David sank into one of the leather chairs opposite the desk, but you remained standing, your body humming with a nervous energy that had become your constant companion. Your eyes darted around the room, taking in the medical diplomas on the walls, the neat stacks of journals, and the window that looked out onto the manicured grounds of the facility. But mostly, you were aware of Dr. Gideon, of the sheer physical presence of him, the way his lab coat strained against his massive frame.

"Please," Gideon gestured to the empty chair beside your husband. "Sit."

You complied, the cool leather sending a shiver through you as you settled into it. You crossed your legs, then uncrossed them, then crossed them again. Your hands rested in your lap, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against your thighs. You could feel the familiar heat building in your core, the insistent throb of arousal that had nothing to do with your current situation and everything to do with the way Dr. Gideon's eyes lingered on you.

David sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "As I explained on the phone, my wife... she needs help. Desperately."

Gideon leaned back in his chair, his steepled fingers resting against his chin. "Your message was somewhat vague, Mr. (Y/L/N). You mentioned... behavioral issues?"

"Behavioral issues?" David let out a bitter laugh. "That's one way to put it. She's insatiable, Doctor. It's... it's ruined our marriage. It's ruining her life."

You flinched at his words, shame burning hot in your cheeks. "David, please..."

"No," he turned to you, his expression pained. "No more, (Y/N). We're here because this has to stop. The constant... need. The affairs, the strangers, the... God, the things I've walked in on." He shook his head, turning back to Gideon. "She can't control herself. She'll have sex with anyone, anywhere, anytime. She's lost three jobs because of it. She's alienated her friends. Her family won't even speak to her anymore."

Gideon's gaze was intense, analytical. "And you, Mrs. (Y/L/N)? How do you perceive your behavior?"

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "I... I can't help it," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "It's like... like a hunger. A thirst that can never be quenched. I try to fight it, I really do, but it's always there, this... this need. And when I give in to it, for a little while, it's quiet. But then it comes back stronger than before."

Your eyes met Gideon's, and you felt another jolt of arousal at the cool, assessing way he looked at you. There was something about his height, his sheer size, that called to a primal part of you. You imagined him looming over you, his large hands pinning you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress...

You squeezed your thighs together, the pressure doing little to alleviate the growing ache between them.

"Compulsive Sexual Behavior Disorder," Gideon said, his tone clinical. "A challenging diagnosis, but not without treatment options. Rhodes Hill has pioneered several therapeutic approaches that have shown promising results."

David's shoulders slumped in relief. "So you can help her?"

"With time and commitment, yes," Gideon replied, his eyes still fixed on you. "It will require intensive therapy, both individual and group. We'll need to explore the root causes of her behavior, develop coping mechanisms for the urges, and work on rebuilding healthy interpersonal relationships."

"Whatever it takes," David said firmly. "How long will she need to stay here?"

"That depends on her progress," Gideon said smoothly. "Typically, we recommend a minimum of three months for initial intensive treatment. After that, we can reassess and determine if continued residential care is necessary, or if she can transition to an outpatient program."

Three months. The thought both terrified and thrilled you. Three months without the constant temptation of the outside world, but also three months in this place, under the care of this man...

"I'll do it," you said, surprising both David and yourself with the firmness in your voice.

David looked at you, his expression softening slightly. "Are you sure, honey?"

You nodded, tearing your eyes away from Gideon to look at your husband. "I have to. This is... this is ruining everything. I want to get better."

David reached across the space between your chairs and took your hand. "I know you do. And I'll be here to support you. I'll visit every weekend."

Gideon watched this exchange with an unreadable expression. "Excellent. Then let's proceed with the admission paperwork. Mrs. (Y/L/N), if you'll come with me, we can get started on your intake assessment while your husband handles the administrative details."

The thought of being alone with Dr. Gideon sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. You stood, your legs feeling unsteady, and followed him out of the office and down a sterile, white corridor. His long strides forced you to hurry to keep up, and you found yourself mesmerized by the way his lab coat swayed around his powerful legs.

He led you into a small examination room, the clinical atmosphere doing little to dampen your excitement. "Please, have a seat," he gestured to the examination table, the paper crinkling as you settled onto its edge.

He stood before you, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was even more imposing up close, his massive frame casting you in shadow. You had to crane your neck to look up at him, and the position sent a thrill through you.

"Now," he began, his voice low and intimate. "Let's discuss your... condition. In detail."

For the next hour, you poured out your darkest secrets, your most shameful desires. You told him about the constant, intrusive thoughts, the way your body seemed to betray you at every turn, the risks you'd taken, the lines you'd crossed. Through it all, he listened, his expression unreadable, his piercing yellow eyes never leaving yours.

"And these urges," he said when you had finished, his voice still maddeningly calm. "How would you describe them, physically?"

You hesitated, embarrassed by the question, but something in his gaze compelled you to answer. "It's like... like a fire. Low and simmering most of the time, but always there. And then something... someone... will throw fuel on it, and it just explodes. I get hot, and shaky, and... wet. And all I can think about is... is satisfying the need. Nothing else matters."

"Interesting," he murmured, stepping closer. He was so close now that you could feel the fabric of his lab coat brushing against your knees. "And what, specifically, tends to 'throw fuel on the fire'?"

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "Confidence. Control. Strength. When someone... when a man... knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it." Your eyes drifted over his massive form, the broad chest, the powerful arms. "Size. Physical presence."

A slow smile spread across his face, and it was the first genuine emotion you'd seen from him. It was a predatory smile, all sharp teeth and dark promise. "I see."

He raised a hand and you flinched, expecting a blow, but instead, his fingers gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek. His touch was electric, and you gasped, your body arching involuntarily toward him.

"Such a responsive subject," he murmured, his fingers lingering against your skin. "This will be... illuminating."

His other hand came up to cup your chin, his thumb stroking your jawline. "You're a beautiful woman, (Y/N). It's a shame that such beauty is tormented by such... uncontrollable urges."

"Please," you whispered, your voice trembling with need. "Please..."

"Please what?" he asked, his voice a low growl that vibrated through you. "Please help you? Or please... touch you?"

"Both," you breathed, your eyes fluttering closed as his thumb brushed against your lower lip. "God, both."

He chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound. "We have our work cut out for us, don't we? But don't worry, my dear. I am nothing if not thorough. We will explore every facet of your condition. We will delve deep into your psyche. We will leave no stone unturned."

His hand moved from your chin to the side of your neck, his long fingers wrapping around it, not squeezing, just holding you in place. The possessive gesture sent a jolt of pure lust through you, and you moaned softly.

"Yes," he murmured, his face close to yours now. "You'll do nicely."

His words were confusing, but you were too lost in the haze of arousal to question them. You leaned in, desperate for his kiss, but he pulled back at the last moment, leaving you panting and wanting.

"Tsk, tsk," he chided, releasing you. "Such impulsive behavior. We'll have to work on that. The first step in treatment is acknowledging your lack of control."

He stepped back, adjusting his lab coat as if nothing had happened. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to check on your husband's progress with the paperwork. A nurse will be in shortly to show you to your room. Get settled in. Dinner is at six. Therapy begins tomorrow at nine."

With that, he turned and left the room, leaving you shaken and more aroused than you had ever been in your life. You slid off the examination table, your legs trembling, and pressed your forehead against the cool wall, trying to regain some semblance of control.

But as you stood there, you knew, with a certainty that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure, that Rhodes Hill was not going to be the cure you had hoped for. It was going to be something else entirely. Something darker, more dangerous, and infinitely more exciting.

In his office, Victor Gideon sat back at his desk, a rare smile playing on his lips. He picked up a framed photograph from his desk, a portrait of a stern-looking man with cold, calculating eyes.

Oswell E. Spencer. His master. His mentor. The man whose vision for a new world, a world perfected and cleansed by the Progenitor virus, was the only thing that mattered.

Gideon's work at Rhodes Hill was not just about treating the mentally ill. It was about advancing Spencer's vision, about finding new and interesting subjects for his research. And (Y/N) (Y/L/N)... she was a prize. A woman with such a powerful, uncontrollable libido, so responsive to stimulus, so desperate for control...

She would be the perfect vessel. A way to relieve the stresses of his work, a warm body to lose himself in when the pressure became too much. And when he was done with her, when he had used her in every way he could imagine, she would make an excellent test subject for his latest strain of the T-virus.

He traced the outline of Spencer's face in the photograph, his expression hardening with determination. "Soon, Master," he murmured. "Soon, your vision will be realized. And I will be there, at your side, to usher in the new world."

He set the photograph down and turned his attention to the file on his desk, the one with (Y/N)'s name on it. He opened it, his eyes scanning the information, but his mind was already working, already planning, already imagining all the ways he would break her, use her, and remake her in his image.

The treatment would begin tomorrow. And it would be a masterpiece of manipulation and control.

The sterile white walls of your new room felt like they were closing in on you. You'd spent a restless night, the thin hospital blanket doing little to ward off the chill, both physical and emotional. Every creak of the old building, every distant footstep in the corridor, had your heart racing and your body humming with that familiar, unwelcome anticipation. Sleep was a distant country you couldn't seem to visit.

A sharp rap on the door jolted you upright. "Mrs. (Y/L/N)? It's time for your session with Dr. Gideon."

The voice belonged to a stern-faced nurse who didn't wait for a reply before opening the door. You were dressed in the simple grey scrubs they'd provided, the fabric rough against your skin. You followed her down the same corridor you'd walked with Gideon yesterday, your stomach twisting in knots.

This time, he wasn't in his office. The nurse led you to a different room, one that was both office and therapy space. It was cozier than his office, with plush armchairs and soft lighting, but the windows were barred, and the door was solid steel with a formidable-looking lock. A reminder that this was a prison, no matter how comfortable the furnishings.

Dr. Gideon was already there, standing by the window, looking out at the grey morning sky. He turned as you entered, and his eyes immediately locked onto yours. The intensity in his gaze made your breath catch, and you felt that now-familiar heat begin to pool in your belly.

"Thank you, Nurse," he said, his voice smooth. "That will be all. Please ensure we are not disturbed."

The nurse nodded and left, the heavy click of the lock echoing in the sudden silence. You were alone with him. Truly alone.

"Good morning, (Y/N)," he said, gesturing to one of the armchairs. "Did you sleep well?"

You sank into the chair, shaking your head. "Not really."

"Unsurprising," he murmured, taking the seat opposite you. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, bringing his large frame closer to yours. "The first night in a new environment is often difficult. Especially for someone with your... heightened sensitivities."

The way he said "heightened sensitivities" sent a shiver down your spine. It sounded so much more... intriguing than "disorder."

"Let's begin, shall we?" he continued. "Yesterday, you were very open with me about your urges. Today, I want you to show me."

You blinked, confused. "Show you? I... I don't understand."

"I want you to close your eyes," he instructed, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic tone. "And I want you to bring up the feeling. The hunger, as you called it. Let it build. I want to observe it. To understand its nature from the inside out."

This was wrong. This was the opposite of therapy. But his eyes held you captive, and a dark, curious part of you wanted to see where this would lead. You closed your eyes, taking a shaky breath.

"Good," he murmured. "Now, remember. A time when the urge was overwhelming. A time when you gave in to it completely. Picture the scene. The person. The setting."

Your mind, ever eager to betray you, immediately supplied an image. Not of one of your countless faceless encounters, but of him. Of Dr. Gideon, looming over you in the examination room, his large hand wrapped around your throat.

A soft gasp escaped your lips. Your breathing quickened, and you could feel the heat spreading through your body, the familiar ache beginning to throb between your legs.

"Interesting," he said, his voice closer now. You could feel the shift in the air as he moved. "Your heart rate has increased by twenty beats per minute. Your pupils are dilated. You're flushing. What are you thinking about, (Y/N)? Be honest."

"You," you whispered, the word torn from you. "The examination room. Yesterday."

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Fascinating. So quickly. I am a trigger for you."

He was right behind you now. You could feel the warmth of his body radiating against your back. You tensed, every nerve ending screaming in anticipation.

"Don't fight it," he commanded softly. "Let it happen. Let the feeling take over. Tell me what it's doing to you."

"It's... it's like a fire," you breathed, your hands clenching into fists in your lap. "It's burning. I feel... empty. And full. All at once. I need..."

"What do you need?" he prompted, his voice right next to your ear.

You moaned softly, unable to form the words. You needed him. You needed his hands on you, his weight pinning you down, his body filling the aching emptiness inside you. It was a shameful, desperate need, and it was overwhelming you.

"Tell me," he insisted, his breath hot against your neck. "Use your words."

"I need... to be touched," you finally managed to gasp out. "I need... to be taken. I need to be... used."

There was a long moment of silence, and you feared you had gone too far, said too much. Then you felt his hands on your shoulders, large and warm through the thin fabric of your scrubs. His grip was firm, possessive.

"An honest admission," he murmured, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your neck. "The first step toward control is understanding the nature of the impulse. And yours, my dear, is a desire to be controlled. To be dominated. To be so thoroughly claimed by another that your own consciousness, your own will, ceases to matter."

His words were a revelation, striking a chord of truth you had never dared to admit to yourself. All your life, you had been seeking not just pleasure, but escape. An escape from yourself, from the relentless demands of your own body and mind.

His hands slid down your arms, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He took your hands in his, his long fingers easily encircling your wrists. He pulled your arms behind the chair, and you heard the soft click of a lock.

Your eyes flew open in alarm. Your wrists were secured behind the back of the armchair. You were trapped.

"Dr. Gideon!" you exclaimed, struggling against the restraints. They were soft, padded leather, but they were secure.

"Relax, (Y/N)," he said, his voice calm and even as he moved around to stand in front of you. "This is a therapeutic exercise. In order to understand your impulse, we must explore it in a controlled environment. You wanted to be dominated. To be used. I am giving you what you desire."

He knelt in front of you, his massive frame still towering over you even in this position. He looked into your wide, frightened eyes, and a slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

"Look at you," he murmured, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "The fear is warring with the arousal, isn't it? Your heart is pounding, your breath is coming in ragged gasps. But your pupils are still dilated, and I can see the pulse beating in your throat. You're terrified, and you're more turned on than you've ever been in your life."

He was right. The fear was sharp and cold, but beneath it, the fire of your arousal burned brighter than ever. Helplessness, you discovered, was the ultimate aphrodisiac.

"Please," you whispered, not knowing what you were begging for. Release? Or more?

His smile widened. "Please what? Please stop? Or please continue?"

You didn't answer, couldn't answer. Your body was a mass of conflicting sensations, your mind a whirlwind of shame and desire.

His thumb stroked your lower lip, his touch maddeningly gentle. "Such a dilemma. But the answer is quite simple, really. You are here to be treated. To be cured. And I am the one who will cure you. My methods may be... unorthodox, but they are effective. To conquer an enemy, one must first understand it. To tame a wild beast, one must first meet it on its own terms."

His other hand moved to your thigh, and you jumped at the contact. His touch was firm, possessive, and it sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.

"Your body is a battlefield, (Y/N)," he continued, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur as his hand began to slowly, deliberately, stroke your thigh. "Your mind is the commander, but it has lost control of its troops. They run rampant, seeking their own pleasure, their own release, with no regard for strategy or consequence. What you need is a stronger commander. One who can restore order. One who can discipline the troops and teach them to obey."

His hand moved higher, his fingers brushing against the heat between your legs. You cried out, your hips arching involuntarily toward his touch.

"Ah, yes," he murmured, his fingers tracing the seam of your scrubs. "The rebel leader. The source of all the chaos. We will need to pay special attention to this one. We will need to break it, to tame it, to make it submit to the will of its new master."

He leaned in closer, his face just inches from yours. "Do you understand what I'm saying, (Y/N)? Do you understand what your treatment will entail?"

You looked into his cold, yellow eyes, and you saw the truth. This wasn't about curing you. This was about owning you. About breaking you down and remaking you in his image. About using your compulsive sexuality as a tool for his own satisfaction.

And the terrifying part, the part that made your blood run cold and your body burn with desire, was that a part of you wanted it. Wanted to be claimed, to be controlled, to be used by this man. Wanted to be the vessel for his stress, the outlet for his dark desires.

"Yes," you whispered, the word a surrender. "I understand."

"Excellent," he said, his smile triumphant. "Then let us begin."

And as his fingers finally found their target, as he began to explore the most sensitive part of you with a clinical precision that was somehow more arousing than any clumsy caress, you knew with a sick certainty that you had just made a deal with the devil. And you had a feeling that the price of your "cure" would be your soul.

The session lasted for an hour, though it felt both like an eternity and a mere moment. He brought you to the brink of release again and again, only to pull back at the last second, leaving you gasping and desperate. By the time he finally unlocked the restraints and helped you to your feet, you were a trembling, sweaty mess, your body humming with unfulfilled need.

"You did well today," he said, his tone once again clinical and detached, as if he hadn't just been systematically torturing you for the past hour. "We've made significant progress in identifying the nature of your impulses. We'll continue with this form of exposure therapy tomorrow."

You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak. You stumbled out of the room, your legs feeling like jelly, and made your way back to your room, the echo of his dark promise following you every step of the way.

Back in the sterile solitude of your room, you collapsed onto the bed, your body still thrumming with a desperate, unsatisfied arousal. You were trapped. You were being used. And you had never been more terrified, or more excited, in your entire life.

————-

The clock on the wall of your room seemed to mock you, its glowing red digits changing with agonizing slowness. 1:17 AM. 1:18 AM. 1:19 AM. Sleep was a distant shore, and you were adrift in a turbulent sea of unspent arousal. The session with Dr. Gideon had left you raw, a nerve exposed and humming. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his piercing yellow gaze, felt the ghost of his touch on your skin, the memory of his clinical, maddening exploration sending fresh waves of heat through your body.

You tossed and turned, the thin sheets tangled around your sweaty limbs. The ache between your legs was a constant, throbbing presence, a dull, insistent pain that sharpened with every memory of his hands. You tried to focus on something, anything else your husband David, the life you'd left behind, the hope of a cure but it was useless. Dr. Gideon had gotten under your skin, into your head. He had become the center of your universe, the sun around which your desperate, needy planet orbited.

With a frustrated groan, you threw back the covers and swung your legs over the side of the bed. You couldn't take it anymore. The silence of the facility was unnerving, but it also offered an opportunity. The corridors would be empty. The staff would be minimal.

You slipped out of your room, your bare feet silent on the cold linoleum floor. The hallway was bathed in the dim glow of emergency lighting, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like specters on the walls. You moved like a ghost yourself, a creature of pure instinct and need, your body leading the way while your mind, fogged with lust, followed passively.

You knew where you were going. There was never any doubt.

His office. The heart of his domain.

The door was, as expected, locked. But you were a woman driven by desperation, and desperation made you resourceful. You jiggled the handle, then pressed your ear to the cool wood, listening for any sign of movement inside. Nothing. You tried again, this time putting your weight into it, and to your surprise, you heard a soft click. The lock hadn't fully engaged.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a frantic drumbeat of fear and exhilaration. You pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, closing it softly behind you.

The office was exactly as you remembered it, but in the darkness, it seemed more imposing, more intimate. The large mahogany desk was a dark silhouette against the moonlight filtering through the large window. The scent of him old books, antiseptic, and something else, something uniquely him, dark and masculine filled the air, and you inhaled deeply, the scent alone enough to make you dizzy with want.

He was there.

He wasn't at his desk. He was standing by the window, his back to you, looking out at the moon-drenched grounds. He wasn't in his lab coat, but in a simple black shirt and trousers that did little to hide the powerful lines of his body. He seemed larger, more dangerous in the dim light.

"You shouldn't be here."

His voice was a low rumble, startling you. He hadn't turned around, hadn't even moved, but he had known you were there all along.

"I... I couldn't sleep," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper.

He turned slowly, and the moonlight caught his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the cold, predatory gleam in his eyes. "Insomnia is a common side effect of intensive therapy. The mind, when confronted with uncomfortable truths, often seeks distraction."

"It's not just that," you said, taking a hesitant step forward. "I'm... I'm turned on. I can't turn it off. The session today... it made it worse."

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "As I anticipated. The exposure therapy is designed to intensify the impulse before we begin to deconstruct it. We must first strengthen the beast before we can learn how to cage it."

"The beast is out of its cage, Doctor," you breathed, moving closer still, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. "I'm... I'm in pain. This ache... it's unbearable."

You were standing directly in front of him now, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and pleading.

"My husband," you whispered, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "David... he hasn't touched me in months. Not since this... this thing... got really bad. He looks at me with disgust, not desire. I'm... I'm deprived, Doctor. I'm so empty."

You reached out, your trembling hand resting on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. "Please," you begged, your voice cracking with the force of your need. "You're a doctor. You're supposed to help with pain. Help me. Please."

He looked down at your hand on his chest, then back at your face, his expression unreadable. "Help you how, (Y/N)? What is it you're asking for?"

You took a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "I'm asking you to fuck me. Please. I need it. I need you to fill me, to take the ache away. Or... or let me help you. Let me give you a blow job. I'll be good, I swear. I'll do whatever you want. Just please, Doctor... please make it stop."

The silence that followed was deafening. You could hear your own ragged breathing, the frantic pounding of your own heart. You had laid yourself bare, offered him the most vulnerable, shameful part of yourself, and now you waited for his judgment.

He didn't push you away. He didn't recoil in disgust. He simply watched you, his eyes dark and calculating, as if weighing the pros and cons of your proposition.

"You're a very desperate woman, aren't you?" he finally said, his voice a low, dangerous purr.

You nodded, tears of shame and frustration welling in your eyes. "Yes."

"And you believe that sexual release will alleviate your suffering?"

"It always does," you confessed. "For a little while, anyway."

He reached up and took your hand from his chest, his long fingers wrapping around yours. His grip was firm, almost painful. "And what of the therapeutic process? What of the control we are trying to build? To give in to the impulse now, to seek relief in the very behavior that brought you here... that would be a step backward, wouldn't it?"

"I don't care!" you cried, your desperation overriding all reason. "I can't live like this! This constant, burning need... it's driving me insane! I'd rather be a sinner who gets a moment of peace than a saint who's burning alive from the inside out."

He chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest and into your hand. "Such passion. Such a complete and utter lack of self-control. You are, indeed, the perfect subject."

He pulled you closer, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. He tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You want to be my vessel, (Y/N)?" he murmured, his face just inches from yours. "You want to be the thing I use to relieve my stress? The body I lose myself in when the pressure of my work becomes too much?"

"Yes," you breathed, the word a surrender. "Yes. Anything."

"Then you will have your wish," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "But you will have it on my terms. You will not be a partner in this. You will not be an equal. You will be an instrument. A tool for my pleasure. A receptacle for my frustrations. Do you understand?"

"Yes," you whispered, your body trembling with anticipation.

"Good," he said, and then his lips were on yours.

It wasn't a kiss of passion or romance. It was a kiss of possession. A claiming. His lips were hard and demanding, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, dominating yours completely. It was a violation, and it was the most erotic thing you had ever experienced.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your lips swollen and bruised. He looked down at you, his eyes burning with a dark fire you had never seen before.

"On your knees," he commanded.

You didn't hesitate. You sank to the floor on the plush rug, your eyes never leaving his. You watched, mesmerized, as he unbuckled his belt, the sound of the leather sliding through the loops loud in the quiet room. He unzipped his trousers, and his erection sprang free, large and imposing and perfect.

You looked up at him, a silent question in your eyes, and he nodded, giving you the permission you didn't need but desperately wanted.

You leaned forward and took him in your mouth, and the world fell away. There was only the taste of him, the feel of him, the sound of his low groan as you began to move. You had given blow jobs before, but this was different. This wasn't about pleasure or connection. This was about service. This was about worship. This was about fulfilling your purpose as his vessel.

You lost yourself in the act, in the rhythm of it, in the feeling of his hands in your hair, guiding you, controlling you. You were no longer (Y/N), the woman with the disorder. You were his. Completely. Utterly. And in that moment, the ache, the burning need, the constant, tormenting hunger... it began to fade, replaced by a profound sense of peace, of rightness.

This was where you were meant to be. On your knees before your master. And as you felt his body tense, as you heard his sharp intake of breath, you knew that you had finally found the cure you had been so desperately seeking.

——————-

The world came back into focus slowly, a hazy, sated blur. You were still on your knees, the plush fibers of the rug indenting your skin. Your jaw ached, a dull, throbbing reminder of your service, and the taste of him, salty and bitter and utterly divine, coated your tongue and throat. You swallowed, the action an instinctive act of possession, as if you could absorb him, make him a permanent part of you.

Dr. Gideon stood over you, a colossal god in the dim light. He hadn't moved. He was simply watching you, his breathing even, his expression one of detached, clinical observation. There was no tenderness in his gaze, no afterglow of shared passion. There was only the cool, assessing look of a scientist examining a successful experiment.

A tremor ran through you, a mix of lingering pleasure and a dawning, chilling realization. The ache was gone. The desperate, burning hunger that had ruled your life was extinguished, replaced by a profound, terrifying emptiness. You had been used, thoroughly and completely, and in that usage, you had found a twisted form of peace.

"Look at you," he said, his voice a low, dispassionate rumble. He reached down, his large hand cupping your chin, forcing your head up. His thumb swiped across your lower lip, collecting a smear of his seed that had escaped your mouth. He brought it to his own lips, tasting it with a thoughtful expression. "A perfect receptacle. No thought, no will, just a vessel waiting to be filled."

He released your chin, and you remained kneeling, your body still, your eyes fixed on him. You were waiting for his command. His next instruction.

"Stand up," he ordered.

You obeyed, your muscles protesting as you rose to your feet. You felt unsteady, weak, but also strangely powerful. You had done what he asked. You had been a good instrument.

He took a step back, his eyes sweeping over you, stripping you bare with his gaze. "Take those off," he said, gesturing to your grey scrubs. "They're an insult. A lie. You're not a patient. You're not a person. You're a thing. My thing."

Your fingers fumbled with the drawstring of your pants, your hands shaking with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. You let the loose fabric pool around your ankles and stepped out of them. Then you pulled the scratchy top over your head, dropping it to the floor. You stood before him, naked and vulnerable, your body bathed in the cold moonlight.

He circled you slowly, like a predator inspecting its kill. He stopped behind you, and you felt his presence, a wall of heat and power at your back. You tensed, waiting, wanting.

"Bend over," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Put your hands on the desk."

You stumbled forward, your hands slapping against the polished wood of his desk. The surface was cold, a stark contrast to the heat blooming in your core. You bent at the waist, presenting yourself to him, your body an offering.

His hand came down on your ass, a sharp, stinging slap that made you cry out. It wasn't a playful spank; it was a blow, a mark of ownership.

"Silence," he snapped. "You don't make a sound unless I tell you to. You're not a person. You don't get to have reactions."

You bit your lip, stifling the moan that threatened to escape. He struck you again, harder this time, and then again, a rhythmic, punishing cadence that left your skin burning and your mind reeling. The pain was sharp, intense, but it was also grounding. It was a reminder of your place. A confirmation of your purpose.

"You like this, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a dark caress against your ear. He grabbed a handful of your hair, yanking your head back. "You like being treated like the filthy little animal you are. Say it."

"I... I like it," you gasped, the words torn from you.

"Like what?" he demanded, his grip tightening.

"Being treated like... like a filthy animal," you choked out, the shame of the words mingling with a dark, thrilling pleasure.

"Good," he said, releasing your hair. He spread your cheeks with his rough hands, exposing you completely. "Then you'll love this."

You felt the wet, obscene heat of his tongue against your most forbidden place, and you screamed, a raw, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated shock. It was dirty, disgusting, depraved, and it was the most intimate, violating thing anyone had ever done to you. He licked you with a slow, deliberate thoroughness, his tongue exploring every crease, every fold, claiming every part of you as his own.

Your mind shattered. The world dissolved into a haze of sensation. The feel of his tongue, the sound of his low growls of approval, the musky, primal scent of your own arousal mixed with his. You were no longer in control. You were no longer even present. You were just a body, a collection of nerve endings, existing solely for his pleasure.

He straightened up, and you felt the blunt, thick head of his cock press against your entrance. He didn't prepare you, didn't ease his way in. He drove into you in one brutal, punishing thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

The pain was blinding. A white-hot, searing agony that stole your breath and made your vision swim. You were split open, ruined, and the sensation was so overwhelming, so complete, that it broke something inside you. A dam burst, and a wave of pure, unadulterated lust washed over you, drowning out everything else.

He began to move, his strokes hard and deep and unforgiving. He fucked you with a brutal, animalistic intensity, his hips slapping against your bruised ass, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew you'd have fingerprints in the morning. He wasn't making love to you. He wasn't even having sex with you. He was using you. He was fucking his frustrations into you, his anger, his stress, his ambition. He was using you as a vessel for his darkness, and you were taking it all, begging for more with every thrust of his hips.

"Look at you," he grunted, his voice ragged with exertion. "Taking it. Taking all of it. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to be a hole for me to fuck."

You could only moan in response, your body arching back to meet his, a silent plea for more.

He reached around, his fingers finding your clit, and he began to rub it in rough, merciless circles. The stimulation was too much, too intense, and you felt your orgasm building, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to consume you whole.

"Don't you dare come," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "This isn't for you. This is for me. Your pleasure is irrelevant. Your only purpose is to take what I give you."

The command was a cruel twist of the knife, a denial of the one thing you craved. You fought against the rising tide of your orgasm, your body trembling with the effort of holding back, of denying your own release in service of his.

He could feel your struggle, your desperate attempt to obey, and it seemed to spur him on. He fucked you harder, faster, his fingers working your clit with a merciless precision that was designed to break you.

"Please," you begged, the word a desperate, ragged sob. "Please, Doctor..."

"Please what?" he snarled, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of your shoulder. "Please stop? Or please let you come?"

"Please let me come," you cried, tears of desperation streaming down your face. "Please, I need it. I need to come for you."

He let out a dark, triumphant laugh. "Then come," he commanded. "Come for me, you filthy little slut. Show me how much you love being my depraved little whore."

The words, the permission, the brutal honesty of it all, was your undoing. Your orgasm crashed over you, a blinding, deafening wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. Your body convulsed, your muscles clenching around him as you screamed your release into the silent office.

He followed you over the edge, his own orgasm a violent, explosive eruption. He buried himself deep inside you, his body shuddering as he emptied himself into you, marking you as his, claiming you from the inside out.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, his weight pressing you into the desk, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. Then, he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty and used and utterly, completely satisfied.

He straightened up, adjusting his clothes with an air of cool indifference. You remained bent over the desk, your body trembling, your mind a blissful, blank slate.

"Get dressed," he said, his voice once again clinical and detached. "And get back to your room. If anyone asks, you were sleepwalking. Do you understand?"

You pushed yourself up, your body aching in a way that was both painful and deeply satisfying. You looked at him, at the man who had just broken you and remade you in his image, and you felt a surge of something that was dangerously close to love.

"Yes, Doctor," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I understand."

You dressed quickly, your movements clumsy. As you reached the door, his voice stopped you.

"(Y/N)."

You turned, your heart leaping into your throat.

"This is our secret," he said, his eyes locking onto yours. "What happens between us in the dark of night stays between us. In the light of day, I am your doctor, and you are my patient. Nothing more. Do you understand?"

You understood. You understood perfectly. You were living two lives. The patient by day, the whore by night. And you had a feeling that the night life was the one that would ultimately consume you.

———

The walk back to your room was a journey through a fractured reality. The sterile, white corridors of Rhodes Hill, once symbols of sterile hope, now seemed like the set of a play you were no longer a part of. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a cold, clinical glow on the scuffed linoleum floor. Every shadow seemed to hold a secret, every corner a potential hiding place for the ghosts of what had just transpired.

You moved like a phantom, your body a map of contrasting sensations. The deep, satisfying ache between your legs was a constant, throbbing reminder of his possession. The sharp sting on your buttocks, the tender bruise on your shoulder where his teeth had marked you, the rawness of your throat all were badges of honor, proof that you had been chosen, used. You felt filthy, depraved, and more alive than you had ever been.

Back in the sterile solitude of your room, you locked the door and leaned against it, your body trembling. You caught your reflection in the small, polished steel mirror on the wall. The woman staring back at you was a stranger. Her eyes were wide and glassy, a mixture of shock and a dawning, terrifying euphoria. Her lips were swollen, her hair a tangled mess. She looked like she had been thoroughly, completely fucked. And she looked happy.

A wave of nausea hit you, followed by a surge of shame so intense it almost brought you to your knees. What had you done? What had you become? You had begged a man, your doctor, to use you in the most debasing ways imaginable. And you had loved every moment of it. You had reveled in your own degradation.

You stumbled into the small, adjoining bathroom and turned on the shower, cranking the water as hot as you could stand it. You stepped under the scalding spray, the heat a welcome punishment. You scrubbed your body until your skin was raw and red, trying to wash away the evidence of your sin, the scent of him that still clung to you like a second skin. But it was no use. The feeling of him was inside you now, a part of you, imprinted on your soul.

You finally emerged from the shower, your skin pink and tender. You dried yourself roughly, the rough towel another form of self-flagellation. You climbed into the narrow, uncomfortable bed, your body exhausted, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Sleep, when it finally came, was deep and dreamless, a black, empty void.

The next morning, the harsh buzz of the intercom roused you from your stupor. "Mrs. (Y/L/N), it's 7:00 AM. Breakfast is being served in the communal dining hall. Group therapy is at 9:00 AM with Dr. Gideon."

