Marie's Café @maonpalycni - Tumblr Blog

❛ 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈 ❜ 𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑒! 𝒿.𝒾𝒸𝒽𝒶𝒷𝑜𝒹 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

— jericho (crowe) ichabod x afab! reader

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: reverse!jericho x afab!reader · smutttt · mutual obsession · toxic · angst with a happy ending · possessive behavior · forced proximity · make-up sex · praise/degrading kink · light choking · marking/claiming · car sex · thigh riding · rough to tender · aftercare · emotional breakdown · confession · "i've always loved you" · geo being a chaotic wingman · implied violence/death · inspired by chase atlantic - frineds · (art from @bairus2503 twitter/x)

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You and Crowe were supposed to be nothing— a harmless secret, a little heat in the dark, something nameless you both pretended not to feel. Then you crossed a line, kissed him like it meant something, and disappeared before he could ask why.

Now the two of you orbit each other from opposite ends of a life falling apart—you losing yourself in noise and neon, Crowe pretending he isn’t watching every misstep. But one car ride—a reckless choice through an empty city—pulls the truth back to the surface. And suddenly he’s closer than he should be, and you’re remembering exactly why you ran.

Because whatever exists between you…

it was never casual. Never harmless. Never “just friends.”

𝓌𝒸: 22k

You weren’t built out of lies.

You were built out of nights—the kind that smeared into each other until you stopped bothering to count them. Nights where you and your friends staggered through neon rooms with pupils blown wide, laughing at nothing, drinking everything, chasing highs just to outrun the lows.

Your girlfriends—your friends, were always wasted beside you—they needed it, they chased it, they craved it, and you pretended you didn’t crave it too.

But you did. You craved the heat. The attention.

The way the room shifted when you walked in—like the world inhaled, waiting to see what you’d do. Bass shook the floor and rattled your bones, the kind of sound that drowned your thoughts until you were nothing but pulse and motion.

Glitter caught on your collarbone like tiny galaxies. Perfume, sweat, smoke, someone’s cologne—every night smelled like escape.

You knew every spot worth knowing: the penthouse lounges with champagne walls, the crowded house parties where the music was too loud to feel alone, the after-hours rooms where time stopped mattering and no one judged your choices.

You moved like you belonged to the night itself— leather jacket hugging your frame, sunglasses at 1AM like they were part of your bloodstream, mouth curled into that lazy, dangerous grin that made people stare even when they pretended not to.

You weren’t just hot. You were unreachable.

And that was the point.

Because no amount of money ever filled you.

Your parents’ wealth bought everything except attention. They cared about grades, not feelings; results, not you. So you learned early that affection was conditional, and the conditions were never yours to set.

People took your charm as an invitation.

Took your softness as permission. Took your loyalty as weakness. Yeah, you’d been cheated on before , lied to, used for the thrill. Played by people who never deserved to know you at all. It carved something sharp inside you, a warning with teeth. Love became another party rumor—something that happened to other people.

So you remade yourself in the image of survival. A masterpiece of smoke and mirrors and late-night adrenaline.

Someone unforgettable. Someone who no one could play twice.

You flirted easily, effortlessly even—hands on shoulders, whispered jokes, slow smiles that made people lose their train of thought. You could make anyone feel chosen… but only when you wanted to.

Because the sunlight had a way of cutting too deep. It burned through the armor, exposed the fear beneath the confidence, and you couldn’t afford that. Not anymore. Not after what people had done to you. So you loved differently—if you could call it love at all.

You loved in touches that didn’t last and words that sounded real only because you whispered them when the rest of the world was asleep.

You were romantic in the way doomed people are romantic—intense, fleeting, unforgettable. You gave pieces of yourself like confessions, soft and breathless, only when the night was loud enough to drown out the truth.

People wanted you, they always did.

It didn’t matter that your shine came from damage, or that your confidence was stitched together from the scraps of every heartbreak you refused to show.

Even the broken pieces of you glowed. Even the versions of you held together by late nights, liquor, and last chances still drew people in like they were starving for the taste of something poisonous. Because cracked mirrors don’t stop reflecting—they just reflect differently.

Like you were the kind of beautiful that didn’t just ruin people. You stayed under their skin, rewired their pulse, haunted them long after you slipped out the door with your lipstick smudged and your jacket smelling like someone else’s cologne. No one ever complained about loving a disaster when the disaster looked like you.

Pretty ruins were still ruins.

But holy shit—people loved the fall.

And Crowe—

Fucking Jericho Ichabod, the star-glow astrophysics major, top in his grades with hands too steady and eyes too earnest, the boy born into new-money gloss and a family name built on sterile boardrooms—

was never supposed to be one of the ones who fell.

He came from money, too. Old enough to matter, young enough to be showy. You knew before he ever told you—your parents brushed shoulders with his mother at galas, charity events, those forced-smile dinners where families like yours traded favors like currency.

You could see it in the way his jaw tightened at the mention of anything “family.” He’d shrug it off with a too-soft, “I don’t really talk to them,” and the silence after those words told you everything.

Jericho didn’t avoid his family. He escaped them. And the resentment ran deep enough to eclipse every gold thread in his pedigree.

Still, money is money. And in the world you were carved from, it was the one language everyone spoke fluently.

But Crowe never wore wealth the way others did.

He didn’t have the sneer, the practiced charm, the hollow sparkle stamped on your social circle like a brand. He didn’t look at people like they were stepping stones. He didn’t look at you like a trophy.

He stood at the edges of every room—quiet, observant, soft in a way that made you restless. He watched people like he was tracing the cosmos across their faces, mapping patterns, reading secrets written in their smallest movements.

And when his gaze locked onto you? Fuck.

It felt like he was charting a supernova, like as if he already knew you were something catastrophic, and still moved closer. Simply Brilliant. Soft-spoken. Earnest in a way that almost irritated you, because sincerity was a currency you’d never been able to afford.

He talked about cosmic dust and orbital mechanics like he was reciting poetry, turning the universe into something gentle, something that could be held without shattering.

You took advantage of his softness immediately.

You tricked him into helping you with assignments you barely skimmed. You called him at ungodly hours to pick you and your friends up from parties, slurring excuses he always accepted without protest.

And through all of it, you basked in that quiet, undivided attention he gave you—those warm, painfully open eyes tracing you like a star he couldn’t stop studying.

It made you feel rare. Unreachable. Beautiful in a way untouched by your clothes, your money, or the persona you’d perfected like armor. And you hated that, because people weren’t supposed to see you like that.

They were supposed to see only what you allowed.

But that night… you weren’t interested in his brilliance. Or his soft wonder. Or even his money—not that he ever tried to use it. You were bored, pretty, restless, and that combination has always been dangerous for someone like you.

You found him at the end-of-semester party, tucked against a wall, half-awkward and half-charming, shoulders tight like he didn’t belong in a room full of drunken trust fund kids. His cheeks flushed each time you leaned in.

Every laugh he gave was painfully genuine. A few flirtatious glances over your cup, a few whispered compliments meant to tangle him like ribbon—you were dropping bait, not affection.

You laid down illusions like rose petals: the smile, the voice, the eyes that said “I see you” while you quietly meant “give me what I want.”

And Crowe—poor fool—looked at you like you were the first star he’d ever seen. Like you’d invented gravity. Like you were the only object in his orbit worth anchoring to.

Then his hand closed around your wrist.

There was no warning, no charming preamble, no gentle stargazer softness that usually wrapped around his every word. Just the sudden heat of his fingers locking over your skin, firm enough to steal the breath from your chest.

He didn’t speak as he pulled you out of the living room—past the music, past the laughter, past the boys who stared when you walked by.

His grip was firm yet gentle, the kind of touch that said he wasn’t asking. He led you down the dim hallway, your pulse thundering against your ribs, and stopped only when he shoved open the nearest door.

The storage room was small, shadowed, smelling faintly of old cleaning supplies and dust—the kind of place no one would think to check, the kind of place where secrets were made and regretted. The faint yellow light under the door cut across his face, catching the change in him.

Crowe wasn’t soft here.

He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t the boy with starlit eyes and carefully chosen words. No—this version of him belonged to the night…

The room smelled like disinfectant and dust, but his cologne eclipsed everything—simply clean and addictive. You could feel him without him even touching you yet. That slow, careful tension that felt like a spark waiting to ignite gasoline.

His chest rose with a slow inhale, and in the silence between you, the air grew thick enough to drown in. You felt the moment shift—felt him shift—and something dangerously electric skated down your spine.

He moved with a slowness. One hand rose, tracing the line of your hip before climbing higher, sliding up your waist, over your ribs, until his fingers curled beneath your chin. He tilted your face up with a touch that was neither gentle nor rough—just certain.

His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, the softest pressure, but your breath hitched like he’d lit a fuse under your skin. “Tell me now,” he murmured, the words low enough to vibrate through your bones. “Tell me you want this.”

You opened your mouth—then closed it. Because there was a thousand possible answers tangled behind your teeth, none willing to betray the persona you’d built. Pride, fear, ego, habit—they all pressed against your tongue, smothering the truth you refused to admit.

And Crowe saw the war happening behind your silence. He watched it unfold without blinking, without loosening his grip, without giving you an escape.

And then he… stopped asking.

Crowe leaned in, his breath brushing your mouth, and then he kissed you. Hard. Certain. A kiss that didn’t check for hesitation. His tongue swept against yours with a slow, intoxicating, tasting close like alcohol, he was drinking.

His other hand gripped your hip, pulling you into him, anchoring you to the heat of his body until you weren’t sure where you ended and he began.

This wasn’t the gentleman from early spring.

This wasn’t the polite boy who held doors open and offered soft-spoken explanations about constellations and orbital resonance.

This kiss was hunger.

You kissed him back like instinct, like gravity, like every part of you had been waiting for this moment even while pretending you were above it.

His tongue slid against yours, careful, claiming. His hand gripped your hip, thumb pressing into flesh as if to anchor you. You answered him without thinking—your mouth parting, your body leaning into him, your breath catching on a soft gasp he swallowed with a groan.

You tasted the bitterness of his drink. And underneath it—him. Warm. Addictive. The kind of taste that ruined you. The kind of kiss that made you understand exactly why people destroy themselves for a high they can’t quit.

The wall pressed cold against your back, contrasting the burning press of his mouth. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.

His hips pressed against yours, pinning you in place, and the heat of him soaked through your clothes until the world outside that tiny room ceased to exist.

His hands, those clever hands that mapped galaxies in textbooks, began to map you. They slid from your face, down the sensitive column of your neck, his thumb pressing against the frantic pulse at its base.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your jaw, his breath hot on your skin as he moved to your neck. He kissed, then nipped at the tender spot where your shoulder met your neck, a sharp, possessive sting that made you arch against him.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging, pulling him closer as his own hands roamed—slipping under the hem of your shirt to skate up your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your chest, making you whimper.

It was a heavy, frantic make-out, a collision of lips and teeth and desperate hands in the dark. The party was a distant echo, the world narrowed to this closet, to the feel of his body against yours, to the scent of his skin and the raw, unfiltered hunger in his touch.

You were supposed to be the one in control.

That was the law you lived by—the only one that ever mattered. You flirted, they chased, you let them orbit for a while, then stepped away untouched. It was a system that worked like clockwork, predictable as the shine of your lip gloss:

You played. They fell. You walked away.

But Crowe… Crowe was a different kind of problem.

He wasn’t flashy or desperate or obsessed with his own reflection. He didn’t brag. He didn’t push. He didn’t try to impress you with money or status even though he had both.

He just looked at you—really looked—like he knew there was something broken behind all that silk and venom and didn’t run from it.

Maybe it was the way he listened, patient and too damn sincere. Maybe it was how he smiled like you were the sweetest sin he’d ever tasted. Maybe it was how he showed up every time you called, no matter the hour, never asking for anything in return.

And you? You took it all.

His time. His attention. His softness. His devotion. Sadly, It felt good—dangerously good—having someone like him wrapped around your finger. You told yourself it was harmless.

You kissed him because you were bored.

Because you wanted to see how quickly he’d crumble if you gave him an inch of affection. Because he looked so damn pretty with his guard down and his breath catching in his throat. And he never pulled away. Not once.

You thought you were safe.

You thought you were still the one holding the knife. Then—his hands slid to your waist, warm and trembling with restraint, and he pressed you back against the door like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t anchor you there.

His lips brushed your cheek, barely a touch, but enough to make heat curl low in your stomach. His breath shuddered against your ear, his voice cracking open, unfiltered when he whispered:

“I love you so much.”

Everything inside you went still.

Because that—that wasn’t part of the game. Everything in your brain was still, like you weren’t supposed to inspire devotion. You weren’t supposed to be anyone’s heartache. He wasn’t supposed to say it.

And worse?

You weren’t supposed to feel anything when he did.

So you laughed. That soft, polished sound you’d perfected for moments like this—pretty, dismissive, cruel.

You didn’t say it back. You couldn’t.

You just stepped away before things could turn into something real, so you abandoned him. No texts. No calls. No explanations. You passed him on campus like he was invisible, like he hadn’t once kissed you like you were everything he’d ever wanted.

You told yourself he’d get over it. That he should.

Spring turned into summer, and you didn’t see him once. No messages. No familiar laughter in the halls. Nothing. You figured he transferred, or maybe finally realized what a joke the whole thing had been.

And then fall came—and so did he.

But the soft boy with the soft laugh was gone. Replaced by something darker, sharper. The clean-cut astrophysics nerd you used to copy homework from had vanished.

In his place stood someone who looked like he’d walked straight out of an indie band’s afterparty—black shirt slipping off one shoulder to reveal defined collarbones and just enough skin to make it look intentional.

