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms. 

“You mean, you.. coming in your pants?”

Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.

“I didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."

"I thought so."

You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.

"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."

His shoulders loosen slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You shrug.

"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."

The honesty makes him wince.

"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. I’m truly very sorry.”

You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply. 

“Apology accepted.” 

The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.

Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously. 

"What?" you question. 

"That isn't coffee."

"It literally is."

"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."

You let out a giggle, again. God, you’ve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive.  

"It has espresso."

"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."

"Whatever, you’re just old and grumpy."

You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.

For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.

He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell. 

Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar. 

“Yeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.”

Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.

"Sweetheart."

"What?"

"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."

Your grin grows, eyes sparkling. 

"Why?"

"Because I'm fifty."

That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it. 

Interesting. 

Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.

And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.

Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.

Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice. 

"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."

The words leave his mouth casually.

Your eyes flicker up.

"Oh."

A pause.

"I could come see you."

"In my office?"

You immediately look embarrassed.

"Only if that's okay."

God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.

"Sweetheart."

Your eyes lift.

"It's okay."

The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.

"Okay."

"Okay."

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.

"Dr Abbot-"

"No."

"I can pay for myself."

"I know."

"Then-"

"I know, I know you’re a self sufficient woman. You’re brilliant. But let me. I’ll pay for it."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.

Then you nod softly, muttering an “okay, thank you”. 

Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life. 

So you think you’ve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor. 

Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt. 

Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes. 

Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so. 

Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare. 

He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to “focus” as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit. 

You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek. 

“Please, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.” 

But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.

“No. Type out the rest of the essay, c’mon. Then you can come, pretty girl,” he’d muttered in a low voice. 

And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing.  

You’d squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk. 

He’d made you lick it off. 

Surprisingly, however, you hadn’t kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense. 

The latter you’re grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks. 

Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need. 

But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you. 

Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.

Surely he's put two and two together.  

And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck. 

He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.

Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.

A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.

You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. You’d accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.

He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.

And god, that’s what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow. 

Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. There’s a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you – it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you. 

Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.

And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.

And for now, maybe it is.

The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room – this lie gets a little harder to believe.

Five weeks. Jack’s ‘brief’ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks. 

Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like he’s twenty again. It's exhilarating. 

But the ‘ethical dilemma’ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.

He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.

The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife. 

And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.

“Dr Abbot….” you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour. 

He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something. 

“What?” he huffed out.

Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words. 

“When are you going to let me suck your cock?”

He jolted, hips thrusting up.

“Jesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.”

You said his name again, more firmly. 

“Stop dodging the question.”

He paused. 

“This whole… us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. It’s not about me or my pleasure or-”

“Jack.” 

He lifted his head from your back, stilling. You’d never said his first name before. 

“What if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?”

He stayed silent. 

You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him. 

“I want to taste you, please.”

Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek.  

“Please, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.” 

He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you.  

“Fine,” he grumbled. 

“Get off, c’mon.”

Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek.  

He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room. 

Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly. 

“If you want it, you gotta do it yourself.”

You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs. 

Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out. 

It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest. 

You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around. 

Jack couldn’t wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him. 

“You gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?”

You smirked, you vixen. 

“Shove it in, I dare you.”

He groaned, muttering “you fuckin’ brat” as he pushed your hands off his cock.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath. 

He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch. 

Until you gagged. 

Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually. 

“Can I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?”

You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth. 

Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.

“Just like that, sweetheart”.

“Yeah, grip it harder”.

“Suck the tip, just like that.” 

And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue. 

He had never come that hard in his life. 

Panting harshly, he patted your head. 

“Swallow.”

Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. He’d pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life. 

There wasn’t a label on what you two were, if you even were anything. 

While at first he’d thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of ‘causalness’ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that he’d have any issue with either. 

But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to ‘feelings’, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.

He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him. 

However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave. 

Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldn’t want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.

All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.

Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.

He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy. 

When he enters the lecture this morning, you aren’t sitting alone like usual, but instead, there’s some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk. 

Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you? 

As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him. 

His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.

Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.

Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punk’s arm. 

Fuck. 

Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.

But he can’t do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isn’t seething with jealousy. 

Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.

Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.

Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.

After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.

Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.

Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it. 

He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance. 

If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you. 

By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.

Because what exactly are you guilty of?

Making a friend? Talking to somebody?

The answer is nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, he’s going to commit a fucking crime tonight. 

Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you.  You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck. 

He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together. 

Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to “organise a study session”, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.

You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.

The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you. 

And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.

You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about -  or maybe pretending to be shocked.

Instead he'd practically fled the room.

By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, he’s sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over. 

Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.

A gruff voice immediately answers.

"Come in."

You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.

His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.

And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.

He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.

“Who the fuck was that boy?”

You’re confused. 

“Who?”

“Don't play games with me, sweetheart.”

“James?” you ask, tilting your head. “Oh he’s just a… friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.”

His jaw visibly tenses.

“The fuck you mean you ‘share notes’?” He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “Don’t I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachin’ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?

“Jack, it’s not like that, I just-”

“Dr Abbot.” He interrupts.

The correction slices straight through you.

“What?”

He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and you’re pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you. 

“It’s Dr Abbot when you’re in my office, sweetheart,” His voice drops lower. “I’m still your professor.” 

You scoff at that, hurt. It’s not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys can’t exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you. 

Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask. 

You swallow hard.

“Right,” you say lowly. “My professor.”

The words taste bitter.

“The one who only seems to want me when we're in here.”

His brows furrow immediately.

“That's not what-”

“No, it’s okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-”

“Enough.”

You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He whispers, staring at you.

You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what you’ve been spiralling over ever since this began.

“I just...” Your voice cracks slightly. “Look, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesn’t mean much to you.”

Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.

“Which is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.” Your hands shake slightly at your sides. “But just don’t give me false hope. I’m happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but there’s no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.” 

You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him. 

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldn’t ever tell him. Stupid. 

Sex, that’s easy. It’s the meshing of two bodies, it’s clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You can’t let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave. 

“C’mon, look at me,” he pleads.

You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.

“Please.”

You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.

Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown. 

His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye. 

“Hey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit you’ve created in your head okay?”

Then he inhales deeply. 

“You've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.”

Jack closes his eyes briefly.

Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.

“Sweetheart, I love you.”

You still. 

Your lip quivers as you stare at him. 

You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes. 

The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.

“I do. Too. That thing,” you wince at your awkwardness. “I just, I want to say it but I-"

“Hey pretty girl, it’s okay.”

Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.

“I do,” you whisper desperately. “I do. I just-”

“Shh.”

His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.

“I love you. And I’ll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?”

Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.

You barely register them before you feel Jack’s lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, ‘I love you’s as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him. 

Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human. 

Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.

But he stayed. And he saw you. 

You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.

“Sorry for making you cry, princess,” he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately. 

A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.

Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.

Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.

Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.

That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating. 

Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.

And perhaps, you realise, so have you.

That’s when you know.

“I’m ready,” you breathe out.

Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.”

“Jack. I’m sure. I want this, I want you.”

He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.

“Yeah?” He whispers against your lips, brushing them.

“Yeah.” 

Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time. 

And God, its everything you fucking imagined. 

His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. There’s a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other. 

After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.

Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor. 

He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.

“Fuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,” he grunts out as he unzips his pants.

You moan, pressing against him harder.

“I can’t wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”

You nod.

“I’m ready, Dr Abbot.”

He groans mutters ‘you fucking minx’ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.

His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love. 

You glance down at his prosthetic. 

“You sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.”

He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.

“No sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. ”

Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in. 

“And I still need to fuck the brat out of you.”

You whine.

“What are you waiting for then?”

He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you. 

“Gonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, s’not gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.”

A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk.  

He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once you’re ready. Circles your clit softly, the way he’s learnt after many nights on this same desk. 

Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks. 

Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick. 

“Yeah? You ready sweetheart?”

You nod, whisper a soft ‘please’ against his lips. 

Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. He’s just so fucking thick. 

He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly. 

It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips. 

“Please, Jack, fuck. Put it in,” you whine. 

“Oh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.”

He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply. 

“I’m trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.”

You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true. 

“Take your time, old man.”

He stills at that, grips your waist harshly. 

Looks up at you, his eyes darkening. 

“Fuck you,” he snarls. 

Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain. 

“Fuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,” he babbles in your ear. 

You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside. 

Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms ‘a little death’ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you. 

With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder. 

“Only man that’s ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?”

You’re half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines. 

“Nod for me, c’mon. I haven’t fucked the brains outta you yet.” 

Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck. 

You nod, slurring your words.

“Yeah Dr Abbot, s’only your pussy.”

“That’s it, good fucking girl.”

Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you. 

When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately. 

“Quiet, you don’t want anyone to hear right?” 

He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck. 

“Don’t want them to know your professor’s fucking you, right?”

You shake your head, words muffled under his palm. 

“I’ll be quiet please, fuck please!” 

He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you. 

“Yeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.”

God it feels so good, and you’re there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk. 

“That’s my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.”

Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes. 

He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw. 

“C’mon, look at me sweetheart.”

You open your eyes, moaning. 

“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”

“Fuck- Dr Abbot, I’m yours.”

He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak.  

“Fuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.”

He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack. 

You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.

“C’mon tell me how good you feel,” he pants, nearing his own orgasm. 

“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good.”

His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills. 

“What’d you just call me?”

Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit. 

You stammer, “Um nothing, sir, I was just-”

“No. Repeat it.”

He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly

“What did you call me?”

“Daddy,” you whisper out.

He pouts mockingly. 

“Yeah? Daddy makin’ you feel good, baby? That’s why you're grippin’ this cock so tight, right?”

And then he starts thrusting, harder than before. 

“Just. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,” He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder. 

Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him. 

He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.

“You gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?” 

You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard. 

His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, “fuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

You moan at his words. But you still have to come. 

“Jack please, please keep going.” 

He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily. 

He grips your chin in his palm. 

“Fuckin’ come for me. Now,” he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.

And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes. 

He whimpers soft praises and coos of “I love you, did so good for me” as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.

You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That live up to your expectations?”

You laugh softly nodding. 

“Mhm.”

He leans his head back to look at you properly once he’s cooled down, and holds your face in his palms. 

After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.

“Don’t think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.”

Your brows immediately furrow.

“Jack-”

He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you. 

“Let me speak.”

You sigh, but nod. 

“I've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “And after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.”

Your breath stutters. 

“Then you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. ”

A watery laugh escapes you.

“And whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreamin’ about at three in the morning.”

He pauses. 

“I wanna be the person you come home to.”

Your breath catches.

“As your other. If you’d want.” 

You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.

“I love you.”

Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears. 

“Yeah?” He whispers, half surprised, half in awe.  

You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.

“And I’d love to be yours.”

Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.

Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you. 

As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly. 

You both still. Before you burst out laughing. 

“You’re so fucking old… yeah you’re not making it very long, I can’t lie.”

He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.   

“Fuck you, shut up.”

You bite your lip. His gaze travels there.  

“Make me, Dr Abbot,” you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.

His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.

“Yeah sweetheart, about that… I’m not gonna be able to get it up for a while.”

You break, laughing harder as he laments. He’s so fucking old. 

Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out. 

“But my mouth still works,” he smirks. 

Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers. 

“My leg’s killing me, sweetheart,” he begins, breath fanning over your face. “But I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.”

You whimper softly against his mouth. 

“Okay.”

“Okay, who, pretty girl?” “Okay, Daddy.”

He grins. 

“Good girl.”

omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.

Over the last two weeks, he had gotten really good at talking to you through your DMs. So good that he had no issues falling into that playful bickering you both did when you were in front of him. But now, the locker room was buzzing with the echoes of cleats shuffling across tile and the occasional bark of laughter bouncing off the metal lockers. It was far too much noise for him to think straight.

Before his shower, he managed to find the right words to ask if you were going to the game this weekend. He had thought about it all week, but now, with only a few days until Saturday afternoon, he suddenly couldn’t manage to form a coherent sentence.

Your reply seemed pretty open-ended, a yes with the added:

Only the tailgate though. I usually watch the game at my apartment with my roommates.

Theoretically, this could be an easy layup, a simple, straightforward proposition. He typed, deleted, then retyped the message three times before finally sending: 

You should come watch me for real.

His thumb hovered over the screen, heartbeat thudding in his ears louder than the locker room chaos. Before he could overthink it, he tapped send and immediately flipped his phone face-down on the bench, as if the message might bare its teeth and nip him. The buzz of a reply came quicker than expected. He turned it over slowly, like lifting a bandage.

I could. Hypothetically.

That was his go-ahead.

Hypothetically, if I score, you think I could get your number?

Despite having known you for a month and a week, you still hadn’t given Colston your phone number. He stared at his phone, watching as the typing indicator appeared. His gut twisted as he imagined you rolling your eyes at his audacity, lips pursed in that way they did when you were deciding whether he was more amusing or annoying. Finally, your reply popped up:

Hypothetically you could.

Colston’s fingers twitched against his phone screen, the corners of his mouth betraying him as they lifted into a grin he couldn’t suppress. He typed:

Hypothetically, I like those odds. You need tickets?

Depends. My dad’s coming to this one so if my mom stays home this week, I’ll be with him.

Colston froze mid-read. You hadn’t spoken much about your families. At most, he could comfortably say that you had two brothers, an older one who graduated from Michigan the previous Spring, and a younger one who was still in middle school. But beyond that, he really didn’t know anything about your parents. He hadn’t known that your parents seemingly attended games, regularly enough that you could casually mention your mom staying home this week specifically.

Your dad went to Michigan?

The text sat unanswered for a full minute, long enough for Colston’s stomach to knot itself into a knot, worried he was overstepping.

He played outside linebacker for Michigan in the 90s.

You replied, followed by a second message:

So yes, he’ll have tickets.

You think I could meet him?

You could.

Colston’s breath caught in his throat when he read the words—not just the offer, but the casual confidence of it. Like you already knew he’d say yes. Like you wanted him to say yes. 

I’m down. Tell me where to meet you.

[ . . . ]

When you told Colston you didn’t usually attend games past the tailgates, you were being truthful. Growing up with a Michigan alum father meant you’d spent your childhood drowning in maize-and-blue Saturdays, sometimes glued to the couch, sometimes tucked into stadium seats, fingers numb from cold soda and colder November winds. By the time you enrolled and attended a few games in the student section, the magic of Saturdays at the Big House had dulled into simply a socially acceptable opportunity to drink before noon.

Your dad did his best to attend most home games in person. He had access to great seats, tailgates with the brothers of Kappa Alpha Psi—both your father and older brother pledged during undergrad—and most importantly, you had spent your entire childhood watching him cheer on the Wolverines with the same fervor he had when he was suited up in the nineties.

“It’s gettin’ close to kickoff,” your father mused, nudging your elbow as you adjusted the navy blue pullover, rolling the sleeves to keep your hands from drowning in them. Your father’s gaze flickered between you and the stadium gates ahead, his mouth quaking at the corners. “We’re about to head in. Are you headin’ back with Dakota? I could get y’all’s Uber—”

“Actually,” you said, hesitating just long enough for your father’s brow to arch, “I was gonna watch with you and Elijah.”

His smile deepened as he adjusted his Michigan cap covering the shine of his bald head. “Elijah’s already inside,” he said, nodding toward the stadium, both of you starting toward the entrance. “But I ain’t heard you volunteer to sit through four quarters since you were sixteen and tryin’ to impress that linebacker’s kid.” He paused, tilting his head. “So who is it this time?”

You rolled your eyes, tugging at the hem of your long-sleeved navy blue baby tee. “I just wanted to keep you company,” you lied. He chuckled low in his throat, the sound rumbling like distant thunder in his chest. It was a sound you knew meant he wasn’t buying it for a second.

“I got your brother to keep me company,” he said, fishing his phone from his pocket as you walked through the gates, flashing his digital pass to the attendant. “Didn’t know I’d need another.” He swiped to a second ticket, thumb hovering.

“Mind you, Elijah left you to ‘go get drinks’ twenty minutes ago,” you pointed out, nudging your father’s shoulder as you navigated the crowded concourse. The scent of salted snacks clung to the air, mingling with the distant roar of the marching band. He hummed, sliding his phone back into his pocket after being waved through the metal detectors.

The stadium seats groaned beneath your father’s weight as he settled in, elbows resting on his knees, eyes already scanning the field as players warmed up. You perched beside him, suddenly hyperaware of every jersey number streaking across the turf below.

