Adrian Chase x Reader

Bonding Exercise

Playing house

Firsts

Waiting Game

Wedding Crasher

Cherry Pie

HR Violation #73

Sunday

Teenage Dream

Special Guest

Heard wrong, fucked right

Clark Kent x Reader

Being Human

Unspoken

Movie night

The Intern

Late night

One room one bed

Man of Steel

Lunch break

Christmas in July

Fake boyfriend

New Years Kiss

Teasing

Red Sun Phenomenon

Jealous

Just friends

Shattered Secrets

Strangers in a Bookstore

Lover Girl

Smallville, USA

I knew it

Yoga

Naughty list

Unspoken

Blind date part two

Farmers Market

Lightning Strike

Heat rises

Coconut lotion and betrayal

Powerless

Wedding Plus One

Take me home

Form Check

Scott Miller x reader (Twisters)

“Uhhhh anyway,” Ads says, cleaning her throat. “Budget’s one hundred and fifty,” she adds, tapping her phone. “No weapons. No IOUs. No ‘I’ll get you later.’”

Chris scoffs. “A hundred and fifty bucks? That’s, like, real money.”

“That’s the point,” Emilia says. “Try being thoughtful for once.”

“I’m always thoughtful,” Chris says. “I think about myself constantly.” No one argues.

What doesn’t happen is speculation. No one asks who anyone got. No one fishes. No one makes jokes. Because for all the chaos, this is still a room full of people who know how to shut the fuck up when it matters.

And this matters. Apparently.

The weeks leading up to Christmas were filled with subtle questions, alliances forming to get some sort of information from each other. Not that they worked, especially not for Emilia she would just stare everyone down until they left. You had Peacemakers gifts wrapped about a week later since he kept announcing what he wanted out loud for everyone to hear. Nothing but “some weed and a high quality fleshlight and I’ll be good” not that you’d actually buy him any of that.

—

The tree is lit. The loft is warm. Music hums low through the speakers. Everyone’s got a drink in hand, half-relaxed, half-ready to talk shit like usual.

Ads sits cross-legged on the floor and Emilia hands her a neatly wrapped gift.

“Merry Christmas,” she says before going back to sit on the couch. Ads peels the paper back slowly. Inside is a leather-bound notebook. It looks heavy and expensive. With the kind of smell faintly like ink and intention. She flips it open, already nodding, already impressed. Then she freezes.

There’s a note tucked into the first page. Handwritten. Neat. Deliberate.

For plans, thoughts, and the things you don’t say out loud.

Ads exhales through her nose, long and slow.

“…Okay,” she murmurs. “Wow.”

She presses her thumb to the page like she’s grounding herself, then closes it carefully. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect.

She just nods once, eyes flicking up briefly toward the couch. Emilia pretends very hard not to notice.

Economos goes next. Ads hands him an envelope, he takes it and opens it like he’s defusing a bomb. His brows knit together when he sees what it is.

A certificate. He squints and reads it again. “…Motorcycle driving school?” he says.

Ads finally looks at him. “You said once you wished you’d learned when you were younger. Before everything.”

John swallows. He laughs once, short and incredulous. “I did say that.”

“You still can,” she says, like it’s obvious.

He sits there for a second, staring at the paper like it might disappear.

“…That’s,” he clears his throat, “that’s actually incredible.”

Chris nods, softer than usual. “That’s sick, man. I hope you don’t bust your ass.” John folds the certificate carefully. Like it matters.

Then Emilia’s gift. She unwraps it fast at first, impatient, efficient, until the chain catches the light.

She stills.

It’s a necklace. Simple. Elegant. Silver. A small locket.

She opens it.

Inside is a photo. All of you. The 11th Street Kids. Cropped imperfectly. Too close. Emilia’s jaw tightens.

For a split second, no one breathes. “…You assholes,” she mutters, but her voice is rough.

Ads smiles at her, gentle. “Open it whenever you forget.”

Emilia snaps the locket shut and immediately puts it on. Doesn’t say thank you, but she doesn’t have to.

Chris goes next. He’s already grinning when he opens the box.

Inside is a framed photo of Keith and him you found in his house one day and knew he would want it.

Chris’s grin falters. “Oh,” he says quietly.

Then he reaches in again and pulls out a hoodie, thick, high-quality, black with EAGLY hand embroidered clean across the chest.

His throat bobs. He clears it loudly. “That’s—yeah. That’s awesome.” He pulls the hoodie on immediately, tugging it down over his hands like armor. “…He would’ve loved this,” he adds, softer.

No one jokes. No one moves. Adrian watches him with something unguarded in his eyes.

Adrian hands you a neatly wrapped box. You open it carefully. Inside is a first aid kit, but not the cheap, plastic kind that you usually use to patch up the team. This one is expensive. Custom. Organized with surgical precision. High-grade supplies. Everything labeled. Thoughtful additions you didn’t even realize you always reached for.

There’s a tag taped inside.

For when you take care of everyone else.

Your chest tightens. You look up. Adrian isn’t smirking. Isn’t joking. He’s watching you like he’s holding his breath.

“This is… so fucking cool,” you say quietly.

He shrugs, suddenly bashful. “You’re always patching people up with, like, vibes and duct tape. Thought you deserved better.”

You smile at him. “Thank you.”

He ducks his head. Then Adrian’s gift. Chris hands it over with a grin that borders on feral.

Adrian opens the box. And freezes.

Inside is a custom action figure of him, his mask. Suit. Sword. Tiny gun. Interchangeable accessories.

And standing next to it is a mini Peacemaker figurine.

The base reads BEST FRIEND.

The room erupts.

“Oh my God,” Ads laughs.

“That’s horrifying,” Emilia says, fond despite herself.

Adrian just stares.

He picks it up carefully. Turns it over.

“…You even got the scar right,” he murmurs.

Chris shrugs. “I pay attention.”

Adrian snorts, then laughs, sharp and bright. “Yeah. You do.”

He sets the figures side by side. He doesn’t move them. Just leaves them there, like that’s exactly where they belong.

The loft hums around you, laughter, clinking bottles, quiet little moments settling in between the noise. And for once, no one pretends it doesn’t mean something.

Ads clears her throat. “Well,” she says, lifting her drink. “That went… better than expected.”

Chris squints at her. “Why do you sound like you’re about to cry.”

“I’m not,” Ads snaps immediately. “I just….shut up.”

Emilia is sitting rigid on the arm of the couch, one hand resting over the locket at her chest like it might float away if she lets go. She doesn’t realize she’s doing it until Chris notices.

“Oh my God,” he says. “Are you holding it?”

Emilia stiffens. “Say one more word and I’ll kill you.”

Chris grins. “She loves us.”

“I tolerate you,” she says, but her thumb rubs the locket anyway.

John exhales slowly, staring at his certificate again like it’s a permission slip he didn’t know he was allowed to have. “This is… a lot.”

Adrian nods, uncharacteristically quiet. “Yeah. Same.”

The moment threatens to deepen. Which is unacceptable. “So,” Chris says loudly, flopping back onto the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. “Are we gonna, like, hug or something? Or do we just sit here pretending we’re not emotionally compromised.”

Absolutely not.

“No hugging,” Economos says immediately. “We’re adults.”

“Speak for yourself,” Adrian mutters. “I’m basically a feral raccoon.”

John gestures vaguely at the room. “Can we… do something normal? Before this turns into a therapy circle?”

Ads perks up. “Movie night.”

“Yes,” Chris says instantly. “Christmas movie.” “Die Hard,” Adrian and Chris say at the same time.

“No,” Emilia says.

“The Grinch,” Ads counters.

“Jim Carrey,” Adrian adds. “Not the cartoon. I need the chaos.”

Chris gasps. “The Jim Carrey one is terrifying.”

“Perfect,” Emilia says. That settles it.

Twenty minutes later, the loft looks like a pajama catalog exploded. Sweatpants. Socks. Hoodies. Blankets everywhere. Chris is sprawled across one end of the couch, still wearing the Eagly hoodie, hood pulled up like a cocoon. He hasn’t taken it off once.

Emilia sits cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, arms folded loosely, fingers absently worrying the locket at her chest whenever the music swells.

John claimed the armchair with a blanket and a mug, finally relaxed, eyes already half-lidded.

Ads curls up at the opposite end of the couch, notebook tucked beside her like a secret she hasn’t decided to tell yet.

You and Adrian end up in the middle without discussing it. He starts with his arm draped along the back of the couch. You lean in without thinking. At some point, his hand slides down to your shoulder. Later, your legs tangle. Eventually, you’re tucked fully against his chest, his arm snug around your waist like it’s always belonged there.

He smells like clean laundry and something faintly minty.

“Comfy?” he murmurs.

You nod, settling in. “Very.” He smiles into your hair.

Chris laughs so hard he snorts at least twice.

Adrian whispers running commentary like he’s hosting a director’s cut.

“That’s me,” he says, pointing at the Grinch. “Socially isolated. Hot. Misunderstood.”

“You are not hot like the Grinch,” Emilia says flatly.

“I could be,” he argues. “Given the right lighting.”

Halfway through, the room goes quiet again, but this time, it’s easy. Content. No one’s on guard. No one’s trying to be funny on purpose. Just the glow of the TV, the soft weight of blankets, the hum of shared space.

You feel Adrian’s thumb trace slow, absent circles against your side.

For once, no one ruins the moment.

You stare at the shiney black top you saw him cook on first. Four circles. No switches. It might as well be alien tech.

You poke a knob. It clicks and hisses and you jump back.

You find something metal to pour water in, it’s heavier than expected, but you manage to fill it with water from the sink. It sits patiently on the circle, completely still.

You wait. And wait. Then you frown. “Stupid Earth stuff.”

You glance toward the couch. Clark’s still out cold.

You square your stance, aim your eyes, and channel just enough heat to warm the container.

The metal whistles in seconds a piercing, unholy shriek that sends Clark flying off the couch with a thud.

“What in the—” He’s halfway to a fight stance before he sees you, standing sheepishly at the stove, eyes wide, laser vision still faintly glowing.

“I made you coffee,” you offer brightly, holding up the container like a trophy. “Sort of. I made hot water, looking for the beans was my next step.”

He stares. Then groans. Then laughs. “You used your laser vision?”

“The black table betrayed me. It wouldn’t turn on.”

“You’re gonna set my apartment on fire.”

“I was careful! Ish.”

He walks over, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and takes the container gently from your hands. “You’re unbelievable.”

You grin. “You’re welcome.”

He grabs two mugs. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Kal-El !” You pretend to gasp.

“What?”

“Was that flirtation?”

He clears his throat. “Maybe.” He says with a shy shrug. “You’re not supposed to boil it in a kettle,” Clark says, amused and a little alarmed, as he gently sets the kettle down on the counter. “I have a coffee maker, I'm not an animal.”

“I wasn’t trying to boil it,” you reply, hands on your hips. “I was trying to warm it.”

He huffs a laugh and rubs a hand through his already-messy hair. He’s still in sweats, barefoot, eyes soft from sleep. And somehow, seeing him like this hair rumpled, voice hoarse, makes your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.

You follow him as he moves toward the black contraption with buttons and a glass pot. “So what’s the trick? Do I punch it? Speak to it gently?”

He smirks. “Not quite, watch.”

He grabs the coffee tin and scoops dark grounds into something made of paper with practiced ease. “This is the filter. Water goes in the back,” he says, pointing. “You just flip this switch once everything’s in place.”

The machine starts to gurgle and hiss.

You lean closer, fascinated. “It’s alive.”

He snorts. “Some people treat it that way.” Steam rises. The rich scent of coffee fills the kitchen, and your eyes flutter shut for just a second, savoring the warmth curling through the air.

“This smell,” you murmur, “its exactly the same from yesterday.”

Clark nods. “It’s one of my favorite smells, honestly.”

You turn to look at him. He’s already looking at you.

Something passes between you, small, quiet, blooming like warmth in your chest. You break the silence with a playful nudge. “You’re very domestic, Kent.”

“I try.” He shrugs. “Ma always said a man who can’t brew coffee shouldn’t be trusted.”

“Ahhh, so you’re safe… for now.” He hands you the first mug once it’s done, fingers brushing yours.

“The first sip is not as good as the second.” You comment as you take your first sip and scrunch your face.

He chuckles. “It’s an acquired taste.”

You take another sip anyway. “I’ll acquire it.”

Clark watches you, something flickering in his expression fondness maybe, or curiosity. He takes his own mug and leans against the counter, sipping quietly beside you.

The apartment is still for a couple minutes, two mugs in hand, the early light spilling in through the windows. It feels like a morning that means something. You just don’t know what yet.

You’re still sipping the coffee like it’s a potion you’re trying to decode when Clark asks, “Want a bagel?”

You perk up immediately. “I don’t know what that is, but yes.”

He chuckles, grabbing a sleeve of them from the breadbox and holding one up. “It’s round bread. Kind of chewy. Tastes better toasted”

You squint at the plain circle of carbs. “It looks like a wheel.”

He grins. “A delicious wheel especially with cream cheese.”

He shows you how to slice it and place it into a machine. You watch intently, eyes narrowed like the little machine might try something. Clark adjusts the dial. “This just controls how toasted it gets. It’ll pop up when it’s done.”

You crouch slightly, eyes level with the slots you feel the heat begin to radiate from the metal watching the panels go red. “It pops?”

“Yeah, just—” The bagel slices launch upward with a mechanical spring. You yelp, startled, and in one fluid motion, your fist flies forward.

The toaster sparks and collapses under the force of your punch, a sad, crumpled thing.

You blink down at your hand, then back at the wreckage. “It attacked first.”

Clark is doubled over laughing, hands braced on the counter. “Maybe no more cooking for now.”

“I can’t be blamed for your fragile Earth machinery.”

He exhales a laugh, still grinning as he walks over and plucks the slightly burnt bagel halves from the wreckage. “Well… good news is, it still worked long enough to toast these.”

You take one and examine it like a victory prize. “I like this planet.”

“God help us all,” he mutters fondly, handing you a small dull knife while he pulls a plastic tub from the cold box. You watch as he takes the top off revealing a white thick material.

You curiously watch. “This looks like a compressed cloud,”

“It’s cream cheese and it’s delicious.”

You watch as he uses the knife to spread some of the cream cheese onto his slice of the bagel. He hands the knife over and you copy every move he made. “We should probably get dressed, don’t wanna be late.” He says between bites. You nod in agreement before going back to the room bagel in hand.

You emerge from the bedroom, triumphant in your target find: a cropped powder-pink cardigan layered over a ribbed tank, a plaid skirt barely brushing mid-thigh, and fuzzy white socks pulled up over your calves. You’re still figuring out the human aesthetic, but you’ve decided cute equals powerful.

Clark is dressed in a new suite and he nearly drops the mug he’s holding when he looks at you.

You spin once, arms out. “How do I look?”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like a rebooting robot. “Uh…”

You tilt your head. “Bad?”

“No. No, no—uh—you just…” He gestures vaguely, as if that will help his brain catch up to his mouth. “You look nice. Just… you left the tags on.”

You frown, twisting to try and look over your own shoulder. “Tags?”

He steps forward, tentative, and reaches for the dangling plastic tab on your cardigan. His knuckles graze your spine, and his fingers brush your shoulder as he yanks the tag free.

You glance up at him. “Do all Earth clothes come with paper attached?”

“Just new ones,” he says.

You gesture at yourself. “But this is new. Shouldn’t I keep the paper to show it?”

Clark blinks. “I mean… that’s a fair question, but no it’s not how it works.” He tosses the tag in a small bin, then looks you over again, this time slower, softer. “You, uh… really liked the juniors section, huh?”

You grin. “Everything there was bright. And fun. And sparkly. I don’t want to look like I’m about to fight a war anymore.”

“You definitely don’t,” he mutters under his breath.

You cross your arms, playfully skeptical. “Is that judgment, Kent?”

He’s already heading for the kitchen, ears glowing red. “Not at all. Just… you might cause a workplace incident.”

You’re tugging the cardigan straight and trying to make peace with the skirt when there’s a knock.

“Is that Lois again?” you ask, already striding for the door. “Does Earth do everything in duplicate?”

Clark opens his mouth, but you’ve already pulled it wide. To find not Lois, but a man in a dark coat stands in the hall, rain still clinging to the shoulders. Hair neat, expression neater. He does not blink like a normal person. His eyes take you in, then the room, then you again.

Your body answers before your brain does, weight shifting over the balls of your feet, shoulders loose, chin slightly tucked. Subtle guard. Breath even.

“Well,” he speaks, voice smooth like expensive alcohol. “You Kryptonians,” he says lightly. “Always with the stances.”

Your palms go warm. “Careful,” you threaten. “We come in different settings.” Behind you, Clark practically teleports forward.

“Bruce. Bruce. Stop. That’s..she’s…this is not—just, come inside.”

Bruce steps in like he owns the place. Clark looks like he’s reconsidering every good deed he’s ever done. He hands Clark something thick and yellow.

“Birth records, identification, financial setup, the works. All done,” Bruce says.

Clark exhales, relieved. “Thank you. Really.”

You watch the exchange quietly, curiosity blooming.

Clark gestures you over. “These are for you.”

He opens the packet and hands you the first item: a small navy blue booklet. “This,” he says, “is called a passport. It lets you travel between… countries.”

You turn it over in your hands, opening to the first page brow knitting. “It has my face.” How did he get this picture of me?

Bruce’s mouth lifts, small, but genuine. “You’ll get used to that.”

“I asked Jimmy to snap a couple pictures yesterday,” Clark says like he can read your mind.

You pull out the next card. “This one is thin and also has my face.”

“That’s an ID,” Clark explains gently. “It tells people who you are.”

You blink at him. “It talks?” You ask, holding it gently.

“No,” he smiles, “it shows people who you are.”

“I can tell people who I am.”

Bruce huffs a soft breath “just keep the ID on you at all times.”

You nod slowly tucking the card in your bra making Clark blush. Next is a strange card with a long number. “This is… a ration card?”

“Social security card,” Clark laughs. “It’s for something called taxes.”

“It lets the government take part of your money.” Bruce adds.

“Don’t tell her that,” Clark scoffs, shaking his head at Bruce.

You pull out another item, a sleek black card. “This doesn’t look like identification.”

“That’s your credit card linked to a Gotham National Bank account,” Bruce says. “I opened it myself.”

Clark stiffens. “Which you didn’t need to do.”

“She deserved good interest rates.” Bruce shrugs.

You look between them. “You arranged… all of this? For me?”

Clark rubs the back of his neck, shy. “I just wanted you to have options. To make things easier.”

“Earth can be difficult to navigate without the right doors opened. Clark didn’t want you to struggle through them alone.” Bruce adds, voice low and even,

You run your thumb over the edge of the credit card.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Both of you. I… I don’t know what any of these do exactly, but I will. And I appreciate that you thought ahead.” Clark smiles at you like you’ve just given him the galaxy, when, in reality he just gave it to you.

Bruce studies you, not predatory, not quite flirtatious, just observant in a way that feels almost… a bit weary.

Then, in a tone that is unmistakably teasing he adds “For the record, Clark undersold you.”

Clark immediately perks up. “Bruce.”

Bruce gestures lightly at you. “You read situations fast. Most people recoil when I show up unannounced.”

Clark mutters, “Because you show up unannounced wearing body armor.”

“C’mon Boy Scout, It’s a nice coat,” Bruce replies, dusting his coat.

“Is it reinforced?”

“It’s cold outside.” He answers with a smirk.

You watch them bicker softly, two opposites bound by long familiarity and something inside you relaxes. This is trust. This is friendship. Krypton had versions of it. You recognize the shape. You lean back against the arm of the couch, arms crossed.

“You two fight like old spouses.”

“No. No, we absolutely—what—no” Clark sputters.

“He wishes.” Bruce, deadpans.

You reach into the envelope again and pull out the final paper large, pale blue, stamped.

“This one feels… important.”

Clark clears his throat. “That’s a birth certificate. It helps tie all the other documents together. It gives you an Earth starting point.”

“Oh.”

You look down at it for a long moment a date, a place, a name that is yours in a way this planet understands.

“This makes me real here,” you say softly.

Clark’s voice gentles. “You were real already.”

Bruce nods once, quieter. “But now no one can question it. And if they ask for references, call me.”

You hold the paper carefully, almost reverently.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

Clark smiles small, warm, and honest. “Just follow my lead, you’ll be ok.”

“And don’t break anything .” Bruce adds dryly. “You kryptonians always manage to be expensive.”

You turn to him with a faint smile. “You sound very confident that I will.”

He meets your gaze, a faint spark of something amused in his eyes. “Let’s call it… intuition.”

And Clark definitely, definitely notices. You glance at him and see it. A tiny shift of a soft clench of his jaw. A flicker of protectiveness he didn’t mean to reveal. You store the observation quietly. Deciding not to tease him for it. Instead, you tuck the packet under your arm.

“Well,” you say with a small breath. “I suppose I’m ready to meet the Planet properly.”

Bruce steps back toward the door. “If you need anything, anything at all, you call me.”

“Call you how?” You question and he hands you one of the black boxes everyone at the Planet had.

“With this.” He winks.

“She’ll call me.” Clark glares.

Bruce shrugs without looking away from you. “We’ll see.”

You smile at both of them, grateful, overwhelmed, steadier than you were an hour ago.

The Daily Planet is louder today. The elevator doors open and the noise hits like a wave, phones ringing, keys clacking, printers humming, people arguing passionately about things you don’t understand yet.

Clark glances over at you. “You okay?”

You nod, though your shoulders tighten in that old way you haven’t unlearned yet. “It’s just… stimulating.”

He smiles soft. “That’s one word for it.”

You reach the hallway, passing reporters who look like they haven’t slept in years, and stop at a glass door with PERRY WHITE, Editor-in-Chief etched across it.

Clark raises his hand to knock.

“Ready?” he whispers.

“No,” you admit, but he knocks anyway.

“Kent, get in here!” Perry’s voice booms.

Clark opens the door, motioning for you to enter first. You step inside. Perry is pacing behind a desk piled with so many papers it looks like it should collapse. He glances up and immediately locks onto you.

“So you’re the mysterious candidate Kent tried to sneak past me.”

Clark makes a strangled noise. “I wasn’t sneaking. Perry, she—”

Perry lifts a hand. “I’m speaking.”

Clark shuts his mouth instantly.

Perry circles you once, not in a predatory way, but in the same way a battlefield commander inspects a recruit: quick, sharp, thorough.

“You’ve got good posture,” he says. “That’s rare in this building. Most people walk in here slouched like they lost a fight with their alarm clock.”

Your spine stiffens slightly, your brain scrambling to say something. “I was trained to stand properly.”

Perry snorts. “What, a couple years of ballet? Ex-military?”

You glance at Clark. He gives you the tiniest nod, tell partial truth, not whole truth. “I… grew up in what you’d call… a structured environment,” you say carfully.

Perry seems satisfied with that. “That’ll do. Clark vouches for your work. And Jimmy came in early groveling for you to stay. Says you liked the job.”

You brighten, shoulders relaxing. “I enjoyed it.”

Perry raises an eyebrow. “You enjoyed the archives?”

“Yes very much,” you say simply.

Clark smiles like he can breathe again.

Perry crosses his arms. “You understand yesterday wasn’t official.”

“Yes,” you say, calm but honest. “Clark told me this morning.”

Perry grunts. “Kent gets ahead of himself. Always has. Means well, though. That’s why I keep him.” He grabs a file. “Alright. You’ll work with Olsen. He’s a headache on legs, as I’m sure you noticed, but he’ll teach you how to navigate this madhouse.”

You nod solemnly. “Understood.”

“Good.” Perry gestures toward the door. “Welcome to the Daily Planet. Go find a desk before someone steals the good chairs.”

You turn to leave. But he stops you with a quiet, surprising “Kid.” You pause turning to face him. His expression softens in a way you didn’t expect from a man who looks like he argues for sport. “You’ll do just fine here,” he says. “Don’t let the noise convince you otherwise.”

Your throat tightens, not painfully, just… unexpectedly warm.

Clark watches you with gentle encouragement.

You manage a small nod. “Thank you.”

Perry waves you off like emotion physically offends him. “Good. Now get out before Kent starts smiling and ruins my morning.”

Clark coughs, flustered, and guides you back into the thrum of the newsroom. The door closes behind you. You let out a slow breath. “He is… intense.”

Clark grins. “He’s not so bad.”

You don’t need much instruction today. when you walk into the archive room, you already know exactly where to sit. Jimmy kicks open the supply closet and tosses a box of gloves in your direction. “Trust me,” he says, “some of these negatives date back to the seventies. If the prints don’t crumble in your hands, the staff photographer might.”

You catch the gloves one-handed. “Noted. Do I need a safety suit?”

“No, but if you find a photo of Perry in his disco phase, I want full credit.”

You smirk, pulling your hair back and surveying the boxes piled around the desk. Some are labeled by year. Some are a chaotic mystery. All of them are yours now. It’s thrilling. You crack your knuckles, then pause and look up at Jimmy. “What’s a disco?”

He blinks. “Oh, boy.”

After a few hours of rummaging through the old boxes you feel like you’re covered in a fine layer of dust, fingers tired, ponytail half-falling out. But the fire inside you is burning bright. You’ve digitized five full years of city council photos, unearthed an original photo of what Jimmy explained was Metropolis’ first pride parade, and to Jimmy’s joy a negative of Perry White smiling.

You feel absolutely unstoppable. You make your way back to Clark’s desk, a little bounce in your step. He’s mid-typing, glasses low on his nose, brow furrowed in that focused way that makes his whole face soften.

You stop a few feet away, quietly clearing your throat.

Clark glances up and immediately, his whole expression shifts. Not just a smile, but something entirely warmer.

“You’re covered in… what is that, asbestos?”

“History,” you say with a wide grin. “I found a photo of the mayor kissing someone who is not his wife. On the mouth. Passionately.”

Clark stares. “Please tell me it wasn’t the current mayor.”

“I don’t know,” you chirp with a smile. “That’s all Jimmy told me.”

He exhales a laugh and stands, brushing a bit of dust off your shoulder. His fingers linger a little longer than necessary.

“You’ve got dust in your hair,” he says gently.

You look up at him, playful. “You’re sure it’s not just gray?”

“Very funny.” He nudges your arm. “You settling in okay?”

You nod. “I think I’m good at this.”

“You are,” he says, without hesitation. And for a second, the noise of the newsroom fades. It’s just the two of you, standing too close, pretending the silence doesn’t mean anything.

Then Lois storms in, phone in one hand, latte in the other, barking orders like a hurricane in heels. “Smallville, I need you on the nuclear development. Jimmy, where are the files from that explosion last month? You—” she points at you mid-stride, “figure out if we’ve got photos of the mayor at any public events with the mystery kisser.”

Your eyes widen. “On it.”

Clark mouths, “Good luck,” as Lois barrels on. You sneak away to the archives room and start your very first real assignment.

You’re hunched over a tray of photo negatives when the door swings open behind you. The smell hits first something warm and entirely unfamiliar.

“If that’s you again, Olsen,” you call without looking up, “I already told you I’m not naming the file Mystery Smooches.”

A low laugh answers. It’s definitely not Jimmy. You glance back. Clark’s there in his usual slightly-creased slacks and that soft, forgettable tie like he’s trying to be invisible, which only makes you want to watch him harder. He’s holding a folded paper bag in one hand, eyes gentle behind his stupid magic glasses.

“You haven’t eaten,” he says.

“Are you tracking my digestion schedule?”

He tilts his head. “No. It’s just that it’s lunch time and I haven’t seen you leave the room.”

You narrow your eyes, but there’s no agenda in his tone, just that maddening kindness he keeps offering.

He walks over and offers you the bag. “Thought you might like a sandwich.”

You take it, reluctantly. It’s warm through the paper.

You sniff it like it might explode.

“It smells… confusing. Soft, but acidic.”

He chuckles. “It’s turkey, lettuce, tomato, mustard, mayo. On sourdough.”

You squint. “So… a creature and some wet things between slices of sponge.”

Clark bites his lip to stop a grin. “Basically.”

You give him one more suspicious look then take a bite. And stop cold. Your eyes widen, it's like flavor fireworks in your mouth. You chew slowly. “This is incredible.”

Clark shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s just a sandwich.”

You finish chewing, then point at him. “You’ve gotta stop doing this.”

His brows furrow. “Doing what?”

“This.” You wave the sandwich. “This whole… showing up with food, caring if I eat, being absurdly kind to someone you barely know.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “It’s just lunch.”

“It’s a pattern,” you say flatly. “And I didn’t come to Earth to get emotionally ambushed by a Kryptonian with dimples.”

He laughs a short, surprised huff. You keep going, because if you stop now, it’ll feel like you meant it too much. “Seriously. You’re setting a precedent, Kent. Next thing I know you’ll know how I take my coffee.”

He hesitates. You can see how he’s trying not to smile then, quietly “You like your coffee black and I have a feeling it’s because we haven’t added anything to it.”

You do not dignify that with a response.

He glances at the light table. “Anyway… I should let you finish up.”

You nod, but then call after him before he slips out the door. “Clark?”

He turns, hand on the knob.

You lift the sandwich slightly. “Best thing I’ve put in my mouth in this building.”

He smiles “yet,” you add and he trips over his own foot on the way out.

The rest of the work day is uneventful. Clark waits for you by the front door. The sidewalk is bustling. Horns blare in the distance. You’re weaving between strangers with your drink in one hand and your eyes trained on everything but where you’re going.

You step off the curb to cross the street, not at a light, not at a crosswalk just when a yellow car barrels around the corner.

A firm hand grabs your arm and tugs you back.

You slam into Clark’s side, drink sloshing against the lid.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice still gentle but a little sharper than usual.

You blink up at him. “Crossing.”

“That’s jaywalking.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you almost got hit by a car.”

“Oh,” you say, completely unbothered. “That wouldn’t have done much.”

“To you,” he mutters, then he sighs and steps to your other side, guiding you with a hand at your back until you’re both walking again. “Okay. Crash course. Sidewalk rules.”

You glance up at him, amused. “There are rules?”

“A few. First, you always walk on the inside. Let me take the side closest to the street.”

You narrow your eyes. “Is this some sort of dominant male Earth ritual?”

He stifles a laugh. “No. It’s a safety thing. If a car jumps the curb or a puddle splashes, I’d rather take the hit than you.”

You stare at him, trying to tell if he’s joking, but unfortunately he’s not and that makes your stomach do that annoying thing again.

He continues, counting off on his fingers. “Two, don’t stop suddenly in the middle of foot traffic unless you want to get shoved. Three always look both ways only cross if it’s clear. Four don’t trust people waving you through in cars you always check before walking through. Five if something is on the floor, it’s garbage do not eat it please.”

You repeat the list of rules on your fingers to make sure you don’t forget when a noise cuts through the city’s rhythm like a blade.

Screeching tires. Distant yelling. A low, echoing boom that doesn’t belong on a quiet block.