His long auburn hair was tied loosely at the base of his neck, a thin silver-threaded braid brushing his jaw, and the piercings on his lip and brow caught the light every time he moved. Layered necklaces hung around his throat—a cross, a ring pendant—like he was singlehandedly keeping Hot Topic’s legacy alive.

Even his posture had changed—relaxed, confident, annoyingly magnetic. He didn’t look breakable anymore. He looked like trouble.

And God, you hated that.

Hated that the memory still lingered—that his voice, that soft, breaking “I love you,” still echoed somewhere in the back of your mind when you let yourself think too long. Every now and then, it crept up on you, quiet and unwelcome. The way his voice cracked when you left.

The look in his eyes—half hope, half realization.

Something in you always twisted when you remembered it. Not quite guilt. Not quite regret. Just… something you refused to name. And you noticed all of this again—that same ache, that same ghost of a feeling—in the worst possible way:

The second he slammed straight into you.

One moment, you were walking across campus in your cropped track jacket and matching flared pants, perfectly matching and very intentional.

The next, someone collided with you, sending a blizzard of posters and papers spinning through the air. You barely caught yourself, already preparing to unleash hell.

And there he was.

On the ground. Looking up at you.

Papers scattered around him like fallen feathers, a few catching the wind and tumbling across the pavement. He groaned softly, one hand clutching his lower back as he blinked up—once, twice—still trying to process the impact.

His eyes, once that deep ocean-blue you used to mock for being too “sweet,” looked different now. Sharper. Still wide in surprise, but no longer innocent.

You stood over him, one hand on your hip, the other clutching your books tightly to your chest, your bag hanging off your shoulder. The sunlight caught the gloss in your hair, the clean athletic lines of your tracksuit—you looked every bit the polished, untouchable monarch you worked so hard to be.

He just… lay there. Flushed, dazed, and staring.

Of course he was fucking staring.

Your glare dropped to meet his, unimpressed. “Speak of the fucking devil,” you muttered, voice laced with annoyance and that perfectly trained prettiness you used when you wanted to sound calm—even when you weren’t.

Crowe blinked again, the faintest blush coloring his face. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a breathless, “...Hey.” He looked up at you like the universe had done him a favor.

And you hated it.

You hated that he still had that same earnest look beneath the piercings and the long hair—hated that the light caught the silver braid by his face, that it drew your attention to how his jaw had sharpened, how his shoulders had filled out. He smelled faintly of smoke and something expensive, and it pissed you off that you noticed.

You shifted your weight, your sneaker stopping inches from his head. “Ugh. You really need to watch where you’re going,” you said flatly, voice dripping with disdain. “You’re in my way.”

Crowe’s gaze flicked from your shoes to your eyes, and then—damn him—he smiled. Small, slow. A glint of amusement you hadn’t seen before.

The nerve. That smile crawled under your skin and twisted there, unwanted. Because the thing about pretty lies is that, eventually, they start to sound real. And maybe you didn’t cause his change— but you sure as hell watched it happen.

Crowe finally pushed himself up from the ground, one hand braced against the pavement as he gathered the mess of papers fluttering around him.

You watched him kneel there for a moment—the quiet scrape of paper on concrete, his hair falling over his face, his rings glinting in the light.

He didn’t even look at you when he spoke.

“You always did have great timing,” he said, tone light but laced with something sharp. “Still knocking people over to make an entrance?”

You scoffed. “Please. If anyone’s at fault, it’s you. Maybe try looking where you’re going next time instead of staring at your shoes.”

He stood, brushing dust from his black jeans with careful calm. He was taller than you remembered—and that irritated you even more. “Guess I should’ve seen the hurricane coming,” he murmured, lips quirking. “You do have a way of leaving destruction wherever you go.”

You raised a brow. “Cute. You practicing comebacks in the mirror now, Ichabod?”

His eyes flicked up to yours then—that same dark blue, but colder now. “Only when I expect to see you again.”

You felt the hit. Just for a second. But you recovered fast, like always. A slow smile spread across your face, sugar-coated and cruel. “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but lying’s one of my bad habits.”

He smiled back, small and amused. “Oh, trust me. I know.”

Before you could fire back, a familiar voice called from across the quad. “There you are!” One of your friends—glossy hair, perfect makeup, just as overdressed for campus as you— looped her arm through yours. Another trailed behind, scrolling through her phone.

“Come on,” the first said. “We’re heading to the bar tonight before it gets too crowded. You in?”

You glanced back at Crowe, who was still standing there, watching you like he was reading between the lines of your expression. “Yeah,” you said lightly. “I was just leaving.”

You started to walk, your friends following close behind—until Crowe’s voice stopped you. “Actually,” he called out, tone smooth, deceptively polite. “If you’re planning to drink yourselves into bad decisions, you might as well do it at my place. I’m hosting tonight.”

You turned slowly. “You?”

He nodded once, sliding a folded poster out from the stack still in his hand. “Yeah. House party. Open invite. Real drinks, real music. You remember what that’s like, right?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt. “Hard pass.”

Your friends, however, perked up immediately. “Wait, your place?” one of them asked, already reaching for the poster.

“Yeah,” Crowe said easily, handing it over. “You can bring whoever you want.”

“Sounds fun,” your friend said with a grin.

You leaned in close to her ear, lowering your voice just enough. “It’s not a good idea. He’s not—” you glanced back at him, “—exactly our crowd.”

Your friend shrugged, smirking. “A party’s a party, babe. Besides, that bar might be a bust. We’ll need a backup.”

“Fine,” you said, straightening and flipping your hair off your shoulder. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You turned and walked off, the perfect picture of control even as you felt his gaze on your back, heavy and knowing. Behind you, you could hear him and your friend still talking. Her laughter carried faintly through the air.

And when you glanced back once, just once, you caught him smiling again—that same dangerous, quiet smile.

Your stomach twisted. “Oooo, I just—ugh.”

The sound that escaped you was half groan, half sigh, tangled and rough, as you tossed another hanger aside.

Satin whispered, sequins glittered under the chandelier’s soft, judgmental light, like tiny stars observing your frustration.

Your walk-in looked pristine, perfect even—rows of designer pieces arranged by shade, by mood, by season—but tonight it felt oppressive.

Too curated, too meticulous, too suffocating.

You shifted through the racks anyway, fingertips brushing cool fabric, searching for something that would make you feel less… drained. Something that could soothe the edge of a weekend that had already begun too early.

Behind you, your friends had taken over your bed. Magazines spilled across the sheets like confetti, pages rustling with every whispered joke, every lazy hum of music from a phone somewhere in the room.

One scrolled with the casual ease of someone used to indulgence; another tore perfume samples from a glossy spread, sniffing at each one like it contained secrets they were entitled to.

“So… you seriously hate this guy that much?”

Your hand froze mid-rack, the silk under your fingers momentarily forgotten. You glanced over your shoulder, cool amusement etched into your features, lips tilting just so.

“Hate’s dramatic,” you said, flipping another hanger as if it were the most mundane motion in the world. “Let’s just say I have better things to do than waste my time at some overhyped, mediocre party.”

“Mhm,” the new one said, light, curious, edge hiding beneath her tone. “But you sound… really passionate about not caring.”

A scoff came from the bed. One of your older friends—the one who thrived on chaos secondhand, who never let anything go unsaid—set her magazine down and grinned, a slow, teasing smile.

“Oh, don’t mind them. They just don’t like that he’s going to be there.”

Your brows lifted, slow, dangerous. “He?”

“You know,” she said, the grin widening like she was savoring the reaction she expected, “Ichabod, that’s his last name. Used to be… your little… situation last semester?”

The room stilled, the air thick enough you could almost see it press against your skin. Your hand drifted along a silk blouse, nails tracing the edge, careful.

You didn’t want to think about him again.

Not like this. Not after last semester, not after the messy nights that had blurred into the neon chaos of parties and bottles, the weekend music and reckless laughter that never asked for loyalty.

Not after the private hooks and quiet, stolen moments that were supposed to mean nothing.

The thought of seeing him again—at another crowded, overhyped gathering, another night drenched in drink and half-forgotten promises—made your chest tighten.

Because you and your friends lived for these nights, the kind of wild that left you hungover and glowing, untouchable, and for a moment, untied from all the expectations, the games, the careful control.

But Crowe… Crowe was different.

And maybe that was what made the thought of him showing up unbearable. You exhaled, shifting your attention back to the hangers. “Hey,” you said softly, almost sweet yet sour, “maybe keep that detail to yourself.”

“What?” she asked, feigning innocence as she twirled a strand of hair. “I’m just saying. You two had a thing.”

“It wasn’t a thing.” You turned then, fully, the glint in your eyes as sharp as the perfume bottle gleaming on your dresser. “It was a lapse in judgment. One I’ve already corrected.”

Another friend chimed in, smirking. “Please. You totally hooked up with him at that spring party.”

You gave a flat, knowing look. “And I also hooked up with bad ideas and tequila that night. Doesn’t mean I’m repeating any of them.”

Laughter bubbled through the room, soft and careless, but your pulse thrummed faintly under your ribs. The sound of it irritated you—too alive, too revealing.

You turned back to the racks, pushing hangers aside until the steady tempo drowned out everything else. “Anyway, none of it matters. He’s not worth the time, and that party’s just a collection of people desperate to seem interesting.”

A lazy hum came from the bed. “So… us?”

You shot a glance over your shoulder, unimpressed. “Speak for yourself.”

The new girl chuckled. “Still sounds like he got under your skin.”

That made something flicker behind your eyes—a spark of irritation or maybe recognition. Hard to tell.

You smirked, smoothing your tone back into place. “Please. He wishes.”

Silence hovered for a beat, broken only by the soft shuffle of pages and the click of your ring against the closet rod. You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the strap of your crop top. The reflection staring back at you looked flawless—every detail controlled, every emotion neatly buried.

Then, from the bed: “So… if we really want to go, you’re coming, right?”

You groaned, dragging your hands over your face. “Why do you even want to go to that trash-ass party?”

One of them grinned, already tapping on her phone. “Because everyone else will be there. And you know what happens if we’re not.”

You arched a brow. “The world ends?”

“Worse,” she said with a smirk. “People forget about us.”

That made you pause—not long enough for anyone to notice, but enough to sting. You exhaled, fixing your tone before it could betray anything. “Fine. We’ll go. But if it sucks, I’m blaming every single one of you.”

“Deal!”

Their laughter filled the space again—light, careless, almost sweet in its ignorance. The kind of sound that pretended the past didn’t exist.

You turned back to your closet, fingers ghosting over silk and velvet until they found something sharp, sleek—an outfit that whispered untouchable.

It looked perfect, effortless, curated to make sure no one would see the tremor beneath your poise. You exhaled, steadying yourself. Still, that twist in your stomach stayed. Because you knew.

You weren’t going for the party.

You were going because he would be there.

Before you even reached the house, the bass had already found you—low and steady, thrumming through the pavement like a heartbeat you couldn’t ignore. It got louder the closer you came, pulsing through the dark, wrapping itself around the chill in the autumn air.

Crowe’s neighborhood was quiet except for his place—a flickering glow of motion and noise. Light spilled from the open windows in gold and blue streaks, shadows of people passing across them like ghosts. Laughter tangled with the hum of voices, the sharp scent of smoke drifting into the street.

You paused on the sidewalk for a second, adjusting your jacket, forcing your expression back into something composed.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

And yet, somehow, you always ended up where you said you wouldn’t. You told yourself that three times while walking up the driveway.

Crowe stood at the door like he owned the night. Which, technically, he did. Dressed in all black again—ripped jeans, loose shirt, jewelry glinting under the porch light—he was the kind of mess people stared at for too long. Effortless, lazy charm radiating off him like a bad habit.

Next to him was Geo—Crowe’s best friend, confidant, and the living embodiment of chaos wrapped in charm. He looked like trouble you wanted to get tangled in.

Aquamarine eyes glinting with mischief, plumper lips curved in a permanent smirk, and dark bluish-purple hair cut into a bowl style, tied back in a neat low ponytail that somehow made him look both effortless and meticulously put together.

He radiated confidence, the kind that made people stop mid-step just to watch him lean casually against the wall. Louder, bolder, and far more brazen than Crowe, he flirted with anything that moved, with a grin that promised both amusement and danger.

Hands in pockets, energy overflowing, he carried himself like a fuckboy on display—and somehow, somehow, it worked. Every glance he gave was calculated to make someone blush, laugh, or bite their lip nervously. People noticed him.

Crowe didn’t need attention to survive—he wasn’t one of those guys who fed on it like oxygen. But the irony was that he got it anyway.

People noticed him the way they noticed the weather: instinctively, involuntarily, like something in the air shifted when he walked into a room.

Geo noticed it too. Hell, he never shut up about it.

“Bro, I’m telling you,” Geo drawled, slouched against the doorframe like gravity loved him more than anyone else.

He had that smirk plastered across his face—the one that said he thought he was right about everything, even when he was spectacularly wrong.

“You gotta stop being a tragic emo poster boy. It’s a party, Crowe. A party. Hook up, move on, breathe some air that isn’t infused with heartbreak. I got this brunette inside who’s basically sitting there, waiting to—”

“Yeah.” Crowe didn’t bother looking at him. His gaze drifted across the driveway, expression unreadable. “You mentioned her. Twice.”

Geo shrugged, smug as ever. “And you? Still hung up on gold digger?”

Crowe’s mouth twitched—something like a smirk, but dimmed, distant. The kind that said you don’t know a damn thing,but he wasn’t going to waste the breath explaining.