Dr. Gideon.

The name sent a jolt through you, a fresh wave of arousal warring with the lingering shame. You dressed mechanically, pulling on the scratchy grey scrubs that now felt like a costume. You were playing a role. The patient. The sick woman in need of a cure.

The dining hall was a large, sterile room filled with round tables and uncomfortable-looking chairs. The other patients were a motley collection of lost souls, their faces etched with varying degrees of despair, anxiety, and resignation. You took a tray of bland, tasteless food scrambled eggs, toast, a glass of orange juice and found an empty table in the corner.

You picked at your food, your appetite gone. You were acutely aware of every sound, every movement, your senses heightened, searching for him. And then you saw him.

He was standing by the entrance, talking to a nurse. He was in his pristine white lab coat, his expression one of professional calm. He looked every bit the respected doctor, the brilliant researcher. There was no hint of the predator, the dominant master who had fucked you into oblivion on his desk just a few hours ago.

As if sensing your gaze, he looked up, his eyes finding yours instantly. The connection was electric, a tangible current that arced across the room. His expression didn't change, but you saw it. A flicker of something in the depths of his yellow eyes. A secret. A promise. A claim.

He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, then turned his attention back to the nurse, dismissing you as if you were nothing. And in that moment of dismissal, you felt a thrill so potent it made you dizzy. The dynamic was already established. He was the god, and you were his worshipper, relegated to the shadows in the light of day.

Group therapy was a special kind of hell. It was held in a large, circular room with uncomfortable chairs arranged in a circle. Dr. Gideon sat at the head of the circle, a picture of serene authority. You took a seat as far away from him as you could, your heart pounding in your chest.

The session was a masterclass in psychological manipulation. He guided the discussion with a calm, reassuring voice, probing, prodding, encouraging the other patients to expose their deepest fears and insecurities. He was compassionate, insightful, and utterly in control. He was the perfect doctor.

And then he turned his attention to you.

"(Y/N)," he said, his voice even and professional. "You were very quiet yesterday. How are you feeling today?"

All eyes were on you. You felt your cheeks flush, your mouth suddenly dry. "I... I'm okay," you managed to say, your voice barely a whisper.

"Just okay?" he pressed, his gaze intense but unreadable. "After our intensive session yesterday, I would have expected you to be feeling... a range of emotions. Perhaps some discomfort? Some confusion?"

You knew what he was doing. He was testing you. Playing with you in front of everyone.

"There was some... discomfort," you admitted, your eyes fixed on your hands in your lap. "But... also some clarity."

"Clarity," he repeated, a thoughtful expression on his face. "That's very interesting. Can you elaborate on that?"

You took a shaky breath, choosing your words carefully. "For the first time... I feel like I understand the nature of my... impulses. That they're not just about pleasure. They're about... control. And the lack thereof."

"A very insightful observation," he said, a note of approval in his voice. "You see, class? (Y/N) is already making tremendous progress. She's beginning to deconstruct the underlying psychological framework of her disorder. This is the first step toward true healing."

He was praising you, but it felt like a punishment. He was holding you up as an example, a model patient, while all you could think about was the feeling of his hands on your body, the taste of him in your mouth, the sound of his voice calling you a filthy little whore.

The rest of the session was a blur. You answered his questions when prompted, your responses short and careful. You played your part, the good patient making progress. But underneath the facade, you were a seething mass of need and anticipation. You couldn't wait for the night. You couldn't wait to be alone with him again.

When the session was finally over, you practically fled the room, your body humming with a nervous energy. You needed to be alone. You needed to process what had happened, to prepare yourself for what was to come.

As you reached the door of your room, you felt a presence behind you. You turned, your heart leaping into your throat, but it was only the nurse from the first day.

"Dr. Gideon requested that I give this to you," she said, holding out a small, white paper cup. "It's a mild sedative. To help you sleep. He said you seemed... agitated today."

You took the cup, your fingers brushing against hers. Inside were two small, white pills. You looked at them, then back at the nurse, a question in your eyes.

"He said it's important that you get a good night's rest," she said, her expression unreadable. "Tomorrow is a big day. He has a very... special session planned for you."

You knew what the pills were. They weren't sedatives. They were a test. A reminder of his control. He was drugging you, not to help you sleep, but to ensure your compliance.

You took the pills from the cup, a small, obedient smile playing on your lips. "Thank you," you said, your voice sweet and docile. "I'll be sure to take them."

The nurse nodded and walked away, leaving you alone in the hallway, the two small pills clutched in your hand. You looked down at them, then back in the direction of Dr. Gideon's office, a slow, knowing smile spreading across your face.

You wouldn't take the pills, of course. You wouldn't need them. You had a feeling that tonight, you would sleep like a baby. And tomorrow, you would be ready for whatever "special session" he had in store.

The game was afoot. And you were no longer just a player. You were an eager, willing participant.

The day stretched before you, an endless expanse of meaningless activity designed to pacify the herd. Art therapy, where you were supposed to express your inner turmoil with finger paints and clay. You painted a canvas black, a void, and felt nothing. Lunch, where you pushed bland, nutritionally-balanced food around your plate, your appetite a distant memory. A mandatory "mindfulness" session in the garden, where you were supposed to connect with nature and find your center. You could only feel the phantom imprint of his hands on your skin, the memory of his voice a low, possessive hum beneath the chirping of birds.

Through it all, you felt the pills in your pocket. Two small, white discs of his control. You hadn't taken them. You wouldn't. But you carried them like a talisman, a reminder of the game you were playing, the role you were inhabiting.

Finally, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, eerie shadows across the grounds, a nurse approached you. "Dr. Gideon is ready for you, Mrs. (Y/L/N). He's asked that you meet him in the west wing research annex."

Your heart gave a painful lurch. The research annex. You had heard whispers about it from other patients, vague rumors of the "real work" that went on at Rhodes Hill, the work that happened behind locked doors, far from the prying eyes of the general public and regulatory bodies.

The nurse led you not to the familiar corridors of the main building, but down a flight of stairs and through a heavy, steel-reinforced door. The air changed here, growing colder, carrying the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic and something else, something vaguely chemical and unsettling.

The west wing was a different world. The walls were not the comforting, muted beige of the patient areas, but a stark, clinical white, punctuated by the cold gleam of stainless steel. The lighting was harsh and unforgiving, illuminating every flaw. There were no windows, no art, no softness. This was a place of function, not comfort. A place of science.

The nurse stopped outside a door marked "Dr. V. Gideon - Progenitor Studies." She gave you a perfunctory nod and retreated, her footsteps echoing down the long, empty corridor.

You were alone. You raised a hand to knock, but the door swung open before your knuckles could make contact.

He was there. And he was not the doctor from the group therapy room. He was not the master from the dimly lit office. He was something else entirely. He wore a black biohazard suit, the material clinging to his massive frame, a stark, intimidating silhouette. His face was partially obscured by a clear respirator, but his eyes, those piercing, predatory yellow eyes, were visible, and they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your blood run cold.

"Come in," his voice was distorted by the respirator, a low, mechanical rumble. "And close the door behind you."

You complied, your movements stiff and robotic. The room was a laboratory, a high-tech nightmare of gleaming chrome, humming machinery, and glowing computer monitors. In the center of the room, under a harsh spotlight, was a stainless steel table. It wasn't a desk. It wasn't an examination table. It was a slab. An altar.

He watched you, his head tilted, his gaze analytical. "You didn't take the pills," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"No, Doctor," you replied, your voice small in the cavernous room.

"Why not?"

"Because... I didn't need them," you said, finding a sliver of courage. "Because I knew that if you wanted me to sleep, I would sleep."

A slow smile spread across his face, visible even through the mask. "Excellent," he purred. "You're learning. You're beginning to understand the nature of our relationship. It's not about what you want. It's about what I will.

He crossed the room, his movements fluid and powerful despite the bulky suit. He stopped in front of you, so close that you could feel the cold radiating from the suit's exterior.

"Tonight's session is different," he continued, his voice a low, hypnotic drone. "Tonight, we move beyond the simple physical expression of your impulses. Tonight, we begin to explore the true nature of your utility. Your purpose as a vessel."

He reached out and unzipped the front of your scrubs, his gloved fingers cold and impersonal against your skin. He pushed the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a heap at your feet. You stood naked before him, shivering, not from cold, but from a potent mixture of fear and anticipation.

"Look around you," he commanded, gesturing to the humming machines, the glowing vials of liquid in shades of emerald and cobalt. "This is my work. This is the future. The work of my master, Oswell E. Spencer. A world perfected, cleansed, reborn."

He moved behind you, his gloved hands resting on your shoulders, his touch firm and possessive. "It is stressful work. Demanding. The weight of it... it is a heavy burden to carry alone. I require an outlet. A way to... decompress. A place to store the frustrations, the anxieties, the sheer, overwhelming pressure of it all."

He leaned in, his masked face close to yours. "That is what you are. You are my storage unit. My pressure valve. A warm, biological container for the psychological toxins of my work."

He led you toward the stainless steel table, his hand on the small of your back, guiding you. "Get up," he ordered.

You hoisted yourself onto the cold, unforgiving metal, the chill seeping into your bones. You lay back, the surface hard and unyielding beneath you. You were exposed, vulnerable, a specimen on a slide.

He moved to a nearby cart, his back to you. You watched as he selected a syringe and a small vial of a shimmering, pale green liquid. He filled the syringe with practiced, economical movements, his efficiency terrifying.

"What... what is that?" you asked, your voice trembling.

He turned, the syringe held aloft. "This? This is a little... incentive. A specialized strain of the T-virus. Not the full transformative agent. This is a sub-dermal stimulant. It enhances nerve sensitivity, heightens emotional response, and... encourages compliance. It won't turn you into a mindless monster. It will just make you a more... receptive vessel."

He was at your side in an instant, his gloved hand gripping your arm, his fingers digging into your flesh. You felt the sharp, cold prick of the needle, and then a strange, spreading warmth began to radiate from the injection site.

"There," he said, discarding the empty syringe in a nearby sharps container. "Now we can begin."

The effect was immediate. A wave of intense, almost painful sensitivity washed over you. The air moving against your skin was a caress. The low hum of the machinery was a physical vibration that resonated deep in your bones. And the sight of him, looming over you, his massive frame encased in the intimidating black suit, was enough to make you moan, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated need.

"Please," you begged, your body arching off the cold table. "Please, Doctor..."

"Please what?" he demanded, his voice a distorted growl. "What do you want from me?"

"I want... I want you to use me," you cried, the words torn from you by the chemical fire burning in your veins. "I want to be your vessel. I want you to put all your stress, all your frustration, inside me. Please..."

He chuckled, a dark, mechanized sound. "As you wish."

He unzipped the front of his suit, and his cock sprang free, thick and hard and intimidating. He didn't bother with foreplay. He didn't waste time with preparation. He grabbed your legs, pushing them back, opening you to him, and then he drove into you, one brutal, deep thrust that forced the air from your lungs.

The sensation was overwhelming. The combination of the virus's effects and the sheer, brutal force of his possession was a sensory overload. You felt every inch of him, every vein, every ridge, as he moved inside you with a punishing, rhythmic cadence. The cold metal of the table against your back, the rough texture of his gloves on your skin, the low hum of the laboratory equipment, the distorted sound of his grunts it all merged into a symphony of depraved ecstasy.

"You see?" he grunted, his hips slamming into yours. "This is what you're for. This is your purpose. To take it. To absorb it. To be the thing I fuck when the world becomes too much."

He reached down, his gloved thumb finding your clit, and began to rub it in rough, merciless circles. The stimulation was excruciating, a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You were teetering on the edge of a precipice, a mind-shattering orgasm just out of reach.

"Look at me," he commanded.

You forced your eyes open, your vision blurry with tears of pleasure and pain. You looked up at him, at the masked, inhuman figure who was claiming you, body and soul.

"This is my master's work," he snarled, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more forceful. "This is the burden I carry. And you... you are the place I put it. You are the filth I fuck to stay clean. Do you understand?"

"Yes," you screamed, your body convulsing. "Yes, I understand!"

"Then come for me," he roared, his voice a distorted boom that echoed through the laboratory. "Come for your master!"

The command shattered what was left of your control. Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, explosive release that left you shaking and sobbing on the cold steel table. He followed you over the edge, his own release a hot, flood of possession, a final, brutal claiming of your body and soul.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, his body still, his breath ragged behind the mask. Then, he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty, used, and utterly, completely his.

He zipped up his suit, his movements once again efficient and impersonal. He looked down at you, a discarded, satiated thing, and there was no emotion in his gaze. No satisfaction, no remorse, no affection. There was only the cool, detached look of a scientist who had just completed a successful experiment.

"Get dressed," he said, his voice once again the low, mechanical rumble of the doctor. "And get back to your room. You have a busy day tomorrow. We have a lot of work to do."

You slid off the table, your legs trembling, your body aching. You dressed slowly, your movements clumsy. As you reached the door, his voice stopped you.

"And (Y/N)."

You turned, your heart leaping into your throat.

"Don't forget who you are," he said, his eyes burning into yours from behind the mask. "You're not a person. You're not a patient. You're my property. My laboratory. My vessel."

You nodded, a small, obedient gesture of submission. "Yes, Doctor."

You walked out of the laboratory, the heavy steel door clicking shut behind you, sealing him in his world of science and ambition, and you out in yours, a world forever changed by the corrupting touch of his genius.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours since you had become his vessel.

The world had shrunk to the size of Rhodes Hill. The days bled into one another, a monotonous cycle of therapy sessions, tasteless meals, and the gnawing, ever-present anticipation of the night. The night belonged to him. The day was a waiting game.

Your body was a roadmap of his possession. Faint bruises on your hips, the shape of his fingers. A small, silvery scar on your shoulder where he had gotten too rough, too lost in the "decompression." You cherished these marks. They were proof. Proof that you were his. Proof that you were serving your purpose.

The virus he had injected you with had changed you. It hadn't turned you into a monster, not in the way you had feared. It had done something far more profound. It had rewired you. The constant, chaotic hum of your hypersexuality, the desperate, needy hunger that had driven you to strangers and risks, was gone. In its place was a new kind of need. A focused, singular, all-consuming ache for one man. One god. Dr. Victor Gideon.

He had cured you. And in doing so, he had broken you.

You were sitting in the sterile visiting room, a space designed to offer a false sense of normalcy with its comfortable chairs and fake plants. But the barred windows and the ever-watchful eye of the orderly in the corner were a constant reminder of the truth. You were an inmate.

The door opened, and he walked in.

David.

Your husband.

He looked smaller than you remembered, his shoulders slumped, his face etched with a weariness that seemed to have deepened in the weeks you'd been apart. He was holding a bouquet of colorful, cheerful flowers daisies and carnations a gesture so hopelessly normal, so out of place in the cold, clinical reality of your new life, that it almost made you laugh.

"Hey, honey," he said, his voice soft, tentative. He approached you as if you were a frightened animal. "I brought you these."

He held out the flowers, and you took them, the plastic wrapping crinkling in your hand. They were pretty. They smelled nice. They meant nothing.

"Thank you," you said, your voice flat, distant. "They're... nice."

He sat down in the chair opposite you, his eyes searching yours. "How are you? Really? The nurses say you're doing well. Participating in therapy."

"I am," you lied, your mind already drifting, wandering down the familiar path to him. "The therapy is... helpful."

David nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes. "That's great. That's really great. I've been so worried."

He started talking then, filling the silence with the mundane details of his life. The leaky faucet in the kitchen, the annoying new guy at work, the price of gas. You nodded, you hummed, you made the appropriate noises, but you weren't really listening. Your mind was elsewhere.

You were thinking about last night. About the laboratory. About the way he had tied you to the stainless steel table with leather restraints, your limbs spread eagle, completely at his mercy. You were thinking about the way he had used a new instrument on you, a sleek, silver device that hummed and vibrated, sending jolts of liquid fire through your veins until you were a sobbing, begging mess. You were thinking about the way he had whispered in your ear, his voice a low, possessive growl, "You see? This is what you were made for. This is the only thing you're good for."

"...and so I told the manager, if you're not going to fix it, I'm not paying the rent," David was saying, his voice a distant drone. "Can you believe that?"

"Wow," you murmured, your eyes unfocused. "That's... crazy."

Your mind flashed to an image of Gideon's face, the way his eyes burned with cold fire when he was on the verge of release, the way his lips would curl into a snarl of pure, unadulterated possession. No one had ever looked at you like that. No one had ever wanted you like that. Not just your body, but your submission, your degradation, your very soul.

"...so we're all going out for drinks on Friday to celebrate," David continued, oblivious. "You'd like Sarah. She's new in accounting. Really sweet."

"That's nice," you said, your fingers stroking the petals of a daisy. You were thinking about Gideon's hands, his long, powerful fingers, the way they could be so gentle, so clinical, when he was administering the virus, and so rough, so brutal, when he was claiming you. He understood you. He understood the darkness inside you, the depraved, needy part of you that you had always tried to hide. He didn't just tolerate it; he reveled in it. He fed it. He was the only one who could keep up with the hurricane of your need, the only one strong enough to ride the storm with you and not be swept away.

David reached across the space between you and took your hand. His touch was warm, familiar, and utterly wrong. It felt like a stranger's touch. It was weak. It was gentle. It wasn't him.

"I miss you, (Y/N)," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "So much. I can't wait until you're well enough to come home. We can start over. We can be a real family again."

The words should have filled you with hope. They should have made you happy. Instead, they filled you with a cold, profound sense of dread. Home? Start over? The thought of leaving Rhodes Hill, of leaving him, was unbearable. This wasn't a prison. It was a sanctuary. A twisted, depraved sanctuary, but a sanctuary nonetheless.

"I miss you too," you lied, pulling your hand away.

David's face fell, a flicker of hurt in his eyes. "What's wrong? Are you okay? You seem... distant."

"I'm just tired," you said, the excuse flimsy, pathetic. "The therapy is... draining."

He nodded, accepting the lie. "Of course. It's a lot to deal with. I just... I want you to know that I'm here for you. I'm not giving up on us. I love you."

The words, "I love you," hung in the air between you, a foreign language you no longer understood. Love? What was love? A gentle touch? A kind word? A bouquet of flowers? That wasn't love. That was a pale, pathetic imitation. Love was a bruising grip on your hips. Love was a punishing, soul-shattering fuck on a cold steel table. Love was the possessive fire in a predator's eyes as he claimed you as his own. Love was Dr. Victor Gideon.

You looked at David, at the kind, decent man who had been your whole world, and you felt nothing. No pity, no affection, no guilt. Only a vast, empty chasm where your love for him used to be. He was a relic from a past life, a ghost haunting the edges of your new reality.

"I think... I think I need to lie down," you said, standing up abruptly. "I'm not feeling well."

"Oh," he said, scrambling to his feet. "Okay. Of course. Do you want me to walk you back to your room?"

"No," you said, a little too quickly. "I can manage. The orderly will... help."

You turned and walked away without a backward glance, leaving him standing there, a forgotten man holding a bouquet of meaningless flowers. As you walked down the corridor, you could feel his eyes on your back, but you didn't turn. You didn't hesitate.

You were going back to your room. To wait. To prepare.

Because tonight was Friday. And on Friday nights, Dr. Gideon didn't just use you to relieve his stress. On Friday nights, he experimented. And you, his willing, eager vessel, couldn't wait to see what depraved new horrors he had in store.

The wait was exquisite agony. You spent the hours leading up to your "session" in a state of heightened, feverish anticipation. You showered, not to cleanse, but to prepare. You scrubbed your body until it was pink and sensitive, wanting every nerve ending to be alive, ready for his touch. You didn't bother with the scrubs. You knew he would have something else for you to wear, or nothing at all. The thought sent a thrill through you.

At precisely 9:00 PM, there was a sharp rap on your door. It wasn't a nurse. It was him. He opened the door and stepped inside, closing it softly behind him. He was in his black biohazard suit again, the respirator obscuring his face, making him an imposing, inhuman figure. But in his hand, he wasn't holding a syringe. He was holding a thick, black leather collar, with a heavy, silver ring attached to the front.

"Tonight's experiment is about obedience," he said, his voice the low, mechanical rumble that you had come to crave. "And trust. You will trust me to take you to the very edge of your sanity, to push you beyond your limits, and you will obey me without question. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Doctor," you whispered, your body already trembling with need.

"On your knees," he commanded.

You dropped to the floor instantly, your head bowed, your eyes fixed on his black, booted feet. He moved behind you, and you felt the cool, smooth leather of the collar as he fastened it around your neck. It was snug, a constant, possessive pressure against your throat. He attached a thin, metal leash to the ring, the chain clinking softly, a sound that made your heart pound in your chest.

"Good," he said, giving the leash a sharp tug. "Heel."

You crawled behind him, your hands and knees cold on the linoleum floor. The degradation was intoxicating. You were not a person. You were an animal. His pet. He led you out of your room and down the deserted corridors, the leash a constant, tangible reminder of your submission. You passed a security camera, and you knew someone was watching, seeing you like this, and the thought made you burn with a dark, thrilling shame.

He didn't take you to the laboratory. He took you to the morgue.

The room was cold, the air thick with the chemical scent of formaldehyde and decay. It was a place of death, of finality. In the center of the room, under a harsh, industrial light, was a gurney, its stainless steel surface gleaming. But it wasn't empty. On it was a body, covered by a crisp, white sheet.

"Up," he commanded, pointing to the gurney next to the covered corpse.

You hesitated, a flicker of fear cutting through your arousal. The morgue was different. This was too much. This was crossing a line

He sensed your hesitation. He gave the leash a brutal tug, pulling you off your feet and choking you slightly. "Did I stutter?" he snarled, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Get on the fucking table."

The fear was quickly replaced by a surge of dark, submissive excitement. He was right. This was what you were for. To be pushed. To be broken. You scrambled onto the gurney, the cold metal seeping into your bones. You lay on your back, your body tense with anticipation.

He secured your wrists and ankles with thick, leather restraints, pulling them tight until you were spread-eagled and completely immobile. He moved to the covered corpse and, with a dramatic flourish, pulled back the sheet.

It was a woman. Young. Blonde. Beautiful. And she was dead. Her skin was pale and waxy, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

"You see this?" he said, gesturing to the body. "This is the end result of failure. Of weakness. My master's vision is not for the faint of heart. It requires sacrifice. It requires strength. This one... she wasn't strong enough."

He turned his attention back to you, his eyes burning from behind the mask. "But you... you are strong. You are a survivor. You are the perfect vessel. Tonight, we are going to celebrate your strength. We are going to affirm your life by immersing you in the presence of death."

He moved to a nearby cart and selected a scalpel. The gleam of the steel under the harsh light was terrifying and mesmerizing. He held it up, his gaze fixed on you.

"Don't worry," he purred. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not permanently. This is just... a little art. A little reminder of the fine line between pleasure and pain. Between life and death."

He leaned over you, the scalpel poised above your chest. You held your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs. He brought the blade down, not pressing hard enough to cut, but hard enough to leave a faint, red line on your skin. He began to draw, a slow, deliberate pattern on your flesh, a twisted, intricate design that was both beautiful and horrifying. The sensation was exquisite, a sharp, stinging pleasure that made you gasp and arch against your restraints.

"You like that, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic drone. "You like the feel of the steel on your skin. You like the danger. The knowledge that with one slip, one wrong move, I could end you."

"Yes," you breathed, your eyes closed, lost in the sensation. "God, yes."

He continued his work, his movements precise, artistic. He covered your torso, your thighs, your arms with his bloody masterpiece, a testament to his control, your submission. When he was finished, he put down the scalpel and admired his handiwork.

"Beautiful," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "A canvas of flesh and blood."

He then produced a syringe, filled with the same shimmering, pale green liquid from before. But this time, he didn't inject it into your arm. He injected it directly into your clit.

The sensation was blinding. A white-hot, explosive fire that shot through your body like lightning. You screamed, a raw, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated agony and ecstasy. Your body convulsed, your muscles straining against the restraints, as the virus flooded your most sensitive nerve endings, amplifying them a thousandfold.

He unzipped his suit, his cock springing free, thick and hard and angry. He didn't wait for you to recover. He climbed onto the gurney, his heavy weight pinning you down, and he drove into you, one brutal, deep thrust that forced the air from your lungs.

The combination of the virus, the pain, the presence of the dead body next to you, and the sheer, brutal force of his possession was a sensory overload of epic proportions. You were no longer in your body. You were a disembodied spirit, floating in a sea of depraved sensation, a witness to your own violation.

He fucked you with a savage, animalistic intensity, his hips slamming into yours, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly you knew you'd have bruises. He was a force of nature, a god of destruction and creation, and you were the altar on which he was worshiping

"Look at her," he grunted, his head nodding toward the corpse. "Look at what failure looks like. And then look at you. Alive. Warm. Taking my cock like the good little whore you are. This is what you were made for. This is your purpose."

He reached up and grabbed your face, his fingers digging into your cheeks. "Tell me," he snarled, his voice a distorted roar. "Tell me what you are."

"I'm your whore," you screamed, your body convulsing with a pleasure so intense it was painful. "I'm your vessel. I'm your property!"

"Damn right you are," he roared, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more forceful. "And you will never forget it. You will never want anything else. You will never be satisfied by anyone else. You are mine. Now and forever."

He reached down and grabbed the scalpel again, the blade still slick with your blood. He pressed it against your throat, the sharp point a constant, terrifying threat.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Come for me now, or I swear to God, I'll bleed you out on this table."

The threat was the final push. Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, explosive release that was both a birth and a death. You screamed his name, a raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated devotion, as your body convulsed and shuddered, a vessel overflowing with his power, his possession, his depravity.

He followed you over the edge, his own release a hot, flood of life, a final, brutal claiming of your body and soul. He collapsed on top of you, his body heavy, his breathing ragged, the scalpel still pressed against your throat.

For a long moment, you both lay there, in the silent, cold room, surrounded by death, basking in the afterglow of your shared transgression. You were a mess of blood and sweat and cum, a masterpiece of filth and depravity, and you had never felt more beautiful, more complete, more alive.

He finally pushed himself up, his movements slow, deliberate. He looked down at you, at the bloody canvas of your body, at the tear-streaked, ecstatic look on your face, and a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face, visible even through the mask.

"Perfect," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "Absolutely perfect."

He cleaned himself up, his movements efficient and impersonal, as if he had just completed a routine surgical procedure. He released your restraints, and you slowly sat up, your body aching, your mind a blissful, blank slate.

"Get dressed," he said, tossing your scrubs at you. "And get back to your room. You've got a busy day tomorrow. We're going to do it all over again."

You dressed slowly, your movements clumsy. As you reached the door, his voice stopped you.

"And (Y/N)."

You turned, your heart leaping into your throat.

"Don't ever forget this feeling," he said, his eyes burning into yours. "This is what it means to be truly alive. This is what it means to be mine."

You nodded, a small, obedient gesture of submission. "I won't, Doctor. I'll never forget."

You walked out of the morgue, the heavy steel door clicking shut behind you, sealing the dead and the damned in their cold, dark tomb. You walked back to your room, the leash gone, but the collar still around your neck, a constant, possessive reminder of your place.

You were his. You were his vessel, his whore, his masterpiece. And you had never been more happy, more fulfilled, more depravedly, utterly, and completely his.

————

The laboratory was silent now, save for the low, steady hum of the ventilation system and the quiet scratching of his pen on paper. The harsh, industrial lights had been dimmed, casting the room in a soft, intimate glow. You were on his lap, naked, your body curled against his massive frame. His lab coat was a rough, familiar texture against your bare skin, and the warmth of his body seeped into you, a comforting, possessive heat.

The session had been... educational. He had been in a particularly inventive mood, testing your limits with a series of psychological and physical stressors that had left you shattered and reassembled, a new, more pliable version of yourself. Now, in the quiet aftermath, you were basking in the simple, profound pleasure of his presence. You were his armrest, his footstool, his living, breathing ornament. And it was bliss.

He was working, his attention completely absorbed by the stack of files on the desk before him. His free hand rested on your hip, a casual, proprietary gesture that sent a constant, low-level thrum of arousal through you. You watched his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the intense focus in his yellow eyes as he scanned the documents, making occasional notes in a precise, elegant script. He was a god in his element, a master of his domain, and you were his devoted acolyte.

The thought of David, of your old life, drifted into your mind like a ghost from a forgotten dream. It had been a few days since his visit, and the memory had already begun to fade, losing its sharp edges, becoming a story you had once heard about someone else. The flowers he had brought were long dead, their brittle petals scattered in the trash can of your room, a sad, shriveled reminder of a world you no longer belonged to.

You shifted slightly on his lap, the movement drawing his attention. He didn't look at you, but his hand tightened on your hip, a silent, possessive warning. You stilled, content to be a part of his stillness.

But the thought of David wouldn't leave you. It wasn't a memory of love or loss, but of... finality. Of closing a door. Of severing the last, tenuous thread that connected you to the person you used to be.

"Doctor?" you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet room.

He grunted in response, his eyes still fixed on his work.

"I was thinking..." you began, hesitantly. "About my husband."

The scratching of his pen stopped. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with unspoken questions. He still didn't look at you, but you could feel the shift in his attention, the way his focus had narrowed, zeroing in on you.

"I think..." you continued, your voice gaining a sliver of confidence. "I think I want to divorce him."

He slowly, deliberately, set his pen down. He turned his head, and his eyes, those piercing, predatory yellow eyes, locked onto yours. A slow, triumphant smirk spread across his face. It wasn't a smile of happiness or encouragement. It was the smirk of a conqueror who has just watched his enemy surrender without a fight.

"Is that so?" he purred, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He reached up and cupped your chin, his thumb stroking your jawline. "And what brought about this sudden change of heart?"

"You," you said, the word a simple, undeniable truth. "Before... I was sick. I was broken. I thought I needed him to fix me. But you... you didn't try to fix me. You... completed me. You gave me a purpose. You're the only one who understands. The only one who can handle me."

His smirk widened. "I don't handle you, my dear (Y/N). I own you. There's a difference."

"I know," you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. He... he could never be what you are. He could never give me what I need. He's a part of a world that doesn't exist for me anymore."

"Then you should absolutely do it," he said, his tone encouraging, but his eyes were cold, calculating. "You should divorce him. Sever all ties. Burn that bridge to the ground. It's an unnecessary distraction. A relic of a life you've outgrown."

He released your chin and leaned back in his chair, his hand still resting possessively on your hip. "Think of it as the final step in your treatment. A symbolic act of liberation. You're not just freeing yourself from a failed marriage. You're freeing yourself from the weakness, the sentimentality, the pathetic need for normalcy that defined your old self. You're killing (Y/N) the wife, the patient, the broken woman, so that you can be reborn as... well, as what you are now. My property."

The way he said it, so cold, so clinical, sent a thrill of pure, unadulterated ecstasy through you. He was right. It wasn't about ending a marriage. It was about ending a life. The life of a person you no longer recognized.

"How would I do it?" you asked, your voice small, eager for his guidance. "I'm in here. I can't exactly call a lawyer."

"Leave the logistics to me," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I have resources. I can have the papers drawn up and sent to the facility. You'll sign them. I'll handle the rest. It will be clean. It will be final. All you have to do is give the word."

"Then I give the word," you said, without a moment's hesitation. "Do it."

"Excellent," he purred, his eyes gleaming with a dark, triumphant fire. "A wise decision. You're becoming more and more... useful. More and more perfect."

He picked up his pen again, his attention already drifting back to his work, as if the monumental decision you had just made was no more significant than choosing what to have for dinner.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, his tone dismissive. "I have work to do. Master vision waits for no one. And you," he gave your hip a firm, possessive squeeze, "are a distraction. A welcome one, but a distraction nonetheless."

You settled back against him, content to be his distraction, his ornament, his thing. The decision was made. The last tie to your old life was about to be severed. And as you sat there, naked and docile on his lap, you felt a profound sense of peace, of rightness. You were home. You were where you were meant to be. You were his. And you had never been more happy, more fulfilled, more depravedly, utterly, and completely his.

"Get up on the desk. It's time for your reward."

His words were a key, unlocking the last of your resistance, the final vestige of the person you used to be. You rose from your knees, your movements fluid and graceful, a supplicant answering her god's call. You climbed onto the polished mahogany, the cool wood a welcome shock against your heated skin. You lay back, spreading yourself for him, an offering on the altar of his ambition.

He stood and removed his lab coat, draping it carefully over the back of his chair. Then his shirt, revealing the sculpted, powerful landscape of his chest, the pale skin a stark contrast to the dark, dangerous energy that radiated from him. He was magnificent. A perfect, terrifying specimen of a man.

He joined you on the desk, his weight making the solid wood groan in protest. He loomed over you, his yellow eyes burning with an intensity that made your soul ache. He lowered his head, and his lips met yours.

This was different. This wasn't the brutal, punishing kiss of possession. This was something else. It was slow, deep, and impossibly tender. His tongue explored your mouth with a gentle, thoroughness that was more devastating than any force. He kissed you like a lover, like a man who cherished you, and the false passion of it was a poison sweeter than any drug.

You melted into it, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. You poured every ounce of your sick, obsessive love into that kiss, trying to fuse with him, to crawl inside his skin and live there forever. You wanted to consume him, to be consumed by him, until there was nothing left of either of you but the shared, ecstatic moment.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "You did perfectly today," he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic caress. "You were strong. Ruthless. Beautiful. You're everything I knew you could be."