Clark stops walking. His head lifts slightly. His brow tightens. And then you see it, the subtle shift in his shoulders. His back straightens. His eyes dart toward the sound. He’s listening for something only he can hear.

You reach for his arm. “Clark?”

He’s already pulling the keys from his pocket.

“There’s a situation. I have to go.”

“Let me come—” “No.” He presses the apartment key into your palm, closing your fingers around it firmly. “You go straight home. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”

Your stomach drops. “But—”

“Please.” His voice is quiet, but there’s steel behind it. “This isn’t a debate. I’ll be back soon.”

You look at the key. Then at him. There’s no cape, no symbol, no suit just Clark in his suit already backing into the nearest alley.

He glances back at you once. There’s something heavy in his gaze. “Lock the door behind you.” And then he’s gone.

You’re left standing there with a brass key in your hand and your heart thudding like a drum in your ears.

You don’t know what just happened, not really. But you know enough.

Superman’s gone to work. And you? You turn toward home. Toward his apartment. The one that smells like coffee and cotton and warmth. The one that now, somehow, feels like your safest place in the world.

The apartment is too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind, the kind that makes your skin prickle like the walls are waiting for something to go wrong. You stand in the entryway for a long second, staring at the key still warm from Clark’s hand.

“He said lock the door,” you mutter, so you do. Dramatically. With far more force than should be required.

You take three steps into the apartment, then pivot, pacing the length of the living room. You check the window. The balcony. The floor. You circle like a caged creature before sinking down on the couch.

“This is absurd,” you tell the ceiling. “I have survived six sieges, two starship implosions, and a diplomatic banquet where someone tried to poison me with fermented root paste. And now I’m… waiting.”

To distract yourself, you get up again and wander into the kitchen. Maybe humans have tasks that quiet the mind. Like… house duties.

You open the cabinet under the sink. A swarm of bottles stare back at you. Blue ones. Green ones. One with a lemon on it smiling like it knows something you don’t. You grab the nearest spray bottle. It smells like melted plastic and citrus. “Mm. Poison.” You spray the countertop exactly once. It foams instantly.

“Oh. It expands.”

You spray again.

It expands more.

You squint. “This might be dangerous.”

You wipe it with a towel, too hard. The towel disintegrates. Actually disintegrates. Falls apart in patches.

You stare down at it, not blinking. “…Clark cannot blame me for this. The materials on this planet are fragile.” You toss the ruined towel in the sink and back away slowly like you’ve committed a small crime and are considering fleeing the scene.

Still restless, you find yourself wandering into the bedroom, his room, before stopping abruptly in the doorway.

The bed looks lived-in from last night, sheets wrinkled where you tossed, blanket tangled, the pillow with a faint dip in the center where your head rested. A spare pillow sits untouched at the edge like its standing guard.

You step inside before you consciously decide to.

The air smells faintly like detergent and something warm, sunlight, cotton, maybe remnants of Clark’s scent lingering in the fabric. You inhale, then immediately shake your head like that will undo it.

“No,” you mutter at the empty room. “That’s not allowed.”

You cross your arms and scan the space for something distracting. Anything. Your eyes land on the nightstand: an old clock, a tiny lamp, and a hardcover book with a cracked spine.

You pick it up. “To Kill a Mockingbird.” You run your thumb over the embossed letters. “This is about birds?”

You flip it open. After a few pages you realize it’s not about birds. It doesn’t even mention a bird “Hm. Misleading.” You set it down and move to the closet. Clark cleared half of it for you, space you did not earn but was simply… given. That unsettles you more than anything. “I don’t need this much room,” you tell the closet. It remains unmoved.

On his side there are shirts in soft earth tones, jeans folded meticulously, and a hoodie hanging beside yours. Your fingers hover near the sleeve but don’t touch. Instead, you pivot away sharply. “No. Absolutely not.”

You retreat to the bed, then sit on the edge. The mattress dips under your weight. You flatten your palm over the blanket. The fabric is warm where the sun hits it through the window.

“Humans build very distracting nests,” you announce to the empty apartment. But the room is too quiet. Too full of stillness that lets your thoughts creep in. What if he’s hurt? What if he doesn’t come back? What if— “No,” you snap at yourself. “He told you to go home. He’ll return.” And because Kryptonians are cursed with inconvenient instincts, of course, you believe him.

You stand abruptly and push out of the room, letting the door remain open behind you, a reminder that this space is yours for now, even if it hardly feels real.

You return to the living room and collapse onto the couch.

A few minutes later you are holding the remote like it’s a detonator, flipping away from the news the second it mentions the explosion, and trying to lose yourself in a cooking show where a man yells at his colleagues.

Eventually, you pull your knees up to your chest and wait for the door to open. And you hate waiting. And hate that you care. You hate that you don’t hate it enough.

Then the balcony window clicks and Clark flies inside, windblown, dusty, cheeks flushed from heat and adrenaline, your whole chest loosens so abruptly it’s embarrassing.

He sees you curled there, and the relief in his face is immediate.

“You’re home,” he says softly.

You lift your chin, trying to look casual. “I follow orders.”

He smiles, small, warm, almost shaken with leftover worry. “You okay?”

You’re ready with a sarcastic deflection, but instead “I didn’t like not knowing if you were ok.”

It lands heavy. Clark swallows then he moves to sit beside you. Close enough for your knees to brush.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs. “I promised I’d come back.”

“Keep doing that,” you mutter. “The… coming back part.”

He nods once steady, sincere. “I will.”

You pretend to roll your eyes, but your breathing finally evens. And when he leans back into the couch, tired but grounding, you lean too, not touching, but close enough your arm warms against his.

“We should get groceries. We’re running low on edible foods. I’ll take a shower and you can change into something more comfortable.”

You tilt your head. “…Is this a mission?”

He laughs under his breath. “Just food shopping, more like an adventure.”

You hop to your feet instantly. “Yes! I am ready for the gro-cer-ree adventure.”

He stands too, slowly, watching you with the wary expression of a man who has survived war.

“You remember the sidewalk rules?” he asks.

You salute him. “Do not get hit by cars. Do not fight strangers. Do not investigate garbage.”

“That… wasn’t exactly the list, but… close.” He says as he makes his way down the hall. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

————

“No… no. She wouldn’t. I haven’t even done anything wrong lately! I haven’t killed anyone in front of her in weeks.” Adrian’s face collapses in real time. His eyes go glassy. Like someone unplugged his hope. “No seriously what did I do??” he whispers, voice cracking. “We had sex twice this morning!”

“How many times did she actually cum?” Chris asks.

“I don’t know like at least twice,”

“That’s probably why she’s leaving dude,” Chris says gravely.

“That doesn’t sound right,” Adrian mutters, traumatized.

Chris shakes him roughly. “DUDE THIS IS FUCKING BAD.”

Adrian’s breathing accelerates.

“Wh—what do I do? Can you tell me what to do.”

“Alright, listen to me very carefully. You’re about to learn a very important lesson. You need to give that woman so many orgasms she thinks she’s fucking dying. Her knees should shake the second she sees your face. Blow her mind so hard she forgets English. Make her walk crooked for three days.”

Adrian swallows, absolutely terrified and absolutely ready for war.

“Three days??”

“THREE. DAYS. And then you gotta be so clingy she can’t shit without you handing her toilet paper. Full boyfriend mode. You basically become her emotional support animal.”

“But I don’t understand why she would—”

“Sometimes women can’t handle being dicked down too good,” Chris interrupts like he’s performing a TED talk. “They get scared. They run.”

Adrian sits there, devastated.

“Should I have done it… worse?”

“No dude. Have you been listening to anything I’ve said? You should’ve done it BETTER.”

Adrian’s eye twitches. “That sounds scientifically impossible. I do everything she likes.”

“Shut up. Get up. Go in there and prove you’re boyfriend of the fucking year. Touch her. Kiss her.”

Adrian shoots to his feet like his spine was yanked by divine intervention.

“I’ll fix this,” he declares, voice shaky but determined. “I’ll be the boyfriend of boyfriends.”

“Hell yeah,” Chris nods. “Now go get your girl back before she rips your heart out and eats it.”

You come out of your room stretching and freeze. Adrian is standing RIGHT THERE like he spawned in.

Wide eyed. Flushed. Smiling way too hard.

“Adrian,” you say slowly.

He doesn’t blink. He inhales sharply. “Hi.”

“…you okay?”

“Yep!” he says too fast, too high, too not Adrian. “Totally normal. Normal boyfriend. Normal day. Normal day loving being your boyfriend.”

“…Are you sure?”

“Mm-hm,” he says, voice cracking, “just wanted to check on you. See how you’re doing. Provide… emotional support. Or physical. Or both. I’m versatile.”

“…Adrian.”

He thrusts objects into your hands like he’s bribing you to stay. Your favorite snacks. His sweater. A blanket. And a water bottle.

You look down at the pile. Then at him. “…are you buttering me up for something?” you ask. “I already told you I’m not dressing up as peacemaker when we—”

“No, no,” he interrupts immediately. “I’m just… doing things for you.”

“Honey, you always do things for me.”

He shakes his head aggressively. “No. No, not like this. I’m doing EXTRA things. Boyfriend things. Mega boyfriend things.”

“…mega.”

“Yes,” he whispers, intense. “Mega.”

“Are you hiding something from me?” You squint at him.

He laughs too loudly. Then lowers his voice dramatically. “No. I just love you and want to be close to you at all times while also being extremely attentive and also maybe touching you all day. That’s all. That’s normal.”

“…baby,” you drawl, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong!” He swallows, panic in his eyes. “Everything’s AMAZING.” He beams.

It is the most suspicious sentence you’ve ever heard.

He leans closer, almost chest-to-chest.

“Do you want your feet rubbed?” he whispers.

“What??”

“Or your shoulders? Or your thighs? I can do thighs too, I’m good at thighs—”

“ADRIAN.”

He freezes like a kid caught stealing cookies. You cup his face gently. “You seem nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he lies instantly. “I’m confident. I’m sexy. I’m hydrated. I’m doing things for you. Because I want to. Because you deserve them. Because I’m a great boyfriend who does boyfriend tasks.”

You blink. “…what’s a boyfriend task?”

He sputters. “Like… following you. And holding things. And touching you. And doing that thing with my tongue that makes you—”

“ADRIAN.”

You clamp his mouth shut. “I mean,” he whispers, “if you want.”

He follows you into your room like a shadow that learned how to love. He’s carrying the snacks, the blanket, the sweater, and that cold water bottle like offerings to a beloved deity. He drops the items onto your bed and you turn to him, crossing your arms.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Talk. What’s going on?”

He straightens so fast his spine cracks. “Nothing!” A beat. “Except I want to take care of you. Because you deserve it. And because I’m your boyfriend and boyfriends are supposed to do boyfriend tasks.”

“…you mean ‘acts.’”

“No,” he says sincerely, “I’m pretty sure it’s tasks.”

Before you can interrogate that, he steps behind you and gently brushes your hair over one shoulder.

“Lay down,” he murmurs. “Please.”

Your heart stutters. “Adrian—”

“I just want to make you feel good,” he says quietly and there’s a softness there that melts your resistance. “Let me, please.”

So you do. You lie on your stomach across the bed, cheek against the pillow, feeling him crawl up to straddle your thighs carefully, gently, like he’s afraid you’ll break or vanish.

His hands settle on the small of your back. It’s warm and tentative, shaking just slightly.

You swallow.

“Honey… what’s—”

“Shh,” he whispers, leaning forward so his breath fans across your ear. “Just relax.”

His thumbs press into the muscles along your spine, slow and deliberate.

Not deep like a trained massage therapist, no, this is him learning your body by memory, by instinct, by devotion.

You sigh out a sound you didn’t mean to make.

He stills. “I like when you do that.”

You bite your lip.

His hands glide lower to the curve where your back meets the top of your ass. A place no professional would go, but a boyfriend with tunnel-vision panic sure as hell will.

“Adrian…”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re tense here. You’re always tense here.”

His fingers knead your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft space just above them, slow circles that send warmth curling down your spine. You feel heat slip through your belly.

You try to ask again, breathless “Seriously… what’s gotten into you?”

He pauses.

You feel him hesitate like the secret is right there on the edge of his tongue. But he swallows it.

“I’m just appreciating you,” he says instead. “Properly. Like you deserve.”

Then he keeps going. His hands slide up, fingertips tracing the sides of your ribs, not your back, not your shoulders your ribs, where you’re sensitive, where you always shiver when he touches you there.

You do shiver.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I know you’re ticklish. But you also like it.”

You do. You really do.

He drags his palms down your waist, stopping just above the curve of your ass again squeezing gently, like he can’t help himself. Your breath hitches. You turn your head to glance back at him. He looks destroyed like a mix between desire and like he’s pushing himself. Like loving you hurts him physically.

“Baby…” you murmur, warmth curling between your legs. “Come here.”

He leans over your back, chest pressed to you, his mouth brushing your shoulder, breath shaky.

And you, god, you should ask more questions. You should get to the bottom of this weird clingy hyper-attentive behavior. But his touch feels like honey and you’re sinking into the mattress like you’re made of wax. “I love when you touch me like this.” You whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His hands tighten, fingers spreading over your hips possessively as he breathes a relieved, desperate laugh into your skin. “I wasn’t planning to.” He kisses the side of your neck as his hand fights its way between your body and the mattress snaking his way down the front of your shorts.

You arch into his touch, back curving, thighs parting just enough to let him settle closer.

Adrian exhales like he’s drowning in you. “I just wanna make you feel good,” he breathes into your shoulder. “Like… stupid good. So good you’ll never wanna leave.”

Your heart lurches. That’s not a line. That sounds like fear, stitched into a confession.

You twist slightly beneath him, enough to meet his eyes and what you see there wrecks you. He looks flushed, wild-eyed, desperate in a way he doesn’t usually show. There’s love in it, sure, but also panic, guilt, like he’s trying to make up for something you haven’t even accused him of.

Your voice comes out softer than you intend “Adrian…what are you doing?”

You can feel how hard he swallows. Then his fingers apply pressure over your panties, and he lowers his forehead to your shoulder blade like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’m keeping you,” he whispers. You want to ask what the hell he’s talking about but when he starts rubbing tight circles against you, the thought dies.

You reach back pressing your palm to painfully hard cock straining against the fabric of his sweats. He leaves a trail of wet kisses up your neck, across your jaw until he meets your needy mouth. It’s a wet sloppy battle for dominance that you gladly let him win when you feel his hand push past your wet panties. He skips the teasing, slides a finger into you like he’s done it a thousand times, but tonight feels different. You clench around him instantly, already soaked, already aching.

“Fuck, no foreplay?” You tease before turning over to lay on your back. You spread your legs letting him settle comfortably between them.

“I have a couple things in mind,” he says against your neck and he begins kissing his way down your body. He removes your shorts in one fell swoop. You watch as his mouth goes straight to your heat over your panties, this is new. His hands spread your slick folds while his tongue zigzags around your clit over the fabric.

“Please tell me you’re gonna fuck me after this,” you breathe. He finally shoves your panties aside and hungrily licks your throbbing heat.

“Soon as you say the word,” he gasps, rubbing deep, slow strokes with his fingers inside you like he’s trying to memorize your pulse. “I’m gonna give you everything.” His voice cracks. “All of it. Everything I’ve got.” He reiterates.

You almost ask again, what are you making up for, but your body arches, thighs trembling, breath catching, and your words dissolve into sound.

And right as your thighs lock, your moan tipping into something shattering…there’s an obnoxiously loud knock. You both freeze. The knock is aggressive. Violent.

“FUCK OFF” Adrian yells against you, the sensation making your thighs shake.

They knock again.

“CHASE,” Harcourt’s voice barks through the door, dry as sandpaper and twice as grating, “get your dick out of her and your head in the game. We’ve got a live one.”

You slap a hand over your mouth.

Adrian lets out the most annoyed groan you’ve ever heard.

“I DIDN’T GET TO THAT PART YET! Oh and WE’RE OFF THE CLOCK,” he shouts.

“Not anymore.”

You hear rustling. The unmistakable click of her loading a gun.

“Gear up. Van leaves in five.”

Adrian pulls his fingers from between your thighs like it physically hurts him to do it. He lets his forehead fall against your lower belly and just… stays there for a second.

“I was two seconds away from crying in a good way,” you mutter into the blanket.

He sits up. Pants tented. Face flushed. Murder in his eyes.

“I HOPE WHOEVER THIS MISSION IS FOR FUCKING DIES.” He yells toward the door.

There’s a beat.

Then Harcourt, dry as hell “Wow. Romantic and professional.”

You both groan. Adrian flops onto the bed dramatically, hand covering his face. “I hate my job,” he mumbles.

You pat his stomach. “Get your suit on, Romeo.” He glares at the ceiling like it insulted your orgasm personally.

“I will be back in exactly two hours. I don’t care what does or doesn’t get done on the mission, but you be ready.” He says turning to look at you.

“Adrian….you’re not really yourself.” He stands and starts undressing himself. You watch as his hard member springs free.

“I’m fine, just be ready when I’m back,” he assures as he grabs his Vigilante suit from the closet.

“Come here,” you motion him with your finger. He walks over to the edge of the bed. He shuffles over as he gets his legs in the suit. You stop him from pulling it up past his thighs. You grab his member and slide your tongue across the tip, pumping him slowly wrapping your lips around the head.

“Shit,” he sighs, gloved hands fisting your hair pushing himself deeper into your mouth. His eyes screw shut as he thrusts his hips gently keeping you on him. His mouth falls open as you take him. He pushes deeper making you gag and he opens his eyes suddenly stopping. “Oh fuck, sorry—I’m sorry,” he stutters.

You furrow your eyebrows, “Sorry? What the fuck is going on with you?” This is so unlike him it’s kind of pissing you off.

“Nothing! I gotta go,” he quips, leaning down giving you a quick peck on the lips, “I’ll try and get this done quickly.” He says and he’s gone.

You decide to take a shower and change into pajamas. The house is quiet with every one gone. You hoped someone would stay, but even John’s cowardly ass went on the mission. With nothing to do you decide to doom scroll on your phone.

An hour goes by without any word from the team. Then another and you really did expect Adrian to bust through the door, but he didn’t. Then another hour. You checked their location making sure they were at least moving. At around 12 you decide to call it a night. Prepping for bed you play Gilmore Girls on your laptop watching it until your eyes get heavy and fall asleep.

You feel a familiar dip in the bed followed by damp hair against your neck.

“Adrian,” you mumble lazily, slowly turning to face him. “What time is it?” You ask.

His voice is low and hoarse, sleep drunk and yet also sex drunk. “Four-something. Maybe five. I didn’t check. Didn’t care.”

“Go to bed baby,” you sleepily groan, trying to push him back. He replies by taking your hand and putting it against his hard naked cock. You moan at the feel of his bare skin. The fucking affect this man has over your body is insane.

“I haven’t been able to think about anything but your pretty warm mouth around me,” he murmurs into your throat, voice wrecked. “Six fucking hours.”

You moan as his hand wraps around yours, guiding it over his cock again. He’s hot and hard and twitching in your palm, and this time, he doesn’t stop you.

You squeeze gently and feel him shudder.

“I played it over and over in my head,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Like, I full on came in my suit thinking about it. On the van ride back. I couldn’t stop.”

You blink, wide-eyed. “You came in your—”

“Yeah,” he gasps, already crawling between your legs, eyes blown wide with panic and worship. “Don’t tell anyone.” He pushes your tank top down exposing your tits to him. Your nipples harden instantly

You laugh, breathless, flushed, needy but it turns into a gasp when his mouth drops to your chest. His tongue flicks over your nipple and his hands are already pushing your pajama shorts down like they offended him.

He kisses his way down your stomach. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t talk. You cry out when his tongue drags through your folds, slow, deep, messy like he’s trying to imprint your taste on his soul. He groans like it hurts, like he’s starving, like he could stay between your legs until the end of time and still not have enough.

“Chris said if I do this right you’ll never leave,” he mutters into your cunt like it’s a prayer.

Your head jerks up. “What?” But your thighs tremble because he slides two fingers in at the same time, crooking them just right, and his tongue flicks over your clit like he wants a fucking medal.

You collapse back into the mattress, gasping.

He groans. “Fuck. That. Right there,” he mumbles, mouth full. “That sound. That’s the one.”

He presses deeper into your sopping pussy. His tongue works in tight, perfect circles so messy, wet, yet dedicated.

You thread your fingers into his damp hair and tug, and he moans into you, he switches to tongue fucking you harder in response.

“I’m gonna make you see god,” he whispers like it’s a threat. You laugh, or moan maybe both.

“I think I saw god when you skipped foreplay,” you choke out.

“Peacemaker says that’s a mistake. He says you’re supposed to worship the pussy first. And I trust him.”

You blink again.

“Baby, you CANNOT take sex advice from Peacemaker.”

“I can and I AM,” he says, voice muffled against your clit. “He’s always RIGHT.” You’re too far gone to argue.

Because his fingers curl just right, and his mouth sucks hard enough to make your back arch, and then he murmurs “Gonna make you forget every orgasm you had before me.”

You come undone. Hard. Thighs clenching around his head. You feel your whole body pulsing, but he doesn’t stop.

He keeps lapping up everything, groaning like it’s the best meal of his life until you’re gasping, sensitive, trying to wriggle away. He holds you steady under him. You’re panting Seeing stars, fuck seeing galaxies your thighs twitching as he continues sucking on your sensitive clit.

“round two should happen fast enough to disorient you.”

“Adrian,” you wheeze, “I literally can’t breathe.”

“Perfect,” he whispers, moving up to kiss you hard.

You taste yourself on his tongue. He presses his cock against your entrance, slow and steady, watching your face the entire time.

“I’m gonna do this so good,” he whispers almost to himself against your mouth, voice shaking.

You dig your nails into his back. He groans a raw, broken sound and pushes in bottoming out quickly. Your back arches off the mattress instantly. He lifts your legs to his shoulders and bends over you at the same time, folding you in half deeper, tighter and your mouth drops open with a sound that doesn’t even have vowels in it.

“Oh my god,” you choke.

He moans like he’s the one falling apart.

“You feel—fuck—you feel fucking unreal,” he pants, his forehead dropping to yours as he pulls back halfway and thrusts in again, harder this time. “You always do, but tonight?you’re…” He doesn’t even finish the sentence. Just groans. Deep and shaky. Like he can’t find the words.

His hand slides under your lower back, lifting your hips toward him, tilting your pelvis up at the perfect angle — something you didn’t even know he knew how to do. Something no one’s ever done to you.

Your eyes roll back. Your hands fist the sheets.

“ADRIAN—” He kisses you through it, swallowing the cry like he wants it for himself. He starts moving faster. Not jackhammer fast. Not rabbit fast. It’s just perfect-fast it’s measured, filthy, exact. Like he studied and is now executing a master plan to ruin you.

“Holy shit—”

He laughs, breathless, smug, unhinged and thrusts deeper, just to prove the point.

“That’s the one,” he whispers.

Your legs shake on his shoulder. Your nails dig into his back like you’re trying to anchor yourself to earth.

He slows down just long enough to reach down between you using his thumb to find your clit, lazy circles that should be too much, but instead have you gasping.

“I don’t want you to come yet,” he says, voice ragged, “but I kinda do, because I need to see it again.”

You grip his arms like you’re drowning. “You’re fucking obsessed.”

He kisses you hard, hips stuttering, breath broken. “With you? Yeah. Yeah, I fucking am.” He grunts. Then he starts thrusting again, his thumb not letting up, your body burning from the inside out.

You can’t think. You can’t talk. All you can do is feel his skin slick against yours, his mouth hot on your neck, his cock hitting just right every single time, like he tuned himself to your body.

And just when your orgasm starts creeping up your spine like a stormcloud. “I love you,” he breathes. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.” And that’s it. That’s all it takes. You fall apart around him with a cry that rips through your throat, thighs shaking, body going tight and wet and fluttering, and Adrian groans like he’s been shot.

He follows a few thrusts later, hips jerking, mouth open, hand gripping your shoulders like it’s the only thing tethering him to this dimension.

He spills into you with a moan you feel in your chest, collapsing against your body like he’s just survived something catastrophic.

You’re both trembling, your heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to crawl out of your chest and kiss him again. Adrian’s whole body is draped over you, skin sticky, hair damp, arms locked around you like he’s worried you’ll dissolve.

He’s still inside you buried deep. Still breathing like he just won a war. You rake your fingers through his hair.

Soft. Slow. And finally whisper “Why the fuck,” you pant, “were you following sex advice from Peacemaker?”

He goes completely still. Like you just asked him how many beanie babies he has.

His breath hitches. “I wasn’t!” He lies. “Ok, maybe I was. Fuck. Okay, wait, let me explain.”

You start laughing, breathless but you don’t let go of him.

He lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are huge. Still wrecked. Still full of love and something else guilt? Shame? Something in between.

“I had to do it,” he starts, propping himself up on one shaky elbow. “Like, one minute I’m sharpening my knife, the next Chris is screaming that you’re dumping me because he heard you say we’re ‘not working out’ and ‘telling me tonight’”

Your eyes widen. “Oh my god…”

“I KNOW,” he says, eyes darting like a cornered raccoon.

You snort.

“But then,” he rushes on, “he said the only way to stop you from leaving me was to give you so many orgasms you forget everything. Verbatim. He said, and I quote…” He does an awful impression “‘You need to give that woman so many orgasms she thinks she’s fucking dying.’” You cover your face. He keeps going like he physically can’t stop. “He told me to be clingy. Said you liked ‘boyfriend shit.’ Said to worship the pussy and to rub your shoulders like I care about tension.”

You’re shaking with laughter.

“And then he said—he said—‘Breed her emotionally first. THEN physically.’”

You choke. Adrian nods solemnly. “I didn’t know what that meant, but I think that was really fucking close. You know? Like I understood it in my soul.”

You wipe tears from your eyes, trying to speak.

He leans closer, suddenly dead serious.

“I panicked, which I don’t do often. So I did everything he said. And it worked. You screamed and now you don’t wanna leave me right?”

You’re cackling now, whole body shaking under him.

“I did scream,” you wheeze. “And you were so gentle earlier, I thought you were possessed.”

“I was possessed,” he says grimly. “By Chris’s amazing advice and my secret fear of abandonment.”

You lose it again. He drops his forehead to your chest, groaning. “You’re not going to break up with me now right?”

You grin and kiss his temple. “Baby, I was talking to my friend about letting the man who does my nails go.” You explain.

He pulls back to look at you, eyes wider this time.

“What?” he asks, quieter. “You weren’t talking about letting me go…?”

You brush his hair off his forehead. “I was not talking about you.” You confirm.

His expression says, I was not prepared for this.

Kara grins. “Kal, meet my friend. She’s new. Don’t be weird or dorky.”

Kal blinks at her. Then at you. Then back to her.

You say the first thing that comes to mind “Your planet smells very strange.”

His mouth quirks like he doesn’t know whether to be amused or concerned.

“That’s probably what I’m cooking.”

“I like your face,” you offer, because honesty is currency.

His ears go red. Kara claps her hands like this was all part of a grand plan.

“Anyway, she wants to know what Earth is like you’re the only person I trust with her. She’s staying with you now. Bye!”

“What—?”

“Don’t argue. She bites. I gotta get back to Krypto before he destroys the moon he’s on.” And then Kara is gone.

The door clicks softly behind her.

You and Kal stand in the entryway of his apartment in complete silence.

He smells like something clean. You hate it, but you inhale again.

“I don’t know how the Earth works.”

He nods slowly, then gestures inside.

“That’s okay.”

He watches you scan the apartment like you’re memorizing the exits. He sets his bowl down gently, like sudden movement might spook you. You clock it: the care, the pacing, the space he gives you. You also clock the room door, window, fire escape; ceiling fan; two exits. Your posture stays straight without thinking. Kryptonian habits die slow.

You’re still wearing your travel clothes stiff, matte black, layered in uneven panels that speak more to practicality than comfort. Tactical seams, utility straps, the kind of material designed to survive a fire, or start one.

It looks like armor. Because it is.

Kal clears his throat softly. “Do you… want to change into something more comfortable?”

You lift a brow.

“Comfortable?”

He walks to a room and comes back with a T-shirt. Navy blue, soft with age, Metropolis Fire Department stamped across the chest in faded gold. Then a pair of drawstring shorts that clearly belong to a man at least a foot taller than you.

He hands them over.

“You can borrow these.”

You take them, holding the fabric between your fingers like it might disintegrate. It doesn’t. It’s soft. You’ve never owned anything soft.

“Is this what people sleep in here?”

“Some of them,” he says. “You could also wear twenty pillows and call it fashion. Earth’s pretty flexible.”

You blink at him.

Then grin slow and dangerous. “You’re very accommodating, Kal-El.”

He turns red again. You’re starting to enjoy that.

Then, awkwardly he speaks. “Do you… want to shower? Might feel good after the trip.”

You nod immediately. “Yes. I’ve heard about those. They sound luxurious.”

His brows furrow a little.

“You’ve never used one?”

“Oh I clean up regularly. I use water and soap. I’ve also stood under jets. I’ve been pressure-washed during decontaminations too. Is it like that?”

His face contorts into something between horror and concern. “No. Not at all.” He shows you the bathroom, keeps his voice low and his hands to himself. Points to knobs, towels, soap. Explains everything twice just in case. He’s careful, too careful like you might shatter if he moves too fast.

You don’t say anything, but you watch his hands. His neck. The way he checks your expression after every instruction like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.

You don’t tell him that this is the safest you’ve felt in months.

When he leaves, you stare at the mirror.

The borrowed clothes sit on the counter like a dare. You peel off your layers, one by one, the armor louder than you remember. When you step under the water, it’s too hot at first. You flinch. Then adjust. Then try to breathe.

It runs over your shoulders and across old scars, settles into places that used to hold tension like a second skin. You tilt your head back and let it hit your face, steam curling around you a familiar feeling you didn’t know you missed.

You stay in longer than you need to just because you can and try out every container he has in the shower.

When you emerge, wrapped in a towel too big for your frame, hair wet, you look in the mirror again and almost don’t recognize yourself. You’re still you. But softer.

You pull on Kal’s borrowed shirt and it hangs off your shoulder, cotton brushing your thigh. The shorts are ridiculous. They slip down the moment you let go of the drawstring, so you tie them higher and roll the waistband twice.

You feel like someone pretending to be human. But it doesn’t feel bad.

You step out into the hallway barefoot.

He looks back from the kitchen taking you in. Not in a hungry way. Not in a nervous way, either. More like awe. You glance down at yourself.

“Do I look ridiculous?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“You look like you belong here.”

And he says it so simply, so gently, that your throat gets tight.

“You cook,” you announce, like it’s an accusation.

“I do,” he says. “Chicken, rice, vegetables. Nothing fancy.”

“That’s domestic.”

“Is that bad?”

“Only if you’re trying to emotionally destabilize me.”

He huffs a laugh and gestures toward a tray near the microwave.

