cowboylikeme

"you're the coffee that i need in the morning

you're the sunshine in the rain when it's pouring"

—

you both come from the same tiny patch of the world—outer banks. but somehow, you'd both never really known each other.

sure, you'd heard of the notorious playboy kook-king rafe cameron, and he'd heard of the sweet pogue who smelled like butter and sugar, always baking cookies for everyone.

somehow, you'd never really met, not until now.

until you'd managed to scrounge up enough for a little place off-campus in your sleepy college town. a charming house from an old couple, one that needed just a little fixing up. but you decided it was worth it and took a leap of faith.

and your neighbour was who you'd least expected. rafe cameron, a familiar face from home. he lives next door, in a house too quiet for him, if hometown gossip was ever to be believed. him and his chipped porch swing, with the kind of quiet loneliness that didn't quite live up to his reputation.

—

you soon come to realise the layout of his house is exactly the same as yours, just flipped. so, when you stand at your kitchen sink, you look across the window to find him standing exactly there, at his own kitchen sink.

you'd opened the window a little to let the breeze in, and he'd done the same.

he was shirtless, washing dishes, soft jazz playing on the record player on his kitchen island. you remember this because you'd first thought of what an impractical placement it was.

this version of him seemed to be nothing like the stories you'd heard back home—the ones about parties, fights, arrests, and broken promises.

—

you see him most mornings and nights. sometimes, the both of you crack your kitchen windows just enough to hear each other's music, stolen glances exchanged over the sink.

after that, it becomes your thing.

swapping songs through open windows. sharing little pieces of yourselves one record at a time.

you get to pick the songs on mondays, wednesdays, fridays, and sundays. he gets to pick on tuesdays, thursdays, and saturdays.

it was never meant to be anything, just a familiar face from home and some quiet background noise, but somehow, without meaning to, you've both slipped into a gentle rhythm.

slowly, your off-campus lives both become a little less lonely.

—

slowly, you both start doing your assignments at your own kitchen islands, facing each other and occasionally sneaking glances at each other. when you do make eye contact, he cracks a boyish grin, that makes you forget all the things you've ever heard about him.

how could you think about that version of him when you have this version of him right in front of you?

sometimes he leans against his sink, chatting with you through the open windows as you cook dinner. pasta, presumably, from what he could smell.

you both swap leftovers from dinners in mismatched tupperware containers.

he takes your trash bins from the porch to the driveway on trash collection days. when you send him a thank-you text, he just replies "was no trouble at all, pretty."

on sunday mornings, you bake banana bread and he makes the coffee. you both swap the treats through your kitchen windows.

his laughs bleed into your kitchen—becoming more familiar than any lyrics of any song. even your favourite one.

—

one night, he knocks on your front door with a record in hand. he smiles, "thought you'd like this one better in person."

you step aside to let him in, nervous. he's never been over before. you start to wonder if your living room is too messy, or if the place smells weird. (it doesn't. it smells like vanilla and cinnamon rolls.)

you clear a spot on the coffee table while he fiddles with the record player, familiar hands careful with the vinyl. the music starts—warm, crackly, old jazz—and he settles on the other end of the couch, beer in hand, body angled toward you like he’s not sure how close is too close.

you sit beside him, legs tucked under yourself, pretending to scroll your phone just to give your hands something to do. the song drapes over the room like a blanket, low and warm.

“you always play this one,” you say, half-smiling.

“it’s my favorite,” he shrugs. “makes the place feel less empty.”

you both go quiet.

eventually, he nudges your foot with his. just barely. you nudge back.

at some point, your head finds his shoulder. he doesn’t say anything—just shifts slightly so you’re more comfortable. his arm rests behind you on the couch, fingertips brushing your shoulder, absent-minded and grounding.

you end up curled against him, the music looping gently in the background, your heartbeat slowing to the rhythm of his breathing. he smells like clean laundry and cedar and a hint of cologne that’s been worn in. the warmth of him seeps into your skin.

neither of you say it, but you both know: this wasn’t supposed to happen. but it was always going to.

—

after that night, everything shifts.

he’s different here. calmer. gentler. not at all like everyone back home said he was.

you realise he's more than just background noise. how could he be?

he makes tea when you’re stressed. sits with you through late-night study sessions. you steal his sweatshirt whenever he comes by and he pretends not to notice. he keeps your favourite drink stocked in his fridge—just in case. he replaces the broken bulb in your bathroom.

you watch the same show at the same time, in your separate homes, texting commentary like you’re on the same couch. sometimes you end up at his place by episode three.

—

eventually, the lines blur.

you both have the spare keys to each others' homes.

you wake up to the smell of pancakes, and you don't even question it when you come downstairs to see rafe shirtless at your stove.

—

and when you finally get together, it happens on a night like any other.

the record player hums between your homes, windows cracked open to let the spring air in. you’re both cooking—him with something sizzling in a pan, you with a box of pasta boiling over. you’ve been doing this for weeks now: parallel lives, quietly overlapping.

he texts: rafe: forgot basil. trade you a beer for some?

you chuckle and shout through your open window, “door’s open!”

a minute later, he steps into your kitchen barefoot, holding a half-full beer and looking too at home in that old hoodie you always see him in. “smells good in here.”

you shrug. “smells better next door.”

he doesn’t leave right away. instead, he sets his beer down, stirs your pasta like he’s done it a hundred times. “you ever think this is weird?” he asks suddenly, not looking at you.

you pause. “what?”

you know exactly what he means. you're just terrified that he'll say something like "let's stop doing this".

“this. us.” his voice is soft, careful. “we do all the things couples do, but we’re not...”

you stare at him. “you want us to be?”

he finally meets your eyes. “i already feel like i’m yours, every time i open my window and you’re there.”

your breath catches.

“and if i'm being stupid,” he adds, backing off, “just—”

you interrupt him with a kiss. hands still damp from the dishes, heart in your throat, you kiss him like you’ve been waiting for this.

later that night, you both sit on the couch tangled in a blanket, one record looping in the background. his hand finds yours under the fabric.

“so...” you say, trying to be casual. “what do we tell the neighbors?”

"through drought and famine, natural disasters

my baby has been around for me"

—

he's a soft place to land no matter where the chaos brings you. tangled sheets, late night drives, sunrise swims. he's notorious and he's trouble—but he's your trouble. there’s a stability in the chaos of the romance, a feeling that he’s always there, even if it's messy.

—

when summer comes around, he rolls into town like he always does. shirt half buttoned, sunglasses on. he's leaning against his truck in your driveway, waiting for you to arrive home.

he has on the same smirk he's had since he was 17.

and it goes the same way it always has—with heat and salt in the air, and rafe’s sun-warmed hands under your shirt. you’ve always called him your summer mistake, half-teasing when your friends ask. and he plays along, smirking like he knows exactly what kind of hold he has on you. it’s always been hookups in the back of his truck, early morning ocean dips, stolen nights that never bleed into mornings.

but this summer, something changes.

—

one morning, after a long night of partying and hooking up afterwards, instead of disappearing like smoke when the sun comes up, he wanders into your kitchen shirtless, yawning.

"so, what's for breakfast?" he mumbles, settling down on a bar stool at your kitchen island.

"don't you have somewhere to be?" you murmur, still half-asleep, pushing the eggs around in the pan.

"not really. you still take your coffee with oat milk?"

you nod.

and he makes your coffee exactly how you like it—no need to ask.

throughout the next week, he seems to take a sudden interest in all the mundane tasks you have to complete. you need to get your car oil changed, and he waits in the stuffy waiting room with you.

"rafe, do you not have literally anywhere else to be? you don't have to be with me for every second of the day like you're earning the sex, y'know?"

"it's fine, babe. got nowhere else to be anyway." he mumbles.

the pet name is not lost on you.

he goes back to reading a random magazine he'd picked up from the coffee table. it's from 2016, and half of the front cover is ripped off. his knee is touching yours.

you don't move.

and when you visit your grandmother later on, he comes with you.

while you unpack the groceries, rafe leans against the counter, clearly trying not to seem out of place. your grandma, of course, has no such reservations. she chats him up instantly—about the heat, about the neighbor’s overgrown fig tree, about how her roses were being “eaten alive by God knows what.”

and rafe? he listens. not just nodding and smiling—he listens. asks questions. gives advice. tells her that soap shavings might get rid of pests in the garden.

you just stand there with a box of cereal in your hand, watching this boy who is usually nothing but smoke and mirrors suddenly settle into something real.

he even offers to come back next weekend to trim the hedges.

“she likes things neat,” he says under his breath as you walk back to the car. “figured i could help.”

you stare at him.

“what?” he asked, clearly self-conscious now. “was that weird?”

you shook your head, stunned. “no. that was… kind of perfect.”

you don’t say anything at first, but it lingers—this version of him. not just the thrill. not just the kiss-me-when-no-one’s-looking rafe.

the stay-for-dinner rafe. the mow-your-grandma’s-lawn rafe.

he starts showing up at your place unannounced more often, with your favourite soda in hand. no fanfare, just shows up, cup sweating in his hand.

"figured you'd need it," he shrugs, "hot out today." he invites himself in and settles down on the couch.

he watches you drink it through the corner of his eye. anything for a sign that he's made your day a little better.

—

and you get used to it.

you get used to him staying the night and falling asleep to the rhythm of his chest rising and falling.

you get used to waking up tangled in him, legs twisted, his breath warm against your skin.

you get used to the lazy mornings, the way he'd groan when you try to wriggle out of bed, pulling you back in with a gruff "five more minutes, baby. jus' five."

you get used to the way he leaves behind parts of himself. a hoodie draped over the sofa, a half-eaten sandwich in the fridge, a pair of shoes by the door. like he's showing you that he's a part of your life, and he's here to stay.

you get used to him.

the soft, constant presence of him.

so when you laugh it off one night in front of your friends, shrugging and calling him a "summer fling", you don't notice right away what you've done.

but he does.

he tenses, jaw ticking for a second. just for a second, then he covers it up with a crooked smile. you don't think much of it.

he's fine. you're fine. it's fine.

until he stops staying the night.

until he starts pulling his hoodie on right after, mumbling something about "an early morning".

until you wake up alone once, then twice, then every time.

and you hate yourself for noticing.

you hate yourself for missing him.

the bed feels colder, and the mornings quieter. and you finally realise you might've broken something before you even had it.

—

you try to act like nothing's wrong.

you still see him almost every night, so what's the matter?

but it's different now—surface-level smiles, careful touches, a wall where there used to be none.

you tell yourself you're imagining it.

you tell yourself you deserve it.

—

it's late when it happens.

you're in the kitchen, aimlessly wiping down the counters just so you have something to do, when you hear the knock.

soft, almost hesitant.

you open the door to find him standing there, soaked from the rain. his hands are balled into fists, raindrops dripping down his face, like he hadn't even thought of grabbing an umbrella.

and his face—my gosh, his face.

he looks wrecked.

"i don't wanna' do this halfway anymore," he mumbles, voice hoarse. "not with you."

you just stand there for a second, heart in your throat.

you should say something—you know you should.

but you don't.

you just grab the front of his hoodie and pull him inside, all while kissing him like it's the only thing you know how to do.

like it's the only language you two have ever spoken.

—

the next morning, he's still there.

he makes your coffee without asking how you take it.

he kisses your temple as you yawn into his hoodie sleeve.

he glances at you over the rim of his mug, casual but certain, "you wanna' help me look for a place around here? i'm done running."

he's done moving from city to city just to escape outer banks.

because he finally has something worth staying for.

and just like that, your "summer fling" isn't just a summer thing anymore.

it's messy and imperfect and honestly? it's a little terrifying.

but it's real.

the first time you meet him, he’s standing at your front door in full tactical gear.

not just a vest or boots—everything. black from head to toe, a skull-print balaclava covering most of his face. there’s a duffel slung over one shoulder, and your parcel in his hand.

you freeze.

he doesn’t say anything at first—just stares at you. and then, quietly, almost too quiet to hear:

“this came to mine.”

you take the box slowly, fingers brushing the gloves he hasn’t taken off. your eyes flick to his—dark, heavy-lidded, with a hint of tiredness that makes something twist in your chest.

“…thanks,” you manage, trying not to sound nervous.

he nods once and turns without another word. just disappears into the apartment across the hall like this is normal. like he’s normal.

you close the door and stand there for a long moment.

“…what the hell.”

—

you tell yourself not to be weird about it. but every time you see him—taking out the trash, coming back from a run, carrying enough groceries for a family of five—you get more and more curious.

there’s something about him. the way he’s always alone. how he never quite makes eye contact. how your cat likes to sit by the front door, ears perked, tail twitching, every time his boots echo down the hallway—like she knows exactly when he’s coming home.

he’s strange. broody. definitely hiding something.

so of course you bake cookies.

and occasionally leave them on his doorstep.

because you're a nice neighbour!

because you’re nosy. and maybe a little reckless.

and because god help you, your mysterious neighbour is hot.

—

at first, it's subtle. a soft nod when you pass by each other in the hallways, and even an occasional gruff "mornin'" from the man.

simon doesn’t exactly do small talk—but he starts remembering your name, starts holding the lobby door open a little longer when your arms are full of groceries. he even helps you carry them once. gruff, silent, but his hand wraps fully around the handle of your tote bag like it weighs nothing.

there’s a moment, that day. where your fingers brush his. and he flinches—not from you, but from himself. like he wasn’t expecting how warm you’d feel. how soft your hands were, untouched by the horrors of the world.

then it’s a sticky note.

you find it one night, stuck on your fridge in all caps, scrawled with a heavy hand:

“FIXED YOUR SINK. STOP USING THE DUCT TAPE.”

you don’t even know how he got in—must’ve used the spare key you gave your building’s maintenance guy. you leave a tupperware of cookies on his doorstep the next day. he doesn’t say anything, but a week later, your broken curtain rod is magically fixed too, and your empty tupperware sits on your kitchen counter.

and somehow, this becomes your thing.

he drops by after missions—always late at night, always quiet. you never ask questions. he never offers answers. but he shows up with oil stains on his shirt and shadows under his eyes, and you let him in, let him rest. you even start cooking bigger portions, just so he'll have some home-cooked food to eat when he drops by at night. you don't ask questions, you don't say anything. you just give him some food as he tugs off his skull balaclava.

sometimes he falls asleep on your couch, jaw slack, brow still furrowed like he’s expecting a fight even in sleep. other times, he just… sits with you. watches whatever’s on the tv without a word. you talk. he listens. and every now and then, when you say something funny or dumb or weird, the corner of his mouth twitches. barely noticeable. but it’s there.

eventually you get comfortable with him. you curl up against him during movie nights, head resting on his chest. his arm rests on the back of the sofa behind you. his hand doesn't wrap around your shoulder. he makes sure there's some sort of distance between him and the little young thing sitting beside him.

you learn he likes his tea strong. that he only takes sugar when he’s had a rough day. that he reads, sometimes, when he can’t sleep. that he has a soft spot for your cat, even if he pretends to ignore her—pretends not to notice when she curls up beside his boots. (you even catch him smiling at her once, but you pretend not to notice)

you start to learn the rhythm of him. the little ways he says “i care” without ever saying it at all.

eventually, you stop pretending he’s just your neighbour.

but he doesn’t.

he keeps his distance, even as he inches closer. never lets himself touch you for too long. never stays the night, no matter how late it gets. you catch the way he looks at you sometimes—like he wants something he doesn’t think he should want.

he’s careful. too careful. because you’re bright and soft and still figuring things out. and he’s lived a thousand lives in the dark, each one heavier than the last.

and maybe that’s why it nearly breaks something in you when one night, after a silence stretched too long, he just says it.

quietly. like he’s scared he’ll ruin it.

“i sleep better here.”

you don’t say anything. just reach for his hand and squeeze. and this time, he doesn’t pull away.

—

and one day, he comes back more broken than usual.

you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he lingers in the doorway like he’s debating whether or not he should’ve even come. his jaw is tight. his knuckles are bruised. and when he finally steps inside, he doesn't say a word—just drops his gear by the door, like always, and sinks onto your couch like gravity's finally gotten the best of him.

you sit beside him, quiet. you let the silence stretch.

until you finally ask, “si, are you okay?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stares ahead, breathing deep, like your soft little apartment is the only thing keeping him tethered.

“had to do lotsa' things i didn’t wanna' do,” he mutters eventually. voice low. rough. “a lot more than usual.”

your hand finds his and you squeeze. your grip is gentle. grounding. “you’re home now.”

he turns to look at you then. and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch—something sharp, haunted. but under it… there’s hunger too. not just for you, but for the comfort you bring. for the peace he only finds in your presence.

and maybe that’s what makes you brave.

maybe that’s why you shift closer, crawl gently into his lap, hands bracing on his broad shoulders. you feel the way his body tenses beneath you, the way he swallows hard when your fingers ghost along the back of his neck.

“let me take care of you,” you whisper.

“sweetheart…” he warns, already shaking his head.

you start grinding down on him a little, just to test the waters. but his hands come to your waist. but they don’t push. they just hold. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“i do,” you murmur, leaning in so your lips ghost along his jawline. “i know exactly what i want. i want you, si."

his breath stutters. you press a kiss just below his ear. his grip around you tightens into somewhat of a hug.

“don’t do this,” he says, but his voice is wrecked. you notice the slightest tremble in his hands and voice. barely noticeable to anyone else, but you can feel it.

“why not?” you whisper. “i know you want me too.”

“you’re young.” he finally says it. the thing that’s been sitting heavy between you both.

“you’ve got your whole damn life ahead of you. you shouldn’t be wasting it on some old bastard who drags death with him wherever he goes.”

“i’m not wasting anything,” you whisper, pulling back. you look into his eyes and your hands come up to hold each side of his head. “i’m choosing you, you old dog. doesn’t that count for something?”

and it’s like that finally breaks him.

because the next thing you know, his mouth is on yours—desperate, almost angry, like he’s been trying to hold himself back for months and he just can’t anymore. his hands grip your hips tight, dragging you closer, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you in his lap.

and when he kisses you again, it’s not hesitant. it’s hungry.

his lips are hot, almost feverish against yours, and you can feel the desperation in every movement. his hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding beneath your shirt to feel the warm curve of your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

and you? you just melt for him.

you thread your fingers through his short crop of hair, tugging gently, and he groans low in his throat. you whisper his name, over and over, like a prayer, like something sacred. and it's music to his ears.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, “you don’t know what you do to me, sweet girl.”

but you do.

you feel it in the way he grinds up into you, slow and controlled, like he’s still trying to restrain himself even now. like he doesn’t want to hurt you. like he wants to worship you.

you pull back just enough to look at him—his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you with something close to reverence.

“i want all of you, si,” you whisper. “please.”

his jaw clenches, like he’s fighting every instinct to be good, to be safe, to keep distance. but you see the moment he gives in. the moment he realises you’re not afraid of him. you want him. all of him.

he stands with you in his arms, effortless, and carries you to your bedroom. he lays you out so gently you nearly cry. and when he finally takes off your clothes, it's like unwrapping something precious—his touch is rough in places, but careful where it matters.

“you’re so fuckin’ soft,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “so goddamn perfect.”

your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, and he helps you pull it over his head. you take a moment, just looking at him—all scars and strength and something broken that only you ever get to see.

“you’re beautiful,” you say, and his breath hitches.

he kisses you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. like the war stops when your mouth is on his.

and when he finally slides into you, it's slow. unbearably slow. you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the fullness, the way his breath stutters when you moan his name. but he fits perfectly. like he's the puzzle piece you've been searching for. like this was meant to be.

one hand toys with your nipple while the other rubs soft circles on your clit.

he’s whispering things between gritted teeth—“that’s it, sweetheart,” “so good f'me,” “i’ve got you”—his voice like gravel and honey in your ear.

and when he finally loses the last bit of restraint, it’s devastating—his rhythm picking up, hips snapping into yours, his forehead pressed to yours as he groans your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

"f-fuck si—oh yeah right there—oh!" your moans are almost pornographic, only spurring simon on as he picks up his pace. faster, deeper, and soon you feel the familiar warmth in your belly as your stomach coils.

you fall apart beneath him, trembling, gasping, held together only by his arms around you and the heat of his breath against your cheek. your walls tighten around him, squeezing him. and soon he follows with a low, broken sound and your name on his lips like a plea.

he spills deep inside you, your walls milking him for all that he is.

and then it’s quiet.

his body curled around yours, still catching his breath as he pulls out of you. your fingers tracing lazy circles along his chest. his thumb brushing soft over your waist like he can’t stop touching you, like he doesn’t want to.

you feel his lips press into your hair as he mutters, barely audible:

ghost is the kind of guy who doesn't dwell on the past or plan too far in the future. because both are uncertain, and both can be gone in an instant. he moves through life with a soldier's mindset—one step at a time, one day at a time, one mission at a time.

survival isn't about looking too far ahead, it's about making it through the next op, the next fight, the next breath.

he’s disciplined, calculated, but there’s an underlying detachment to it all. he knows better than to get too comfortable, to expect stability. attachments make things complicated. plans make things dangerous. so he takes things as they come, keeps moving forward, and doesn’t stop to think about what’s next until it’s right in front of him.

but everything as he knows it changes when he meets you.

—

you're like a breath of fresh air.

the first time ghost sees you is from across the bar at a pub. you're nursing a bottle of beer, deep in thought, and you don't even notice the giant staring at you through his skull balaclava.

johnny gets to you first, striking up a conversation with ease while ghost watches from afar. through his heavy scottish accent, he points out everyone in the bar. price, gaz, johnny, ghost?

johnny drags you over to ghost as you giggle, "what kind of name is that? ghost?"

the withering glare ghost sends in your direction is enough to send others skittering away. but you don't back down. you glare back at him, remarking to johnny, "careful, johnny. people are going to think your scary guard dog bites."

johnny barks out a laugh, clapping ghost on the shoulder like he’s just been let in on the best joke of the night. "oh, i like her."

ghost, on the other hand, does not react. he simply shifts his weight, regarding you with an unreadable expression. his eyes flicker over you—assessing, calculating, deciding if you're worth his time.

"depends," he finally rumbles, voice low and gravelly. "y'planning on sticking y'hand in my mouth?"

johnny wheezes, smacking the table, while you tilt your head, amused. "so you do bite?"

ghost doesn't answer, but something about the way his gaze lingers tells you he’s not used to people who don’t flinch away from him. who don’t try to appease him or impress him.

you take a sip of your beer, unfazed. "good to know."

johnny grins, watching the silent exchange like he's just won a bet. "bloody hell, i think you've just become his new favourite."

you roll your eyes. "i'm honoured."

ghost shakes his head slightly, but you don’t miss the way his shoulders loosen just a fraction. and when you get up to grab another beer, you swear you feel his eyes on you the entire way to the bar.

—

it happens slowly. subtly. almost without either of you realizing.

he starts asking you to call him simon instead. "t'you, 'm always simon, darling. never ghost."

at first, it's just coincidence. running into each other at the pub when 141 is back from a mission. simon doesn’t talk much, but he listens. he watches. you learn that under all that intimidation, there’s a man who notices the smallest details—how you like your drinks, when you get quiet because you're thinking too hard, the way your fingers drum against the bar when you're restless.

then, it’s convenience. he starts walking you home when the night runs late, always a few steps behind, silent but steady. one time, you try to wave him off, saying you're fine on your own. he just stares at you and says, "i know. humor me." you let him.

it turns into habit. him waiting for you after work. him pulling out a chair for you at the bar. him handing you his jacket when it's cold because, "you're shivering, stop bein' stubborn."

you complain, but you wear it anyway.

and then it’s something more.

you find yourself on edge every time he's away on a mission. you worry about him constantly. you check your phone every night, hoping that he's texted you that he's back.

—

one day, you're sitting on a bar stool at your kitchen island, back facing the main door. you're typing away on your computer, finishing up an email for work when you feel the air in the room shift.

like someone is there.

and you're terrified.

but when you turn around, that's when you see him.

the man who's basically a giant hunk of muscle.

simon.

he had let himself in using the spare key you'd given him ages ago. he didn't even bother going home first.

he came straight to you.

he drops his bag on the floor and doesn't even have time to shed his tactical gear before you're barreling into him at full speed. you leap into his arms, your legs wrapped around his body.

your arms are wrapped around his neck as you bury your face in his shoulder. he has one arm wrapped around your back and uses the other to pull off his balaclava.

"missed you, si," you mumble into his shoulder, "was so worried about you."

"nothin' to worry bout, sweet girl. am home now, aren't i?" he chuckles, warm breath blowing against your ear.

his usage of the word "home" doesn't go unnoticed by you.

that's when you realise—falling for him, it's a slow, quiet thing. but it's inevitable.

simon doesn't say much, but he never has to. the way he holds you—like he's afraid to let go—says enough. his fingers dig into your back, his breath is a little shaky when he exhales, and you know. you just know.

but neither of you say anything about it. not yet.

instead, he lets you fuss over him. you make him sit while you heat up leftovers, filling his plate like he hasn’t eaten in days. he doesn’t argue. just watches you with those sharp eyes, tracking every movement.

later, when you’re both on the couch—him in his usual spot, you curled up beside him, your head against his chest—you hear it.

his heartbeat. steady. grounding.

suddenly, he pauses the movie and lifts you onto his lap such that you're facing me.

"pet, i have somethin' to say. hear me out, okay?" he sounds unsure. and you're nervous. simon is never unsure.

"yeah, yeah. what's up si? you're kinda scaring me."

"no, love, it's nothing bad, i promise." he lets out a nervous chuckle and takes your small hand into those bear paws of his.

"somewhere along the way," he starts, voice hoarse, "i realised i stopped going through the motions of each mission. i stopped doing what i just had to do. i wasn't thinking about the missions anymore, not like i used to. i was just trying to finish as quickly as i could so i could get home to you."

your heart stutters in your chest, like you're unsure if you've heard him right. you let out a shaky breath, "si..."

and you see his face fall. no, no, no. he must've thought you were rejecting him. and after he'd been vulnerable with you, something he never was around anyone at all.

his expression hardens, as he begins, "forget it, it was stupid—"

you cut him off by pressing your lips onto his.

at first, the kiss is gentle. like simon is terrified you'll crumble if he even moves an inch. but then it grows hungry. you've both been waiting for this moment for so long.

it's hungry, messy, a mess of tongue and teeth.

when you finally break apart, panting, you both stay there for a moment, forehead to forehead, trying to catch your breath. the world feels like it’s stopped, and it’s just you two, finally in sync after everything that’s been unsaid. his hands are on your back, pulling you closer, like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll slip away.

you lean back just slightly to look at him, your eyes searching his, still trying to make sense of the overwhelming rush of emotions.

"you’re not stupid, si," you say softly, your voice shaky but firm. "i’ve been waiting for this too. for you. i just... didn’t know how to say it."

his thumb traces your cheek, wiping away the stray tear you hadn’t even noticed had fallen. "you’ve always had this way of... making me feel like maybe i could be more than jus' a soldier, y'know?"

you smile, a tear escaping despite yourself. "you already are, simon. to me, you’re everything."

he smiles back, but it’s different now. it’s not guarded or hardened. it’s raw, and real. and it’s all for you.

"guess ’m not going anywhere either," he murmurs, pulling you back into him, pressing his lips to your temple.

you think frat boys are a waste of space.

noisy, messy, entitled.

rafe thinks tutors are a waste of time.

nerds, pretentious, judgemental.

but here he is in front of you, almost begging for you to tutor him.

rafe cameron, the kook king. rafe cameron, who has everything going for him. wealth, popularity, and a carefree lifestyle. perhaps too carefree, since it led him to seek out the one person who would rather be talking to anyone but him.

"cameron, i said no. can you get that through your thick skull?" you grumble, trying to wave him away with your hand as the other brings your cup of tea to your lips.

he'd hunted you down to find you at the campus coffee shop after getting back his latest math exam grade.

"i'll wear you down eventually." he smirks before turning to leave.

—

and true to his word, he doesn't give up easy.

everywhere you go, he's there.

studying in the library? he's pulling out a chair across from you, staring at you the whole time.

getting ready for a lecture? he's settling down next to you.

slowly, he starts bringing you coffee or tea for lectures.

"fine! i'll do it, i'll tutor you. y'know, if you spent all this time studying instead of following me around, you'd be at least a little bit better." you grumble, picking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

"i knew i'd wear you down." he chuckles, stretching his legs out. you bump your knees back against him, complaining about his "incessant manspreading". he starts to protest, but the girl in front of you whips her head around and glares at the both of you, effectively shutting the both of you up.

—

when you meet him for the first tutoring session, you change locations about four times.

the library's too crowded.

the courtyard is too hot.

rafe's frat house? no way in hell.

you eventually reluctantly offer up your off-campus apartment.

you let out a sigh of relief when you finally get settled at your dining table, hoping that the two of you can finally study in a conducive environment.

you're quickly proven wrong.

rafe cameron cannot focus for more than five minutes at a time. he constantly tries to distract you, throwing in sarcastic comments, insults, pushing your buttons to see just how far he can go before you snap.

but you're familiar with the games he's playing, and you won't let him win.

"cameron, if you're going to waste my time, just leave now." you sigh, slamming your pen down on the table.

"chill out, bookworm. we've been studying for like what? two hours?"

"not two hours. barely even one. and what you've been doing hardly counts as studying." you grit out, rubbing your temples. the urge to slap him int he face has never been this strong.

—

weeks fly by and before you know it, you're on your eighth tutoring session

"no, you have to differentiate that first. you need the derivative of that equation to solve this part." you explain, pointing at the textbook in front of rafe.

the two of you have surprisingly managed to study for around two hours, and the sun is starting to set outside.

"shall we get takeout? it's getting late, i'm sure all the restaurants will be crowded by now." rafe mumbles, scrolling through a food delivery app on his phone. you want to protest, going to check for ingredients in your refrigerator, only to be met with a few bottles of water and condiments.

"yeah, let's get some chinese food."

"already ordered," rafe replies, chucking his phone onto your sofa. he's somehow made himself comfortable on your sofa, scrolling through netflix.

"what are you doing? we're not done yet, you've still got three pages to go!" you groan in annoyance, looking at the mess of papers on your dining table.

"we'll call it homework. can't we just rest now? i've done so much already." rafe puppy-dog eyes you, and you're half-disgusted. half...because somehow that stupid expression works on you.

he settles on a movie, some stupid sci-fi.

you settle on the opposite end of the couch, grumbling at his choice of entertainment. your arms are crossed, eyes on the screen but not really paying attention. rafe's too smug about getting out of his work early, and you’re too stubborn to admit that maybe—just maybe—you don’t totally hate having him around.

your stubbornness bites you in the ass when you try to watch the movie, but can't see anything because of the stupid spot you chose to settle down in. rafe notices, and chuckles, "sweets, you can just come over here, y'know. i don't bite."

"only you would invite me to make myself comfortable in my own apartment." you roll your eyes, but move over to sit down next to him anyway.

the sci-fi movie drones on, something about aliens and government conspiracies, and at some point, the exhaustion of tutoring him starts to creep in. your muscles loosen, and your head lolls back against the cushion.

then, somehow—without even noticing when it happened—you’re leaning into him.

your cheek is against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into something close to comfort. his arm is draped lazily over your shoulder, fingers idly tracing patterns against your sleeve.

you should move. y should put some space between you. but his warmth is distracting, the kind that makes you forget why you were annoyed in the first place.

and then his voice—soft, teasing, close to your ear.

“knew you'd come around on the idea of me, tutor girl.”

you shove him, rolling your eyes, but you don’t move away. and neither does he.

—

that night, you lean against the doorframe of your front door as he puts on his shoes to leave.

"don't forget to finish up those few questions before tomorrow night. you'll reap the rewards of what you sow." you nag as he laces his shoes.

"yes ma'am," he nods, and before you can react, he plants a chaste kiss on the top of your head and leaves.

you're left standing in your doorway, shocked.

you spend the rest of the night replaying it in your head. the casual way he did it, like it was nothing. like kissing you—even just there—wasn’t some line he shouldn’t have crossed.

and the worst part? you didn’t hate it.

by the next evening, you’re ready to put it behind you. you tell yourself it didn’t mean anything, that he probably didn’t even think twice about it. you're his tutor, not his friend—not whatever else your brain is trying to twist this into.

so when an hour passes after your scheduled session, and rafe still hasn’t shown up, you check your phone.

nothing.

another hour.

still nothing.

you feel something ugly settle in your chest.

maybe it had meant something, and now he’s avoiding you. or maybe it really was nothing, and that’s exactly why he didn’t even bother to show up.

either way, you’re not letting him off that easy.

so you do what any self-respecting tutor would do.

you track him down.

—

the party is loud, filled with the usual crowd of overconfident frat boys and girls draped over them like accessories. it's a reminder of everything you hate about frat boys and sorority girls.

it doesn’t take long to spot him.

rafe is leaning against the kitchen counter, drink in hand, smirking at some girl who’s way too close. she giggles, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. His hand rests casually on the counter—just inches from her waist.

your stomach knots.

he wasn’t just busy. he chose not to come.

your feet move before you can think.

“nice to see you working so hard,” you snap as you stop beside him.

rafe turns his head, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. like he’s expecting you.

“relax, tutor girl,” he drawls, tilting his drink. “didn’t realize my education was such a priority for you.”

this time, his nickname for you of "tutor girl" has lost its affection. instead, he throws it out like an insult.

your jaw clenches. “you need to pass this class, Rafe.”

“oh, I will,” he shrugs, not even looking guilty. just amused. “ but I figured I’d take the night off. you’re not my girlfriend, i don't have to listen to you.”

the girl beside him giggles again, and you have to resist the urge to throw his drink in his face.

“clearly,” you snap, turning on your heel. “good luck figuring it out on your own. don't ever come begging me for help ever again.”

you’re halfway to the door when you feel him grab your wrist.

“hey.” his voice is softer now, but still teasing. "i was joking, i just lost track of time. i didn't mean to bail on you."

but it's too late. the damage is done. the words he threw out without a care had hurt you.

you yank your arm free. “enjoy your night, rafe.”

then you leave.

and this time, he’s the one left standing there, watching you go.

—

the cold air outside is a sharp contrast to the warmth of the party, but you barely register it. you just keep walking, wrapping your arms around yourself, willing the sting in your chest to fade.

it was stupid to expect anything different from him.

you’re halfway down the street when you hear footsteps behind you, quick and determined.

“wait.”

you don’t stop.

“goddamn it, would you just stop?”

a hand grabs your elbow, pulling you to a stop. you turn, eyes blazing.

“what?” you snap. “didn’t humiliate me enough back there? figured you’d chase me down to finish the job?”

rafe exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “jesus, would you chill?”

“oh, i’m sorry,” you scoff. “am i overreacting? am i supposed to just laugh it off when you blow me off and talk to me like i’m just some girl who’s annoying you instead of the person who’s been helping you?”

he falters. the teasing smirk is gone now, and for the first time tonight, he actually looks… regretful.

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters.

“then how did you mean it?”

he hesitates. and for once, rafe not having an immediate comeback feels worse than anything else.

you shake your head. “forget it, rafe.” you pull your arm free. “go back to your party. go back to her.”

you can't shake the image of rafe and the girl. in that moment, it reminded you that rafe was really just a frat boy. and you hated frat boys. cocky, entitled, always with a new girl each week.

but you don’t get far (distance-wise and spiralling-wise) before he says, “i didn’t even care about her.”

something in his voice makes you pause. not teasing. not cocky. just… honest.

you turn slowly. “really? because it sure as hell didn’t look that way.”

he exhales, stepping closer. “i knew you’d come.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“i knew you’d come looking for me,” he says, quieter this time. “and i wanted to see if it—if i—actually mattered to you.”

you stare at him, thrown completely off guard. “that’s the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard.”

“yeah,” he admits. “but did it work?”

you don’t answer. you can’t answer, because the truth is right there between you, laid out in the way you showed up at this party, in the way you’re still standing here, in the way your chest tightens when you look at him.

and judging by the way he watches you, he knows it too.

he steps even closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “i’m sorry.”

and maybe it’s the way he says it. or the way he’s actually apologizing for once. or maybe it’s the fact that, despite everything, you know this isn’t just about tutoring anymore.

but when he reaches for your hand, you don’t pull away.

you don’t pull away.

his fingers curl around yours, hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to shake him off and walk away for good. like he knows he deserves it.

but you don’t.

because as much as you hate to admit it, this was never just about tutoring. never just about rafe being annoying, or you being stubborn, or either of you pretending this was nothing more than an arrangement.

so you stay.

“you’re an idiot,” you murmur, staring at where his hand holds yours.

he exhales a short laugh. “yeah. i know.”

his thumb brushes over your knuckles, testing the waters. you let him.

the party is still raging behind you, music echoing through the street, but it’s like none of it matters anymore. it’s just you and him, standing too close under the dim glow of the streetlights, the tension finally shifting into something you’re not ready to name.

“so what now?” you ask, voice quieter now.

he tilts his head, studying you. then, with a smirk—one softer than usual, laced with something more vulnerable—he says, “well, i still need to pass that class. hopefully with the help of my super duper smart girlfriend?”

you roll your eyes. “i hate you.”

“nah,” he grins. “you like me.”

it was supposed to be a summer thing.

something fun, fleeting, memorable yet forgettable. a secret, of course, because rafe would never risk his reputation by being seen with a pogue, would he?

but the sneaking around was useless, everyone knew that something was happening between the two of you. well, everyone that mattered anyway. they saw the way his eyes lingered a second too long on you, how his grip tightened just a little when he led you through crowded rooms. they noticed how you always left parties together.

but none of that meant anything.

it's casual, it's just convenient.

that's what the both of you told anyone and everyone who asked.

that's what you kept telling yourself when you found yourself wanting more.

especially when rafe told you he was moving away for college.

—

at first, you waited.

you told yourself it was a polite thing to do, waiting for some time before getting with someone else.

but in reality, you were waiting before moving on, in hopes that you'd get a text from rafe, who was hundreds of miles away, a text that would change your relationship.

but it never came.

then the daily check-ins and "miss u babe" texts lessen in frequency.

you're lucky if you get a text once a week.

you think maybe he's just busy. give him the benefit of the doubt right? maybe he's still trying to cope with the new workload, or making new friends.

you're proved wrong when you click on topper's close friends' story on instagram.

weekend after weekend, rafe's clubbing, partying, with a different girl on his lap each time.

well, if he's clearly not bothered to text, why bother waiting?

—

and when he finally remembers that his sweet girl is waiting for him, you're not waiting anymore.

you don't even bother to open his texts.

why?

because you're too busy having fun with jj!

it's casual, fun, spontaneous with jj. you don't have to worry about being seen "too close" in public, it's just you and jj maybank having fun!

you party, go to the beach, hanging out with your friends. you surround yourself with your people, always making sure you're too busy to be thinking about rafe. you bury your feelings deep, and do anything you can to take your mind off of it.

having grown close to rafe's friends too, you go to parties on both figure eight and the cut, always with jj. and you make damn sure everyone sees.

you secretly hope rafe's friends tell him.

—

in the weeks that follow, you're too busy having fun fooling around and partying with jj to notice the text from rafe that tells you he's coming back for winter break.

—

"hey, you gotta hurry a lil if you wanna get some of the good booze before the kooks get 'em all!" jj yells at you from down the stairs.

"i'm coming, just wait!" you huff as you struggle with your earrings as you walk down the stairs. you had spent the night at sarah's just so you could get to the party down the street more easily.

when you get to the landing of the stairs, jj lets out a low whistle as you do a little spin. you're wearing a short sparkly skirt that barely covers anything, and a very low-cut black lace tank. remembering that it was rafe's favourite outfit of yours sends a pang of sadness through your chest, but you push it aside.

the moment you step out onto the street, you can already hear the loud music blasting from the house down the street. you and jj race down the road, and of course you win! (he let you win...)

"yo! see you brought your little dog with you today." kelce chuckles, handing you and jj a bottle of beer each as you two enter through the front door.

"hey, y'know i'm just playing. good to see you, maybank." kelce says, arms up in mock surrender once you glare at him. he winks at you, and then he disappears into the crowd.

after dancing for what felt like an eternity, you slip upstairs to the bathroom to get a bit of air and space.

when you finally push open the bathroom door, the muffled bass from the party instantly flooding back into your ears. the air is thick with smoke and spilled liquor, the dim hallway lights flickering unevenly. as you step out, adjusting your top, your breath catches in your throat.

there he is.

rafe fucking cameron, back from college, standing at the bottom of the stairs like he never left.

he's leaning against the wall, one hand lazily gripping a red solo cup, the other tucked into the pocket of his jeans. his gaze is already on you—intense, unreadable. the kind that makes your stomach flip in a way you wish it wouldn’t.

you immediately look around for an escape route and you realise you're fucked, with no way out except down the stairs, past him, and out the front door. when you finally refocus your gaze on rafe, he looks different, somehow. sharper. more tired. tall, so tall. you don't remember him being that tall.

but despite everything, he's still the same rafe—the same cocky tilt of his head, the same way he takes up too much space without even trying.

you force yourself to keep walking, gripping the wooden railing as you descend the stairs, ignoring the way your pulse pounds in your ears. you won’t give him the satisfaction of stopping.

but of course, rafe doesn’t let that happen.

the moment your foot touches the last step, his free hand curls around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. the grip isn’t tight, but it’s enough—enough to send a shiver up your spine, enough to remind you that he’s right here.

"didn’t think i’d see you here, bug," he drawls, voice thick with amusement. his fingers skim down your arm, lazy and deliberate. familiar. "heard you’ve been keeping yourself entertained while I was gone."

your plan worked. he'd heard about you and jj. but why on earth were you feeling like absolute shit?

you wriggle out of his grip.

"get out of my way, rafe." you grit out before darting through the crowd and out of the front door.

but he's hot on your tail. he's not letting you go, not this time.

he grabs your waist and spins you around, holding you in place this time, so you don’t slip away.

"don’t act like you care now, rafe. let me go." your voice is soft, pleading almost.

his smirk falters for half a second. but then, just like that, it’s back—only meaner this time.

"oh, but i do," he murmurs, stepping closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "see, i come home after months away, and what do i hear?" he tilts his head, eyes dark. "that my girl has been playing house with a pogue?"

the way he calls you his girl doesn’t go unnoticed by you, but you’re too angry to care.

"but that’s the thing, rafe! i am a pogue! i’ve always been, and that’s the issue you’ve always had! you’ve always been too ashamed of that, so why do you care about me now? you can’t move away and expect me to turn my life upside down for you once you get tired of college girls and come back to outer banks!"

and for a while, rafe is stunned. he’s never seen you this angry.

rafe’s jaw tightens. his grip on your hip flexes before he snatches his hand away, like your skin suddenly burns him. his smirk is long gone now, replaced by something darker—something stormy.

"that’s not—" he starts, but he stops himself, exhaling sharply through his nose. he drags a hand down his face, as if physically trying to pull himself together.

because you’re right. and he hates that.

his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of whatever he’s trying not to say. when he finally looks at you again, his eyes are sharp, frustrated.

"you think i don’t care?" his voice is lower now, rougher. "you think i came back and the first thing i did was find you because i don’t give a shit?"

you fold your arms over your chest, willing yourself to hold your ground. "i think you came back because you ran out of things to distract yourself with," you snap. "and now you’re just—what? picking up where you left off? you don’t get to do that, rafe."

before you can react, he pulls you into his chest. your enveloped by his familiar smell, his cologne, his shampoo. he has one arm around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. his chin rests on the top of your head.

you don’t even notice you’ve started crying until you feel rafe’s grip tighten, his hand splaying against the small of your back like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

"shh," he mutters, his breath warm against your hair. his voice has lost its usual edge, no more cocky drawl, no more sharpness. just rafe. just the boy who used to sneak into your room at night when he had nowhere else to go. just the boy who left, but still came back.

you try to push away, but he doesn’t let you—not completely. his hold loosens just enough for you to look up at him, your vision blurred with tears.

"you don’t get to do this," you whisper, voice shaking. "you don’t get to leave and come back like nothing happened. like i—like i didn’t—" you cut yourself off before the words spill out.

like i didn't matter

like i didn't miss you

like i didn't love you.

rafe stares at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. his thumb swipes gently over your cheek, catching a stray tear. the touch is so soft, so familiar, so cruel.

"you think i didn’t miss you?" his voice is hoarse now, strained, like he can’t believe you’d ever doubt it. "you think i wasn’t losing my fucking mind without you?"

your breath hitches.

when you finally regain your composure, you whisper, "you left for college, rafe. what was i supposed to do? wait around for you?"

rafe exhales sharply, shaking his head, "it's not about that. it's about you acting like you didn't care when i left—then immediately turning around and shacking up with jj!"

"you are mad that i didn't wait around for you!" you scoff incredulously.

you shake your head, scoffing again. "unbelievable." you turn to leave, trying to escape his embrace, because if you stay, you’ll say something you’ll regret. but before you can take a step, you're right back in rafe's arms again.

"i didn’t think i had to ask," he says quietly.

you freeze. his voice isn’t angry anymore—it’s something else, something raw, something that makes your chest ache.

"i thought you knew."

you swallow hard, refusing to look up at him. "knew what, rafe?"

he lets out a breath, tipping your chin up with his fingers so you look at him.

"that it was never just a summer thing for me."

rafe's confession leaves you breathless.

"and because i can’t stand watching you act like i don’t mean anything to you when i know that’s not true." he continues, voice softer, warmer.

your stomach twists. "you don’t know anything."

rafe steps closer, his hands settling lightly on your waist. "don’t i?" his voice is lower now, rougher. "you think i don’t notice the way you look at me? that i don’t feel it every time you’re near me?"

you shake your head, but your fingers have already found the hem of his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

"you’re full of shit."

"maybe." his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk, but there’s something softer in his expression. "but you still want me."

you hate that he’s right. you hate that no matter how mad you are, no matter how much you try to push him away, you still want him just as much as you always have.

and he knows it.

rafe leans in, his nose brushing against yours, giving you every opportunity to stop him.

you don’t.

the moment your lips meet, it’s over. the tension snaps, the anger dissolving into something hungrier, needier. his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you let him, let yourself melt into him like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

because maybe it is.

"so what now?" you whisper, voice somewhat uncertain.

rafe exhales a small laugh, shaking his head. "whatever you want."

you roll your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"wow, i could feel you rolling your eyes."

he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "then here’s one: i want you. not just when it’s easy, not just when it’s convenient. i want you."

"no more sneaking around?"

"no more sneaking around." he smirks. "i’ll even let jj live."

it was a friday evening. theo was working from home, and you had the day off. he was sitting on the sofa outside, on a zoom call, while you were in your shared bedroom doing anything to keep yourself busy while waiting for your boyfriend to finish his boring work call.

you were laying on the bed, scrolling through your tiktok feed. cooking video, makeup review, cute cat video, cooking video...boring...kitchen hacks...flashing prank on boyfriend?

your interest was piqued. it was as if a lightbulb had lit up next to your head.

a sly smile spread across your face as you threw open the doors to your closet. rifling through your drawers, you finally found what you were looking for.

a set of black underwear. a lacy black bra, and a lacy black thong, which put enough on display that there was just enough left for imagination. chuckling to yourself, still very amused with what you were about to do, you changed out from theo's t-shirt and shorts into your new underwear.

your cat purrs from her spot on the bed, eyes narrowing at you with a somewhat judgemental gaze.

"oh c'mon, honey. mama's gotta have her fun." you coo, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. she purrs in response.

you pull theo's t-shirt over yourself again, before heading towards the bedroom door.

you slowly twist the handle and open the door. theo's sitting on the sofa, legs spread, laptop somehow resting on one thigh. he nods at whatever his colleague is saying, eyes flickering to your frame for barely a second.

he does a double take when he sees you standing in the middle of the living room with his t-shirt and black lacy underwear. he raises an eyebrow in skepticism, but says nothing.

but you saved the best for last!

you pull the hem of theo's shirt up, biting it to hold it in place as you move your bra, giving him the perfect view of your boobs. well, one of them.

theo's jaw clenches for a second, then he smirks. he unmutes himself on the call, and quickly says, "sorry guys, my dog just threw up i gotta go deal with this. talk on monday."

what dog??

he shuts the laptop and tosses it onto the sofa, standing up and walking towards you.

he pinches your nipple playfully, teasing, "aw, poor little slut. couldn't even wait just half an hour longer, could you?"

before you can open your mouth, theo throws you over his shoulder, carrying you back to your bedroom. he throws you onto the bed, before pulling down the waistband of his sweatpants just enough to let his cock spring free.

his tip leaks pre-cum, glistening. you kneel on the bed in front of him as his fingers find their way to your hair, guiding your head towards his cock. you ghost a breath over his skin, and the way his cock twitches at the sensation causes your heart to skip a beat. your hand goes to grab him at the base, tongue darting out to lick a stripe all the way up to his tip. you start sucking on the tip, and the way theo throws his head back in pleasure sends a rush of heat straight to your soaked cunt.

you take him deeper, deeper, deeper, until your face is pressed into the soft skin above his cock. you struggle to catch your breath. theo's huge.

"good girl, you're doing so well f'me." he hums, tracing along your jaw before going to cup your tits.

you pick up the pace, bobbing along his thick cock. you feel theo start to tense, and you know he's close. you go faster, deeper. his grip on your hair tightens and his hips buck as hot ropes of cum shoot down your throat.

and you swallow every bit of it once he pulls out, grinning up at him in satisfaction.

he pushes you back further on the bed, before taking your panties off. he runs a finger along your folds, chuckling, "already so wet f'me, huh? such a good little slut."

you grab a fistful of theo's hair, guiding him between your thighs, almost whimpering, "need you so bad, theo."

he chuckles against your dripping cunt, sending a shiver up your spine. he darts his tongue up, licking a stripe up your folds. he wraps his lips around your clit and gives it a sharp suck, sending your back arching right off the bed.

he continues swirling his tongue around your sensitive bud, left hand holding down your right thigh, right hand holding yours, fingers intertwined.

"you're so fuckin' beautiful, piccola." he groans, the vibrations causing your grip on his hair to tighten as you moan in pleasure. he lets out a slight yelp.

you're too lost in the pleasure to apologise.

theodore nott ate pussy like a man starved.

like he hadn't had a sip of water in weeks, and your pussy was a source of fresh, crisp water.

he lapped at you as if it was his only purpose in life, as if it was his only hope for survival.