His words were honey, laced with arsenic, and you drank them eagerly. "I did it for you," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. "Everything is for you."

"I know," he said, his hand tracing the line of your jaw, his touch impossibly gentle. "And I will take care of you. Always. You'll never want for anything again. You'll never have to feel that chaotic, desperate hunger you used to feel. You'll only have this. Us. This perfect, controlled need."

He began to move down your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire on your skin. He kissed your throat, your collarbone, the sensitive skin between your breasts. He was worshiping you, adoring you, and the lie of it was so exquisite, so complete, that you wept with the sheer, overwhelming beauty of it.

He took one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak, his teeth grazing it with just enough pressure to make you gasp. He lavished the same attention on its twin, until you were arching your back, a silent, desperate plea for more.

He continued his downward journey, his lips exploring the soft skin of your stomach, the curve of your hips, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He was mapping your body, claiming every inch of it with his touch, his mouth, his false, adoring worship.

And then he was there, his hot breath against your most sensitive flesh. He looked up at you, his eyes burning with a passion so convincing it felt real, and he smiled. A genuine, warm, loving smile that shattered what was left of your heart.

"I could spend the rest of my life right here," he whispered, and then his tongue was on you.

He didn't devour you. He didn't punish you. He made love to you with his mouth, his movements slow, deliberate, and impossibly tender. He explored every fold, every crease, with a patient, thoroughness that brought you to the brink of orgasm again and again, only to back off, leaving you trembling and begging for release.

"Please," you sobbed, your hands fisting in his hair. "Please, Dr. Gideon... I need to come. I need to come for you."

He looked up at you, his face glistening with your essence, his expression one of pure, adoring love. "Not yet," he murmured. "Not until you're ready. Not until you're completely mine."

He rose over you, positioning himself at your entrance. He looked down at you, his eyes burning with a fire that seemed to consume you whole. He entered you slowly, inch by inch, his gaze locked on yours, a silent, intimate connection that was more devastating than any violation.

He began to move, his strokes slow, deep, and rhythmic. There was no brutality here. No punishment. Only a slow, sensual dance, a shared, ecstatic rhythm that built and built, a wave of pleasure so immense it threatened to drown you.

He kissed you again, his tongue tangling with yours, his body moving in and out of yours in a perfect, synchronized rhythm. You were lost in him, lost in the lie, lost in the moment. You were no longer (Y/N), the depraved whore. You were his goddess, his queen, his one true love.

"I love you," you sobbed against his lips, the words a desperate, broken prayer. "God, I love you so much."

"I love you too," he whispered, his voice a perfect, convincing lie. "More than you'll ever know."

The words were your undoing. Your orgasm crashed over you, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that washed away everything your past, your pain, your identity leaving only the blissful, all-consuming feeling of being loved by him.

He followed you over the edge, his own release a hot, flood of possession, a final, sealing of the pact. He collapsed on top of you, his body a heavy, comforting weight, his heart beating a steady, reassuring rhythm against your chest.

You lay there for a long time, wrapped in his arms, your body humming with a contentment so profound it was almost painful. You were home. You were safe. You were loved.

After a while, he stirred, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at you. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch infinitely tender.

"You need to get dressed," he said, his voice soft, but with an underlying note of finality. "The orderly will be coming to take you back to your room soon."

A flicker of disappointment went through you, but you pushed it away. He was right. This beautiful, perfect moment had to end. But there would be others. You had the rest of your life.

You sat up, your body aching in a way that was both painful and deeply satisfying. He watched you dress, his gaze possessive, appreciative. When you were fully clothed, he stood up and pulled you into his arms, holding you close.

"You're mine now," he murmured, his lips against your hair. "Completely. Utterly. Forever."

"Forever," you whispered, your heart overflowing with a love so fierce, so all-consuming, it felt like a sickness.

He released you and walked over to his desk, picking up a thick, leather-bound journal and a pen. He sat down, opening it to a fresh page, his attention already absorbed by his work.

You watched him for a moment, a serene, loving smile on your face. This was your life now. The days were a waiting game, a quiet, contented existence of art therapy and group sessions, all of which now seemed like a pleasant, meaningless dream. The nights were yours. His. A world of depraved, passionate worship that you wouldn't trade for anything.

You turned and walked to the door, your heart light, your soul at peace. You had found your purpose. You had found your god. You had found yourself in the complete and utter surrender of your will to his.

As you reached for the doorknob, he spoke without looking up from his journal.

"Subject (Y/N) has reached terminal stage of psychological conditioning," he murmured, his voice a low, clinical monotone. "Emotional attachment to primary administrator is absolute. Former identity has been successfully eradicated. Subject is now a fully compliant and reusable asset for ongoing research and stress alleviation. Ready for Phase Two."

The words washed over you, a meaningless string of technical jargon. You didn't understand them, and you didn't care. All you heard was the sound of his voice, the voice of the man you loved, the man who had saved you, the man who owned you, body and soul.

It was always the same thing.

No matter how old you were, whenever you got a boyfriend or when you got married, the same questions would always come up.

"Do you want kids?"

"When are you going to have kids?"

"Why don't you want kids?"

The questions were so tiring that you could have started banging your head against the wall. It was as if the things you had accomplished didn't matter, or as if your choice over your own body needed to be given a reason for.

Ever since you were a teenager, you had known that you didn't want children. It's not that you despise them, you just don't want any.

And for some reason, nobody understands that.

Even your family and friends started asking when you were going to have a baby with your husband, as if having children were the only reason for getting married.

Slowly, it was starting to get to you.

Wherever you looked, there were babies with their happy parents, enjoying themselves, while you felt like there was something wrong with you.

Why can't you just be like them? Why can't you just want a child and make Leon happy?

Sometimes you'd catch yourself looking in the mirror and pulling your top up slightly to see what you'd look like pregnant - would that make you more desirable?

It's not like your husband doesn't love you. He does. In fact, he loves you very much.

Not a day went by without him complimenting you and showing you affection, but maybe it was all just an act. Perhaps he was just waiting for you to give in, and maybe he had changed his mind after all.

Before you got married, you made sure to have all kinds of talks. Especially when it came to having kids, and you were both glad to be seeing eye to eye. You had no interest in having children and just wanted to enjoy each other's presence.

But each day you were getting more and more exhausted. Sometimes you were so exhausted that you wouldn't even be able to respond, and you would find yourself ignoring others. Inside your mind, questions were giving you a headache.

And today... Today was horrible.

Everyone knows that Leon S. Kennedy is married to you. Yes, the golden boy of DSO is married to a failed agent who stepped down because she was foolish enough to get injured years ago. Now she's too afraid to start again as an agent - how pathetic.

Back then, you and Leon were one of the most talked-about agents. You were selfless, caring, smart and strong. While Leon's reputation improved, yours worsened simply because you gave up and took a desk job at DSO.

And if there's one person who hates you, it's Blaire - currently one of the best agents around, who has also been on missions with your husband.

No matter what time of day, she would find a way to ruin it for you. She would come into your office cubicle just to wind you up, and she was really good at it.

Today, however, her words hit you particularly hard, as you clearly remembered the moment, even though hours had passed.

You heard a knock on your cubicle, and that's how it started.

Turning around and looking behind your shoulder for a second to catch a quick glimpse, and after seeing that it was Blaire, you moved your head forward again to focus on the documents you were reading.

A couple of seconds passed, and you started to feel uncomfortable because you could feel her staring at you.

Huffing quietly, the blonde woman pulled out a spare chair and sat down beside you. She crossed her right leg over her left as she leaned back in the chair.

"Still boring as ever." she said quietly, but loud enough for you to hear as you curled your right hand tightly around your pen.

You couldn't focus on the words in the document. "Leon and I were on a mission. DSO booked us a really nice place to stay."

You closed your eyes for a moment before opening them and turning your chair around to make eye contact with her.

Blaire is a beautiful woman - that's a fact. She has long blonde hair, seductive green eyes, plump lips, and curves that could make anyone turn around to stare.

You're usually not the jealous type either. If your husband is that easy to have, they can have him. But you knew he only wanted you, and he was very vocal about his dislike of her.

You and your husband know that she wants him, following him wherever he goes. Coming way too close to him, putting a hand on his arm while he steps away with a glare.

But you were vulnerable. Having already been worrying a lot lately, she definitely managed to pick the worst possible day to make you worry even more.

"He's quite handsome, you know." She smirked as she leaned forward, never taking her eyes off you as you gripped the chair's handle tightly, your nails digging into it, while she continued, "A husband like that would surely make a woman want to stay in bed with him. It's surprising that you two still don't have a kid."

She giggled in a grating way that made you wince. "Or maybe he's disgusted to be with you." She looked you up and down, and you unconsciously leaned back to make yourself look smaller.

"You know," she said, abruptly leaning closer to you so that you couldn't move away from her breath on your face. "If you don't give him a child, someone else surely will." With that, she stood up and smiled at you - though it was definitely not a kind smile - and finally left.

You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding and reached into your handbag for the small mirror you always carried with you.

Looking at your reflection, you started to feel a heavy feeling in your chest and a tightening in your throat.

There are so many other women who are more attractive than you, and you still don't understand how he could have chosen you out of everyone.

You had wrinkles, and grey hairs were starting to appear as time passed.

Back then, you looked forward to getting older and seeing what you would look like in the future. Now, however, you can barely stand to look at yourself.

'Does Leon even like looking at me?' You asked yourself this throughout your shift, grinding your teeth together whenever you felt close to tears.

Being at home was good, you were able to relax a bit - but you soon realised that there was no escape.

Your mind was jumping to stupid conclusions, making it seem as if something was wrong. You could just lie in bed staring at the wall, hoping to finally fall asleep.

Hours passed, however, and rest never came, until you heard the door open and there he was, Leon.

He'd had a meeting today - an exhausting one, as you could see from the tired look in his eyes - but seeing you still awake made him raise an eyebrow.

"Couldn't sleep, baby?" he asked softly. His voice gave you goosebumps, as it always did, and he slowly took off his clothes to get into bed.

You forced a small smile, happy that it was dark enough for him not to notice. "I was thinking about the documents from work. Difficult case."

He nodded in understanding. Having finally taken his clothes off, he was now only in sweatpants. He lay down next to you in bed and turned around to face you.

"Workaholic," he whispered jokingly, getting a quiet laugh out of you. You gave him a soft slap on the chest, and he let out a fake sound of pain.

"You've taken worse hits," you said, he smiled lazily at you before he leaned forward and pressed a kiss on your forehead, making you relax a bit.

"You're quite strong," he responded, making you roll your eyes at him while he slowly leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss against your lips.

It started out softly, with only a chaste kiss on the lips at first, as if you were the most delicate thing, scared to hurt you. But once you moved your lips, Leon put a hand around your waist and pulled you tighter against him, and you started making out.

You didn't always have the time to enjoy each other's company, so on nights like this, you wanted to spend every second together.

When your husband bit your bottom lip, you gasped softly into his mouth as his tongue entered your mouth, pulling you even closer until you were lying on top of him.

Moving your legs to straddle his waist, you laid your hands on his chest, while he rested one hand on your waist and moved the other to the nightstand.

In the quiet room, all that could be heard were the quiet noises of you two kissing, followed by the sound of a wrapper as Leon started ripping it open.

You'd usually be excited, it's not like you didn't want him - you did, badly. But all you could hear were Blaire's voice and everyone asking why you weren't pregnant yet.

So, you slowly placed a hand on Leon's hand, which was opening the wrapper. This made him pull away slightly to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide and he was breathing heavily as he leaned his forehead against yours. "Something wrong, baby?" He stroked your cheek with his free hand while your heart beat rapidly in your chest and you weren't really able to look into his eyes.

"We don't have to do anything. Having you beside me is more than enough," Leon continued, pulling his hand out of yours to put the condom on the nightstand.

You sighed softly, then found the courage to speak up "We should try without it. I don't want to make you feel restricted."

Hearing this, Leon furrowed his eyebrows and suddenly pushed himself up so that he was sitting with the headboard against his back. He positioned you comfortably, ensuring you were still straddling his lap.

Leon was now focusing on your face. You started to feel nervous, silently cursing yourself for saying that and knowing he could tell something was wrong.

Using condoms had never been a problem before. Your husband always enjoyed himself, so it had never been an issue.

Slowly, he put his hands on your face and made you look at him. He had a concerned look on his face. "Tell me what's wrong," he said. His tone was gentle, leaving room for you to dodge the conversation if you weren't ready yet.

You inhaled shakily and felt the corners of your mouth tremble slightly. Feeling embarrassed, but also wanting to tell him what the problem was, you finally gave in.

"I just don't know what's wrong with me," you said, the first sob breaking out as tears started running down your face. Leon pulled you closer by your waist, gently rubbing the side of your thighs as he listened attentively.

"I... I just can't do it anymore. Everyone always asks the same fucking question, and I feel like I'm going insane. I don't want kids - you know that, and I know that - but ever since we started dating, and especially after we got married, people have been pressuring me to have kids." You balled your hands into fists and continued in a trembling voice, "I feel like I have to give you a child. What if you leave me if I don't? Am I a terrible-"

Before you could continue, Leon pulled you into a tight hug, cutting you off mid-sentence as you gave in completely. You wrapped your arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder. He let you stay in that position until you had calmed down a bit.

Once your sobs had stopped, your husband pressed a kiss onto your neck and asked, "Can I see your face? Is that okay?" You nodded slightly and pulled back a bit so that you were looking at each other again.

He wiped a couple of tears away, starting to talk "You're not obligated to give me anything. Your body is your choice, and there is no need for a justification."

"But-"

"No, let me speak." The voice was slightly stern, but not angry. It made you bite your lip while he continued, "I don’t want kids either. That hasn’t changed. Whatever people are saying to you, forget it. The only person I want is you. The idea of being with someone else? It doesn't even cross my mind. You keep me grounded more than you realise. Without you, things would feel pretty damn empty. So, whoever has been putting that idea in your head, don't listen to them. And the next time someone tries, tell me, alright?"

You nodded and he leaned forward, leaving a quick kiss against your lips. "I love you, and that's not going to change."

"I love you too," you whispered back, and you two lay down again. His arms never leaving your body as he pulled you tightly against himself, and you were finally able to sleep.

one thing with leon, is that he will remember every single thing you say. your car is doing those weird noises when you drive? the very next day he’s standing there in front of your car, hood open, dirty hands digging in the mechanic. you mentioned your favorite flowers being peonies? soon enough there is a HUGE bouquet of peonies sitting in your arms, almost too big for you. you hate the cold? if he’s inviting you over, he’s setting his thermostat to 22° celcius to make sure his place will be warm enough for you — even if he, himself, prefers lower temperatures. he just wants to know everything about you: your hobbies, your favorite movie, your favorite book, what you like or don’t… and will memorize them all.

confessing to you was… challenging, to say the least. between the fear of being rejected, and the guilt of falling for someone much younger than him, leon felt like it was selfish of him to make a move, when you had your entire life ahead of you. but what he couldn’t see were the gentle glances, your hand pressing his ever so softly, the hope blooming in your eyes the closer the two of you get. so when he finally managed to gather enough courage to tell you about his feelings, it felt like the sun would never stop shining above you. it was clumsy, he would sometimes stutter over his own words because even if he is leon s kennedy the dso agent, he’s also very vulnerable and completely unfamiliar with opening up. but you were patient… as you always were. holding his hands with yours, thumbs gently rubbing the back of them, eyes never leaving his face. you didn’t try to rush him, didn’t cut him half sentence even if he was struggling… you just let him be. showing him you will always listen to him, that talking about his own feelings was more than alright. of course he told you about how he probably wasn’t the best choice, that you most definitely had dozens of men waiting for the smallest opportunities… and that made you laugh. because, again, he couldn’t see how in love you were with him, since the very beginning. his worries all vanished when your lips met his in a gentle kiss… right after telling him you waited for this very day for the longest time.

“Are you still sure that you don’t want me to take you home?” he asked, looking at your slumped posture, his hair messily out of place. You despised how stressed you were making him.

“Don’t take me home-” your phone rang. Your head hurt too badly to even want to look at the bright screen, but the words ‘Mom’ pierced through your eyes, and you saw the 7 missed calls and the other 10 threatening messages that she sent you.

It was enough to snap you out of your delirium.

Eyes widening, your phone slipped from your hands, and you shook Leon’s arm.

“I forgot about- fuck I forgot about dinner. Leon, you have to take me to my parents’ house,” you pleaded, hoping that you could just miraculously bottle the fever up.

“Are you insane?”

“Leon,” you stared at him with all the determination in the world despite your eyelids slowly sliding downwards and your head swaying a little, “Leon.”

“Yes?”

Your eyes eventually closed and your head fell back onto the headrest.

He tutted, turning the engine on, “You are certainly not going to dinner.”

And that’s how you ended up in your boss’s guest room bed.

You woke up in a sweat, nausea now clambering in your stomach and uncontrollable shivers shooting through your body. A little lost to where you were, your eyes scanned around the room, because the ceiling definitely wasn’t yours.

It smelt familiar, like coffee and leather. A scent that belonged in the office. In Leon’s office.

“Leon?” you mumbled out, pushing yourself upwards with your elbows. You were still in your office clothes from yesterday, but your heels had been slipped off, and a cold cloth was pressed on your forehead. At the end of the bed was clean, fresh clothes.

Slumped in a chair next to your bed was Leon. His face was softer when he slept, holding a youthful look to it as the usual tense knot in his face had loosened. You always wondered what his resting face looked like after seeing the pure adrenaline, predator scowl he had etched into his face.

The room held plain, cream-coloured walls with long windows from the ceiling to the floor that looked over a forest. The curtains cast ripples on the carpet as a window was left open to keep fresh air channelling through the room.

However, as soon as his name slipped from your mouth, he stirred immediately. His eyes shot open and his posture snapped into shape. He was still wearing the same navy suit from yesterday, just a few buttons undone at the top and his hair was dishevelled like he had run his hand through it a hundred times.

“Hey,” he said softly, “take it easy.”

He carefully removed the cloth from your forehead and pressed the back of his hand against your forehead.

“Better than yesterday.”

You weren’t sure if he was talking to himself or you.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” you croaked, pushing his hand away and slipping your feet out of the duvet to stand up.

“What are you doing?” he questioned sternly, the crease in his eyebrow deepening.

“Am I not allowed to get up…?” you stared at him, your eyes cringing at the bright light that slipped through the curtains and shone blindingly around Leon’s figure. From your point of view, he looked like an angel.

Sweat still clung to your face, a heat itching at your cheeks.

“You need rest,” his deep voice smoothed the throbbing bumps of your mind.

“I’ve rested.”

“You passed out. There’s a difference. You’re still hot and sick,” he said as he patted the damp cloth on your face, gently moving aside the hair that was stuck to your face.

You flopped back onto the bed, “you suck as a doctor.”

He let out a hum as he pushed a glass of water into your hands, and then two pills in the other.

“Drink,” he demanded, his eyes flicking to his watch and then back at you.

“Still bossy.”

“Funny that, because I’m your boss,” he said it with a small laugh, but then his expression flickered into something with regret.

The words floated awkwardly in the room like they didn’t belong there.

Because they were true, but also weirdly false at the same time.

He is your boss, but the typical boundaries of an employee and their boss had been totally blurred by the two of you.

Bosses didn’t sleep in a ridiculously uncomfortable chair all night and keep their employee in their guest room to look after them.

“What’s the time?” you asked, wiping the water on your lips with your sleeve.

“Four pm.”

“Four?! The presentation- oh my god my parents-,” you shot up out of the bed, feeling your chest twist in that unpleasant way all over again, pain coming in waves of sharp volts.

“Hey-“ he grabbed you before you toppled over.

“No- I forgot about dinner with my parents; I needed to be there- where is my phone?! And head office! I don’t have the presentation I won’t be able to present it-,” your head frantically turned left and right, your wrists still being held by Leon’s hand.

“You were unconscious,” he said monotonously.

“Where’s my phone?”

“You passed out mid-sentence in my car,” he continued in the same, slightly frustrated tone.

“I need to call them.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he declared.

“Leon,” you head snapped to him, tilting your head a little to give him puppy-eyes.

He sighed, letting go of your wrists, “your phone is right here. On the bedside.”

You picked it up and stared at the phone screen. 10 missed calls. 13 messages. Your eye twitched, a dread taking root in your body.

“I’m done for. She’s going to skin me alive and serve me as a meal for her next dinner!”

“I think that’s slightly excessive.”

“You clearly haven’t met my mother.”

Your phone began to buzz. Your fingers were shaking. For the first time, you felt like you couldn’t deal with anything, which was strange, because you always dealt with everything no matter the condition you were in. Stopping was never allowed.

“I- I can’t do it.”

“Then you don’t. Focus on resting,” he said, holding up the duvet so you could slide back under it. He said it so effortlessly, like resting was just second nature to him. You hesitantly laid your back onto the mattress, letting him fuss over you. “Sherry stopped by and dropped some clean clothes off for you,”

You hummed something unintelligible deliriously as exhaustion crashed over you, the softness of the pillows catalysing this.

He sat in his chair and paused on your face before standing up.

“I’m gonna get some coffee.”

“Leon,” you reached out and grabbed his hand, and his head snapped back to you, your pleading eyes staring back into his icy ones, “don’t leave.”

He stilled, but placed himself back on the seat, watching your face instantly relax as you succumbed to exhaustion, as if it was his presence that let you fall asleep.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his mouth. But his thumb was absently rubbing gentle circles into your palm.

He tried to imagine the DSO without you, and suddenly all the color was drained from it. Your withdrawal from him, the resignation letter, the collapse in the elevator – it all scared him in ways he didn’t think was possible. This wasn’t him. He was used to dealing with fear on the field but losing you would be a type of fear that wouldn’t let him get out of bed without a struggle.

You looked smaller when you slept. Less guarded, like you were no longer waiting for someone’s criticism. The usual determination that sat in your expression was softened by exhaustion.

You trusted him enough to fall asleep like this. In his house, holding his hand.

He couldn’t mess this up.

When you woke up, the soft glistening glow of the moon swept through the curtains. Leon was sat at the bed, his reading glasses reflecting the glow of the laptop that was on his lap. His suit jacket was draping over the chair; he was only in his button up shirt. His collar hung lazily around his neck and his sleeves were rolled up. Veins on his forearms were dimly lit by the lamp on the desk, and they tensed every few seconds when his eyebrows furrowed deeply.

Your fingers were loosely clinging around his hand, while his other hand was scrolling through emails. He clearly hadn’t moved it since you fell asleep.

“Hi,” you said awkwardly as you pushed yourself up, your hand letting go of his, embarrassed.

“Hi,” he said back, just as awkwardly. “Not to suck but I got an email from Head Office.”

“W-What did it say?” you stuttered, every possible scenario rushing through your head, studying his face for any hint of disappointment.

“That you and I need to come in on Monday to discuss your position at the DSO,” he replied, predicting what you were going to say next, “you’re not getting fired.”

“How do you know?” you said instantly, ready to shoot him with another million questions.

“Because you’re my assistant. I’m not letting it happen,” he shook his head, then shut his laptop and stood up, quickly shutting down any possible idea of you not being in his office. “Would you like me to run you a bath?”

A subtle blush crept onto your cheeks. Was he crazy? Or were you crazy? You had to both be crazy.

You nodded, feeling like the shy assistant that walked into his office for the first time.

He petted your head, then he quickly retracted his hand, regretting what he just did, and disappeared into the ensuite, the sound of water splashing into the tub echoing around the room.

A small exhale left your nose as the corners of your mouth curved upwards, finding his awkwardness slightly endearing.

You began to explore his apartment as he fussed around your bath.

It seemed that his leather jacket collection extended into his home, because they were all neatly hanging up in a dark oak closet by the entrance. There was a brown battered one with a cream-colored fur snugly attached to the collar, a black one with two grey stripes circling the sleeves and another black one with an exaggerated collar that had an even fluffier fur.

It was strange that none of his usual weapons were visible, even though he typically showed them off to you before missions with a toothy grin. But this thought was quickly shut down after you opened a door to a room that had guns displayed on walls from ceiling to floor like paintings. Axes and knives and many other weapons that you couldn’t even name were all hanging there, polished and sparkling. There was gym equipment set up- too many weights on that pole, you thought. You decided it was best to keep that door closed.

He had a very clean alcohol cabinet with fancy bottles, some in languages you couldn’t even begin to read. Most of them were almost empty.

You came across picture frames, photos of him with Sherry and a woman in a red leather jacket. Another photo of him with a different blond woman, he was different here. Blonder, not a hint of a wrinkle or a grey hair. None of the frames matched with the rest of the decorum in his house- these must’ve been gifts.

The silver clock ticked away in the background.

A record player was neatly tucked in the corner, with shelves stacked full of vinyls. Your fingers flicked through all the different albums, ranging from 70s to 90s. There was The Police, Alice In Chains, Nirvana, Violent Femmes, Rage Against The Machine, Screaming Trees and many, many more. You snickered when you found Duran Duran. Rolled your eyes when you found Radiohead.

There was a lace of coldness that draped over the apartment. The pillows weren’t worn, the kitchen looked far too clean, there was no dents in the furniture or stains – nothing that signalled the presence of someone. Everything was in perfect (expensive) condition, apart from the dead plants in the corner.

He was haunting his own apartment.

“Baths ready.” He was dressed out of his office wear, and in grey sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt. Your eyes widened like you had seen him naked. You had never seen anyone wear casual things. When you lived with your parents, they expected nothing less of you. It was either on your best form or don’t be here at all.

“Uh- thanks- thank you,” you stammered, walking past him rapidly so you didn’t have with bear with your awkwardness any longer.

You clicked the door behind you and leant your back against it, pressing a hand to your face.

Your face was warm and you couldn’t tell if it was the fever or something else.

Steam swirled from the bath; he had almost filled it to the brim.

You peeled your office clothes from your body and lowered yourself into the bath and a quiet sigh escaped from your throat.

There was an assortment of soaps that had been placed on the side. Again, they were all in different languages, seemingly different soaps from all the hotels he stayed at on his international missions. It felt weird to look at these, it was all a life he had before he met you, you felt like a stranger despite spending so much time with him.

A heat crawled up your neck as you thought about the way he never let go of your hand and imagining him carrying you into your apartment. You sank lower into the bath. He had seen you at your most disgusting, raw and worst yet he was running you a bath and making you dinner in the kitchen.

You tried your hardest to remember what happened in the elevator.

The rough sensation of his stubble, his hands holding you and his panicked face quickly flooded back, and it was enough to send you into a flustered coma.

You were sat at his kitchen island, on those long stools, with your hair twisted in a towel and wearing the pyjamas that Sherry left, a very nice baby-blue matching set.

“Food.” He placed a plate of pasta in front of you.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to… do all of this for me,” you thanked him, grabbing your fork and refusing eye contact with him.

“Well, I didn’t really have a choice when you passed out in my car. I couldn’t leave you alone like that. You need to stop running yourself into the ground, it doesn’t help anyone.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, staring at the pasta in front of you.

“Hey, don’t apologise,” he said softer, his voice deepening, “Your only job right now is to get better.”

Both of you went quiet; the ticking of the clock and your fork clunking against the plate were heard. He then poured himself a drink, whiskey. There was something restrained in the way he poured it though, like this was less than he usually drank.

“So, did I ruin any of your weekend plans?” you broke the silence, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Didn’t have any, luckily for you,” he said, a small laugh laced in his words, leaning against the counter.

“Leon S. Kennedy doesn’t have any weekend plans?”

“You sound surprised,” he crossed his arms.

“Yeah, you know, I’d be thinking you would be saving the world by breakfast or something.”

He huffed, “how did you know?”

“Just had a hunch,” you winked, very badly, at him. Cringing at yourself, your gaze fell down back to your plate.

You felt his burning gaze pierce right through you.

“You’re staring,” you called him out, pushing your pasta around like it personally offended you.

“Just making sure you’re eating,” he muttered, putting his arms up in surrender.

“I am eating.”

“You’re prodding at it as if I fed you worms,” he sighed, pushing your drink towards you. “Drink too.”

The two of you ended up on his couch; Leon demanded you have a blanket spread over your legs.

You sat on one end. He sat on the other.

You were watching this stupid movie; you had hardly even kept up with plot because you kept drifting off to sleep and you didn’t know why but you felt like every time you opened your eyes, Leon had shifted himself closer to you.

You noticed his sleepy state, his half-open eyes reflecting the blare of the television. His hair looked so soft you just wanted to run your fingers along it over and over again until they were numb from the feeling. His fingers held loosely around his glass containing a little amount of that golden liquid.

It wasn’t fair that you collapsed in the elevator. You wanted to take care of him too. Just because he was better at keeping himself together didn’t mean he wasn’t as equally exhausted as you were.

He had been lapping up his whiskey all summer like a dehydrated plant, and it was often he stayed longer hours than you did. Once you caught sight of a long scar across his abdomen when he was getting patched up after a mission that involved many losses. It was hard to fathom how he coped with it all, but the answer was clearly staring right back at you from his glass.

Now you were worried that you added even more stress onto his conscience. He already had to deal with so much and now collapsing on him in the elevator felt selfish and stupid.

“Leon,” you whispered.

“Yes,” he whispered back, his eyes still glued to the screen, but he tilted his body towards you subtly.

“Did I scare you?”

His fingers stopped rubbing his glass.

“A little,” he admitted, not telling you that he would’ve literally torn the whole DSO building down to make sure you were okay.

Your stomach twisted with guilt.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to stay with me all day.”

“Yes I did,” he said firmly, his face finally turning towards you with a small smile. The same reassuring look he gave you when you told him you were nervous on your first day as his assistant.

Silence settled between you again.

Your eyelids felt heavier with every passing second and so did your head as it tipped to the side and then rested against something solid and warm. You stilled. He froze.

Your head was resting against his shoulder.

Heat shot through your face, and you pulled your head away immediately, “Sorry-”

“It’s fine.” He said quickly, extremely quick in fact. You paused. Everything in you craved to rest your head back on him, to feel safe next to him and to know that this actually means something to him.

You always held yourself back from getting the things you wanted because your mind restricted everything you did. You were a coward. The fear of being rejected had pulled you around on strings for so long, you felt childish.

So, you slowly leaned back again with more care. He didn’t move or shift away. His body relaxed slightly under the weight. Neither of you said anything. He only pulled over the blanket for it to cover his legs too.

Eventually, your breathing slowed as your body subconsciously shifted itself closer to him. He glanced down, muttered “Unbelievable.” and turned down the volume of the television before stretching his arm around you.

Sunday morning came quickly, and you were pleasantly woken by the sound of something sizzling. There was a dip in the sofa where Leon was resting, and now you could hear his humming from the kitchen. It felt odd to not immediately open your laptop or start reading through files, but just this once you allowed and embraced the absence of it.

“Morning,” you croaked, rubbing your eyes and placing yourself on one of the stools.

“Morning. Feeling better?” he asked, pushing a glass of water to you and then returning to the eggs that were frying and bubbling in the pan. It annoyed you how the morning seemingly didn’t affect Leon in the same way it affected you.

“Yeah… I do,” you realised that the pounding, stuffy feeling in your mind had disappeared, but wrecked your body in the meantime, because everything ached. He leaned over the island and pressed the back of his hand against your forehead.

“I swear if you do that one more time-” you swatted his hand away.

“You look better.”

“Wow. Thank you, Doctor Kennedy,” you rolled your eyes, “Seems like you’re chef Kennedy too. What’s for breakfast?”

He wanted to say that you had a lot of sass for someone who could hardly form a sentence when they first interacted with him. But he decided to keep his mouth shut. Minus the teasing, he felt strangely proud, and happy even that he made you comfortable enough to laugh and tease him in his own home.

“Eggs on toast,” he then felt the presence of your stare. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

A huge smile was stretching across your face, your eyes reflecting the morning light. His cheeks felt warm.

“It’s funny.”

“How?” he questioned, genuinely confused, shaking his head as if he could shake the blush off his cheeks.

“Well, when I first joined the DSO everyone said you were scary. And now you’re cooking breakfast for me,” you explained, gesturing at him as he held a spatula.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he muttered, turning back to the eggs with a smirk tugging on his lips.

“You were even humming!”

“Drop it,” he grumbled, buttering your toast.

“Kennedy is cooking and humming for me!”

“Quit it or I’m revoking breakfast privileges,” he threatened as he placed the eggs on top of your toast and sliding the plate over to you. “There’s salt and pepper on the side if you want it.”

You grinned and took a bite.

It was a quiet ride home, you were still in your pyjamas embarrassingly, but Leon lent you his hoodie to ‘help’. The radio blurred into the background as long, towering trees passed you by.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be fun,” you sighed, your hands fiddling on your lap, his sleeves so big only your fingers points through them. Dread felt heavy on your chest already.

He hummed in agreement, “it’ll be fine though.”

Leon always had a great habit of reassuring people even when he wasn’t even sure of the outcome himself.

“What about the possibility of me being fired?”

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“You’re not getting fired, how many times do I need to say this?”

“But how do you even know that?” you turned to him, your eyes desperately searching for reassurance in his.

“You’re my assistant.”

You huffed, sinking further into your seat.

“Like that’s a good argument.”