“You wanna help? Just warm that up for me, thirty seconds.”

You walk over, inspecting the object. It’s some kind of container with ridged edges. Covered in a shiny… something.

“Microwave it?”

“Yeah. Just pop it in, hit the thirty-second button on the front. It’s easy.” He points to a box

You frown at the tray.

“What is this covering?”

“Foil.”

“What’s foil?”

“It’s….metal, kind of. Just really thin.”

You blink slowly and do as you were told. You hit a button and it comes to life. The container spins and then something starts happening, you see sparks.

“Uhhh Kal-El…” you drag getting his attention. He catches it just before it explodes. One second longer and the box would’ve started hissing. He yanks the door open with a hiss of his own, grabs the tray, sets it aside, and turns to you, wide-eyed.

“You’re supposed to remove the foil.”

“You said put it in the microwave.”

“You were going to blow us up.”

You cross your arms. “You gave me vague instructions and expected me to follow local protocol. That’s not on me.”

He’s trying not to laugh. You can see it the way his jaw twitches. He clears his throat, nods slowly, like he’s processing the fact that the mysterious, sharp-edged alien woman he’s hosting was just bested by kitchen foil.

“Okay,” he says. “Microwave lesson first, then dinner.”

“Is the lesson also wrapped in lies?”

“No. I’ll write you a user manual.”

You finally smile. Real, amused, a little smug.

“I accept your surrender.”

You sit across from him at a table that rocks slightly with each movement old wood, nicked at the corners, one leg too short. He slides a folded napkin under the wobbly side and serves dinner like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at the plate.

It’s a mess of colors and smells. White, green, orange, brown. Steam rises off the surface in gentle curls.

You point to the glazed strips at the center.

“What’s this?”

“Chicken,” he says.

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s a bird. Flightless. Raised on farms.”

You narrow your eyes.

“So I’m eating a grounded sky creature.”

“Technically, yes.”

You poke it with your fork.

“We had something like this back home. Except it screamed more.”

He blinks. “…Right. Well, this one’s not screaming anymore and it’s covered in soy sauce, ginger and garlic. And the white specks there is rice.”

You try a bite. Chew. Chew again. Your eyes flicker wider. You keep chewing. “This is…” He waits, watching you closely. “This is disturbingly good.”

He grins. “High praise.”

You gesture to the green stalks beside it.

“And this tree?”

“Broccoli.”

“That sounds like a disease.”

“It’s really good.”

“I’ll be the judge.”

You try it. Chew again. Your head tilts. “…Fine. It’s tolerable.” You say before having another bite.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You had a second bite.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not the one who made eye contact with a vegetable like it insulted you.”

You smirk despite yourself. Swallow another bite of chicken. The sweetness lingers on your tongue soy, ginger, garlic, words you don’t know, but want to.

He takes a bite of his own dinner, then glances up at you.

“So… what made you leave?”

You pause. Not in an obvious way. Not in a stiff, sudden recoil. Just long enough for him to notice.

You chew. You swallow. “That’s a heavy question for a first date.”

He chokes slightly on his rice. He coughs reaching for his water.

“This is a date?”

“You cooked for me. Gave me your shirt. Watched me microwave a bomb. That’s foreplay on some planets.”

Kal stares at you. You offer a sweet, slow smile which makes his cheeks turn pink.

“You blush a lot.”

“You say things a lot.”

“One of us has to.”

He sets his fork down, still smiling. But softer now.

“I’m not trying to interrogate you.”

“Good. Because I don’t break.”

“I’m not trying to break you, either.”

Your breath catches. Just for a second. It’s not what he says. It’s how he says it. Calm. Steady. Like he means it.

You look down at your plate. Push the rice with your fork. The grains stick to each other. You speak before you can stop yourself. “I lost everything twice. Once when our planet died. Again when I realized survival didn’t mean getting to live. Kara talked about Earth sometimes and it just seemed like a good place where I could actually experience life.”

Kal doesn’t move. Doesn’t pity. Just listens. That almost makes it worse.

You lift your gaze. Smile like teeth.

“So now I flirt and eat chicken and pretend I know what broccoli is.”

“You’re doing great.”

“Liar.”

“You’re still doing great.”

Your throat is tight. You hate that. You sit back, chewing slowly, letting silence spread between you like warm fog. He goes back to eating like he didn’t just witness the single most honest thing you’ve said in five years.

It’s… disarming.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t prod.

Just lets you exist beside him, under soft light and the smell of garlic and something close to comfort.

Then you stab another piece of chicken. “If you keep feeding me, I might start trusting you.”

Clark looks up. “Deal,” he smiles. “Do you remember anything about Krypton? Or did you also get sent out as a baby?”

“i don’t remember much, I was sent by accident I think. But I do remember your parents.” He freezes mid-movement, not human still, but Kryptonian still. The kind of stillness that means the world is suddenly too loud. You keep talking before you can regret it. “Not well. I was very young. Kara’s age. Maybe younger.” You gesture vaguely, as if your childhood on a dead world is something you can summarize with a flick of your wrist. “Your mother, Lara, she had this way of speaking to children… softer than our caretakers were programmed to be. She used to crouch when she talked, like she wanted her eyes level with ours.”

You glance up at him.

“She did that with you. I remember seeing it.”

He swallows hard, you hear it, a small seismic shift in the quiet.

“And your father…” You tilt your head, searching your memory. “He was always surrounded by adults who whispered after he walked away. They admired him or feared him. I didn’t understand that then.” Your voice drops, something fragile slipping in. “But he looked at you like you were the only thing on Krypton worth saving.”

His breath leaves him in a quiet, uneven exhale.

You pretend not to notice.

Instead, you stab another piece of chicken and pop it into your mouth like you didn’t just unravel something inside him.

He tries to speak. He fails then tries again. “You… you call me Kal-El.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “That’s your name.”

He licks his bottom lip, steadying himself.

“It’s just… no one says it here.”

You blink, unbothered. “Should I not?”

He looks at you, really looks at you and shakes his head once, slow.

“No. It’s okay. It’s just… hearing it repeatedly from someone who remembers my parents is just….” He trails off. “Everyone calls me Clark, that’s my name here.”

You hum. Something almost sympathetic.

“Clark-El,” you say, intentionally this time, rolling the name around like you’re learning its weight.

“No,” he laughs gently, “Clark Kent.”

“Clark Kent.” You repeat. “Is… easier.”

You finish eating before he does.

Not because you’re rushed, but because he takes his time, chewing thoughtfully, like he’s used to savoring things. You’re not. You eat like someone who’s had to guard her plate before like the meal might vanish if you blink too long.

When you push your plate back, he glances up.

“You don’t have to clean anything,” he says, already reaching for your dish.

You snatch it back.

“What, you think I’m incapable of basic labor?”

“No,” he says, a little startled. “I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to.”

“I don’t.”

You stand, grabbing his plate too.

“But if I’m going to stay on your planet, I should learn the rituals.”

“It’s not a—” he exhales. “Okay. Come on.”

You follow him to the kitchen sink, where he turns a knob with a casual flick. Warm water spills over his hands. You watch intently not the water, but the way he moves. Comfortable. Capable. Slow on purpose.

“Soap’s here,” he says, nodding to a bottle. “You rinse, scrub with this side, rinse again. Then let them dry.”

You squint at the sponge.

“This looks like a larval life form.”

He hands you a plate and steps back slightly, watching you work.

Your first rinse is too fast. He says nothing.

You scrub the same spot twice and ignore the fact that your fingers keep bumping his when he passes you another dish.

“This is boring.” You eventually say.

“That’s kind of the point.”

You glance at him.

“You people choose to live like this?”

“Not always. But I like boring.”

“I like chaos.”

“I noticed.”

Another pause.

You rinse the last dish and set it on the drying rack with too much force, like you’re declaring victory.

Clark shuts off the faucet and grabs a towel, wiping his hands.

“You did good.”

“I did adequate.”

“That’s also good.”

You follow him back into the living room. The couch looks smaller than it did earlier, and the dim lighting makes the whole place feel too quiet.

“Alright. Bed’s yours.”

You frown. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t need a bed.”

“It’s not about need.”

“Then what is it?”

He sets a piece of cloth down and turns to face you fully.

“It’s about you not sleeping on a couch when I have a perfectly good bed. I’ll be fine here.”

“I don’t like being in someone else’s space.”

“Then make it yours.”

Your jaw tightens.

You fold your arms and square your stance like you’re preparing for a fight, but not the kind with fists.

“You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Being kind. Offering things like comfort. It’s weird.”

“It’s human.”

“It’s unsettling.”

He shrugs. “I can be unsettling.”

“No you can’t.”

You step closer.

“You smell like something clean. You apologize when you bump into furniture.”

“It’s called detergent and I am the way I am.”

“So stop.”

“No.”

The silence buzzes. It should be funny. It should be awkward. But it’s… warm.

And that’s worse. You shift your weight.

“If I take the bed, and you take the couch, and something happens in the night—”

“I’ll hear it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you’ll sleep better with an extra door between you and the rest of the world.”

You flinch just barely. But he sees it. Of course he sees it. You hate how quiet your voice gets.

“What if I don’t sleep?”

He pauses. “Then I’ll be out here. Awake. Just in case.”

Your throat tightens. No one’s ever said that to you. Especially not like that. Not without asking for something first.

You nod. Once. Grudgingly.

“Fine. But I’m stealing this thing.” You say tugging on the cloth he laid down.

“It’s called a blanket and I have spares.”

“What if I wake up with night sweats or flashbacks—”

“I’ll be right here.”

You stare at him for a couple seconds. His kind soft blue eyes, huge frame, he’s giving you everything he has and hasn’t asked for one thing. You don’t know how to feel about it. So you turn around and head for the room with the bed.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

Just the weight of what you now know is a blanket. The distant sound of water pipes. The scent on the pillow is warm, faintly citrus like sunlight.

You had planned to lie awake all night. To track the sounds of this unfamiliar place. To keep your guard up, even here. But somewhere between thinking and pretending, you slipped under.

When your eyes blink open the next morning, the room is full of quiet gold. The light spills through sheer curtains and paints soft shapes on the floor. The blanket is tangled around your legs. You’re too warm. Too still. And you can’t remember the last time you slept long enough to wake up.

You sit up slowly, rubbing at your eyes.

And Clark is already standing in the doorway, holding a cup in each hand.

“Morning,” he says, voice soft, like he’s trying not to startle you.

You squint at the cup he holds out.

“Is that the bean liquid Kara warned me about?”

He grins. “Coffee. Yes.”

You take it with suspicion. Sniff it.

“Smells burnt.”

“Taste it.” He encourages.

You sip. Frown. Sip again. “I don’t hate it.”

“Most people don’t until it owns them.”

You sip your coffee on the couch, legs folded beneath you. It’s quiet. Warm. The apartment smells like detergent again, and it’s making you suspicious.

Clark’s pacing the living room slowly, cup in hand, looking like someone winding up to say something he knows won’t land right.

You watch him for a beat.

“If you’re about to tell me you’re married, I’m stealing your bed and punching a wall.”

He blinks. “What? No. Definitely not that.”

“Then what’s with the guilt face?”

He holds something out to you not as an offering, more like an exhibit. “These,” he says, “are more than just for show.”

“Spectacles.”

“My disguise.”

You blink. Then burst out laughing. “Oh. Oh. You’re serious.”

He nods, unfazed.

“Very serious.” He says putting them on

You study his face. Still him, but yes. Something shifts. Softer with the glasses. Duller, more cautious. A filter for a man who’s spent a lifetime trying not to be noticed.

“Let me get this straight,” you say, slow. “You save planets. Throw buildings. Set things on fire with your eyes. But your best defense is… facial accessories?”

“In my defense,” he says, “they’re specially engineered to subtly shift perception.”

“So they’re hypnotic lenses.”

“Kind of. They blur fine recognition patterns. Just enough to make people see what they expect not what’s in front of them.”

“And that’s enough?”

“It’s never just the glasses. It’s the posture. The tone. The slouch. The hesitations. People don’t question what they don’t want to see.”

You study him standing in front of you, asking for something most people don’t even realize he has to guard.

“And you want me to play along.”

“Just while we’re in public. At work. Around others.”

“So no heat vision in the break room.”

“Preferably not.”

You tilt your head.

“Do I get a pair of magic glasses too?”

“I figured you’d rely on sarcasm and intimidation.”

You grin. “You know me already.”

He sobers slightly.

“How many people know?”

“Two.”

You narrow your eyes. “And I’m one of them.”

“Three,” he says gently.

You swallow, and look down at the rim of your cup.

“You’re either stupid… or very brave.”

He grins. “I get that a lot.”

You open your mouth to reply, maybe something biting, maybe something real, but there’s a knock at the door. You go tense immediately.

Clark just sips his coffee.

“It’s okay. That’s Lois.”

“That’s… a person?”

He walks to the door and opens it.

A woman steps in without waiting for permission.

Tall. Sharp. Lipstick like warpaint and eyes that take in everything all at once.

She’s holding a garment bag and a cardboard tray.

Her eyes land on you. One blink. Two.

She smiles not necessarily friendly. But not unfriendly either.

Just informed.

“You must be the girl.”

You stare.

“And you are?”

“Lois Lane. Frequent interrupter. Mutual friend of the golden retriever currently making you breakfast.”

Clark coughs behind her.

She holds out a bag. “You can’t wear a space corset to the Daily Planet, sweetheart.”

You frown. “I didn’t say I was going.”

“You didn’t say you weren’t. I’m covering both outcomes.”

You take the bag warily. It’s lighter than you expect.

“You always show up at strange men’s apartments with women’s clothes?”

“Only when they have poor fashion instincts.”

You blink.

Clark nearly drops his mug.

“Lois—”

“Relax, Smallville. I brought her something workplace appropriate, not lingerie.”

“You said you were keeping it neutral!”

“It is neutral. Just happens to show off her legs. You’re welcome.”

You snort. Lois glances back at you with something like approval.

“Let me know if you need help with zippers.”

You eye her warily as she settles into the arm of Clark’s couch like she owns it.

“You don’t trust easily, do you?” she asks.

“I don’t trust at all.”

She grins. “Good. That’s how I know you’ll survive.”

The outfit feels wrong the second you pull it on.

The tights are tight, obviously. But not in a functional way. They don’t brace your muscles or offer padding. They just cling, soft and slick, and whisper against your skin when you move.

The skirt is worse. Short with a little slit on the side. Just enough to make you feel like wind could ruin your day. It’s not armor at all. The shirt is fitted. Smooth. Gray like steel but soft. And over it a cropped vest, black with silver buttons. Aesthetic sure, but completely impractical.

You turn in the mirror and try not to flinch. This is not battlewear. This must be for presentation.

You walk out barefoot sliding on the floor since your feet are covered with the tight black material.

Clark and Lois are still in the living room. She’s scrolling on something in her hand. He’s fiddling with his glasses when he looks up, he freezes. Fully. Just… stops. His mouth opens slightly. Then closes. Then opens again.

“Whoa,” he says.

You raise a brow. “Is that a human mating call?”

“No—what? No. I just— you look—”

“Ridiculous,” you snap, turning to Lois. “I can’t move in this. I can’t run. I can’t fight.”

Lois doesn’t look up. “You’re not going to war. You’re going to a desk.”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

Clark stands, slowly, still very much looking at you like he can’t quite breathe right.

“You’re putting me at a desk?” you tease, one brow raised as you pick at the edge of Clark’s couch cushion.

Clark smiles bashful, a little crooked. “Not exactly,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You’ll be helping out in the photo archives. The Daily Planet’s still digitizing everything from the last… eighty years. You’d be organizing prints, labeling negatives, working with Jimmy Olsen he’s our lead photographer. He could use the help.”

You blink at him. “You’re putting me in a cave with dusty memories and a guy named Jimmy?”

“He’s great,” Clark says, deadpan. “You’ll like him. He talks fast and knows his way around a camera. Just don’t let him rope you into any coffee runs.”

You huff, but there’s no real protest in it. “Fine. But only because I’m curious what kind of name ‘Jimmy’ is.”

Clark just chuckles. “That’s the spirit.”

You cross your arms. “And the skirt?”

“…Dress code,” he mutters.

Lois cackles behind him. She’s also wearing a skirt so that checks out. You study him, arms still folded, irritation blooming under your skin like a heat rash. You hate feeling unprepared. Unarmored. Very exposed.

But honestly he isn’t asking you to shrink. He’s asking you to try. You sigh and look down at yourself. The vest fits like it was made for you.

“Do I look… Earth acceptable ?”

“You look incredible,” Clark says before he can stop himself. Lois whistles. He flushes to the roots. “I mean…appropriate. Professional, very earth acceptable.”

You smirk. “You are very obedient.”

“Please don’t say that in public.”

“Don’t give me reasons to.”

Lois stands, tossing you shoes.

“Alright, fashion show’s over. Let’s go pretend we’re normal.”

You slide the shoes on. They are a little tight, too strange. But for once… not entirely awful.

The moment you step into the Daily Planet, your senses go to war. A sharp, stinging scent slaps you in the face burnt something. Metallic. You scrunch your nose. “Why does it smell like old fire ?”

Clark chuckles beside you. “That’s toner. It’s used in printers and copy machines. You’ll get used to it.”

You don’t like the sound of that.

Before you can say anything, a high-pitched screech explodes to your right, followed by a mechanical chugging and a violent whir. You flinch. Clark calmly points. “Fax machine. It’s loud, but harmless. Mostly just screams for attention.”

You eye the rumbling beast. “Why is it angry?”

“It’s not. It’s just… old.”

You squint at it. “So it’s dying.”

He huffs a laugh. “Basically.”

You trail behind him through the space, trying to keep up while your eyes scan the chaos. People jab at glowing rectangles. Some hold tiny black boxes to their ears and talk to themselves. You pass a box that’s buzzing, lighting up with words. A man slaps the side of a machine like it owes him money. Overhead, a glowing sign flashes BREAKING.

“What’s that?” you whisper.

Clark follows your gaze. “News ticker.”

“And that?”

“Elevator.”

“That?”

“Phone.”

Your eyes narrow at the spinning metal thing suspended in the lobby. “That?”

Clark grins. “The globe. It’s… just decorative.”

You look at him, skeptical. “Doesn’t seem structurally safe.”

He shrugs, trying not to smile. “Perry had it installed in the 80s. Don’t question the globe.”

You pass a man shouting into a tiny mic clipped to his shirt. “Is he… speaking to someone in his clothes?”

Clark nods. “Bluetooth headset.”

“Earth is more advanced than people think.”

Clark laughs, then stops outside a desk that looks like a battlefield made of paper and lens caps. “This is Jimmy’s spot.”

“CLARK! There you are!”

You jolt back as a red-haired man skids to a stop in front of you. Disheveled, coffee-buzzed, and grinning like a man with nothing to lose.

Clark clears his throat. “Jimmy, this is your new assistant”

Jimmy’s jaw drops for half a beat. Then he grins wider. “Oh, she’s perfect.”

Clark lets out a breath like he’s already regretting this. “She’ll be helping you with the photo archives.”

Jimmy nearly levitates. “You’re not pranking me, right? Because that’s cruel.”

“I would never,” Clark says flatly.

“Clark said you have something called film,” you ask, scanning the cluttered desk. “Is that what you do? Catch light?”

Jimmy looks like he’s about to fall in love. “Okay. Yeah. She stays. Forever.”

You smirk. “You’re easily impressed.”

“Welcome to the Planet.”

Clark watches the two of you banter, quiet warmth radiating from behind his ridiculous glasses. It’s not just pride. It’s that you’re seeing the place with brand new eyes and it reminds him why he fell in love with it in the first place.

You’re handed a donut within seven minutes of sitting down.

“First rule of the photo archives,” Jimmy says, balancing a stack of something in one hand and a sugar bomb in the other, “is that we don’t work hungry. Second rule scanners hate confidence. Approach like you’re apologizing.”

You blink down at the pastry. “Why is it bleeding?”

“It’s stuffed with raspberry jam,” he says cheerfully. “Welcome to Earth.” He whispers.

You spend the next few hours learning how to use the terminal, which Jimmy calls “The Beast,” and the actual beast the scanner which whines at you until you figure out its quirks. Buttons, sliders, folders, file names, timestamps. Nothing works like anything you’ve ever touched before… and yet you’re good at it. Once you find the logic, it bends.

Jimmy’s awe grows with every click. “You pick things up fast,” he says, sipping from his mug. “Like… alien-fast.”

“Don’t be racist.” You hum. He snorts so hard coffee shoots out of his nose.

At some point, you glance across the room scanning for Clark. You find his pressed shirt, tie slightly off-center, hair soft and floppy from the wind. He’s standing by the water jug with a notepad in one hand and a furrow in his brow like he’s trying very hard to understand something someone just said. He nods earnestly, says something polite, then drops his pen and bumps into the water jug. His glasses slip.

He doesn’t notice you watching him or maybe he does and just pretends not to. You tilt your head. That’s not the legend Kara described over stolen drinks under a red sun. That’s… Clark.

He straightens up, gestures awkwardly, and gives the person he’s speaking to a thumbs up. You stifle a laugh. This man is supposed to be Earth’s strongest protector, and he’s out here battling gravity and plastic cups.

When he finally catches your eye, his smile shifts.

Back at your desk, Jimmy finishes showing you how to search headlines in the digital archives. You’re already faster at it than he is.

He leans back with a huff. “You’re terrifyingly competent.”

“Thank you,” you say, dragging and dropping like a seasoned pro.

“Most people have a breakdown their first week.”

“I considered it.”

“Did you?”

“No,” you lie.

Jimmy laughs, then gestures toward a stack of photo envelopes. “Want to help me organize the 2011 mayoral scandal?”

You squint at the photo. “Why is he holding a giant check?”

“Ah, you sweet innocent creature. We’re about to learn so much together.”

Around mid-afternoon, Clark walks past again, this time holding two mugs of coffee and mumbling something to himself. You watch him walk into a filing cabinet. He apologizes to it.

You lean closer to Jimmy. “Does he do that often?”

“Run into inanimate objects?” Jimmy asks without looking up. “At least twice a day. You should see him during flu season. He accidentally got locked in the janitor’s closet once trying to find tissues.”

You smile to yourself. Earth is strange. But this place, this building, with its chaotic machines and dramatic reporters and faintly burning metal smell… it’s starting to feel less foreign.

And Clark with his lopsided tie and soft voice and warm glances might be the strangest thing about it.

Strange in a way you don’t want to stop watching.

“Hey,” Clark says, voice warm and low. “We’re heading out.”

You glance at the clock. Four o’clock. Apparently Earth jobs don’t run on grueling cycles of planetary rotation and mandatory blood trials. Wild.

Jimmy waves from his chair, mouth full of vending machine trail mix. “You did good, newbie. Don’t forget to breathe, drink water, steal office supplies y’know, the usual.”

Clark clears his throat pointedly. Jimmy salutes him with a peanut.

You expect to retrace your steps. Back through the double doors, down the street, maybe up through a rooftop if no one’s looking. Instead, Clark walks you down a side street and stops beside a large red building with automatic doors and a massive glowing logo.

TARGET.

You squint. “Is this a weapons facility?”

Clark huffs a laugh. “Not quite. It’s… a store. You need clothes. Real ones. That aren’t space-grade armor.”

You step through the automatic doors and pause so abruptly, Clark walks into you.

The scent hits you first, warm, almost sweet and it makes your head tilt.

“What is that?” you murmur, sniffing the air like a predator. “It smells… edible. And nostalgic. And like it’s definitely clogging something inside me.”

Clark chuckles. “That’s popcorn.”

You blink. “Is it dangerous?”

“Only if you try to eat the whole bag in one sitting. Which… is a strong possibility.”

You follow the scent, nose in the air like you’re tracking a life form. When you reach the snack kiosk near the entrance, Clark pulls out a few crumpled bills from his pocket and buys you a bag. The lady behind the counter says something chipper and totally incomprehensible. You smile politely and say nothing.

You pinch one piece between your fingers. Sniff. Nibble. Your eyes widen. “This… is incredible. Why does it taste like happiness and cardiovascular decline?”

Clark laughs. “That’s how you know it’s real American food.”

Bag of popcorn in hand, you follow him into the maze of the store, crunching happily with every step.

It doesn’t take long before your enjoyment is interrupted by the sight of clothing racks that stretch like corridors. He gestures toward them.

“We’ll grab a few things for you,” he says, reaching for a red shopping cart. “Outfits. Basics. Stuff you can rotate.”

You blink down at yourself. “But I already have this one,” you say, gesturing to the outfit Lois brought. “I like this one. I didn’t even get blood on it today. If I ever do, I'll just wash it.”

Clark slows the cart. “You… can’t wear the same thing every day.”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. “Because people will notice.”

“And?”

“And they’ll think you don’t have more clothes.”

“Will they try to fight me?”

“No.”

“Will I be removed from the workplace?”

“No, just… judged. A lot.”

You squint at him. “Humans are strange.”

He nods solemnly. “Sometimes.”

You spend the next hour zigzagging through clothing aisles.

Clark walks beside you like a patient observer while you alternate between wide-eyed wonder and blistering critiques. You pick up a cropped thick jacket with tiny heart buttons.

“This looks like it was made for a child assassin.”

“Yeah things for women are short, just popular right now.”

You find a pair of pants with holes in them. “Battle-worn?”

“Pre-ripped.”

“That’s inconvenient,” you mumble.

You hold up a bra to mess with him. “Is this a slingshot or a weapon for containment?”

Clark rubs his temple. “It’s… for support.”

You whistle. “For humans? Or for whatever that is?” You point at a large, padded cup. He flushes red instantly.

You laugh at him.

Eventually, he convinces you to try a few things on. The fitting room becomes your personal command center. You emerge triumphantly in a pair of high-waisted pants and a soft gray sweater.

Clark’s smile is immediate and warm. “That’s… good. You look like someone who belongs here.”

You twirl dramatically. “Am I blending in?”

“Like a very loud, opinionated chameleon.”

“Perfect.”

By the time you check out, your cart is full: a jacket, a couple of work blouses, jeans, slacks, more skirts, loungewear, undergarments (which Clark discreetly handed to the cashier while you were distracted by the lip balm aisle), and shoes.

You step outside as the sun dips low behind the buildings, casting everything in gold.

Clark carries the bags without flinching while you carry the popcorn like it’s sacred.

The world feels new. Still overwhelming. Still ridiculous. But better, somehow, with him in it.

You step into the apartment like you’ve done it a hundred times, but this time, something feels different.

Maybe it’s the bag of clothes slung over your shoulder. Maybe it’s the ghost of popcorn still on your tongue. Or maybe it’s the fact that Clark lingers behind you, one hand pressed to the small of your back like he’s guiding you into your own life.

The door clicks shut behind you.

“Figured I should give you the grand tour,” he says, kicking off his shoes and gesturing around like the place is somehow more than a small one-bedroom apartment.

You turn in a slow circle, taking it all in like you’re memorizing the layout for future battles.

Your eyes catch on something above blades, attached to a fixture, hanging from the ceiling. “That… is a light fixture, yes?”

Clark follows your gaze. “Close. That’s a ceiling fan. It moves air around. You pull the chain and it spins.”

You reach up and give the chain a firm tug.

Too firm. There’s a sharp metallic snap.

The chain comes off in your hand like a snapped vine, and the fan gives a sad little hiccup before going completely still.

You blink. Look at the chain. Then at Clark.

He just stares for a moment.

“I—was that not the appropriate amount of force?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales through a smile that’s way too fond. “That was maybe three times the appropriate amount of force.”

You hold out the broken chain. “I broke your air machine.”

He takes it from you gently. “I’ll fix it. Just… maybe let me pull the next chain.”

You raise a brow. “Noted. Chains are fragile. Humans are fragile. Earth is fragile.”

Clark mutters, “So is my rent deposit,” as he walks away, but there’s no irritation behind it.

You grin and trail after him, already scanning the room for the next Earth thing you can accidentally destroy with enthusiasm.

Clark’s still chuckling about the ceiling fan when his phone buzzes.

“I’ll order us dinner,” he says, tapping through a menu with practiced ease. “It’s called Chinese takeout. Trust me, it’s a rite of passage.”

You’re busy turning over a pillow like it’s a piece of alien tech. “Is the food from China?”

“No,” he laughs “but It’s comforting, definitely not fight fuel, but you’ll love it.”

He looks up, catching the soft furrow between your brows. “You can shower while I order. Take your time. I’ll set out your stuff.”

You hesitate.

He nods toward the hallway. “You remember the knobs?”

“The red one hurts less than the blue one,” you recite.

“Exactly.”

You disappear into the bathroom. The door clicks shut. A minute later, there’s the rush of water, a surprised yelp, and the sound of a shampoo bottle falling into the tub.

By the time you emerge, your damp hair is braided back from your face. You’re wearing the black shorts you picked out soft, cuffed, and hugging your hips and one of his hoodies you plucked out from the back of his closet, a faded red hoodie that has Smallville stitched on it. it hangs off your frame like a blanket.

Clark looks up from where he’s unpacking food containers on the kitchen counter and pauses.

You tug at the hoodie’s hem, eyeing the logo. “What’s a Smallville?”

He laughs. “It’s a town. My hometown, actually. In Kansas.”

You blink. “Is that near here?”

“Not even a little,” he says, handing you a plate. “It’s where I grew up. Real small. Fields, tractors, cows. That sort of thing.”

You eye him curiously. “And you survived?”

He grins. “Barely. But yeah. It’s where my parents raised me.”

You shift your weight, something soft in your gaze. “These… human parents. Were they kind?”

Clark nods, smile faltering into something gentler. “Very. They taught me everything I know about being a good man.”

You look down at the faded letters on his hoodie again, fingers smoothing over the stitched-on name. “You miss it?”

“Sometimes. More than I admit.”

You tug the sleeves over your hands and smile, catlike. “Well it’s comfortable. I claim it.”

He opens his mouth to argue, he really liked that hoodie, but you’re already sitting at the table, eyes wide at the containers spread out in front of you.

“What’s this?”

“Fried rice. Chicken. Eggrolls.”

You point. “That’s the broccoli-tree I liked yesterday ?”

“Yep.”

You eye the two wooden sticks suspiciously. “These are weapons.”

Clark tries not to laugh. “They’re utensils.”

“They look like tiny spears.”

“Kind of, but the goal is to grab the food, not impale it.”

He sits beside you and holds his own pair, demonstrating the technique pinching, lifting, and tilting his wrist with practiced ease. You watch, brows drawn, then mimic the motion… poorly. The chopsticks clack together and launch a piece of the broccoli tree halfway across the table.

Clark bites down a smile. “Okay. Not bad. Try again, but lighter grip. Like it’s alive and you don’t want to scare it.”

“That’s disgusting,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at a something in a box.

Still, you try. This time, you manage to lift the soft little crescent before it slithers out and lands back in the sauce with a dramatic splash.

“What even is this?”

“That’s a dumpling. Dough on the outside, usually meat or vegetables inside. Steamed.”