Geo let out a low scoff, shaking his head like Crowe was some case study in human obsession. “You’re such a simp, man.”

Crowe didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His eyes had already found you. And you weren’t even trying.

Just standing there at the edge of the crowd, sunglasses perched low on your nose despite the artificial neon lights, a satin slip catching the reflection of the strobe flashes, leather jacket draped just enough to frame the curve of your shoulders, the edge of your wrists.

You weren’t moving, not really, just letting the party’s pulse ripple around you without touching you. The chaos—beating bass, laughter, clinking glasses, chatter—flowed over the crowd like water, but you were a quiet island in the middle of it, and somehow everyone noticed.

There was a glow about you.

Not obvious, not staged, just… inherent. A gravitational pull that whispered: you don’t try, you don’t need to, and everyone who thinks they could have you is already too late.

Expensive without effort. Untouchable without realizing it. Dangerous in the softest way. People didn’t even know what hit them before they were staring, enchanted, questioning whether they’d ever seen someone like you before.

Your friends hovered nearby, half-dancing, half-talking too loudly, caught between plotting their next mischief and drinking too fast to care about consequences.

But you? You were still. Focused.

Crowe’s eyes followed every imperceptible movement: the tilt of your head, the lazy shift of your weight from one foot to the other, the faint sheen of sweat at your temples under the faux glamour of your look.

Sunglasses at night, jacket slipping just so over satin, hair catching the light in soft—he couldn’t look away. You were the kind of person who didn’t need to perform to be noticed, who didn’t need to flirt to dominate the room. And yet, somehow, every beat of your presence set him off.

You caught a glimpse of his stare from the corner of your eye and smirked just slightly.

Not at him, not really. More like at the fact that he was the only one standing still while the rest of the world tried to move around him.

And it drove him insane.

That was when Crowe’s entire demeanor shifted—barely, subtly, but undeniable once you noticed. His gaze sharpened. His posture straightened like someone pulled him back into himself.

A look of something dangerous lit behind his eyes, something he tried to bury every damn time he saw you. He leaned toward Geo, voice dropping into a low, unreadable calm. “Do me a favor,” he murmured. “Go entertain the friends for a while.”

Geo lifted an eyebrow, catching on instantly. “Ohhhh,” he drawled, grinning like he'd just discovered a secret he wasn’t supposed to know. “Like I said, still a simp.”

Crowe scoffed, barely glancing his way. “Go. Just go.”

Geo’s laughter trailed behind him as he slipped into the crowd, already flashing one of your friends a charming grin. “Fine, man. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Crowe exhaled once, long and steady, that same low burn still in his gaze as he finally started toward you.

“And Geo,” he added lazily, not even looking back, “try not to get too thirsty.”

Geo snorted. “No promises.”

You noticed. Geo’s charm was cartoonishly obvious, his energy a magnet for your friends’ attention. You rolled your eyes and muttered something bitterly about predictable men. Then you turned, only to almost run into someone.

Again. Except this time, it wasn’t an accident.

Crowe leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Guess the bar didn’t work out?”

You blinked, annoyance curling in your chest. “Please.” You looked away, voice sharp. “Place got shut down before we even made it. Too wild.”

“Aw,” he said, mock offense dripping off every syllable. “Hope my party fixed that.”

You folded your arms, glaring down at him like he owed the universe an explanation. “Still hosting parties to prove you’re not miserable, huh?”

He laughed—low, rich, infuriatingly warm. “You wound me.”

“Good,” you said, sweetly brushing past him, a practiced flick of the wrist. “Maybe you’ll finally learn not to stand in my fucking way.”

But just before you slipped inside, his hand brushed your wrist—light, careful, a quiet reminder that he existed in your space. “Careful,” he murmured, low enough for only you to hear. “This isn’t like the old days.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes locking with his. “No,” you said, voice even. “You’re not like the old you.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” he replied, smirk darkening just enough to make you pause. Yet you smiled. Not because it was funny, but because you didn’t want him to see that it got under your skin. “Enjoy your little emo renaissance,” you said finally, pulling away. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

He watched you walk off, his smirk fading into something heavier, darker. For all your practiced indifference, he could see the twitch in your hand when his name left your lips.

And you could feel his eyes on you long after you disappeared into the crowd.

Anyway, the party was… something.

Not that you cared.

The music was blasting—the kind that makes your ribs hum and your head feel slightly loose, but honestly, it wasn’t the music you were here for. It was the people, the mess, the chance to pretend like you gave a shit about anyone except yourself for a few hours.

You found a quiet corner near the wall, leaning against it with a plastic cup that was definitely heavier than it should have been.

Fourth one? Fifth? You’d lost track.

The alcohol was starting to spread warm and fuzzy through your chest, loosening the edges of your carefully curated control. Not enough to let it show, of course, but enough to make the night feel tolerable. Your eyes wandered, scanning the chaos. That’s when you noticed them.

Crowe’s crew: a weird little constellation orbiting him like planets.

There was Britney—tall, quiet, painfully earnest, the kind of girl everyone underestimated until she said something sharp enough to make you blink. Then Jess—loud, obnoxious, and impossibly quick with a snarky comment that somehow made everyone laugh or groan, depending on the timing. Deryl—the asshole, obvious in every stance, like he was daring anyone to challenge him.

And, of course, Geo—acting like the human embodiment of a tequila shot, basically a fuckboy in short, just moving around and latching onto whoever made eye contact with him, spinning his charm like a goddamn weapon.

fuckboy or not, geo is still fucking hot.

You watched as your friends were drawn into Geo’s antics almost immediately. Your friends were easy prey, laughing at his jokes, rolling their eyes, leaning into the energy.

Meanwhile, you tried—unsuccessfully—to keep your distance, focusing on the wall, the cup, the music, the nothing, really. It was ridiculous. You rolled your eyes at the absurdity of it all, sipping again, letting the alcohol blur the edges just enough to make it bearable.

The music wasn’t bad, the lights were alright, some people actually had style, but none of it mattered. You didn’t come for the aesthetics. You came for the escape. For the chance to be messy without consequence.

And yet… there was a pull in the air.

You were leaning against the wall, cup in hand, letting the music buzz through your chest and your eyes drift lazily over the crowd, when you felt it—that shift of presence that made your skin prick. Not someone brushing past for a drink or elbowing their way to the kitchen.

“Heyy.” A hand tapped your arm—light, quick, the way someone touches a sleeping tiger. “Babe, seriously. You need to stop staring at the exits like you’re planning an escape route.”

You slid them a flat look. “I am planning an escape route.”

“Exactly,” they groaned. “Which is why you need a distraction. A cute one.” Their eyes flicked behind you. “And, lucky for you, the universe just delivered one.”

You almost didn’t turn—almost. But curiosity tugged harder than your pride. So you tilted your head just enough to see—Oh.

A goody-two-shoes. The type people trusted by default, the “sweet, honest, absolutely harmless” kind. The kind your friends joked you should talk to so you’d stop gravitating toward disasters with nice eyes. His name… was somewhere in your brain.

Hovering. Slipping. Whatever.

Your friend nudged you again, whispering, “He’s cute. Talk to him. Please, for the love of my sanity, talk to someone who isn’t the pasty crowd you keep gravitating toward.”

You hummed under your breath, unimpressed. But you didn’t move away—not when he started walking over with that oblivious confidence of someone who genuinely believed people enjoyed small talk.

His hair caught your eye first—dark roots melting into blonde ends like he’d stood too close to a paintbrush. The lip ring glinted, followed by the small parade of earrings. Accidental style. Oddly effective.

And that outfit. A long-sleeve white shirt layered under pale green. You couldn’t decide if he was trying too hard or not trying at all.

Still… those eyes.

Red-orange, bright, intense in the way people are when they don’t know they’re being watched. And the nervous energy rolling off him? Endearing. Against your will.

Your friend leaned in one last time. “Just give him five minutes. Enjoy yourself for once. He’s walking over, you can’t bail now.”

You let out a quiet sigh, the corner of your mouth lifting in something close to amusement.

“Fine,” you murmured. “I’ll entertain him.”

Your friend beamed triumphantly as they slipped away into the crowd, leaving you standing there—face blank, pulse steady, mind already analyzing him.

Might as well see what he wanted. Couldn’t hurt.

He hesitated for half a second, like he wasn’t sure whether you were going to snort in his face or actually respond, and then he introduced himself. “Hey, I'm Solivan,” he said, all earnestness and a little too much pride. “Sol, for short.”

You blinked. Pretended to think, tapping the side of your cup against your fingers. “Right… Sol,” you said finally, voice smooth, like you were letting him climb out of a pit he hadn’t even known he fell into. “That’s… memorable. Somehow.”

He smiled, nervously brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “Thanks. Uh… you’re…”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” you interrupted, letting a playful smirk tug at your lips. “I’m… just enjoying the chaos.”

And just like that, Sol’s face lit up like you’d handed him the moon. You suppressed a laugh, leaning back against the wall, letting him babble for a second while your gaze drifted across the room.

Sol rambled. And rambled.

Painting this, darwing that, he talked like being an art major is some obscure hobby you’d never even heard of, some project that apparently was “life-changing” in the most painfully earnest way.

You nodded at the right moments, tilting your head like you were genuinely invested, though mostly you caught snippets: bland blurbs of passion and intelligence that sounded impressive enough to anyone who didn’t already have your radar on high alert.

It was kind of adorable. Kind of frustrating. And definitely… useful.

Because you didn’t exactly listen.

Instead, you let your attention wander.

One hand lightly brushed against his arm while he gestured, just enough to make him blush. You leaned a little closer when he laughed nervously at his own joke, letting your fingers graze his shoulder. Small touches, calculated touches—teasing without commitment, testing boundaries without crossing them.

“Wait, so you’re telling me the technique uses… what?” you murmured, tilting your head again, voice low, warm. You smiled, letting your lips brush near his ear as you pretended to need clarification. Sol’s words faltered; he stammered.

You smiled wider. “You’re… really intense about this, huh?” you said, letting your hand slide a little lower on his arm, brushing against his wrist. “I mean… I like it. I like someone who’s passionate.”

And Sol… Sol melted a little. His blush deepened, lips parting, eyes darting up to yours like he’d just discovered a secret constellation.

You didn’t stop there. Leaned closer, pressed just a fraction into him, voice soft but carrying that subtle edge that said you were everywhere and nowhere all at once. “You know… most people wouldn’t have the patience to explain this to me. But you… you don’t mind.”

He smiled shyly, fumbling with his hands like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I—uh… well, you make it easy to… talk. I mean, if that makes sense.”

“Oh, it makes sense,” you said, voice teasing, hand tracing lightly along his forearm. “You’re… kind of charming, Sol.” You say his name playful.

And that was the point.

You weren’t really listening to Sol’s stammered replies anymore—just watching the way the color rose in his cheeks, the way he kept tripping over his words like you were gravity and he was helpless to it. But your attention wasn’t on him. Not really.

Your gaze drifted—slow, searching—across the room.

There. Crowe.

Leaning against the wall like he’d been carved there, half-lost in the shadow and the low amber light. That same impossible smirk curved at his mouth, lazy and sharp all at once.

His eyes didn’t waver; they never did. He was watching you—every soft touch, every careful tilt of your head, every smile that wasn’t meant for him.

You felt it. So, you tilted the scale.

Your hand stayed on Sol’s shoulder a second longer than necessary, fingertips pressing just enough to make him shiver. You leaned in, close enough that your breath brushed his ear, murmuring something sweet and meaningless. He laughed—awkward, dizzy—and you smiled.

Just enough. Not too much. Perfectly measured.

And when you glanced back across the room, Crowe’s smirk had deepened. Figures. “Yo, Sol,” he drawled suddenly, voice slipping through the music—low, smooth, annoyingly casual.

You didn’t have to turn to know he was coming closer.

Sol was mid-sentence about something—probably art again. Crowe appeared like the universe’s worst-timed pop-up ad, hands in pockets, smile so faint it was practically a threat.

Sol perked up immediately, grin spreading. “Crowe! Hey! It’s been forever!”

You blinked, caught between confusion and mild annoyance as Sol turned fully toward him, nearly spilling what was left of his drink. “You two… know each other?”

“Oh yeah,” Sol said cheerfully, already slinging an arm around Crowe’s shoulders. “We go way back—freshman year. I still have the photo!”

He fumbled with his phone, grinning like a golden retriever while Crowe visibly regretted every life choice that led to this moment. Sol turned the screen to you—a polaroid. Sol smiling like sunshine, Crowe looking like he’d rather die, face squished in Sol’s grip.

“See? Best buds!” Sol said proudly. “This was during the summer when he became emo.”

You snorted. “Wow. You look thrilled, Ichabod.”

Crowe pried Sol’s arm off, smoothing his shirt like it had offended him. “We’re not friends,” he said evenly, shooting Sol a flat look. “He’s… an acquaintance. A persistent one.”

Sol only grinned wider. “Aw, come on, don’t act like you don’t miss me. Speaking of which—Hyugo says hi.”

Crowe’s jaw ticked. “Hyugo?”

“Yeah,” Sol said, nodding, oblivious. “My roommate—Hyugo Geo? His brother?”

You blinked. Oh. That Geo. The same one currently doing body shots off on one of your frineds. Of course.

Crowe’s lips twitched. “Right. The other disaster.”

You didn’t care much for the family tree of idiots, though. You were far more interested in watching Crowe’s expression twist just slightly every time Sol smiled at you.

So you leaned closer to Sol again—just a little. Close enough that your perfume wrapped the space between you, that your hand brushed his chest as you looked up with that same sweet, dangerous smirk.

“You know, I was really enjoying our conversation before you got interrupted,” you said softly, eyes cutting toward Crowe for just a second.