“What do you miss most?” you asked, buying yourself some time to locate Colston’s number among the blur of helmets and padded shoulders. Your father exhaled through his nose, eyes tracking the defensive line drills below.

“The hitting,” he said after a beat. “That feeling of nailing the other guy. Not the waking up feelin’ like I got hit by a truck though.”

You laughed softly, scanning the sidelines until finding him. Colston crouched near the bench, adjusting his gloves. Even from this distance, you could see the wired focus emanating from him. He was much more rigid with this anticipation than the playful ease he wore around you, much more serious than the teasing tone that would accompany a raised eyebrow tossed your way.

“You see number 18 down there? By the bench,” he reached out a hand, pointing toward Colston’s crouched frame before glancing sideways at you. His fingers lingered mid-air, then slowly curled back.

“Freshman tight end from the middle of nowhere Idaho,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, eyes narrowing in appraisal. You took the opportunity to stare at him a little while longer. “Good hands. Nice height. Needs to work on his blocking. But he’ll be great. I can see it. He’s gettin’ drafted in a couple years. I’m callin’ it.”

Though Michigan’s passing game had been under question all season—and this game wasn’t too different, as your father loudly pointed out—you found yourself tracking Colston’s every move. It was hard not to. His towering frame cut through defenders like a blade through wheat, his strides long and purposeful.

The first time he was thrown the ball, your father leaned forward, muttering, “Watch him bring it down,” as Colston pivoted mid-air, twisting just enough to keep his toes inbounds before crashing onto the sideline. “Told you. Good hands.”

Walking away with a 34-3 victory, Colston had managed to snag two catches, nothing flashy, but enough to make you reconsider your stance on giving him your number. As the stadium emptied, you lingered near a player exit with your father, the crisp October air biting at your cheeks.

Your father crossed his arms, watching you with that same knowing amusement. “You have someone you want me to meet?” he echoed, sharing a glance with Elijah who shook his head with a deep chuckle.

You didn’t get a chance to respond before the exit doors swung open, releasing a flood of players still buzzing with post-win adrenaline. Colston emerged halfway through the pack, his jersey swapped for a crisp navy blue Michigan zip-up hoodie, hair a bit mussed from the towel he used to dry it after his shower. His eyes locked onto yours instantly, that same electric focus from the field softening into something warmer, more familiar. Then they flicked to your father and brother standing on either side of you.

Colston hesitated for only a heartbeat, enough for you to notice the way his fingers twitched where they held onto the strap of his university-issued backpack, before striding forward with that easy confidence you'd come to expect. Up close, the adrenaline still hummed beneath his skin.

His gaze flicked to your father’s outstretched hand before clasping it firmly. “Sir,” he said, deep voice roughened by the constant need to project his voice during the game. The respectful tilt of his chin made you bite your lip to hide a smile.

Colston’s grip lingered a second longer than necessary when he shook his hand. It wasn’t a challenge, but something deeper. You watched your father’s eyebrows lift in silent recognition, snapping his fingers when they finally released their hold. “Loveland,” he said, pointing at Colston’s chest.

Colston nodded, dapping up Elijah next with an effortless familiarity that you wouldn’t necessarily say you weren’t a fan of.

“Did you play here too?” Colston asked, his voice dipping into that easy curiosity he reserved for moments when he genuinely wanted to listen.

Elijah grinned, clapping him on the shoulder with a laugh. “Nah, man, I didn’t get the athleticism for real.”

Your father snorted, shaking his head. “Don’t let him fool you, he could’ve walked on if he’d bothered to try.”

Colston’s gaze flicked to yours mid-conversation, catching the way you were subtly rubbing your arms against the chill. Without breaking his stride in recounting his 4th and 15 catch to your father, who nodded approvingly at the technical details, Colston shrugged off his zip-up and handed it to you. The fabric was still warm from his body, carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the smell of body wash. You hesitated, fingers brushing against his as you took it, feeling your brother’s eyes dart between you with amused suspicion.

The zip-up swallowed your frame, sleeves pooling past your fingertips as you tugged it closer, selfishly taking a moment to indulge in the scent of him so close to your nose.

Your father’s voice cut through your distraction.

“So... you know my daughter?”

Colston’s chuckle was low, rolling through the space between you like honey over gravel. “Yeah,” he said, hands dipping into his pockets, shoulders loose but not slouched. “She’s been putting up with me for a while now. Been helping me a lot with my psych class.” His gaze slid back to yours long enough for Elijah to elbow their father pointedly.

The corner of your father’s mouth twitched as he studied Colston’s profile. His broad shoulders stayed squared even in ease. His voice was gentle but self-assured. His eyes kept wandering back to you while you pretended not to notice the drifting focus.

“Psych class?” Your father mused, rubbing his chin. “She’s real smart, ain’t she?”

Colston’s grin curled slow and deliberate, his eyes finding your face again, “Smart enough to help me get an ‘A’ on my midterm.” The statement made him chuckle, deep and approving, before he turned to Elijah, muttering something about needing to find a restroom. Elijah smirked, dapping Colston again before following their father, tossing you a wink that made the heat of embarrassment crawl up your neck.

“I think he likes me,” Colston murmured as your family disappeared into the crowd, finally turning to face you head-on. “You know what that means.” He raised both eyebrows this time.

You scoffed, tugging the sleeves of Colston’s hoodie further over your hands as if they could hide the uneasy shift of your weight. “What does that mean, Colston?”

“Means I could get your number now,” Colston said, his voice dropping into that low register that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. His thumb brushed against the side of his phone where it sat in his pocket. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

Quietly you held your hand out to him, palm upturned, fingers flexing impatiently. He handed over his unlocked phone with a smile, watching as your thumbs flew across the screen.

“You didn’t even score tonight,” you teased, pressing his phone back into his palm slowly. The stadium lights flickered overhead, casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face as he pocketed the device, his grin widening.

“Didn’t need to, apparently,” Colston shrugged, releasing a deep laugh. “You should come to more games.”

You tucked your hands deeper into the sleeves of Colston’s hoodie, your fingers brushing against the lining still warm from his body heat. “I’ll think about it,” you said, rocking back on your heels just enough for the platform of your sneakers to lift off the pavement.

An easy silence settled over you with the added background chatter of lingering fans and stadium staff packing up. You curled your fingers into the cuffs of Colston’s hoodie, thumbs brushing the soft fabric absently. You could feel his eyes on you like he had nowhere else to be.

Out of the corner of your eye you spotted your brother emerging from the restroom first, his gait deliberately sneaky as he approached. The way Elijah’s mouth curved into a smirk told you everything you needed to know. Colston cleared his throat beside you, catching the hint and straightening his posture slightly just as your father rounded the corner behind Elijah, arms crossed with a knowing smile on his face.

“I gotta head home. Will’s about to blow my phone up,” Colston announced, nodding to your father as he adjusted his backpack strap higher on his shoulder.

“Oh, your jacket—” you started, fingers already fumbling with the zipper, but Colston waved you off with a dimpled smile.

“Keep it,” he said, his voice softening. “I can get another one if I want.” Your fingers paused on the zipper, your nails catching the metal for a second before you let your hands drop back to your sides. You didn’t argue, mostly because you didn’t want to, but also because Colston was already stepping back, his broad frame casting a shadow over you.

“Text me when you get home,” he added, holding a hand out to your father one last time. “Sir.”

You knew the quiet that settled over your father and brother as they watched Colston saunter off wouldn’t last. Elijah broke first, elbowing your ribs before you could dodge. “Smart enough to help him get an ‘A,’ is crazy work,” he drawled, pitching his voice into a poor imitation of Colston’s distinctive twang. You shoved him hard enough to make him stumble, ignoring your father’s chuckle as he flagged down a rideshare.

“Didn’t I tell you not to get involved with athletes?” He mused as you piled into the Uber, his voice laced with amusement rather than reproach.

You rolled your eyes, shrugging deeper into Colston’s hoodie. Elijah snorted from the seat closest to the left-hand side window, twisting to shoot you a look that got him a middle finger and a guffaw from your father.

“He’s just my friend. Like barely,” you muttered into the collar of Colston’s hoodie, pressing your forehead against the cool glass of the Uber’s window.

[ . . . ]

Calling what you had going on “just being friends” proved to be a convenient excuse. You could feel the lie settle uncomfortably between your ribs every time you repeated it—to Aditi’s raised eyebrows, to Dakota’s knowing smirk, to your father’s hum of disbelief when you told him that Colston did indeed attend your office hours every single week.