“It is to me,” he said, seemingly calm. He smiled a little, proud of his answer.

He stopped outside your house, your sprinklers showering the colorful tulips that sat sweetly in pots.

“Thank you, Leon. I’ll see you tomorrow,” you thanked him, and then paused, your hand hovering over the handle.

You had far too many impulsive thoughts that weekend.

He was looking at you patiently, like if you wanted to stay in his car and do absolutely nothing, he would let you.

You had paused too long to not say something now. But what do you even say? Thank you again?

His head tilted, “You okay?”

“Yeah- I, uhm.”

Maybe you should wave. but people don’t wave inside of cars.

He took care of you all weekend, cooking, running you a bath, just making sure you were okay. And you were just going to thank him and leave?

But you didn’t owe him anything. Not like that. Don’t be a disgusting perv.

Your brain settled on leaning over and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before your consistent anxiety could stop it.

And by the time his brain had caught up, you were already scrambling and running into your house before either of you could confront the feelings that had intensified over the weekend.

edit: here is part 6

Note: That was probably the longest chapter so far, and I deleted a whole scene so it took me way longer than expected. This was definitely a struggle to write but I hope you guys enjoyed it... I'm kind of worried about my writing becoming sloppier and repetitive so the next chapter might take longer to ensure only the highest quality!!, we will see. Thank you so much for reading this series has totally changed my blog, I'm having so much fun interacting with you all!! Also I did make myself laugh when I made a salt and pepper reference.

much forgotten taglist:

@babygirl-panda19 @musegonemad @cherry-4200 @mmeerraa @cautioniwillbite @whoskeiraaa @aliidarling @frazzled-soul @onebatch--twobatch @jeewhat @connoresque @girlwithadragonheart @qngelical @djoslola @wastedpanda @mara-brekker @rednnedy @applerpi @404creep @mommafirefly666 @brooke1228 @justvalkyrie @animegamerfox @theuncommoncorner @callme-amaya @itsjustbell @brightestflame @sharkalina666 @iheartdaenerys @keopio @zea-is-queen @youkoden @youmake1mistake @caroline-the-cat @deo-data @toorulee @linsweetgirl @stinkystick @parasuchus @doribtw @chocoismasochist @toastloverr

Courthouses were very different from hospitals and every time she found herself forced to step into one, she knew she was lucky to have chosen law over medicine. Although each one implied its own challenges, she thought that at least she didn’t have to check every five minutes to see if the patient was still alive; at most, her biggest concern was that her client wouldn’t end up in prison. Besides, she knew how demanding it was and how relationships could break due to spending 100 hours a week buried in work. She didn’t need to imagine it because she had it proven.

Her perfume left a soft trail as she passed. The tailored dress and the confidence in her walk made eyes inevitably turn toward her, too focused on finding the medical diagnostics office to notice it. When she finally found the glass door with his name engraved on a plaque, she turned the doorknob without even knocking.

From the other end of the hallway, Cameron, Foreman and Chase were at the nurses’ station, reviewing medical records and discussing treatments. For some reason, as if she felt called to the scene, the girl turned.

“Hey… did you see who just went into House’s office?” she asked in a low voice.

Foreman and Chase followed her gaze. Through the glass, they could see the feminine silhouette leaning slightly over House’s desk, who remained seated with his usual sarcastic expression.

“Who do you think she is?” whispered Foreman, frowning.

“Clearly she’s not a patient.”

“Nor family. Nobody comes dressed like that to visit someone sick,” added Chase.

His tone – which lived somewhere between irony and lust – earned him a tired look from Cameron.

“She could be his… friend.”

Foreman raised an eyebrow, amused. Chase gave a small smile.

“From the look, I’d say she’s ‘high profile’.”

“Foreman” Cameron shook her head, although her eyes remained fixed on the scene.

From their position, they could see how House leaned back in his chair with a satisfied expression while she crossed her arms and said something the three of them couldn’t hear. Then she took a seat in the chair in front, pulling some documents out of her bag.

“She’s definitely not a doctor,” Foreman continued, arms crossed.

“I’m still betting on… something else,” said Chase, shrugging.

“What kind of person ‘bets’ on what someone does when they don’t even know them?” replied Cameron, though she didn’t stop watching as if it were a mystery that needed solving.

Although they tried to return to their duties, it was impossible not to look.

A few minutes later, the hallway door opened and Wilson appeared with his calm walk, holding a coffee. From afar, they saw him smile broadly at the female presence and then, when he entered the office, greet her with an affectionate hug followed by a kiss on the cheek.

“Wilson knows her too, now?”

“That only confirms my theory.”

“What theory?” asked Cameron, seeing Chase cross his arms.

He smiled to the side.

“That House has… very interesting connections.”

Cameron rolled her eyes.

“Or that she’s someone important and you two are letting your imagination run too wild.”

“I don’t think so. It’s called deductive analysis.”

“I call it cheap gossip,” replied Foreman, although he didn’t look away either.

Curiosity, in the diagnostics department, was a work tool, but what Cameron, Foreman and Chase felt at that moment brushed up against anthropology. They watched how Wilson laughed with a looseness improper for an oncologist, and how he took a seat near the stranger with a familiarity that dismantled any professional theory.

House, whose peripheral vision was as sharp as his tongue, didn’t need to turn his head to know that his three subordinates were looking through the glass like children in front of a display case of forbidden candy. He enjoyed the moment, letting the uncertainty simmer while Wilson and the guest exchanged a conversation.

“Enough,” sentenced House inside the office, although his voice only reached the hallway like a muffled buzz.

With a deliberately slow movement, House took his cane and hit the glass three times. The deep, dry sound made the three doctors straighten immediately, as if they had been caught rummaging through the narcotics drawer. With an imperious gesture of his hand, House indicated that they should come in.

“If you’re going to act like biologists observing an endangered species, at least have the decency to take notes,” said House as soon as they crossed the threshold.

The team spread across the office with palpable discomfort. Chase, adjusting his lab coat, positioned himself at an angle that allowed him a clear view of the woman. Up close, she was even more impressive.

“Any new case we should review, House?” asked Foreman, trying to regain professionalism, although his eyes didn’t stop studying the guest.

“Yes, actually,” answered House, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet on the desk, right next to the young woman’s designer bag, “Let me introduce you to the most complex medical case you’re going to see in your careers”

He paused dramatically, enjoying Foreman’s confusion and Chase’s fixed stare.

“It’s a biological chimera, the result of a collision of phenotypes where a strangely perfect DNA chain decided to fuse with a pure strain of neurotoxicity. Observe the specimen: an organism of high resistance that has gone from the incubation phase to a state of absolute cognitive autonomy, developing an immune response to any attempt at parental control. It’s an autosomal dominant mutation, a luxury parasite that is the only diagnosis for which I don’t have, nor do I want, any cure.”

The young woman sighed, as if she had been waiting for him to finish his exaggerated monologue. She looked at the three doctors with a mixture of indulgence and sharpness.

“Forgive my father. He tends to use clinical metaphors when he doesn’t want to give simple explanations.”

The silence that followed her words was absolute, one of those heavy voids that House usually filled with sarcasm, but that this time he let expand. Cameron blinked repeatedly, trying to understand whether she had heard correctly. Foreman, for his part, let out a short sigh, an exhalation of pure disbelief; he, who always prided himself on his analytical capacity, felt as if he had overlooked an obvious symptom during an entire physical exam.

Chase was the one who took the longest to catch his breath. The confidence with which he had leaned against the doorway vanished, and his hand, which had been playing with the stethoscope, froze. The interest that had previously shone in his eyes like an easy conquest turned into a mix of fear and forbidden fascination.

“Father?” the word slipped from Chase’s mouth before he could filter it.

House let out a dry laugh, enjoying his subordinate’s bewilderment.

“Oh, yes. I have a daughter. Did I forget to mention it?” he asked with biting sarcasm. “Normally I don’t go around proclaiming our kinship; I don’t want people thinking her success in court is due to my charming genes. I wouldn’t want to embarrass her with my… local hero condition.”

“He says that because if people knew I existed, they’d have tangible proof that he once had feelings,” she added, throwing House a look loaded with an affection that no one in that hospital had ever managed to show him.

Wilson, who remained leaning against the back of the armchair, intervened with a conspiratorial smile.

“And I’m her godfather,” he added.

The sole intention was to increase the surprise.

“It’s nice to meet you,” murmured Cameron first, trying to be cordial.

“Huh, yes. Daughter, these are my lackeys on duty,” interrupted House, waving his free hand toward the group with a gesture of disdain. “Doctor Chase, who thinks he’s special, Doctor Cameron, who believes in people, and Doctor Foreman, who knows that neither of them is right.”

Each one came closer to shake her hand, with a polite smile, and when it was the blond’s turn, she shook his hand with a firmness that left no room for reply.

“Nice to meet you,” she replied briefly, withdrawing her hand before the contact could turn social. “My father tends to omit people’s names in his anecdotes, so it’s good to put faces to them.”

Chase cleared his throat, feeling for the first time that his smile wasn’t having the desired effect.

“Are you staying around here?” asked Chase.

“For a while.”

“Well… welcome.”

“Thank you.”

House observed the exchange, noticing how Chase tried to maintain eye contact longer than necessary. Although he didn’t comment on it, he was analyzing the situation, as he always did.

Before Chase could articulate another word, the rhythmic tapping of other heels —these faster and familiar— announced the entrance of Lisa Cuddy. The hospital director walked in with a file under her arm, stopping short when she saw the audience inside House’s office.

Her eyes went from House to the young lawyer, and a genuine smile, almost of relief, softened her tired expression.

“Wow, I didn’t know you were visiting,” Cuddy said, approaching to give her an affectionate squeeze on the arm. “How are you, sweetie?”

“Good, Lisa. Everything has been going pretty well,” she answered with a natural smile, revealing a relationship of years.

Cuddy nodded, dropping the file with a dry thump on House’s desk, who didn’t even bother removing his feet.

“Your father owes me three reports from this week. Maybe you’ll get him to use his brain for something other than insulting my staff,” Cuddy stated, before turning toward the three doctors who were still there, frozen. “You have a case.”

House waved his cane toward the door, reinforcing the order with a disdainful gesture.

“You heard the boss. Go play doctors” House spat “Take the file and try not to kill anyone before lunch.”

Foreman was the first to react, taking the file with a stiff nod. Cameron gave one last curious look at House’s daughter before leaving, and Chase, visibly reluctant, was the last to cross the threshold, throwing a fleeting glance over his shoulder that House intercepted with a mocking grimace.

When the glass door closed, the air in the office changed. The tension evaporated, leaving only House, Wilson, and her in an environment that, for anyone who didn’t know them, might have seemed cold, but for them was their own version of normal.

“Don’t you have to go supervise them?”

“They have four hours before they start administering the wrong treatment; I prefer they make mistakes without me watching,” House answered, settling back in his chair with a sigh that betrayed the fatigue in his leg. He shot a cutting glance at the closed door before fixing his blue eyes on his daughter. “Besides, if I go out now, everyone will ask me too many questions I don’t want to answer.”

She let out a soft laugh, leaning back with an elegance that contrasted with the chronic mess of her father’s desk. Wilson, for his part, simply crossed his arms, watching them with the silent satisfaction of someone who has guarded a valuable secret for far too long.

“You’re still a terrible mentor,” she commented, looking at the pill bottle House was playing with between his fingers, “But I suppose that’s the price of being a genius. Spencer says your last diagnosis on Whipple’s disease was statistically improbable, but brilliant.”

“Spencer is a romantic about data,” grumbled House, although the mention of the young doctor seemed to soften his expression. “Tell him that the improbable is still possible if the rest of the idiots stop looking at the common symptoms. What time does his class or whatever he’s teaching end?”

Wilson laughed, sitting on the edge of the desk.

“House, don’t be modest. He’s been reviewing Reid’s seminar itinerary since yesterday…” he told his goddaughter, with a certain complicity. “I think he’s more excited to talk to him than to see you.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” muttered House, though he didn’t deny it. “I just want to make sure his IQ hasn’t dropped from spending so much time with cops.”

She smiled, looking at her father with that mixture of patience and sharpness that only she and Stacy possessed.

“Spencer is fine, Dad. In fact, he’s also eager to see you. He brought a couple of books on criminal neurology that he thinks will interest you.”

“Brains and books. Sometimes I wonder if you didn’t design him in a lab, so I couldn’t find any flaws,” House grumbled, although the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. “Well, but if anything… a skinny nerd.”

For Gregory, affection was a currency he rarely minted, but Spencer Reid was the exception to all his rules of misanthropy.

It wasn’t just the fact that Spencer could recite Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine from memory or that they shared a worldview based on pure logic; it was that Spencer was the only man House considered “worthy” of his daughter. In the diagnostician’s mind, only an intellect capable of processing the world at his speed could understand and protect the complexity of the woman sitting in front of him.

“Spencer isn’t a project, dad” she replied, softening her gaze. “He’s far from it. And it doesn’t matter if he’s a weird kid, that’s how I like him.”

Her relationship with Reid was a sanctuary of calm in the middle of the chaos of their respective professions. They had met at a conference on criminal law and neuroscience in D.C., and what began as a debate on the validity of criminal profiling in court ended with them talking until dawn in a 24-hour café. Spencer loved her ferocity in court as much as she loved the way he lost track of time when explaining anything that fascinated him.

He was the perfect balance: Wilson’s sweetness combined with House’s brainpower, without the latter’s bitterness. Two of the men she loved most in the world.

“I only like talking to him because he’s one of the few who doesn’t make me want to use the cane against his skull after five minutes,” admitted House, as close as he would get to confessing affection. “And the fact that he survived three dinners with Stacy without suffering a psychotic break makes him an acceptable candidate for tonight’s dinner.”

“You call him ‘acceptable’, but my godfather is right,” she added, pointing with her chin at the oncologist. “You’re dying to argue with him about that neurology article you mentioned last time.”

Wilson nodded with a mocking smile.

“Yesterday, he tried to convince me that Reid’s analysis of serial killers’ behavioral patterns is ‘slightly less stupid’ than average. In House’s language, that means he considers him his intellectual successor.”

“Enough,” House cut in, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you have things to do? Something along the lines of treating dying patients?”

Wilson raised his hands in a gesture of peaceful surrender, stealing one last cookie from House’s desk before walking toward the door.

“I’m going. Someone in this hospital has to at least pretend they care about medical ethics,” Wilson said, giving his goddaughter a playful wink. “See you at dinner, sweetheart.”

When the door closed behind him, the silence left in the office felt different — more intimate, stripped of the audience House so often used for his performances. She shifted on the edge of the desk, watching as her father spun a pencil between his fingers with mechanical ease.

“Well?” House asked, without looking up from the pencil. “Which luxury hotel did they put you up in? I assume the FBI has a halfway decent budget for their brilliant minds — at least enough to cover sheets with a reasonable thread count.”

“Spencer and I rented a different place. It’s a small hotel near the station, nothing fancy,” she replied, dismissing it with a small gesture. “He prefers quiet places where he can read without the city traffic screaming through the window.”

House nodded vaguely, and for a second, his gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall.

“Then you can go,” he said, with his usual brusqueness — though there was no poison in the words. “You probably have bags to unpack or some penal code to highlight while the genius dazzles his audience.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she crossed her arms and studied him with a tilted smile — the one House knew meant she wasn’t going to do what he said.

“Actually, I was thinking of staying here for a while,” she said softly. “If you don’t mind.”

House arched a brow, the pencil stalling between his fingers.

“Here?” he repeated, gesturing toward the worn-out couch. “What for? It’s boring…”

“I want to spend time with you, Dad,” she interrupted gently — and the honesty in her voice disarmed the sarcastic comeback forming on House’s tongue. “Spencer won’t finish his seminar until late, and it’s been months since we’ve been in the same room for more than ten minutes.”

House stay quiet. He pretended the suggestion annoyed him beyond reason. He scratched at the stubble on his chin and stared at the whiteboard, crowded with crossed-out symptoms.

“The couch is uncomfortable,” he grumbled at last, retreating into his familiar mask of disdain. “But if you insist on wasting your afternoon watching me humiliate my employees, I guess I can’t throw you out. At least not until your boyfriend shows up and gives me a good excuse to stop working.”

She smiled, knowing that was as close to an I love you as she was going to get.

“Deal,” she replied, settling into the chair. “I promise not to object to anything you say… unless it’s illegal.”

“Then prepare to object a lot,” House concluded with a half-smirk, turning back to his file.

Almost an hour had passed since House had sunk into a grave, self-imposed silence in front of his monitor. Feeling the stale air of the office, she finally slipped out to find something to drink. But when she returned, two sodas in hand, she found the sanctuary empty. House’s chair was still spinning slightly, but his cane — and his acid presence — were gone.

She walked the halls at an easy pace, assuming House had wandered off into some forbidden corner of the hospital, until the echo of raised voices stopped her near what looked like a lab. The door was half-open, and she leaned against the frame, in shadow, watching the three doctors move around the table with test tubes like the pieces of a clock that refused to fit.

“If it’s not an environmental toxin, then it has to be a cross-reaction,” Cameron was saying — tired, but stubborn — pointing at the lab results. “The fever went down, but the creatinine keeps climbing. If we don’t find the source, his kidneys are going to crash in a few hours.”

“House thinks he’s lying,” Foreman added, wiping a line off the whiteboard with a sharp, frustrated motion. “He thinks the patient is hiding a trip or some chemical exposure. He’s obsessed with the idea. But sometimes people just don’t know what’s killing them.”

“Or maybe House isn’t seeing clearly because his head is somewhere else,” Chase said, perched on the table, twirling a marker between his fingers. “House is distracted. And I don’t blame him. His daughter’s still here.”

“And what does that have to do with the differential?” Foreman shot back, though his eyes betrayed curiosity. “House has diagnosed cases during trials, crises, and overdoses. A family visit shouldn’t throw him off.”

“It’s not just a visit,” Chase insisted, glancing toward the glass door with almost inappropriate intensity. “It’s a reminder that House was once… young. Human. Did you see how he looks at her? There’s no cynicism. There’s… respect. More than Wilson gets sometimes. And—” he lowered his voice, smiling faintly “she’s stunning. Like someone took the best parts of House, scrubbed off the bitterness and wrapped them in a three-thousand-dollar dress. Genetics is a mystery. In this case, it’s a miracle.”

“Chase, please,” Cameron muttered, tugging at her lab coat, though her eyes remained fixed on the board. “A man who hides behind pain to avoid connection doesn’t exactly scream ‘family man.’ Honestly, it feels like she’s the one keeping him in line. It’s unsettling.”

“She’s an anomaly,” Chase concluded, stopping the marker, still fascinated. “Elegant, sharp, and I’m betting she’s brilliant. It’s like House tried to build a version of himself who could actually survive the real world — without the cane and without insulting everyone in sight.”

“And again,” Cameron said, “what does that have to do with the differential?”

“Maybe she’s proof House still has secrets,” Foreman replied, focusing again on the creatinine numbers. “Like the rest of us.”

The team dynamic was strange — like watching fragmented versions of her father: Cameron was the empathy he tried to suppress; Foreman, the rigid logic he weaponized; Chase, the ambition he despised and admired at once.

Finally, she decided the truce was over. She pushed the door gently and stepped inside, bursting the bubble of clinical tension. All three froze — as if the diagnosis itself had just walked into the room.

“You know, if three brilliant people can’t find the answer, maybe it’s because you’re asking the wrong question,” she said, setting the sodas on an empty shelf.

Cameron jumped. Foreman immediately rebuilt his professional posture.

“I thought the old man was with you,” she added, glancing at the scattered labs. “Guess he dumped the dirty work on you while he finds something more entertaining.”

“It’s part of the method,” Foreman replied with a tight smile. “How long were you standing there?”

“Just got here,” she lied, taking a seat and crossing her legs. “I was looking for him — but since you’re here… mind if I stay? As long as I’m not in the way.”

“Not at all,” Chase said quickly, smile brightening. “It’ll be a pleasure.”

She nodded politely, accepting the kindness as pure formality. Somehow, her presence seemed to steady the room; even Foreman softened.

“So,” Foreman said, studying her, “I’m guessing you’re not a doctor.”

“Lawyer,” she answered.

“And what kind of cases?”

“Criminal and constitutional law,” she said — calm but firm, the tone of someone used to having the last word. “High-complexity litigation. I guess obsession with evidence and truth runs in the genes.”

Cameron studied her carefully, searching for bitterness — finding none.

“It’s hard to picture him as a father,” Cameron murmured. “We see the man who prefers a microscope to a person. Was he… like that with everything?”

She paused, eyes on a specimen container, smiling faintly.

“There were no bedtime stories, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. “And I don’t remember him being affectionate. Not in the conventional way, anyway. He taught me the world would lie — but facts wouldn’t. That was his way of protecting me: giving me tools so no one could fool me.”

Then she leaned forward — sharp, almost predatory — and the cold clarity in her blue eyes was pure House.

“And do you resent him?” Chase asked.

“Resentment is just intellectual laziness,” she replied. “It assumes I expected him to be someone else. I learned early to accept people’s pathologies for what they are. He’s not a man of hugs — he’s a man of truths. Truth hurts, but it doesn’t betray you.”

Chase nodded, genuinely struck. Cameron wasn’t convinced.

“But you’re his daughter,” Cameron said softly. “There has to be something more. Some moment where he was just… Dad.”

She set the papers down and glanced at the ceiling, searching.

“When I was ten, I broke my arm,” she said. “He didn’t tell me it’d be okay. He didn’t bring me a toy. He sat beside me and explained exactly how the bone would heal and why pain mattered. Understanding it took away the fear. That was his version of parenting — giving me control through knowledge.”

Foreman sighed — half admiration, half resignation.

“It’s the same way he treats us,” he said. “Throws us into the fire so we learn not to burn. The difference is — we can quit. You can’t.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I wouldn’t want to. We don’t choose our parents.”

“No, we don’t,” Chase murmured.

A beat passed — heavy.

“At least he gave you answers,” Chase added quietly. “Most fathers just give you the pain — and expect you to guess why you deserved it.”

She looked at him — seeing the fracture beneath the charm.

“Can I ask you something?” she said suddenly. “How do you really see him?”

“As a boss or—?”

“I mean his mind. His leg. Him.”

The room fell silent. Foreman stared out the window. Cameron’s gaze dropped. Chase fidgeted.

“He’s addicted to puzzles,” Foreman said finally. “Medicine keeps him from thinking about pain. But it burns through everything around him.”

“I think he’s decided loneliness is the price of integrity,” Cameron added softly. “Sometimes it feels like he’s waiting for someone strong enough to stay.”

“I can’t be that person,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t want that.”

“Has he ever asked?” Cameron asked.

She shook her head.

“No. And if he did, something would be very wrong.”

“Seriously?” Foreman frowned.

“House doesn’t ask for help,” she said. “He dissects it, mocks it, or ignores it. Asking would mean losing control.”

Chase hesitated.

“And you never tried… getting closer?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Once.”

Cameron lifted her eyes.

“What happened?”

“He shut down,” she said simply. “I learned there are doors you don’t force.”

Foreman nodded slowly.

“So you respect the distance.”

“It’s the only way to stay,” she concluded. “And he knows it.”

The sentence lingered, uncomfortable, with the weight of a definitive diagnosis.

“Good,” said a voice from the doorway, dry, without preamble. “Did you already solve the case, or is this a social gathering?”

All three doctors turned immediately.

“Because,” House went on, walking in with his cane, “if you’re going to waste time talking about me, at least do it while you work.”

Cameron closed her mouth, surprised.

“We were—”

“—no,” House cut her off. “You were sitting. That doesn’t count.”

Foreman lowered his gaze to the file. “Creatinine levels are still elevated.”

“What a relief,” House replied. “I was afraid you’d decided to solve it with introspection.”

His gaze slid to her. Brief. Measured.

“And you,” he added, “are you done auditing my personal life, or is there still some flaw left to discuss?”

She didn’t flinch. “I just worry about you.”

House snorted. “Well, don’t. Or do it quietly, because right now I need you to work,” House finished, tapping the floor lightly with the cane. Then he barely motioned toward her with his eyes. “And you can’t do it with her here. She distracts you.”

Their blue eyes met for a second; both knew he was right. She stood up without arguing, with that ease only people who know every unspoken rule by heart have.

“I brought you a soda, by the way,” she said as she passed, as if it were a minor detail.

Then she simply left.

In the team’s conference room, the atmosphere was lighter, almost domestic.

Hours later, she was sitting at one end of the table with an open book in her hands, mentally underlining an idea while the portable coffeemaker finished bubbling. The smell of fresh coffee mixed with the clinical scent of the hospital, creating a strangely comforting contradiction.

She served herself a cup calmly, as if she weren’t in a hospital at all but in a stolen break from the world, and returned to her reading. The silence was comfortable; no one seemed to need to break it.

The door opened with a soft creak.

Chase walked in with a couple of test results in his hand and a focused expression, too focused to be casual. He stopped when he saw her, surprised just enough for it to show.

“Sorry, I… I didn’t know you were here,” he said, lowering his voice out of reflex.

“It’s quieter than the cafeteria,” she replied, without fully lifting her eyes from the book.

Chase set the tests on the table and went to the board, checking some numbers with a frown. The sound of the marker against the surface broke the silence.

There were a few minutes of analysis, and then he wiped off a figure with the back of his hand, leaving the marker on the ledge afterward. He hesitated for a second, as if weighing the room before speaking.

“Can I ask you something?” he said softly.

She closed the book slowly, lifting her gaze. “Sure.”

He hesitated just a second. “Your mother… what is she like?”

The answer didn’t come immediately. She set the book on the table, laced her fingers together and stared at some undefined point on the glass, as if arranging an old memory.

“Actually,” she began, with an unexpected half-smile, “she’s a lot like my father.”

Chase frowned, surprised. “Really?”

“A lot,” she continued. “Less ruthless, no doubt. And with a steadier moral compass. But just as brilliant, just as incisive… the difference is she knows when to stop.”

She looked back at him. “I guess that’s why they could love each other. And why they couldn’t stay together.”

Chase watched her a moment longer than strictly necessary. There was no hurry in his expression, no lightness; it was a steady, almost careful attention.

“I guess that explains why you don’t quite look like either of them,” he said at last, with a faint smile. “You have the best of both… and none of their most destructive habits.”

He shrugged, as if downplaying it, but didn’t look away.

“You don’t even know me. You can’t know that.”

“Yeah, huh… well, you’re right,” he added, lowering his voice a bit. He hadn’t expected such a sharp reply.

He hesitated a second and then added, with an awkward honesty he couldn’t quite hide: “I met House before I met you. And still, now that I hear you talk, it makes me wish it had been the other way around.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. She watched him more closely, as if that sentence had just rearranged something inside her head. Then she tilted her face slightly.

“Are you flirting with me?” she asked, without accusation.

Chase opened his mouth, closed it, and a crooked smile —more sincere than rehearsed— escaped him. “Is it working?”

She shook her head slowly, without losing her composure. “No.”

Chase let out a short breath of laughter through his nose, accepting defeat without drama.

“What a shame,” he said softly. “I would’ve loved it if it had.”

She held his gaze. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away either. And in that minimal gesture it became clear that, even if it didn’t work, she had noticed.

And that, for Chase, was already something.

When he picked up the files and headed toward the door, he stopped halfway, as if the thought had hit him when there was no turning back. He turned to her, still not giving up.

“Well… if you ever come back to New Jersey,” he said, shrugging, “we could have a coffee. Something that doesn’t come out of a hospital machine.”

He didn’t add anything else. He didn’t ask for an answer.

She looked at him calmly, without surprise, without promise. The silence stayed between them, deliberate.

In the end, she was the one who stood, picking up the empty cup. “I’m going to get something to eat,” she said naturally, as if she hadn’t just left a sentence hanging in the air.

Chase nodded. “Good idea.”

She walked past him toward the door. She said nothing more. But when she left, the smell of coffee stayed behind… and any answer did too.

It was already late afternoon and, any minute now, the moon would appear in the sky. Foreman walked down the hallway with the file open, reading without much interest. Chase walked beside him, but his attention was clearly elsewhere; his hands were in the pockets of his lab coat and his gaze was lost on the shiny hallway floor.

“I told her that if she ever came back to New Jersey…,” Chase said at last, pretending casualness, “we could have a coffee.”

Foreman looked up, intrigued. “With who?”

“House’s daughter.”

He opened his eyes slightly, unsurprised but a bit taken aback, and then continued: “And what did she say?”

Chase let out a short, uneasy breath. “She didn’t say yes,” he admitted. “But she didn’t say no either.”

Foreman gave a crooked smile. “Chase, that’s not ambiguity. That’s courtesy.”

They were about to keep walking when, ahead, something caught both their attention. Near the elevator, she had stopped when she heard a voice that didn’t belong to the hospital. She turned and, upon seeing the newcomer, her expression changed completely.

There was no doubt, no calculation. She smiled with immediate warmth and crossed the hallway almost at a run. The man —tall, lanky, with a work bag over his shoulder— barely had time to set it aside before she threw herself into his arms. He wrapped her up and kissed her with intimate familiarity, unhurried, as if the gesture had always belonged to them.

She responded with the same devotion, laughing, clinging to him as if the rest of the world had stopped mattering.

Chase stood frozen. Foreman frowned, watching the scene with analytic attention.

“Well,” he murmured. “That was… fast.”

Farther ahead, the man rested his forehead against hers, saying something that made her smile even more. Then they walked together down the hallway, his arm around her shoulders, she talking to him with a closeness that left no room for innocent interpretations.

Foreman closed the file with a dry tap. “I think we have our answer.”

Chase said nothing.

“I suppose,” Foreman added, without looking at him, “that coffee wasn’t on the agenda.”

A pause.

“Sorry, Chase,” he went on, now with a soft but inevitable teasing.

They resumed walking toward House’s office. Behind them, her laughter echoed a moment longer down the hallway —long enough for Chase to know, with uncomfortable clarity— that the invitation had never really had a chance.

Meanwhile, Reid and House seemed wrapped in their own world.

“I thought you’d be stuck with your father.”

“I was,” she replied, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her hands didn’t let go. “But now you’re here.”

Spencer watched her intently, as if there were nothing else worth studying in the building.

“How did it go? How was the seminar?”

“It was… efficient,” he said. “Lots of profiles, lots of predictable questions. But I finished earlier than expected.”

“And you came straight here?”

“Yes,” she admitted, lowering her voice a little. “I wanted to see you. And make sure you were okay.”

She smiled —that smile she reserved for almost no one. “I was. Now I’m great.”

Spencer tilted his head, brushing his forehead against hers, and kissed her skin with a delicacy that contrasted with the clinical setting.

“How is he?” he asked cautiously.

She let the air out slowly. “As well as he can be. He’s still himself.”

Spencer nodded, as if that answer were enough. He pulled her closer to his side. “I know he’s glad to see you.”

They walked on, murmuring little things —irrelevant to anyone else. Around them, the hospital kept moving with mechanical precision, unaware that, for a moment, someone had found peace right in the middle of it all.

“I met his doctors,” she blurted suddenly.

Without meaning to, their steps had led them toward the cafeteria. They both sat at one of the empty tables, face to face.

“And how were they?”

“They’re smart, efficient, capable… my father values those things. They’re also kind, but that’s something I value more than he does.”

A soft laugh escaped Spencer.

“Oh, and one of them asked me out.”

He turned his head slightly. “Out like… on a date or something?”

“A coffee,” she replied, shrugging. “But obviously I didn’t say yes. I just thought it was funny.”

“Why?”

“I mean—can you imagine trying to hit on your boss’s daughter the day you just met her? Who does that?”

Spencer smiled. “He’s brave.”

“He’s an idiot.”

A couple of laughs escaped Spencer; he had to bring his hand to his mouth to hold them back.

“You sound exactly like your father.”

“That’s why he’s my father,” she replied, smiling too, raising her eyebrows as if the simple fact amused her even more than she wanted to admit.

Suddenly, Spencer’s hand slid across the table, gently taking hers.

“I don’t blame him. The doctor, I mean.”

He paused, almost shy.

“You’re beautiful. I’d risk losing my job just to go out with you, too.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, tilting her head with a playful smile. “You know you don’t need to flirt with me, right? You’re already my boyfriend.”

Spencer stared at her, a mischievous spark lighting behind his glasses. His hand squeezed hers softly, as if that simple gesture could say everything he was thinking.

“If you have a flower at home… you don’t stop watering it just because it’s already yours, do you?”

She watched him carefully, the way you look at someone you love: the line of his jaw, the way his eyes caught the light, the gentleness in his fingers. She realized Spencer looked especially handsome that day, with that mix of focus and tenderness that always disarmed her.

Without noticing, she leaned toward him a little, almost as if she wanted to kiss him —but didn’t; a small, intimate gesture.

She watched him closely, smiling softly. “You look so cute when you say smart things.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, amused, but didn’t look away. “Well, it’s kind of my thing,” he replied, with a mix of pride and a blush.

Just then, the cafeteria door opened and Dr. Cameron walked in, carrying a plate with salad and what looked like juice. When she saw her, her face lit up immediately.

“Cameron!” she exclaimed, raising her hand in a greeting that seemed more enthusiastic than usual. Then she turned to the man. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”

“Sweetheart, this is Dr. Cameron, my father’s best. Doctor, this is Dr. Spencer Reid, my boyfriend.”

The woman looked surprised, though she didn’t know if it was because she’d been called the best on the team or because of the new piece of information she’d just learned.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. Cameron shook it, immediately noticing the warmth of his smile and the calm he transmitted.

“Are you taking a break?”

“Yes. I need five minutes.”

“If you want, sit with us,” she said, gesturing to the table they’d been at earlier. “There’s plenty of space.”

Although Cameron felt a bit embarrassed, it seemed rude to refuse the invitation.

The conversation flowed easily: pleasant, calm, and very natural. From time to time, Cameron couldn’t help but look at the newcomer for a few seconds, with discreet admiration. She noticed the way Spencer listened carefully, how natural his gestures were, and how his voice was soft but steady. They didn’t make her feel silly or embarrassed for anything she said; they genuinely wanted to talk with her.

When the glass of juice was almost empty, Chase and Foreman walked into the cafeteria, each with their usual air of impassiveness. But as soon as they saw the scene, they couldn’t help stopping.

If they had kept walking, maybe no one would’ve noticed them; however, two grown men standing in the middle of the cafeteria were hard to ignore.

“Damn, they saw us…”

“You’ve got no escape, man,” Foreman laughed, waving at the group and walking toward them.

He watched his friend greet the group and sit next to Cameron, as if it were a planned or usual meeting.

Chase took a step forward, adjusting his coat with that almost instinctive gesture he always used when trying to look calm. After a few steps, he appeared in front of everyone.

“Well…” he began, attempting a casual smile, though his blue eyes couldn’t hide his curiosity. “Who do we have here?”

“Oh, honey, this is Dr. Chase, another one of my father’s employees. Robert, this is my boyfriend, Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“Just… Spencer is fine.”

Chase returned the gesture, curious.

“What’s your specialty?” “I asked him the same question,” Cameron confessed, amused. “I actually work for the FBI, in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m only a doctor in title,” he gave a small smile. “I don’t practice medicine.”

The men at the table nodded; everything made sense. House’s daughter —brilliant, sharp, hard to impress— could only be with someone who played in the same intellectual league.

In the end, they also ended up staying to eat something. Nothing glamorous: cafeteria trays, soup that was too salty, lukewarm potatoes, and coffee that tasted more like an obligation than a break. Unfortunately, Foreman and Chase weren’t as lucky as their female colleague in enjoying the downtime, because barely ten minutes had passed when their pagers started beeping.

“The patient went into respiratory arrest…” announced Foreman, although the three of them had access to the same information.

As expected, the doctors immediately stood up, ready to run wherever the patient was.

“We’re really sorry…” “It’s okay,” you cut them off, not waiting for explanations. You knew it wasn’t personal. “Go.”

The three of them gave you an approving look and then disappeared. Suddenly it was just you and Spencer again, in the quiet cafeteria.

“That’s why I didn’t become a doctor,” she murmured, staring at the door they had just gone through.

He, still beside her, watched her more closely.

“One second you’re here, hanging out with friends and… the next you have to run because someone is dying. That’s not a life.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that I do the same thing? Having to… you know, leave suddenly because I have a case?”

“It’s different with you,” she said, this time focusing on him. “You spend days in another state, you have to work… but even then, you still find a way to be here, to be present. It’s not the same as running after patients.”

Spencer frowned slightly, with a mix of concern and care.

“And doesn’t it worry you that… that you’ll get tired of this pace?”

She looked straight at him, a serious glint in her eyes.

“Are you afraid I’m repeating patterns?”

“Yes,” he admitted, with an almost inaudible sigh. “I mean… you say it’s different, but I don’t think it is.”

She was about to ask what he meant, or how he’d reached that conclusion; the question was already on her lips when he spoke again:

“I just… wouldn’t like it if one day you woke up and realized you chose a man just like your father.”

She frowned slightly.

“You’re not like him. My mom left him because he simply didn’t care about us,” she said calmly. “After the accident with his leg, he shut himself off from everything. He pushed us away. You call me every night, you’re here today. You’re nothing like him.”

She tried to soften the mood with a smile and, with both hands, gently took his arm, as if inviting him back to solid ground.

Now, the thoughtful one was Spencer.

“Although, to be honest…” he murmured, staring at an undefined point ahead of him, “it would be worse if I’m the one who ends up repeating patterns.”

A short, dry laugh escaped his throat.

“My father left my mother when she was already sick and…” he made a vague gesture with his hand, as if he didn’t want to go into details they both already knew. “Well, in this scenario… let’s just say you’re not exactly the one with the genetic disadvantage.”

She blinked, surprised by the bluntness of the confession. Silence settled between them for a few seconds —heavy but intimate.

“Are you afraid of that?” she asked at last, in a low voice. “That there are only two paths for us?”

“Yes,” he admitted without hesitation. “But I also think it’s not written. If we work on this… if we try, maybe we won’t have to choose a tragic ending.”

He smiled faintly.

“We can build our own misfortunes.”

They both laughed softly, as if the joke lightened the weight of the conversation only a little.

“So… you see a future with me,” she said, almost as if realizing it right then.

Spencer frowned slightly, more surprised than anything.

“If I didn’t…” he looked at her for a moment. “Then why would I be with you?”

She looked at him seriously this time. The irony that they were imagining cruel breakups —with marriage included in those tragic scenarios— was something that would have bitterly delighted her father.

A small silence followed, as if both were processing the intensity of the conversation. Then Spencer frowned slightly, curiosity softening the tension.

“Was it the blond one?” he asked suddenly.

She looked at him, confused, raising an eyebrow.

“Huh?”

“The doctor who flirted with you… was it the blond one?” he added, leaning slightly toward her, with that look that searched for an honest, quick answer.

She blinked for a second, trying to process the question after everything they’d just talked about, and then let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh.

“Yes. But I already told you, I’m not interested.”

“I know,” he clarified, with a slight smile. “I’m saying it because I sensed some hostility from him. And if it wasn’t him, then I’d have to worry about why a doctor I barely know was treating me like that.”

She was about to answer when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She took it out, saw the name on the screen, and her expression changed immediately.

She lifted it to her ear.

“Yes?”

There was silence, broken only by her held breath. Her gaze drifted toward the floor for a moment as she listened. She didn’t say anything else: just nodded once, twice, lips pressed together.

When she hung up, she exhaled slowly.

“Well…” she murmured, putting the phone away. “Looks like the old man isn’t making it to dinner.”

Spencer didn’t need to ask why —he had seen the doctors running minutes earlier. Instead, he just asked if she was okay.

“I already told you, he’s like that,” she replied lightly. “I’m used to it.”

Even though she tried to downplay it, Spencer could tell she was affected. Maybe this time, she actually had wanted him to have time.

But Reid, with that privileged brain and that almost primitive need to find solutions, murmured:

“Let’s stay here. We can order something for dinner and… keep him company. That way, we still spend time with him.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he said, happily.

Sometimes, when she thought she couldn’t possibly love him more, he managed it anyway.

“I thought you’d already be on your way to The Highlawn.”

House didn’t even look up at first; he was standing, leaning on his cane, staring at the whiteboard as if the words might confess themselves.

“We want to stay,” she announced with a faint smile.

The two of them had already crossed the threshold of his office. She closed the door gently while he stepped a little farther inside, as if he didn’t want to interrupt —but didn’t want to leave, either.

House blinked, tilting his head.

“You’re trading fresh seafood and wine for hospital fast food?”

She shrugged, placing her bag on the side table.

“I’m your daughter. Don’t expect me to be completely sane.”

He let out a short laugh —not sarcastic, not cruel. Real. Almost warm.

“Fine. If that’s what you want…”

“I can help with the case,” Spencer interjected, now sitting in front of the desk, fingers intertwined with measured calm. “If you want me to.”

House looked at him over the cane.

“You just finished teaching a seminar.”

Spencer nodded slightly.

“Yes. That’s exactly why. I want a distraction.”

House shook his head slowly, with a mix of surprise and resignation, as if that were more baffling than any strange symptom he’d seen that week.

“And he’s the man who loves me,” she added, leaning against the edge of the desk, arms crossed with a half-smile. “Don’t expect him to be completely sane either.”

House sighed, but his eyes brightened for a second —somewhere between amusement and acceptance— and that night, he allowed himself to feel lucky.

Days passed. She went back to D.C. Everything moved on.

Chase was listening to the patient’s chest. He took notes, checked the monitor, adjusted the dosage on the chart, and got ready to leave the room.

When he opened the door, House was already leaning against the frame, as if he’d been there a while.

“Is he better?” House asked, without coming in.

“He’s breathing with less difficulty. The medication is working,” Chase replied, writing something else in the chart.

They nodded almost at the same time. Chase took a step to go, but House suddenly spoke:

“By the way, don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Chase stopped.

“Notice what?”

He barely looked at him.

“The way you looked at her.”

Silence. No dramatic gestures. Just the hallway, the monitor, the distant hospital noise.

Chase lowered his gaze slightly, accepting it without arguing.

“It was… inevitable.”

House didn’t respond. He waited. Chase breathed, half-smiling —without sarcasm.

“If she weren’t with someone who’s a genius… someone you respect… and someone she clearly loves…” he glanced at him. “Do you think I would’ve had a chance?”

House actually seemed to think about it.

It took him a few seconds.

“The truth? No.”

Chase let out a very short laugh. Not hurt. More… resigned.

“Okay”

House pushed off the frame and started walking.

“Back to work.”

Messengers spoke of their arrival in passing, of the Omatikaya seeking refuge among the reef people, of a man who had ridden legend itself into war. 

It was a week before your eyes finally found them.

When you returned, the village greeted you as if you had never truly left. Voices rose at the sight of you along the woven paths, hands brushing your arms and shoulders in brief, familiar greetings. That night, your father and mother prepared a larger meal than necessary. It was tradition—one you did not remember beginning, only that it had always been done for you.

Between mouthfuls and murmured approval, you shared what you could, voice steady despite the fatigue still clinging to you. And in return, they told you everything you had missed.

And as always, being home did not mean rest.

“I am certain you have heard of Toruk Makto’s family,” your father said as his gaze settled on you. 

You nodded once. Of course you had heard.

“Your brother and sister have begun teaching the children,” he continued. “They do well—but the Omatikaya learn differently. Their roots are in forest and stone, not tide and current.”

You feel your mother’s gaze settle on you, your sibling’s attention following soon after. You busy yourself with another bite of fish, chewing slowly, as if it might delay what is coming. You wondered, briefly, what your mother truly thought of Toruk Makto’s family, and tucked the question away for later.

“They will adapt faster with your guidance.”

There it is.

“I am sure Ao’nung and Tsireya have done well,” you said at last, lifting your gaze toward them. “They know the ways of the water better than most.”

Ao’nung let out a quiet huff at that, rolling his eyes. The sight drew a small chuckle from you before you could stop it.

Tsireya, ever gentle, smiled and leaned forward. “They try,” she said. “They listen. Some learn fast and some forget to keep breath when water grows deep.” She glanced at you then, you could almost see the hope in her expression. “But they wish to learn, That is good beginning.”

You smiled at Tsireya, pride settling warm and familiar in your chest. 

“As if,” Ao’nung scoffed before the moment could linger. “They are still like babies. I bet even you cannot teach them how to be better.”

“Yeah? Maybe you’re just a bad teacher,” you shot back, tilting your head to further tease him.

Tsireya joined in before anyone could stop her, a quiet, lilting laugh. “They listen, yes… but sometimes—ehhh.”

Ronal’s hand lifted, a soft but firm shush that cut through the teasing. “Enough, all of you.”

The three of you exchanged glances, chuckles softening into quiet smiles.

“Tomorrow, you will show them how to ride an ilu. You guide them carefully.”

You inclined your head once, shoulders settling under the weight of responsibility that always seemed to arrive with home. “I understand.”

Morning comes with salt on your skin and the sharp tang of the sea in your lungs. You kneel beside the baskets, sorting the catch you caught earlier that morning with the hunting party. 

The catch had been large that day, plentiful enough that the baskets groaned under its weight, scales glinting like liquid sunlight.

“We have missed you, tsmuke,” one of the older hunters called, balancing a particularly large fish. “Big fish come in plenty when you are here.”

“I have missed you too!” you replied lightly, laughing. “Maybe Eywa is kinder this morning, or you are just a really good hunter.”

The group agreed, the sound rolling like the tide over the reef. Your attention, however, was caught by a familiar voice calling from across the sand.

“Sister! Come quickly!”

Tsireya jogs toward you, water dripping from her hair, eyes bright. Behind her, farther back along the edge of the shallows, you could see the Sully children, their skin a darker, richer blue than yours. 

“Ready for your lesson?” Tsireya called, slowing as she approached. “They’re waiting, and I think they are quite curious about you. They keep asking.”

You hesitated, hands still tangled in the nets, the baskets of the morning catch at your feet. The warmth of routine tugged at you—the familiar weight of the day’s work, the laughter of friends, the steady rhythm of the reef under your skin. It felt good to return to this, even if only for a moment, and part of you wanted to linger, just a little longer.

Tsireya, patient at first, let her frustration show in the softest way. She stepped closer and tugged gently at your wrists, removing your hands from the nets. “Please,” she urged, voice light but firm. “Come now. They will not wait forever.”

You looked back at your friends, offering a small, fleeting smile. “I… will be back soon,” you promised.

With nothing left to stall you, you set the nets aside and began walking with her, feeling the subtle pull of responsibility settle over your shoulders once again. The Sully children shifted slightly, curious eyes fixed on you, and you allowed yourself one last glance at the morning’s catch and the laughing hunters.

The Sully children greeted you in unison, their hands moved in the careful gesture of “Oel ngati kameie.” You returned the greeting, offering a smile.

From their vantage, it was easy to see why Tsireya had spoken of you with such excitement. Like her, you were beautiful but where Tsireya’s beauty was open and bright, yours carried a quieter maturity. Even before you spoke your presence held authority, it reminded them of your mother when they first came. And unlike her, whose sharpness was well known, you had shown them no hostility at all.

Some features mirrored your siblings, but one mark set you apart unmistakably. The tattoo, black and intricate, traced one half of your forehead and extended toward your cheekbone, earned first as the eldest upon completing your iknimiya. It marked your seniority, a quiet sign that you had already walked the path your younger siblings were just beginning.

Ao’nung’s voice cut through the quiet moment, impatient as ever. “We going or not?”

You exchanged a glance with Tsireya, and both of you let out quiet chuckles.

“Alright,” you couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at your lips as your eyes flicked to Ao’nung. “Looks like someone is the most excited.”

The Sully children fought to suppress their smiles, chuckles spilling out despite their best efforts. Ao’nung finally stomped forward, muttering something under his breath, and you laughed at him softly.

You lingered a moment, letting them move ahead, their footsteps stirring the sand beneath the shallow water. Only once they had gone a few paces did you follow, letting Ao’nung take the lead.

A small sigh escaped you, soft enough that only Eywa could hear. Grant me patience today. Today would be long, you knew, but necessary.

Your siblings moved with practiced ease, each stepping toward one of the Sully children. The group slowly divided, voices overlapping with quiet instruction and encouragement, until you found yourself standing apart.

The smallest of them lingered near the water’s edge, eyes darting between her brothers and sisters as they were led away. Excitement practically spilled from her—fidgeting hands, bouncing steps, a tail that betrayed her eagerness even as she tried to stay still.

Warmth bloomed in your chest at the sight.

You beckoned her closer with an open hand. “Come here, little one,”

She hesitated only a moment before padding toward you, bouncing slightly to move faster. As she reached you, her hand lifted instinctively, fingers stretching toward yours. You caught it, steadying her before she could stumble, her grip small but eager in your palm.

She looked up at you then, eyes bright, breath quick with excitement.

“Fyape syaw fko ngar?” you asked. What is your name?

“Tuktirey,” she said proudly, then quickly added, softer, “But you can call me Tuk.”

She proved to be an eager student from the start, curiosity spilling from her. You answered each question without hurry, never growing tired of her wonder. There was no fear in her, only excitement, and it made the lesson flow easily.

“See how it circles first?” you said softly, nodding toward the ilu gliding nearby. “Ilus are very curious beings. They are trying to know you.”

Tuk’s fingers curled in the water as she watched it, eyes wide. “Is it looking at me?”

“Yes,” you smiled. 

She nodded solemnly, then whispered, “What does it like?”

“Kind hands,” you replied. “Slow breath. And respect. Ilu are not tools, they are partners. They help us hunt, travel, protect the reef. Without them, the sea is harder to listen to.”

You clicked your tongue and whistled. The ilu’s head lifted slightly, turning toward the sound.

“They also like gliderfins,” you added.

Tuk glanced at the ilu again, awe softening her features. “Do they like playing?”

You laughed. “Some do. Especially the young ones. I think this one is just as young as you.”

She reached out again, more careful this time, brushing the ilu’s skin just as you showed her. The creature responded with a low, pleased trill, and Tuk’s face lit up.

“It likes you too now,” you said gently.

Her smile grew impossibly wide. 

For a while, it was easier than you had expected. Once Tuk had grown comfortable with the ilu, you began teaching her how to ride, guiding her through each step. 

You soon called Roxto over from where he had been teaching Kiri, thinking the youngest should stay within reach of her older siblings. He joined you without fuss, and Kiri followed easily. She was good company—quiet at first, then comfortable with a few exchanged words. You noticed how at ease she seemed around Roxto, and you couldn’t help thinking he was one of the few good friends Ao’nung kept.

“You’ve been very kind,” Kiri said as she glanced between her brothers then back at you, eyes bright with barely-contained amusement. “But I think… my brothers might need you more right now.”

She tipped her chin toward them, lips pressed together as she tried not to smile. One was struggling to find balance, slipping again and again, while the other had already gone rushing off too fast only to tumble into the water. Kiri ducked her head, a quiet laugh escaping despite her effort to stay composed.

You winced as one of her brothers was promptly rewarded with a splash of water straight to the face when the ilu darted away. Even you had to turn your head for a moment, shoulders shaking with restrained laughter.

“I see” you said, still smiling as the laughter faded from your breath. Your eyes flicked briefly to Roxto, a silent understanding passing between you, before you looked back at the girls.

“You’re in good hands,” you told Tuk and Kiri gently, giving them one last reassuring nod. Then you turned and waded toward the others, already bracing yourself as another splash and a string of complaints rang out from the group ahead.

That’s how you find yourself in charge of the oldest Sully, Neteyam—whose name you’d learned from Kiri. Tsireya had told you so much about Lo’ak the night before that you wouldn’t dare steal her chance to spend time with the other boy.

“You are not in the forest anymore,” you said softly, surfacing through the water where Neteyam had just fallen from the ilu. Your eyes swept over him quickly, taking in his posture, the set of his shoulders, checking for any real injury.

Frustration seeped through his expression despite himself. His nose scrunched, gaze shifting away from you as you called for the ilu to return. The tilt of his jaw and the tension in his arms told you he was used to control and was not used to being unseated so easily.

“I know,” he snapped, wiping the water from his face with a quick swipe of hand.

You went silent, tending to the ilu instead, letting him work through it without adding pressure. The water lapped quietly against your arms, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

After a moment, he spoke again, quieter this time. “Sorry… I’m just not used to this.”

You looked back at him then, and heat crept into your chest. It was embarrassing to admit, but you found him… personable. Even now, after only knowing each other for a while, there was a weight to him—different from any Metkayina you had known. His sharp features and darker skin marked him as not one of your people, and yet, somehow, that made him easier to watch, easier to notice than you had intended. You caught yourself looking at him more often than you liked, a small, guilty awareness settling in your stomach.

“It’s alright,” you said, eyes steady on him. “But you are trying to fly. Ilus do not fly.”

He scrunched his face at your words, and you allowed yourself a small, amused smile.

“It is like your ikran, yes,” you continued. “But flying isn’t the way with an ilu. You do not fight against the water, as it would only pull you under. You go with it. Feel the current, its weight, its flow. The water is the ilu’s home; try to make it yours.”

“Again,” you mentioned for him to mount once more. He hesitated only a second before obeying, settling onto its back with more care than before—but still too  stiff.

“No,” you nagged, moving into his space. “You are holding yourself like you expect to fall.”

Before he could respond, you reached out. One hand pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, encouraging him to lean forward just enough, while the other adjusted his grip—fingers loosening, then settling where they should be. 

“And remember,” you added, “tsaheylu is trust. That is more important than holding tight.”

The moment tsaheylu is formed, the ilu stilled. He drew in a slow breath, shoulders relaxing, and then he looked at you as if he’s waiting.

For a heartbeat, his world seemed to hold. Salt air, sun on water, the way light caught the planes of your face just right. 

You met his gaze and gave a single nod.

“Go,” you said simply.

You stepped back, giving him space as the ilu surged forward once more. This time, he moved with it, posture aligned, body following the current instead of fighting it. Water parted cleanly around them, and he stayed mounted.

You had spent the past month helping the Sully children adjust to life among the reef—teaching them your way of living, showing them how to move with the ilu, guiding their eager hands through the unfamiliar waters. It had been exhausting in the best way: laughter, splashes, and small victories marking each day, and yet, you still cherished moments where no pressure or responsibility rested on your shoulders.

Later, when the sun dipped lower and the lessons were done, you found yourself sitting cross-legged beside Tsireya in your family’s marui pod. Strands of dried seaweed and polished shells spread between you. Your fingers worked from habit, weaving and knotting as easily as breathing, the familiar rhythm easing the last of the day’s tension from your shoulders.

Tsireya hummed softly as she helped you thread a line of shells together, passing them to you one by one. “You always choose the prettiest pieces,” she said, smiling.

“They last longer,” you replied. “And they sit better against the skin.”

She nodded, watching your hands for a moment before glancing up at you, eyes bright with something playful. “So,” she began carefully, as if it were only a passing thought, “what do you think?”

Your hands slowed, just slightly.

You resumed your work after a moment, fingers tightening a knot before moving on to the next strand. “They are… fine,” you said evenly. “A handful, but that is nothing new to me.”

It was the truth. You had stood beside your mother and the elder clan members when voices rose and patience thinned, when children pushed limits and learned the weight of correction. Compared to that, the Sully children were spirited—yes—but hardly unmanageable.

Tsireya huffed a quiet laugh, tilting her head. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” you asked innocently. “You asked about the family. I answered.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, a smile tugging at her mouth.

You finally glanced up at her then, a soft chuckle slipping past your lips. “Just ask what you want to ask, Tsireya.”

She opened her mouth, then hesitated.

You smiled wider, unable to resist. “Or maybe you cannot,” you added lightly, “because you know I will ask something in return.”

Tsireya groaned, half-laughing as she shook her head. “You are impossible.”

You shrugged lightly, a small, knowing smirk tugging at your lips. You had learned long ago that your little sister would never be able to stop herself from asking.

“Neteyam,” she finally said, “I noticed… you always seem to go to him first.”

You let the moment hang for just a beat, then replied, tilting your head slightly, “Well, I am more fit to teach the most difficult of them.” Your lips curved into a teasing smirk. “But you seem to handle him… quite well already.”

Tsireya flushed slightly, averting her gaze. “Don’t make this about me!” 

You tilted your head, smirk softening into something gentler. “Well, he is easy to teach. A fast learner,” you said, fingers brushing lightly over the shells as you continued working. “And, we seem to relate to each other more.”

She peeked at you from the corner of her eye, curiosity breaking through her flustered expression. “So… you’ve talked a lot to each other then?”

You paused, brow lifting in mild confusion, standing to grab more shells from your mother’s basket—always the bigger, more useful pieces. “What’s with the questions?” you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice.

“Just curious.” “Right…”

You can see her hovering before she then leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. “He is handsome, no?”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling. “Just help me with this, ‘Reya,” you said lightly, returning your attention to the shells.

Of course you wouldn’t say it.

Not after all the times you had teased Tsireya about Lo’ak—about the way her eyes followed him even when she pretended otherwise, about how quickly she volunteered to help whenever his name was mentioned.

And it was not as if it were a bad thing to admit he is handsome.

You had heard it from Kiri, as she told stories from when they were in the forest, that many of the na’vi girls admired him, that Neteyam Sully had always drawn attention without ever seeming to seek it. You supposed that made sense. 

Handsome, yes, but more than that, simply… good company.

That was all.

And even that truth stayed tucked behind your teeth, because saying it aloud would tell Tsireya more than she was asking. It would tell her about how lessons sometimes stretched past their ending, how paths crossed again when everyone else scattered to their own corners of the reef.

At first, it had been a coincidence.

You had been tasked with cleaning the dishes after the evening meal, your hands submerged in cool water near the shallow edge, your thoughts far away. You hadn’t noticed him at first, only the faint shift of movement in your periphery.

When you looked up, he was there. Sitting on one of the larger rocks half-submerged by the tide.

You did not know what possessed you to call out to him. Perhaps it might help him feel more at ease here, in a place that was not yet his.

You called his name then, standing and lifting your arm higher so he could see. “Neteyam!”

He looked up then, surprise flickering briefly across his face.  After a moment, he rose from the rock and made his way toward you, careful steps sending small ripples through the shallows.

As he drew closer, you could see his bioluminescent markings better for the first time. It’s something you had seen on countless others, yet something about his made your chest tighten. It was a foolish thought, you told yourself. You had grown up surrounded by Na’vi; there was nothing new in this. And still, you found yourself admiring it just long enough before he could notice.

He stopped at your side and glanced down at the dishes, then back at you. “Do you… need help?” he asked, gesturing toward the stack. 

“Ah, you do not have to,” you shook your head slightly, the question catching you off guard.

He smiled anyway, already lowering himself into a squat. “I don’t mind.”

You tilted your head, watching the ease of his movements as he reached for one of the bowls. “I am guessing you do this often?”

He let out a quiet huff of a laugh, rinsing the dish with a practiced swirl of his hands. “Too often,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “At this point, I just volunteer before anyone can tell me to.”

That earned a small smile from you. “I wonder how many times I would need to be told before I start volunteering myself.”

“It is better that way,” he replied, grin softening. “Less arguing. And it is nice to have time alone, if you are into that.”

It should have ended there. You both were there at the same time during that night and you weren’t expecting it to happen again.

Instead, it became routine.

There was never an agreement spoken between you, no glance that lingered long enough to promise anything, no words exchanged when the lessons ended and the others drifted away to their own activities. And yet, somehow, you would find him again. Near the shallows. By the rocks. In the sea.

The reef was wide, but somehow your paths crossed easily. And you thought it was because he was new here, after all, still learning where to belong.

One evening, he had asked about your tattoo. You had been sharpening your speargun’s bows atop a rock set slightly apart from the clustered marui pods. The sun had dipped low, painting the reef in golds and soft purples. You didn’t bother asking how he had found you.

His eyes lingered on the dark ink tracing one half of your forehead as he sat beside you, your knees knocking into each other when one moved. He hovered his hand close, almost brushing the skin above the tattoo, the heat of his skin radiating toward your cheek made your face tingle. You were startled by the sensation, and yet you didn’t move away.

You told him of your iknimiya, how you earned the mark after taming your tsurak, your first great hunt, and the bonding with your tulkun spirit sister. Your words carry all the pride of that path you had walked. And he listened, attentively, eyes widening at each detail, absorbing it as though it were a story meant for him alone.

“The fish was nearly bigger than me,” you said, hands stretching apart in the air. “It could have dragged me through the water.”

Neteyam let out a low, impressed sound, eyes following the movement of your hands. “You caught it anyway,” he said, something warm in his voice. “That takes strength.”

You shrugged, though a small smile curved your lips. “And multiple tries.”

He smiled back at that. “Still,” he added, glancing once more at the tattoo before meeting your gaze, “you earned it.”

You asked for his story in return, and he had told you about it, his first hunts and the rituals in the forest, the taste of water after it had flowed from the leaves, the way the sunlight would peak from the branches, the wind tangling his hair as he flew between big rocks of Ayram alusìng. 

You found yourself imagining it all, the brightness in him when he was truly in his element, bathed in sunlight and shadow, how he looked among the trees, and a quiet, selfish wish that you could see it for yourself.

Then you noticed the waiting. Oh, how much you disliked it. The way your eyes would drift toward the water’s edge before your hands were even dry. The brief pause in your steps when the sun dipped low, anticipation settling in your chest before you were fully aware of it. You found yourself expecting him—half-listening for the sound of careful footsteps, half-watching for the familiar silhouette against the tide. How he slipped into your evening as naturally as the tide returning to shore.

And, quietly, almost shamefully, you wished he suffered from it too.

You told yourself it was nothing more than familiarity. That it had been a long time since you’d had company like this. That Neteyam was a good friend. With him, your words did not need to be softened or guarded. You spoke, and he understood. You existed, and he did not ask you to be anything else.

“You work too hard.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, seated in your usual place—the far side of the reef where the marui pods thinned and the waves struck the rocks hard enough to leave salt in the air. A large stone jutted from the shallows there, smoothed by time and tide, where you and him have told stories long enough for it to finally become yours without ceremony.

You were rubbing a thick, pale salve into your palms, the scent of crushed leaves and rendered fat clinging to your skin. It was a simple mixture of soothing oils and ground kelp you helped your mother make, meant to ease the sting left behind by too many hours of handling rough nets, and hauling, knotting, weaving alongside your father and brother.

That was before you heard his steps before you saw him, the soft scrape of feet against stone and wet sand so familiar now that it made your shoulders ease even before you turned. When you did, he was already close.

You flinched when he reached for you, instinct tightening your shoulders before you could stop it. For a heartbeat, you considered pulling away.

But he didn’t rush you. He waited—close, quiet, clearly wanting to help. You were close enough that you knew he’d scold you if you refused, and you were tired enough that you didn’t want to argue. Your hands throbbed anyway.

So you let him take them.

“I had to,” you said quietly. “You know why.”

He looked up at you then. Just understanding. The kind that came from being the eldest, from carrying expectations that were never asked for but always assumed. From being told, again and again, to be steady, to watch, to protect. His hands never stopped moving, thumbs pressing the salve into your skin.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” you admitted, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “No matter how much I learn. The chants, the rituals, the histories—I memorize them, repeat them until they sit perfectly in my mouth, and still…” You exhaled, shaky. “I look at my mother and all I feel is how small I am next to her.”

You swallowed. “They say I will make a good tsahìk someday. That it is only a matter of time.” Your fingers curled faintly in his hold. “But I do not feel driven. I feel afraid. And I hate that—because I should want it. I should be ready.”

Neteyam stayed quiet for a moment, covering the last exposed part of your hand with balm. Then, carefully, he brought both of your hands into one of his own. You hadn’t realized how close you were sitting, but as he scooched slightly neared, any remaining distance vanished. You kept your gaze on your hands, feeling the heat of his palm spread into yours.

After a long breath, his other hand hovered for a heartbeat above your hair, which had fallen to the sides of your face as you looked down, hiding a little of yourself. Gently, hesitantly, he brushed the strands back, tucking them behind your ear. 

“Being scared does not mean you are unworthy of what they see in you,” he murmured, voice low and steady, as though he were speaking to himself as much as to you. “It means you understand how much it matters.”

He gave a small squeeze of your hands. “Your mother stands where she does because she walked through that fear. Not because she never felt it. And you do not need to be her—not now, not ever.”

At that, he lifted your chin gently between his fingers, tilting your face so you could meet his eyes. There was a telltale flicker of nervousness in the way his jaw tensed and the corners of his mouth twitched, but it was subtle, and you barely registered it. You only noticed the warmth of his hands, the care in his touch.

Neteyam’s gaze held yours, as if to remind you that nothing was demanded beyond this moment. “When the time comes, you will not wake up ready. You will step forward afraid. And that will not mean you are failing. It will mean you are brave.”

“You only have to keep going,” he said, finally placing both of his hands over yours, encasing them between his. “ And you do not have to do that alone.”

Your eyes flickered from his gaze down to your hands, still held in his, before returning to him. He tilted his head slightly, a small, playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“Come on,” he said your name softly, teasing, “let me see your smile.”

It took a moment, but you allowed yourself a slow, reluctant smile. “Where’d you learn that?” you asked, amusement in your voice.

“My mother,” the pride in his tone was unmistakable.

You couldn’t help but admire him then, as you have been doing quite often, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight, his bioluminescent patterns tracing faint dots across his skin, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes as he spoke. 

“Is something wrong?” he asked softly after a moment, concern in his voice. His hand lifted, brushing gently over the space between your eyes, as if to soothe the lingering tension there.

You let out a light laugh, gently pushing his hand away. “No,” you said, meeting his gaze. “I’m fine.”

Your eyes held his for a moment longer, steady and sincere, before you signed the word carefully—hand moving from your chin outward in the motion for thank you. “Thank you, Neteyam.”

He followed the motion with his gaze, eyes flicking to your mouth for a brief second as your hand reached forward, and a small, appreciative smile tugged at his lips.

“Always.”

You knew someone would eventually notice why it sometimes took you longer to wash the dishes, or why fetching something your parents had asked for seemed to stretch on forever. You’d been careful these past nights, cautious when returning from your meetings with Neteyam, pausing at the edges of the marui pods to make sure no family member was lingering outside.

But that night, you hadn’t been as discreet as you thought. Carrying the balm back to your pod, a smile tugging at your lips and a lighter step in your pace, you froze when you heard your father’s voice calling your name.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” his voice carrying that quiet edge of concern that always made your stomach tighten.

“Just… busy,” you said, shrugging lightly, “thinking.”