Crowe’s gaze narrowed.

Sol laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh, uh—yeah, we can—”

“No, actually,” Crowe said, stepping in just slightly, his voice too calm to be casual. “I think Sol was about to go check on his real friends.”

Sol blinked. “Huh?”

Crowe’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Run along, sunshine.”

You glared. “Excuse me? He’s not a dog.”

“Didn’t say he was,” Crowe replied smoothly. “But you’re sure treating him like one.”

You scoffed, stepping forward, tension sharp and intoxicating. “You ruin every goddamn thing, you know that?”

He tilted his head, voice soft but edged. “You mean like how you ruin people?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re not that special.”

Crowe chuckled, low, maddeningly amused. “You keep telling yourself that.”

You wanted to slap that smirk right off his face—and maybe kiss him after, which only made you angrier. It wasn’t just the smug look that got to you. It was the fact that he thought he knew better.

The music shifted—bass-heavy, shaking the walls, the kind that made everything blur at the edges. The alcohol was humming in your veins, hot and dizzying, like your body couldn’t tell if it wanted to dance or collapse.

You were fine. Or that’s what you told yourself.

Regardless, Crowe didn’t look convinced. “You’ve been out all night,” he said, leaning down so you’d hear him through the noise. His tone wasn’t teasing. “I don’t even know where you’ve been before you came here.”

His eyes swept over you, slow and calculating, that same infuriating scrutiny you hated him for. “You’re slurring,” he added. “And don’t even try to argue—you can barely stand straight.” He smiled then. A hollow thing. “But you don’t fucking care at all, do you?”

That did it. Heat rushed up your neck, sharp and cold all at once. “Get out of my way, Ichabod.”

“Would if I could,” he drawled, though there was no humor in it. “But you’re making it awfully hard to just let you self-destruct.”

Again, you wanted to scream at him. To tell him to stop pretending he cared, to stop leaning so dangerously close to something he couldn’t name.

But the words knotted in your throat, tangled somewhere between the liquor lingering on your tongue and the ache that pulsed behind your ribs.

So you didn’t.

Instead, you slipped through the crowd, weaving past half-drunk bodies and swaying limbs, avoiding the too-loud laughter, the pointless chatter, the way he always seemed to find you no matter where you went.

Outside wasn’t an option—you knew he could track you anywhere, could corner you out on the lawn, the kitchen, hell, even the coat closet if he wanted.

No, you needed somewhere quiet, somewhere that smelled of night and nothing else, where the music was just a low thrum and your thoughts could echo against something solid.

You found the balcony, the one you’d discovered the last time you’d been here, when he hadn’t expected you to know your way around his house.

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the chaos inside, and for a moment, it was just you, the city lights stretched below like tiny scattered constellations, and the night wind brushing against your skin.

You drifted along the balcony rail, fingertips brushing the cold metal, letting the night air cut through the leftover buzz in your veins. It helped. A little. Not enough.

Because all you could think about was him.

Crowe looked back at you from the walls inside—older photos, a version of him that didn’t exist anymore. The soft grin. The bright eyes. The laugh that had once cracked open something warm in your chest, something you’d tried hard to bury.

You remembered that boy.

The one who leaned into you for warmth.

The one who listened like your voice meant something. The one who made you feel more than you ever meant to feel.

And now?

That boy was gone.

Replaced by the man downstairs—sharp lines, colder eyes, charm with teeth. He carried himself like he had nothing to lose and everything to hide.

Same face. Same voice. But the space between what he was and what he’d become hurt in a way you didn’t want to name.

You pressed your palms against the railing, the metal biting into your skin. Satin clung to your arms, still warm from the house’s heat. The night wrapped around you, quiet and heavy.

Regret settled low in your stomach—slow, unwelcome, unmistakable. You’d thought keeping him at a distance would protect you. That the games and the cool mask and the indifference would save you from feeling anything real.

But here you were.

Leaning on cold metal. Tasting memories like poison-sweet liquor. Missing someone you’d sworn you wouldn’t. A humorless smile slipped out before you could swallow it back.

“The party’s over for you,” a voice said.

Your eyes snapped open.

You pushed off the railing, not quite stumbling, but not steady either, heading back inside. You barely made it two steps before you felt him behind you—close, too close, his hands braced on the railing on either side of where you’d been standing, blocking the way like he had every right to.

“Move on somewhere,” you muttered. “I don’t need a babysitter.” You turned—quick, defensive, ready to bite out something sharp enough to drive him away.

A scoff slipped past his lips, quiet and almost amused—"You can't stay out here," Crowe said, his voice low but firm. He was already steering you away from the balcony railing. Eyes sweeping over you like he was checking for damage.

"I'm fine," you slurred, trying to pull away. Your body felt heavy and slow, not listening to you. "Just... leave me alone."

"Not a chance." His grip tightened just enough. "You're coming inside. Now."

You stumbled as he guided you through the house, your shoulder brushing his chest, your steps uneven on the hardwood. His grip on your wrist was steady—too steady for someone who was supposed to be over you.

“Why do you even care?” you muttered, twisting weakly against his grip. Your voice felt thick—too heavy, too full of things you didn’t want to name.

“After all… I’m the one who left. Ghosted you…”

Crowe froze.

The air between you clenched tight, like someone had pulled a wire straight through the center of the room. For a second he went completely still—no breath, no words, nothing.

Then a sound slipped out of him. A laugh, if you could even call it that. Short. Dry. Scraped raw at the edges. He turned just enough for the light to catch his face—soft shadows, sharp angles, something tired hiding under all of it.

His eyes met yours, and the look there made your ribs lock up. “…Trust me,” he said, voice low enough to sink right under your skin, “I hate that I do.”

The words hit harder than they should have, brushing down your spine like a cold fingertip. But underneath the anger—underneath the bitterness—you saw it. That old pull. That thing both of you kept pretending wasn’t there.

He exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself against you. Like being this close to you cost him something. “Come on,” he murmured, tone flat but soft enough, “You need help.”

You should’ve pulled away.

You should’ve snapped back, stayed distant, stayed safe—just like you had months ago when you ghosted him and told yourself it was for the best. But the alcohol blurred your thoughts, and every protest you tried to form slipped apart before it reached your lips. Your body felt heavy. Your limbs wouldn’t listen.

And Crowe, damn him… he understood that.

He didn’t stop until he reached the end of the hallway. His hand left your arm just long enough to shove open a door you recognized far too well.

His room. Your stomach dipped.

“Inside,” he murmured, and the sound of his voice felt like a hand closing around your ribs, tight and possessive. He was probably just getting you somewhere quiet to sober up, but the intimacy of it sent a dizzying jolt through you.

Then—whoa.

The scene inside hit you both at the same time, a physical blow that sucked the air right out of the hallway. There, in the dim glow of his bedside lamp, tangled in the middle of his rumpled comforter, was Geo, making out with one of your friends from the group.

For a wild second, you and Crowe were frozen in identical, off-guard shock. Then, a hysterical laugh bubbled up in your chest. Of all the rooms in this house, Geo had picked Crowe's. The sheer, stupid audacity of it was almost funny.

You bit your lip hard, trying to stifle the giggle that threatened to escape. Your brain stuttered, a mix of cold shock and that weird, distant voice chanting, “Holy shit, he moves fast.”

But your choked-off laugh was nothing compared to the rage that broke in Crowe. His initial shock ignited into outright, blistering fury.

“Oh, what the hell, you two?" he snarled, his voice pure, undiluted fire. He took a step into the room, his frame blocking the doorway. “Are you two fucking on my bed? Get off! Get the hell off right now!”

The two sprang apart like they’d been electrocuted, their faces a perfect picture of wide-eyed, guilty panic. “H-Hey, my bad…” Geo leads off as your friend waves at you.

But Crowe was already done.

The sight seemed to have flipped a switch in him. He turned on his heel, his face a mask of cold, hard stone, and his hand clamped back around your arm, “Let's go. I'm taking you home," he stated, already pulling you back down the hall.

"What? No!" You dug your heels into the carpet, the protest slurred but vehement. "I'm not going with you! I can stay here!"

He didn't even slow down. “Fuck,” he spat out, the word sharp with a frustration you knew was only partly meant for you. “I can’t believe I’m saying this—Geo, you’re in charge of this mess. Clean up. And go fuck somewhere else.”

Crowe snatched his leather jacket from a hook by the door and his keys from a bowl on the console. He practically pushed you out the front door, the cool night air hitting your face as he slammed it shut behind you both.

He didn’t say a thing as he steered you off the porch, in the driveway, toward the parked sleek black car. He unlocked it with a key fob and pulled the passenger door open just for you, “Get in.”

You planted your feet, arms crossed tight even though your balance wavered. “No,” you slurred stubbornly. It came out softer than you meant.

Crowe let out a breath—slow, controlled, the kind of exhale someone uses when they’re talking themselves down from saying something they’ll regret. His jaw flexed once before he looked you dead in the eyes.

“You really want to stay here?” he said. “Like this?” His voice didn’t rise. He gestured toward the house, toward the dim, pulsing lights and the muffled roar of the party.

“You can barely stand. Your so-called ‘friends’ are too drunk to notice you’re gone. And you think anyone in there is going to take you home?” His tone sharpened, “Most of them don’t even know your real name.”

Your chest tightened. Crowe stepped closer—not looming, not threatening—just close enough that you could smell the clean warmth of his cologne, feel the steadiness radiating off him in contrast to the chaos you’d stumbled out of.

“And if someone decides to take advantage of it?” His voice dropped, rougher now. “You think I’m letting that happen? Not after everything.” He shook his head once, like the thought alone pissed him off.

“I’m the only one here who actually gives a damn what happens to you tonight.”

The fight didn’t just drain out of you—it bled out slow, like something leaking through cracks you’d spent months pretending didn’t exist. Your arms uncrossed on their own, fingers loosening as if they were tired of holding up the attitude you didn’t actually feel.

You looked at Crowe for a moment. Like really looked.

And the sight of him—jaw tight, eyebrows drawn, holding the door open like he was bracing himself for you to bolt—hit you somewhere low in the chest. He wasn’t angry, not really. He looked… exhausted. Worried. Frustrated in a way that wasn’t about pride, but about you.

And that was the worst part.

Because you didn’t know what to do with someone who cared even after you’d given them every reason not to.

Your mouth went dry. Your heartbeat thumped unevenly, too loud. Part of you wanted to snap back, to say something cutting, something that would shove him away again.

But instead you felt that messy tangle inside you—the guilt, the alcohol, the loneliness, the stupid missing-him ache you tried to bury under noise and neon. It all happening at once.

And before you could talk yourself out of it, you slid into the passenger seat. The leather was cool, grounding you in a way you didn’t want to admit you needed. The door shut behind you with a quiet, heavy sound.

The interior felt different than you remembered. Tiny lights stitched across the ceiling, glowing in soft constellations. It took you a second to process it. It was so Crowe; a whole fake sky in a car. A whole universe you weren’t sure you deserved to sit under.

You swallowed hard, annoyed by the sting in your chest. The seatbelt clicked louder than it should’ve, echoing in the quiet.

Outside, Crowe closed your door gently—not slamming, not frustrated. Just… careful. He circled the car, muttering under his breath, something like a plea to any cosmic force listening to grant him patience.

When he slid into the driver’s seat, he didn’t even look at you at first. Just turned the key, jaw tight, fingers steady. The engine thrummed to life, filling the silence you refused to break.

City lights streaked past the windows as he pulled out of the driveway, painting your reflection in flashes of blue and gold that made you look softer than you felt.

Crowe cleared his throat quietly. “As you know Geo horny ass in charge of the party now,” he said, tone clipped and efficient, like he was delivering a mission report instead of talking to someone with half a bottle of liquor in their veins. “I texted him. Told him you weren’t feeling great.”

You didn’t bother pretending to care.

You breathed out a soft, unimpressed noise, your head tipping against the door, sunglasses still perched low on your nose like you were clinging to the last bit of swagger you had left. But Crowe kept talking, probably because he knew if you stopped paying attention, you’d jump out of the moving car just to spite him. “He probably won’t see it until he’s busy making out with your ‘friend.’”

Your eyebrows twitched upward. “…Mm.”

He huffed—barely, but you heard it. “You’ll thank me in the morning,” he continued, tightening his grip on the wheel. “When they don’t post about you blacking out in public. Again.”

That got you. Your mouth ticked upward, slow and wicked, a smirk curling like smoke. “Wow,” you drawled, voice thick but sharp, “so organized. Guess no matter how emo you pretend to be, you’ll always be the pathetic gentleman I met in spring.”

His jaw flexed—beautifully, irritatingly—like he had to physically hold his retort in place. His knuckles whitened against the steering wheel. “I’m not the one who’s drunk,” he said, each word carved with restraint.

You turned your head toward him, just a fraction, letting your gaze drag over him with lazy, mocking appreciation. “Mm,” you hummed, voice soft but laced with a sting, “give it time.”

Crowe’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something—wanted to argue—but didn’t. He just stared straight ahead, jaw set, pretending the glowing traffic lights painting gold and red across his face were suddenly very interesting.

How dare he ignore you. You narrowed your eyes at the window reflection, then muttered under your breath, “Bitch.”

His hands tightened instantly on the steering wheel. A long inhale. Then a measured exhale—like he was counting to ten in his head. “...What?”

You didn’t look at him. “I said bitch.”

Crowe blinked once. Twice. “How—how does that make me a bitch?”