Your texting had taken on a rhythm that felt increasingly normal. Both of you were busy so there wasn’t an unnatural pressure to feign waiting or pretend you weren’t checking your phones. You found yourself sending Colston snaps between classes. Sometimes it was a quick glimpse of your face, sometimes of something that reminded you of something you had spoken about days earlier, sometimes just to prove you weren’t dead after a particularly busy day when you couldn’t text him back much. Colston responded in kind. Often photos of himself making dumb faces, videos of his teammates wrestling in the locker room, blurry selfies in the mirror. It was comfortable, easy, and yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was teetering dangerously close to something much deeper entirely.

In all honesty, you wouldn’t say that you were entirely opposed to the idea of dating Colston specifically. As he had made sure to point out during your post-game rendezvous: your dad liked him despite his student-athlete status. That wasn’t insignificant either; your dad hated your ex (though he wasn’t an athlete), and you spent much too long attempting to write off your father’s distaste as overprotectiveness.

Beyond your father’s amused approval, you could write a full page’s worth of the Idahoan’s ‘pros’. If you hadn’t been busy with your job, the BSU’s fall events, your classes, and studying for upcoming exams, you probably would’ve taken the time to write such a list. You did, however, find the time to consider some of the most obvious pros in your head.

Number one: He was attractive.

Tall and broad with dark features that contrasted well from his tanned skin that was gradually growing lighter now that Ann Arbor was firmly experiencing the lowering temperatures of autumn. He was cute, with deep dimples in both cheeks that were always accompanied by a boyish grin that made your stomach flip every single time you saw it. He was tall too, tall enough that your head tilted back when you spoke to him, tall enough that you had to crane your neck to meet his chocolate brown eyes, tall enough that you had an excuse to press your palms against his bicep to steady yourself whenever you stumbled in his presence—something which happened frequently for reasons you refused to acknowledge aloud.

Number two: He was kind.

Kindness was a trait that you couldn’t say you paid much attention to in previous romantic experiences. But with Colston it was impossible to ignore exactly how kind he was—how kind he always was. He was the guy who held the door for other girls, even when they batted their eyelashes and made your jaw tighten involuntarily. He was the guy who carried the professor’s heavy briefcase up three flights of stairs when the building’s elevator broke down without complaint. He was the guy who paid attention to the way you shivered in cold lecture halls and always remembered to bring an extra hoodie just for you, slipping it over your shoulders with a quiet, “Here, you look cold,” like it wasn’t the most devastating thing in the world.

Number three: He was good company.

All too often you found yourself dumbing yourself down for the benefit of the men you spoke to. There was always a nagging voice formed of a worrying amalgamation of every draining, toxic, insecure man you had ever spoken to. It was the guys who told you you intimidated them. Or the guys who told you you needed to stop thinking so hard about things that absolutely needed to be considered deeply. It was definitely the guys who seemed to be obsessed with humbling you for the sake of their own egos. Colston wasn’t like that. He listened to you ramble about things you learned in your much more advanced psychology classes. He asked questions—intelligent ones—ones that had you scrunching your nose as you attempted to answer him in a way you knew would best resonate with him.

When Colston wasn’t letting you ramble, and watching you do so with those deep chocolate brown eyes, he was talking to you in a way you couldn’t say didn’t make you completely giddy either. He never hesitated to tell you how smart you were, how capable you were, how funny you were, how much he liked talking to you. You’d never been with a man who spoke to you so earnestly, with such deliberate, warm intention in every word. It was addicting in a way you didn’t think you’d be able to articulate even if you tried.

So, it was really unsurprising to anyone paying attention that you were spending more and more time outside of your office hours with the guy who had the easy kindness and intentional attention.

Colston was starting to know you really well, too. It had become a given that almost any time you found yourself alone with Colston, food was involved. When he came to loiter during your office hours in the psychology building, he brought snacks. When you studied together, he’d eventually ask if you wanted something from the vending machine, make a quick trip downstairs, and bring you something you liked in addition to the request you made.

Though October was second to November in terms of its busyness, you managed to find vignettes of time to slip in opportunities to be around Colston. It was predictable of you to smile softly to yourself when, three hours into studying at the library, a text from Colston popped up asking you:

You down for food?

You barely gave yourself a second to think before your thumbs were typing.

Depends on what you’re getting.

The light push you gave was met with a confident pull from Colston who replied:

Anything you want.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. You glanced at the clock, realizing you had been pretty good on time, working through several assignments over the course of three hours in this spot. You figured you could use a break, and if you were being honest, you felt somewhat giddy at the prospect of seeing Colston.

I’m at Dude. What time are you going?

It was obvious that he was eager at the green light from the heart reaction that materialized next to your report on your location.

I’ll pick you up. Gimme 10.

Always a man of his word, sure enough, 10 minutes later Colston texted you that he had arrived and was parked outside waiting for you. You took your time gathering your things, smoothing your hands over your leggings, and adjusting your cream-colored sweater.

It was an oddly warm week for October in Ann Arbor. Though it wasn’t t-shirt weather, you hadn’t needed your coat since last Thursday. Today it was just the oversized sweater over your tank top.

You stepped out of the library into the fading daylight, scanning the parking lot for Colston’s Silverado. The truck sat idling near the curb, its windows not close to thick enough to mask the bass from his playlist thumping faintly against the pavement. Colston sat in the driver’s seat, his gaze focused on his phone, his left index finger tapping absently against the steering wheel.

You crossed the paved lot, your tote bag swinging gently against your hip, the sound of your sneakers nearly lost beneath the low rumble of Colston’s engine. He glanced up just as you reached the passenger side, his face splitting into that easy grin before he leaned across the console to pop the door open for you.

“Hey,” you murmured as you climbed into the truck.

The cab of the truck smelled faintly of pine air freshener and something warm and earthy, probably Colston’s cologne lingering in the fabric of his sweatshirt. You settled into the seat, your legs stretching long in front of you, knees brushing the underside of the glovebox as you pulled the door shut.

“Where’re we headed?” Colston asked, shifting the truck into reverse to pull out from the curb, his upper body twisted as his right arm reached behind your seat to allow him to look back.

Colston ran hot. That was something you figured out very early on. Anytime he wore a hoodie it was only a matter of time before he was tugging at the neckline, his shoulders shifting under the fabric as if his own body heat was too much to contain. Most of the time he slipped the hoodie off entirely, revealing a snug t-shirt underneath—one that did nothing to hide the way his shoulders filled the space between the fabric.

Today was no different. His hoodie lay in a tiny heap on the backseat, the sleeves of his fitted black tee pulling taut across his biceps as he maneuvered the truck. You watched his forearm flex when he shifted gears, the veins standing stark against his skin.

You were staring.

You were staring hard.

You blinked, tearing your gaze away from Colston’s forearm just as he settled back into his seat, his fingers curling loosely around the steering wheel. The music dipped into something slower, the bass pulsing low and steady around a Miguel song you vaguely recognized.

“Umm…” you cleared your throat. “What about Culver’s?”

Colston nodded, tapping the steering wheel twice before flicking his blinker on. “Culver’s it is.”

There was that country drawl. Sticky sweet like molasses, oozing over your skin with each syllable. You kept your hands folded in your lap, the pads of your thumbs pressing into your knuckles as if you could anchor yourself with the dull pressure.

Colston drove like he spoke, unhurried and deliberate, steering with one hand while the other rested lazily on the gearshift. You caught yourself watching the way his fingers drummed absently against it, the rhythm syncing with the song’s bassline. You swallowed and forced your gaze out the window, where the October dusk painted the campus in gold and violet. The trees lining the road blurred past, their leaves clinging stubbornly to branches despite the season’s insistence on letting go.

“You were studying?” He asked, glancing over at you before returning his gaze to the road.

You nodded, your fingers twisting the hem of your sweater. “Yeah, just psych stuff. Nothing exciting. I have an exam next week. I’m a little behind though.”

He scoffed. “You? Behind? Doubt that.” The corner of his mouth hitched up, revealing one of the dimples you’d caught yourself staring at more than once.

You rolled your lips together, urging yourself to focus on the conversation instead of the way his throat moved when he swallowed, how the muscles flexed beneath his skin, how his Adam’s apple bobbed slightly.