Internally, you let out a small sigh of relief as you saw him nod slightly, seeming to accept the excuse. He stepped closer, placing both hands gently on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing against your skin with a familiar, grounding touch.

Then, unexpectedly, he knelt down on one knee, letting go with one hand as he waited, gaze intent on yours. Confusion flickered across your features.

“You can tell me anything, maite,” he said softly, voice low but full of warmth.

A small, soft smile tugged at your lips, and you chuckled quietly, not surprised by his theatrics.

“I know, sempu,” you replied, touching one of his hands resting on your shoulder. “You always tell me that.”

He straightened, smiling now, the weight of the day easing from his expression. “Good. I was just worried. Now, come inside. It’s late.”

You nodded, though a pang of guilt tugged at your chest. You hadn’t told him about Neteyam, about the small stolen moments that made the days feel lighter, the hands brushing balm into yours. But it wasn’t something your parents needed to worry about—at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Your relationship with him and with the rest of the Sully children had grown in these past weeks. There were long afternoons spent chatting with the girls about everything and nothing, weaving strands of seaweed and shells into necklaces, bracelets, and little adornments inspired by the reef. 

You had been especially proud when Tuk finished her first necklace entirely on her own. She pressed it into your hands proudly, and you couldn’t say no. It was a delicate little thing, shades of purple and blue catching the fading light, and you wore it with a smile that carried your pride.

Kiri’s progress was slower but steady, and you were happy to hear she was doing better—though not without complaints, especially when it came to your younger brother. You could only do so much as his older sister, after all.

And then there were the moments teasing Tsireya about Lo’ak, which never failed to make her blush.

“Lo’ak’s been making me teach him how to make a necklace,” Kiri said one afternoon, half-annoyed, half-amused. “It’s probably to impress you, Tsireya.”

You laughed, the sound easy and light. “How sweet,” you said, watching them fumble with threads and shells, the reef sun glinting off their hair, their smiles, and their earnest attempts.

As for Lo’ak, he was just as difficult as Kiri had made him out to be, but at his age, it was hardly surprising. You saw too much of your younger brother with him: the quiet desire to be seen and admired even when it came out as trouble. Still, there was something almost endearing about it.

You only hoped he wasn’t giving your younger sister too much headache.

And, you almost took the thought back one day as Tuk came barreling toward you, breathless and wide-eyed, tugging at your arm and babbling about her brothers fighting other metkayina. 

Sure enough, when you followed her and looked at where she pointed at, you found ruckus sprawled out on the farther edge of the village—sand flying, voices raised, bodies tangled in a way that was far more chaotic than threatening.

“Ao’nung!” you shouted, stopping at the edge of the mess.

Your eyes caught Kiri on the sidelines. She only shrugged at you, utterly confused as well, before calling out, “Stupid!” and laughing like it was all entertainment.

You sighed, rolled your eyes, and shouted Ao’nung’s name again, louder this time. It finally pulled a few heads your way—just long enough for someone to get yanked backward by the tail and another to catch a careless punch for losing focus.

You might have laughed if you weren’t painfully aware of the scolding waiting for you later. After all, you were supposed to be the one watching out for them.

Luckily, or perhaps mercifully, their father arrived before things could spiral any further. His presence alone was enough to cut through the chaos, his voice sharp and commanding as he stepped in, hands separating bodies, pulling his sons back with Kiri on their tail.

You didn’t catch the look Neteyam sent your way then. Your attention was already on your own brother, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him upright when he nearly stumbled back into the fray. He tried to wrench himself free, teeth bared, clearly mistaking you for one of his friends.

You hissed sharply, grip tightening. “Skxawng,” you snapped under your breath, eyes narrowing. “What did you do?”

Before your brother could answer, one of Ao’nung’s friends spoke up from behind him, voice loud and indignant. “Lo’ak started it—”

“I didn’t ask you,” you cut in sharply, turning to look at his group of friends. Your tone was calm, but it carried enough bite to make him falter. “Go. Get yourself treated by tsahìk.”

They hesitated, exchanging glances, clearly unused to being dismissed so easily. When none of them moved, you rolled your eyes and stepped closer to Ao’nung instead.

Your fingers brushed lightly beneath his eye, where a bruise was already darkening. He hissed and jerked back on instinct, and you finally released your grip on his arm.

“Why do you assume it was me?” he demanded, scowling. At your silence—at the way you only frowned at him, confused more than accusatory—his expression twisted. “Don’t tell me you’re going to side with those freaks.”

“Ao’nung,” you snapped, his name a warning all on its own. “Enough. Come with me. That bruise will swell if you leave it.”

He scoffed, turning away and starting off in the opposite direction.

“Ao’nung,” you called again.

He didn’t stop—but neither did any of his friends move to follow him. You glanced back at them, lifting a brow in silent challenge, daring any of them to speak. None did. One by one, they started to follow your brother.

You watched him walk away and for a brief moment you wondered if there had been something you could have said to stop him from spitting those words.

The thought didn’t linger long as your mind was already racing ahead of the inevitable, your mother’s voice, sharp with disappointment, the weight of it settling heavier than any bruise. With a quiet exhale, you turned back toward your marui pod.

You felt as though you were walking on eggshells as you stepped inside your mother’s marui pod.

Her back was turned to you, shoulders relaxed but purposeful, hands busy sorting through bundles of dried leaves and woven pouches. The familiar scents of herbs and sea-salt clung to the air, usually comforting—now making your chest tighten. You moved slowly, carefully, each step measured as if the floor itself might betray you.

Quietly, you crossed to her storage chest and lifted the lid just enough to peer inside, fingers hovering over the neatly arranged jars of healing balms. You held your breath.

“What are you doing?” she asked without turning.

“Just—checking,” you said, voice soft. “Seeing if we still have enough healing balm.”

She finally glanced over her shoulder, eyes sharp but calm. “For what, child?”

You paused, shoulders sagging slightly as you exhaled. “Ao’nung and his friends… they got into trouble. With Lo’ak and Neteyam.”

Her hands stilled.

“What happened?” she asked, tone leaving no room for deflection.

You felt the fight drain out of you at once. There was no point in circling it, so you had told her of what happened. You didn’t know what caused the fight, but you told her everything you know.

The words settled heavy between you, and you waited for whatever would come next.

Your mother let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that carried more weight than anger ever could.

“Get whatever you need,” she said, “then come sit with me.”

You did as you were told. You gathered the jars of balm and set them aside before lowering yourself to the woven mat across from her, legs folded neatly beneath you. You knew better than to look anywhere else when she spoke like this. So you lifted your chin, met her gaze, and waited.

“Why did you let him go without treating him?” she asked.

You didn’t answer. You also knew better than to argue, sitting in silence as the weight of her words settled over you.

“You know your brother tends to seek trouble,” she continued, her hands frantically moving. “You should have been there to stop him.”

Even though you knew it was impossible to be everywhere at once, the blame sank into your chest like a stone. You promised yourself silently that you would do better next time. You thought back to the look your brother had given you before walking away—the hurt, the accusation—and it stung more. You wish to know what you could have done differently.

After a long moment, you lowered your gaze and whispered, “I’m sorry, mother… I’ll do better. I promise.”

For a moment, she said nothing.

“When they first came to us,” she began at last, voice calm but edged with honesty, “I was hesitant. They are of the forest. What use are forest skills in the reef? What could they offer our people, other than more mouths to protect?”

“Your father feared something else,” she continued. “That Toruk Makto would bring his war with him. That his enemies would follow. And you know this—your father and I are charged with keeping our people safe. Even when kindness is costly.”

She looked at you then, truly looked, and something softer entered her expression.

“But that is not why we turned them away,” she said quietly. “Nor why we chose to welcome them in the end.” Her voice lowered, thoughtful, measured like a lesson meant to last. “We gave them a home because the ocean does not ask where the rain was born. It only knows that all water returns.”

Her hand came to rest over her heart.

“They came seeking refuge, willing to learn, willing to bow their heads to ways not their own. And people who can do that are not weak.”

You felt something loosen in your chest as she spoke, answers to questions you had carried far longer than you realized.

“As Tsahìk,” she said, “I do not look only at who someone was. I look at who they are trying to become. And Eywa listens to those who choose growth over pride. Your brother does not realize it yet. He is young. But you, you can let him know.”

Her gaze softened, but it did not waver. “Remember that, child.”

You let her words settle, each one sinking deep, weaving itself quietly into you. For a moment, the sting of blame eased, softened by her steady presence, though it still lingered faintly at the edges. You marveled at how she could turn even this into a lesson, how every moment with her became a stepping stone rather than a reprimand. With her, nothing was wasted. Every mistake, every fear, every conflict was shaped into something that could guide you forward.

You realized, with a warmth that spread through your chest, how grateful you were to have her as your mother. To be taught not just how to heal wounds, but how to see people.

You nodded, a small hesitant smile forming as you met her eyes. “Yes, Mother. Thank you.”

She returned the smile then said, “Now go on, call them. I will be out for a while.”

Helping her to stand, you offered your arm, mindful of her pregnancy as she rose slowly. She brushed a hand over your head once more, a gentle, lingering caress, before letting you go.

“Be careful,” she added.

“You too, Ma,” you said as you stepped back outside the pod.

It didn’t take long to find Neteyam. He was seated on the walkway in front of their marui pod, one leg swinging lazily over the edge as he gazed out at the water. 

When he saw you call his name, his face brightened instantly. Without hesitation, he pushed himself up, legs folding neatly beneath him for a moment before standing fully. Careful, measured steps carried him toward you, the familiar rhythm of his movements making your chest ease despite the tension still lingering from your earlier conversation with your mother.

You reached up slowly, hands resting on his shoulders as you studied him, eyes travelling over the tense line of his jaw and the slight swell of his bruises. “You don’t look fine,” you said, a mix of concern and exasperation in your tone.

He tilted his head, smirking, a trace of humor lighting his features. “Well, I look better than your brother’s friends.”

You couldn’t help it, a soft laugh escaped you as you smacked the top of his head playfully. Then, grabbing his wrist, you tugged him gently back toward the tsahìk’s pod. “Doesn’t seem like you regret what happened earlier,” you said, glancing at him briefly before turning your attention to weaving through the Metkayina passing by.

Neteyam shrugged, his grin widening. “Only a bit,” he said, his eyes never leaving the back of your head as you led the way.

His wrist, which you still held, eased slowly until his hand finally rested on yours. You didn’t look back, but the warmth of his hand and the pressure of his fingers fitting against yours made your own smile widen. You didn’t let go, and neither did he.

Once inside the pod, Neteyam settled onto the woven mat, shoulders slumped just enough for you to see the tension in them. You knelt in front of him, jars of salves and cloths spread around you, the soft scent of herbs filling the small space.

You dipped a cloth in the water and began gently cleaning the dried blood along his cheekbones. He flinched away just a little at your touch. Frowning, you held his face lightly with your hands to keep him from moving. 

“What happened?” you asked softly, eyes scanning his bruises.

“My brother… he was being a skxawng,” he replied shortly.

You paused, raising a brow. He said nothing further, his gaze flicking to the floor.

“You’re not going to tell me more?” you prompted gently.

Neteyam shook his head, offering a small, reassuring smile. “You don’t have to worry about it. I’ve got it handled.”

You rolled your eyes at him but didn’t respond, bending closer to continue cleaning the stubborn bruise along his cheek. Every so often, his gaze caught yours, steady and curious, and each time you quickly dropped your eyes back to the cloth, pretending to be entirely absorbed in the task.

You only notice the slight tremor of your hand, and the faster beats of your heart when you finally reach the dried blood at the corner of his lips. Carefully, you dabbed at the skin, very much aware of the small space between you.

Don’t you dare speak. You chant in your head as you do, because you know that if he speaks, it’s over—

“You’re very gentle,” he murmured in a low, breathy tone. His breath fanned across your knuckles, sending a shiver through you. Your eyes instinctively move toward his lips. And, you suddenly became conscious of him adjusting the loose pearl accessory of your necklace with quiet fingers. Just right above your heart.

It was all too much, every sense alert, but you didn’t pull away. This was your responsibility; as a future Tsahìk, you would not let it unnerve you! You swallow, forcing yourself to stay focused on the task at hand, determined to finish tending to him before your thoughts betrayed you further.

When you finally pulled back slightly, you felt his hand graze your collarbone as he let go of the pearl. Taking a quiet, internal pep talk, you grabbed the balm and faced him again. The small, teasing smirk on his face irked you—you could almost see him enjoying this torment.

Finally, you broke the silence as you pressed the balm gently into the abrasions along his skin. “Why did you join them?” you asked, your voice quieter than before, but edged with something sharper. “I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. For a moment, you thought he might pull away. Instead, he stayed still, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. “I… had to,” he said, the words barely more than a breath.

You felt something twist in your chest. You pushed, unable to stop yourself. “No,” you said, firmer now. “You didn’t have to. If you had stopped your brother, it wouldn’t have escalated. None of this would’ve happened.”

The moment the words left you, you wanted them back.

He finally looked at you then. Not angry. Not defensive. Just tired. Hurt. “So you’re saying it’s my fault?”

Your hands stilled, the cloth hovering uselessly between you. The air felt too tight to breathe in. “That’s not—” You swallowed. “That’s not what I mean.”

But the damage was already done.

He nodded once, slowly, as if accepting something he hadn’t wanted to hear. His shoulders eased—not in relief, but resignation. “Right,” he murmured, and his gaze dropped again, shutting you out.

Silence settled heavy and suffocating between you. You forced your hands to move, to finish what you’d started, even as your chest ached with every careful touch. Neither of you spoke. The tension didn’t fade—it pressed in, filling every corner of the pod.

When you were done, you pulled away and returned the cloths, jars, and balm to their places. The soft clink of pottery sounded too loud in the quiet, each noise echoing like a reminder of what you’d broken. You straightened, drawing in a slow breath, foolishly hoping that he might say something. Anything.

Instead, you heard him rise behind you, the woven mat shifting beneath his feet.

“I have to go,” he said quickly, as if staying even a second longer would undo him.

You didn’t turn around. You only exhaled, the breath leaving you heavier than it should have. His footsteps faded, and with them went something fragile you hadn’t realized you were holding onto.

And somehow, despite knowing better, a sharp, unwanted pang of disappointment bloomed in your chest. You didn’t know why you’d expected him to stay after that.

The truth struck you all at once, merciless in its clarity: you had taken your own fears, your own sense of responsibility, and placed them squarely on his shoulders. You had expected him to be steady when you were unraveling, to bear the weight of expectations that were never his alone.

The guilt settled deep, sour and crushing, curling tight around your heart.

You let your shoulders slump, fingers curling uselessly at your sides. The pod felt smaller now, the silence louder, pressing in from all directions. And you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, you had made this harder than it needed to be for both of you.

If things couldn’t get any worse, your brother took Lo’ak beyond the reef.

The news reached you as the sun dipped low, the sky bruised with fading light. The earlier confusion over Ao’nung’s words resurfacing at the back of your mind, along with Neteyam and your mother’s words. It all tangled together until it curdled into something raw and frustrating.

By the time dinner was served, your patience was already threadbare.

“So,” you said at last, not looking at him, “did it ever occur to you that you put his life in danger when you brought him there?”

He shrugged. “He seemed fine. You’re overreacting.”

That did it. You finally looked at him then, eyes sharp. “You don’t get to decide that,” you said quietly. “Not when everyone else has to deal with the consequences.”

He pushed his food away, irritation flashing across his face. “Why are you suddenly on my back about this?”

Tonowari’s voice cut cleanly through the air before you could answer.

“That is enough.”

His gaze moved between you and your brother, heavy with expectation. “Your mother has already told me you were to tend to both Neteyam and Lo’ak,” he said. “So I will ask plainly—how did the boy end up with Ao’nung?”

The question turned, subtly but unmistakably, toward you.

You felt it then—the weight of it settling squarely on your shoulders.

“I didn’t see him earlier,” you said quietly. 

Ao’nung scoffed. “Maybe you didn’t look.”

The words struck sharper than you expected. A hiss slipped past your teeth before you could stop it, your hands curling in your lap. “That’s not—”

Tsireya murmured softly beside you, your name spoken like an anchor. Her fingers wrapped gently around your arm, not restraining, just there.

“Enough.” Tonowari’s voice was harsher now, steel beneath the calm. He said your name once, firmly, a warning more than a reprimand.

It burned, being looked at like this, like the fault might belong to you simply because you were there, because you were supposed to be watching, healing, fixing. As if you could be in all places at once. As if responsibility meant omniscience.

You lowered your gaze, jaw tightening as something sharp lodged in your throat, barbed and unforgiving. You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to ease it. 

It was not fair, and you knew it, but fairness had never spared anyone before. Still, the sting lingered, because somehow, again, the blame had found its way back to you.

And you wondered if this was how Neteyam had felt too.

Over the week, you made yourself scarce.

You stopped teaching the Sully children, stopped lingering by the shallows or sitting in on their lessons. When asked, you said your guidance was no longer needed. They had been here long enough, learned enough. Other times, you claimed you had more important duties to attend to. Things only you could help with.

Tsireya could attest to it. Whenever the Sullys asked after you, she found herself answering honestly: that you were almost always at your mother’s side now, as you had been before they arrived. That even before them, you rarely had time to simply be with your own siblings.

She remembered fondly that when the Sullys first came, you had changed just a little. You had stayed longer by the water with them. You had laughed more easily. You had been less rigid with yourself, allowing small reprieves you rarely took. And Tsireya had been happy then, happier to spend more time with you than she had in a long while.

She wasn’t sure what had happened in these past few days to send you retreating back into yourself.

Her eyes often drifted to Neteyam, who’s quieter now, more reserved, his presence dimmer than it had been. She wanted to believe it was coincidence. She wanted to believe it had nothing to do with you.

But you had never told her anything. And so she assumed, as she always did, that it might be many things at once or something else entirely.

But, Tsireya could see it—feel it, almost, whenever the two of you were in the same space.

Not side by side. Never that. Just… near enough for the air to grow tight, for conversations to stumble and quiet. Even with others around, the tension clung stubbornly. It frustrated everyone, though no one said it aloud.

You barely looked at Neteyam anymore.

When you had to interact, it was efficient and clipped. A tool passed into his hand without your fingers lingering. A short instruction. A single sentence, nothing more. And then you would turn away as if there were nothing else to say.

Neteyam, on the other hand, kept looking at you.

Not openly, never enough to draw attention, but with a quiet, aching focus, as though his eyes kept finding you without permission. Like there were words lodged somewhere in his chest, pressing hard against his ribs, waiting for the smallest opening. Like he was memorizing the way you moved, the way your shoulders stiffened whenever you sensed him near, the way you avoided meeting his gaze as if it might undo you both.

Tsireya noticed every time.

And each time she did, she rolled her eyes, more often than she had all week, exasperation bubbling beneath her calm. Because whatever this was—this silence, this careful distance—it was unbearable to watch. For everyone.

And Tsireya was this close to doing something about it.

So, inevitably, she turned to the only other person who had front-row seats to the mess.

Lo’ak.

And honestly? He didn’t even need convincing.

From his point of view, Neteyam had been absolutely insufferable.

Not loud-insufferable. Worse. Quiet. Hovering. Always somehow in Lo’ak’s space—too close, too present—like he was searching for company the way someone reached for noise when they didn’t want to think. Like if he stayed busy enough, surrounded enough, he wouldn’t have to notice the one person who was suddenly missing from his orbit.

It was stupid. Lo’ak knew it was stupid.

Still, he couldn’t help laughing about it.

Because at some point, he’d snapped.

Cornered Neteyam face-to-face, hands on his hips, incredulous. “Bro. Go find her or something. I can’t hang out with you all the time.”

Neteyam’s reaction had been priceless.

Blank. Tight-jawed. That painfully neutral look he got when he pretended not to know what the hell anyone was talking about—like he’d swallowed a rock and was trying to pass it off as dignity. Not defensive. Just uncomfortable in the most obvious way possible.

Lo’ak had almost lost it.

Because yeah, Neteyam could pretend. But Lo’ak wasn’t blind.

He’d seen the difference. Felt it, even.

Neteyam had been happier since you arrived. Lighter. Like something in him had finally loosened. The responsible son who suddenly laughed more, who snuck out at night thinking no one noticed. As if Lo’ak didn’t know exactly where he was going.

So, when Tsireya brought it up, he didn’t argue. If this kept up—this avoiding, this yearning, this walking-in-circles-around-each-other thing—someone was going to have to intervene soon. 

It was a few days later that you found yourself tasked once again to travel. South, this time, to another clan where you were to study under a different Tsahìk and lend your help to their village.

Oddly, there were no complaints from you this time. You accepted the decision quietly, almost gratefully, even if you had protested to Tsireya before every time this happened. It was a convenient excuse to distract yourself from the lingering ache in your chest every time you thought of Neteyam, from the tension that tightened around your ribs whenever his gaze brushed yours, and the gnawing guilt of knowing he was likely still mad at you.

No matter where you went, your eyes betrayed you, constantly flicking around, searching for him even when you knew you shouldn’t. You realized you couldn’t continue like that—not while you carried the weight of unspoken words and bruised pride, not while every shared space felt charged with what you refused to say. The distance, you told yourself, was necessary.

That was why you didn’t understand why you stayed out so late the night before you were meant to leave. You found yourself perched on the smooth stone you and he had claimed as yours. You waited.

Waited for the scrape of his feet on stone. Waited for any sound, any movement that might tell you he still thought of you—that you had not been so easily set aside, that the space between you still meant something to him.

And yet, you knew the truth—you had no right to expect him to come. 

The frustration burned away. Part of you wanted to be angry at him: for leaving so quickly without letting you explain yourself, for allowing silence to stand where words should have been. You clung to that resentment for a while because it was easier than facing the other truth. That you had built the distance yourself and then recoiled when it widened.

Sitting there alone, the night pressing in around you, it stung to realize that you had wanted him to cross a distance you had created. That you had wanted reassurance without risking vulnerability. That you had wanted him to stay, while making it impossible for him to know how.

The space beside you stayed empty.

“Do not forget to bring extra pots and knives. And do not stray from the path without telling someone.” Ronal’s voice guided you through the last minutes before departure.

You nodded along, murmuring your responses where appropriate. “Yes, it is already there. I know the path.”

“Do not forget your herbs and your healing salves,” she added, leaning closer to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “And remember to eat. Do not let yourself weaken.”

“Yes, Ma,” you said softly, forcing a smile.

The clan had gathered to see you off. Some of the Sully family were there, eyes bright with curiosity and concern, and a few older members of your own clan had come to accompany you on the journey. You put the last of your belongings into the canoe, your hands lingering over each item as if to memorize it.

It was your sister who approached first, pulling you into a firm hug. You smiled into her shoulder, but it didn’t reach your eyes. One by one, your family followed, each embrace warm and heavy with unspoken love. You stepped back, giving small nods to the clan members gathered along the shore.

Finally, you turned toward the Sully family, standing together on the opposite bank. Your eyes swept past them, still avoiding his. You offered a polite nod to the group, forcing your gaze elsewhere, though your mind—and your heart—betrayed you, tethered to the figure you could not seem to fully ignore.

Even as you climbed onto your tsurak and felt the bond take hold, your muscles tense with anticipation, you couldn’t stop the pull of curiosity. The way your heart ached with the need to know he was still there, watching, waiting. Your breath caught slightly as you dared, at last, to glance toward him.

And there he was—already watching you. The sharp awareness in his gaze mirrored your own, a silent acknowledgment of the same pull, the same unspoken hesitancy. A flicker of shock hit your chest and you masked it immediately, offering a small, careful smile instead.

You could feel the subtle shift in the way he held himself as if waiting for any sign from you. And though your mind told you to look away, to stay composed, there was a strange, almost terrifying comfort in knowing that he was as present in that moment as you were, that your absence did not erase you from his thoughts.

Steve clears his throat, a little too loud. “So, uh– Eddie. Didn’t you say you were late?”

Eddie looks between the three of you. “No?”

“Pretty sure you are,” Steve insists. “For… something. Band, D&D... Life.”

Robin leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. Her eyes spark with realization. “Steve.”

He groans. “Robin.”

“You’re smiling,” she says. “And you only do that when you’re lying or when you’re–”

“Don’t,” you warn, still laughing. Your heart is pounding now for an entirely different reason.

Her grin widens. “–happy.”

Steve’s knee presses into yours under the table, deliberately this time. Like it’s grounding. A silent way to warn you to not panic.

Eddie squints harder. “Wait. Are you guys…”

“Nope!” you and Steve say in unison. Loud and quickly – a behavior that doesn’t go unnoticed by them.

Robin hums one more time, pleased. “Interesting.”

Eddie leaves later after your lunch, and then Robin dramatically announces she has errands and pointedly grabs her keys – you’re alone in the kitchen again. Steve turns to you, his hands are on his hips, and disbelief is written all over his face.

“You almost blew it,” he says.

You step closer, grinning unapologetically at him. “You walked into that one.”

He laughs despite himself, shaking his head. “You snorted juice out of your nose.”

“You liked it.”

He looks at you for a long second. It’s a soft and warm glance that melts you.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I did.”

Steve doesn’t look away from you — he keeps his glance burning into your skin. His eyes, deep and intense, lock onto yours, filled with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. He steps closer, his strong hands gently cupping your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leans in.

His lips meet yours in a slow, deep kiss, tasting of wine and desire, his tongue sliding against yours with a passion that sends heat pooling between your thighs. You melt into him, your fingers threading through his dark hair, pulling him nearer. 

He wraps his arms around your waist, drawing your body flush against his, the hard line of his erection pressing into your belly through his jeans. He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips. 

“I've wanted this all day.” His voice is low and rough, laced with affection that makes your core ache. “Couldn’t stop looking at your perfect ass in that skirt.”

With deliberate slowness, he trails kisses down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin while his hands slide under your shirt, his palms are warm against your bare back. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escape from your lips as he lifts the fabric over your head, tossing it aside. His gaze roams over your exposed breasts, nipples hardening under his stare.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, before lowering his mouth to one nipple, sucking gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the tight bud while his hand kneads the other.

Pleasure sparks through you, making your pussy clench with need. You tug at his shirt, eager to feel his skin, and he helps you pull it off, revealing his perfectly sculpted abs and chest. Your hands explore him, tracing the ridges of muscle, down to the waistband of his jeans.

Only then, you stop trailing your fingers against his body as you push him back — enough for you to walk up the staircase, straight to his bedroom. You push him slowly into his bed and Steve groans as you unbutton his jeans and remove his boxers, freeing his thick cock, already hard and throbbing in your grasp. You stroke him firmly, feeling the velvety skin slide over the rigid length, pre-cum beading at the tip.

He captures your mouth again in a heated kiss, his fingers working the zipper of your skirt, letting it pool at your feet. Now in just your panties, you feel exposed and adored under his hungry eyes. Steve hooks his thumbs into the lace and eases them down your legs, his breath hitting hot against your thigh as he kneels.

“I need to taste you,” he says, voice husky with want. 

You step out of the fabric, spreading your legs slightly as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, following higher, until his mouth finds your slick folds. His tongue laps at your pussy, flat and broad, circling your clit with enough pressure that has you gasping, and your fingers keep gripping his shoulders. He sucks the swollen nub between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, while two fingers push inside you, curling to stroke that sensitive spot deep inside. Waves of bliss build quickly, your hips rock against his face, chasing the release. 

“Steve... Oh god,” you whimper, and he hums in response, the vibration sending you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you, your walls flutter around his fingers as you cry out, your juices coating his chin.

He rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied smile curving his lips.

You drop to your knees in front of Steve, your eyes locked on the head, already swollen. You lick your lips, your heart is pounding with anticipation as you wrap your fingers around the base – your hand barely closes around the girth. Steve groans softly, his hand tangles in your hair as you lean forward. Your mouth waters at the sight, and you part your lips wide, stretching them over the tip. The salty taste of his skin hits your tongue as you suck gently at first, swirling around the head to coat it with your saliva.

He's so big that your jaw aches already, but you push on, taking more of him in, your cheeks hollowing as you bob your head.

“Fuck, yeah,” Steve mutters, his hips twitching forward to meet your throat. 

You feel the thickness filling your mouth, pressing against your mouth, making it hard to breathe through your nose. You relax your throat, determined to take as much as you can, gagging slightly when the head nudges the back of your mouth. Saliva drips down your chin as you work him, sucking harder now, pressing your tongue flat along the underside of his shaft. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding you deeper, and you let him, hollowing your cheeks to increase the suction. 

The veins pulse against your lips as you slide up and down, the wet sounds of your mouth echoing in the room. Steve's breaths come ragged, his free hand bracing against the wall behind you. You reach up, cupping his balls, and start massaging them gently while you suck him, feeling them tighten under your touch. You pull back for a moment, gasping for air, strings of spit connect your lips to his glistening cock. It's even thicker now, flushed deep red from your attention. Without pause, you dive back in, taking him as far as possible.

Steve thrusts shallowly, fucking your mouth with controlled power, his groans growing louder. 

“Take it all, baby,” he growls, and you do as he says, humming around him to send vibrations through his length.

The pressure builds, his cock throbbing wildly against your tongue. You suck relentlessly, one hand stroking what your mouth can't reach, twisting at the base. 

You pull back before he releases into your throat – gasping for air. His voice comes out strangled with a groan as he watches the way your eyes are tearing from his size.

“That was just the start,” he teases, guiding you to the bed.

You lie back on the soft sheets, pulling him down with you. Steve settles between your thighs, his cock nudging at your entrance, slick with your arousal. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as he pushes inside inch by inch, stretching you deliciously full. His cock is thick and big, making your pussy clench around him in a vicious response. You gasp as he thrusts into you softly at first, then pounding on you. 

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he begins to thrust, each slide of his thick shaft dragging against your inner walls. His hands brace on either side of you, his muscles flex as he moves. His eyes never leave yours. 

“I love how tight you are, fuck,” he breathes, picking up his pace. 

His hips snap forward to hit that perfect angle. The romantic intensity in his gaze mixes with raw lust, making every plunge feel intimate and consuming. You meet his thrusts, digging your into his back, the slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside your shared moans. 

“Stevie, you’re so big,” you hum, your pulse picking up with each thrust.

He reaches between you, pressing his thumb as he rubs firm circles on your clit, heightening the building tension. Sweat slicks your bodies, the air is thick with the scent. His cock throbs into your pussy when you mewl against his ear — the immediate reaction sending jolts of pleasure into his bloodstream. He feels lightheaded for an instant, his hands almost giving out. You pull him into a kiss, tongues sliding against each other sloppily, saliva mingling.

“Cum with me, baby” he urges, with a strained voice.

And you do, your pussy clamps down on his cock as ecstasy rips through you again, pulling him into his own release. Steve groans your name, burying himself deep as he cums, hot spurts filling you. He collapses gently onto you as you both pant, resting his forehead against yours. 

Steve presses soft kisses to your lips, your cheeks, whispering how much you did good. 

For a moment, there’s just quiet. The good kind, it’s the kind that settles in your chest and makes your limbs feel boneless.

Then Steve groans.

“Unbelievable.”

You turn your head toward him, propping yourself on your elbow. “What?”

He drops his arm, squinting at you. “Robin.”

You laugh softly. “Of course.”

“She completely ruined it for me earlier,” he says, sitting up just enough to tug his own hair. 

“I know,” you grin.

His arm slides around you without thinking, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against your skin. The tension finally drains out of him, replaced by something softer.

“She’s not wrong, is she?” He asks suddenly, like he needs assurance. 

You cup his jaw, your thumb tracing his lower lip gently. “Without a doubt.”

He kisses you again, slowly this time – there’s no rush there. Then he breaks it, forehead resting against yours one more time. 

“I just want the truth,” he says.

You blink innocently. “About?”

“About who told her. Because someone clearly did.”

You scoff at him. “Oh my god. You think I did.”

“I think that she didn’t pull that level of confidence out of thin air,” he says confidently.

You poke at his bare chest. “She’s known you since high school. She absolutely pulled it out of thin air.”

“She said I hear it all the time” he protests.

“And? You think I sat her down and went ‘hey Robin, fun fact about Steve Harrington–’”

He opens his mouth and then closes it.

“…Okay, when you put it like that, no.”

“Thank you,” you say smugly, flopping back against the pillows.

But he doesn’t let it go.

“But,” he continues, “I have not described myself in detail to her.”

You snort. “Steve. She’s your best friend.”

“That doesn’t mean I…”

“You absolutely have,” you interrupt him, giggling. “You’ve complained. You’ve bragged. You’ve said things like ‘it’s not my fault’ and ‘it’s a real problem sometimes.’”

Steve groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “That was one time.”

You grin. “Which is enough.”

“You’re enjoying this.” He turns toward you, accusing.

“Immensely.”

“So you’re saying she knows because I told her.” He presses and you snort.

“I’m saying you walked yourself into this.”

Steve exhales, falling back dramatically. “Unbelievable. I share my feelings with my best friend and suddenly it’s a weapon.”

You lean over him, resting your chin on his chest. “You brought a knife to a Robin Buckley fight.”

He laughs, his chest rumbles under your chin, an arm sliding around you. “Next time she says something like that, I’m blaming you.”

You hum. “Fair. But next time she says something like that…”

He raises an eyebrow.

"...you’re not allowed to look proud.” You tap his chest lightly and he groans, his head tipping back. 

“I did not look proud.” He mutters, though the curve tugged on his lips says he’s enjoying this.

“You did,” you say. “Just a little.”

Hawkins High hums around you, lockers slamming, laughter echoing, someone’s radio blaring from a car in the parking lot, but Steve’s attention is fixed on you like the rest of the world has gone slightly out of focus. You’re leaning against your locker, pretending you’re listening to him ramble about something, Tommy, maybe, or his shift at Family Video, while your brain is busy cataloging every little detail.

The way his chestnut hair, perpetually imperfect, falls into his eyes when he tilts his head to emphasize a point, and the subsequent, effortless sweep of his fingers to push it back.

The faint, clean scent of his cologne, something warm with sandalwood and soap, mingled with the unique, essential scent of him, a familiarity that makes your lungs feel tight.

The deliberate, casual way his knee nudges yours, a gentle tap-tap-tap of denim against denim.

You do realize.

You always do.

“- and then he has the nerve to tell me I should’ve locked up earlier,” Steve finishes, scoffing. “Like I don’t already do everything around there.”

You hum in response, smiling up at him. “Sounds rough.”

He grins back at you, and it’s a thing of devastating, effortless beauty, the kind that still liquefies your insides and sends a flock of wings beating against your ribs, even after all these months of nearness. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You saying that,” he murmurs, leaning in an inch, “just made my whole day, y’know. Single-handedly.”

Before you can respond, he steps closer, too close for just friends, not close enough for something more, and his fingers hook into the belt loops of your jeans. It’s familiar. Easy. Intimate.

Possessive.

Your breath catches despite yourself.

Steve doesn’t pull you all the way in. He never does, not here. Instead, he leans down just enough that his mouth brushes your ear as he murmurs, “You busy after school?”

Your heart stutters.

“Depends,” you say carefully. “Why?”

“Thinking we could hang out.” His fingers tighten briefly, a silent punctuation. “Just us.”

Just us.

Those two words are your entire lexicon. They are the title of your story so far. They mean his couch and shared bowls of popcorn, the quiet of his empty house, his arm around your shoulders while a movie plays unseen. They mean everything and they promise nothing, all at once. They are the haven and the torture.

“Yeah,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the way your voice softens. “I’d like that.”

He smiles again, satisfied, like he’s already won something, and finally lets go, just as someone walks past, glancing at the two of you with raised eyebrows.

Steve doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t care.

You sit with your friends at lunch, poking half-heartedly at your food while they watch you with the kind of knowing expressions that make your skin itch.

The cafeteria is loud, trays clattering, someone laughing too hard at the next table, the distant echo of a basketball bouncing somewhere in the gym, but at your table, it feels like everything has gone uncomfortably quiet. You can feel their eyes on you every time you push a pea around your plate instead of eating it.

You don’t need to look up to know why.

“So,” Robin says finally, breaking the silence as she steals one of your fries without asking and pops it into her mouth. “Let me guess. Steve walked you to class again?”

You let out a slow breath through your nose. “He was already going that way.”

Robin hums, unconvinced.

Robin lifts her drink, watching you over the rim. “Funny how he’s always already going that way.”

You stab at your food a little harder than necessary. “It’s not like that.”

“Mmhmm,” Robin says, smirking now. “And let me guess, he touched you?”

Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth.

“Robin,” you warn, heat rushing to your face.

She leans back in her chair, utterly unapologetic. “What? I’m just saying. Shoulder? Waist? Hand on your back like he’s guiding you through a crowd that doesn’t exist?”

You don’t say anything, just staring back at Robin.

“That’s a yes,” she says, grinning when you don’t answer fast enough.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you say quickly, too quickly, the words tumbling over each other like if you say them fast enough they might become true. “Steve’s just… like that.”

The second the words leave your mouth, they feel thin. Hollow.

Robin arches an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it?”

You drop your gaze to your tray, suddenly fascinated by the unappealing texture of cafeteria mashed potatoes. “It’s just… Steve.”

Nancy’s smile softens, the teasing giving way to something more careful. “That’s the problem,” she says gently. “Steve is great. Steve is also… Steve.”

You know exactly what she means.

Steve Harrington is warmth and easy smiles and hands that linger like he doesn’t know how not to touch you. He’s late-night drives with the windows down, his jacket draped over your shoulders without a second thought. He’s leaning in too close when he laughs, his thumb brushing your knuckles like it belongs there. He’s kisses that feel slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing you.

And then he’s the way his voice goes light whenever things get too serious. The way he dodges questions without technically avoiding them. The way he says we’ll see instead of yes or no.

He kisses you like he means it. He holds you like you’re something precious. He looks at you like he’s already halfway in love.

But he never says anything that might actually define what the two of you are.

Every time you get close, every time you feel the words building in your throat, he does something that makes you forget why you were nervous in the first place. A stupid joke whispered against your ear. A kiss pressed to your temple. A soft hey like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t say it just right.

“He hasn’t said anything,” you admit quietly, the confession settling heavy in your chest. “Not really.”

Robin’s expression softens instantly, all the teasing slipping away. She nudges your arm with her elbow. “You deserve clarity, you know.”

You nod, because you do know. You’ve known for a while now. It’s just easier to ignore when Steve’s hands are warm and familiar and he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.

“I think…” you start, then stop, chewing on your bottom lip. “I think he’s just scared.”

Robin tilts her head. “Of what?”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you think of the way Steve’s hands settle so naturally on your waist, like he doesn’t even think about it anymore. The sound of his laughter in your ear when you say something stupid. The way he always finds his way back to you, no matter how busy his life gets.

You think of how careful he is with you when it matters most.

“Of messing it up,” you say finally.

Robin sighs. “Or of having something real.”

You look up at that, startled, but she just offers you a small, knowing smile.

“Those two things tend to look pretty similar,” she adds.

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Instead, you glance across the cafeteria without meaning to, and your breath catches when you spot Steve a few tables over, leaning back in his chair, laughing at something Tommy said. His eyes flick up for just a second, instinctively finding you like they always do.

When he sees you, his smile changes. Softens.

Your heart stutters traitorously in your chest.

Robin follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “Just… don’t let him keep you in the gray forever.”

You nod again, even as hope flickers stubbornly to life in your chest.

Because despite everything, despite the doubt and the uncertainty and the way your heart feels permanently suspended in mid-fall, Steve Harrington keeps choosing you.

And for now, that feels like it has to mean something.

The parking lot after school is a smear of late-afternoon gold, heat still trapped in the asphalt even though the day is slipping toward evening. Cars cough to life in uneven bursts. Someone yells goodbye across three rows of vehicles. The last bell feels like it’s still vibrating in your bones.

You’re halfway to your own car when you realize Steve hasn’t said a word since you stepped outside.

That’s not like him.

Steve Harrington usually fills silences like he’s afraid they’ll swallow him whole, complaining about teachers, talking about work, narrating his entire thought process with an easy grin. Today, he’s walking beside you with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders tense in a way that doesn’t match the sunlight.

You sneak a glance at him.

His hair is a mess from running his fingers through it all day, curls catching the light. His jaw works like he’s chewing on something he can’t swallow. When he notices you looking, he flashes a smile so quick it’s almost automatic.

Too automatic.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He blinks, like you’ve pulled him out of a thought he shouldn’t be having. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” He pauses, then adds, too fast, “Just tired.”

You hum, letting it go because you’ve learned when to press and when to let Steve have his space. It’s a careful dance. One you’ve gotten too good at.

You reach your car. Your keys are already in your hand when Steve speaks again.

“Hey,” he says.

Something about his voice makes your fingers still.

“Yeah?”

He nods toward the far end of the lot, where the gym doors cast a long shadow across the pavement. “Can we… not leave yet?”

Your stomach flips, that familiar mixture of hope and caution. “Like… hang out?”

Steve’s smile twitches. “Yeah. Just… for a minute. Somewhere quiet.”

Somewhere quiet with Steve Harrington is never just somewhere quiet. It’s stolen moments that feel like secrets. It’s the soft, slow slide of your name from his mouth like he’s tasting it. It’s everything you tell yourself not to expect and everything your heart insists on wanting anyway.

You nod, trying to look casual. “Sure.”

Steve’s shoulders loosen a fraction, like he’s relieved you didn’t say no. He turns and starts walking, and you follow him without thinking twice.

He leads you around the side of the school, past the dumpsters and the faculty parking spots, where the noise of the lot fades into something distant. The air smells like cut grass and warm brick. A cicada buzzes somewhere nearby, loud enough to fill the silence between you.

Steve slows as you reach a back entrance, one of the doors that’s supposed to be locked but never is, not really. He glances over his shoulder like he’s checking if anyone’s watching, then pushes it open.

“Steve, ” you start.

He holds up a hand, a quiet wait, and there’s something in his eyes that makes you stop.

Inside, the hallway is dimmer, cooler. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead. The school feels different when it’s emptier, like a place you’re not supposed to be.

Steve walks ahead, footsteps soft against the waxed linoleum. He doesn’t look back to see if you’re following. He doesn’t have to.

He stops at the end of the hallway, where a classroom door is cracked open. The room beyond is dark except for the slant of sun coming through the blinds, striping the floor in pale gold.

Steve pushes the door open and steps inside.

You hesitate for a half-second before you follow.

The classroom smells like chalk dust and old paper. Desks sit in neat rows, untouched. The air is warm where the sunlight hits, cool in the shadows. It feels too intimate, too quiet, like the world has pressed pause just for you.

Steve closes the door behind you, not all the way, not with a click, just enough that it’s mostly shut. Enough to make the room feel like a pocket of privacy.

He turns to face you.

For a second, he just… looks at you.

Not the quick, teasing glance he gives you in the hallways. Not the lazy, half-lidded look he gets when he’s flirting.

This is different.

His eyes flicker over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s searching for something. His hands hover at his sides, uncertain.

Nervous.

You’ve seen Steve nervous before, before games, before fights, before anything he actually cares about.

You’ve never seen him nervous like this.

Your heart starts to beat harder, a little too loud in your chest. “Steve… what is this?”

He swallows. “Nothing. I mean, ” He exhales, sharp and frustrated, as if annoyed with himself. “It’s not nothing.”

Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag just to have something to hold. “Okay.”

Steve drags a hand through his hair, and the motion is so familiar it almost makes you smile, until you see the way his hand trembles slightly when it drops back down.

He laughs once, breathy. “God. This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” you say immediately.

He looks at you, and something in his expression softens at the way you say it. Like he didn’t expect you to be gentle.

Steve steps closer, slowly, like he’s testing whether you’ll back away.

You don’t.

He stops close enough that you can smell him, warm cologne and something clean beneath it, soap maybe, the faintest hint of cigarettes from someone else’s jacket he’s been standing near. His presence fills the space in front of you in a way that makes everything else feel smaller.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Your breath catches. Steve lifts his hand. His fingers brush the side of your neck, just below your ear, light as if he’s afraid of hurting you. The touch is so gentle it makes your skin prickle.

And then his hand slides to cup your head, palm settling at the base of your skull. It’s a protective hold. Intimate. Reverent.

Your throat tightens.

Steve’s thumb strokes once, slow, along the edge of your hairline.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah.”

His eyes flicker to yours, searching, making sure. When he seems satisfied, his hand tightens a fraction, not rough, just… certain.

He pulls you toward him. Not rushed. Not hungry. Like he’s been waiting.

Your body moves with his like it already knows how. Like you’ve done this a hundred times and still never quite get used to the way it makes you feel.

Steve leans down, slow enough that you could stop him. His forehead almost brushes yours. His breath fans across your lips.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t the kind of kiss he gives you in his car when the radio is too loud and his hands are everywhere and everything feels like fire. This kiss is quieter. Deeper. Like he’s trying to say something without words.

Steve’s mouth moves against yours with careful patience, as if he’s learning you again. His hand stays on the back of your neck, thumb stroking, grounding you. The other hand hesitates at your side before settling lightly against your hip, not gripping, not claiming, just holding you there, like he can’t bear the thought of you drifting away.

You melt into him before you can stop yourself.

Your hands lift, finding his jacket, fingers curling into the fabric because you need something to anchor you. Steve makes a sound, barely audible, almost a sigh, and deepens the kiss slightly, like your touch gives him permission.

It’s all so slow it feels dizzying.

When he finally pulls back, it’s not sudden. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breathing is heavier now, steady but purposeful, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

You’re still, caught between hope and fear, waiting for whatever comes next.

Steve opens his eyes.

They’re softer than usual. Unshielded.

“Hi,” you whisper, because the word is the only thing you can manage.

Steve gives a small, shaky smile. “Hi.”

You let out a breath that sounds too much like a laugh. “What are you doing?”

Steve’s smile fades, replaced by something serious. “Trying to not screw this up.”

Your stomach drops and flips at the same time. “This?” you echo, voice barely there.

He swallows, gaze darting to your mouth again, then back up like he’s afraid if he looks away you’ll disappear.

“Us,” he says.

It’s only one word, but it lands like something huge.

You feel your pulse in your throat. “Steve…”

His hand remains at the back of your neck, warm and steady. “I, ” He exhales, eyes squeezing shut for a second like he’s bracing himself. “I’ve been thinking.”

You search his face for the usual escape routes, humor, flirting, anything that might turn this into a joke.

There are none. Steve looks… scared.

“Thinking about what?” you ask softly, even though you’re not sure you want the answer. Because answers change things. They make it real. They make it something you can’t pretend doesn’t matter.

Steve’s throat bobs. “About how I keep… doing this.”

“Doing what?”

He laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. “Pulling you in and then acting like it doesn’t mean anything. Like we’re just, ” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “Like I can just keep you in my pocket whenever I want.”

Your chest tightens. “Is that what you think you’ve been doing?”

Steve’s eyes snap to yours, sharp. “No.” The word is immediate, fierce. “No, that’s not what I want. That’s-, ” He stops, frustration flashing across his face. “That’s not what you are to me.”

You swallow hard. “Then what am I?”

The question slips out before you can stop it, raw and honest and dangerous.

For a moment, Steve just stares at you.

You can see him thinking. Wrestling with it. The effort of it makes his brows draw together, makes his grip at the back of your neck tighten slightly like you’re the only thing keeping him steady.

Then he leans forward, not to kiss you, not this time, and speaks so quietly you almost don’t hear it.

“I want to take us seriously.”

The words hit you like a wave.

Your mind goes blank.

Your heart stutters, then starts racing so hard you can’t tell if you’re breathing right.

You blink. “What?”

Steve’s mouth twitches, as if he expected you to laugh at him. He doesn’t pull away, though. He stays right there, close enough that his breath still brushes your lips.

“I want to take us seriously,” he repeats, a little firmer now. “I want… I want to actually be with you.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

Because it’s everything you’ve wanted to hear and everything you’ve been afraid to hope for.

Because you’ve built a whole world in your head out of little moments, his hands on your waist, his jacket around your shoulders, his laugh in your ear, and every time you tried to turn those moments into a real sentence, you stopped yourself.

You told yourself not to be greedy.

Not to ask for more.

Not to make it complicated.

But Steve is standing in front of you, looking at you like you’re something worth risking everything for, and suddenly all of your careful self-control feels paper-thin.

“Steve,” you whisper again, because his name is still the only thing you have.

He nods, like he’s bracing for impact. “I know it’s,  I know it’s kind of out of nowhere.”

“It’s not,” you say, voice shaking. “It’s not out of nowhere. I just, ”

You stop, because the truth sits heavy on your tongue: I didn’t think you’d ever say it.

Steve’s eyes soften, as if he hears the unspoken words anyway.

His thumb strokes at your hairline again. “I’ve been an idiot,” he admits quietly. “I’ve been acting like… like if I don’t label it, it can’t break.”

Your breath catches. “And now?”

Steve hesitates.

The hesitation scares you more than anything else.

But then he exhales and looks at you with something almost desperate. “Now I’m tired of pretending I don’t care.” His voice drops. “Because I do.”

Your chest aches, sharp and sweet.

You imagine it, just for a second.

Steve walking with you openly, hand in hand, not caring who sees. Steve introducing you as his girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever you’d be. Steve showing up at your door in daylight, not sneaking in through windows like a secret.

You imagine not having to wonder if you’re allowed to want him.

You imagine a future that includes him on purpose. It’s terrifying. It’s beautiful.

And it makes your eyes burn.

You laugh weakly, shaking your head. “You’re serious.”

Steve’s expression turns almost offended. “Yeah. I’m serious.”

You stare at him, trying to find the catch. The joke. The moment where he backs out.

Steve doesn’t. He just looks at you like you’re the only answer he’s ever had.

“I want you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I want… you. Not just, ” He gestures vaguely, frustrated. “Not just this. Not just whenever. I want it to be real.”

Your heart twists.

Steve Harrington, who looks like he belongs on magazine covers, who has half the school still acting like he’s the center of the universe, looks at you like you are the one he’s afraid to lose.

“You’re crazy Steve Harrington,” you whisper automatically.

Steve gives you a look that says be serious.

You huff out a small laugh, then go quiet again, hands still gripping his jacket like you’re afraid if you let go, you’ll wake up.

Steve tilts his head, watching you like he’s trying to read your thoughts. “Say something,” he murmurs. “Please.”

You open your mouth. Your brain is full of static.

“What if…” you start, voice trembling. “What if you change your mind?”

Steve’s face softens, something pained flickering in his eyes. “I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says immediately, more certain than before. His hand at your neck tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. “Because I already tried changing my mind. I already tried telling myself it was just… fun.”

He swallows.

“It’s not,” he admits, so quiet it feels like a confession. “Not for me.”

The room feels too small for the way your heart swells.

You blink fast, forcing yourself to breathe. “So what, what does taking it seriously mean to you?”

Steve hesitates, and your fear spikes again, until he starts speaking, words careful, as if he’s building them from scratch.

“It means I stop acting like you’re a secret,” he says. “It means I… I don’t do this half-in, half-out thing anymore. It means if I want to see you, I call. I come to your door. I-, ” He swallows, cheeks flushing faintly. “I take you on dates. Real ones.”

Your lips part slightly.

Steve looks relieved that you’re not running. He leans closer, foreheads nearly touching again.

“And it means,” he adds, voice softer, “I stop pretending I don’t feel things.”

Your chest tightens around the words.

You let out a shaky breath. “Steve…”

He doesn’t kiss you this time. He waits, like he’s giving you the choice. Like he’s giving you the respect he should’ve given you from the beginning.

It makes your throat ache.

You nod slowly, almost to yourself. “Okay.”

Steve blinks. “Okay?”

You nod again, still stunned. “Okay.”

The look on his face is instantaneous, hope like sunlight, relief so sharp it makes his eyes go glossy. He laughs, breathless, like he can’t believe you said yes.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice cracking. “You mean it?”

You can’t stop the small smile that tugs at your mouth, even through the fear. “Yeah, Steve. I mean it.”

For a second, he just stares at you like he’s memorizing this moment too, your smile, the way your eyes soften, the way your hands are still clutching him like you’ve been holding on for dear life.

Then his hand at your neck slides down slightly, fingertips brushing your jaw, and he kisses you again.

It’s still slow.

Still reverent.

But now there’s something else in it, something steady. Certain. Like he’s not asking anymore. Like he’s claiming a future. And you let him, because for the first time, you let yourself imagine that maybe this isn’t going to end in your heart breaking.

Outside, the sun continues to dip behind the school, the world carrying on like nothing has changed.

But in the quiet, stripe-lit classroom, with Steve Harrington’s mouth on yours and his hands holding you like you matter, like everything does.

The next morning, you wake up smiling.

It’s small and stupid and completely uncontrollable, the kind of smile that sneaks up on you while you’re brushing your teeth, while you’re tying your shoes, while you’re staring at your reflection and thinking, This is different now.

Because it is different now.

Steve said it out loud.

He said he wanted to take you seriously. He said he wanted something real. He didn’t dodge it, didn’t joke it away, didn’t soften it with a laugh. He looked at you like he meant it.

And that changes everything.

You walk into Hawkins High with a lightness in your step that feels almost dangerous. Your bag bounces against your hip. Your heart beats faster than usual, like it’s trying to keep up with the possibilities racing through your head.

You imagine him waiting by your locker.

You imagine his smile when he sees you, the way it’ll soften like it always does. Maybe he’ll pull you in close, just a little smug this time, like he’s allowed to. Maybe he’ll kiss your cheek. Maybe he won’t care who sees.

No more secrets, he said.

You round the corner, already searching for him,

And your locker is empty. You slow to a stop, confusion prickling at your skin.

Maybe he’s running late.

That’s normal. Steve is perpetually running late. You tell yourself that easily, shrugging it off as you spin the dial on your locker. The metal clicks open with a sound that feels too loud.

You glance down the hallway once more.

Nothing.

Your chest tightens slightly, but you ignore it. One morning doesn’t mean anything. You grab your books and shut the locker, the echo ringing through the hallway like punctuation.

He’ll find you later, you tell yourself. He always does

First period passes with a thick, syrupy slowness. The teacher’s voice becomes a distant drone, words like “algebraic expression” and “polynomial” dissolving into meaningless sound. Your focus fractures, pulled relentlessly toward the classroom door every time it creaks open, each time, a foolish, hopeful jolt. Then, toward the clock above the chalkboard, its red second hand ticking with a maddening, lethargic precision. In the margin of your notebook, your pen moves of its own volition, tracing the familiar curves of his name before your brain catches up with your heart. You black it out furiously, a dark, scribbled storm cloud over the letters, your cheeks flushing with the vulnerability of it.

You don’t see him.

Second period is a study in mounting quiet. You tell yourself it’s fine. His schedule is different; the halls are long. But you still catch yourself scanning the river of students between bells, your eyes skipping from face to unfamiliar face with a practiced, automatic hope. The bright, morning excitement you carried like a secret begins to tarnish at the edges, dulled by a faint, creeping confusion.

By third period, the soft, private smile you woke up with, the one that felt like a promise etched into your skin, has faded completely. In its place is something careful and cautious, a tentative line your mouth holds. You tell yourself you’re being dramatic, borrowing trouble. Steve doesn’t owe you every minute of his time. He didn’t say everything would change overnight. He just said,

I want to be serious. I want this to be real.

The memory of his voice, low and earnest in the quiet of his car last night, wraps around your heart. It has to mean something. It has to.

When the bell shrieks for fourth period, you gather your books with a restless energy, your thoughts a tangled knot. The hallways have reached their peak volume, a chaotic symphony of slamming metal and shouted plans. You merge into the current of bodies, feeling oddly separate from the flow.

You don’t notice the voices at first. They’re just another thread in the noisy tapestry, laughter, a shout, the hum of a hundred conversations. You’re halfway to your class, mind still churning, when a specific sound slices cleanly through the din.

Steve’s laugh.

It’s unmistakable. Warm, open, and bright, the sound you’ve come to associate with sun-drenched afternoons and the safe circle of his arms. Your heart, that traitorous organ, gives a reflexive, joyful skip before your mind can process the context.

Your head turns, an instinct you cannot fight.

The sound emanates from an open classroom a few doors down, Mr. Kelly’s history room. Your feet slow, then stall. You tell yourself you’re just going to glance in. Just to see him, to catch his eye and share a silent, connecting smile. Just to know he’s there.

You take a few steps closer, drawn by a magnetism you despise.

The classroom door is wide open, a rectangle of buttery morning sunlight painting the floor. Inside, a girl stands near the teacher’s desk, leaning back against it. You recognize her vaguely. From his economics class. She’s pretty in a way that seems unconscious, her smile easy, her posture comfortable in her own skin.

Steve is leaning against a student desk opposite her, his body angled toward hers in a mirror of their positions.

Too close.

The observation hits you like a physical blow, a sudden, sickening dip in your stomach.

They’re laughing about something; their heads inclined toward each other in a shared space. Steve’s posture is the picture of relaxed ease, the Steve who owns every room he enters, who draws people in with the effortless gravity of his charm. This is him, unguarded and shining.

The girl says something, her lips shaping words lost to the hallway noise.

Steve laughs again, a softer, more intimate echo, and shakes his head, running a hand through his hair in that way you love.

Then she reaches out.

Her fingers, confident, casual, brush his arm, just above the elbow. The touch is light but lingers, a punctuation to her smile. She looks up at him with an expression that is unmistakably grateful, familiar. Intimate.

From your frozen vantage point in the hallway, it looks like a language. A language of comfort and shared history.

A language you’re not fluent in.

Your breath snags, catching painfully in your constricted throat.

No, your mind screams, immediate and defensive. This isn’t, it can’t be,

Steve leans in slightly, saying something in return, his voice too low to hear. The movement is small, but from your angle, it’s devastating. It’s him closing the distance. It’s him choosing proximity, the same way he leans into your space, the same way he curved his body around yours just yesterday against your locker.

The same way.

A sharp, white spike of pain lances through your chest. Your vision wavers, the edges blurring with a hot, sudden pressure.

You take a stumbling step back without conscious thought.

That’s when Steve looks up.

For half a heartbeat, his face is still open, lit with the fading echo of his smile, unguarded.

Then his eyes find yours.

And his entire world shifts.

His smile doesn’t just fade; it evaporates, wiped clean as if it never existed. His body goes taut, straightening away from the desk as if yanked by an invisible wire. His brows pull together in a sharp vee of confusion, of dawning alarm. His mouth opens,

“Hey-!”

He takes a hurried step toward the door, toward the hallway.

Toward you.

The girl beside him follows his gaze. She glances at you, a stranger lurking in the doorway, then back at Steve, her pretty face etching with puzzlement.

Steve doesn’t see her confusion.

Because he’s looking only at you.

And there it is, plain, stark, and horrifying in its clarity, a flash of pure panic in his eyes.

That should mean something. It should mean he cares, that he’s caught, that you matter enough to spark fear.

In this shattered moment, it means nothing.

Your chest caves inward, a hollow, collapsing feeling that steals the air from your lungs. The roar of your own heartbeat ascends, a deafening thunder in your ears that drowns out the hallway, drowns out her voice, drowns out the scrape of Steve’s shoes on the linoleum as he moves.

One thought rises, crystalline and cruel in its clarity:

How breathtakingly naive could you possibly be?

You don’t wait. You don’t give him the chance to reach you, to offer some placating, pretty lie. You spin on your heel and walk away, fast and deliberate.

Your footsteps are the only sound you hear, echoing with a terrible finality as you push through the crowd. Your shoulders hunch instinctively, bracing for a blow that never comes. You don’t look back. You can’t bear to see him following, and you think it might kill you if he doesn’t.

Your vision swims, the world tilting. You blink hard, teeth grinding together, and force your legs to carry you forward, away.

Yesterday now feels like a beautifully crafted joke, and you were the oblivious punchline. His hands, so gentle on your face. His voice, rough with emotion, saying I want to take us seriously. The entire, fragile future you allowed yourself to sketch in the air between you, a future with labels and certainty and him.

Stupid.

You should have known. Steve Harrington has always possessed a genius for making people feel singular, like they are the only star in his sky. You just made the catastrophic error of believing you were the one who actually was.

You shove the door to the nearest bathroom open, the force rattling the frame. The fluorescent lights buzz with a sterile, aggressive energy, reflecting harshly off the white tiles. You stumble to the sink, gripping the cold porcelain edge until your knuckles bleach white, breathing in ragged, uneven gasps. You force your gaze to the mirror.

The person staring back is a stranger. Eyes glassy and wide, shimmering with unshed tears. The smile is gone, replaced by a pale, stricken stillness. You look… embarrassed. Deeply, profoundly humiliated.

You press your palms flat against the counter, letting the cold seep into your skin, a feeble anchor.

Get it together. You are not crying over this. Not here.

Because what did you truly expect? You existed in the gray space. No titles, no declarations, no contract. You were a lovely, ephemeral thing he could enjoy without consequence, a feeling he could take back without warning, as easily as he took back his smile in that classroom.

You straighten slowly. You lift your chin. You will the trembling in your limbs to still.

You will not let him see this. You will not give him that.

When you finally leave the bathroom, you map a new course through the school, avoiding the tributaries that lead to his locker, his usual haunts. You keep your eyes fixed on some distant point ahead, your steps measured and sure. Every burst of laughter you pass sounds like mockery. Every intertwined couple is a fresh, tiny stab.

You don’t see Steve again for the rest of the day.

But you feel him everywhere. In the echo of a familiar laugh down the hall. In the faint, ghostly scent of his cologne lingering near his locker. In the heavy, pervasive silence of your phone, which remains stubbornly, accusingly dark. He is a ghost haunting the familiar halls, a presence etched into the very air you now struggle to breathe.

You don’t cry on the drive home.

Not because you don’t want to, God, you do, but because crying would mean admitting you let yourself believe him. It would mean admitting you let Steve Harrington say I want to take us seriously and you didn’t question it, didn’t guard your heart the way you always promised you would.

So you keep your eyes on the road and your hands steady on the steering wheel, jaw clenched so tightly your teeth ache.

The radio is off. The silence feels too loud.

Every stop sign feels like it takes too long. Every red light feels like punishment. You catch yourself staring at the reflection of your own eyes in the rearview mirror and you look away immediately, like you can’t stand the sight of yourself right now.

Because you look stupid. Like someone who thought they’d finally been chosen.

Your house comes into view and you pull into the driveway too fast, tires crunching gravel. You park crooked. You don’t care. The front door is there, familiar, safe, and you cling to it like it’s the only thing keeping you from shattering.

You slam the car door and march inside.

The moment the door closes behind you, the adrenaline fades, and the humiliation hits like a wave.

You drop your bag by the entryway. You don’t take your shoes off properly. You kick them into a corner and head straight to your room like if you stop moving you’ll break apart.

The second you’re inside, you shut the door and lock it.

Then you press your back against it, breathing hard, like you just ran a mile.

How naive could I be? It loops in your head, sharp and merciless.

You cross the room and fall onto your bed, face-down, smothering your face into the pillow before any sound can escape. You grip the fabric like it’s the only thing you can hold onto. Your chest rises and falls too fast.

You tell yourself you’re fine.

You tell yourself you’re not going to cry.

Your throat burns anyway.

Behind your closed eyes, flashes of the classroom scene replay like a cruel little film you can’t turn off.

Steve leaning in. Her hand on his arm. His smile,

And then the way his face changed when he saw you, like he hadn’t expected consequences to exist.

Like he hadn’t expected you to be real.

A sharp sound cuts through your spiraling thoughts. The unmistakable screech of tires and the crunch of gravel. Your heart jumps, stupidly hopeful for half a second before it turns bitter.

No. It can’t be. Another noise, louder this time. A car door slamming.

Your breath catches. You lift your head just enough to listen. Footsteps. Fast. Heavy.

Then,

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The front door rattles in its frame.

“Come on, _______!”

Steve’s voice. Strained. Breathless. Too loud. Too real.

“I-I can explain everything!”

You freeze.

Your whole body goes cold and hot at the same time, like you’ve been dropped into boiling water. For a moment you can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even think beyond the way your heart is trying to claw its way out of your chest.

He’s here. He came.

And the worst part, the part that makes you want to scream, is how your heart reacts like this means something. Like this is proof you mattered.

But it isn’t proof of anything except that Steve Harrington hates feeling like the bad guy.

You bury your face back into the pillow harder, as if you can mute his voice through sheer willpower.

“_______!” he calls again, and it cracks on the second syllable like it hurts him. “Please. Just open the door, just let me talk to you!”

Another bang. The door shudders.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t. Don’t go down there. Don’t give him the satisfaction of watching you fall apart.

You stare at the darkness behind your eyelids and try to breathe through the ache in your chest.

And in that darkness, your memory betrays you.

The first time he said your name softly.

It wasn’t even dramatic. It was late, summer air thick and warm, you perched on the hood of his car while he fumbled with a lighter he didn’t need. He’d been talking about nothing, work, his mom, some stupid movie he’d seen, until the conversation faded naturally.

You’d looked at him and smiled.

And he’d looked back like he forgot how to breathe.

“_______,” he’d said, barely a whisper, like he was testing the sound of it. Like he was afraid it might break if he said it too loud.

You’d laughed and asked what.

Steve had shaken his head, swallowing hard. “Nothing,” he’d mumbled, eyes fixed on your mouth. “Just… you’re, ”

He never finished the sentence.

The banging at the door yanks you back to the present.

“Please!” Steve shouts, voice raw now. “Please, I swear, this isn’t what you think!”

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound.

You don’t want to hear this.

You don’t want him to explain, because explanations don’t erase what you saw. Explanations don’t erase the way your stomach dropped, the way your hope died so fast it felt like whiplash.

Explanations don’t erase the fact that you believed him.

Another memory slides in, unwanted and vivid.

The first time he kissed you in his car.

It had been raining, the kind of storm that made Hawkins feel smaller, the streets slick and shining under streetlights. He’d driven you home because your ride bailed last minute, and you’d sat in the passenger seat with your arms folded, trying to pretend your heart wasn’t racing.

Steve had pulled up in your driveway and turned the engine off.

For a second, the only sound was rain ticking against the roof.

You’d thanked him, reaching for the door handle,

And his hand had shot out, catching your wrist.

Not tight. Not controlling.

Just… desperate.

You’d looked at him, confused.

Steve’s eyes had been dark, searching. His chest rose and fell like he’d been holding his breath for the entire drive.

“Wait,” he’d said quietly.

“Steve -”

He’d leaned across the center console and kissed you like he’d been starving, like he’d spent weeks thinking about it and couldn’t stop himself anymore.

It wasn’t gentle. Not that first kiss.

It was messy and sudden and real, his hand sliding up your arm to your shoulder, fingers curling like he was afraid you’d disappear.

When he pulled back, his forehead had rested against yours.

“Sorry,” he’d breathed, even as his thumb traced your jaw. “I just,  I couldn’t, ”

You’d smiled, dazed.

And Steve had kissed you again.

Downstairs, the banging stops. The sudden silence is so abrupt it makes your ears ring. You lift your head slightly, listening, pulse pounding. For a moment, there’s nothing. No yelling. No knocking. No Steve.

Relief loosens your shoulders before you can stop it. You sink back into the bed, exhaling shakily, your face still pressed into the pillow.

Maybe he gave up. Maybe he,

A sharp tap interrupts the thought.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Not from downstairs. From your window. Your whole body stiffens.

Slowly, like you’re moving through water, you lift your head.

There, outside your window, crouched low like a criminal in a bad movie, is Steve Harrington’s head.

A mop of brown hair, slightly windblown, eyes wide and pleading as he peers up from the bottom of the glass.

Of course. Of course he would do this.

Because Steve has climbed through your window dozens of times before. It’s practically muscle memory at this point. Late nights when he couldn’t sleep. Long afternoons when he “just happened” to be in your neighborhood. Moments when he wanted you and didn’t want to ask properly.

He taps the window again, softer this time, like he’s trying not to scare you.

“Please,” he mouths through the glass.

You stare at him, frozen.

Steve shifts awkwardly, fingers curled on the windowsill, arms trembling slightly like he’s already losing his grip. “_______,” he says when you finally crack the window open just enough to hear him, voice strained. He’s breathing hard, hair falling into his eyes. “Please, let me just explain.”

You don’t answer.

Your throat feels sealed shut.

“Please,” he repeats, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “Let me in, I’m gonna fall in a second.”

He’s not exaggerating. His foot scrapes against the side of the house, searching for purchase. The ridiculousness of it, the way he looks like a guilty cat caught in the rain, almost makes you laugh.

Almost.

But then you remember that classroom.

You remember that girl’s hand on him.

And the laughter dies before it can reach your lips.

You should let him fall. You really should. Instead, you shove the window up with a sharp movement and step back, arms crossed like armor.

Steve hauls himself inside with a clumsy grunt, landing awkwardly on your bedroom floor. He winces, rubbing his side, then immediately looks up at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His cheeks are flushed. His chest heaves. He looks like he ran here.

You hate that you notice. You hate that even now your body reacts to him like he’s home.

“Please,” he says, voice raw. “I can explain everything, I, ”

“Explain?” you cut in, sharp and trembling. “There is nothing to explain.”

Steve flinches like you slapped him.

“What I saw was pretty obvious,” you continue, voice rising despite your efforts to keep it steady. Your throat burns with every word. “You were in there with her. Laughing. Leaning in. And she was, ” you swallow, forcing the image back down, “, touching you.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Steve says immediately, too fast, desperation making the words stumble out. “It was just, ”

“Just what?” you snap. “Just you doing what you always do? Making someone feel special when it’s convenient?”

Steve’s eyes widen. “No, ”

You laugh bitterly. “Like I know we aren’t serious, ” Your voice cracks and you hate that it does, hate that you’re giving him proof that you’re hurting. “And maybe you don’t actually care about me or my feelings, but why would you lie?”

Steve goes still.

“I didn’t lie,” he says, and it comes out quieter than before, like he’s trying not to scare you, like he’s trying to keep the panic in his chest from spilling everywhere. “I meant it.”

You shake your head hard, as if you can shake the memory of him saying it out of your body.

“You said you wanted to take us seriously,” you spit, wiping at your cheek angrily even though you don’t remember tears falling. “You said it like you meant it. You kissed me like you meant it. You made me, ” Your voice breaks and you have to inhale sharply through your nose. “You made me believe you.”

Steve’s face crumples for half a second before he forces it back into something steadier. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“_______,” he whispers, like your name hurts him.

“Don’t,” you warn, backing away a step.

Steve mirrors you without thinking, stepping forward at the same time, as if the distance between you is a problem he needs to fix.

You put your hands on his chest and shove.

Hard.

Steve barely moves. Not an inch. The only thing that shifts is his expression, surprise flickering, then something softer, almost aching, when he looks down at your hands like he’s realizing how much you’re shaking.

“Stop,” you say, voice thin. “Just stop coming closer.”

“I’m not trying to, ” he starts, then cuts himself off, frustrated with his own inability to get it right. He drags in a breath like he’s bracing. “Okay. Okay. I’ll,  I’ll stay here. I’ll stay.”

He stays, barely.

You can still feel him, even from a few feet away. The warmth of him. The weight of him. The way the room seems to bend around Steve Harrington like he belongs at the center of it.

You hate that you miss him even while you’re furious.

Steve’s hands lift again, palms open, pleading. “Just, just listen to me. Please.”

Your laugh comes out broken. “Why? So you can tell me I’m imagining things? So you can say it was nothing and I’m overreacting?”

“No,” Steve says quickly. “No, I’m not,  I’m not gonna do that.”

“Then what?” you demand. “What were you doing in that classroom with her?”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut for a second, jaw flexing, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

When he opens them, his eyes are shining.

“I was, ” He swallows. “She was crying.”

You freeze.

The answer is so… normal that it throws you off balance. It doesn’t match the story your brain has been screaming at you all day.

“Crying?” you repeat, voice flat with disbelief.

Steve nods once, sharp. “Yeah.”

You stare at him, waiting for the rest, waiting for the punchline that turns this into another excuse.

Steve takes a step forward without thinking again.

You immediately shove his chest a second time, even harder.

He still doesn’t move. He just looks at you, breathing heavier now, frustration and panic and hurt twisting across his face.

“I’m serious,” he says, voice cracking on the words. “I’m not lying to you.”

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, because it makes your chest ache in a way you can’t afford right now. “Don’t say you’re serious when I just,  I just watched you, ”

“You watched me what?” he snaps, and then immediately regrets the sharpness, his tone softening as he takes a breath. “You watched me comfort someone who was crying.”

You shake your head, anger flaring hot to cover the humiliation. “You were close.”

“I was close because she was falling apart!” Steve bursts, hands clenching at his sides. He catches himself, lowers his voice like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. “She was, she was a mess, _______.”

He takes another careful breath, like he’s trying to talk to you without pushing you off a cliff.

“It was her and Tommy,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “They broke up. Like… for real this time.”

Your stomach twists.

The name lands heavy, because it’s familiar. Because it makes sense. Because you’ve seen Tommy Hagan’s version of love, loud, careless, humiliating. The kind that treats feelings like weaknesses.

You still don’t let yourself soften.

“And that has what to do with you?” you ask, voice cutting.

Steve’s mouth tightens. “Because she came to me.”

Your laugh is sharp. “Of course she did.”

He flinches at that, like you’ve hit something tender.

“She asked where Tommy was,” Steve continues, pushing through, words coming faster now like he’s terrified you’ll interrupt again. “She said he wouldn’t answer her, he wouldn’t even look at her, and she, ” he swallows hard, eyes flickering down and back up, “, she thought he was with someone else.”

The irony makes your stomach churn.

Steve’s voice goes quieter, almost ashamed. “And then she started crying, like… ugly crying. Right there.”

You blink, caught between rage and confusion and something that feels dangerously close to guilt.

“And you…” you start.

Steve’s hands lift slightly, helpless. “I didn’t know what to do. I told her to come inside so she wouldn’t… I don’t know. So people wouldn’t stare.” His throat works as he swallows again. “She was embarrassed.”

The word slices through you because you know exactly what embarrassment feels like.

It feels like your chest being hollowed out in a hallway.

It feels like believing someone and being made a fool.

Steve takes another step forward, slower this time, like he’s approaching a wild animal.

You don’t move away.

You also don’t move toward him.

“You have to believe me,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t touch her like that. I didn’t, ” He shakes his head hard, eyes bright. “She grabbed my arm when she thanked me. That was it.”

Your nails dig into your palms.

The memory replays: her hand on him, Steve leaning in. Your brain tries to twist it back into betrayal because betrayal is easier than uncertainty.

“Then why didn’t you find me?” you whisper, the question leaking out before you can stop it. “Why weren’t you there this morning? You said, ” Your voice falters. “You said you wanted to take us seriously.”

Steve’s whole expression shifts at that, something pained and frantic.

“I was going to,” he says immediately. “I swear I was.”

You scoff, but it sounds weak.

He shakes his head, words spilling. “I got pulled into helping Mr. Wallace with something first thing. He asked me to move equipment for the gym, then I got stopped by,- by her. And I thought I’d see you between classes, and then I didn’t, and then, ” His breath stutters. “Then you saw me and you left.”

You swallow hard.

Steve steps closer again, unable to help himself.

You push him again, hands flat on his chest.

He still doesn’t move, only dips his head slightly, like he’s letting you do it because you need to.

“Don’t.” you whisper, voice trembling. “Don’t come closer when you’re trying to convince me you didn’t, ”

“I’m not trying to convince you,” he cuts in, eyes fierce now, something cracking open in his voice. “I’m telling you what happened.”

“People always tell the truth when they get caught,” you snap, the words tasting bitter.

Steve’s face goes still.

Caught.

Like you’ve reduced him to the worst version of himself. Like you’ve decided he’s a liar before he can prove otherwise.

“I didn’t get caught,” he says, voice low. “Because there’s nothing to get caught doing.”

Your chest tightens.

You want to believe him so badly it makes you angry.

“Then why did you look like that when you saw me?” you demand, voice breaking at the edges. “Why did your face, ”

Steve’s throat bobs. He looks at you like he’s trying to find the right words, like he knows one wrong sentence could destroy whatever fragile thread is still holding you here.

“Because I knew exactly what it looked like,” he admits quietly. “And I knew exactly what you’d think.”

That makes your stomach twist.

“And you still, ” you start.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Steve says, and his eyes flash, frustration, fear, honesty. “She was crying, _______. She was asking me if Tommy ever even cared about her. She was asking me if he was with someone else.” His voice cracks. “What was I supposed to do, tell her to shut up because my girlfriend might walk by?”

The word hits you like a slap.

Girlfriend.

You freeze.

Steve freezes too, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like it slipped out because it’s what he’s been thinking.

You stare at him, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

Steve’s eyes widen slightly. His cheeks flush faintly, and for a moment he looks almost… embarrassed.

But he doesn’t take it back.

He swallows hard and steps closer again, like he can’t stay away from you even when you’re angry.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softer. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m sorry I wasn’t there this morning.” His voice drops, pleading. “But don’t, don’t do this thing where you decide you already know the worst about me.”

Your hands tremble against his chest.

You push him again, one last time, more out of desperation than anger.

Steve finally moves a fraction, but only because he lets himself.

He doesn’t step back. He steps in.

Until you can smell him.

His cologne wraps around you, familiar and cruel because it smells like nights you wanted to pretend meant nothing. It smells like his car. Like safety. Like Steve.

Your breath catches.

Steve’s voice turns low, steady, dangerous in the way honesty can be when it’s stripped bare.

“That’s the truth,” he says. “All of it.”

You open your mouth to respond.

Nothing comes out.

Because he’s close enough now that you can feel his breath on your skin, steady but heavy, and his hair brushes your forehead when he dips his head just slightly.

He still doesn’t touch you.

Not really.

He keeps his hands at his sides like he’s forcing himself not to grab you, not to hold you, not to do the thing he always does to distract you from your anger.

Instead, he lets his words do it.

“It’s only you,” he whispers.

Your fists unclench instantly, betraying you.

Your entire body reacts like it recognizes the truth before your brain does.

Steve watches it happen, your shoulders dropping a fraction, the tension shifting, and his breath shudders like he’s been holding it.

“It’s only ever been you,” he repeats, quieter now, like he’s saying it to convince you and himself at the same time.

Your throat tightens painfully.

Because the worst part is: you want to believe him.

You’ve wanted to believe him from the moment you saw him at the bottom of your window.

Steve tilts his head, eyes searching your face like he’s reading every micro-expression, every flicker of doubt.

“Okay?” he asks, voice barely audible.

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t push.

He just stays close, like he’s giving you the space to choose.

“Okay?” he repeats, a little more desperate now, like the word matters more than oxygen.

You exhale shakily.

Your shoulders relax despite yourself, and you shake your head, a bitter little laugh escaping as your eyes sting.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

But there’s a tiny smile creeping at the corner of your mouth, traitorous and soft.

Steve’s face breaks open with relief so intense it almost looks like pain.

His arms wrap around you instantly, like the second you give him permission, he can’t hold back anymore. He pulls you into his chest, burying you against him like he’s been starving for it all day.

The warmth of him hits you like a wave.

You should push him away.

You don’t.

Steve exhales, shaky, into your hair. His hands spread across your back like he’s anchoring you.

“I meant everything I said,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Every word. I’m not, ” He swallows hard, arms tightening. “I’m not playing with you.”

Your face presses into his shirt, and your fingers curl into the fabric without thinking.

Steve’s cheek rests against the top of your head, and you feel the tremor in his breath.

“Next time,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion, “next time you think I’m lying, don’t run. Yell at me, hit me, slam a door in my face, I don’t care, just don’t disappear on me like that.”

Your chest aches at the way he says disappear, like losing you is a real fear.

You swallow hard. “You scared me,” you mumble into his shirt, voice muffled.

Steve’s arms tighten again. “I know.” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I swear I’m sorry.”

You stay like that for a moment, breathing each other in, the quiet finally settling.

Then Steve pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still on your arms, thumbs brushing lightly like he can’t stop touching you now that you’ve let him.

His eyes search yours again, softer this time.

“I want to do this right,” he says. “I want to be… what I said. For you.”

You blink fast, trying to keep your voice steady. “Then don’t make me feel stupid for believing you.”

Steve’s expression tightens, guilt flashing. “Never,” he says immediately. “Never again.”

He lifts his hands slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. When you don’t, his fingers come to rest at your waist, thumbs brushing lightly like he’s grounding himself.

Steve leans down just enough that you have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

And there they are.

The stupid, unfair puppy-dog eyes.

Soft. Open. Earnest in a way that makes your heart ache. He looks at you like you’re something precious he’s terrified of breaking, like he’s already decided you’re worth every risk he’s ever been afraid to take.

His hand slides up, warm and careful, until it cups your cheek. His thumb brushes just beneath your eye, feather-light, like he’s checking you’re really here.

“Let me make it up to you,” he whispers.

The words are barely there, breathed more than spoken, and they land directly against your lips. You don’t get the chance to respond.

Steve leans in slowly, giving you time to stop him even now. When you don’t, his mouth brushes yours in a kiss that’s gentle and reverent, like an apology wrapped in promise.

It’s soft at first. Just a press of lips. A quiet I’m here.

His other hand comes up to cradle your face, thumbs resting along your jaw like he never wants to let go again. The kiss deepens just slightly, careful and unhurried, like he’s memorizing the way you feel when you’re not angry, when you’re not pulling away.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

His eyes stay closed for a second, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s relieved. Like he knows he almost lost you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “Okay?”

This time, when you nod, there’s no hesitation.

And Steve smiles, small and soft and real, before kissing you again.

You’re leaning over the evidence table, deliberately bending farther than necessary to reach a photo, when Rossi sidles up beside you.

“You trying to get fired, kid?” he mutters under his breath. Already knowing exactly what you're playing at. Rossi knows Hotch too well, knows you too well. And has definitely figured out just what your relationship entails behind closed doors.

You don’t even look at him. “Just keeping him on his toes, David.”

He hums, unconvinced. “He’s gonna put you on your knees later, and not in the fun way.”

You grin, sharp and sweet, when in reality you should've been mortified at the words coming out of Rossi's mouth. “We’ll see.”

Hotch’s voice cuts across the bullpen. “L/N. My six. Now.”

You straighten slowly, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. “Yes, sir.”

You saunter over, boots echoing, and stop just inside his personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to glare at you.

The rest of the room pretends they’re suddenly very very busy. And definitely not listening to whatever is about to happen between the two of you.

“You’re off the raid,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear the tremor of fury underneath. Meaning that you've just struck bingo, and Hotch is giving you exactly what you were playing for later.

You blink, all mock innocence, before you raise your brows at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re staying here with the locals.”

You laugh, actually laugh, straight in his face. “No, I’m not.”

“That wasn’t a request.” His eyes flash, his pupils dilating, darkening. You can tell that he is trying to claw his way out of Hotch, begging to be released upon you.

“And this isn’t a negotiation.” You step closer, dropping your voice to a purr. “You want me on a leash, Aaron, you’re gonna have to put it on me yourself. In front of everyone. Go ahead.” You cross your arms over your chest.

His nostrils flare. For one electric second, you think he might actually do it, might snap right here, take his belt off, and drag you out by the back of your neck like you both know you want him to.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to ground himself before he says something too unprofessional. When he finally speaks, he leans down to whisper in your ear through gritted teeth, “Fine! You’re with me. You leave my sight for less than .01 seconds, I'll cuff you to the SUV and leave you in the car overnight like some abandoned pet left on the side of the road. Try me.”

You lick your bottom lip. “Promise?”

He turns on his heel before he does something he can’t take back in front of twenty witnesses and the entirety of his team.

The raid is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and you are the match.

Hotch wants to go in quietly through the back. You’re already halfway across the parking lot toward the front door before he grabs your vest and yanks you back.

“Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish today?” He says, leaving little to no discussion in his tone, you know that tone all too well, even strive to get it out of him on occasion... well, more times than not.

You spin, grinning up at him. “Only if you’re the one pulling the trigger.”

He looks like he’s two seconds from gagging you with his own tie and bending you over right here, right now.

Morgan’s voice crackles over comms. “Hotch, we’re set on the east side. You two coming or getting a room?”

You reach up and key your own comm without looking away from Hotch. “We’re coming, 'baby girl'. Unit Chief’s just having a little performance anxiety.” You can already imagine Morgan's confused look at the nickname.

Hotch rips the earpiece out of your ear and crushes it under his boot.

You whistle, low and a little playful. “That’s destruction of FBI property, sir. Very naughty.”

He grabs the front of your vest this time, hauling you in until you’re nose to nose. There he is. “You do not speak again until this unsub is in cuffs. Not one fucking word. Nod if you understand.”

You nod, solemn and mocking. Already planning to break that exact promise.

He releases you like you’re radioactive.

The warehouse is a maze of rusted machinery and broken skylights. Moonlight stripes the concrete floor. You move ahead of Hotch, deliberately, clearing corners before he can tell you to wait.

He hisses your name, barely audible.

You ignore him.

You hear the unsub before you see him: panicked breathing, the clatter of a dropped magazine. He’s reloading behind a stack of crates twenty feet ahead.

You raise your weapon before you step into the open.

Hotch swears viciously behind you and moves to cover, but you’re already talking.

“FBI! Drop it!”

The unsub spins, wild-eyed, gun up.

You don’t flinch.

Hotch is shouting your name now, furious and afraid all at the same time, but you keep your voice steady, taunting. “Come on, sweetheart. You wanted us to chase you. Here I am.”

The unsub’s finger tightens on the trigger.

Hotch’s arm hooks around your waist from behind, and he yanks you sideways, throwing you both sideways behind a forklift just as the shot rings out. Concrete explodes exactly where you were just standing.

You land half on top of him, ears ringing, heart slamming against your ribs.

He’s shaking with rage, hands gripping your vest so hard the straps bite.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls into your face.

You grin, breathless, high on adrenaline and the feel of him under you. “You’re welcome.”

Another shot pings off metal above your heads.

Hotch flips you onto your back, shielding you with his body, weapon already up. His voice in your ear is lethal. “Stay. Down.”

This time, you finally listen.

He rises in one fluid motion, one precise shot to his leg, and the unsub drops like a puppet that just had its strings cut.

Silence falls in the warehouse, broken only by distant shouting as the rest of the team floods in.

Hotch holsters his weapon, turns back to you, where you’re pushing to your feet.

You meet his eyes across the moonlit warehouse, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears.

The unsub is down.

The cuffs are clicking.

And Aaron Hotchner looks like he’s deciding exactly how long it’s going to take to make you cry tonight.

The jet is grounded until at least morning due to a mechanical failure in the engine, so the team books into the hotel closest to the hangar and landing strip.

Everyone’s exhausted, adrenaline crashing hard, all a little annoyed from the lack of sleeping in their own beds tonight. But the air between you and Hotch is still a live current, ready to explode any second now.

You’re leaning against the check-in desk, tapping your badge against your palm, when Hotch steps up beside you and quietly tells the clerk, “Two singles.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Separate rooms,” you echo, loud enough for Hotch and the clerk to hear. You flash him a saccharine smile. “How very professional of us, Agent Hotchner. Gotta keep up appearances for the Bureau. Wouldn’t want anyone to know their precious unit chief has been balls-deep in his subordinate every night for the last eight months.”

The night clerk’s eyes go wide. Rossi, waiting for his key behind you, chokes on a laugh which he pretends is a cough.

Hotch doesn’t flinch. He just signs the receipt with a pen that might actually snap in his grip, then hands you a keycard.

“Room 312,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You open that door for anyone else, you won’t sit for a month.”

He walks away before you can answer.

You take the stairs two at a time, pulse already racing.

The second the door clicks shut behind him, the mask is gone.

He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it toward the chair in the corner of the room, and stalks toward you like a predator who’s finally off leash and pouncing straight toward its next meal.

“Strip!”

You arch a brow at him. “Please?”

He’s on you in two strides, hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, hard.

“Don’t push me any further tonight,” he warns. “You’ve used up every last ounce of patience I have.”

“Good.” You smile slowly up at him.

He kisses you all teeth, no mercy, until you’re gasping against his mouth. Then he spins you, shoves you chest-first over the foot of the bed, yanks your jeans and panties down in one rough motion.

His palm slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat. You feel the heat of him behind you, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass through his slacks.

“You’ve been begging for this all day,” he says, his voice low and more controlled than you had anticipated when you started pushing him this morning. It's the way he gets right before he completely unravels you. “Every smart-ass comment, every eye roll, every time you said my title like it’s a fucking joke. You want my attention? You have it.”

He drags your hips back until you’re bent perfectly for him, feet barely touching the carpet. The first thrust of his clothed hips against your bare skin is deliberate, grinding, a promise and a threat all at once.

You push back, greedy for him to enter you.

He stills you with one hand splayed over the base of your spine, the other winding your hair around his fist until your neck arches.

“Stay still,” he growls. “You move when I tell you to move.” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “Color?”

“Green,” you breathe, already trembling. “So fucking green.”

He pulls back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink loud in the almost silent room. You hear his zipper, feel the blunt, bare heat of him drag up the seam of your body.

He doesn’t enter you. Not yet.

Instead, he notches himself at your entrance and holds there, agonizingly still, while you try to rock back and take him, sheathe yourself on his cock. His grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Beg!”

“Please, Sir—”

“Louder.”

“Please fuck me, Sir, I need—”

He slams into you in one brutal stroke, no warning, filling you so suddenly your breath catches on a scream.

Your legs wrap around nothing, toes curling into the carpet, hips snapping hard enough to jolt the bedframe into the wall with every thrust.

He flips you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your knees over his elbows, and spreading you wide. The new angle drags a broken sound from your throat as his thrusts take him deeper and deeper.

“Look at you,” he growls against your collarbone as he shoves your shirt up and runs his mouth over your skin, teeth scraping against you. “Acting like a spoiled little brat in front of the entire team. You think they didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see the way Morgan smirked every time you opened that mouth?”

“Maybe I wanted them to know,” you taunt, breathless, reaching for him. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t belong to—”

He cuts you off by pulling out entirely and flipping you again, this time onto your knees, face and chest pressed against the mattress.

He thrusts back in so hard your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets.

“Say it,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to collar your throat from behind, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning. “Finish that sentence.”

“I belong to you,” you sob, clenching around him. “Only you—fuck—Aaron—”

“That’s right.” He presses you deeper into the bed, hips relentless. “You’re mine. And tomorrow, when you can’t walk straight and my cum still dripping down your thighs during our briefing on the jet, you’ll remember exactly who you answer to.”

He reaches beneath you, finds your clit with better precision than a trained sharpshooter, no searching, no hesitation, just the rough pad of his finger settling right where you’re swollen and aching for him. He doesn’t move at first. Just presses, holds, lets you feel the weight of that single point of contact while his cock throbs inside you, stretching you open, owning every trembling inch.

You try to rock back, to chase more, but his grip turns iron.

“Stay,” he growls against the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice shredded. “You take what I give you.”

Then he starts to move, slow, cruel circles that drag over your clit with exactly enough pressure to make your thighs shake. Every stroke is perfectly timed with the roll of his hips, the thick drag of him pulling out until only the head remains before he slams back in, forcing the air from your lungs.

Your hands claw at the sheets. Your spine arches so hard it hurts. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, vicious and unstoppable, until you’re sobbing his name into the pillow, broken and desperate little pleas of his name.

He speeds up, just barely, thumb flicking faster, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of him fucking you filling the room along with your wrecked moans.

“Cum,” he orders, voice cracking with restraint. “Cum on my cock right now. Show me who you belong to.”

The command rips through you.

You shatter, back bowing, toes curling, a raw scream tearing from your throat as your entire body locks down around him. Wave after wave crashes over you, so intense your vision whites out, every pulse of your orgasm dragging him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic clenches.

He swears once and loses the last thread of control. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming forward one final time as he cums with a rough groan, spilling inside you.

You feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks and grinds through it, forehead pressed hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to fuse himself to your skin.

He stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling in the aftermath, slick with sweat and utterly spent. You can’t help it, your hips give a tiny, greedy roll, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, trying to keep him deep.

A soft, satisfied moan slips out of you.

Hotch’s chuckle rumbles against your spine. His arms tighten, pinning you flat to the mattress so you can’t move an inch further than you've already wiggled.

“You think we’re done?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He nips the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my time to play.”

He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every inch drag against your oversensitive walls. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but before you can protest, he’s already moving, shirt buttons flying, slacks kicked the rest of the way off, socks gone.

In seconds, he’s gloriously bare, all hard lines, cock still half-hard and glistening with your cum.

He turns his attention to you next, signaling with his hand for you to flip over on your back. You do as ordered.

Your shirt is shoved up under your arms. He yanks it off, unhooks your bra, and tosses both across the room. Then he grabs his discarded tie and crawls over you.

“Hands up,” he orders.

You obey instantly, stretching your arms above your head. He loops the tie around your wrists, threads it through the headboard, and cinches it tight. Not painful, but absolutely inescapable from your end of the deal. You tug once; the silk holds firm.

A helpless little thrill shoots straight to your core.

He settles between your thighs again, slides back inside you with one smooth thrust that makes your back arch. You’re so wet, so swollen, the stretch burns in the best way, you're not sure you can take the sensation much longer before cumming again.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Stay just like that.”

He starts slow. Long and deep strokes that hit every spot inside you. His mouth finds your neck, your breasts, sucking bruises into your skin while his hips roll in that maddening rhythm he knows drives you absolutely insane.

It doesn’t take long before you’re writhing, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Please! Sir, I’m close,” you whimper.

He pulls out completely.

You cry out, hips bucking at nothing. He watches you struggle against the tie, thighs squeezing together for friction that isn’t there.

“Shh.” He strokes your hip in a soothing yet cruel manner. “Calm down a little. We’re nowhere near done.”

He waits until your breathing evens, until the desperation fades, then slides back in and starts all over again.

He does it four times.

Four times, he builds you right to the brink, fingers on your clit, mouth on your nipples, cock dragging slow and steady against your walls, until you’re sobbing, begging, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes.

The fifth time you get loud, really loud, a broken, whining “Please, please, I can’t—” spilling out over and over.

Hotch clicks his tongue. “Too noisy, baby.” He reaches for your discarded panties and balls them up. “Open.”

You shake your head, playful defiance flaring even through the haze.

He arches a brow. “Open that pretty mouth, or I stop entirely and you get nothing.”

Your lips part instantly. He stuffs the panties in, the taste of yourself flooding your tongue, muffling every sound to desperate, garbled whimpers.

“There we go,” he croons, brushing the back of his hand over your cheek. “Much better.”

He fucks you like that for what feels like hours. He comes once deep inside you again, groaning your name against your throat. Pulls out, strokes himself, and paints thick stripes across your stomach and breasts.

Later, he pushes your knees to your chest, and spills across your face while you keen helplessly behind the gag.

Each time he finishes, he starts again, sliding through the mess he’s made across your frame, using it to make you slicker, filthier. You lose count of his orgasms. You’re a trembling, oversensitive wreck, and still he denies you that second release, pulling out the instant your walls start to flutter.

Finally, finally, he collapses over you, sweat-slick and breathless, cock spent and utterly dry. He reaches up and carefully unties your wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Then he gently pulls the soaked panties from your mouth. You work your jaw, swallowing hard, voice hoarse.

He kisses you softly. “Up,” he murmurs.

You’re boneless, but he helps you sit. He slides the same wet panties that he just pulled from your mouth back up your legs, tugging them into place with deliberate care. The fabric settles against your abused, swollen pussy, trapping every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the pressure.

He leaves for a second before coming back with a wet cloth in his hand.

When he settles back down beside you, he cups your chin, tilts your face to his, and with the warm cloth, he cleans your cheeks, your lips, your eyelashes with tender, reverent strokes that make you melt against his hand.

But when you reach for a tissue to wipe your chest and stomach, he catches your wrist.

“No.” His voice drops into that stern, deep tone that makes you freeze. “You don’t clean the rest off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until we’re wheels-down at Quantico and you’re standing in my shower at home. You’re going to feel me on your skin every second on the jet, every time you shift in your chair. You’ll remember exactly who you bratted off to today, and exactly who owns every inch of this body. Understood?”

You nod, throat tight, arousal somehow flaring all over again despite everything.

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiles, a small, satisfied, and soft smile, before he pulls you into his chest. His hand spreads possessively over the sticky mess on your stomach, holding you close.

“Sleep, trouble,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re going to need it.

You’re already half-asleep when he speaks again, voice low in the dark.

“Next time you pull a stunt like that in the field, I won’t wait until we’re in a hotel room.”

You smile against his skin, sore and sated and utterly ruined.

“Next time,” you mumble, “I’ll be worse.”

He bites your shoulder in warning.

You wake up to the alarm on Hotch’s watch at 5:47 a.m. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, knotting a fresh tie. You try to roll over and immediately regret it. Every muscle between your hips screams. Your thighs are sticky, your pussy swollen and aching, and when you clench experimentally, you feel the slow, obscene slide of everything he left inside you only a couple of hours ago.

He glances back, eyes satisfied.

“Up,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex. “Wheels up in forty.”

You groan. Actually groan. Getting vertical feels like an Olympic event that you never trained for.

He watches you struggle into yesterday’s jeans with the faintest smirk curling his mouth, when in reality, all you want is a pair of sweatpants.

The panties he pulled back up your legs after he finally untied you are soaked through, his cum, yours, the evidence of four separate loads, and every step makes the fabric drag against your oversensitive clit.

By the time you limp into the hotel lobby, the whole team is already waiting. Morgan does a double-take.

“Damn, sweetheart. You pull a muscle wrestling that unsub... or something?”

You flip him off with the hand that isn’t clutching your go-bag strap for support.

Hotch doesn’t say a word, just opens the back door of the SUV for you like a perfect gentleman, as you make it to the cars. You slide across the seat and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering when your ass meets cold and slightly hard leather.

On the jet, you take the seat farthest from the group, legs pressed tightly together, praying the movement of the plane doesn’t jostle anything loose. Hotch sits directly across the aisle from you, tablet in hand, leading the debrief like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t wreck you so thoroughly that you’re still tasting him through your pussy.

He starts with the profile review. You’re supposed to contribute. Instead, you’re hyper-aware of the slow trickle working its way down your thigh every time the jet banks left. You shift, and the wet drag of cotton against your folds makes you swallow a gasp.

Hotch’s eyes flick to you. Calm and professional. Except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Agent L/N,” he says smoothly, “care to walk us through the victimology again and what we can learn from it for future cases?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Clear your throat. “Uh. Females, twenty-two to twenty-nine, brunettes, all abducted within—”

Your voice cracks on the last word because the plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and you feel a fresh pulse of warmth slip free. You clamp your thighs harder, face burning.

Reid starts rambling about geographic decay rates. You stop listening. All you can focus on is the slow, steady throb between your legs and the way Hotch’s gaze keeps drifting to your lap like he’s cataloging every squirm.

Forty unending minutes later, the wheels finally touch down in Quantico. You stand too fast, and your knees nearly buckle. Hotch’s hand shoots out to steady your elbow, the perfect picture of a concerned boss... or partner.

You make it down the stairs on wobbly legs, every step making the mess in your panties shift and cling. You’re praying no one notices the way you’re walking like you just rode a horse for twelve hours straight.

Rossi falls into step beside Hotch as you head for the car park. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice.

“Atta boy,” he mutters, clapping Hotch once on the shoulder.

Hotch doesn’t answer, but you catch the faint, wicked tilt of his lips before he slides on his sunglasses.

You flip Rossi off behind Hotch’s back.

Rossi just laughs knowingly and calls over his shoulder, “Feel better, kid.”

You’re going to kill them both.

Later.

Much, much later.

When you can walk again.