“Oh, I dunno,” you drawled, slouching further into the seat. “Maybe the way you’re acting like a responsible adult. Maybe the way you’re kidnapping me like I’m some kind of drunk idiot.” You gestured vaguely at the windshield. “Which, by the way, rude. I was vibing.”

He gave a humorless little laugh under his breath. “Vibing? You were about two minutes away from face-planting into a speaker.”

“Oh, so now you care about my face?” you fired back, mock-offended. “You never cared about my face before.”

Crowe side-eyed you, that you cannot be serious look flickering in his expression. “What are you even talking about?”

You ignored the question entirely, instead mumbling, “Blah blah blah, ‘I’m Ichabod, I’m so mature, look at me saving people, being a gentleman, wearing my tragic little coat like a sad poet—’”

His knuckles went white on the wheel. “Are you mocking me right now?”

You gasped dramatically. “Mocking? No, no, no, I’m honoring you.” You waved a hand, nearly smacking the dashboard. “You’re like—what’s that word? Oh yeah. Tragic chic. Like if self-loathing had a skincare routine.”

That one earned you a slow turn of his head, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth—equal parts disbelief and exasperation. “You’re so unbelievable.”

“And you’re still driving,” you said sweetly and for some reason proudly, “which means I win.”

Crowe huffed, shaking his head, muttering something under his breath about how he should’ve left you to your own drunk devices. He kept his eyes on the road, shoulders tense but posture controlled, like someone trying too hard not to feel something.

You felt it anyway.

The suffocating mix of liquor, mistakes, and the ghost of his touch. It made your fingers twitch. Made your chest feel too small for your breath. Made you crave something—anything—that wasn’t thinking about him.

So you rolled the window down.

Just pressed the button and let the cold 1 AM air crash into the car like a wave. Crowe jerked his head toward you instantly.

“Wait—” Too late.

You stuck your head out into the night.

Wind whipped through your hair, sharp and freezing, slicing across your cheeks. The city tasted like metal and freedom and everything you shouldn’t want. Lights streaked past in long, wild smears. Your pulse raced, your breath catching on a laugh that sounded too close to a sob.

It felt good—too good.

A kind of freedom you only ever let yourself grasp when you were drunk, hurting, and desperate not to think. The guilt inside you seemed to tear out of your chest and scatter into the night as the wind carved across your skin.

Crowe swore—actually swore—under his breath, something sharp and panicked. His hand shot out, gripping your thigh hard enough to ground you, to pull you back into your body.

“Hey—hey. Sit back,” he snapped, voice low and strained. “You’re gonna fall out of the damn car.”

But it wasn’t anger. It was fear. Real fear. The kind you’d never heard from him before. The kind that tightened around your heart.You laughed shakily, hair whipping around your face. “Relax. I’m fine.”

Crowe’s grip tightened. His brows furrowed, his jaw flexing like he was holding back about six different emotions at once.

“Seriously,” he muttered, eyes flicking between you and the road, “you’re going to get yourself killed. Get back inside.”

“Why?” you challenged, voice carried off by the wind. “Why do you care now?”

Something flickered across his expression—hurt, frustration, something raw. “Because you terrify me,” he said under his breath, like it slipped out by accident.

You froze. Just long enough for him to pull you gently—firmly—back inside. He rolled the window up before you could try something else reckless. The wind died instantly, replaced by the warm, humming cocoon of the music again. Your breathing was uneven, your pulse skittering under your skin.

Crowe kept his hand on your thigh.

“You don’t get to fall apart like that,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the road but voice shaking at the edges. “Not while I’m here.”

You leaned back with a little hum, annoyed—until you noticed him signaling right. The car rolled into a grocery store parking lot, pulling into the farthest, emptiest corner.

You squinted. “Wait. Why are we stopping? You planning to murder me? Because that’s fine, just don’t touch my hair.”

Crowe killed the engine and turned to face you, eyes tired but gleaming with restrained amusement. “No...” He sighed, “I’m not going to murder you,” he said dryly. “I’m getting you water before you start lecturing me again.”

You smiled, lazy and wicked. “Oh, so now you admit I’m right.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should’ve known picking you up was a mistake.”

“And yet,” you said smugly, leaning your head against the window again, “you still did. Gentleman.”

He sighed, grabbed his wallet, and got out of the car—muttering as he shut the door, “Never again. Not doing this again.”

You just grinned at your reflection, whispering to yourself, “He totally will.”

Crowe came back a few minutes later.

He opened your door first and the cold night air spilled into the car, rushing past your legs. Crowe’s silhouette leaned in only long enough to set something down between you: a cold bottle of water… and a small paper bag that smelled faintly of something salty, warm, and annoyingly comforting.

He placed his hands on the steering wheel for a beat before finally breaking the silence. “Drink,” he said simply.

You stared at him for a few seconds, “No.”

Crowe didn’t flinch. He just reached for the bottle, unscrewed the cap with slow, maddening patience, and held it out to you. “Drink,” he repeated, voice low—not angry, just stubborn in that quiet way that always made you want to bite him.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I don’t want to reek of fast food. I have a reputation.”

“Your reputation won’t matter if you puke in my car,” he countered without hesitation.

You scoffed. “Wow. So caring. So romantic.”

“Drink,” he said again.

You rolled your eyes, you took a few sips, each one making your head feel a little less like it was floating off your body.

“Good,” he murmured, quietly satisfied in that infuriating way of his.

Then he nudged the paper bag toward you. “Eat some.”

You recoiled like he’d offered you poison. “Absolutely not. I’m not smelling like grease and cheap guilt when I walk into my house.”

His jaw clenched, but he kept his tone careful, even. “You don’t have to finish it. Just a few bites.”

“Why?” You frowned.

Crowe finally looked at you then—really looked at you. His expression softened in that familiar. That way that made your stomach twist and your chest feel too tight.

“Because,” he said quietly, “you’ll feel better. And I’m not taking you home just so your stomach can punish you in the morning.”

You stared at him, stunned for half a second by his sincerity… then glanced away quickly, “…Fine,” you mumbled, grabbing the bag with dramatic reluctance. You took the smallest bite known to humankind. “There. Happy?”

He exhaled through his nose, a tiny huff that almost sounded like laughter. “Ecstatic.” You could hear the weight of his restraint, the lecture he was biting back. It was worse than if he had shouted.

Crowe raked both hands down his face, a low, exhausted groan slipping out like he’d been fighting it for miles. His jaw flexed, profile carved in cold blue glow from the dashboard, shadows hugging the sharp lines of him. “You are… such a damn handful,” he muttered into the ceiling, voice frayed at the edges. “Unbelievably impossible.”

You blinked slowly, head tipped just enough to watch him. “…You die or something?”

He didn’t even flinch. “One can hope.”

A slow, wicked smile tugged at your lips. “I could help with that.”

His exhale was a humorless laugh. “Not surprised.”

Then the silence returned. Great.

You twisted the cap off the water. The plastic popped like a gunshot. You took a sip, cold and sharp, doing nothing to cool the heat pulsing under your skin. “You know,” you said softly, voice sliding into the empty space he left, “for someone who claims he’s fed up with me, you sure put in the effort.”

His fingers tightened on the wheel again. “Effort,” he echoed, the word hollow, almost bitter.

“Mhm.” You let your head roll against the window, turning just enough to see him. “You could’ve let me pass out on some sticky couch. You could’ve left me to—what was it? ‘My terrible decisions’?” You huffed a laugh. “But here you are. Chauffeur, babysitter… knight in a very dented, very sarcastic armor. So why?”

His grip turned brutal, kuckles turning white. Tendons standing out beneath his skin. “Drop it.”

“No.” You pushed upright, spine straightening, the leather seat shifting beneath you. The alcohol haze was fading, leaving you too honest, too clear. Just aching.

You wanted to crack him open.

You wanted the truth he buried beneath the calm.

“Seriously, Ichabod. Why? Is it guilt? Pity? Your hero complex? Or is it something else? Something you won’t admit because it scares the hell out of you?”

His head snapped toward you then, and the car felt smaller, darker. His eyes—burning under that washed-out blue—were too alive for the silence he kept. “You’re drunk,” he said, low, rough, almost pleading. “You won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”

“And you’re a coward.” You didn’t raise your voice; you didn’t need to. “You hide behind that stone-cold act because it’s easier than saying what you actually feel.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. A dangerous look in his stare—anger, yes, but something softer hidden beneath it. Something he hated showing. “You don’t get to lecture me about truth,” he said, voice tight, cracking at the edges. “You—who lies to yourself more than anyone. You who’d rather burn every bridge than admit you want someone to stay.”

Your breath stuttered. But you held his gaze anyway.

“Then give me one real reason,” you challenged, leaning in, eyes locked on his. “One honest reason you came for me. Why you didn’t leave. Why you care.”

His lips parted. His chest rose. You saw the confession forming—felt it, like a shiver in the air.

But alas, nothing came out.

You let your voice drop to a whisper, “…Alright, bet.” The silence in the car had become a wall, and you were done politely knocking. Since he refused to talk, fine.

You would make the words come out of him another way.

With a slowness that made his eyes widen, your thumb found the seatbelt release. The sharp click echoed in the quiet, leather-scented space. You moved before his brain could catch up to his instincts, in one fluid, daring motion that ignored the awkward barrier of the center console.

You didn't ask for permission.

You simply claimed the territory, climbing into his lap and straddling him in the driver's seat. The world shrunk to the feel of his tense, thick thighs beneath you, the heat of his body searing through your clothes. The steering wheel dug into your back, a minor, forgotten discomfort.

Crowe froze completely.

His hands, which had been resting on his knees, flew up into the air as if burned, hovering, utterly lost. "What the hell are you doing?" he breathed, his voice a strained, ragged whisper. All his cool control had shattered, leaving only raw, stunned shock in its wake.

“Making you talk,” you murmured, your lips a breath away from his. You brought your hands up to rest on the solid wall of his shoulders, feeling the rigid, corded tension there—a physical testament to the war he was waging against himself.

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. You felt the sharp intake of his breath, the fine tremor that ran through him. Then, you let the very tip of your tongue trace the careful curve, following it with a soft, gentle bite on his earlobe.

He shuddered, a full-body tremor he had no hope of suppressing.

"You can lie with your words, Jericho," you whispered, using his name like a carefully sharpened blade, slicing through his defenses. "But you can't lie with this."

To emphasize the point, you shifted your hips, a slow, grinding roll against the growing hardness you felt beneath you.

A choked, guttural sound escaped his throat, part agony, part ecstasy. His hovering hands finally came down, gripping your hips hard—not to push you away, but to hold you in place, to anchor himself against the tidal wave of sensation.

"Stop," he gritted out, but the word was a broken plea, devoid of any command. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

"Why?" you purred, leaning back just enough to see the beautiful torment on his face—the flared nostrils, the parted lips, the vein throbbing at his temple. It was the most honest thing you'd seen from him all night.

You shifted against him, the movement a slow, press of your body that made his breath catch. Your fingers came up, feather-light, to trace the shape of his mouth. His lips were plush, a stark contrast to the hard line of his jaw, and they parted slightly under your touch—a silent, involuntary plea.

You leaned in, so close that your breath fanned over his skin, the space between your mouths a mere phantom of a kiss.

You hovered there, a breath away from contact, letting him feel the heat, the promise, the absolute denial. You watched the rush gather in his deep blue eyes, the conflict between the need to close the distance and the pride that held him back.

A soft, pained sound escaped him.

Then, a smile—not of joy, but of pure, aching torment—touched his lips as he looked up at you. It was a look that shattered you; he was completely at your mercy, and he hated how much he loved it.

"Does this bother you?" you whispered, your lips brushing his with the ghost of a touch as you formed the words. "Or does it bother you how much you want it to bother you?"

You didn't wait for an answer.

You lowered your head, nuzzling into the strong column of his throat. You inhaled deeply, committing the scent of him to memory—clean smoke, expensive cologne, and the pure, essential musk of Crowe.

It was the scent of your addiction.

Your lips traced a hot, wet path along his jaw before finding the frantic, jumping pulse at the base of his neck. You licked a slow, salty stripe there, feeling the powerful jolt that racked his entire frame. Then you sealed your mouth over the spot and bit down, not enough to break the skin, but enough to brand him, to mark him as yours in this moment.

A sharp, ragged gasp was torn from his lungs. His fingers dug into your hips with a bruising pressure, his head falling back against the headrest with a dull, final thud.

You felt the shiver he tried so hard to suppress, heard the way his breath turned ragged and uneven. He was a bowstring pulled taut, fighting a war against his own desire.

“You’re a different type of demon,” he muttered, the words a raw, hushed confession, as if giving you a name would make his surrender complete.

A slow, wicked smile curved your lips against the heated skin you had just marked. You lifted your head, your fingers rising to frame his jaw, forcing his tormented gaze to meet yours.

“Then speak,” you whispered, your breath mingling with his, stealing the very air he was trying to breathe.

And God, he almost did.

You saw the truth poised on his tongue, the war in his eyes that he was on the verge of losing. “Talk,” you murmured, the word a soft command against his skin. “Tell me why you came for me.”

His head dropped back, a white flag of surrender. You felt the fine tremor that rippled through him, a current of pure, fraying control. “Don’t…” he whispered, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard against the confession. “Don’t make me—”

“Say it,” you breathed. Your fingers slid into the dark silk of his hair, your nails grazing his scalp with just enough pressure to make him inhale, sharp and ragged. It was a touch that was both a comfort and a threat. “You owe me that much.”

His hands found your hips again, his grip tightening almost desperately. It wasn’t to push you away, but to anchor himself, his fingers digging into the fabric of your clothes as if you were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he rasped, his voice stripped down to its foundations.