“Yes, I’m behind. I wanted to start studying for this test the other day when you came to my office hours. But you and that big ass head of yours were so distracting that I didn’t get shit done,” you said, grinning as you turned to look at him.

Colston’s laugh burst from him, deep and resonant, filling the cab of the truck with a warmth you felt in your chest. “My bad,” he said, shaking his head. His free hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, the fabric of his shirt straining against his shoulder as he moved. “Didn’t realize my big ass head was such a problem for your education.”

The Culver’s drive-thru line stretched longer than you expected for a Tuesday evening. Colston’s truck idled behind a beat-up sedan. You shifted in your seat, your knee brushing the center console as you pretended to scroll through your phone. You could feel the heat of him beside you, the way his presence seemed to take up more space than physically possible.

“Don’t look at my phone, Loveland,” you scolded, feeling his eyes flick toward your screen before you angled it away.

“What you hidin’ in that phone? Why can’t I look?” he leaned further over the center console, his shoulder pressing into yours. You could see the edge of his grin from your periphery, not wanting to look at him this close, knowing you’d get lost in the flecks of amber in his brown eyes.

Your hand reached to push his face away, laughing. “Personal shit, nosey. Back up. They don’t teach manners in Idaho?”

Colston’s grin only widened as he leaned back into his seat, though his shoulder lingered against yours for a heartbeat longer. “I was taught to share,” he said, his voice a lazy rumble. “You’re real stingy right now.”

“You’ll live,” you shot back.

The line inched forward, and Colston turned his eyes back to the drive-thru line. “What if I don’t?” he asked, the tease in his voice making your stomach tighten.

“You will.”

“I won’t.”

Your lips pursed into a straight line, attempting to tame your expression into something unimpressed. Colston grinned back at you.

“Colston.”

“I like when you say my name like that,” he murmured, licking his lips.

“I can’t stand you…” you muttered, your fingers gripping the phone tighter just as the vibration of an incoming text caught your attention. You angled the screen away again, catching the message from Aditi.

Are you with that freshman again?

You released a short puff of amused air through your nose, thumbing a quick reply while Colston inched the truck forward in line.

“You must be talking about me,” Colston said, his voice low and amused as he leaned over again, trying to catch a glimpse of your phone. “Lemme see.”

You jerked your phone away, pressing it against your chest. “No,” you said, drawing the word out with a whine. The corners of your mouth twitched despite your best efforts to keep a straight face. “Find something else to do.”

The menu board appeared a bit further in front of the hood of Colston’s truck, its bright letters glowing against the darkening sky. You tucked your phone into your lap, pressing your thighs together to keep it hidden as you studied the options. You didn’t need to look, you always got the same thing, but the act gave you an excuse to avoid Colston’s lingering gaze.

“You don’t need to look,” he said as he continued to openly stare at you, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw before flickering down to where you were pressing your thighs together.

“I do,” you insisted through the clearing of your throat.

Colston’s gaze was almost a physical thing, warm as direct sunlight, heavy as a loaded touch. You could feel it tracing the line of your throat, the dip of your collarbone where your sweater slipped just slightly off one shoulder. The truck was too small suddenly, the A/C blowing the scent of his cologne toward you. You inhaled, then immediately regretted it when the smell lodged itself in your lungs, almost forcing your eyes to flutter with a roll of pleasure before you caught yourself.

“You always get the same thing,” Colston pointed out, the knowing dismissiveness in his voice pulling your attention back to him. His fingers tapped the steering wheel again, that same lazy rhythm. “Butterburger, two patties, with pickles, lettuce, no onions, extra cheese, and bacon. You want a large side of fries and a small vanilla concrete mixer with Snickers pieces.”

Your breath caught. The precision of it, the way he rattled off your order without hesitation, without even glancing at the menu, sent a pulse of heat straight to your core. You blinked at him, your lips parting slightly before you pressed them together, willing your face not to betray the way your stomach had just flipped.

He was rolling forward and easing his window down before you had time to recover. The sharp metallic click of his seatbelt unlatching made you realize you hadn’t even noticed him unbuckling. Colston leaned out slightly, his deep voice effortlessly rattling off both his order and yours, exactly as he’d recited it, without missing a single modification.

You slowly reached for your phone while Colston ordered, texting Aditi.

That freshman just told me my entire order from memory… please come pick me up off the floor.

Is she purring…?

And is. 

Real loud.

Colston pulled forward again after hearing his total. His fingers reached for his phone to pay. “Talking about me again?”

“Are you gonna let me pay this time?” you challenged, though you already knew the answer.

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’ with a soft smile.

“Then yes. I am talking about you.” Your voice came out lighter than you intended, the tease softening the words as you tucked your phone between your thighs again. Colston’s chuckle was low, reaching through to tap his phone against the card reader held out to him by the cashier.

The truck filled with the scent of salted fries and caramelized meat as the bag of food was handed through the window, Colston’s large hand curling around the bag with an ease that made your throat tighten. It was becoming evident that damn near everything this man did—twisting a cap off a bottle, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel, breathing—had an effect on you.

It wasn’t a secret that these hangouts were thinly veiled excuses to orbit each other. You knew Colston was interested. You knew it from the way he angled his body toward you whenever you spoke, from the way he openly flirted with you, from the way his gaze lingered on your lips when you spoke.

But they hadn’t gotten around to talking about it. And you weren't the type to push. Not when you could savor the delicious tension, the slow burn of anticipation curling low in your stomach every time he looked at you like that.

“This is… yours,” Colston said, handing you the burger and fries after pulling into an empty parking space. But the tease on his tongue couldn’t be held back. “Did I do good?”

You took the warm bag from Colston’s hands, your fingers brushing against his knuckles. “Mhmm…” you hummed quietly, avoiding his gaze. You could feel Colston watching you, his eyes tracing the way your fingers pinched a fry between them before popping it into your mouth.

“I see how it is,” Colston murmured, unwrapping his own burger with a slow, even nod. The crinkle of paper sounded obscenely loud in the confined space of the truck cab. “Took my perfect order and won’t even thank me.” He took a bite, his lips wrapping around the burger, his eyes still focused on your face.

You finally lifted your eyes to meet his gaze, chewing on another fry slowly just to watch his jaw tighten. The dim glow from the parking lot lights cast shadows across his face, deepening the hollows beneath his cheekbones, making the curve of his lips seem fuller.

“You want a thank you?” You arched an eyebrow, plucking a fry from your own bag and holding it out to him.

Colston leaned in, his breath warm against your fingers as he took the fry from you. He chewed slowly, never breaking eye contact. “That wasn’t a thank you,” he said, swallowing. “You can do better than that.”

“I don’t thank men,” you stated simply.

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips as the two of you continued to stare at each other. Colston stopped his chewing, lowering his burger slowly to the wrapper spread across his lap. You broke after a few seconds, giggling quietly when Colston’s fingers brushed against your thigh and snatched another fry from your bag.

“I’m takin’ this one,” he muttered under his breath, snagging the fry and popping it into his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t stop him.

“And next time, I’m snatching that phone,” Colston added, taking a large bite of his burger.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I’ll have you arrested for theft.”

You stole a glance at him as you unwrapped your burger, the crinkle of paper mingling with the steady hum of the truck’s engine. Colston grinned, his teeth sinking into another bite, his jaw working with a rhythm that you couldn’t help but track.

“Deadass?” he laughed out loud, receiving a humored glare from you.

“Dead the fuck,” you confirmed with a grumble.

Colston wiped his fingers on a napkin, crumpling it into a tight ball before tossing it into the empty bag at his feet. You watched the movement then forced your gaze away just as he turned his attention back to you.

“Can I have your fries?” Colston’s voice dropped.

Your brows furrowed. Your glossed lips formed a pout, angling your body away from him. “Absolutely not,” you said. “I gave you one and then you stole from me.”

His fingers twitched toward your fries again, and you swatted his hand away with a sharp little smack that did nothing to deter the amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Hands to yourself,” you warned.

The tight end persisted with a repeated, “Lemme get one,” met with your repeated, “No.” Colston leaned across the console, his arm brushing against your sweater as he made a grab for your fries again. You twisted away, pressing your back against the passenger door, your thighs tightening around the bag of food in your lap.

“You’re so greedy,” you accused, your voice lilting with laughter despite your feigned indignation.

“You won’t let me get none,” Colston rumbled, his voice dipping into that honeyed drawl.