You squint at it, then glance at the rest of the boxes. “Earth food is… ambitious.”

He chuckles. “It’s good, I promise. Just takes getting used to.”

You finally manage to trap the dumpling between the chopsticks and raise it triumphantly only to squeeze a little too hard. It bursts, splattering onto your plate like an overripe fruit.

You stare at it. “That was murder.”

Clark’s shoulders shake as he laughs. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

You glance over at him. “How did you do it?”

He pauses, “I didn’t really have to. I grew up eating mostly what my Ma cooked at home. Occasionally we had this, but when I went to college I pretty much survived on take out.”

You try the chopsticks again. This time, you adjust your grip just like he showed you gentler, more precise. The chopsticks tremble slightly in your hand as you lift another dumpling, holding your breath.

Clark watches you from the corner of his eye, chopsticks paused mid-air. There’s a flicker of quiet hope in your expression, the kind that doesn’t come often but stays when it does.

You raise the dumpling to your mouth, eyebrows lifting.

It doesn’t explode.

You chew slowly, thoughtfully, and then your eyes widen.

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually good.”

He smiles, something proud and unbearably fond playing at the edges of his lips. “Told you.”

You reach for another. You don’t fumble this time.

He leans forward slightly, watching you move with practiced ease now, like the rhythm of it is sinking into your bones.

“I think I’m getting it,” you say, glancing over at him. “Maybe I am adaptable.”

Clark hums. “You definitely are.”

After dinner, you stand with purpose, gathering up the takeout containers and heading toward the sink. You reach for the faucet until Clark’s voice stops you.

“Hey—what’re you doing?”

You glance back at him, confused. “The dishes?”

He chuckles. “That’s the thing about takeout,” he says, walking over to you. “You don’t have to clean up. You just throw everything out.”

You blink at him. “Wait… that’s it?”

He picks up a greasy paper container and drops it into a bin with a satisfying thud. “That’s it. No mess, no scrubbing. A modern wonder.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Feels like cheating.”

Clark grins, hands on his hips. “Welcome to Earth.”

You smile at that, then follow him to the couch. He grabs a small rectangular object, clicks a button, and the screen hums to life.

Your brows knit. “Is that a screen?”

He gestures for you to sit beside him. “It’s a TV. I’ll show you.”

You sink into the cushions slowly, arms crossed. “I’ve seen screens before, Clark.”

“Not like this, you haven’t.” He flips through until he lands on something simple. You see a women with people around her, bright colors and familiar music playing through the speakers. “These are shows. Or movies. Kind of like… long, fake stories. Made with cameras. People act in them.”

You lean forward, captivated. “So humans just watch other humans pretend to be different humans?”

Clark stifles a laugh. “Pretty much, yeah.”

You tilt your head. “That’s… kind of genius.”

He nods. “It can be. Some of them are funny. Some make you cry. Some are about space. Or love.” He explains.

You cut in with a grin. “Does anyone ever pretend to be you?”

Clark glances at you. “Sometimes.”

You don’t say anything for a while. The room glows with the light of the screen. The sound fills the quiet spaces comfortably.

Then you turn to him, voice soft, unexpected. “Earlier… when you said your parents taught you how to be a good man, what did you mean?”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Oh.”

You don’t press. Just wait. He shifts a little. “My dad used to tell me that my powers don’t make me good. Choices do. That I could lift a tractor or outrun a bullet didn’t mean anything if I wasn’t doing it for the right reasons.”

You look at him for a beat too long. “So you do what’s right because of them.”

Clark nods. “Because of them. Because of how they raised me.”

You settle back against the cushion, your shoulder brushing his. “They must’ve been something.”

“They were,” he says, voice warm. “They still are.”

You hum thoughtfully, letting your eyes return to the screen. “Maybe one day you’ll teach me how to be a good human.”

You wheel on him, stunned. “Are you insane? You’re jealous of a guy in Tevas and cargo shorts who smelled like trail mix?”

Adrian’s mouth twists, eyes wild behind his glasses. “I’m not jealous. I’m just observant. And what I observed was my girlfriend eye-fucking a granola-wrapped fuckboy in front of me like I was a ghost.”

“You weren’t even in the room!”

“You weren’t supposed to forget I exist just because someone with a hiking app and a REI membership smiled at you!”

You laugh, loud and bitter. “So what? I’m not allowed to talk to people now? Is that it?”

“Not when they look at you like that!” he shouts. “Like they want to unzip your jacket and find out what color your bra is!”

That stuns you for half a second. He says it like it hurts him. Like the thought is eating him alive. But you’re too furious to let that sway you.

“You know what? Fuck this Adrian, fuck you. I’m done trying to make you feel safe when you’re the one who can’t trust me.”

He flinches like you slapped him, but he covers it with a sneer. “Cool. Great. Yeah. That’s what people say right before they go suck off someone named Kyle in a Subaru Outback.”

You shove him. Hard. “Go home, Adrian.”

He’s breathing hard now. Chest rising and falling like he’s about to blow. “I was gonna meet your family. I bought your dad whiskey. The good kind. With the red wax on the bottle.”

“I don’t care.”

He steps back like the wind’s been knocked out of him. His voice drops. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold.

He stares at you. Then he scoffs, throws his hands up, and walks off in the opposite direction. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

The airport smells like cinnamon pretzels and recycled air.

You step off the plane with your headphones in, sunglasses on, and heart crawling up the back of your throat. It doesn’t matter that it’s 7 p.m. or that the terminal is packed with red-nosed children in reindeer hoodies and overworked dads lugging booster seats like dead weights. You feel naked.

Because the moment you walk out of the security gate, you see the sign.

“Welcome Home, Baby! 🎄”

Your sister’s holding it up like it’s a weapon. Your mom’s tearing up. Your brother already has your suitcase before you can even fake a smile. And then comes the dreaded question.

“Where’s Adrian?” Your mom frowns. “Did he miss the flight?”

You blink. Your lips part to tell them the truth but your brain can’t manage to put it together. “He couldn’t come. Got caught up in work. Last-minute thing.”

It’s quiet for a beat. Just long enough to feel the air go still. Your mom’s face drops, but she nods. “That’s too bad, sweetheart. We were really looking forward to meeting him.”

Your stomach twists so you try to soften it. “He was bummed too. He really wanted to be here.” Another lie. Your mouth tastes like metal.

You’re lying on your childhood bed, the glow-in-the-dark stars still on the ceiling from 8th grade. Everything in this room is too familiar, too unchanged, like it doesn’t know how different you are now.

You unlock your phone and hover your thumb over Adrian’s name before opening the thread. You don’t text him, but you do scroll up.

You pass the picture he sent two weeks ago, him in front of the fireplace, holding up a ridiculous reindeer sweater he said he’d wear just to make your dad laugh.

You should’ve blocked him, deleted the message thread. But you didn’t.

You’re already up when the sun rises. You didn’t sleep, you couldn’t really between the crying and gut wrenching need to call him.

The house is still and dark, the kind of quiet you only get when everyone’s exhausted from catching up and pretending everything’s perfect. You slip out of bed, shuffle into the kitchen, and pull out the flour.

Your sleeves are rolled up. There’s cinnamon on your cheek.

It feels like muscle memory mixing, kneading, setting the rolls to rise. You’ve made them every Christmas since college. Adrian loves them warm, just a little underbaked, with way too much frosting.

You’re wearing his old hoodie. The soft, frayed navy one with the peeling graphic on the back that reads PEACE WAS NEVER AN OPTION in bright red letters.

You told him to throw it out two years ago and he refused. Now you can’t stop smelling it.

The timer dings pulling you from your thoughts just as the dough finishes rising. You’re brushing melted butter on the rolls when you hear the knock.

Three sharp knocks.

You pause, blinking, who the fuck knocks at 6am Another knock, then you hear the heavy and familiar footsteps of your dad followed by the door creaking open.

“Well I’ll be damned are you Adrian!” your dad booms.

Your heart stops. There’s laughter. Clapping. The sound of someone being pulled into a bear hug.

You drop the pastry brush. No. No no no no no. He wasn’t supposed to come. Why would he come?

You spin, eyes wide, hands shaking. The frosting bowl rattles against the counter as you step toward the kitchen doorway, straining to hear.

“You made it after all!” your dad yells. “Thought you were stuck working!”

And then his voice, casual as hell. “Yeah the mission wasn’t more important than being here. Hope it’s okay I still came?”

Your dad, laughing again “Okay? She’s gonna lose her mind.”

You already are. You backpedal fast, bumping into the fridge, the counter, the goddamn cinnamon roll tray. You can’t let him see you like this with your face flushed, sleeves streaked in flour, wearing his hoodie, fuck you’re wearing his hoodie.

You hear footsteps coming down the hallway.

You don’t have time to hide the hoodie. Or the way your hands are trembling.

You’re wiping your palms on a dishtowel when your dad’s voice barrels down the hall.

“She’s in here, already working on the cinnamon rolls!”

You turn around just in time to see Adrian step into your mother’s kitchen like it belongs to him.

He looks… the same. Grey hoodie under his jacket. Hair pushed back in that half-styled mess you used to smooth down with your fingers. His glasses fog slightly from the change in temperature.

He’s got his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a tin of cookies under one arm, and a smug little smile like he brought world peace as a hostess gift.

“Hey you,” he says casually, like you saw each other yesterday. “Smells good in here.”

Your voice gets stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

Your dad claps him on the back like they’ve been drinking buddies for years. “Can you believe he blew work off ? That’s commitment.”

Adrian gives a modest shrug. “I didn’t want to miss it.”

He comes around the counter engulfing you in a warm hug. You don’t breathe, but your put your arms around him. Then your brother comes in. Then your sister. Then your mom, still in her robe. Like blood in the water, the rest of your family starts to swarm, buzzing with excitement.

“You must be Adrian!”

“Oh my god, he’s even cuter than the pictures.”

“He’s tall! You didn’t say he was this tall!”

He’s shaking hands, chuckling, fielding questions about his flight, his job (which he describes as an “office job” because no one needs to know he murders people), and what kind of cookies he brought.

You’re silent. You’re just watching. You’re the ghost in your own kitchen.

Adrian creeps back up next to you, completely oblivious to the way your heart is punching through your chest.

He gestures to the tray on the counter. “I’ve been craving these for days” He reaches past you and plucks one straight off the hot pan with his bare hands.

“You’re gonna burn yourself.” You finally manage to say.

“Worth it.” He shrugs then he bites into it and actually moans.

“Holy shit,” he says, mouth full. “I’d break up with you more often if it meant you’d trauma-bake like this.” He whispers only to you, making you go still. But he’s already distracted by your grandma pulling him aside to ask if he likes eggnog.

And just like that, he’s part of the room again. Laughing, talking, the center of attention. Your family’s new favorite Christmas miracle.

And you? You’re still standing in the kitchen, wearing his hoodie, watching the boy you broke up with make your mom blush and your dad laugh like nothing ever happened.

“Sweetheart,” your mom calls, already halfway through setting the table, “why don’t you take Adrian’s bag upstairs? Show him where he’s sleeping.”

You nod before you can think.

Adrian raises an eyebrow like he wants to say something smart, but the look you give him shuts him up.

You grab his duffel, fingers clenching around the handle, and lead him down the hall like a dog on a leash.

You show him the way, he looks at your posters on the walls. A candle burning on the dresser. Folded matching pajamas your mom bought for everyone on the edge of the bed.

“Okay,” Adrian says, dropping the tin of cookies on your desk. “I know you’re mad and you have every right to—.”

“Mad?” You interrupt.

He holds up both hands. “Ok maybe—furious. Big difference. Got it. But in my defense—”

“In your defense, you showed up uninvited to my family’s Christmas. After we broke up.”

He frowns like the words don’t quite land. “Did we tho?”

You glare at him.

“Because the way I remember it,” he continues, lowering his voice, “you told me to go home, I said ‘Merry fucking Christmas,’ That’s not a breakup, that’s—I don’t know what the fuck that was, honestly.”

Your voice goes flat. “You accused me of flirting with some stranger at a bar and told me to go blow a guy named Kyle in a Subaru.”

“I was spiraling! You were touching his arm! You know what happens when people touch my arm? I go fucking crazy!”

You exhale hard through your nose, pacing in the small room. “This isn’t about your fucking arm, Adrian. You humiliated me in public, said some genuinely deranged shit, and then walked away.”

“I didn’t mean it to end like that,” he says. And he sounds genuine. Frustrated, definitely. But ultimately real.

“Well, it did. And now you’re here. And they still think we’re together.”

He tilts his head, processing. “so you didn’t tell them?”

You fold your arms. “What was I supposed to say? That we broke up because you thought a guy in Tevas and trail mix wanted to fuck me? My mom made you a stocking and got a mug with your name on it. My niece drew a crayon portrait of us and spelled your name ‘Adryun.’”

He snorts despite himself. “That’s not even close! Public education is a joke in this country.” You glare at him again. He clears his throat quickly. “Ooookay. Sorry. Not the point.”

You’re quiet for a second. Both of you are.

He runs a hand through his hair and softens, just a little. “Ok look… I know I fucked up. But when your dad sent the itinerary again like nothing happened… I just thought maybe we weren’t done. Not really.”

You blink. He steps closer, voice low. “You and me—we argue. We yell. That’s part of it. But we always come back. This time it just….”

Your throat tightens as his voice goes out.

The cinnamon rolls are still warm downstairs. Your mom’s humming to Nat King Cole in the kitchen. And the boy you said goodbye to is standing in your bedroom like he never left.

“You didn’t even ask.” You whisper.

His eyes search yours. “Would you have said yes?”

You don’t answer because you don’t know.

There’s a quiet knock on the door pulling you out of your head.

Your mom’s voice floats through, too chipper for how early it still is. “You two lovebirds coming down? The cinnamon rolls smell amazing! And we’re starting breakfast.”

Adrian opens the door with a grin like he’s on a fucking sitcom. “On our way!”

You don’t move.

He picks up the cookie tin and strolls down the hall. Like the last ten minutes didn’t just shake your whole reality sideways. You trail behind him, brain static.

Downstairs, the kitchen is alive eggs sizzling, someone shouting about bacon, your sister trying to connect the Bluetooth speaker to play Mariah Carey. It’s loud and warm and smells like butter and coffee and sugar.

Adrian fits into the chaos perfectly.

He slides in next to your dad at the table like he’s done it a hundred times. Accepts a plate of scrambled eggs. Offers to pour orange juice for your niece. He makes a stupid joke about cinnamon roll calories and your mom cackles. He looks over at you and winks. Like you’re in on it together. Like this is your thing.

Your fork pauses mid-air.

What the hell is he doing?

Your mom pats his shoulder. “You’re just as sweet as she said. We were worried you’d be a little intense, with the… uh, work you guys do.”

Adrian gives her a charming, rehearsed smile. “Only intense when it counts.”

The table laughs. He sips his coffee like it’s not a loaded weapon. You stare at him. Your throat still feels bruised from the argument. But here he is, running the Breakfast with the In-Laws playbook like it was second nature.

Someone slides you a cinnamon roll. You eat it but you don’t taste it.

He leans closer under the table and taps your knee with his earning a glare from you. He’s smiling like a man who’s winning a game you didn’t know you were playing.

After breakfast, your mom claps her hands with giddy determination.

“Let’s go get the tree!”

There are cheers and some groans. You freeze with your coffee halfway to your lips.

But Adrian? Grinning like he’s just been handed a snowball and permission to throw it. “We’re getting a real one? Hell yeah!”

Your stomach turns. You forgot this was part of the “itinerary.”

Boots are pulled from closets. Scarves are fought over. Your brother tries to bail and gets lectured into submission. Within twenty minutes, the entire family is piling into cars, coffee mugs in hand, Christmas music blaring like the apocalypse is coming and it’s sponsored by Folgers.

Adrian, of course, rides with you. He slips into the passenger seat beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, body turned slightly toward you, one leg braced against the center console.

“I still can’t believe your family does this,” he says, sipping from a to-go cup your mom shoved in his hands. “Like, voluntarily. I’ve never had a Christmas like this, ever.”

“Yeah we have some cheesy traditions,” you mumble, eyes on the road. But you can feel him still looking at you.

“…You okay?” You don’t answer, even he has to know this is weird, so you crank the heat instead.

The tree farm is a winter daydream. Acres of pines dusted with powdery snow, rows of pre-cut options for the faint of heart, and a “you cut it, you buy it” section for the overachievers.

Your cousins race ahead. Your aunt takes selfies with the stray cat. Your dad has an axe in one hand and your mom in the other, laughing like they’re in high school again. Adrian walks beside you, his hand grazing yours, but you pull yours into your jacket pocket. He doesn’t comment.

“I think this one’s it,” your mom says, gesturing to a full, classic Douglas fir.

Adrian steps forward examining it like only he could. “Good shape. Thick base. No bald spots.”

Your dad claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve got an eye, kid.”

You don’t even like this tree. But no one asks.

Adrian grabs the axe and crouches like it’s a mission objective. He starts swinging, muscles tense, jaw clenched in that over-focused way that made you fall for him in the first place. And the worst part? You can’t stop watching.

“You’re staring,” your sister whispers beside you.

You flinch. “I’m not.”

“You so are.” You glare at her.

Adrian finishes with a triumphant grunt. “Boom. Dominated.” The tree falls with a soft whoosh into the snow. Your family cheers like it’s the Olympics.

Adrian flashes you a grin as he stands, brushing snow off his jeans. “That was hot, right?”

You open your mouth to say something smart but then it closes. Because it was. And you didn’t want to let him know.

Back home the living room is chaos in flannel with the matching pajamas that were mandatory for this activity your mom bought everyone.

She is orchestrating the operation like a drill sergeant in slippers, directing everyone to their stations garlands here, ornaments there, cocoa on the side table. The tree stands tall in the corner, already wrapped in white lights, waiting to be dressed.

You’re unboxing ornaments with your niece when she spots one, a delicate glass heart with silver detailing that’s been in the family for years.

She holds it up like a trophy. “I wanna hang this one way up high!”

Adrian, lounging on the floor and pretending to untangle tinsel, glances up. “Heck yeah! Need a lift, munchkin?”

“YES!” Your niece beams reaching her hands up to him.

Before you can stop him, he’s scooping her up effortlessly, one hand under her legs, the other steadying her back as she reaches for a branch near the top.

You tense knowing a 4 year old is not the most coordinated. And sure enough, just as she reaches high her fingers fumble and the ornament slips. It hits the floor like a gunshot.

You flinch at the shattered glass across hardwood floor gasps from your niece and your mom, Adrian still crouched where he caught her from falling.

Your niece’s eyes are wide, scared and already crying. “I—I sorry”

“Hey,” Adrian says, instantly holding her close to his chest. “You didn’t do anything wrong. That thing’s probably older than both of us combined. Are you okay?”

She nods, cheeks pink with embarrassment tears rolling down her face. You wave her over gently. “It’s okay, baby. Go sit with Grandma, I’ll clean it.” You assure.

She scrambles off to your mom for a hug. You kneel down collecting the big shards of glass carefully, you don’t even notice the sharp edge until it slices clean across your knee.

“Shit.” You flinch.

Adrian’s there in half a second. “Don’t move.”

“It’s fine, I—”

He cuts you a look. The look. The you’re bleeding and if you argue with me I will carry you look. “Sit,” he says, guiding you back by the elbow. You barely have time to process it before he lifts you, not roughly, but fast and sets you gently on the edge of the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.

“I’m okay,” you murmur.

“Well, I’m not,” he says. “You’re bleeding.”

You glance down. He’s right, blood blooming in a red streak down your pajama pants.

He crouches in front of you, gently tugging the fabric up to get a better look at the cut. It’s not deep, but it’s long and fresh.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, dabbing at it with a damp paper towel.

The kitchen’s a blur of movement around you. your cousin yelling about lights, your mom pouring cocoa, the Polar Express playing faintly in the living room, but right here, it’s just you and Adrian.

And then like a nightmare “It’s fishin time!” your dad shouts from across the room.

You both look up just in time to see him swinging a fishing rod, a stupid grin on his face. The end of the line dangling a sprig of mistletoe like a festive weapon of mass destruction. Not this old thing again.

Adrian doesn’t even blink. He looks up sees the mistletoe swing directly over your heads. Then looks right at you.

“Oh,” he says, in awe. “It’s time, I’ve been prepping for this for months.”

“No,” you warn, backing up on the counter.

“Yes,” he grins, already stepping between your knees, hands sliding to your hips pulling you closer. “House rules. What were they again?”

You try to push him away. “You smooch or you suff—Adrian!” He slides you off the counter against his hips holding you up, and before you can protest, he tips you back one hand splayed against your lower back, the other cradling the back of your neck.

And then he kisses you. Like a fucking scene-stealer. Like he’s doing it for the crowd, but everything about the way his mouth moves against yours, slow, deliberate, and warm, says otherwise.

Your legs dangle in the air before you wrap them around him . You’re not breathing. Your fingers clutch at the back of his sweater. He tilts his head slightly and deepens it, not sloppy, not rushed, just damn near cinematic.

And when he pulls back. You’re still off the ground.

Your entire family roars behind you. Cheers. Whistles. Your sister yells, “get a ROOM!”

Adrian smirks, eyes still on yours. He hasn't set you down yet. He leans in again, just enough for you to feel his breath. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs. “Now you don’t have to limp around with glass in your leg or lie to your grandma.”

You blink up at him, heart racing. He’s still smiling. You hate how much you like it.

“Come with me,” you say, voice low.

He blinks. “Where?”

You step back. “Upstairs.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. Surprise, maybe some hope but he doesn’t ask questions. He just follows.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind you, and for a second, neither of you moves.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. So that happened.”

“That happened,” you echo.

You fold your arms, unsure where to start. He’s still smiling. That infuriating, handsome, stupidly perfect smile.

“You kissed me,” you say.

“You wrapped your legs around me,” he counters, stepping forward.

“That was gravity.” You correct.

“That was you grinding on me in front of your entire family.”

“Don’t say it like that.” You groan, bringing your hands to your face.

His grin widens. But when he takes another step, it slips.

“What are you doing?” You ask because honestly you don’t know. “What are we doing?”

“I want us back to how we were.” He admits.

“Adrian,” you say, voice quieter now, “I’m still mad about what you said. Going Christmas tree shopping and you showing up doesn’t just erase that. I’m still hurt.”

“I know.”

“What you said at the bar…it was too much— too mean.”

“I know.”

“You humiliated me. You made me feel like…like I was something cheap. Just because some guy asked for a recommendation.”

“I know.” His voice cracks, fast and raw. “I’m not—I’m not good at that stuff. My head gets loud and I can’t—” He makes a wild, frustrated gesture. “I get scared and then I just go on autopilot and say the most asshole thing possible like it’s gonna protect me from something.”

“You’ve done it before,” you remind him.

“I know,” he says again, quieter now. “And every time, I hate it. Every time I watch your face after I’ve said something I can’t take back, it’s like I’m punching holes in my own ribs.”

Your chest tightens. “Then why keep doing it?”

“I don’t want to. I just…” He swallows, hands open at his sides like he’s afraid to reach for you. “It’s been worse this past week. Without you around. My brain just loops it. The fight. You leaving. You not texting. I couldn’t even eat the stupid cereal you bought, and I fucking love cereal.”

Your mouth twitches.

He sees it. “I’m trying,” he says, voice gentler now. “I swear I’m trying. I know it’s messy and I fuck things up, but—”

You cut him off. “Then don’t just say you’re trying. Show me.”

His jaw clenches like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He nods.

And it’s the quiet that gets you. The way he doesn’t rush to fix it. Doesn’t deflect with a joke. Just stands there, guilt radiating off him like heat.

You’re not sure what happens next, who steps forward first, but somehow his hands are on your waist again. Gentle this time. Hesitant.

“I just missed you,” he says.

“I missed you too.”

You expect him to say something soft. Maybe reach for you again.

Instead? He explodes. He lets out a whoop, spins in a full circle, and nearly slips on your rug.

“YES.”

“Adrian”

“YESSSSS.” He’s practically vibrating.

You laugh, because what else are you supposed to do?

He keeps going. “Your dad gave me a hug. Your mom got me a mug. I thought I’d have to fake a medical emergency to win them over, but no I just showed up with a good smile and an empty stomach.”

You walk toward him. “Are you done?”

“Fuck no,” he says, grinning wide. “You have no idea how close I was to cracking. Like—full mental breakdown at the thought of never having Christmas here. I would’ve lost my goddamn mind. I want this,” he says. “I want you. Not the version of whatever the hell we’ve been doing. I want the real thing.”

You nod. “I want that too.”

He grins. “That’s so hot.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You roll your eyes again, but you’re laughing as he pulls you back in for a quick, breathless kiss, nothing like the dramatic mistletoe one.

“Your family already thinks I’m incredible.” he says cheerfully.

“They think you’re unhinged.”

“Which is kinda my brand.”

You shake your head, forehead bumping his.

God, you missed this.

The second you both come back downstairs, it’s like walking into a culinary tornado.

Your mom has three pans going on the stove. Someone’s yelling about the rolls. There’s a trail of powdered sugar across the counter that looks like a crime scene. Your cousins dog is eating something he absolutely shouldn’t be, and your aunt is trying to do dishes while also assembling a salad.

Adrian stops in the doorway and inhales deeply like he’s arrived at Disneyland. “Oh my God.”

You narrow your eyes. “Behave.”

He turns to you with a deadly serious expression. “I can’t. There are too many things that need my attention.” Then, loudly, too loudly “HEY! Does anyone need a taster?!”

Your mom doesn’t even blink. “There’s a spoon in the mashed potatoes. Knock yourself out.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He beelines to the stove like a man on a mission and eats a bite straight from the pot.

You trail behind him, mortified but not really.

“Adrian,” you hiss. “Do not put that spoon in the pot again.”

“Mmmm oh my god. These potatoes just solved my inner child issues.” He turns to your mom. “Mom, I would kill for you.”

She pats his cheek like he’s her favorite stray animal. “That’s sweet, honey. Now go set the table.”

Dinner bleeds into the evening slowly, the kind of meal that’s less about courses and more about chaos. There’s a roast your dad insists is “his best one yet” (even though he forgot the thyme), your mom’s cheesy potatoes that somehow always burn at the bottom and still disappear first, and at least three separate “wait, did we say grace yet?” false starts. Adrian ends up wedged between your cousin with the loud laugh and your uncle who insists on quizzing him about what “exactly” he does for a living.

He lies, terribly. “Uh, it’s kinda like data processing. Very boring. I handle… spreadsheets.”

“He looks like he kills people for a living.” Your cousin whispers, making you choke on your cider.

Later, when the plates are mostly cleared and the pies are out, your niece crawls into Adrian’s lap with the ease of someone who’s already decided he’s family. She has a slice of pumpkin pie in her hands and no balance, and he holds both steady with a kind of quiet instinct you don’t expect from him.

When she tries to feed him a bite, he accepts it, dramatically pretending to faint. “Oh my god. That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Did you bake this?”

“I don’t know!” she cackles.

“You’re hired,” he tells her, mouth full, like it’s a legally binding contract.

After pie, you’re all sprawled across the living room, half on couches, half on the floor. Someone put How the Grinch Stole Christmas on. The flicker of it lights the room in soft greens and golds.

You’re curled up on one end of the couch with a blanket over your legs. Adrian’s on the floor between them, legs stretched out, your niece half asleep against his chest. She’s got her thumb in her mouth and one tiny hand curled in the fabric of his shirt.

He doesn’t move. Barely breathes, just looks down at her like she’s the most breakable thing in the world.

And then he looks up at you. The look is softer than you’re ready for. He mouths, I don’t want to move, like he’s afraid shifting even an inch would ruin this.

Your heart stutters seeing how she clings to him. Your brother gently scoops her from his arms a few minutes later. She mumbles something that sounds like “Gnight, Mr. Spedsheet,” and Adrian grins.

When she’s gone, you glance down again.

He’s still sitting on the floor, arms loose around his knees now. But his gaze doesn’t leave where she went.

And you, impulsive and tired and too full of whatever this day has become, slide down to sit beside him. You lean into his side, your head resting just under his jaw.

He lets out a breath. Slow. Shaky.

One arm curls around you instinctively, his hand settling on your thigh. And for once, Adrian says absolutely nothing. Which is how you know it means everything.

The house is quiet when you make it to your room. The kind of quiet that only happens when there’s snow outside and full bellies under the roof.

You toe off your slippers. The bed is already turned down, your mom’s doing, no doubt. Adrian stands awkwardly near the dresser, running a hand through his hair like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that nobody’s watching.

You don’t say anything. You just change.

Not into anything sexy. Just one of the striped shirts you stole from his duffle bag. He watches you, eyes dragging down and back up again. He doesn’t move.

You crawl into bed and lie on your side, facing the wall. You hear him shuffle. The soft rustle of clothes. The sound of the light switch flipping off.

Then the mattress dips. He climbs in behind you, slowly, almost hesitant.

When he presses in close, one arm sliding around your waist, chest to your back, you don’t stop him, you melt into him.

You didn’t realize how cold you’d been until you felt his warmth again. How quiet the nights had gotten without his stupid little noises the way he clears his throat, the way he huffs when the blanket gets caught, the way his fingers always tap twice on your hip before he settles.

It’s only been a week. But your body feels like it’s been starving for years.

You turn in his arms to face him. The pale light coming from the window gently illuminates his face.

“Hey,” you whisper shyly. He smiles instantly.

“Hi,” his eyes look down to your lips before coming back up to meet your eyes. You do the same thing before you both lean in.

The kiss starts soft like you’re both trying to savor this exact moment. It’s the kind of kiss people don’t come back from. Hungry. Familiar. Like trying to remember something and having it hit you all at once. His mouth moves over yours with certainty, hands cupping your face like he can’t believe he gets to touch you again.

You gasp into him and he deepens it, tongue brushing yours, one hand sliding down your back to pull you closer. There’s nothing gentle in the way he holds you, he’s not afraid to feel desperate.

You kiss him back with the same urgency. Like you’ve been underwater and he’s the first breath that doesn’t burn.

When you pull away, it’s not far. Just enough to rest your forehead against his, your lips swollen, breath uneven.

His fingers tighten against your waist.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“Not as much as I missed you,” he says, voice barely audible, rough around the edges. “You have no idea.”

You do, though, because you feel it now. In every place your bodies touch. He curses under his breath and kisses you again. Slower, but deeper this time. His tongue moves against yours like he’s been starved for it. Like he knows this is stupid, the whole house asleep, your family just down the hall, and doesn’t care.

You feel his hand travel up your side. Over your ribs before palming your breast.

He pulls away just enough to whisper, “We can’t.”

“I know,” you say, voice strained, eyes locked on his like he’s trying to burn your image into his brain. “But…”

He kisses you again like a question.

You kiss back like an answer.

His hips rock forward, slow and deliberate. You feel him, hard through his pajama pants, and grind back with zero shame.

“I can feel how much you missed me,” you tease, low against his ear.

He groans. “Well I haven’t been able to masterbate.”

You bite your lip, arching into him. “I need you.”

“Fuck it. We’ll do it quietly. Like… respectfully.” He beams and grinds harder, letting you feel exactly how much he’s been holding back.

You gasp, body jerking as he buries his face in your neck, muttering curses against your skin.

His rhythm gets desperate which is exactly one part restraint and three parts losing it.

“I need more,” you whisper, breathless.

He pulls back onto his knees, shoves his pajama pants and underwear down in one impatient motion. His cock is already flushed and heavy, twitching with anticipation.

“I’ve missed you,” you sigh.

“Aw, I missed you too,” he says, sincere.

You smirk, eyes dragging down. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

He follows your gaze and blinks. “Well that’s just mean,”

“You love it.” You sit up, fingers curling around his shoulders, guiding him down with you. One of his hands braces next to your head, the mattress dipping under his weight. The other slips between your thighs, dragging your soaked panties to the side like they’re an inconvenience.

You gasp lightly when his middle finger glides through your slick folds, your body arching into the touch.

He leans in, lips brushing yours. “Shhh,” he warns, voice low. “If you’re not quiet…I’ll stop.”

Your mouth opens in protest, but all that escapes is a whimper as he circles your clit once, lazy, slow, maddening.

“You’re evil,” you whisper.

“I’m going for a sexy kind of asshole,” he counters, grinning like he didn’t just threaten to edge you into insanity with a single finger. He slides one inside, then two, curling them just right. You muffle your moan into his neck, fingers clawing at his back.

You grind against his hand, breath shaky but you’re trying to stay quiet, so you reach to kiss him. Feeling his tongue against yours makes you want it against something else. Your thought is lost when you feel him slide the tip of dick against your wet folds. He pushes it against your clit before he begins to thrust his hips slowly with enough pressure to make your whole body clench.

“Jesus—“

He pauses. “Technically no, but thank you for the comparison.” He whispers in return,

You let out a choked laugh. “Adrian.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, even though he’s clearly not. He thrusts against you again and your headboard hits the wall making you both freeze. “Fuck, maybe we shouldn’t.” he groans.

“Fuck that.” You scoff. “Get on the floor,”

“Are you serious?” He asks and you push him off the bed. He lands harder than you expect a loud thud and some part of him definitely hit the nightstand.

“Fuck, are you ok?” You whisper looking over the edge of the bed.

“Yup, yeah, the nightstand broke my fall, I’m totally fine”

You scramble off the bed after him, biting back a laugh as he sprawls on the floor like a ragdoll, one leg tangled in the comforter, the other braced against the wall.

He groans again. “Pretty sure I cracked a rib, but I’m ok.”

You drop to your knees straddling him, tugging your panties back to the side. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, stroking his head gently. “I was trying to be assertive and sexy,” you admit.

“It worked, I’m still hard a fuck,” he says with a smile. “It’s totally worth the concession.”

“Get back on the bed,” you order, nudging your head to the bed.

“What? No, ride me please!” He begs, making you laugh.

“Not tonight baby, maybe tomorrow,” you suggest helping him up. He sits in the bed and you push his chest down so he lays back on the mattress. You stay kneeled in front of the bed nestled between his thighs. You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock and begin to stroke him slowly, deliberately watching as his abs contract.

Adrian lets out a ragged breath, eyes already fluttering shut. “Oh my god, you’re perfect.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Shhh,” you remind him, pumping again, just a little faster. You flick your wrist, watching his whole body twitch. You drag your tongue slowly along the underside of his shaft feeling every inch of his smooth skin. When you close your lips around him, his hips buck involuntarily and he smacks a hand over his own mouth.

“Mmfoh fuck,” he groans into his palm.

You hum around him amused, and his thighs tense on either side of you. You focus on the tip sliding your tongue flat against his slit just the way he likes. When you pull off, your lips are slick and swollen, and his pupils are blown wide.

“I need to touch you, like right now. I can’t just lay here,” he urges. You crawl up onto the bed laying next to him. One of his hands brings one of your thighs up so your heat is flush against his warm thigh.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he whispers into your neck, voice like gravel and heat.

“Yeah well I’m in love with you,” you say as you begin to grind against his thigh while you curl your fingers around his cock. He bucks into your fist, and the weight of him makes you moan against his jaw.

“Don’t—” he chokes, hips stuttering into your fist, “don’t say that while you’re doing this. I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

You kiss his jaw, slow and messy, grinding down on his thigh harder. “Good.”

He grabs your waist with his free hand, fingers digging in like he’s trying to keep up with your rhythm. “Oh my god, fuck…slow down.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, teeth grazing the shell of his ear. “You feel too good.”

He groans, low, desperate, completely gone. His thigh flexes under you, giving you the extra friction you’re chasing, and you cry out softly against his neck.

“Shh,” he whispers, breath hot against your collarbone as he shifts under you, tightening his grip on your hip. “You gotta stay quiet or your mom’s gonna think we’re wrestling in here.”

“This could be classified as wrestling.”

“Yeah, and you’re winning.”

You choke on a laugh, then gasp as his thigh presses up and you rut down harder, slick smearing across his skin. He watches your face like he’s starving for it.

“Jesus,” he breathes, “you’re dripping on me.”

“And you’re huge in my hand,” you whisper back, stroking him tighter.

He whimpers and his forehead drops to your shoulder.

“Fuck—fuck, I missed you,” he whispers, voice breaking in the dark. His hand slips between your legs to feel you where you’re grinding. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself, look at how wet you are.”

You shudder, hips jerking. “Adrian…”

“I got you,” he pants, kissing your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach. “Come on my thigh. Do it. I want to feel it”

His hand pushes your hips down at the perfect angle, and you cry out into his mouth as you grind harder, faster.

“Shit,” he whispers, breath shaking, “come for me—on me please.” He begs and you do.

Clenching around nothing while your slick coats his thigh, your body trembling against his chest, your breath caught in his mouth as he swallows every sound you can’t keep in.

His eyes are wild when you come down, his cock jumping in your hand.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, voice wrecked. His hips thrust into your fist again. “Fuck, I love you,” he breathes. “Do whatever you want to me.”

His head falls back into the pillow, jaw slack, lashes fluttering. He’s panting softly, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth.

Your hand moves slow, slick and warm, your grip tight but tender just enough pressure to make him twitch. He bites his lip, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to meditate through it, but you can feel the tension coiling in him.

“Keep your eyes on me,” you whisper, kissing the edge of his mouth.

“I’m trying,” he whispers back, voice hoarse. “Please don’t stop.”

You stroke him tighter, twisting your wrist just how he likes. He jerks in your hand, thighs tensing. His hips buck but you keep him still with a hand on his stomach.

“You wanna be good?” you murmur against his ear, dragging your hand slower now. “You gonna stay quiet?”

“I’m trying,” he breathes, mouth barely moving. “I swear.”

You smile against his jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his neck, watching the way his whole body trembles under your touch.

“You’re so easy to ruin,” you whisper, grinning. “Bet I could make you beg without a sound.”

“Fuck,” he chokes out, then immediately bites his knuckle to muffle a groan as you run your thumb over the leaking tip.

His whole body shudders.

“God, I missed your hands,” he gasps.

You don’t stop. You keep stroking him, slow, then fast, teasing the underside, dragging your palm over the head, your finger tips gliding over his balls, working him up just to the edge and then slowing down again.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” he pants. “You’re fucking evil.”

“I’m just getting even,” you say, brushing your lips over his.

He lets out a strangled noise, then covers his face with his forearm, trying to breathe.

“Don’t come yet,” you whisper, tightening your grip as he twitches. “Not until I say.”

“Oh my god,” he groans, voice muffled in the crook of his arm.

You lean in, biting lightly at his throat. “You can take it. Be good for me.”

He whimpers and you feel the moment he gives in. His thighs go slack, his hips trembling, every muscle in his stomach pulled tight as he lets you take full control. He’s being good so your pace quickens.

“You look so fucking hot like this,” you whisper, voice sweet and low. “All flushed and desperate and quiet for me.”

He’s gasping now, swallowing every moan like it hurts to hold them in.

“Please,” he finally breathes. “Please let me come.”

“Go ahead,” you say, moving down hovering your mouth over his twitching cock. “Come for me.”

And he does. Violently. Silently. His body locking up as he spills into your mouth, you feel some drip down your cheek before you wrap your mouth around the tip. You stroke him through it, gentle now, until he’s twitching and breathless and clinging to your shoulders

When he finally opens his eyes, they’re glassy and soft.

“Marry me,” he says, deadpan.

You laugh, moving back up to face him, nose brushing his. “Clean me up first.”

He grins. “Done. Then I’m proposing.” Then he disappears under the covers.

“Adrian…what are you doing?” you whisper, giggling as the blanket shifts and rustles with entirely too much enthusiasm.

“Operation Clean-Up,” his voice muffled. “I said I’d do it. I’m a man of my word.”

You gasp as you feel him gently wiping between your thighs with the corner of his shirt. He’s surprisingly tender about it, borderline reverent.

“Oh my god,” you murmur, both touched and completely overwhelmed. “You’re insane.”

“I think you mean insanely considerate,” he corrects, popping back up, shirt now ruined but face stupidly proud. “Honestly I should win a medal. You ever seen a guy clean up with his favorite shirt?”

You raise a brow. “I thought that was your least favorite shirt?”

“It was my favorite clean one,” he mutters, already yanking the blanket up around both of you like he’s prepping for battle. “Okay, burrito time.”

“Burrito time?”

“Yep.” He rolls you over, tucks the blanket tight around your legs, your waist, even under your arms like you’re some kind of over-loved Chipotle order. “This is for my protection.”

“From what?” you laugh, breathless.

“You,” he says, wide-eyed and deadly serious. “You’re dangerous. I need at least 8 to 10 hours of nonsexual cuddling just to recover.”

You nuzzle into his chest, laughing softly as his arms wrap around you, snug and secure.

“You’re so weird,” you whisper.

“And you’re amazing,” he says, voice suddenly quieter. “And warm. And perfect. And I missed this so fucking much.”

“I missed you too,” you whisper into his skin.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. You look up at him, heart clenching at the softness in his expression, at the way he looks at you like he’s already memorizing this moment.

You lean in, kiss him once, sweet and slow.

His smile turns dopey. “You’re never getting rid of me, you know that?”

“Good,” you whisper.

He tugs you closer, arms tightening. “Now shut up and go to sleep. You’ve got Christmas presents to open in the morning and I need to look charming enough that your dad doesn’t mention me dry-humping his daughter in the bed he built for her.”

You burst out laughing, face burying into his chest again. “Oh my God.”

“I regret nothing by the way,” he says.

The room is small but cozy. There’s a faded quilt on the bed, dresser that still smells faintly of cedar. You set your bag down, exhaling the weight of the last few months.

“This is perfect, Mrs. Chase. Really. Thank you for letting me stay.”

“Oh, please,” she says, waving you off. “You’re family. I just wish Adrian were here to say hello, he’s never home these days.”

You force a smile, trying not to sound too curious. “Does work keep him away?”

“Mmm. Not exactly.” Her tone carries that weary mix of pride and irritation only mothers of grown men seem capable of. “He has a girlfriend. Some woman he met through his… coworkers.”

You blink, taken back a little by the information. “A girlfriend?”

“Yes! What’s her name…” She snaps her fingers, squinting. “Hardcore. Emily I think it was. Sounds like a movie star, doesn’t she?”

Your stomach tightens. Of course he’d have someone.

You follow Mrs. Chase back into the kitchen, where the counters are crowded with casserole dishes and mismatched spice jars. Helping her cook feels natural like muscle memory. You chop onions while she tells you about the neighbors, about Adrian’s job at Fennel Fields, and about how “busy” he’s been lately.

“He never brings her around,” Mrs. Chase says as she stirs the sauce. “Says she’s shy. Can you imagine Adrian with a shy girl? He must really like her.”

You smile faintly, blinking away the sting in your chest. “I’m guessing he’s changed a lot, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Still can’t keep his room clean, still eats like a garbage disposal. But he’s… different. Harder to reach sometimes.”

There’s a note of sadness there, one that makes you want to hug her. “He was always like that. Even when we were kids.” you say softly.

She sighs, smiling at the memory.

“You were such a sweet pair. He’d be red in the face whenever you came over. His brother used to tease him so bad about it.”

You look down, cheeks warm. “I remember.”

She pats your arm. “Well, he’ll be home soon. Maybe you can bring out that old smile of his.”

The oven timer dings sharp and domestic. You grab potholders, heart thudding a little too fast at the thought of Adrian walking through that front door after all these years.

You finish washing your hands and pause at the mirror pinching your cheeks to bring a little color to your cheeks. From the hallway comes the clatter of keys, a refrigerator door, and then a voice low, quick, edged with irritation.

You take a breath and step out of the bathroom straight into something solid.

“Shit—” You gasp. An arm snaps out and steadies you by the elbow. You look up. Adrian. Taller than you remember, hair a little longer, eyes sharp behind his glasses. He’s holding a grocery bag against his chest, looking like he just ran into a ghost.

“What the hell—who—” His face shifts mid-sentence. “Wait. You’re… you.”

You blink. “Yeah. Me.”

He blinks back, still holding your arm like his brain hasn’t caught up. Then he drops it fast, clears his throat, and takes a step back.

“Why are you in my house?”

“Your mom invited me for the holidays, things with my parents have been…” You drift off a little embarrassed to talk about it. “Not great….so, I’m staying here for a few days.”

He stares for a beat, almost concerned, then he snorts. “Of course she did.” He rubs the back of his neck, muttering mostly to himself.

Mrs. Chase’s voice rings from the kitchen. “Adrian! You’re home early, come say hello!”

He calls back, “Already did! Almost knocked her out!”

You can’t help smiling. “Sorry for that.”

“It’s fine,” he says, tone clipped. “Guess I should just stop assuming I have privacy in my own house.”

You fold your arms, half-amused. “You always did hate surprises.”

That earns a sidelong look. For a second his expression softens, recognition flickering through the irritation. Then it’s gone. “Yeah, well it’s still true.”

Mrs. Chase appears in the doorway with a wooden spoon. “Dinner’s ready. She helped me cook, so I hope you’re hungry.”

Adrian sighs. “Oh great,” he mutters under his breath. “Someone touching my food already. Awesome.”

The table looks like it always has mismatched plates, butter dish shaped like a chicken, casserole steaming in the center. Mrs. Chase beams like she’s hosting a holiday meal.

“Adrian, sit down, before everything gets cold.”

He drops into the chair across from you, the one with a wobble in the leg. He glances at the food, then at you, suspicious.

“You made this?”

You nod. “Kinda, I just helped chop things up. Your mom did most of it.”

“Good. Because last time she let a stranger cook, we had to throw out the blender.”

“Adrian,” Mrs. Chase warns, smiling too brightly. “She’s not a stranger. Be nice.”

He stabs a piece of chicken. “I am being nice. I didn’t say who broke it.”

Mrs. Chase sighs and turns to you. “Don’t mind him. He’s been impossible lately. He used to be such a sweet boy.”

Adrian scoffs under his breath. “Yeah, well. Sweet boys get punched in the face and yelled at.”

The room goes still for half a beat. You glance at him. He keeps eating like he didn’t just say that.

“So,” Mrs. Chase says quickly, recovering, “how’s work at the publishing house?”

You smile politely. “Busy. But good. I mostly read and edit manuscripts all day.”

Adrian’s head tilts, skeptical. “You get paid to read?”

“Pretty much.”

He exhales a short laugh, not mean, just baffled. “That sounds so fucking boring.”

Mrs. Chase cuts in before you can answer. “She’s doing something she loves, Adrian. Maybe if you read more…”

“Oh, here we go,” he mutters. “The lecture.”

“you wouldn’t be so cranky all the time,” she finishes.

He pushes his plate back an inch, jaw tight. “I’m not cranky. I’m just tired. I had a long day.”

“You were out with your girlfriend again,” Mrs. Chase says with a teasing smile.

Adrian freezes mid-bite. “What?”

“You said you were with that nice woman…what’s her name? Har— ?”

The fork clinks against his plate interrupting her. You look down quickly, pretending to adjust your napkin.

“Oh my god, Mom what the fuck,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I told you not to tell people that.”

Mrs. Chase frowns. “Why? She sounds lovely.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he snaps. Then, quieter, “she’s too slutty.”

Her smile falters, and you feel something twist in your chest.

“Well,” she says softly, “I just thought you finally met someone nice.”

He exhales hard, staring at his plate. “Yeah, well. I didn’t.”

The silence after that is thick. You pick up your fork, trying to defuse it.

“This chicken’s really good, Mrs. Chase.”

She brightens immediately. “Thank you, dear.”

Adrian doesn’t look up, but his voice comes low and flat. “You don’t have to interfere for me. I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Sure you weren’t.” He stands, grabs his plate, and heads for the sink. The chair squeals against the linoleum.

Mrs. Chase sighs. “Every meal’s a little battle with that one.”

You watch his back as he rinses his dish shoulders tense, movements too sharp. For just a second, he looks less like a man who wants to pick a fight and more like someone bracing for one.

“He’s not as bad as he acts,” you say softly.

Mrs. Chase smiles at you, tired but fond. “He’d be lucky if you still believe that after a week.”

You help clean up and then decide to shower, just to avoid any more awkward interactions.

The hot water helped. A lot. The tension of the dinner table, the awkward reintroduction, the strange gravity of Adrian's presence, all of it faded under steam and citrus-scented shampoo.

Now you’re curled on the floral couch in an oversized t-shirt and soft cotton shorts, manuscript on your lap, a red pen in your hand. Your glasses slide a little down your nose as you scribble in the margins.

“Alright sweetie, I’m off to bingo night with some friends, Adrian is down in the basement so he won't bother you.” Mrs. Chase says as she pulls on a coat.

“Alrighty, you have a good time,” you smile watching her go out the door.

You flip to the next page and frown. The male lead in this chapter is saying things no real human man would ever say, especially not mid-sex. You underline the word “ravishing” three times and write in the margin: Too formal. Reads like he’s about to take her to a dog show, not bed.

“Why are you reading porn on my couch?”

You jumped so hard the manuscript flew off your lap and landed facedown on the floor. You slapped a hand to your chest like you could physically restart your heart.

Adrian stood behind you in flannel pajama pants and a plain grey tshirt, hair sticking up like he’d just electrocuted himself. He held a can of Red Bull in one hand and looked at you like he’d just caught you breaking into his safe.

“Why are you editing smut? On my couch? In that?” He gestured to your shirt with the air of a man personally betrayed.

You glared. “Why are you sneaking up to people like a fucking serial killer?”

“Uhh I live here.” He scoffs as he walks fully into the room, casually plopping down on the couch next to you.

You snatched the manuscript off the floor and hugged it to your chest. “It’s not porn. It’s a romance book with some erotica.”

“It literally said ‘her slick heat pulsed around him’ in the first sentence I skimmed.” He made a face like he’d tasted battery acid. “That’s not romance. That’s porn.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

He laughs, leaning forward. “No you don’t. You’re blushing like I just caught you naming your vibrator.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “You are the worst.”

“I try.” He pointed at your shirt. “Also, that’s mine.”

You looked down. Faded black T-shirt, soft from a decade of washes. Interpol, circa 2007. Definitely his.

“You left it in a laundry basket and never took it back.”

“Because you stole it.”

“Because I looked better in it than you did.”

He stared for a beat too long. You noticed. He noticed you noticing.

“Mmmm debatable,” he shrugs. “I just think it’s funny that people get turned on by that.”

You roll your eyes and keep highlighting, ignoring the way his gaze lingers too long on the pen you keep tapping against your lip.

But Adrian’s already leaning in.

“Lemme see.”

You press the folder to your chest. “No.”

“Why not?” He’s smiling now, wide, crooked, familiar. “Come on. What’s in there? ‘Her core throbbed with anticipation’? ‘He growled like a beast unleashed’?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you want to keep guessing? Because I can go to your mom’s cabinet and pull out the good stuff.”

“Do not weaponize Nora Roberts, she taught me some good stuff.”

You snort, but the distraction gives him the opening he needs. He leans forward and snatches a page off the coffee table before you can stop him.

“Adrian—!”

“Too late!” He holds it up like he’s just caught the One Ring. “Let’s see what we’ve got…oh my God.”

You lunge for it. He holds it higher.

“His hands roamed her body like he was rediscovering a map he’d lost in another life…’ Okay. So he’s Christopher Columbus with a boner.”

“Give it back!”

“‘He pinned her wrists above her head and whispered—’ okay no, I can’t read that next part.”

You snatch it from his hand and shove it back in your lap, scowling. “You’re such a child.”

“I’m sorry, but I wasn’t emotionally prepared to learn that you write reviews on softcore porn scenes.”

“I don’t write reviews. I edit novels.” You groan and flop back against the couch. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No, I’m scarred. You? Editing phrases like ‘his throbbing length’ like you’re grading a book report.” He shudders. “We used to ride bikes and play board games, I’ll never recover from this.”

You turn your head to glare at him, but you’re already smiling. You hate that you’re smiling.

He notices. “You’re actually good at it,” he says after a pause, voice lower now. Less performative.

You blink. “At what ?”

He gestures toward the margin. “That note. About the phrasing being too formal? That’s smart. The whole ‘taking her to war not bed’ thing. It’s funny..”

You stare at him. For a second, there’s no sarcasm. Just genuine surprise. And maybe some admiration.

“I don’t get paid to be funny, but thanks,” you say, quiet.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Picks up his Red Bull and takes a long sip.

“Still weird though. Just saying.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

But neither of you mean it. And the air between you buzzes. You flip to the next page like nothing happened, red pen in hand, brows furrowed as you scribble something in the margin. Adrian makes a big show of hitting play on the remote, turning the volume up slightly, then leaning back into the couch like he’s totally focused.

He’s not.

“So what happens next?” he asks after about twenty seconds.

You don’t look up. “You’re watching Pacific Rim. You tell me.”

“Not the movie. Your—” he gestures vaguely at the stack of printed pages in your lap. “Porn papers.”

“It’s not porn Adrian.”

“Oh right, sorry. Your deeply emotional literary analysis of getting railed by a mysterious stranger in Tuscany.”

You underline a particularly bad metaphor for arousal and sigh.

“She’s not in Tuscany. She’s in a Brooklyn bookstore and she’s just been tied to a ladder.”

Adrian actually chokes on his Red Bull. “What?!”

You shrug. “Plot twist.”

“How is that any different than people watching porn?”

You finally glance at him. He looks halfway between scandalized and fascinated.

“Do you want to read it yourself?” you ask, brandishing a page.

“Fuck no,” he says too fast. Then, quieter “Maybe. Just a little.”

You shake your head and go back to editing, crossing out a line where the male lead says “You’re mine now, kitten.” You write in the margin: No man should ever say this.

“Are you laughing?” Adrian asks suspiciously.

You don’t answer. But your shoulders are shaking.

He stares at you, trying not to notice how your foot keeps brushing his thigh. Or how that damn pen keeps ending up between your lips. Or how your hair is still damp from the shower and he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about that.

“Okay,” he finally says, exasperated. “Give me one line. Just one.”

You glance up, pretending to consider it.

“Fine. But you have to read it seriously. No weird voices. No gagging sounds.”

“Fineeee.”

You tear off the top page and hand it over.

He clears his throat, takes a dramatic breath.

“‘His hands roamed her body like he was rediscovering a map he’d lost in another life…’” A pause. “Okay, I’m sorry but…what? Is he an archaeologist now?”

“That line actually works in context. Women love men who yearn.”

“You’re telling me Indiana Boner here isn’t about to dig up more than just feelings?”

You swipe the page back from him. “You’re the worst.”

He grins. “I’m a realist. You’re just desensitized to porn.”

“I’m not desensitized—”

“You didn’t even flinch when he pinned her to a bookshelf. You just circled a comma.”

“It was a comma splice!”

“You’re a comma splice,” he laughs.

You both fall quiet again. The movie drones on in the background, but neither of you are really watching it.

You go back to editing.

Adrian shifts.

“Wait. What’s happening now?”

You sigh. “Ladder guy brought her lunch and a vibrator.”

A beat.

“…I respect that.”

You’re halfway through marking a ridiculous paragraph where the male lead compares the heroine’s body to “a symphony in silk” when Adrian shifts again, clearly not watching the movie.

“We used to be close, huh?”

You stop reading and look up at him. “Yeah,” you say softly. “We were.”

He tosses another piece of popcorn in the air and catches it in his mouth. Doesn’t look at you.

“Then you peaced out to Metropolis and ghosted all of us like you were too cool for Evergreen.”

You snort. “I didn’t ghost. I moved for college.”

“Same thing.”

You smile behind your pen. “You mad about it?”

“No. Just saying. Could’ve at least left a note or something. ‘Dear Adrian, sorry I’m abandoning you to the wolves. Love, your former partner in crime.’”

“I wouldn’t exactly say crime.”

“We were partners in detention.”

You laugh. “Okay, that’s fair. But you never reached out after I left either so I just kinda assumed you didn’t want to talk to me.”

There’s a lull. The movie plays some dramatic swell of music. Neither of you is listening.

“Which hurt because I had a crush on you,” you say finally, quietly. Not a big confession. Just… truth. Simple. Honest.

He doesn’t flinch. “I know,” he says.

You blink. “You knew?”

“Yeah.” He finally turns his head to look at you. “You used to stare at me like all the time.”

Your face warms. “I did not.”

“You did. It was nice. Also kind of intense. I was convinced I had food on my face half the time.”

You smack him with your pen. He grins.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” you ask, voice smaller now.

“Because I liked you too,” he says, like it’s obvious. “And my brother told me I’d just make it weird and that you chose a college so far away on purpose to get away from me.”

Your breath catches a little.

“They offered me a full ride scholarship.”

He shrugs again, too casual. “Yeah. You had shit to do. You were always gonna go places. I figured I’d just slow you down.”

“You wouldn’t have slowed me down.”

He half-smiles. “Yeah I would’ve. But maybe it would’ve been fun.” You share a look like you’re both imagining the what ifs for a second. Then he gestures at your lap with his chin.

“You ever write any of that stuff? Or just edit?”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yeah kinda,” he laughs.

“Well I don’t write and tell.” You say before going back to reading.

Adrian disappears down the hall without a word. The movie drones on, gunfire, shouting, someone falling off a rooftop and you think he’s gone to raid the kitchen. But then he’s back, holding a bulky blanket folded over one arm.

Without ceremony, he tosses it straight at your face.

You yelp, swatting at the thick bundle that lands with a muffled thud.

“What the hell?”

“You were shivering,” he says, settling back down on the couch like it was his idea to begin with. “I’m being a nice host.”

You unfold the blanket, soft fleece, faded from washing but still warm, it smells like fabric softener and like the sleepovers you used to have.

You glance at him. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t look at you. “It’s not a big deal.”

You roll your eyes, pulling it over your legs anyway. The thick material drapes heavy across you, swallowing your legs and part of the manuscript. The couch’s worn cushions dip again when he sits beside you, this time closer than before, no pretense, no excuse.

You shift slightly, turning to your side so you can keep reading. The fleece slides with you, and you curl deeper into the armrest.

A beat passes.

Then, quietly, you slide your toes under his thigh.

You don’t say anything. Just wedge them there like it’s the most natural thing in the world which, apparently, to your freezing limbs, it is.

He stiffens.

“What the—” He looks down, then shoots you a glare. “Your toes are like fucking icicles.”

You hum innocently. “You’re warm.”

“Well, I’m not your personal space heater.”

“Do you want me to move them?” You ask.

“Yeah.” He huffs. His tone hurts. You used to do this all the time but that was years ago you can’t be mad the familiarity has changed but that logic doesn't make you feel any less sad. You retreat your feet back and settle into the couch more. “Oh my god. It was a joke,” he says, pulling your feet back under his thigh.

His hand lingers and not by accident. At first, it’s just weight. A warm palm at the curve of your calf, fingers curled loosely, like he’s forgotten where they landed. But then he moves a small press of his thumb, a slow shift against your skin like muscle memory taking over.

“Remember how I used to rub your calves after Halloween?” he mutters, eyes still on the screen.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“You always wore the dumbest fucking shoes. Heels with zero support. You’d get halfway down the block and start limping like a baby deer.”

You laugh, the memory hitting like a sugar rush. “That’s because I wanted my costume to be accurate.”

“Yeah? How’d that accuracy work out when you were crying on the porch with a pillowcase full of Kit Kats and a rolled ankle?”

You laugh harder, curling your fingers over the edge of the manuscript to keep it from slipping. “I forgot you carried me back.”

“I felt like a hero,” he says, glancing at you. He chuckles, a real one. Low and short and caught in his throat. His thumb moves again, this time more deliberate, dragging slow over the inside of your calf.

The manuscript in your lap gets heavier. Or maybe it’s just your breathing.

“You’re still a baby about your feet,” he mutters.

“Sometimes,” you counter, voice quieter now.

The pads of his fingers press into the arch of your muscle, working a knot you didn’t realize was there. The movie drones on. You shift slightly under the blanket, your knee bending toward him, the pages of the manuscript fanning in front of your face . You try to read the next paragraph, try to concentrate on a line of dialogue that starts with “I need you…” but his hand skims higher, slow and lazy, and the words blur.

His fingers move again, a little higher, a little firmer. The warmth spreads, not just from touch but from the weight of all those unspoken things: old sleepovers, Halloween blisters, the years in between.

You tilt the manuscript forward to hide your face.

“You okay over there?” he asks.

“Fine.” You answer grateful that the pages hide your face because you can’t help but bite your lip as his calloused hand works your muscle.

His hand stills for a second. Just long enough for you to notice the absence.

“You’re biting your lip huh,” he says, not quite teasing.

You don’t answer. Just press the manuscript higher against your face, like that’s enough to hide what you’re feeling or the way your body just reacted.

The next thing you feel is the edge of the blanket shifting. Barely a rustle. Then his hand moves again, past your knee this time, dragging up to the soft skin just above.

You suck in a breath, sharp and involuntary.

“Still fine?” he asks, voice low now. Tighter. Curious.

You nod.

“You sure?” His thumb grazes that spot at the back of your thigh, slow and rough.

“You’re the one doing it,” you manage, your voice small.

He huffs a laugh, like he wasn’t expecting that. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with your honesty. “Right,” he says, the word soft and uneven. Then, almost to himself “You always let me get away with shit.”

“Don’t say it like that. That sounds so bad”

“No?” he asks, moving his hand again up, then back down, like testing boundaries neither of you are quite ready to name.

“No, I knew what you were doing then, what you’re doing now. I wanted it too.”

That finally gets his attention.

He glances at you, mouth half open like he’s got a dozen things to say and all of them are a risk. The flicker in his eyes is unsteady, bold one second, uncertain the next.

Then his hand slides higher to the leg opening of the loose shorts you’re wearing.

Not far. Just enough.