You tilted your head, your lips brushing the frantic pulse at the hollow of his throat. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Another tremor ran through him—deeper, harsher, pulled straight from somewhere he never let anyone touch. Crowe exhaled, broken on the edges. And then his voice—low, scraped raw, vibrating with months of swallowed resentment:

“Because I can’t watch you do it anymore.”

Your spine straightened, breath catching. “Watch me do what?” you asked, but the question came out soft, careful.

His fingers tightened into your hips, dragging your bodies closer without meaning to. His forehead pressed to yours, and for a moment he looked wrecked—truly wrecked.

“Destroy yourself,” he whispered. “Pretend you don’t feel anything. Pretend you don’t give a damn.”

His breath ghosted across your lips as he went on, voice trembling with a truth he clearly hated giving you.

“You think I don’t see you? Every time you laugh, it’s too loud. Too bright. You walk into a room and it’s like the whole place starts orbiting you. And then you pretend it’s all just—noise. You pretend nothing touches you.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “But I’m not stupid. I see the cracks.”

You froze, chest tight. But Crowe wasn’t done.

“I come get you because no one else will,” he murmured. “Because your friends? They don’t give a shit about you. They convince you to chase the worst decisions. And you follow them—straight into another bottle, another blackout, another night you won’t remember.”

You opened your mouth, ready to defend yourself—ready to throw something sharp back at him.

But he cut you off. “And don’t,” he warned, tone sharpened to a knife. “Because you know I’m right.” His jaw clenched. “You’re getting addicted to the scene. To the parties. To the high. All of it.”

Your pulse spiked.

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, expression tight and pained. “Believe me when I say—once that shit gets its hands on you, you know. You feel it in your bones.” He shook his head. “I know what it does to people like you.”

“People like me?” you echoed, offended and unsteady.

Crowe’s voice dropped, dark and aching. “You’ve got your heart on your sleeve like you’ve never been loved.”

The words hit too close.

He looked away, lids lowering, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. “And then you let him touch you like he—” He cut himself off, rage flashing across his features, then simmering into something quieter and much, much worse. “Forget it.”

Your breath hitched. He's talking about Sol.

The last person Crowe wanted to see you with. The person your friends swore was “better,” “chill,” “less complicated.”

Crowe’s voice dropped into a hoarse whisper, “To see him, at my party, touching your waist like he owned you. You laughing like you were over it—over us.” His jaw tightened. “And maybe you were.”

Your stomach twisted. “We weren’t dating,” you forced out. “We were just… friends.”

He laughed—a hollow, disbelieving sound. “Friends don’t kiss like we did,” he said. “Friends don’t touch the way you touched me.” His fingers drifted up your ribs—accusing, remembering. “And friends sure as hell don’t look at each other the way you looked at me that spring.”

You felt your breath tremble.

“But you listened to them, didn’t you?” he went on. “Your little entourage whispering that I wasn’t right for you. That I was too much. Too intense.” His eyes darkened, anger simmering beneath the heartbreak. “And you believed them.”

You didn’t speak, because you couldn’t.

He wasn’t wrong.

He took your silence for the confession it was, and a dark, bitter understanding flashed in his deep blue eyes. “They told you to try something ‘easy,’ didn’t they?” he accused, his voice a low thrum of fury.

“Something fun. Something temporary.” His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking with the effort of his control. “So you did.” He closed the distance, his body caging you in, and his lips brushed your cheek—not a kiss, but a ghost of contact that felt like a brand, a searing accusation that left your skin burning.

“And while you were busy playing ‘carefree’ with Sol,” he murmured, the name a venomous curse in the scant space between your mouths, “You know, days before this, I was lying awake, trying to figure out if you ever meant a single thing you did with me.” His breath was hot against your skin. “Or if I was just convenient. A practice run before you go for something easier.”

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye, his gaze a turbulent, heartbreaking blue.

“You moved on,” he stated, his voice softening into something devastating. “But… I couldn’t.”

Your lips parted, a useless gasp for air that felt like shards of glass in your lungs.

“I’m still in love with you,” he said, and his voice cracked wide open on the admission, laying him bare. “I was the stupid one. I fell first. I fell the hardest. And I can’t seem to fucking let you go, no matter how many times you run from me.”

Your heart stuttered, a frantic, painful beat against your ribs. His hands slid back down to your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin with a tremor that felt like a contained earthquake.

“And the worst part?” he whispered, the sound raw and broken. “You run like I never mattered. Like the way I touched you, the way you came apart for me… like it was all nothing.”

You swallowed, your throat burning, “Jericho…”

“No.” His voice sharpened, cutting you off. The pain in his eyes hardened into a furious, desperate demand.

“What the hell were we?”

The question was a low growl, furious and pleading all at once. “Don’t you dare give me some safe, bullshit answer.”

Your breath shuddered out of you, your own control fraying.

“Tell me we weren’t just friends,” he demanded, the pain bleeding into every syllable, pinning you in place. The words were hot and sharp, impossible to escape. “Look at me and tell me that was just friendship.”

You blinked, the world swimming. Your voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible. “This doesn’t make much sense, fuck.”

He exhaled, a harsh, broken sound that seemed to shatter something fundamental in the both of you. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” he said, his voice quiet and ruined. “Because whatever that was between us—it sure as hell wasn’t nothing.”

His deep blue gaze locked onto yours, holding you captive, “And it’s driving me insane.” coming closer to you,

“Wait—“ You started.

He really didn’t want to hear, so he closed the infinitesimal distance. His mouth was a revelation. There was no gentle descent. It was a collision. His mouth crashed into yours with a fury that tasted like confession and rage.

This was not a kiss of reconciliation; it was a desperate, angry clash of teeth and tongue, as if he could rewrite the past and punish you for it all at once.

You had forgotten.

God, you had forgotten how he kissed—like he was mapping the taste of you, like he was trying to drink you down and memorize the flavor forever.

You could never kiss silently. A broken, desperate sound—a sharp, muffled mhm—was torn from your throat, swallowed instantly by his hungry mouth. His hands were everywhere, a frantic mapping of a territory he still claimed as his.

One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back to give him deeper access, while the other slid from your waist down to your hip, his grip bruising-tight.

He moved you then, a rough, careful grind of your hips against his that made you cry out against his lips. It was an answer and a question, a raw demonstration of the tension that had always coiled between you.

He broke the kiss, his breath a ragged gust against your wet lips, his forehead resting against yours as his blue eyes, filled with need, locked onto yours.

"Hands," he rasped, his voice shredded.

He didn't ask; he guided. His own calloused palm slid from your hip, up your ribcage, and covered your chest, cupping you through the fabric of your dress with a possessiveness that made you shudder.

You were drowning, lost in the familiar scent of his skin and the punishing grip of his hands. Your own fingers fumbled against his shirt, a desperate, instinctual search for the heat beneath, a silent plea for the connection you kept fracturing.

But the reality of it—the dizzying spin of the world, the suffocating intensity of a want that felt more like self-destruction—crashed down on you.

It was a cage of your own making.

With a gasp, you wrenched your mouth from his, shoving hard against the solid wall of his chest. "Wait—" you choked out, your lungs searing, your lips bruised and throbbing.

But Crowe wasn't playing this game anymore.

The second you tried to retreat, a low, animal sound ripped from his throat. His arms, like steel bands, locked around you and hauled you back into the cradle of his hips before you could even process the separation.

The look on his face wasn't one of anger, but something far more dangerous: a raw, starving need that stripped him bare and left you terrified. "Don't," he breathed, the word a venomous plea. His eyes were wild, desperate.

He physically needed more, and he was done asking.

You felt his hand slide from your back, his fingers skimming down to slip under the hem of your dress. The touch of his calloused skin against your bare thigh was an electric shock, a promise of ruin.

"Wait—" you tried again, the protest a weak gasp against his beautifully ruined lips. His chest was heaving against yours, his entire body a tremor of restraint. "I’m drunk, we can’t-" You pulled back, trying to find some clarity, some leverage.

But his grip only tightened, his eyes snapping open to meet yours. And in their dark, blue depths, there was no sympathy, only a chilling, sober clarity.

He let out a short, derisive breath, his voice a steady, degrading whisper that cut through every one of your excuses.

“I know it takes a lot more than jungle juice to get you fucked up, starlight.”

The old endearment was a weapon in his mouth, laced with contempt. The cold, knowing certainty in his tone—the absolute refusal to let you hide behind this particular lie—sent a jolt of pure, shameful heat straight through you, a traitorous wetness against the thigh you were straddling.

This was a funeral for the "friends" you used to be, and Crowe was here to bury the corpse himself.

Fuck.

You were so utterly, completely fucked, and you knew it the moment the car door slammed shut, sealing you in this velvet-lined tomb.

You already knew what he was going to do to you. You’d seen this version of him only once before—a fleeting, chilling glimpse when someone had foolishly tried to pull your attention away from him back when he still a gentleman.

That had been a warning.

This—the cold fury in his eyes, the silent, efficient way he’d pushed you into the backseat—was the main event. Crowe was at his most terrifying when he was mad, and right now, he was incandescent with a quiet, world-ending rage.

Your back was pressed against the cool, dark blue leather, the scent of it filling your senses. He was on his knees on the floor of the car, the passenger seat shoved forward to give him room. He moved with a predatory grace that stole the air from your lungs, a panther in a cage he had built himself.

It didn't matter how many excuses you tried to form in your head.

What if someone sees?

Crowe didn’t give a single fuck.

No—that wasn't right. He did care. He was a careful planner, a strategist to his core. The car’s windows had an illegal 5% tint, plunging you into near-total privacy. He’d chosen this spot with a criminal’s precision—a grocery store parking lot at night, far from the glow of a streetlight.

Or his favorite: a rest stop off the highway, where the constant, anonymous traffic and people sleeping in their own cars granted you the perfect, unspoken privacy.

His hands, which could be so devastatingly gentle, were now instruments of his intent. He’d already stripped you of your defenses. The lace panties were gone, a dark scrap of fabric discarded on the floor. Your leather jacket followed, leaving you in just the mini black dress, which he now pushed up your thighs, bunching the fabric around your waist. The cool air hit your damp skin, and you shuddered.

He didn't speak. He just looked, his deep blue eyes drinking in the sight of your wetness, glistening for him in the dim, celestial light from the star-lined ceiling. A low, approving sound rumbled in his chest. He held your legs open wide, his grip firm and unyielding.

When you tried to squirm, a feeble attempt at reclaiming some control, you only succeeded in slapping your own wetness against his chin—a lewd, accidental offering that made his eyes darken with pure, unadulterated hunger.

He lowered his head, and you expected his mouth there. Instead, he licked a hot, slow, careful stripe up your stomach, making your muscles clench violently. It was a tease, a torment. He was mapping his territory, re-familiarizing himself with every inch. He pushed the dress up further, over your head, and removed your matching lace bra, leaving you completely bare and shivering under his burning gaze.

He leaned in, capturing one nipple in his mouth, kissing, then biting down just enough to make you cry out, the sharp pleasure-pain radiating straight to your core. One large hand palmed your ass, holding you steady, lifting you into his mouth as he worshipped and punished your other breast with his tongue.

Then his mouth was on yours, a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of your skin and his desperation. He ground his hips against you, the rough denim of his jeans a brutal friction against your inner thigh, making sure you felt the hard, thick length of him, a blatant promise of what was to come.

“You think you can act like that,” he breathed against your lips, his voice a ragged, husky thing that was more felt than heard, “put on that pretty little show for everyone, play your clever little games, and think there wouldn’t be a bill to pay?”

He pulled back just enough for his eyes to drill into yours, the blue in them almost swallowed by black. “This,” he whispered, his thumb stroking your jaw in a mockery of a caress, “is you making up for it. This is the only apology I’ll ever accept from that lying mouth.”

You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him he was insane, that he didn't own you—

However, Crowe moved first.

In one fluid motion, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it aside. The soft light of the star-lit car ceiling glinted off the silver black of the necklaces resting against his toned chest.

Your eyes, heavy with a mix of fury and want, dragged over the familiar landscape of his body. As your hand lifted, almost against your will, to trace the lines of his abdomen, he caught your wrist.

He didn’t push it away. Instead, he brought your palm to his lips and pressed a slow, searing kiss to the center, his eyes locked on yours.

The tenderness was a shock, a single, devastating moment of affection that made your heart stutter. Then his other hand came up, his grip shifting. His fingers circled your throat, not to choke, but to hold you perfectly, terrifyingly still.

“Shhh,” he cooed, his voice deceptively soft. His thumb brushed your bottom lip. “That clever tongue of yours has caused enough trouble tonight.” Then, his fingers were across your lips, pressing gently. “Open.”

Confusion and heat warred within you, but you obeyed, parting your lips. He slipped two fingers into your mouth. “Suck,” he commanded, his gaze unwavering.

You did, your tongue swirling around his digits, the act inherently lewd and submissive. A low groan rumbled in his chest. He watched, mesmerized, before slowly withdrawing his glistening fingers.

He chose that exact moment to slide one long, thick finger deep inside you, and the words died in your throat, transforming into a choked, broken moan that was pure surrender. Your head fell back against the leather, your back arching off the seat.

A dark, satisfied smirk touched his lips. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his voice dripping with a venomous kind of triumph.

“Your mouth finally has a better use than lying to me.” He added a second finger, stretching you with a delicious burn, his thumb circling that perfect, sensitive spot with ruthless precision. “Now, be a good starlight and show me how sorry you really are.”

Just as the pleasure began to coil tight in your belly, he shifted. He lowered his head between your thighs, his hot breath a promise against your soaked skin. He didn’t start gently. He gave one long, flat, tasting lick from your entrance to your clit, as if sampling a fine wine. A guttural sound of approval escaped him.

Then he devoured you.

He ate you out like he kissed you—with a consuming, desperate fury that was all possession and no patience.

He stopped only to look up at you, his chin glistening, his eyes wild. "So perfect," he growled, the praise a shocking contrast to his brutality. He dove back in, his tongue a relentless, clever weapon, licking and fucking into you until you were sobbing, your hands fisting in his hair.

He pulled away just enough to speak, his lips brushing your throbbing clit with each word. “I love the way you taste,” he snarled, the confession feral and raw.

“It makes me insane. It’s mine.” He drove his tongue inside you again, deep, before adding, his voice a dark, possessive vow against your skin, “And just so you know, starlight… if someone else tries to touch you, all you’ll feel is my ghost. All you’ll remember is this.”

Your eyes fluttering shut, your back arching off the seat. Soft, broken moans fell from your lips with every slick, driving stroke. He held your hips pinned, his grip unyielding, as he tasted you with a focused, desperate hunger.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice thick and muffled against you. “Let me hear you. Let me hear how much you missed this.” He alternated between broad, flat licks that made your whole body jolt and sharp, precise flicks that had you gasping his name.

“You’re so fucking wet for me. Tell me, was it ever like this with him? Did you ever come apart for someone else just from their tongue?”

You couldn’t form a sentence, your mind dissolving into pure sensation. The pressure was building, coiling deep in your core, a tight, shimmering knot about to snap. You were right there, teetering on the edge, your breaths coming in ragged pants. “I’m… I’m gonna—”

Suddenly, he stopped.

The loss of contact was a physical shock, a cruel deprivation that wrenched a desperate whimper from your throat. He lifted his head, his lips glistening, his deep blue eyes blazing with a mix of fury and heartbreaking pain.

“No,” he said, his voice low and absolute. “You don’t get to come. Not yet.”

You stared at him, dazed and aching, your body throbbing with denied release.

“You don’t deserve it,” he continued, his thumb stroking a maddeningly gentle circle on your inner thigh. “Not until you answer me. What were we?” The question was a soft, brutal weapon. “Look at me, right now, in this fucking car where I can still taste you on my lips, and tell me we were just friends.”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. The truth was a lump in your throat, too immense and terrifying to voice. The look in his eyes, shattered hope, stole your breath. He watched you struggle for a long, painful moment. Then a shadow crossed his face. “Fine.”

He moved you both. Noe he sat back in the back seat and maneuvered you until you were straddling his lap, facing him. His hands clamped onto your hips, his gaze holding yours captive.

“You want to cum?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Then do it yourself. Show me how much you need it. Need me.”

He guided your hand down, forcing your own fingers to touch yourself, right there in front of him. The intimacy of the act, under his intense, watchful eyes, was more exposing than anything that had come before.

“Go on,” he commanded, his own hands rested heavily on your thighs, a tormenting weight that was a constant reminder of the touch he was so withholding.

“This is your punishment for every cold shoulder,” he continued, his gaze pinning you in place, “for every time you walked past me like I was a nobody. For every time you pretended what we had was nothing.” A cruel, beautiful smile touched his lips.

“You wanted ‘easy’? Then fuck yourself. But you don’t get my touch. Not a single finger. Not until you beg for it. Not until you look me in the eye and admit what you did.”

His eyes were dark, filled with conflicted emotion—anger, raw desire, and a profound, soul-deep hurt that made your chest ache. “You treated me like a stranger for months,” he whispered, the words laced with a pain that was more effective than any shout.

“Now, you’re going to remember exactly who I am. And who you are when you’re with me.”

With that final, devastating decree, Crowe leaned back into the plush leather of his seat, a king on a throne of his own anguish.

He was going to watch.

He was going to make you perform the very act of your own humiliation, and the worst part was the flicker of dark satisfaction in his eyes that told you he knew exactly what this was doing to you.

You froze on top of him, humiliation and a treacherous, coiling heat warring within you. The thought screamed in your mind: This is insane. He's punishing you. He hates you. But another, deeper, more honest part whispered: He's here. He's watching.

And you want to put on a show for him.

You wanted to cum so badly it was a physical ache, a tight, desperate throb between your legs that seemed to pulse in time with your frantic heartbeat. You needed his touch, the rough familiarity of his hands on your skin, but he had made it clear that was a prize you had to earn.

So, with a shuddering breath, you began to move.

You ground yourself down against the rough fabric of his jeans, the delicious friction a poor substitute for what you truly craved, but it was all he had given you—a tease, a punishment. A damp heat began to bloom through the denim, a shameful, visible testament to your arousal.

You shifted, seeking a better angle, and a sharp, electric jolt shot through you as you found it—the hard, unyielding muscle of his thigh pressing exactly where you needed it. “Ah- fuck,” you gasped, your head falling back as your tempo faltered for a second.

“That’s it,” Crowe’s voice cut through the haze, low and razor-sharp. “Look at you. My pretty little mess.”

The words should have stung, but they only fanned the flames. You found that perfect spot again, the pressure just right, and your hips stuttered, abandoning any pretense of control for a faster, more desperate tempo. Each frantic grind pulled a punched-out, guttural sound from your throat. “Shit… Right there…”

“Right where?” he demanded, his tone dripping with dark amusement. His eyes, dark and predatory, held yours captive. “Use your words, starlight. Tell me what you’re doing on my thigh.”

Your thoughts fragmented, dissolving into a single, burning mantra focused only on the hard muscle beneath you and the man who owned it.

He's seeing this.

He's seeing how wet you are for him, even now.

He sees how much you need him.

It was the most vulnerable you had ever been, completely at his mercy, and the power he held over you in that moment was more intoxicating than any touch.

Crowe’s hands, which had been resting with deceptive laziness on the seats, snapped to your hips. His grip was iron, taking complete control, guiding the frantic, circular motion of your body. “I didn’t say you could slow down,” he said, his voice a low, unimpressed rumble that vibrated through your very core. “And I don’t hear you talking. Speak.”

A sharp, stinging slap landed on your ass, the sound cracking through the car’s intimate space. The pain was a bright, shocking bloom that instantly morphed into a deeper, throbbing heat, making you cry out and grind down on him harder, your body betraying every last one of your defenses.

“I’m—” you gasped, the words torn from you, filthy and true. “I’m using your thigh to get off because I’m just a desperate, fucking mess for you. I’m your messy, wet little thing, and I can’t think about anything but rubbing myself raw on you until I come.”

The words hung in the air, vulgar and degrading.

For a single, suspended second, Crowe looked almost shocked, his pupils swallowing the deep blue of his irises entirely. Then, ahee shook his head, a slow, careful motion, his jaw tightening. The dark amusement was gone, replaced by something harder, more demanding.

“No,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You don’t get to talk about yourself like that. Not when you’re mine.” His grip on your hips tightened, stopping your movements entirely, holding you perfectly still. “You will apologize. Right now. For every fucking degrading word that just came out of your mouth.”

You were losing yourself, drowning in the raw sensation of him—the rough texture of his jeans against your sensitive skin, the formidable strength of his thighs holding you captive.

It was too much, a dizzying whirlpool of physical need and profound regret that threatened to pull you under. Your cheeks burned with a heat that had little to do with shame and everything to do with the devastating reality of being back in his arms.

“I-I’m sorry,” you finally moaned, the words less of a sentence and more of a surrender. Your hands flew to his, your fingers desperately threading through his.

It was a plea disguised as an apology.

His grip only tightened, his fingers lacing with yours in a way that was both intimate and imprisoning, forcing your hips to maintain their relentless, shameful tempo. “Sorry for what?” he prompted, even as he watched you come apart above him.

“For ghosting you,” you choked out, “For being a coward. I shouldn’t have listened to them. I shouldn’t have… Fuck, I shouldn’t even be friends with them at all.”

The parties felt hollow, the laughter empty.

Every time you were with them, a part of you was just waiting for the moment to be over, because it was a moment you weren’t spending with him.

You paused, sucking in a ragged breath as tears of pure overwhelm and soul-deep regret pricked at your eyes. “I regret losing you. I miss you so much it feels like a physical ache.” The confession was torn from a place inside you that had been silent and starving for months.

“It wasn’t… it wasn’t just the makeouts and shit, Jericho. I miss you. I miss when we would just hang out, when we’d end up tangled on your bed for hours, just talking. I miss how you’d drop anything to help me with my stupid problems, your voice all calm and sure. I miss the guy I met in the spring, the one who looked at me like I hung the stars.”

You were babbling now, the most vulnerable, human parts of you spilling out alongside the physical ecstasy. “And I feel so responsible,” you wept, the words tumbling out in a breathless, honest rush.

“I see you now, all in black, this harder, sharper version of you… and God, Jericho, you have to know.” You ground down against him, your body speaking the truth your voice was struggling to convey. “It’s not just ‘not bad.’ You’re… breathtaking. The way you carry yourself now, all this quiet, controlled power… it makes my head spin. You were always beautiful, but this? This is lethal.”

A fresh, desperate sob escaped you, tangled with a moan. “And it kills me because I know I’m the one who pushed you into this fire. I know I fucked up your life. I made you change.” But the confession was now layered with a shocking, shameful awe.

You loved the result even as you hated the cause.

The memory of the softer man from spring was precious, but the man holding you now—the one forged in the pain you’d caused—was the one who made you feel truly, utterly consumed.

The raw admission, laid bare amidst the carnage and the relentless friction, sent you spiraling higher, so close to the edge you could barely breathe.

You braced yourself for a cruel remark, a searing "I told you so," a reminder of your own foolishness for admitting you adored the very armor he’d built against you.

But instead, you were met with a deafening, profound silence. Forcing your bleary, tear-filled eyes to focus on his face, you found it.

Crowe was just… looking at you.

All the harsh lines of anger and mockery had melted away, leaving behind a man utterly disarmed, his expression one of stunned, heartbreaking vulnerability.

The mask was gone, and all that remained was the truth you’d just poured at his feet, reflected back at you in his deep blue eyes, all that was left was the man who had loved you, perhaps who still did.

He saw the tears tracking through the warmth on your cheeks, heard the sincerity in your trembling voice. His thumbs, which had been digging into your hips, gently stroked the skin there, a silent, soothing apology for his harshness.

A soft, almost pained sound left his lips. “Starlight…” he whispered.

That was when the final thread of your control snapped. A short, sharp gasp escaped you as you began to ride him faster, your eyes rolling back as you lost yourself to the sensation.

The slick sound of your movements against his thigh filled the car, a sinful testament to your need. “I’m close...” you choked out, your hands landing on the solid rock of his biceps to steady yourself.

But it was his touch that sent you over the edge.

His hands, which had been guiding your hips, suddenly shifted. He gripped the hem of your dress and in one fluid, decisive motion, pulled it up and over your head, tossing it aside into the dark.

The cool air hit your heated skin just as his mouth found the upper swell of your breast. His tongue licked a hot, wet stripe, and then his lips closed over your sensitive skin, sucking gently.

The dual sensation—the rough friction below and the intimate, claiming suction above—was your undoing. A broken cry was torn from your throat as you came, your body seizing up, pleasure short-circuiting your every sense.

“I’m cumming! cum-cumming, oh fuck!” You babbled, a raw, unfiltered stream of consciousness—thanking him, praising him, confessing your love over and over as you painted his thigh with your release, your orgasm wetter and more intense than any you could remember.

You collapsed forward against his chest, spent and trembling, hiding your tear-streaked face in the warmth of his neck as the last aftershocks trembled through you.

For a long moment, he just held you, his hands gently rubbing your back in slow, soothing circles. The only sound was your ragged, slowing breaths mingling in the quiet car. When he finally spoke, his voice was hushed, stripped of all its earlier edge. It was just a gentle whisper against your ear.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You could only nod weakly against his shoulder, utterly consumed.

He shifted, pulling back just enough to cup your face, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear from your cheek. The soft, almost gentlemanly smile he gave you was your undoing. It was the Crowe from spring, the one you thought you’d lost forever.

Then, his eyes darkened, but not with anger. With a possessive, smoldering heat that promised ruin.

"Good," he murmured, his voice dropping to a sinful, promising whisper. "Because that was just your reward for being honest. Now..." He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in the ghost of a kiss. "...I'm going to fuck the shit out of you for making me wait."

Your eyes widened in shock, the tender aftercare making the crude, passionate promise all the more jarring. “What—“

He didn’t let you finish your words. The apology, the confession—it was all just noise now, fuel for the fire.

His hands were already at his belt, the swift, efficient clink of the buckle and the rasp of his zipper cutting through the charged air. In moments, he was freed, thick and heavy in his own hand, the sight making your mouth water.

He lifted you with a single, powerful motion, his grip bruising on your hips as he positioned you at his tip, the head pressing against your slick, desperate heat.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a dark rasp. “Look at me when you take me.”

You obeyed, your eyes locked on his gaze as you sank down onto him in one slow, devastating slide. A broken, airless gasp was torn from your lungs as he filled you, stretching you exquisitely. “Croweeee—” you moaned, the name a prayer and a curse.

“Jericho,” he corrected, his voice a low, possessive growl against your ear. His hands tightened on your ass. “My name is Jericho. And you will scream it before I’m through with you.”

Then he began to move you, his hands guiding your hips, setting a brutal, perfect pace. The slick, obscene sounds of your joining filled the car, a filthy movement accompanied by the creak of leather and your own ragged, chanting moans. “So good, shit… You feel so deep, Jericho…”

You were convinced any passerby would know exactly what was happening from the violent, rocking of the vehicle. His hands migrated, gripping your ass hard, lifting you and slamming you down to meet his punishing upward thrusts, over and over, as if he were trying to brand himself inside you.

“Shit… slow down, would you?” he grunted, his head thrown back, the corded muscles of his throat straining. A dark, pleased smirk touched his lips. “So fucking desperate for it. So hungry. I knew it. I knew you’d come apart like this… that no one else could ever ruin you for me.”

But you were beyond listening, beyond thought.

You were a creature of pure, base sensation, owned and operated by the man beneath you. Every nerve ending was on fire, every sense consumed by him.

When your legs finally gave out, you collapsed against his chest, fully impaled, your head resting on his shoulder as you tried to remember how to breathe.

But your body wasn't done.

A low, needy whine escaped you as you began to grind your hips in slow, deep circles, rubbing your oversensitive clit against his pelvis, your own slick coating his lower stomach in a glistening testament to your complete surrender.

Crowe’s control was a thin, fraying veil. His hands returned to your hips, his touch a steady, commanding presence. He delivered a sharp, stinging spank to your ass, the surprise making you jerk and clench violently around him, drawing a guttural, pained groan from his chest.

“Mine,” he snarled, his voice raw with a possessiveness that bordered on madness. “This tight, perfect little cunt is mine. It always has been. It always will be. Do you understand?”

He sighed, a ragged, shattered sound, as he felt the telltale fluttering and clenching that signaled your second orgasm was near. His arms became iron bands around your waist, crushing you against him as he pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the pounding pulse in your neck, his teeth scraping the skin.

“So good for me, starlight,” he breathed, his voice thick with dark, reverent praise. “But I’m not satisfied yet. I’m not even close. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t remember your own name now, until the only word left in that pretty head is mine.”

“Huh?—ah! Fuuuck-!”

Your half-formed thought was shattered as he took over completely. With a guttural, animalistic groan, his hands—those hands you’d missed so terribly—maneuvered you with a terrifying, effortless strength.

He lifted you slightly, pushing you back against the passenger seat until one of your arms was braced on the center console, your legs forced wide open around his hips. He was buried so deep inside you it stole the air from your lungs, and then he began to move, pistoning his hips upward with a ravenous, frantic pace that was pure, unadulterated need.

Your hands scrambled for purchase, finding the hard, sweat-slicked planes of his lower abdomen, and his own hand clamped over yours, pinning your touch to his skin.

The sound was obscene—the harsh, constant slap of skin against skin, a brutal tempo that drowned out your choked, sobbing chants of his name. "Jericho... Jericho..." It was a muffled, broken prayer you gasped directly into the heated skin of his shoulder, your teeth grazing the muscle there.

The car was a sealed, humid universe, its windows completely fogged into a pearlescent white, shutting out the world until nothing existed but the slick pounding of his body claiming yours.

He was chasing his release now, finally, gloriously, surrendering the last shred of his legendary control, and he was doing it deep inside you, marking you with a possessiveness that felt more permanent than any vow.

He had been so rough, so relentlessly thorough, that you’d lost count of how many times your body had convulsed around his cock.

Your head lolled back, a weak, helpless motion, but his hand was instantly there, his fingers tangling in your hair and forcing your gaze back to his.

"Look at me," he growled, his voice graveled with strain. "You look at me when I fuck you." And you did, your vision spotting, your eyes drowning in the stormy blue intensity of his as he moved within you.

When your hands flew to your own chest, nails digging into your sensitive skin as you sought some small relief from the sensory overload, one of his large hands enveloped both of yours, pinning them above your head, his fingers lacing through yours in a binding grip.

“So good for me,” he rasped, his hips pistoning; each thrust was a careful, claiming stroke. “So perfect. My perfect, filthy starlight. You’re gonna take every last drop, aren’t you? Gonna let me fill you up until it’s all you can feel tomorrow.”

You could only moan, a delirious, broken sound of agreement.

The praise, so dark and possessive, seared into your fractured mind. He leaned forward, the muscles in his arms cording with the effort, and captured your mouth in a messy, desperate kiss, his tongue plunging deep, mimicking the devastating below.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, a litany of pleas tumbling from your swollen lips. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, please, please, please…” you begged, even as your oversensitive body trembled and clenched, threatening to shatter again.

“I won’t…” He pulled back just enough, his gaze locking with your cock-drunk eyes, the intensity there both terrifying and utterly thrilling. “Promise me something,” he demanded, his voice low and deadly serious, never breaking his movement.

“Promise you’ll unfriend every last one of them. That you’ll live a better life. With me. Only with me.”

Thought was an impossible luxury.

You just answer, "I-I will." There was no room for it in the universe he had reduced you to—a universe composed solely of the slick, pounding rhythm of his body claiming yours.

Your legs trembled violently, no longer able to support their own weight, your inner thighs glistening and sticky with the undeniable evidence of your arousal.

You were a sobbing, twitching, unraveled mess beneath him, a canvas of pure sensation. In stark contrast, he was an pillar of control, his skin barely sheened with a fine sweat, his breathing measured even as he moved with the force of a storm.

“What’s wrong, starlight?” he murmured, his voice a low, taunting caress that ghosted over your heated skin. His hands gripped your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he angled his hips and drove into you with a precision that made white light flash behind your eyelids. “Can’t take any more of me?”

You couldn’t form his name, your voice broken into a strangled, guttural cry. You could only nod, a frantic, desperate bob of your head, even as you begged for your own destruction. “I can,” you sobbed, the words slurred and thick, “Keep going, please. Anything. I’ll do anything, just… please, I need you.”

He leaned over you, his torso blanketing yours, swallowing you in his heat and scent. His thrusts changed, becoming deeper, slower, each careful, grinding push calculated to wring every last shudder from your core, making your toes curl and your breath hitch in a ragged, broken symphony.

“You know,” he whispered, his lips a ghost against yours, his eyes heavy-lidded, “We could do this all night. I could keep you pinned here, full of my cock ‘til the sun’s up, just to remind you what galaxy you orbit.”

“Please?” you begged.

A low, chiding rumble vibrated in his chest. “Don’t ask for things you can’t handle, Starlight,” he scolded softly, though the supernova in his own eyes betrayed his hunger.

“I don’t think your constellation could survive the burn.” He grunted, his voice thick with the strain of holding back a universe, as he drove into you with a renewed, brutal purpose that stole the air from your lungs and scattered your thoughts like stardust.

“We’re the same gravity now,” he breathed, his voice a raw, cosmic truth. “The same collapsing star.”

You didn't echo the words; you felt them.

Your body became the affirmation, arching into his, a silent, perfect alignment of two celestial bodies finally surrendering to their shared orbit.

He stilled for a breathtaking moment, buried to the hilt inside you, his body trembling with the effort of his control. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath a hot, ragged solar wind against your lips.

“Can I find my sky in you?” he asked, the question shockingly reverent, a stark, gentlemanly contrast to the utterly primal act of his body fused to yours.

Your response was a high, keening whine, a frantic, jerky nod, your inner walls fluttering and clenching around him like a nebula collapsing in helpless, eager anticipation.

He took it as the permission he so desperately needed.

His arms locked around you like event horizons, crushing you to his chest as he finally, with a deep, shuddering groan that seemed to tear from the very core of his being, let his universe go.

You felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release flood you, a supernova blooming deep within, a cataclysm so profound and intimate it catapulted you over the edge one last, shattering time.

Your own broken cry was the birth-scream of a new star, muffled against the sweat-slicked skin of his neck as your light fused with his.

writing this part is fucking killing me, ahh so corny…

He held you through the violent, wracking tremors, your shared afterglow a new, quiet constellation forming in the dark. His body went heavy and limp atop you, his breathing a ragged in your ear.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your shared, heavy breaths fogging the intimate, starlit dark of the car. The world had narrowed to this single, perfect point of completion.

Then, Crowe moved beneath you, and you could feel the change in him before you even heard it—the tension of a lifetime seemed to have melted from his muscles, replaced by a warmth that radiated through his skin. A low, contented rumble vibrated in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated happiness.

After all—

He had just gotten through worshipping the star of his life.

“Okay,” he murmured, voice thick, warm, almost boyish in its giddiness. One of his hands curled around the back of your head, fingers combing tenderly through your hair as if he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this now.

“Alright, first thing— we go back to my place.” He glanced at his phone, swipe quick, eager, buzzing with the kind of excitement he never tried to show anyone else.

“Hopefully, Geo finally kicked everyone out like I told him, and handle your little... issue," he continued, muttering to himself. "I’ll clean you up, put you in my bed, keep you with me for the night—hell, the whole weekend if you let me. Would you like that, starlight?”

He was beaming, already building a future in the space of a single minute, his plans tumbling out in a joyful, possessive stream.

But you…

You couldn’t even lift your head.

The release had left you boneless and drifting, your forehead resting heavily against the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the frantic, happy beat of his heart.

His hand paused mid-stroke in your hair. “Hey,” he murmured softly, concern threading into his tone. “Talk to me.”

And you did.

You didn’t lift your head. You didn’t give him time to prepare.

You just breathed the words against his skin, fragile and raw and real: “I love you so much… Jericho.”

Everything inside him went still at once.

The phone slipped from his hand into the seat beside him without a sound. You felt the sharp intake of his breath, a silent, shuddering gasp as if his lungs had forgotten how to work.

The relief that flooded his system was a physical thing—you could feel the last vestige of doubt and pain dissolve from his body, leaving him weightless.

He gently cupped your cheek, urging you to look at him. His deep blue eyes were wide, shimmering with an awe so profound it stole your breath all over again. He looked at you as if you had just handed him the entire universe. “You…” His voice cracked before he could finish.

He swallowed. Tried again.

“I love you too, starlight,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead that felt like a vow, a seal on the confession you had both finally laid bare. And maybe the cruelest part—maybe the most beautiful—was that for the first time in years, both of you heard it clearly:

The word friends had never been big enough for what you were. What you had been. What you’d become. Some people are friends like two planets drifting in the same sky.

You and Crowe were friends like two stars destined to crash.

And tonight, finally, you stopped pretending otherwise.

The walk from the car to Crowe’s front door was a blur of cool night air and the steady, sure rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear. You were barely conscious, curled securely against his chest, your body humming with a pleasant exhaustion.

Your panties were back on, filled with the warm, slick evidence of his claim, and you were blissfully asleep, swallowed by the soft, familiar scent of his oversized hoodie. He shouldered the front door open, and a profound silence greeted you.

The house was dark, still, and—most notably—completely empty. The chaotic energy of the party had been utterly erased, leaving behind only the ghost of spilled drinks and the faint, clean scent of lemon-scented cleaner. The only light came from the living room, where Geo was stretched out on the couch as if he owned it, idly scrolling through his phone.

He didn’t look up immediately, letting Crowe take a few steps into the unnervingly clean foyer. “Took you long enough,” Geo said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “I was starting to think you’d eloped.”

Finally, he glanced over, and a slow, wicked grin spread across his face at the sight: you, passed out and peaceful in Crowe's arms, and Crowe himself, who was practically radiating a prideful, possessive happiness that was entirely new.

“Well, well,” Geo teased, setting his phone down. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or, more accurately, look who finally managed to drag his favorite star back home.”

Crowe, who would have normally snarled or thrown a punch, simply adjusted his grip on you, a soft, unshakeable smile playing on his lips. “Shut up, Geo.”

“I take it the ‘rescue mission’ was a success?” Geo prodded, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Crowe’s gaze dropped to your sleeping face, his expression softening into something so raw and tender it was almost private. He looked back at Geo, the happiness in his eyes undeniable. “Something like that.” He didn’t ask if Geo had gotten rid of everyone.

The sterile emptiness of the house was answer enough.

Instead, he asked, “Any trouble?”

Geo’s grin turned sharp, a flash of white in the dim room. “Nah. No trouble at all. Had a perfect time getting rid of the… friends. One by one.” Geo started, “Gave ‘em a little speech about overstaying their welcome. They were very understanding.” He paused, his eyes glinting with a dark amusement.

"You mean you made out or flirting with each one?" Crowe looks at him, dumbfounded it a little bit disgusted.

“Let’s just say you won’t be seeing them again. Consider the slate wiped clean. Gives you a clear opportunity to introduce your star here to our group properly. Permanently.”

The way he said it—so casual, yet so final—sent a faint, inexplicable chill through the air. He wasn't just talking about asking people to leave.

He was insinuating something far more permanent.

Crowe didn’t flinch. He just held you a little tighter, his own smile not fading but shifting into something colder, more aligned with the man in black he had become.

“Good job,” was all he said, the single word laden with a grim satisfaction.

Geo nodded, standing up and stretching. “I’ll see myself out. You’ve got a star to tuck in.” He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He looked back, his expression unreadable. “Oh, and Jericho?” His voice was calm.

Crowe looks back, looking at Geo, "Yeah?"

“Welcome back.”

The door shut with a click that echoed far too loudly in the pristine silence. Crowe stood there for a long moment, the weight of the empty house pressing in around him. Every trace of the past—every messy, loud, unnecessary presence—was gone.

Only you remained. Only you mattered.

He exhaled slowly, his nose brushing your temple, voice a whisper meant for you alone. “Let’s get you cleaned up, starlight.” Then he carried you down the hall toward his bedroom—his steps steady, careful, claiming—not with force, but with intention.

The party was over. The so called frineds were gone, out of your life. Every loose end had been tied, tightened, cut.

And for the first time in months, possibly years, Jericho Crowe felt like the future was exactly where he wanted it:

In his arms. Against his chest. Sleeping in his hoodie. His to protect. His to keep. His to love. No more running. No more hiding.

No more pretending to be just friends.

♤ — 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