Your fingers tightened around the paper bag as Colston made another playful lunge for your fries, his bulk shifting the entire truck with the movement. You shrieked at the feeling, laughing out a comment about his weight making them tip over while your free hand shoved at his chest.

“I’m gonna find your mother on Facebook and tell her about this,” you muttered with narrowed eyes once Colston prevailed, triumphantly plucking a fry from your bag now in his hands.

Colston shrugged. “These’ll be digested by then.”

“Whatever…” you muttered, reaching across to snatch his phone from the center console.

He watched as you skipped through his playlist, eventually landing on a song you recognized. You swiped to his camera without unlocking the phone, flipping it to face him before snapping a series of pictures. First of Colston mid-bite, two fries inches from his mouth. The flash illuminated the cab for a brief second, casting shadows that made his cheekbones look sharper, his jawline more pronounced. Then several of yourself, angling the phone to best capture the golden light of the sun setting hitting your skin. You made sure to snap one last photo of both of you, not before scolding him to smile normally instead of just blinking “like a serial killer.”

“There’s your thank you,” you hummed pleasantly, setting the phone back onto the center console. “My face in your phone.”

“Your face in my phone,” he muttered, rough fingers dragging down his thigh like he needed somewhere to put the restless energy suddenly humming under his skin. “That’s all I get?”

“Don’t be like that. I know you like my face,” you teased, leaning back against the seat with a satisfied smile.

“I’m takin’ you home. Gettin’ out of hand, young lady,” Colston shook his head, chewing the last of your fries before crumbling up the paper and throwing it into the bag with the rest of the discarded wrappers.

[ . . . ]

The warmth from that Culver’s outing, which under slightly different circumstances would’ve qualified as a full-blown date, carried you through a tough midterm exam, two papers, a weekend cold front, and all the way to another Wednesday spent sitting next to Colston during your empty office hours.

He had some work to do for another class so you hadn’t spoken much aside from the occasional glance whenever he paused to think, fingers tapping his pencil against his notebook. You focused most of your attention on notetaking for a paper you would be asked about on your second midterm of the semester.

His sudden question of, “What are you doing for Halloween?” prompted you to lift your head and meet his eye.

“Couple parties with my friends,” you shrugged, leaning your head against your palm. “BSU is hosting a Karaoke Night tomorrow, too. What about you? Isn’t this your Bye Week?”

The smile that appeared on his face grew slowly, spreading Grinch-like and punctuated by the famous twin dimples.

You groaned out loud, letting your head fall.

“You remembered it’s my Bye Week,” Colston murmured, tilting his head to get a good look at your face. You pressed your pen harder against your notebook, leaving a mark you'd get annoyed with later.

“I have a good memory. We know this,” you muttered with a shrug, avoiding his eyes by flipping a page in your notebook. The corner of the paper bent under your fingers. “Don’t let it go to your already massive, square head.”

Colston’s chuckle vibrated through the small office space. “Square head?” He reached up to rub at his buzzed hair, fingers tracing the sharp angle of his fade. “Where did you hear that at? You talk to other guys on the team?”

“Why? I can’t talk to other guys?” You challenged, though you still couldn’t look at him.

Colston’s fingers stilled against his notebook, his teasing grin softening into a more serious tone. “You can,” he said, voice dropping to that low, graveled register that always made your pulse stutter. “That’s just the first thing they say about me when they talk about me. ‘Square head ass.’” His lips quirked again, but his eyes held yours.

“That’s the first thing they say about you because it’s the first thing people notice once they get over the height,” you laughed quietly, matching the intensity of his gaze.

“So you finally got over the height?” Colston leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking under his weight.

He was teasing you, openly dropping hints that he was aware of your lingering glances and your inability to ignore the sheer size of him.

You fought the urge to flip your hair over your shoulder defensively. “The height was never an issue,” you lied smoothly. “I just felt bad for you. Six-five and constantly hitting that head on doorframes, must get old.”

Colston’s laughter filled the tiny office, deep and rich like slow-poured maple syrup. “Doorframes? Baby, I duck. But since you’re so concerned about my wellbeing—“

“I’m concerned about your Halloween plans,” you interjected, twirling your pen between your fingers. The plastic squeaked under the pressure of your grip. “Since you asked about mine first.”

“I was thinking about hittin’ a party on the 29th. A couple guys on the team know the hosts. But all my people are booked. Mason is rehabbing his shoulder, Will’s at home this whole week, and Alex has some exam he’s been cryin’ about for some days now.” Colston shrugged, the broad line of his shoulders stretching the fabric of his Michigan hoodie. He tapped his pencil against the notebook absently, eyes flickering over your face like he was waiting for something.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the pen still spinning between your fingers as you studied the way Colston stared back at you. There were a lot of ways you could play this. You could be bold, invite yourself along. But you weren’t that girl. You could be coy, make him beg you to come. But you weren’t that girl either.

Instead, you let the pen still and shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t have plans for the 29th,” you said, voice casual, like it didn’t matter either way.

Colston’s pencil stopped mid-tap. The silence between you stretched just long enough for you to regret speaking at all, until his mouth curved into that slow, knowing grin that always made your stomach flip. When the clock ticked by three seconds, you finally broke, dropping your head to laugh aloud at how predictable you were, how predictable you both were.

“We could meet up at the party,” Colston suggested, trying to be nonchalant as he rubbed his palms over his jeans. You recognized it immediately, the same way you recognized the way his eyes flickered to your lips when you giggled again. “If you’re down.”

[ . . . ]

You tried to assure your nervous system over and over that there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about. This was just another Halloween party. This was just another hangout. This was just another time where you would be spending time with Colston in a platonic, casual way. But the way you kept adjusting your green corset in Aditi's full-length mirror suggested otherwise.

Considering this was a house party and you wouldn’t know who you might run into, you decided you needed to come up with another costume specifically for this party. You’d scrolled TikTok for at least 45 minutes before you finally settled on a Tinkerbell-inspired costume that you could throw together with items already in your possession. The green corset was Aditi’s, Dakota gave you a pair of sparkly, flimsy Party City fairy wings, and—conveniently—the shortest skirt you owned was white to match the clear platforms you bought on an impulsive online shopping trip a few months ago.

You smoothed your hands over the snug corset one last time, twisting to check the back in the mirror. The wings fluttered precariously, the cheap glue already peeling at the edges, but the overall effect was whimsical enough.

You flipped the light switch on Aditi’s wall as you exited, releasing a small yelp when your heel caught in Aditi’s rug and almost sent you sprawling onto the hardwood. The sound drew Aditi’s attention away from her textbook, her brow quirking as she took in your precarious balancing act.

“Are you trying to snap your ankle before the party even starts?” Aditi asked dryly, tossing a highlighter onto her notes. “That’s not cute.”

You shot her a glare, steadying yourself against the doorframe. “I’m fine. Just breaking in these death traps,” you muttered, bending to adjust the strap on your left heel before straightening.

Aditi’s eyes flicked over your costume, lingering on the way the corset cinched your waist, the way the white skirt barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.

“You look good as fuck, girl,” Aditi conceded, though her approval came with an asterisk. “Too good for a ‘just friends’ hangout. No man deserves all this.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving your phone into the tiny purse hanging from your wrist. “It’s Halloween. Everyone looks good as fuck.”

Aditi hummed, unconvinced, but let it drop as you checked your reflection one last time in the hallway mirror, smoothing a hand over your hair. You had added a glittery body oil to your brown skin on a whim that seemed to have paid off from the way Aditi’s eyes roamed over every inch of your exposed skin.

The corset pushed your breasts up just enough to make the neckline feel daring without crossing into indecent territory—not that you thought you would care much about that line once you were at the party. Not when you daydreamed about Colston’s hands mapping the dip of your waist if the opportunity showed itself.

“Check me?” You prompted your best friend who was already taking in your makeshift costume.

Aditi nodded without saying a word, watching you turn in a slow circle to ensure there were no tags, stains, or wardrobe malfunctions waiting to happen. You caught your own reflection seeing the corset pulling your posture straighter, the glitter on your collarbones catching the overhead light, the way your lashes fluttered when you glanced at your phone to check the time.

“I gotta go,” you murmured, leaning over the back of the couch to offer your best friend a loose hug. “He said he’s there already.”

“How are you coming back?” Aditi questioned, fingers turning the page of her textbook.