His fingers rest on your upper thigh like a question.

“So you want this too,” he asks.

He shifts closer. Inches this time. The blanket falls between you in folds, but the heat of him is right there, pressing along your side. His breath catches as you move your leg just slightly not to pull away, but to let him settle more comfortably.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

You don’t kiss. But the air between you changes, thick with anticipation, the memory of childhood closeness melting into something else entirely. Something adult. Something years in the making.

The manuscript slides from your lap, forgotten.

He leans in a fraction, but not all the way.

“Your smutty manuscript is a really bad influence,” he murmurs, thumb tracing idle circles against your thigh.

“You started it.”

He smirks. “Can I finish it too?”

Your heart stumbles. Not entirely because of what he said, but how he said it. Like a dare. Like he doesn’t think you’ll say yes. Like the sixteen-year-old version of him, the one who used to throw peas at you across the table and flinch when his brother called him names, like he still isn’t quite sure he’s allowed to want anything this badly.

Your breath is shaky when you answer.

“You really want to?”

His hand stills. His eyes flick to yours. “I’ve wanted to since before I even knew what that meant.”

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you lift your hand, taking his glasses off gently.

Adrian exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. He leans in finally, no hesitation and kisses you.

It’s not book perfect it’s a little desperate, a little too fast, like he thought if he didn’t move now, he never would. Like he’s making up for all the times he should’ve kissed you and didn’t.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt, anchoring yourself to the moment. His hand slides further under the blanket, gripping your thigh, not pulling you closer, just holding. Like he can’t believe this is real.

He groans against your mouth. It’s not performative or suave, but pure relief.

When you pull back for air, you’re both breathing too hard.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he says, still close enough you can feel the words against your lips. “Just where it all started.”

You nod. “Just groping me on your mom’s couch.”

He lets out a breathless laugh. “We’re trash like that.”

You grin, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins. “Is that your way of asking if we should stop?”

His eyes flicker down to your lips again. “Fuck no, I was gonna suggest just going to my room. So we don’t… you know. Stain this old couch.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. “You are disgusting.”

“Oh you have no idea,” he says. You kiss him before he can finish another terrible joke.

It shuts him up instantly.

Once his brain catches up to the fact that this is happening, that your mouth is on his, your hands are in his hair and your body is pressing up into his. He kisses you back like he’s starving. No finesse. No choreography.

Just heat, history, and a tension that finally found its outlet.

His fingers dig into your waist, his favorite kind of touch, the rough kind.

You tilt your head, deepen the kiss, and that’s what undoes him. He groans again, right into your mouth, like it hurts to feel this much at once. Like you knocked something loose.

And you have. Both of you have.

Because this isn’t some high school mistake or a drunken what-if. It’s not adrenaline or rebound or heat of the moment.

It’s him. It’s you.

His mouth softens a little, lips dragging against yours slower now, more deliberate, like he wants to commit every second of this to memory. Your hand slides from the back of his neck to his jaw, your thumb tracing along his cheekbone and he melts into it.

He pulls back an inch, just enough to look at you.

There’s a dazed, fucked-out look in his eyes already, like you’ve rewired him.

His voice is quiet. Honest in a way you’re not used to from him. “Been thinkin’ about that for a long time.”

You nod, breath still catching. “Me too.”

“Not just the kiss,” he adds, thumb stroking just under the hem of your shirt. “You. I mean—fuck, I used to dream about this.”

You meet his eyes. “You did?”

He leans in, mouth brushing yours again, softer this time.

“Yeah,” he says, voice barely a breath. “Except this time I don’t think I’ll wake up with wet underwear.”

“No, that will go somewhere else tonight,” you tease, biting his lip. And then he kisses you again slow, dizzying, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Like it’s not just a kiss but a reintroduction.

Almost like he’s trying to say: Hey. I missed you. I still want you. I’m sorry it took so long. All the things you know his brain isn’t capable of saying outloud.

And you answer in the same way

He settles beside you, mouth still on yours, his hands exploring your body carefully.

His breath stutters when you shift, angling closer. The manuscript is long forgotten, half-fallen off the couch, and the fleece blanket slides off your legs as you turn into him. Your palm rests lightly on his chest, the thud of his heart loud beneath your fingers.

You feel him smile into the kiss, crooked and stupidly pleased. Then he pulls back just a breath to murmur, “You taste like cherry ChapStick. What are you, twelve?”

“Shut up.”

“Can’t. Neurological condition.”

You kiss him again in response, deeper this time. Hungrier. And it floors you a little how easy it is to fall into this, into him, like no time has passed at all.

Your leg hooks over his, pulling him closer, and the hand on your back flattens, holding you there.

“You good?” he whispers, voice hoarse now, eyes searching yours.

You nod, already breathless. “Yeah.”

He tilts his forehead against yours. “Then let’s go to my room before my mom comes home wine drunk and fucks this all up.” He stands first, tugging you up with him by the hand, and neither of you let go. You look up at him before he leans in to kiss you. Your hands wrap around his neck and he pulls you up effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist tightly.

His hands grip under your thighs automatically, like he’s done it a thousand times in his head already. He exhales through his nose, a little shaky. You feel it against your mouth.

“You know,” he mutters, “you’re lucky I’m strong. Otherwise this would be so embarrassing for both of us.”

You laugh, breathless.

“You’re fine.”

“No, seriously, don’t gas me up, I’ve skipped leg day for three weeks. One wrong move and we’re going down like a sack of horny potatoes.”

You press a kiss to his jaw.

“Then get moving before you drop my horny ass.”

He huffs out a laugh and starts walking, your weight no issue, but his knees clearly overthinking it.

“If she comes home and sees us, I’m blaming you. You’re the one who made me read porn out loud.”

“Me? You were the one groping me!”

He bumps open his bedroom door with his foot. The room is dim, slightly messy, still boyish in a way that makes your chest ache, band posters peeling at the corners, Funko Pops on the shelves, a cracked lava lamp that may or may not be radioactive.

He tosses you onto the bed with zero grace. You land in a sprawl, laughing.

“Not even gonna pretend to be suave, huh?”

He drops down beside you, flops dramatically, arms spread like a cartoon character who just ran through a brick wall.

“I peaked at the carry. Everything after this is raw instinct and blind luck.”

His mouth moves from your neck to your collarbone, unhurried, like he’s cataloging every inch. You feel his breath first, warm, tentative then the soft scrape of his teeth. Just enough to make your stomach clench.

“Tell me if I’m doing anything wrong,” he murmurs.

“You’re not.”

“Cool. I’ve got, like, two moves and a dream.”

His fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, inching higher, knuckles brushing the soft skin of your ribs. He pauses.

“Okay?”

You nod, already breathless. He doesn’t look away as he pushes the fabric up, exposing you slowly.

You smile against his mouth, kiss him again, slower now, open-mouthed and warm, your tongue brushing his in a lazy rhythm that steals all the air from the room. He sinks into it, deeper, one hand bracing beside your head, the other cupping your breast like he’s been thinking about this moment since he was seventeen.

“Still good?” he pants against your jaw.

“Mmhmm.”

“Say it.”

“It’s so good, Adrian.”

That does something to him. You feel it in the way his hips stutter, in the sharp breath he takes against your skin. His fingers slide down, under the waistband of your shorts slowly at first, dragging the fabric with him, then rougher when your hips lift to help.

“Fuck. You’re already—yeah, okay,.” He whispers to himself.

You tug his hair in response. He moans, unfiltered and desperate.

“Holy shit.” Then his fingers dip lower and he finally, finally, touches you the way you’ve wanted since you were too young to understand why you liked it when he sat too close at sleepovers.

Your hand fists the sheets. He notices. He lives for it.

“Still doing okay?” he murmurs, but the edge in his voice is hunger now, not nerves. His finger continues rubbing tight circles against you.

“More than okay.”

“Good. ’Cause I’ve got, like, seven years of unresolved tension and exactly one functioning brain cell left, and I’m about to use both on you.” His fingers slide down lower getting coated in your slick excitement before he slides a finger in you.

You pull him up to kiss him just as his finger starts to move slowly at first, curling inside you with a rhythm that’s maddening in its restraint. You moan into his mouth, and he drinks it in like oxygen, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Jesus,” he mutters against your lips, “you’re gonna kill me.”

Another finger joins the first, sliding in smoothly, and the stretch pulls another sound from your throat something that makes him twitch against your thigh. His body’s pressed against yours now, heavy and hot, but his focus hasn’t wavered.

“That feel good?” he asks, not cocky, not teasing. Just low and rough, like he needs the answer.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to. You should’ve said something sooner—fuck, we could’ve skipped, like, a decade of me jerking off and emotionally repressing everything.”

You laugh, short and breathless, before it catches in your throat again when his thumb presses where you’re most sensitive.

“That’s it,” he says, voice shaky. “God, you’re—fuck you’re unreal. You always were, but now it’s like… real.”

You roll your hips into his hand, chasing the pressure, your hands gripping the back of his neck to anchor yourself as the pleasure starts to spiral. His mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, your ear.

“Let me make you come.” He begs

You’re already on the edge, every nerve lit up from the way his fingers move inside you, the way his mouth won’t leave your skin. But it’s not enough, not yet. You need him closer. Need to feel all of him.

Your hand drops between you without hesitation, finds the waistband of his pants. He jolts like he’s been shocked.

“Oh—uh, okay. Wow. Hi. Yes. Mhmm.” His voice stumbles, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. If anything, it spurs him on. His fingers curl deeper, his thumb presses harder, like he’s trying to earn it, like he’s begging you to keep touching him.

“Fuck, that’s—god, that’s not fair. I’m trying to focus and you’re just—” He cuts off with a gasp when your fingers brush him through the fabric. He shudders as your hand slips beneath the waistband, wrapping around him. You both groan, his is stunned and choked, yours low and needy.

“Oh my god, you feel—” you start, “you’re gonna feel so good inside of me.”

His forehead presses against yours as your hand moves in time with his. It’s messy and imperfect and so fucking real. No porn-star choreography. Just heat, and skin, and breathless laughter between gasps.

“We’re doing this at the same time?” he asks, eyes blown wide. “That’s, like, high-level Jedi coordination.”

You bite your lip. “Think you can handle?”

“I think I’m already halfway to Nirvana, actually.”

“I need to taste you, Adrian,” you say, dragging your thumb through the precum beading at his swollen tip. You swirl it gently, then bring your thumb to your mouth and suck it clean.

His breath stutters hard.

“Fuck, okay. That was hot. Well…” He shifts upright onto his knees, pout forming. “I was literally just about to do that to you, but whatever. Be a thief about it, I guess.”

“Lay down,” you command, sitting up and pushing him gently.

He obeys, blinking up at you like he’s trying to memorize every second. You pull your shirt over your head, then shimmy out of your shorts and panties. His gaze drags over every inch like it’s physically hurting him not to touch.

“Oh,” he whispers. He fumbles out of his clothes, all sharp elbows and frantic energy, tossing them somewhere in the direction of the floor.

You straddle his lap, leaning down to kiss him, soft, teasing, just once.

“I know how we can both get what we want,” you murmur, voice sugary-sweet but wicked.

His eyes widen. “Are you about to…wait. No. No way.”

You smirk as you turn, laying down with your chest pressed to his lower abdomen, face now eye-level with his cock.

“Oh my god. This is fucking great,” he says, absolutely thrilled, hands already locking tight on your hips. “Let’s see who finishes first.”

And then his mouth is on you, eager, messy, focused, like he’s got something to prove and absolutely zero self-preservation. You gasp, lips brushing the head of his cock, and he groans at the same time you do.

You feel his tongue slip inside of you as his hands spread your thighs apart further. You take him in your mouth moaning around him when his tongue moves and he begins to lick around your clit. You bob your head up and down pressing your tongue flat against his shaft. His thighs twitch followed by a moan you feel against your heat.

His hips buck up just a little reflexively and needy when you take him deeper, your hand wrapping around the base to steady yourself as your mouth moves with more intention. The groan he lets out is raw, muffled only by the way his face is buried between your thighs.

“Shit, shit, you’re cheating,” he says, voice muffled against your skin, fingers digging into your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You can’t just—fuck—do that thing with your tongue and expect me not to lose instantly.”

You hum around him, and he jolts.

“Oh my god, she’s playing dirty,” he mumbles, then goes right back to it, tongue moving faster now, circling your clit like he’s racing a timer. Like this is some deeply personal competition he refuses to lose.

The heat between your legs coils sharp and fast, and your rhythm stutters as he sucks harder, tongue flicking, teasing, relentless. You moan around him again, louder this time and his cock twitches against your tongue.

“F-fuck,” he gasps, hips stuttering. “You’re gonna win. I’m telling you now. You’re cheating.”

You pull off him just enough to pant, “You’re the one who made it a competition.”

“Because I didn’t think you’d be the fucking master of sucking dick” he shoots back, voice strangled, then licks into you again like he’s punishing you for it. Messier now, fingers digging in like he wants to leave handprints.

Your whole body tenses when he wraps his arms around your thighs and holds you down, mouth locked on you, moaning like he’s addicted.

You take him back into your mouth, slower this time, but deeper, your hand stroking in sync with your tongue. His moans are constant now desperate, unfiltered, reverent.

“I’m not gonna last,” he says suddenly, voice strangled. “I’m gonna embarrass myself, and you’re gonna use it as blackmail forever, and I’m gonna let you.”

You pull off with a breathless laugh, lips slick, eyes half-lidded as you glance back over your shoulder.

“Then come first. I dare you.”

You’re gasping now, thighs trembling in his grip, your own rhythm faltering as your body threatens to tip over that edge. Every time his tongue circles your clit just right, your mouth tightens around him, and he groans like he’s unraveling with you.

“Fuck,” he mumbles into you, voice breaking. “You taste so good, so fucking good—I could live here.”

You choke out a breathless laugh and take him deeper in retaliation, dragging your tongue along the side of his cock, then hollowing your cheeks as you bob your head, fast, wet, and filthy.

He shudders, hard. His thighs twitch again, and the noise he makes threatens to make you come undone immediately.

“Shitshitshit— okay, okay, stop—wait—fuck, wait.”

His grip shifts, sudden, possessive. His hands slide to your hips, and then he’s pushing you forward, sitting up just enough to guide you exactly where he wants you. You gasp as his cock slips from your mouth, the cool air licking over your lips as he manhandles you into position elbows down, ass up, thighs shaking.

And in one swift, hungry motion, he thrusts inside you from behind.

Your mouth falls open, no sound, no breath, just a silent, stunned moan as your body stretches to take him.

His hands keep your hips anchored like he’s afraid you’ll float away, and his breath comes hot and ragged behind you.

He drives into you with no hesitation, deep and thick and so much, and your brain blanks completely. He feels bigger like this. Hotter. Angrier. Like every second he spent not touching you was stored up and released all at once.

You brace on your elbows, your knees already starting to tremble as he sets a rhythm, rough and focused, no teasing, no restraint. Just the sound of skin on skin, the headboard creaking, and his broken breath behind you.

It doesn’t feel like the Adrian you grew up with.

It feels like someone else. Someone dangerous.

He fucks like he means it like he’s trying to mark you from the inside out and the only thing tethering you to reality is the grip he’s got on your hips. White-knuckled. Unrelenting.

Your eyes blur. Your lips part again .

You’ve never been this full.

And then, just as you’re drowning in the heat of it, teetering on the edge.

“This is definitely what my therapist meant by ‘finding healthy outlets,’” he groans, absolutely serious, like he just discovered enlightenment.

You let out something between a gasp and a deranged laugh, forehead pressing into the bed.

“Adrian, oh fuck,” you say as he thrusts deeper, “what the fuck—”

“What? I’m coping. Productively.”

His hips rock into you again like punctuation sharp, deep, all-consuming and suddenly, you don’t have the energy to argue. Not when he feels like this. Not when he’s giving you everything. Even if he’s narrating his own sexual healing journey mid-thrust.

His pace builds harder, sharper, steady in that way that says he’s right there with you, chasing it just as desperately. Skin slaps against skin, moans and grunts fill the room, and your arms start to tremble under the weight of it all.

“You feel so fucking good,” he grits out, voice fraying at the edges. “So tight—fuck—I’m not gonna last.”

You can’t speak, you just push back into him, needing more, needing all of him. Every thrust sends sparks through your spine, your thighs trembling, pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly with no relief in sight.

He slides a hand down, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing quick, circles with his thrusts. Your entire body arches in response.

“Come on,” he pants, breathing hot against your back. “I want to feel you come on me, I need it—please”

Your eyes squeeze shut as it hits you blinding, electric, a full-body clench that shatters any remaining thought. You cry out against the bed, loud and unfiltered, hands gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you tethered.

Adrian groans the second he feels you pulse around him, hips stuttering once, twice, then he thrusts in deep, burying himself as he lets go with a choked, broken sound. His whole body shudders against you, fingers tightening, breath ragged and uneven.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, forehead resting between your shoulder blades, both of you catching your breath like you just survived something.

Like you barely made it out alive.

He stays there for a moment, chest rising and falling against your back, cock still inside you, both of you slick and trembling and utterly silent until he exhales one long, wrecked breath and mutters “Okay, so that definitely felt like a baby got made.”

Your head whips around so fast you nearly throw out your neck.

“What?”

He doesn’t even blink, just flops sideways onto the mattress, pulling you with him.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, eyes half-lidded, voice smug and sleepy. “Statistically, that had conception energy. Like if a baby doesn’t come out of that, it’s kind of a waste.”

You gape at him.

“You don’t think I’m on birth control?”

He blinks.

“I figured you’d yell if you weren’t. Alsooooo I was gonna pull out. But then you clenched down so fucking so hard I couldn't."

“Adrian.”

“What? You came. I came. We both win. Also, if you do end up pregnant, I already have a list of cool names. ‘Razor’ if it’s a boy. ‘Nebula’ if it’s a girl.”

You shove his shoulder, but you’re laughing, sweaty, still riding the high, and somehow completely unsurprised.

“You’re not naming anything Razor.”

“Okay, fine. We’ll compromise. Razor Adrian if it’s a boy. Nebula Adriana if it’s a girl. Look at us, co-parenting already.”

You bury your face in the pillow to muffle the snort that slips out.

He wraps his arms around your waist, pressing a lazy kiss to your bare shoulder.

“Still feel like a good outlet?” you ask, breathe evening out.

You roll over on the couch, squinting toward the kitchen. There he is. Adrian. Wearing your “Hot Stuff” apron with a cartoon chili pepper on the front and absolutely nothing else but tightie whities and socks.

He’s hovering in front of the Nespresso machine like it’s a bomb and he’s halfway through defusing it. There are coffee pods scattered like confetti, caramel syrup oozing off the counter like a horror movie prop, and a mug that looks like it’s seen things.

“Good morning, barista boy,” you mumble, propping yourself up on one elbow.

He brightens instantly. “Hey! I made you coffee! Probably. I followed some of the instructions, but I added my own flair.”

“Your flair smells like diabetes.” You mumble. 

“Exactly! I even frothed the milk with that spinny stick thing. Real sexy, official stuff. Like a Starbucks on meth.” He turns, lifting the mug like it’s the holy grail. “I call it, The Chase-iato.”

You laugh despite yourself. You take the mug. It’s… warm, so he definitely did something right. You sip it.

It’s so sweet it punches your molars immediately.

“Oh my god,” you cough, blinking through the syrupy assault. “That’s… wow. Very impressive baby.”

“Good, right?!” His grin is blinding. “It’s got like three pumps of caramel, one of vanilla, a splash of oat milk, because you said you’re being healthy now and two espresso shots. Maybe three. I lost count after one of them exploded.”

You take another sip because he’s watching you like a hopeful puppy. “It’s perfect,” you lie. “I love it.”

He beams, chest puffed out like he just saved you from a bomb. 

You pat the couch beside you and he flops down like a giant, half-naked golden retriever, legs on your lap, head dramatically tossed back against the cushions.

“Wanna know what I had a dream about?”

Oh no, you think but nod enthusiastically.

“It was you. But you were a cat. And we stopped some guys from robbing a JoAnn’s Fabric store together. You were the getaway driver.”

“Obviously.”

“Also, I might’ve accidentally subscribed to like four different coffee pod memberships while trying to order more.”

You stare at him.

“I used your card too since it’s your machine and all,” he adds with zero shame.

You don’t even bother responding. You’re too busy trying not to choke on your Chase-iato.

Later, you find yourselves lying tangled on the couch, a rerun of Mythbusters playing in the background, your half-empty mug abandoned on the coffee table. Adrian’s tapping an unrhythmic beat on your bare thigh.

“Hey…” he says, voice soft and weirdly serious. “You know I’d still love you even if you were a cat, right?”

You glance at him.

“What kind of cat?”

He thinks for a second. “One of those cats that looks like it wants to stab you. But also secretly loves cuddles. Like, very emotionally damaged, but adorable.”

You blink. “So… just me.”

By week four, you’ve learned a few things, Adrian has zero concept of personal space. He’s freakishly good at his job in a way that suggests he’d built a bomb before just to see if he could. And he somehow makes that burgundy long-sleeve shirt look hot every time he wears it, which is borderline harassment, honestly.

Also you can’t tell if you want to kiss him or slam his head into a whiteboard.

Probably both.

Something happens during a rushed email thread with the team. You mean to type “sec.” You type “sex.”

And of course, Adrian reads it immediately.

Of course he does.

He practically falls out of his chair laughing, knocking over an empty energy drink can in the process.

“Oh my God,” he wheezes, slapping the desk. “You just wrote ‘I’ll circle back in a sex.’ That’s hilarious. That’s iconic.”

You bury your face in your hands. “Kill me.”

“Are you kidding? This is the best day of my life. Should I forward it to Harcourt? Add a winky face?”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he says, sing-songy and delighted, “but I respect the attempt.”

By lunch, there are post-it notes stuck to your monitor

“how long is a sex? Please advise

“Circle back in a what??”

“HR’s gonna love you.”

“Sex update: pending???”

And then, the one that actually makes your stomach flip written in smaller letters, no smiley face, no sarcasm:

I’d wait up for that.

You snap at him around 4 PM.

“Do you ever shut up?” you hiss, shoving his foot off your desk. He’s been sitting on it for the third time that day, spinning a stolen pen like it’s a drumstick.

He looks up, startled for a split second and then he laughs.

“No.” He scoffs “are you new here or something?”

You scowl. “You’re a walking HR violation.”

“Uhhh ok says the one who sends sex emails to her coworkers,” he grins. “But nice try.”

By 9 PM, the office is mostly dark. Everyone else is gone. Your monitor glows softly, the only light besides Adrian’s desk lamp, which flickers like it’s dying a slow death.

You’re finishing a system reboot. He’s “helping,” which mostly means sitting next to you, occasionally pressing buttons and muttering about how sexy clean code is.

Then his knee bumps yours.

You don’t move it. And he doesn’t either.

The silence stretches. Then his voice, quieter now, no hint of the usual chaos. “Hey.”

You glance over. His glasses are off. He looks… different in the dim light. Calmer. More sincere.

“I know I mess around a lot,” he says. “But I’m not here because I love coding or whatever I said earlier when Economos asked if I was leaving.”

Your heart does a weird little lurch. “Really?” You ask trying to sound neutral.

“I’m here because I maybe… like you.” He says it like it costs him something. Like it’s not a joke this time. Like he’s terrified you’ll laugh.

You don’t.

You just look at him. And for once, he doesn’t fill the silence.

“You like me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, suddenly a little fidgety. “Yeah. Like, a lot.”

You raise a brow. “And this is how you show it? Harassing me with post-it notes and stealing my snacks?”

“Flirting,” he corrects. “I’m flirting. Poorly, maybe, but with heart.”

You stare.

He fidgets again, eyes darting around the room.

“You taped a banana to my monitor on my first day.”

He takes a deep breath. “I needed an excuse to talk to you. I had a plan, I was gonna come up to you and say oh my god your monitor is going bananas. But then I thought that was stupid and didn’t take it off in time.”

You laugh, actually laugh, because this man is unbelievable. And somehow, against all logic, you’re into it.

Maybe it’s the glasses. Maybe it’s the way his voice dropped when he said I’m here because I like you. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired, a little punch-drunk from working late, and very aware of how his thigh is still pressed against yours under the desk.

Either way, you’re suddenly way too warm.

“I should file an HR complaint,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair.

His eyes track your movement. “Oh yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. For making it weirdly hot when you fuck up my coding with one hand and eat Judomasters Hot Cheetos with the other.”

He blinks. “Wait. That’s hot?”

You shrug. “I’m not a fan of how I have to say late to fix it, but yeah, kinda.”

There’s a beat. Then he leans in, slow and stupidly smug. “So just to be clear… you are into me?”

You roll your eyes. “God, your ego’s unbearable.”

“You like my ego,” he says. “You were totally into it when I made you laugh during the budget meeting. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Oh my god..”

“And when I wore that burgundy shirt last Thursday? You looked at me like I was the last decent USB-C cable in the office.”

You choke on a laugh. “Are you seriously comparing yourself to a charging cable?”

“Don’t dodge the subject,” he says, grinning now, like he’s winning. “Admit it. You’ve imagined what it would be like to make out with me next to the server room.”

You lean in until you’re nose to nose. “And you’ve imagined what it’d be like to fuck me on your desk.”

He exhales hard, like he might actually combust from how close you are. “Okay, yeah, now I’m turned on.”

You blink. “You’re so annoying.”

“Hot annoying, though,” he says. “Like, admit it. You want me to shut up, but you also maybe want me to pin you against your cubicle and make you forget your login password.”

You bite your lip.

His eyes drop to your mouth like he’s starving.

“keep talking like that,” you say, “and I might let you.”

That wipes the smirk off his face, briefly. Just long enough for you to feel like you’ve won.

Then he grins, slow and dangerous. “Is that a threat or like a promise?”

You reach for the hem of his shirt and tug him forward, just enough that he impossibly closer to you, mouth a breath away.

“Wanna find out?”

“No shit,” he laughs before leaning in to kiss you. It’s soft, gentle. Like he’s making sure you’re not going to pull back and laugh at him. So you bring your hand to the back of his head and hold him closer. He relaxes instantly and kisses you deeper.

You pull back just enough to breathe.

His grin is still there, a little crooked now, a little unsure and suddenly it hits you just how close you are to actually falling for this idiot. Not just in the haha funny post-it war way, but in the I like the way he lights up when he makes you laugh way.

It’s actually a little terrifying.

Then he says, casually, “Wanna get a drink?”

You blink.

“A drink? Like…now?”

He nods, tilting his head. “Yeah. A bar. With drinks. Chairs. Vibes. You can even pretend I’m not seducing you the whole time, if that helps.”

You narrow your eyes. “You know you’re technically my boss right?”

“Ha! No I’m not. I just pay for everything with blood money and everyone does their own thing, c’mon let’s go.”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.” But you follow him anyway.

You end up at a dive bar ten minutes from Checkmate HQ, low lights, sticky floors, a jukebox in the corner that plays only sad 2000s alt rock and one inexplicably loud Flo Rida song.

Adrian orders a whiskey neat. You get something with citrus and a name that sounds like a dare.

You’re two drinks in when you finally relax enough to lean back and laugh without checking yourself.

He’s telling some story about the time he accidentally coded the entire Checkmate conference door to play “SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake every time someone scanned their badge.

“It was three minutes before Harcourt realized it. She almost broke my jaw.”

You laugh, head tilted back. The buzz is soft. Not tipsy, not dizzy. Just… warm. And you feel yourself cracking open a little.

“You know,” you say, swirling your straw around the ice, “you’re actually not horrible to be around.”

Adrian raises an eyebrow. “Wow. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

You shrug. “Don’t get used to it.”

“But you like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

He leans closer. “You like me. You’ve liked me since day three, when I caught you staring at me in the vigilante uniform.”

You scoff. “You wore it to fix the printer.”

“And yet, your eyes were firmly locked on my biceps.”

You sip your drink slowly, hiding a smile behind the glass. “You’re so full of shit.”

“But you like me,” he repeats, lips twitching. “Admit it.”

“I’m not drunk enough for that.”

“Lucky for you, I accept buzzed confessions.”

You glance at him then really look. His curls are a mess, his smile’s all teeth, and his hand is fidgeting with his glass like he’s nervous and trying not to show it.

Fuck, he’s so fucking adorable. And you’re soft enough to kinda say it. “You make work… not awful.”

His expression flickers.

That’s it. That’s the real compliment. No jokes, no teasing.

He taps his glass against yours, voice low.

“Technically, this counts as our first date now.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That so?”

“Yup. You laughed at my jokes. You bought the second round. You admitted you’re in love with me.”

“I did not say tha—”

“Don’t ruin the moment.” He interrupts with a smile.

He drives you back to HQ after the drinks. He said taking two cars to the bar would be dumb and you didn’t have it in you to argue. You step out of the car and he walks around standing in front of you.

The parking lot is quiet. Almost suspiciously so.

You’re both hovering by his car, pretending you don’t notice how close you’re standing. His keys jingle in his hand. Yours are already forgotten in your jacket pocket. You’re facing each other under a flickering streetlamp like this is the final scene of a rom-com. Except you’re not in a dress, you're in a business casual outfit. And Adrian’s still got hot sauce on his shirt from the wings you made him share.

“I had fun,” you say, breaking the silence.

His smile is slow. Confident. A little smug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You should leave it at that.

But you’re still warm from the drinks, still feeling the undiscussed kiss from the office, still thinking about the way he looked at you over his glass like you were the punchline and the reward and honestly, your restraint has limits.

You nudge him with your elbow. “You’re not gonna make another joke?”

“About how this is the part where you dramatically confess you’ve been in love with me since the sexy banana incident?”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

He grins. “What? I’m just saying this feels like a moment.”

“It’s a moment,” you agree. “But not that moment.”

He tilts his head. “So what kind of moment is it?”

You look at him. The lazy smirk. The stupid curls. The way he’s trying not to shift closer but his body clearly didn’t get the memo.

“The kind where I probably make a bad decision.” You sigh.

He raises both brows. “Bad?”

You shrug. “Office gossip. Compromised work environment. HR violation number seventy-four tonight.”

Adrian leans in, barely a breath away now. “What if I said I want you to?”

“To what?”

“Make the bad decision.”

You should say something. Something smart. Something flirty. Something that isn’t “Oh fuck it. It is that moment.” But you fail because that’s exactly what you say right before you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him like you’ve wanted to all night. He groans into it, not subtly, not softly, like he’s been holding back for way too long and suddenly forgot how.

His hands fly to your waist, fingers curling into your hips as he presses you against the passenger side door. Cold metal against your back. Warm mouth against yours. He kisses like he talks, intense, fast, a little chaotic, but he slows down when you sigh, like he wants to savor it too.

“You’re kissing me in a parking lot,” he mutters against your lips. “This is so unprofessional.”

“I think we passed unprofessional a long time ago.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Like when you emailed everyone you wanted to have sex with me.”

You laugh against his lips tugging him closer by the collar and kiss him again, deeper this time mouths open, breath hitching, a little messier. His hand slides up your back, under your jacket, thumb brushing over your spine like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it, the feel of your soft warm skin. And god, you let him, because this is stupid and impulsive and exactly what you wanted.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

You’re flushed. He’s flushed. You can feel the tent in his pants. The streetlamp flickers.

You glance around, breathless. “There are definitely security cameras.”

Adrian doesn’t look bothered. “Chris is probably watching and taking notes.”

You snort, smacking his chest. “We’re so getting written up for this.”

He smiles, eyes soft now. “Worth it.”

That catches you off guard. Not the kiss. Not the heat. Not even the handsiness. It’s the honesty.

You look at him for a beat, then say, quietly, “I do like you, you know.”

He looks at you like he wants you to repeat it.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “I’m not saying it again.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got the kiss to prove it, so it doesn’t really matter.” He says before leaning in to kiss you again. You’re both pressed up against his car when the kiss breaks mouths swollen, breath uneven, adrenaline buzzing just beneath your skin like static. You’re not even sure which of you pulled away first. All you know is that it wasn’t because you wanted to.

He stares at you, stunned. Like he can’t quite process the fact that you’re still touching him.

“I—uh,” he says, sounding thoroughly broken. “Hi.”

You snort. “Hi.”

He sways forward a little, like he might kiss you again, but then his brain short-circuits and he just kind of… flaps his hand uselessly between you.

“Are you likeeeee gonna invite me over or… am I getting dropped off like a sad little Tinder date who cried in the Uber?”

You blink. “…have you cried in an Uber?”

“No,” he says, instantly defensive. “Well that’s not true. It was one time. And it was actually because my burrito fell on the floor.”

You stare at him not knowing if it was a joke or not.

“I was drunk! It was rude of the burrito to bail like that.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you open your car door. “Get in.”

Adrian stops. “Wait. Are you serious?”

“I just made out with you next to a dumpster.”

“Did you know all of my most life changing moments have happened next to dumpsters.”

“Get in the car, Chase.”

He scrambles into the passenger seat like a golden retriever who just heard the word “walk.” He’s quiet for maybe three seconds.

“So like. Hypothetically. If I said I wanted to make out with you more, like a lot more and maybe rub my face on your couch like a cat claiming a mate, that wouldn’t be weird, right?”

“Did you just say mate?”

“I’m trying to be romantic,” he whines. “God, you’re so mean to me. This is why I have trust issues.”

“I’m not mean to you,” you scoff. “I made out with you.”

“Yeah you did.” He beams.

You risk a glance sideways. His knees are bouncing, hands fidgeting in his lap.

“You okay over there?” you ask.

“No,” he says instantly. “I’ve been annoying and flirty for weeks and now that you kissed me I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck but, like, a hot truck, with tinted windows and really good taste in music.”

You roll your eyes. “You are so dramatic.”

“Anyway,” he mumbles, sinking a little lower in the seat, voice going embarrassingly soft, “if we get to your place and you like… decide you don’t wanna keep kissing me or something, I’m totally cool with just sleeping on your floor.”

You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

“I’ll do it,” he says. “I’m not above it. I respect boundaries.”

You laugh so hard the car swerves a little.

“Honey,” you mutter, cheeks warm. “You don’t know anything about what boundaries are.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway,” he whispers, smug and a little breathless.

You don’t deny it.

Your apartment is dim and quiet when you let him in. The warm kind of quiet, like a secret waiting to be told. Adrian steps inside cautiously, like he’s afraid to knock something over or get tackled by something.

He looks around like he’s entering a sacred temple.

“This place smells like lavender and emotional maturity,” he mutters. “You live like someone who files their taxes on time or early.”

You toss your keys into the bowl by the door. “I do file early. I like my refund.”

He spins once in the living room, curls flopping, smile just a little too wide. “You’ve got ambiance. I can feel myself becoming a better person just standing here.”

“Thank you?” you say, unsure if it’s a compliment or not. “I’m gonna shower real quick.”

He goes completely still.

“…Like now?”

“Yeah.”

You pause in the hallway. Turn your head just enough to catch him over your shoulder.

“Are you coming or what?”

He jerks like you slapped him.

“With you?” he croaks.

You blink. “No, I meant into the void. Yes, with me.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. “I—uh. Like. I want to. Like really bad. But also… I don’t wanna come off as a pervert and...”

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Adrian.”

He straightens like a soldier at attention. “Yeah?”

“I only want you to come if you’re going to be a pervert.”

A beat. “Yes!!” He hisses and starts taking his shirt off. “I haven’t—look… just full disclosure, I talk a lot but I haven’t actually done this since…like, fuck, I don’t even know. Pre-pandemic? Back when people still pretended to like Tiger King? So I’m gonna be annoying and also look at your boobs too much, sorry.”

You grab him by the wrist and pull him toward the bathroom.

“I want you to look,” you say.

The steam hits fast. The lights are soft. You turn to look at him shirtless and looking nervous. You step forward towards him reaching up to kiss him. Your hands explore his exposed skin, trailing down the curve of his neck to his toned shoulders, and you feel him shudder like you just rewired something in his nervous system.

His hands hover, uncertain.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft as you tilt your head, eyes flicking over his face.

Adrian swallows hard, blinking like he’s trying to reboot. “Yeah. Yeah, I just— I didn’t expect this to happen tonight.”

You smirk. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe, like… we awkwardly sit on your couch. Watch a movie. I pretend not to get hard during the romantic parts. You fake-yawn and ‘accidentally’ fall asleep on me. I go home and jerk off while listening to that one voicemail you left where you accidentally called me ‘hot stuff’ because you were reading a note from Ads out loud.”

You laugh. “That was not for you.”

“I know,” he nods, way too sincere. “It still lives in my head rent-free.”

You take a step closer. The steam swirls around his frame, softening him, curls damp at the edges, glasses already off, lips parted like he forgot how to breathe.

You lift your hand to his chest. He instinctively presses into it, like he needs the grounding.

“I want this,” you say. “You. Right now.”

He sucks in a breath. “Okay. Cool. Yeah. I’m gonna be really normal about it.”

“You’re never normal.”

“I can at least try.”

You laugh, then reach for the hem of your shirt.

And that’s the moment he breaks.

“Waitwaitwait….Jesus, okay, that’s happening,” he blurts, eyes wide as his hands twitch at his sides. You drop your shirt to the floor and walk past him, finish undressing before stepping into the shower.

He just stands there for a second.

You poke your head out. “You coming?”

He looks at you. Not at your body. At your face.

“You’re unreal.” He whispers.

You raise an eyebrow. “What did you think I was? A sex mirage?”

“No, but like…” He swallows. “You’re so pretty. I feel like I’m in one of those indie A24 films where someone has sex and then immediately dies from the weight of human connection.”

You snort. “Get in.”

He stumbles forward like a drunk puppy and practically trips into the steam.

The shower is narrow. The tension is not.

You’re close enough that there’s no such thing as personal space, water cascading between you, fog curling around the glass, skin flushed from heat and proximity.

Adrian’s gaze drags down your body like he’s never seen a naked person before. Which you’re almost certain isn’t true, but judging by his expression, you may as well be the first.

He lifts a tentative hand, palm flat, resting against your ribs. He looks like he’s waiting for permission.

“Touch me,” you murmur.

He groans quietly, then shifts both hands to your waist, thumbs drawing slow, thoughtful circles.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, dazed.

You quirk an eyebrow.

“You’re like a hot angel who knows JavaScript.”

You huff a laugh against his mouth as you kiss him, and this time it’s needier, wetter, hungrier, no hesitation. He matches your pace now, hands moving up your back, then down again like he’s testing how far you’ll let him go, fingers splaying low across your ass like he doesn’t know where to focus because everything feels too good.

And good gosh, he’s so vocal.

“Jesus fuck, your skin is…”

“Oh my God, the noises you make.”

“Do I taste like Hot Cheetos? Be honest.”

You laugh mid-kiss and press your forehead against his, breathless. “Adrian.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to think about Cheetos right now. I just want to think about all the HR violations we’re about to commit.”

He lets out a choked noise and nods like you just gave him a side quest he’s dreamed of unlocking for years.

You shift closer, parting your legs just enough and that’s all he needs to press in, his thigh nudging you exactly where you want him.

The gasp that leaves you is immediate. His groan is pure instinct.

You roll your hips, slow and deliberate against the press of his thigh heat building, water rushing over your shoulders like it’s trying to keep up. Adrian goes still for half a second, then makes a noise you want to keep hearing on repeat.

Your mouth finds his again open, wet, a little desperate and this time, he moans into it when you grind down again, friction blooming sharp and perfect through both of you. His hands grip your hips, helpless now, fingers digging in like he’s trying not to lose it completely.

“Wait—fuck, are you gonna come just from that?” he breathes, eyes wide, voice stunned and reverent.

You bite his lower lip, tug it playfully. “Maybe. Are you gonna make fun of me?”

“No, I’m gonna build a shrine. Holy shit, this is so hot.”

His mouth is on your neck before you can answer, kissing his way down like he wants to worship every inch. You thread your fingers through his wet curls, tugging gently, and he gasps against your skin like it short-circuited him.

“You keep doing that,” he rasps, “and I’m not gonna last long enough to do all the cool things I’ve been planning in my head for weeks.”

You smirk. “Oh? Like what?”

He lifts his head, soaked and pink-mouthed and beautiful. “All sorts of things but specifically getting on my knees and letting you ride my face until I forget how to breathe.”

You freeze.

He pauses trying to read your face “Too much?”

You grab his hair and push him gently down. “Not even close.”

Adrian groans like he’s just been knighted.

He drops to his knees on the wet tile like it’s sacred, hands sliding up the back of your thighs as he mouths your skin. He looks up at you like this is his religion now and then buries his face between your legs like he means it. He carefully drapes one of your legs over his shoulder making sure to keep you steady.

You swear, loud, one hand slapping the tile wall, the other buried in his hair when you feel his tongue lick a stripe up your folds.

He moans against you, tongue moving slow and deliberate at first, then faster, greedy, filthy. Like he’s making up for every day he didn’t get to touch you.

“Adrian—” you gasp, hips rolling, thighs clenching around his head.

He grunts, and somehow manages to nod, which just makes it worse or better, depending on how close you are to coming undone which was very.

And then, he talks mouth still on you, voice half-muffled and wrecked “You’re shaking. Is that because I’m amazing?”

“Shut up and keep going,” you groan, pressing his face closer.

He laughs and does exactly what he’s told.

When you come, it’s fast and full-bodied, like a power surge. You cry out, thighs trembling, fingers tightening in his hair as you ride it out on his mouth. Adrian groans like he’s getting off on just how wrecked you sound.

You slump against the wall, breath ragged, legs weak.

He looks up at you, flushed and beaming. “So. Was that good or do you have notes?”

You don’t say anything, just pull him up and kiss him.

It’s different this time. No edge. No teasing. Just a slow, grateful kiss. Deep and warm and full of everything you didn’t say earlier. His arms come around you without hesitation, one hand resting on the back of your neck, the other flat over your back like he can’t believe he gets to touch you like this.

Eventually, your hands slide up to his head, and you run your fingers through his curls, smiling at the ridiculous amount of product he apparently uses.

“What do you use? Gel?” you tease softly, brushing a strand off his forehead.

He gasps. “Uhhh excuse me. This is a curl cream actually and lightweight hold styler, thank you very much.”

“I knew these weren’t natural.” You giggle and that’s when he picks up the shampoo bottle and tips it in your direction with a raised brow. Then, with surprising gentleness, he lathers the shampoo between his palms and steps behind you. His fingers start at your scalp, slow and thorough. You close your eyes as he works it through your hair with firm pressure, nails grazing just enough to make you hum.

“I feel like I’m giving a horse a bath,” he says softly. “Like a really pretty, brilliant, stubborn horse who also happens to have amazing tits.”

You laugh, leaning your weight into him. “That was almost sweet.”

“I am sweet. I’m like a cinnamon roll. A sexy, violent cinnamon roll.”

You tilt your head back to rinse as he runs his fingers through your hair, catching knots with slow care. His touch is shockingly good like he’s putting real thought into it, like he wants this moment to matter just as much as anything else.

“Your turn,” you say, turning to face him, fingers curling around the nape of his neck.

He exhales like he’s just been given a gift.

You reach up and lather his hair, nails gently scratching along his scalp. He melts. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth drops open slightly like he’s forgotten how to hold his face together.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “Can you wash my hair for me for the rest of my life?”

“Mmmm we’ll see,” you murmur.

“Ok, that’s kinda rude thought you’d say yes, but ok.”

You work the shampoo through his curls, careful and slow, letting the silence stretch as the water runs between you. He looks down at you as you do with a huge smile on his face.

“Did you know female octopuses sometimes eat the males after mating. Like, immediately after. Just chomp chomp, thanks for the sperm, you completed your task in life, bye.”

You pause, hands still in his hair. “Thanks for giving me some aftercare ideas.”

He stiffens, eyes widening. “Heyyyyy. I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret it.”

You grin, dragging your nails along his scalp again and he immediately relaxes like a cat in a sunbeam.

“I mean,” you murmur, “I wouldn’t eat all of you. You’re a big guy. Maybe just a finger.”

He gasps. “I use those.”

You lean in. “Not right now, you don’t.”

“Okay, wow. Now I’m scared and it’s surprisingly turned me on even more.”

He turns to rinse off, quiet for once. The water glides down his body in clean lines, and you watch him shake out his curls like he’s trying to reset his whole nervous system.

He finally turns the water off and grabs a towel. Dries off in quick, distracted motions like his brain’s still stuck in the last ten minutes.

You hand him yours just to see what he’d do. He takes it, looks at you a beat longer than necessary, then starts patting you dry.

When your eyes meet again, the room gets quiet.

You tilt your head. “You good? Or did I push it too far with starting with a shower?”

His throat bobs as he nods. “Yeah no I’m perfectly good. Just… you’re really fucking pretty when you look at me like that.”

You close the space between you. “Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

You respond with a kiss.

He groans into it full-bodied, involuntary and his hands are on you immediately, gripping your waist for a second before moving to your thighs he way he lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the bathroom counter like it’s instinct.

You look down between your bodies, then back up at him.

“You’re hard again.”

Adrian shrugs. “I’m extremely responsive to kindness.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but your knees fall open for him anyway. His fingers curl around your thighs.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says, voice dipping low, “I’m gonna think about this every single time you walk past my desk.”

You drag him closer by the hips. “Then you better make it worth the fantasy.”

He kisses you again more urgent, towel slipping to the floor as his body presses between your legs like a promise. You pull him closer, pressing your body into his. He groans low in his throat, mouth dragging along your jaw, hands curling tighter at your hips.

“I swear,” he mumbles, voice already wrecked, “I’m trying really hard not to be annoying right now.”

You smile, breath brushing his ear. “You don’t have to try.”

His hips stutter just slightly into yours, and you feel his smile against your skin.

“I’m serious,” he murmurs. “You could probably look at me too long right now and I’d accidentally come on you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, hand smoothing over his shoulder. “Guess we better do something about that.”

He exhales sharply, like he wasn’t expecting you to be sweet on him.

Your fingers trail down his chest, past his stomach, until they wrap around his cock, already hard and heavy where it rests against his pelvis.

You glance up through your lashes. “You’re so hard.”

He grins, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Weird, right? It’s almost like I’m ridiculously into you or something.”

You laugh, soft and breathless and kiss him before he can say something else equally ridiculous. Your hand strokes him slow, gentle, and he groans against your mouth, the sound low and unfiltered.

You scoot closer to the edge of the sink, legs spreading to make more room for him, and guide his tip through your slick folds, dragging him against your soaked entrance.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice wrecked. His head dips to watch, jaw going slack. “That’s… that’s fucking unreal.”

He replaces your hand with his own, sliding the head of his cock along your clit, teasing your entrance until you clench instinctively chasing more, not even bothering to hide it.

Your head tips back against the mirror, spine arching as he presses a little harder, dragging out the friction just long enough to make your hips buck.

Then you feel the brush of his other hand, fingers trailing lower, slipping between your folds. He circles your entrance once, slow and deliberate.

“Adrian,” you pant. “I need you.”

He looks up at you, really looks, and his smile goes soft, almost awed. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You want me, sweetheart?”

You nod pathetically in response. He slides one finger inside you, slow and careful, watching your reaction like it’s the only thing that matters. You gasp, hips rocking down against him as he starts to move gentle at first, like a test, then deeper.

You lift one leg up onto the counter, and he groans when he sinks another inch in.

“Mmm…baby, that feels so good,” you whisper, hand gripping his shoulder.

He leans closer, mouth brushing your ear.

“Fuck,” he says, voice low and rough, “you sound so pretty like this.” His finger moves in slow, steady strokes curling just enough to make your thighs twitch, his palm pressed flush to you, anchoring every movement.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, eyes flicking down where his hand disappears between your legs. “You’re—fuck, you’re so warm. So wet.”

You grip the edge of the counter, breath catching as his thumb brushes your clit, like he’s teasing.

“Adrian…”

He looks up immediately wild curls dripping, pupils blown. “Yes?.”

“I want more.”

He leans in, lips brushing yours without fully kissing you. “Oh? Thought you liked the teasing.”

You arch into his hand. “You’re the one shaking.”

He huffs out a breathless laugh. “Okay. Rude but accurate.”

His free hand grips your thigh, pushing your leg a little higher on the counter, opening you up just enough to slide a second finger in beside the first. You gasp the stretch sharper now, fuller and he groans when he feels you clench down.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. “You’re perfect.”

You rock your hips, chasing his rhythm, and he doesn’t stop you, he meets you there, matching every slow grind, fingers dragging deep and slick and warm. The wet sound of it is obscene, echoing slightly off the bathroom tile.

“Feel good?” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw now, your cheek, your temple. “You gonna fall apart for me again?”

You nod, too breathless to answer.

He keeps going, tempo just a little cruel now not fast, but deep, and perfectly controlled.

“You want me to fuck you here?” he asks, voice gravel and heat. “Right here on your bathroom counter ?”

You let out a choked noise half-laugh, half-moan and he smiles, eyes dark and soft all at once.

“God,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven. His fingers curl up caressing the spot that immediately make your thighs shake.

“Right there, fuck right there,” you moan as the familiar sensation starts to build. He moves his fingers just the way you need coaxing you to your release. You begin to clench around him when he suddenly replaces his fingers with his cock. He slides in bottoming out in one deep, careful thrust that makes you both gasp.

You claw at his shoulders, eyes squeezing shut. “Jesus, Adrian.”

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby…I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait. I needed—fuck—I need to be inside you”

“It’s ok, this is exactly what I wanted,” you reassure as he thrusts in and out of you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice breaking like static. “I—fuck…I don’t know what I’m feeling right now.”

His hands are trembling where they hold your thighs, jaw tight, forehead resting against yours again like he needs the contact. Like that’s the only thing keeping him here.

“I’m not…” he pants, voice barely there. “ I don’t—process things right. I don’t know what this is supposed to feel like.”

You cup the side of his face, pulling him back to look at you. “It’s okay.”

He looks wrecked. Like you’ve just handed him something he doesn’t think he deserves.

“You feel so fucking good,” he says, like it’s a confession. “And I think I’d let you break me.”

Then he moves again. Deep and deliberate. Like he’s trying to memorize everything, the way you grip him, the way your mouth falls open, the way you moan his name like it means something.

You rake your nails down his back. “Adrian.”

He groans, hips grinding deeper. “Yeah, that’s it. Keep saying my name.”

You bite your lip, overwhelmed.

And then he says, low and certain “I want you to remember this. Every time you see me. Every time you sit at your desk and pretend I’m just the guy who steals your pens.”

Your head falls against his shoulder. “Oh my—”

He fucks into you a little harder, a little deeper. One of his hands tugs your hair making you face him. “Nah, no hiding. Not now. I want it branded in you.”

You drag him closer by the neck, gasping against his mouth. “You’re fucking insane.”

He smiles, breath hot and wrecked. “And you’re taking every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your body wraps around him, muscles tightening, breath ragged. Adrian’s thrusts go deeper now less measured, more desperate like he’s past pretending he can keep this slow.

“Shit,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m not gonna last.”

You dig your nails into his back, gasping. “Don’t stop…please, don’t stop.”

His eyes snap to yours at the word. Please.

And just like that, his restraint shatters.

He hooks one arm around your waist and fucks into you harder rhythm steady, filthy, perfect the kind of tempo that feels like a promise. Every drag of his cock makes your spine arch, every moan he pulls from you pushes him closer to the edge.

“You feel so good,” he rasps. “So fucking good, baby. You’re clenching around me like you want to keep me.”

“I do,” you breathe. “I want…fuck, I want—”

“I know.” His voice is hoarse now. Wrecked. “I know, I’ve got you.”

His hand moves between you, thumb finding your clit with practiced focus, rubbing tight, perfect circles as he keeps fucking into you like he’s memorizing your body from the inside out.

The coil inside you snaps.

You come hard gasping his name, eyes squeezing shut as your whole body pulses around him. Adrian moans loud, desperate, and buries himself deep one last time as he follows you over the edge.

“Fuck,” he groans, shuddering.

He holds you through it, forehead resting against yours as his body trembles, hips twitching with the aftershocks. He presses his mouth to your cheek, your jaw, anywhere he can reach its not soft, it’s urgent. Like he needs to be touching you or he’ll unravel.

Your hands stay tangled in his hair. Your legs stay wrapped around him. Neither of you moves.

Eventually, he breathes out a laugh against your skin.

“So,” he murmurs, voice rough. “That was an inappropriate use of office supplies.”

You huff out a half-laugh. “We didn’t use any office supplies.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look you in the eye, “you’re the only tool I need now.”

You blink. “So you’re calling me an office supply?”

“Wait! Fuck, no wait, I meant it romantically, I swear!”

You pull him back in by the neck and kiss him lazy and slow, all heat faded into warmth.

By the time you both make it to the bed, the adrenaline is gone replaced by warmth and heaviness and something that feels too soft to say out loud.

You pull back the covers and crawl in first, skin still flushed, legs trembling. Adrian follows, collapsing beside you with a content, spent sigh.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Just the sound of your breathing, the rustle of sheets.

Then you reach out, slow, tentative before you drape your arm over his chest, curling close on instinct.

He stiffens.

Not all the way. Not in rejection.

Just… like his brain didn’t know what to do with that.

You freeze, pulling back. “Sorry,” you murmur. “I just thoug—”

“No—hey,” he says quickly, catching your wrist before you can move too far. “It’s not that I don’t want you close. I just…” He hesitates.

“You don’t like skin,” you finish softly.

He swallows. “Yeah. Not… always. Not when it’s too warm. Or too still. Or too everything. It’s like my brain short-circuits and starts screaming for distance, even if I want the contact.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He looks at you like he’s bracing for disappointment.

“What about this?” you ask, grabbing the heavier blanket and pulling it up over his chest before you press your palm there, over the fabric. Through two layers. Buffered. The pressure’s still there. The comfort. But the texture’s gone.

He breathes out, shoulders softening. “Yeah. That’s perfect.”

You smile gently. “Cool. So we just don’t do direct skin. Easy.”

He looks at you for a long moment, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually get it.

“I’ve never had someone not get weird about it,” he admits.

“Well,” you murmur, tucking in closer, “you like shag carpeting. Seems fair.”

He laughs and pulls you in by the waist, careful to keep the blanket between both of you.

You nuzzle against his covered shoulder. “Next time we hook up, I’m putting a bath mat on my chest.”

He snorts. “Velcro me to the floor. I’ll be fine.”

You set your box down on the nearest free space, which happened to be a half-built IKEA bookshelf Emilia was wrestling with.

“Hand me that hex key,” she grunted, hair tied back, eyes focused.

Chris leaned against the wall, watching her like a loyal dog. “Hey babe, you want me to tighten the screws? I’m really good at screwing.”

“Jesus Christ, Chris,” she said flatly without even looking up.

Ads, meanwhile, was hanging string lights along the kitchen island, muttering to herself about “setting a vibe.” Every so often she’d stop to reposition a decorative pillow, clearly the only one here with any interest in making the loft look like humans lived in it.

“Don’t even think about putting up that live-laugh-love crap up,” Emilia called out.

“It’s not a sign, it’s art,” Ads shot back. “And this place is gonna look depressing as hell if I don’t do something.”

Chris was in the middle of pacing the hallway with a tape measure, scribbling numbers in a notebook.

“What the fuck are you doing now?” Emilia asked.

“Claiming my room,” he said. “Biggest square footage gets me. That’s the law.”

“That’s not a law,” Adebayo said.

“Yeah it is, squatters’ rights, baby. You wouldn’t know, you grew up with morals.”

Across the room, Adrian finally wandered in, carrying a duffel bag and, inexplicably, a fucking sword. He stopped in the doorway, blinking at the chaos.

“Is there, like, a sign-up sheet for who uses the bathroom first?” he asked.

“No,” Emilia snapped.

“Yes,” Ads countered at the same time. “I already made one.”

Adrian shrugged and dropped his bag directly in the middle of the floor, like he’d already decided that was his spot. His eyes flicked to you, landing on the box you were holding.

“Uh, need help?” he asked, too casual, like the question had slipped out before he could stop it.

Before you could answer, Chris pointed the tape measure at him like a weapon. “Hey! Loft rule number one no lame ass swords.”

“It’s not a lame ass sword,” Adrian said, offended. “It’s a decorative katana. Totally different. It’s fucking sick, I’m gonna kill someone with it one day.”

“You’ll never top me killing a gorilla with a chainsaw.” Economos gloated

“I knew you were fucking with me!”

Everybody let out a unison groan. Not this again.

“If you people want Bluetooth synced in every damn room so you can blast fucking Cinderella or whatever hair metal garbage you listen to, then shut the fuck up for five minutes.” Economos huffed

Chris’s head popped up like a meerkat. “Wait… you’re saying we can play music in every room? At the same time?”

“Yes,” Economos muttered, “that’s how whole-home audio works.”

Chris grinned like a kid on Christmas. “Economos, you glorious bastard. First song’s mine. Crüe. Loud enough to wake the neighbors.”

Emilia groaned. “We’re gonna get evicted in a week.”

You drag your box down the hall, scouting out the smaller bedrooms that Chris hasn’t already measured like a deranged realtor. Ads told you to “pick whichever feels like your vibe,” which sounded supportive, but really translated to she’s already claimed the one with the best light.

You push open the door to a modest corner room. It’s not huge, but it’s yours. A single window, a bare mattress in the middle of the space, and just enough floor space for the boxes you’ve lugged up five flights of stairs.

You set one down and sigh. Home sweet chaos.

Across the hall, you hear the distinct sound of something heavy thunking against drywall. Then Adrian’s voice

“Fuck. Okay. That was structural. Definitely structural. Maybe if I—” another crash “—nope, it’s fine. Totally fine.”

You poke your head out just in time to see him trying to balance a katana stand on a shelf that clearly wasn’t meant to hold weapons. He notices you watching, freezes mid-motion, and immediately gets defensive.

“What? It’s décor.”

“Pretty sure décor isn’t supposed to pierce the drywall,” you say, leaning on your doorframe. “There goes our deposit.”

His eyes narrow. “Wow. Love how you’ve been here for five seconds and already think you’re, like what? The loft police.”

“Someone’s gotta be. You’re gonna kill us in our sleep with your ‘décor.’”

He huffs, dragging his duffel bag toward the closet like it personally insulted him. “At least I have décor. What are you putting up in there, inspirational quotes? A cat calendar? Maybe a sad little cactus?”

You smirk. “You don’t get to judge until you can hang something without putting a hole in the wall.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, then stops, caught. He mutters something about “thumbtacks being for useless” and disappears into his closet, leaving the door cracked.

From down the hall, Chris’s voice bellows “DIBS ON THE BATHROOM NEXT TO THE HOT GIRLS!”

“Fuck off, Chris,” Harcourt yells back, followed by the sound of a hammer hitting wood.

You shake your head, turning back into your room. You set a box down on the mattress and start unpacking. Posters, books, a lamp. The ordinary stuff. And through the thin walls, you hear Adrian humming off-key, too loud, completely unselfconscious.

Somewhere between “Eye of the Tiger” and an enthusiastic guitar solo made entirely with his mouth, he calls out

“Hey! You want me to hook your TV up to the system? Economos said I shouldn’t touch anything but I totally figured it out already.”

You pause, halfway through smoothing a sheet over your mattress. “By figured it out, do you mean you watched someone do it before?”

“Wow. Distrust. Rude. I’ll have you know my Blu-Ray player has, like, three HDMI cables. I’m basically an expert.”

There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of him banging on the wall you share, your wall vibrating with the force.

“It’s gonna be fun roomie!” he shouts.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. This was going to be… interesting.

By the time the sun goes down, the loft looks less like a construction site and more like… well, a half-finished IKEA showroom. Boxes still stacked, tools scattered everywhere, and the faint smell of dust mixed with whatever cologne Chris practically bathes in.

Ads and Emilia disappear to the store after Emilia mutters something about “basic necessities,” leaving the rest of you to fend for yourselves.

Which is how you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor surrounded by cartons of Chinese food and a pack of beer Chris proudly announced he’d “found” from Economos’ stash.

“Found means stole,” Economos grumbles, prying open a box of lo mein.

Chris grins. “Found" means brotherhood, Economos. Brotherhood and sharing. Like Jesus and the apostles, except instead of fucking wine it’s Bud Light.”

Adrian snorts into his beer. “Pretty sure Jesus didn’t shotgun a twelve-pack.”

“Yeah, well, pretty sure Jesus also didn’t have killer abs,” Chris says, patting his own stomach.

“You don’t have killer abs,” Emilia’s voice cuts in from the doorway as she and Ads return, arms loaded with grocery bags. She drops a pack of paper towels on the coffee table and shakes her head. “You have dad bod optimism, at best.”

The whole room bursts into laughter, Chris included, though he tries to flex mid-sip just to prove a point.

You crack open your box of sesame chicken and glance around. For the first time all day, everyone looks… happy. Relaxed, even. Adrian is sitting close enough that his knee brushes yours every time he reaches for another dumpling, though he doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. You always do.

Ads sits back against the couch with a beer and raises her bottle. “Alright, ground rules. Before we devolve into anarchy. Number one dishes don’t do themselves. Whoever dirties them, cleans them.”

Chris groans. “What if I can’t handle doing dishes that day?”

“Then starve,” Emilia deadpans, earning another wave of laughter.

“Rule number two,” Ads continues, “no overnight guests without a heads-up.”

Chris perks up. “Define overnight. Like, eight hours? Or are we talking multiple rounds—”

“Jesus Christ,” Emilia cuts him off, tossing a fortune cookie at his head.

Economos clears his throat. “Rule number three: no touching the router. No. One. Not even if it looks like it’s on fire. Especially if it looks like it’s on fire.”

“That’s so specific it makes me want to touch it more,” Adrian mutters, but you catch the smirk playing at his mouth.

You lean back on your hands, watching them bicker, the warm buzz of beer mixing with the comfort of greasy takeout. It feels… weirdly like family. Messy, loud, dysfunctional, but family.

Ads looks around, softer now. “Look, I know this is gonna be a shitshow sometimes. But you guys are my people. And if we can survive butterflies, blackmail, and Peacemaker’s musical taste, we can survive living together.”

Chris raises his beer in salute. “Fuck yeah. The 11th Street Kids, baby. Stronger than the weak ass Wi-Fi John set up.”

“That’s not hard,” Economos says under his breath, but he still clinks his bottle with the rest.

Adrian’s knee nudges yours again, deliberate this time. He glances sideways, and for a split second, under all the bravado, there’s something earnest in his eyes. Like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

Instead, he just mutters, “Guess this makes us all roomies now.”

And somehow, that feels like the closest thing to a promise you’ll get from him.

After a few more beers, stories and laughs the loft is finally quiet. After hours of noise, shouting, music battles, and passive-aggressive debates about who left their underwear on the hallway banister (Chris), the place has gone still. You showered, slipped into pajamas, and crawled into bed around midnight, content and full and exhausted.

And then, somewhere around 3:04 AM, your stomach is begging for food.

You crack open your door and pad down the hallway, blinking against the dim light filtering in from the kitchen.

You’re halfway through opening the fridge when the front door creaks.

You freeze.

Then a Clunk. Shuffle. Grunt. You grab a kitchen knife.

And then “It’s just me, don’t stab me.”

You whip around. Adrian’s standing there in full vigilante gear, the suit zipped up, mask still on. He smells like an alleyway, sweat, and wet leather.

You raise an eyebrow. “What the hell are you doing?”

He lifts the mask off with a dramatic whoosh, revealing sweaty curls and a flushed face. “Patrol. You know. Justice, the thing we do. Protecting the innocent. Kicking bad guy ass.”

“After you’ve been drinking?” you say, closing the fridge with your hip. “At 3AM?”

“Crime doesn’t sleep,” he says, wiping at a streak of blood, probably not his, on his cheek. “So neither do I. Also I forgot how hot this suit gets. I’m like three degrees from being soup in here.”

You slide a Tupperware of leftover chicken onto the counter and grab two forks. “You want some?”

His eyes light up like you offered him sex and a side of fries. “Do I want cold chicken from a stranger’s fridge while smelling like a sewer rat? Abso-fucking-lutely.”

You both lean against the counter, shoulder to shoulder, digging into the food in companionable silence. It should be gross. He’s still breathing heavy from vigilante cardio and you’re in the tiniest tank top and sleep shorts, but somehow it works.

He licks his fingers. “Wanna watch a movie?” He asks with his mouth full.

You glance at the microwave clock. 3:17 AM.

“Isn’t it a little late?” you ask.

He shrugs, mouth still full. “Or early.”

You hesitate. “Fine. But nothing sad. I’m too tired to feel feelings.”

Adrian fist-pumps. “You’re gonna love Tango & Cash. Or RoboCop. Ooh actually The Nice Guys.”

“You’re going to shower first,” you say. “You smell like crime.”

He mock-bows. “Your wish is my command, Roomie.”

He reappears ten minutes later, towel-dried curls wild, sweatpants low on his hips, a gray t-shirt clinging to his still-damp chest. He flops dramatically next to you on the couch like he thought about this moment all fucking day.

You’re curled up on one side, small pajama set leaving very little to the imagination. You notice how often he glances at your thighs, your collarbone, and your knee brushing his leg.

He hands you the remote. “You pick.”

You scroll. Slowly. Painfully. Intentionally.

He leans over slightly to peek at the screen and totally not to smell your shampoo. “You take longer to pick a movie than I do to pick a target.”

“You picked Magic Mike last time. You lost all rights.”

“That was a cultural experience,” he whines. “Besides, I’m more of a step up guy. I appreciate male athleticism.”

You snort, and he watches the way your shoulders shake, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.

The tension is thick. Familiar. Teasing.

Your bare leg brushes against his again, and he doesn’t move away. In fact, he shifts closer. His arm settles behind you on the back of the couch. Not quite touching. Just… there.

You don’t say anything.

He watches you scroll a few more seconds.

“You know, you could just pick me.”

You pause. “…What?”

He clears his throat, like he surprised even himself. “Like. As a movie. I mean. Like if I was a movie. I’d be a good one. Action-packed. Explosive. Maybe a little full frontal.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he blurts. “I mean yes. I’m great. I’m amazing. Just—sorry, I get weird when it’s late and you’re wearing that and sitting this close and…”

You raise an eyebrow.

He holds up both hands like he’s surrendering. “Okay. I’m going to shut up. I’m gonna watch the movie. I’m not gonna say one more word unless it’s helpful or romantic or horny.”

You smile slowly, lazily dragging your gaze down to his mouth and back up to his eyes.

“That’s a very specific filter.”

He grins, eyes blown wide. “Yeah. I like specificity.”

The final choice ends up being Finding Nemo.

You say it’s for “nostalgia.” But really, it was because you remember Adrian once said, completely unprompted, that manta rays are “fucking majestic” and he beams when Mr. Ray sings “Let’s name the zones, the zones, the zones…”

So yeah. It was mostly to see his face during that part.

Ten minutes in, he’s locked in. Legs spread, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s analyzing it for a mission report.

You can’t help the grin tugging at your lips.

“Popcorn?” you ask, already sliding off the couch.

He blinks, distracted. “Huh?”

You point to the kitchen. “Popcorn. The snack food. Salty. Crunchy. Legally required for any movie after 2am.”

Adrian tilts his head like a confused puppy. “…Can you put mini M&M’s in it?”

You shoot him finger guns. “That’s the only correct answer.”

You pop the bag in the microwave and prep a bowl with chocolate and salt. You hear the TV volume spike as he sings along to Mr. Ray’s manta ray jingle in the background.

When the popcorn’s ready, you grab the bowl and head back. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of Pixar animation and the occasional flash from the TV.

You don’t see the shoe on the floor.

It’s probably Chris’s.

Your foot catches.

You stumble forward “Shit!” and crash directly into Adrian’s lap.

The bowl of popcorn goes flying. M&M’s scatter like emotional landmines across the couch. Your hands land on his chest. His hands instinctively grab your waist.

There’s a heartbeat of absolute silence.

“Wow,” he breathes. “That’s one way to get me to shut up.”

You look up at him, face inches from his, your body pressed against him in every inconvenient, hot, undeniable way.

“Sorry,” you say, trying and failing to sit up. “There was a—”

“A Shoe. Yeah,” he says quickly. “I think the universe is telling us something.”

“That I’m a walking hazard?”

“That I should keep M&M’s on every surface just in case this happens again.”

His hands are still on your waist. He hasn’t let go. You’re not sure you want him to.

Your breath hitches. His eyes drop to your mouth.

“You’re gonna kiss me, aren’t you?” you whisper.

He nods, already leaning in. “I’m gonna try really fucking hard not to be weird about it.”

“Promises promises.” You tease.

And then he kisses you.

Warm, messy, a little off-center at first because of course it is, but then he adjusts, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish.

When you pull back, you’re both breathless.

Adrian grins, wide and shameless. “So… wanna go back to watching fish or should we, like, test the structural integrity of this couch?”

The kiss lingers between you like a dropped match in a room full of gasoline.

You’re now straddling his lap, legs on either side of his hips, chest rising and falling against his and Adrian is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery and doesn’t trust the system not to take it back.

His hands are warm on your waist, fingers flexing like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. You lean in again, slower this time, your lips brushing his once, twice, before deepening the kiss. His mouth opens under yours, eager and messy, and he groans like he’s been waiting years for this.

“Jesus,” he mutters into your mouth, “you’re, like… dangerously hot for someone who almost concussed me.”

“You’ll live,” you murmur, nipping his bottom lip. “Probably.”

“Not if you keep doing that,” he breathes. “I might explode.”

You grind down against him just enough to shut him up, and his hips buck automatically. The groan that escapes him is so desperate you half expect him to apologize for it, but this is Adrian, and he doesn’t know shame.

“You’re such a little freak,” he mutters, mouth dragging down your jaw. “You know that?” He laughs, breathless against your neck, and then he bites, soft, testing, and you gasp. He freezes, then pulls back just far enough to see your face.

His hands slide under the hem of your tank top, large and warm against your bare waist. His fingers move slow, like he’s savoring every inch, like he’s finally getting to touch something he’s imagined too many damn times to count.

“You’re gonna ruin my life,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head, breath catching as his thumb brushes just beneath your ribs. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” he says, dipping his head to kiss just below your ear. “Not even a little.”

His kisses trail down your neck warm, open-mouthed, deliberate. He nips again, sucking lightly just above your collarbone, and your hips twitch forward instinctively grinding down on him.

He groans, hands tightening at your sides. “Fuck, keep doing that or I swear to God, I’ll—”

“What?” you whisper. “You’ll what?”

He grins against your skin. “I’ll beg.”

“I’d like that.”

“I bet you would,” he admits, nuzzling the curve of your throat. “You absolutely would. Want me to? I’ll do it. I’ll tell you how hot you look in those tiny-ass shorts and how I’ve been trying not to stare at your thighs for the last hour.”

Your breath stutters. He feels it. Smirks. Leans back just enough to meet your eyes. You reach down, grab the hem of your own tank top, and pull it over your head.

Adrian’s brain short-circuits so hard he just stares for a beat.

“Okay, cool, I’m dead. You killed me. This is heaven. Wow. Amazing.”

You lean down, lips brushing his again. “Just shut up and touch me.”

He grins, full and wild. “Oh. You’re gonna regret saying that.”

And then he’s everywhere, hands, mouth, voice a little chaotic, a lot reverent, and all yours.

His mouth is on your chest, reverent and greedy, his hands spread wide over your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself to the couch, to you, before he completely comes undone.

You’re flushed, breath stuttering as his tongue traces a line over your hard nipples. He’s muttering something, completely unfiltered and worshipful between kisses.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so hot—how are you even real, I mean look at you—shit—okay, no, don’t look at me.”

You laugh, gasping as he sucks a mark into your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your breast while the other grips your thigh like it owes him money.

And then right when he’s panting against your skin, hips twitching up into yours like a man possessed, you thread your fingers into his curls and tug his head back just enough to look him in the eye.

“Adrian,” you whisper, voice low and wrecked.

He freezes. “Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Take me to my room.”

He blinks once. Twice. Like you just told him he won the lottery and offered to punch his high school bully.

“Like… carry you?” he asks, voice cracking in real time. “Or are we talking a sexy walk? ‘Cause I can do both. I can—I mean—I can run if you want—”

“Pick a method,” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly down the back of his neck, “but get me there now.”

Something in him snaps.

“Fucking finally,” he growls, hands tightening at your waist as he surges up, lifting you effortlessly with you still wrapped around him.

You yelp, half laugh, half moan as he bumps into the coffee table on the way, too frantic to care. He all but drops you on the bed, immediately climbing over you, grinning like an unhinged idiot with hearts in his eyes.

“I’m gonna ruin your sheets,” he says, mouth already trailing down your stomach. “I’m gonna ruin your life.”

You reach for him, lips already swollen, voice wrecked.

“Good.”

He hovers over you, mouth trailing down your neck, breath hot and erratic. His hips grind down with just enough pressure to make you gasp, his hands everywhere like he can’t decide what part of you he wants to touch first.

You push up on your elbows, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“Off,” you whisper.

He scrambles back onto his knees like a man possessed, yanking the shirt up and over his head with the grace of a horny frat boy mid-striptease. He tosses it somewhere, it lands on the lamp, but neither of you cares.

That’s when you see it.

Purple bruising blooms along his left side. Some shallow cuts, too, not deep, but red and angry. It’s nothing life-threatening, but it’s clear he’s been hit. Multiple times. Probably jumped a fence or two. Definitely didn’t dodge when he could’ve.

You sit up, instantly sobering. “What the hell happened?”

Adrian blinks. “Huh? Oh. That’s from earlier. Patrol. I might’ve, uh… tackled a guy through a fence. And then maybe also the guy’s friend tackled me. But I was fine. Am fine. Very fine. Extra fine, even. They’re dead. If you wanna check, I can flex—”

You reach out gently, your fingers ghosting over the edge of the bruise. He hisses through his teeth and flinches, not from the pain, but from your touch. Like it’s too much.

You cup his face, thumb brushing along his jaw. “Why didn't you say anything ?”

He shrugs, suddenly weirdly shy for someone who was sucking hickeys into your chest two minutes ago. “Didn’t wanna ruin the vibe. I was gonna, like, ice it later. It’ll be fine.”

You sigh, and then kiss his shoulder. Slowly. Then the top of the bruise. Then lower.

He freezes. “W-What’re you doing?” he asks, voice suddenly pitched up.

You look up at him, soft and serious. “I’m taking care of you.”

And that’s when he breaks. Like, literally mouth parted. Breath held. Eyes wide. His whole body tense like he’s waiting for someone to tell him this is a joke.

“No one’s ever—” he starts, then stops. “I mean, yeah, okay, this is… happening. You’re hot and you’re nice and now you’re in nurse mode, and that’s, like, unfair. You can’t just do that. You can’t—”

You kiss the spot again, softer.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

You trail your fingers lightly along the bruised side of his rib cage, kissing the uninjured skin in between. “Tell me where it hurts.”

He exhales sharply, head tipping back. “Everywhere, babe. Especially my dick.”

You laugh, and the sound makes him shiver.

Then you shift, gently pulling him down so he’s lying beneath you. Your hands trace over his body like it’s sacred, careful, curious, reverent. You kiss every scrape and mark. And with each one, Adrian melts.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says, barely audible. “You’re being… really nice. And I’m still kind of hard from, like, five minutes ago. But also emotional? And I might cry? Or cum? Possibly both?”

You press your forehead to his. “You don’t have to be the tough guy tonight.”

His hands fist the sheets, his voice wrecked “That’s so fucking hot, oh my God.”

You smile. “Let me take care of you, Adrian.”

He nods like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

He’s beneath you, sprawled out against the sheets like some overexcited rescue puppy trying to stay still but failing miserably. His curls are a mess, his mouth parted, chest rising and falling fast, every muscle vibrating with barely restrained need.

You’ve kissed down his chest, over the bruises, the scrapes, and every part of him that deserved softness but probably never got it.

And the way he’s reacting to it? Devastating.

“I, uh,” he starts, blinking up at you with blown pupils and zero self-preservation, “I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or my face. Or my dick. Honestly, everything’s kind of… flailing.”

You straddle his hips, slow and deliberate, pinning him down with nothing but your weight and your gaze.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you murmur, trailing your fingertips over his collarbone, light enough to make him twitch. “You just have to lay there and be good.”

Adrian makes a noise that is entirely inappropriate for a man who kills people in a mask.

“I can do that,” he breathes. “I’m great at being good. The best, actually.”

You press your palm to the center of his chest, firm enough to keep him still, and his hips buck instinctively. His eyes flutter shut.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “I’m not gonna survive this. I’m gonna die.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you whisper, leaning down, dragging your lips just along his jaw. “You can kill a guy with a fork but you fall apart over a little praise?”

“Yes.” His voice breaks. “Because forks are predictable. You’re not. You’re like… if kindness had tits.”

You laugh and reach down between your bodies, palming him through his sweats. The sound he makes is obscene somewhere between a gasp, a whimper, and an “oh fuck yes” that he doesn’t even try to hold back.

“Okay, okay,” he pants. “I’m not gonna cry, I swear. But, like, if I did, it’d be in a hot way. Like a really masculine, emotionally intelligent way.”

You stroke him again slow, firm, purposeful and he arches, gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering him to the planet.

“Adrian,” you say, voice low, steady. “Eyes on me.”

He obeys immediately. Like it’s instinct. Like he’s never heard anything hotter in his entire life.

You hover just over him, lips brushing his, your hand still moving at a maddening pace between his legs.

“You’re so easy to ruin,” you whisper. “Bet you’ve been thinking about this for weeks.”

“Months,” he whines. “Since before the loft. Since, like, the first time you wore those shorts. The pink ones. With the—Jesus—fuck, do that again”

You squeeze just a little harder. His eyes roll back. His hips stutter.

“You want to be good for me, Adrian?”

He nods so fast it looks painful. “Yes. Please. I wanna be so good. I’ll be the best. I’ll do anything.”

You smile and pull his sweats down just enough, and the way he moans when you finally wrap your hand around him without the fabric between you

“Then lie still,” you say sweetly, “and let me make you come just like this.”

Adrian whines — actually whines — but obeys, fists knotting in the sheets like that’s the only way he can keep himself from grabbing you. His eyes are glassy, locked on yours, desperate.

You kiss lower. Over bruised skin, over the sharp lines of his stomach, until you’re hovering over his throbbing cock. The heat coming off him is near unbearable.

You glance up, meeting his gaze, and the sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a prayer. Then you take him into your mouth, slow, deliberate, letting the weight of him rest heavy on your tongue.

“Holy f—fuck, babe, oh my God,” Adrian gasps, eyes snapping shut, his hips jerking up helplessly before he forces them back down. “Okay, okay, I’ll be still. I’m still. I’m so still. I’m like a sexy statue—fuck—don’t stop—”

You press your tongue against the slit, swirling slowly, and he bucks again, louder this time.

“Jesus Christ,” he pants, head tipping back. “That’s—oh fuck.”

Your hand works in time with your mouth, stroking what you can’t take, squeezing just enough to make his thighs tremble. You hollow your cheeks, sliding deeper, and he nearly chokes.

“Oh my God. You’re so good. You’re so—fuck, you’re perfect. You’re—shit—babe, I can’t—” His voice breaks, wild and desperate. “I’m seriously gonna—don’t stop, don’t ever—ohhh fuck—”

He’s a mess beneath you, babbling praise, swearing like it’s the only language he knows, his whole body trembling as you take him apart piece by piece.

You swirl your tongue over the slit again and he yells, eyes flying open, staring down at you like he’s watching a miracle. His voice cracks when he moans your name, high and raw, followed by a frantic rush of words.

“Please—please—please—oh my God, you’re so hot, you’re so fucking good, I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve you—”

He groans, his hips bucking despite himself, his voice pitching higher, desperate.

“Babe, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum, I can’t—I’m begging, I’m begging, let me, please, please let me—”

You suck him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and that’s it. He chokes out a cry, his whole body jerking off the bed as he spills into your mouth, moaning like he’s being exorcised.

His hands finally leave the sheets, tangling in your hair, not to push but to anchor himself as he falls apart completely. His voice is wrecked, whiny, so very Adrian.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—oh my God—thank you—holy shit—don’t ever stop being the hottest person alive—fuck.”

He collapses back against the mattress, boneless, panting, eyes glazed over as if you’ve completely broken him. And honestly? Its so fucking hot.

You crawl up to him smug and satisfied. One hand runs lazily along his chest, tracing lazy shapes.

“You good?” you whisper, a little teasing.

He huffs out a laugh. “Good? Good? You just turned me into a puddle of sex emotions and left me here like a used napkin.”

You grin into his skin. “A very cute napkin.”

He groans and covers his face with his arm for a second, his other hand still tight around your waist like he doesn’t want you moving. Ever.

Then, after a beat, his fingers trail down. Over your ribs. Your hips. A little lower. His voice drops.

“My turn,” he says.

You look up at him. “What?”

His eyes are locked on yours now hungry, laser-focused, still Adrian but different. Wrecked but resurrected, like he got a second wind and now has a mission.

“You think I’m gonna just lay here after that and not spend the rest of the night making you fall apart? Absolutely not. I’m not built like that.”

You raise a brow. “Are you sure you have the energy?”

He smiles, slow and sharp. “My dick is running on adrenaline and your thighs. I’ll live.”

Before you can even tease him again, he’s flipping you gently onto your back, kissing down your neck like it’s a prayer, hands gliding lower with reverence and zero hesitation.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. “It’s insane. You’re like a weapon. A sexy landmine. I wanna explode on you. No wait, explode you. Shit—wait…in you? Fuck that’s not right—”

You laugh, breath hitching as he slides between your legs, already pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs before sliding your shorts off. “You’re a mess.”

He looks up, grinning like a lunatic. “A certified mess. But I eat pussy like it’s a team sport and I’ve been waiting my whole life to make you scream, so buckle up.”

You blink. “Did you just say—” But then his mouth is on you, and the rest of the sentence dies in your throat.

Adrian is viciously good at this. Too good. The kind of good that comes from obsession. From thinking about it too much. From laying in bed for weeks with his hand down his sweats, jerking himself raw to the idea of how you’d taste, what you’d sound like, what kind of noise he could pull from you if you’d ever let him.

And now you are.

His lips close around your clit, sucking gently, and the first broken sound that falls from your mouth makes him moan right back into you. The vibration sends a shock through your body. Your hips jerk, and his fingers dig into your thighs like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

He alternates, messy and intentional — slow, lazy licks that curl your toes, followed by sharp, focused strokes that have you crying out, clutching the sheets.

And God, he loves the sound.

“Yeah,” he groans into you, his voice wrecked, unsteady. “Give me that. Say my name again—fuck, that’s it—”

You don’t know what you’re saying anymore. Probably nonsense. Maybe begging. Definitely his name, over and over, like it’s the only word you remember.

His hands never stop moving. One slides up to your chest, tweaking your nipple until you gasp. The other curls beneath your thigh, pulling you closer, like he wants you suffocating him, drowning him in everything you have to give.

Then his tongue plunges inside you, sudden and deep, and the sensation rips a cry from your throat. Your back arches clean off the mattress, body shuddering.

You grab a fistful of his curls, pressing him closer, harder, needing him deeper.

And when your eyes flick down, you catch his.

He’s watching you, wild-eyed, smug, filthy satisfaction curling his lips even as his mouth stays locked between your legs. He looks at you like he’s devouring you whole, like watching you tremble under his tongue is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

He moans when you clamp down around him, the sound vibrating through you, and it makes your thighs shake. he doesn’t stop there. Of course he doesn’t.

He pulls back just enough to flatten his tongue against your clit, sucking hard, while two fingers slide inside you without warning, curling in a way that makes you see stars.

“Holy shit—” you gasp, your whole body arching.

Adrian pulls back just enough to grin up at you, his face glistening, eyes wild. “Never had anyone do that, huh?”

You shake your head, barely able to breathe, let alone answer.

His grin widens, filthy and proud. “Yeah. Thought so. I’ve, uh… practiced. A lot. On myself. Don’t ask.”

And then he does it again, fingers stroking that perfect spot inside you while his mouth works your clit, messy and relentless. The combination makes your vision blur.

Your hips buck wildly, but he just groans and holds you down, pinning you to the bed with strength you forget he has until it’s pressed against you like this.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he babbles between licks, his words muffled against you. “I could do this forever. Wanna make you cum so hard you forget your own name, just mine, only mine.”

Your hands claw at his hair, tugging, needing more, and he laughs into you. Actually laughs. “Oh my God, you’re so hot like this. You’re shaking. You’re gonna lose it, aren’t you? Come on, babe, give it to me”

Then he does something you’ve never experienced, sliding a third finger inside you as his tongue flicks in a ruthless rhythm, sucking at your clit like he’s determined to wring every sound out of you.

Your cry is raw, broken, and he groans like it’s his reward.

“Yeahhh, that’s it. That’s it, fuck yes, you’re perfect, you’re so perfect, holy shit, do it again, cum for me, babe”

Your orgasm hits hard, violent, tearing through you so intensely you half think you black out. Your thighs clamp around his head, your nails dig into his scalp, and all you can do is say his name as wave after wave crashes over you.

And Adrian doesn’t stop. He rides it with you, licking you through it, fingers never faltering, moaning like he’s the one coming.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re trembling, utterly ruined. He crawls up your body, his face slick with you, grinning like the absolute freak he is.

He kisses you sloppy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and whispers against your lips:

“Told you. Viciously good. And I’m just getting started.”

You blink at him, dazed. “Holy shit.”

Adrian’s grin is still plastered on his face when he says, “I accept tips. And snacks.”

You laugh, breathless, chest still heaving. Then, with a sly smile, you murmur, “What if I just want your tip?”

He freezes. Blinks. Looks like his brain just blue-screened.

“…Like… just the tip?”

You keep your face straight, biting back a laugh. “Maybe.”

“Oh my God,” he whispers, sitting up like he just heard the word of the Lord. “You’re serious. You’re—holy shit, you’re so fucked up. I fucking love it.”

“Or we can go to sleep,” you suggest knowing it’d drive him crazy.

“No, no, no, don’t take it back. This is like…this is the pinnacle. This is the final boss. The horny Mount Everest. Just the tip. I can do this.”

You snort. “You really think you can handle that?”

He nods furiously. “I’ve been training my whole life for this moment.”

He settles between your legs reaching down to rub his swollen tip against your sensitive clit. The contact makes your hips twitch which he enjoys. He rubs himself against you again and again making you clench around nothing.

“Adrian,” you beg, bringing your hands to his face to pull him in for a kiss. You moan against his tongue and feel as he guides his cock down to your entrance. He pushes the tip in and stills. He clutches the sheets beside your head like it’s taking everything he has not to slam forward.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, forehead dropping against yours. “Okay. Okay, this is fine. This is good. This is so much worse than I thought it’d be.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Worse?”

“In a hot way,” he whimpers. “In a—oh God, in a really hot way. Like the rest of my dick is begging to go inside.”

You squeeze around him deliberately, and he shouts.

“Hey! You can’t—don’t—holy shit, you’re trying to murder me! You said just the tip. I’m following instructions. I need more.” He pulls it out only to thrust it back in over and over again.

You kiss his jaw, your voice wicked in his ear. “Beg for it.”

He lets out a strangled laugh, breathless and desperate. “You’re so mean. You’re perfect. Okay—fine, I’m begging. Please. Please let me give you more. Please let me ruin this whole ‘just the tip’.”

You pretend to think, still grinding your hips just enough to drive him insane. “Hmm. Tempting.”

“Not tempting!” he nearly cries, clutching you tighter. “Necessary! This is a medical emergency! I’m gonna—oh my God—please, please, please—”

You finally nod. “Put it in.”

And when you let him sink all the way in, his groan is guttural, like something pulled straight from his soul.

“Ohhh, fuck.” He drags as his hips begin to thrust slowly at first like he’s savoring the experience. You clench around him and he moves faster. The room is thick with heat and noise, the creak of the bed, the slap of skin, Adrian’s desperate groans spilling out against your neck.

You shift, straddling him, hands braced on his chest, riding him hard and slow, and he’s losing it.

“Holy shit—yeah, fuck, don’t stop… gonna—oh my God,” he babbles reaching up to pinch your nipples.

And then the Bluetooth system kicks to life in the room. The speakers rattle the walls as a sleazy guitar riff tears through the silence.

“She’s my cherry pie! Cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise!”

You both freeze mid-motion.

Adrian’s eyes go wide, pupils blown, curls plastered to his sweaty forehead. “Oh my God… that’s Warrant.”

Before you can reply, the chorus explodes again — “She’s my cherry pie!” loud enough the floor practically vibrates.

Adrian bursts out laughing, half-delirious, half-aroused. “Are you kidding me?! This is—this is the sex soundtrack of the gods!”

You’re laughing too, breathless, your rhythm faltering as you press a hand to his mouth to shut him up. “Do we stop?”

He pulls your hand away, still grinning like a lunatic. “No, no, no—don’t stop. This is fate. We’re doing this. We’re—oh fuck—yeah, baby, ride me like a sleazy ‘80s music video!”

You slap his chest, giggling, but you don’t stop moving. If anything, the ridiculousness only spurs you on, each thrust syncing with the pounding chorus.

From down the hall, faintly over the music, comes Chris’s unmistakable bellow

“YOU’RE WELCOME, ASSHOLES!”

Adrian moans louder, throwing his head back. “Yes! Oh my God, he knows! He knows and he’s helping!”

You choke on a laugh, burying your face in his neck as he clutches you tighter, rocking up into you with frantic, needy rhythm. The song blares on, shameless and obscene, as you both fall apart in each other’s arms, sweat-slick and grinning like idiots.

The song finally cuts, either because Chris passed out or Emilia stormed into the living room and murdered him with her bare hands.

The silence that follows is heavy, warm, and a little absurd. You’re both still catching your breath, tangled together in a sweaty knot of limbs and sheets.

Adrian rolls onto his side immediately, pulling you with him like you’re his human pillow. His curls stick to his forehead, his chest is still heaving, and he’s smiling so hard it looks painful.

“You’re, uh… you’re incredible,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Like, capital-I Incredible. Like, Avengers-level Incredible. Except better, because they don’t cuddle after. At least I don’t think they do. Unless Thor—”

“Adrian,” you murmur, stroking his damp curls back.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and sleep.”

He hums happily, kissing the side of your neck once, soft and quick, before burrowing closer. Within minutes, he’s out cold, his arm heavy around your waist, his breath warm and steady against your skin.

You fall asleep not long after, smiling in spite of yourself.

When morning comes Adrian is still asleep. You grab your shorts and a hoodie before slipping out of the room. The kitchen smells like burnt bacon and coffee strong enough to take paint off a car. Everyone’s crammed around the island, Ads scrolling on her phone, Emilia trying to fix Chris’s massacre of scrambled eggs, Economos nursing a black coffee with the face of a man already done with life.

You slip into a chair, hoodie pulled low, trying to look normal. Adrian strolls in not long after, hair wild, still humming Cherry Pie under his breath. He plops down next to you, immediately stealing the mug out of your hands.

Ads doesn’t even look up. “Sooooooo. That was fast.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, heat crawling up your neck.

Chris turns around with the frying pan, grinning like a maniac. “You’re welcome, actually.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Adrian perks up, interested. “Wait—you were the one who turned on Warrant?”

“Duh,” Chris says, proud. “Walls are thin, dude. We could all hear you going at it. Economos was crying about it. So instead of cockblocking, I made it a vibe.”

Economos slams his mug down. “I wasn’t crying, I was trying to sleep!”

Ads snorts, finally glancing up. “You guys are disgusting.”

Emilia, without looking up from the eggs: “If I ever have to hear Cherry Pie again, I’m burning this place to the fucking ground.”

Adrian throws his arm around your chair, completely unbothered, smug as hell. “Honestly? Best soundtrack of my life. Perfect rhythm. Inspirational, even.”

Economos groans. “Jesus Christ, shut up.”

Chris points his spatula at the two of you, grinning. “Face it, we’re the best roommates in the world. We literally made you a sex playlist without trying.”

Ads makes a face. “Please, never phrase it like that again.”

Adrian leans in, voice loud and shameless. “I think we should test the sound system again tonight. For… science.”

Emilia slams the spatula down, glaring daggers. “You test it again and I swear to God, Adrian, I’ll shove that Bluetooth speaker so far up your ass, you’ll be humming Def Leppard until you die.”