“He said he wasn’t planning on drinking much so we’ll Uber back together,” you replied.

“Okay,” Aditi murmured with a nod. “Have fun, stay out of stupid shit, and make good choices.” She reached out to adjust your wings where they were already starting to slip. “Say no to drugs. Nancy Reagan is looking up at us. Make her proud.”

You laughed at that, squeezing her once more before turning over your shoulder to head downstairs where your Uber driver was just a minute out from arriving. The crisp October air bit at your bare legs the moment you stepped outside, sending a shiver up your spine as you opened the front door of your building. Your Uber arrived right on time, the driver eyeing your wings skeptically as you folded yourself into the backseat without snapping them.

The Uber pulled up to a house pulsing with bass, orange string lights zigzagging across the porch where clusters of costumed students spilled onto the lawn. You adjusted your wings one last time before stepping out, the cold air pricking your skin as you navigated through laughing groups holding red cups. You paused to text Colston, fingers hovering over your screen, then jumped when someone shrieked your name.

The shriek belonged to Willow, a Business major from your Business Calculus class you frequently crossed paths with around campus. The girl’s red devil horns wobbled as she lunged forward to squeeze your arm, already slurring compliments about your costume between giggles. You laughed, squeezing her back but scanning the crowd over Willow’s shoulder as the girl rambled about how she’d just been talking about the class you had attended together earlier.

Your fingers tightened around your phone as Willow’s group pulled you into a whirlwind of compliments and blurry selfies. You laughed when someone shouted that Tinkerbell needed a Peter Pan, but your eyes kept flicking past them, searching the crowd. Then you finally caught sight of him. Colston’s broad shoulders cut through the partygoers like a ship through waves, a red plastic firefighter hat slightly askew as he navigated toward you with two drinks clutched in one hand, his phone in another.

You waved, breaking out into a shy smile, waiting for him to make his way over to you.

Somehow, in between the time it took for you to experience that frenzied conversation with Willow and your eyes finding Colston, someone had managed to slink over to you. You felt fingers curl around your forearm, tugging you slightly off balance. The guy, some frat-looking dude in a Superman T-shirt, was already too close, his breath warm and sour against your ear as he slurred something about dancing. You tried to pull your arm away, your laugh tight and polite, but his grip tightened like he didn’t even register the discomfort in your posture.

Your polite laugh turned sharp as Superman’s fingers dug into your forearm. “I’m good,” you said, louder this time, twisting your wrist in his grip.

The guy, reeking of cheap beer and cologne, just grinned wider, his other hand landing on your waist like they were already mid-dance. Your platform heels wobbled dangerously as you tried to step back, the crowd pressing in around them.

Your pulse kicked up as Superman’s fingers tightened on your waist, your platform heel catching on uneven pavement. The world tilted until a large palm slid around your ribcage, steadying you with effortless strength. The scent of cedar enveloped you before you even saw him.

Colston’s grip was firm against your waist, his fingers splaying possessively as he pulled you upright against him. His voice, usually warm with laughter, dropped into something low and edged with warning.

“My man…” his eyes drifted over the state of the guy, disdain crossing his expression. “You good? Can I get you something?”

The guy’s grip slackened instantly, his smirk dissolving into slack-jawed recognition. “Oh shit—my bad, bro, I didn’t—” His words tangled into drunken mumbles as he stumbled back, hands raised like Colston had drawn a weapon instead of just leveling him with a look. You exhaled sharply, your shoulder blades pressing into Colston’s chest as he shifted you behind him without breaking eye contact with the guy, who was already vanishing into the crowd with a muttered apology.

Colston’s fingers stayed pressed against your lower back, warm even through the corset’s stiff fabric as you turned to face him. His thumb brushed your spine, just once to make sure you were set on your feet, before he pulled back slightly, scanning your face.

“You good?” His voice was quieter now, the edge smoothed over like river-weathered stone.

Your hand traveled down the length of his bicep before settling on his forearm where you squeezed, a silent affirmation slipping from your fingers before you could stop yourself.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice steadier than you felt. “Just caught me off guard.” Your fingers lingered before you forced them back to your side, pretending you didn't notice the way his pulse jumped beneath your touch.

“He’s an asshole. Don’t let him ruin your night.” Colston’s words were quiet, just for you, his palm still warm against the small of your back as he guided you toward the drinks clutched in his other hand. You blinked at the seltzers before glancing up at him.

He shrugged, that slow grin creeping back. “Figured you’d want something when you got here. Didn’t want you to be waiting in line.”

He offered you the drink with a tilt of his head, plastic firefighter hat slipping further askew. You took it. The seltzer was cold, condensation dripping onto your wrist as you popped the tab and lifted it to your lips. Colston watched the movement, throat bobbing when you licked a stray drop from your thumb.

Colston popped the tab on his drink, taking a step back as he downed a slow sip, letting his eyes trace down your body. The corset cinched your waist, the white skirt hid nothing, your thighs subtly flexed from the height of the heels. His eyes crawled back up to meet your gaze.

You felt the heat crawl up your neck as you shifted your weight onto one foot, biting your lip when he finally hummed, “Can I be that guy and ask for a hug?”

You exhaled through your nose, lips quirking as you reached up to adjust his crooked plastic hat. “You already are that guy,” you murmured, fingers brushing the buzzed hair at his temple before you let your arms loop around his neck. Colston’s hands settled at the dip of your waist, thumbs pressing into the corset’s boning as he bent down just enough to compensate for the height difference, just enough to make your brain fill with static.

The hug seemed to last forever, neither one of you quite ready to let go of the feeling of your bodies pressed together. You inhaled deeply, the scent of Colston’s cologne filling your lungs. When you finally pulled apart, Colston’s fingers lingered at your waist, his fingers brushing against the satin edge of your corset absently.

“You look good,” Colston murmured, his voice a rough twang beneath the party’s bassline.

“So do you. I like the hat,” you teased, tapping the cheap plastic brim of his firefighter costume. “And the shirt.” Shamelessly, you let your hand run over his bicep, feeling the muscles flex underneath your palm.

“Are you cold?” he asked, clearing his throat after another long moment of intensely charged eye contact.

You nodded, “A little,” your fingers flexing around the cold seltzer can. Colston’s gaze flickered to the goosebumps rising along your arms before he offered to head inside, where the crush of bodies would at least provide some warmth.

You followed him, or rather, you tried to follow him. Typically you had some issue following behind him when you would walk side-by-side. With your platforms, that small issue was becoming much more pronounced. Colston was three steps into the crowd before he realized you weren’t keeping up, turning back to see you struggling to navigate the uneven ground in your heels. He laughed with that deep, warm chuckle and doubled back, extending his hand toward you.

You hesitated for half a second, just long enough for Colston’s grin to widen, before sliding your fingers between his. His palm engulfed yours completely, threading his fingers through yours as he adjusted his grip. The contact sent an electric current up your arm, settling somewhere between your ribs where your heart hammered against the corset’s stiff boning.

“This okay?”

You nodded, unable to bring about the right words with his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. The crowd pressed in around them, forcing Colston to pull you closer as he navigated toward a quieter corner where a few teammates lounged on couches. You recognized an athlete from one of your business classes who wolf-whistled at your intertwined hands before Colston shot him a look that had him practically falling over himself with laughter.

By the time you had a few more drinks in your system, any shyness that had influenced the giggles and shock you experienced when Colston had pulled you into his body was completely gone. The alcohol warmed your cheeks, your thighs pressing against his as you swayed to the music, the bass vibrating through the couch beneath you. You were grinding on him shamelessly, your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck while his hands stayed planted firmly on your waist keeping it respectful, warming your body, but not venturing lower, no matter how much the corset pushed your body into his line of sight.

Your back pressed to his chest, you could feel the steady flutter of Colston’s breath against your shoulder blade. The music pulsed around you, bassline vibrating through the couch cushions, through the soles of your platforms where they hooked around his ankle. You arched into him just to hear his breath hitch, just to feel the way his hands tightened reflexively before easing again, holding himself back.

You had already danced on him plenty throughout the night, felt his hands gripping your waist tight when the music dropped and you rolled your hips back against him. You knew you were heading toward something irreversible. You had felt it in the way his breath hitched against your neck when you ground against him, in the way his lips just slightly hovered over your neck, in the way he spun you around to dance face to face when a Bad Bunny song came on—his fingers digging into your hips, eyes dropping to your lips—only for him to pull back at the last second.

You pouted, letting your hands shift from where they pressed against his chest to drape over his shoulders. “I really don’t mind,” you spoke over the music, letting one hand drift into the short dark brown hairs at the nape of his neck, tracing patterns there. You didn’t miss how his breath shuddered at the touch before he released a sharp exhale through his nose, forcing his grip to relax.

“I know…” he had murmured then, but didn’t continue any further, just turned you back around with his grip on your waist so you were facing away from him again, pressing your back flush against his chest as you danced. You rolled your eyes, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. Colston grinned against your neck, pressing a fleeting kiss to your pulse point, so quick you wondered if you imagined it.

You raised the issue again when you stood outside, pressed together after you whined about feeling cold, waiting for the Uber he had ordered to pull up. The autumn air bit at your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your collarbones as you leaned into Colston’s warmth, feeling his fingers rub warmth into your bare shoulders.

“So…” you hummed with a start.

You tilted your head back against Colston’s shoulder, the plastic firefighter hat long discarded somewhere in the party’s chaos. “So,” you repeated, softer now, your breath curling in the crisp air between you. “You’re really not gonna kiss me tonight?”

Colston’s hand stilled against your arm, his exhale warm against your temple. “Nah, not tonight,” he murmured. The streetlight caught the lighter areas in his brown eyes when he tipped his head down. “Not like this.”

You turned fully in his arms, your platform heels bringing you just high enough to meet his gaze without straining. The alcohol softened your edges, but the question in your eyes was sharp. “Not like what?”

Colston’s fingers traced idle patterns along your bare shoulder, his thumb catching the strap of your corset. “Not drunk,” he said quietly. The words vibrated through you where your bodies pressed together. “Not when I’ve been waiting to do it right.” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, heavy-lidded. “You deserve a date first. Some flowers. Maybe a sunset.”

You scoffed, breaking into a gentle smile when he drew you back into his arms, pressing your cheek against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear. “Corny…” you drew out the word with playful exasperation, letting your arms wrap around his center, relaxing when you felt him do the same for you.

“I’m deadass,” he murmured into your hair, voice rumbling through you where your bodies pressed together. You felt his fingers flex against the small of your back, pulling you closer as a gust of wind sent autumn leaves skittering across the pavement. “You got a problem with sunsets?”

You laughed into his chest, sniffling against the cold. “I have a problem with you being so sure of yourself,” you muttered, but your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt.

The Uber’s headlights cut through the darkness then, painting you both in a temporary glow as it pulled to the curb. Colston didn’t let go, not even when his phone buzzed to alert him to the driver’s arrival. He just held you there, his palm warm against the curve of your spine, until you finally tipped your head back to meet his gaze.

“You better kiss me after our date,” you whispered softly.

He nodded. “I will.”

[ . . . ]

One of the pros that stuck with you when you finally sat down with Jeremy and Dakota at a small table in the corner of the Union between classes was that Colston, “Always did his best to keep his word.”

In the two months that you had gotten to know the tight end, it was increasingly harder to ignore how intensely Colston stood behind his word. He meant every word he said. There were no empty promises, no lies of omission. You were growing to know better than anyone how much his word meant to him.

When he texted you with details of a potential first date you could go on, you weren’t surprised.

You drove up a few miles to an apple orchard on the outskirts of town, Colston’s truck windows rolled down to let the crisp November air swirl between you. You picked apples, shared cider and donuts, and you laughed so hard you snorted when Colston tried and failed to befriend a wandering goat. The whole thing felt like something out of a movie with the golden afternoon light painting Colston’s profile in amber, his deep laughter rumbling through the cab of his truck as he stole glances at you between bites of the donut you held out for him between your fingertips.

By the time you made it back to your apartment, your cheeks hurt from smiling and your fingers were sticky with sugar. The sun had dipped low, painting the pavement in streaks of gold as Colston walked you to your door, your fingers loosely tangled between you. You swung your hands slightly, watching the way his thumb absently stroked the back of your knuckles as he talked about an ill-received prank pulled on one of the strength coaches.

Your apartment door loomed ahead, a Thanksgiving-themed doormat set out to match the red, brown, and orange wreath Jeremy chose to hang last week. A comfortable silence settled between you when you finally stopped in front of your door.

Just as Colston didn’t move to wish you a good night, you didn’t move to reach for your keys in your purse. Instead, he quietly murmured, “I really did have a good time today.”

You smiled, lacing the fingers of your free hand through his free hand, completing the circle between you. “Me too,” you admitted, taking in the way his eyes fluttered between yours. The air between you felt charged, heavy with all the things left unsaid, the same things that had been simmering beneath the surface since that first football game, since every lingering touch, every stolen glance.

He took a step closer to you, your feet almost touching on the welcome mat, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body even through your thick sweater. He dropped your hands gently, tugging you closer by your waist instead while his right hand tested a cup of your cheek.

You swallowed hard as his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, the calloused pad catching slightly on your skin. His pupils swallowed the warm brown of his irises when his gaze dropped to your mouth. “Can I?” he murmured, already leaning in, already breathing you in like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning.

You didn’t trust your voice when your pulse was hammering loud enough to drown out all coherent thought, so you nodded, pressing up onto your toes as his head dipped down. The first brush of his lips was tentative, almost questioning, as if he was memorizing the feel of your mouth. Then your fingers fisted in the front of his hoodie, tugging him closer, and whatever hesitation existed dissolved into something hotter, hungrier.

Your lips molded together perfectly, moving in perfect harmony with your softness yielding against Colston’s firmness, the faint taste of sweet cider lingering between you. You sighed into the kiss, fingers tightening in the fabric of his hoodie as his hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you could feel the hard planes of his body through your layers. His thumb brushed the hinge of your jaw, coaxing your mouth open just enough to deepen the kiss, and you melted against him, your pulse thrumming wildly beneath your skin.

You pulled back first, your breath shaky against Colston’s lips, your laughter bubbling up when you noticed the faint smudge of your berry-colored lip gloss transferred onto his mouth. His lips looked unfairly good stained with your shade. Soft pink turned deeper kiss-swollen, and you reached up instinctively to wipe it away with your thumb. Colston’s cheeks took on a pinkish hue under your touch, but he didn’t flinch, just grinned when your thumb lingered at the corner of his mouth.

“I can’t let you walk around like this,” you murmured, thumb still tracing the bow of Colston’s lip where your gloss shimmered. His breath hitched when your nail grazed the sensitive skin there, his grip tightening reflexively at your waist.

Colston’s lips twitched beneath your thumb, his voice dropping to that deep, honeyed timbre. “You sure?” His fingers flexed against your waist, pressing into the dip of your spine. “I don’t mind wearing your colors.”

“Maybe another time,” you whispered. The hallway lights were harsh, casting shadows that made his eyelashes look impossibly long where they brushed his cheeks. He hummed, leaning into your touch before you finally pulled away.

“I’m lookin’ forward to that.” His drawl seemed even lazier than normal, thick with subtle satisfaction. You could feel the way his breath warmed your face before he finally released your waist, stepping back, but not too far. Just enough to make you realize how much you immediately missed the heat of him.

Your fingers fumbled with your keys, the metal jangling louder than usual in the quiet hallway. Colston’s shadow stretched long across your welcome mat, his hands shoved into his pockets like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you again. The door finally gave way with a click, and you turned to face him, one hand still gripping the knob as if it could steady you.

“Text me when you get back to yours,” you murmured, leaning against the doorframe to prolong the moment.

He nodded eagerly and promised he would, then took a final step back, turned over his shoulder, and walked down the hall. You watched until the elevator doors swallowed him whole before you finally stepped inside, locking the door behind you.

“What the fuck…” you thought to yourself.

You floated to your room in a daze, the ghost of Colston’s lips still burning against yours. Kissing was an art you considered yourself proficient in. Until him. His hand had cradled your face delicately, his breath hitched deliciously, and when you nipped at his lower lip, he took control so naturally.

None of your past experiences compared and you knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep well until you got to kiss him again. In the back of your mind, you knew you should be more frightened than you were at how easily you were accepting the fact that you were already falling for him. You flopped onto your bed face first and groaned into your pillows, kicking your feet slightly against the mattress. For now, you would ignore the thought passing through your consciousness telling you: