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your eyes widen and your mouth gapes open just a little. he was never meant to find out. you'd saved it as that after a drunken night out with your friends: you'd been drooling over his big freckled arms and the sun-damaged skin on his neck and how he used full stops at the end of his messages. you kept it that way because you thought it was funny (and also because it was true).

jack's not really mad, in fact, he's far from it. he knows you're into the fact that he's a silver fox, and he loves it: it makes him feel good, decades younger, attractive. but he can see that you're flustered, so he plays into it.

"is that how you see me?" he asks, his sharp eyes roaming over your form as droplets of water make their way down your skin. "i'm just an old man to you? a dusty old bastard?"

you open your mouth to protest, no, it was just a joke, but he cuts you off: "drop your towel and come give your dusty old daddy a kiss."

and his voice is so firm and gravelly, how could you argue with him? you crawl into his arms, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. he turns it hungry, of course. all that dilf talk makes him feel virile.

then he's pounding your brains out, making you confess: "say it for me, baby. say it— say you love old man cock. you love this old man cock, don't you? love my daddy parts even though they're tired? still work good enough to turn your brain off, hmm?" while your eyes roll back into your skull.

"i'm big, thick, and i can still get hard, can't i? that not good enough for you?" and yeah, he fucking can. his dick bullies into your cunt so forcefully that it would probably hurt if you weren't so ridiculously soaked with slick. "that's right, moan for me. let daddy know he's still got it. this dilf can still turn you into a fuckin' fountain, right?"

after he's tired you out, he pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours. "didn't mean it in a bad way," you murmur plaintively into the space between you. "i love being your controversially young girlfriend."

“Sit up, sweetheart.” “Uncross your legs.” “Laptop higher.” “Relax your jaw.” 

He knows he’s a perpetual nuisance, aware he sounds like someone’s dad, can practically hear the eye-roll you swallow every time. 

He also knows it embarrasses you, especially at work, where your face goes warm when he corrects you within earshot of other people. And it isn’t that he sets out to make you squirm, though he’d be lying if he said he got nothing out of that quick little fluster he can pull from you with a word, a hand, a look. 

It’s just that once he notices you folded in on yourself for too long, something in him firms. His voice drops into that clipped, authoritative register, flipping a switch to brisk certainty and command, and by then it’s already too late to pretend you’re not going to listen. 

So when he catches you slouched at the station again, practically kissing the monitor, he doesn’t hesitate.

Steps in behind you. His palm fits against the ridge of your upper back, heat seeping straight through the thin cotton.

“Up.”

You mutter, “I hate you,” eyes never leaving the vitals grid, and Jack takes it as the green light it is.

His thumb glides from back to shoulder to nape. The opposite hand curves under your jaw’s hinge, guiding your head until your spine clicks back to neutral while the entire nurses’ station pretends their screens are riveting. 

Public proof that your posture, and maybe the rest of you, answers to Dr. Abbot’s touch far faster than to your own irritation. 

“There’s a whole skeleton under all that,” he observes dryly. “Try using it.”

You bat at his hand, a half-hearted slap. “Stop manhandling me at work.”

He ignores that, drops the chair one notch (ignoring your surprised squeak too), angles the monitor to proper eye level, then squares your shoulders with both palms. A measured squeeze follows, equal parts reassurance and warning.

“Better,” he decides. “And if I catch you bent over that phone again, I’m taking it.”

He likes the line of you best when he’s the one arranging it. 

You figure that out later, breathless and flushed, forehead buried in his sheets while he kneels behind you, two sure hands repositioning your ass in the air like he’s smoothing kinks from an instrument only he can tune.

“Uh-uh,” he grunts, and you’re too far gone to know what he means until his palm presses between your shoulder blades and eases you down, down, down, your hips staying high as your face sinks into the pillow. “Arch for me — c’mon, deeper bend, don’t cheat your lower back.” 

Your breath catches when he palms the dip he’s just created, fingers splaying and then he’s sliding his cock in your folds slow. It earns a pleased mewl from you, angle perfect because he’s engineered it that way. 

Every push has a tiny corrective tap — shoulders down, knees wider, perfect girl — until your pussy clenches and drips all over his rigid stomach and he finally lets you break form, hips snapping while his palm settles, triumphant, at the very spot that first straightened you hours ago.

MARIA NOTE hello this is my trying out little blurbs/drabbles bc this random thought rlly evoked something in me... don't know how to feel it ab. it feels naked without my fun graphics but alas! and the tiny text??? what do we think?? yes or no i'm in the middle right now so feel free to share opinions... it looked a little strange as regular but idk i'm lowkey having an existential crisis over this ok bye

you watch as he pushes his stool forward, his head and shoulders lowering between your legs. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, positioning himself closer to your pussy, his gaze roaming over your skin.

he presses a warm peck to your inner thigh. "there," he murmurs. "let me take care of you, honey. do you trust me?"

"yes," you reply, and you barely have time to exhale before he's pressing a feather-light kiss to your clit, making you gasp. "doctor abbot?"

his chuckle vibrates against your skin as he lifts his head just enough to meet your wide-eyed gaze. "just making sure everything's working right," he mutters, the clinical distance in his tone at odds to the way his tongue flicks over your clit in a quick, teasing stroke.

his hands slide up to grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there. "relax," he orders, lips brushing your inner thigh again. "let me show you what your boyfriend should've been doing."

then he lowers his mouth to your cunt properly and licks a hot, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. "what– what's this test for?" you breathe out, your chest heaving with arousal.

his mouth moves against you, tongue taking broad, languid laps. "it's called the clitoral glans test," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "to see how responsive you are. and you're being a very, very good girl, i must say."

it's not long before you're leaking all over his tongue, your slick pooling onto the paper sheets. "sweet girl," he praises. "taking my mouth so well. your boyfriend ever do this to you?"

you exhale shakily, the shame gnawing at you again as you shake your head. "no... he... he said he doesn't like doing it..."

his tongue swipes over your hole again, almost thoughtfully lapping up your juices, the ones that spilled out of you just for him. "he doesn't like it, huh? well, he's an idiot, honey, because you taste incredible."

"t-thank you," you stutter out at the praise, your hips bucking up against his mouth. "ah- sorry-"

"no apologising, sweetheart," he says, his breath hot against your folds, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin for reassurance. "i like your desperate little movements. keep going, honeygirl. let me see just how responsive you are." then his tongue is back between your legs, stroking slow, up and down, as he gauges your reactions.

"and don't you worry, honey," he says conversationally between licks, as if he wasn't making a mess of your pretty little cunt, "you make another appointment, i will be teaching your boyfriend how to eat your pussy very thoroughly, no matter how much he says he doesn't like it. cunt like this deserves to get eaten."

You could feel your face setting on fire as you desperately tried to think of what to do.

Robby’s eyes weren’t on you anymore as he got rid of his jacket and boots… this would be the perfect time to get up and scurry away towards the bedroom… Robby’s bedroom— Shit.

Your hands went to cover your bare tits as you tried to come up with something else.

“Decided to cut my sabbatical short,” Robby was explaining, “You all were right- as it turns out, I can’t go more than a month without the ED.”

You heard and felt Jack’s snicker, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles where he still held your waist.

His hard cock was still deep inside you, and as much as you hated having to depart from it, you really needed to get off and try to at least regain some decency.

Which is what you tried to do. You began rising from Jack’s lap, but in an instant, his eyes were on you, his brows furrowed.

“Where you going, sweetheart?”

He can’t be serious right now.

You glanced pointedly at Robby behind him, your voice barely a whisper as you murmured his name.

“It’s alright, honey, Robby doesn’t mind,” he spoke softly, his hands caressing you softly. “Do you, Robby?”

Robby’s soft chuckle came from somewhere closer than where he’d previously been.

“I sure don’t,” He was smirking once you slowly raised your gaze.

He’d walked to the edge of the couch, right behind Jack.

You felt your face burn with embarrassment- and yet your pussy clenched harder around Abbot as you caught Michael’s eyes drink you in.

“We were having such a good time,” Jack murmured, his mouth on your collarbones as he pecked your skin, “Would be a shame to stop now.”

Oh God, he was being serious.

“Jack- I-”

Were you dreaming? Was this one of the sick fantasies that materialized in your mind whenever Robby and Abbot were both on shift, and you had to squeeze your tights together at how incredibly hot of a pair they made?

Everything seemed to point in that direction, except for the fact that the feel of Jack’s fingers removing your hands from your naked chest was very much real- the same went for Robby’s voice.

“You know, sweetheart... we had a talk about you before I went away.”

You were bare again now, and Jack was making use of the space, filling it with delicious, taunting kisses as Michael spoke.

“Decided none of us were gonna try anything... didn’t wanna take advantage of you or anything….” His voice was rough and soft all at once as his hand went to cradle your cheek, “and now look at that.”

Heat bloomed low in your belly and on your cheeks as you heard yourself whimper.

What he was saying was… unbelievable. They liked you- both of them. Just as you liked them.

This was really happening- Dr. Robinavitch was watching you as you sat on Dr. Abbot’s cock. And they both looked incredibly casual, as if this were a daily occurrence.

“Since when has this been going on?”

When you didn’t answer, Jack stopped his ministrations on your neck to speak, “Just two weeks, man.”

“Is he lying to me?” Robby asked you, his head tilted in doubt.

“N-no,” You murmured as you cowered under his stare.

To that, he smirked, shaking his head as he muttered, “A week- that’s how long you lasted.”

“C’mon, man- you knew it was bound to happen.” Jack groaned, looking at you with a smirk as his mouth ghosted yours, “You’re too pretty not to do something about it.”

You felt your heart skip, and your hips involuntarily grind against Jack’s lap- causing you to whimper pathetically.

“Oh sweetheart…” Abbot cooed, his hands going back to rest on your hips, “Go on, take what you need.”

There was nothing you wanted to do more. As unusual as this situation was, you were so turned on that you feared you’d start dripping on the couch any second now.

Yet you watched the two men uncertainly, biting your lip as you went against your instinct to use Jack’s manhood to feel good.

“Go on, baby,” Robby encouraged you once your eyes settled on him, “Do as he said.”

His palm was still on your cheek, his thumb pulling on your lower lip to free it from your teeth’s grip… and you had no choice but to obey.

You started slow, shily grinding onto him, feeling Jack’s dick graze and reach all those sweet spots inside of you as your clit rubbed against his base.

Your mouth hung open as soft whines filtered through your throat. Robby’s hands held your face so you could only look at him- and the look in his eyes… the darkness in his iris and the locking of his jaw gave you all the more incentive to go faster.

You began raising yourself on Jack’s dick just to slide back down again until you found the delicious pace from before your interruption.

Your moans weren’t so quiet anymore as you struggled to keep your eyes open and gripped Jack’s shoulders for dear life, your nails probably leaving crescent moons on his skin.

“So good for me, baby,” Jack murmured against your neck, resuming his kisses on your salty skin as he thoroughly enjoyed the show. “Such a good girl.”

You cried like a desperate little thing at that, his dick hitting that spongy spot inside of you that had you feeling on cloud nine.

“Jack feels good, baby?” Robby’s voice felt muffled, as if the pleasure was acting as a sound shield.

“Y-yes,” You whined, your voice breathless, your movements more and more desperate, “B-big,” you cried brokenly.

You felt Abbot’s growl vibrate against your chest at that, and seconds later, you felt his mouth against your ear as he whispered loud enough for Robby to hear, “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

You didn’t have the brain capacity to understand what he meant by that, or to analyze the grin that spread Michael’s lips at those words, because all you could focus on was the growing sensation that sparked in your belly.

“Oh my god,” You whined, your thighs burning with the effort as the sound of your skin slapping with Jack’s echoed against the walls.

“It’s ok, baby,” Robby murmured, watching closely as your eyes almost closed and your brows furrowed in bliss, “You’re doing so good.”

You didn’t even realize you were doing it, but as Robby guided his thumb into your mouth, instinctually, your lips closed around it, sucking him in further.

“That’s it, baby,” he nodded, the weight of his finger on your tongue making you wish it was replaced by his cock. And that image… that image made your orgasm approach even faster.

Your moans were silenced by Robby’s thumb, but Jack could feel your walls gripping him like a vice.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he commanded, kissing the spot right beneath your ear. “Be a good girl and show Robby how pretty you look when you come.”

That was it.

You didn’t even have time to mentally prepare yourself that a bright white flash of pure ecstasy overtook your soul.

You came like the world would end tomorrow, your pussy spasming around Jack as he couldn’t help but follow suit.

Somewhere in the frenzy, you could hear Abbot’s groans while Robby murmured what appeared to be soft words to you, his hand never leaving your face.

The pounding of your heart thumped in your ears as you tried to calm your breathing.

Your eyes fluttered open to both the men looking at you, Jack’s eyes soft with gratification and adoration, while Robby’s irises swirled with lust and just plain need.

“You wanna switch?”

Jack’s words didn’t even make sense to you. You were still lost in the haze of what had just happened.

“Not on the couch, man.” Robby shook his head, his lips pulling into a small smile as he watched you. “Let’s get on the bed, baby.”

__ __  __

Your legs felt like jelly as Robby towered over you.

You knew what was happening, and yet your brain was still buffering.

His lips were so close to yours… just a few inches and you’d be kissing him.

But that’s not what he had in mind.

“Lay down for me, baby.”

You blinked, needing a second to understand his command and do as told.

The mattress was soft, the comfy duvet wrinkling underneath you as you laid back, your wide eyes watching him.

With a quick move, he removed his shirt, throwing it behind him… in the direction of Abbot.

Your breath hitched at the sight of him leaning against the wall, his eyes dark as he watched the scene unfold.

By the time you looked back, Robby was naked- and your lungs took another toll.

You were propped on your elbows, shamelessly eying all of him. His broad chest, the dark hair on his pecs, on his belly, until your gaze lowered just enough to catch his cock-

You were pretty sure you’d stopped breathing completely.

That’s what they’d been talking about.

You really had seen nothing yet.

You swallowed dryly as his big hand wrapped around his dick, giving it two slow strokes that had him seemingly grow even more.

Your eyes were wide as he stalked closer to you, his smirk everlasting.

“R-Robby,” you stuttered, clearly intimidated.

“’S alright, baby. I’ll go real slow.”

“I-I- How…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he shook his head, “spread your legs for me, baby.”

And even if your heart was going crazy and your brain was telling you that was an impossible fit, you did as told.

“Wider.”

You slid your feet further across the bed, opening yourself up to him completely, eliciting a delighted groan.

“Pretty,” he murmured, his palm going to your mound and his thumb moving to your folds, exploring slowly.

Jack’s come was still leaking out of you, creating a sultry mixture with your own juices.

Your cheeks heated at his unabashed gaze, but then his other hand grabbed the base of his manhood, his tip suddenly parting your folds, and all thoughts left your head.

You were whimpering already, still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and Michael would have done anything to record those sweet sounds and listen to them on repeat all day long.

“It’s ok, baby, relax for me.” That’s all he murmured, as he started guiding his impossibly thick tip inside of you.

“Oh!” You gasped, your eyes wide open as you watched him thrust into you.

He was looking at where your bodies melted into one another, watching your greedy pussy swallow him in.

The stretch burned at first- he had the biggest cock you’d ever seen after all- counting porn- but his soft growls and groans were making you all the more pliant.

His thumb started circling your clit to help you out as broken cries fled your throat.

He was retracting his hips just to thrust softly into you, over and over again, filling you up inch by never-ending inch.

“O-Oh my god,” You were crying, your hands fisting the sheets as he kept going.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he reassured you, his free hand tight on our waist. “Stretching so good for me- such a good girl.”

Your walls tightened around him at that, causing him to hiss.

“Let me in- just like that… good girl”

You knew the moment he was in to the hilt, because you could barely breathe at the feeling of how unbelievably full you felt.

Breathy gasps spilled from your lips as your gazes met.

“Told you you could do it,” he smirked, before he started to move.

The moan you let out at the first full, deep thrust was more of a scream.

“Robby!” you gasped, your fingers gripping his forearm as he started building his pace.

His back hurt like a motherfucker from all those hours on his bike, but he’ll be damned if he denied himself this sight.

“He always makes you do all the work?”

How his voice was still so even when you could barely breathe, let alone think, was a mystery.

You want to tell him the truth, that no, Jack was usually very much adamant in his need to take care of you, to pin you beneath him and fuck you thoroughly well into the day… but all you could manage was a whine.

You watched his lips pull into a grin at the state he’d rendered you in.

“Oh, c’mon, brother, I’ve just come back from a twelve-hour shift,” Jack defended himself from his spot against the wall as your eyes found him.

You could see from the bed, even with his boxers back on, that he was hard again.

God, this was all so hot.

The way both their eyes were only focused on you as Robby’s thrusts had you bouncing up on the bed, your tits moving in tandem with his harsh movements…

“And she hasn’t?” Robby raised his brows, shooting Jack a quick, disappointed look, before coming back to you.

“You don’t have to worry about it now, baby,” he spoke softly, the thumb he still had on your bundle of nerves resuming its torturous movements. “I’ll take care of you like you deserve from now on.”

You felt butterflies in your stomach at those words.

Your hips were chasing his movements, forcing the loud smacking of his skin hitting your core over and over again to get even louder.

You could feel every inch of his dick inside you, every vein and ridge slide against your velvety walls as his tip speared you and reached parts of you no one ever could find but him.

And with a feeling like that… it was inevitable for tears to gather in your eyes, your vision blurring as a knot of pleasure tightened inside you.

“Oh baby, I know it’s a lot.” his voice was calming, soothing your overexited system.

It was a lot. He was a whole damn lot.

“Just take it,” he cooed, “Don’t think about it, sugar, just be good for me and Jack, yeah?”

You slowly nodded, tears rolling down your temples and onto the sheets as the air filled with your moans.

“That’s it, pretty girl— that’s it.”

And suddenly, it was all too much.

“I-I- Oh my-”

He groaned at how tight you got. His chest inflating with the effort not to come on the spot.

“Let go, baby,” he instructed. “Be a good girl and come for me.”

The last thing you saw was his smile; everything after that was sort of a blur.

A tidal wave of pleasure washed over your body; you were pretty sure you were moaning his name like a prayer as you experienced a mind-blowing orgasm.

Your eyes and ears started functioning again as Robby’s thrusts got sloppier, more erratic.

He grinned as you whimpered at the overstimulation, his groans getting louder as he got closer, until he spilled inside you with a feral roar.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed after several moments, slowly pulling out of you.

Jack had gotten beside him somewhere in the meantime, and both men’s eyes fell to the release spilling out of your spent core.

“C’mere,” you whined, breaking them out of their amazed trance.

They both smiled, and it was Jack who joined you on the bed first, moving you so your head could rest on the pillow as he spooned you, wrapping his arms around you.

“You did real good, sweetheart,” he murmured to your ear, his stubble grazing your skin as your eyes fluttered shut.

You were exhausted.

You didn’t even hear Robby lying down next to you until he placed your head to rest on his chest.

“So… am I gonna have to sanitize every surface of the house?”

A soft laugh fled your throat as Jack grinned amusedly.

“The kitchen should be saf—” The look you sent Jack had him suddenly remember all the alternative meals he’d consumed on the kitchen counter. “No, yeah… the whole apartment.”

it was something you rarely noticed half the time. you could have made a list on when jack clicks his tongue.

every time he’d slip his cock inside of you, every time you had an orgasm, every time you did something he usually would correct (both in bed and at work), and every time you let out a whimper because he had done something you’d particularly enjoyed.

you never questioned it. either because you were too caught up in your pleasure to care, or you were too caught up in your pleasure to hear.

no matter the reason he did it, you didn’t care to ask or know. it was just another one of your boyfriends weird quirks to you.

today was the day you found out why.

you were doing your normal rounds of patients in the ER, talking to the ones who seemed lonely and making your visit quick and simple for the ones who wanted to do anything but talk.

you bumped into jack while you were walking down the hall, head down and distracted by the chart you were reading in your hands.

jack reached out to steady you by your shoulders, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

“it would be helpful if you looked where you were going.” he teased, but you gave him a half smile in response. it was nothing against him or something he’d done, you were simply distracted in returning some results to the nurses station.

jack knew this is exactly the moment he’d been waiting for ever since he started clicking his tongue when you were around.

he discovered clicker training by complete accident. he had overheard two patients talking about it when he entered their exam room, and his curiosity got the better of him. he asked them what that was, assuming it was for their pets at home.

his curiosity and interest only grew when they pair flushed and became avoidant with their eyes and answers. he didn’t push the couple, but it was the first thing he researched when he got off his shift.

and that’s how jack abbot formed the idea to attempt to clicker train his girlfriend.

and he was about to find out if his months of discreet training had paid off.

jack shook his head and clicked his tongue, watching with a smug smirk as you instantly straightened up and met his eyes with almost alarming attention.

“what?” you asked sharply, shifting nervously. “i’m sorry, jack. i’ll pay proper attention next time.” you apologised profusely, trying to ignore the sudden rush of heat in your cheeks and the pulse between your thighs.

you looked confused and nervous when jack started laughing. “what?” you urged, biting your inner cheek as he crossed his arms. “what are you laughing at?”

jack didn’t respond, he only reached up his hand to ruffle your hair in a way that felt condescending. “nothing, sweetheart. i’m just glad i didn’t do all of that work for nothing.”

that made you frown even harder. “what does that mean?” you demanded, pushing his bicep teasingly.

jack bent down so he was close enough to whisper in your ear. “just continue with your rounds. maybe if you’re good i’ll tell you later.” he murmured.

you watched as he turned to walk away, a puzzled expression taking over the embarrassed one.

you only realised what he was referring to when he clicked his tongue again, and you realised how immediately you straightened yourself.

your boyfriend had clicker trained you without you knowing.

he could happily spend hours on end alternating between kneading them in his rough hands and sucking your nipples into his wet mouth, tracing them teasingly with his tongue.

he bought various different bras in different colours and designs simply because he loves to see them ‘all dolled up’. it made you embarrassed at times. your cheeks would flush a soft pink as you lay out in front of him, his eyes locked onto your chest exclusively. “they’re so beautiful, sweetheart. they’re looking so pretty in their lace.” he cooed, groping them tenderly over the fabric.

“j- jack.” you flushed, hiding your bright face behind your hands. “what, baby? i’m admiring you.” he stated, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before turning his attention to your breasts.

instead of undoing the clasp, he opted to pull the cups down and let them spill free. jack groaned at the sight he’d seen a million times yet would never get tired of. “i’m gonna give them the attention they deserve.” he promised before leaning down to suckle on your right breast, squeezing the other with his free hand.

you whined, hands reaching to grasp at the greying hair on his head. “j- jack, fuck.” you gasped. this was a familiar game you both played. jack sucking on your tits, pleasuring himself more than you, and you getting lulled into a steady stream of bliss.

you could feel jacks smile growing on you as you yawned. “sleepy, huh?” he murmured, pulling off your swollen nipple to meet your eyes. you shook your head, rubbing your eyes with a fist. “‘s okay, angel. you can sleep. i’ve gotcha.” he reassured softly. this is always how it went. you hummed groggily, nestling into the sheets as jack resumed his place on your chest.

The city moved fast enough that sometimes you forgot there was a world outside of it.

That was one of the first things you'd learned after leaving home, that there was no room for stillness here.

No room for lingering over coffee while the sun climbed above the horizon. No room for long walks on the beach collecting shells simply because they were pretty. No room for sitting on the porch with your mother listening to the waves roll in and out while she read one of her mystery novels and occasionally pointed out a pelican diving offshore.

The city demanded motion and somewhere along the way, you'd become very good at giving it exactly what it wanted.

Your phone buzzed before the elevator doors had even fully opened onto the thirty-second floor.

You answered without breaking stride.

"Hello." A pause. "Check your email."

Another pause.

"Because you asked me to review it last night."

The call ended with a sheepish thank you and you smiled despite yourself. Typical.

By the time you crossed the open-concept office, three more people had stopped you. One needed approval on a furniture selection, one wanted reassurance before a client presentation, the last simply needed help finding a file she'd somehow misplaced. You handled all three before reaching your desk. Your unofficial title around the office was the final boss. Every design proposal eventually landed in your inbox. Every presentation passed through your hands before reaching a client. You caught mistakes no one else noticed, fixed problems before they became disasters.

Most importantly, you never said no.

Need someone to stay late? You. Need someone to cover a meeting? You. Need someone to fly across the country on two days' notice? You. You'd spent years becoming indispensable. Sometimes you wondered if anyone would notice if you stopped, but the thought never lingered around long enough to stir anything up.

Your assistant appeared beside your desk.

"Car's ready for you in ten."

You glanced at the clock, right, the Henderson project at the Hilton Conference. After there's a lunch meeting downtown for a proposal for a new client. Another presentation. Another polished smile.

"Got it."

You gathered your tablet and notebook before following a group of coworkers toward the elevators. The familiar rhythm settled around you immediately. Discussion of budgets, fabric samples, projected timelines, and somebody debating lighting fixtures. You contributed automatically, barely needing to think, everything had become muscle memory at this point.

The elevator carried everyone toward the lobby. Your reflection stared back from the mirrored walls. Tailored blazer with comfortable heels, phone already in hand. You looked like someone who was successful, someone who looked like she belonged here. And that was the goal after all, wasn't it?

The doors opened as the group spilled into the lobby and headed toward the company car waiting outside. You were halfway across the marble floor when your phone rang again. You glanced down, expecting another coworker, instead, an unfamiliar number flashed across the screen.

Your steps slowed.

The area code punched a small, unexpected hole straight through your chest.

Home. Not New York. Not work. Home.

That tiny beach town you'd left nearly a decade ago after growing up on that beach that washed everything away. That town where everyone knew everyone, where there wasn't a path you could walk without picking up a handful of sand with you. That town where your mother still lived.

For a moment, the noise of the lobby faded as the ringing continued. Beside you, your coworkers kept walking toward the revolving doors while you stared at the screen. Maybe it was spam. Maybe someone dialed the wrong number. Maybe—

Something uneasy curled low in your stomach.

The phone rang. And rang.

You swiped to answer.

"Hello?"

The word came out distracted, automatic and professional. There was a pause, a breath, then a voice you didn't recognize said something close to your name. And suddenly, for reasons you couldn't explain, the world didn't feel quite so steady beneath your feet anymore.

"Hello?"

The revolving doors swept open as you stepped outside. Warm city air rushed up to meet you, carrying the familiar sounds of honking cars, distant sirens, and hundreds of conversations blending into one endless hum.

"Am I speaking with—" The woman on the other end said your name clear as day.

"Yes, this is she."

"Hi. My name is Marlene Johnson. I'm the medical examiner at Sunset Shores Hospital in San Vyranda."

You frowned.

Sunset Shores. San Vyranda. Home. A strange knot formed in your stomach.

The woman hesitated, the pause lasted less than a second but it was long enough to change everything.

"I'm sorry that this is the first time we're speaking."

Your steps slowed to a sluggish drawl, the echo of your heels dulling against the pavement. Your coworkers continued walking ahead toward the company vehicle, someone laughed about something, someone opened a car door and the world carried on.

"We received your contact information from your mother's emergency records,"

Your mother's name left the woman's mouth and for a moment, it didn't mean anything. Just a collection of syllables, a familiar sound, something your brain recognized but refused to process.

"She was involved in an accident yesterday morning."

You stopped walking entirely.

People streamed around you on the sidewalk. A businessman even bumped your shoulder, you didn't react.

"There was a truck—" The woman's voice crackled. Or maybe that was inside your head. "—intersection—" Static. "—driver failed to stop—" Thrumming. "—I'm so sorry for your loss."

Loss.

The word floated somewhere distant, meaningless and impossible. Your mother couldn't be dead, you'd just spoken to her three days ago. She'd been standing in her kitchen making blueberry muffins complaining about her neighbor's lawn, asking whether you were eating enough vegetables.

Dead people didn't do those things.

"Miss?" The woman was still talking.

You realized several seconds had passed without you responding.

"I understand this is overwhelming." Overwhelming. That seemed like a ridiculous understatement. "—need you to come down as soon as possible."

You stared at the traffic moving through the intersection. Red light. Green light. People crossing. Everything operating exactly as it always had.

"—confirm identification—" A horn blared somewhere. "—funeral arrangements—" Someone brushed past your arm. "—next of kin—"

You couldn't feel your fingers, couldn't feel your feet, couldn't feel much of anything. The city suddenly seemed very far away.

"Miss?"

"Okay." The word slipped out automatically, small and hollow. It felt nothing like your own. Nothing like the voice that had commanded the office floor no more than an hour ago. "Okay."

The lady ended the call shortly afterward, or maybe you ended it, you weren't entirely sure. The phone remained pressed against your ear long after the line went dead.

"Hey."

A hand touched your shoulder, you jumped more than necessary. The entire world around you snapping back into motion as if no time had passed at all.

One of your coworkers stood beside you with concern written across her face.

"You okay?"

The question seemed absurd. You looked at her, opened your mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Your tongue felt too large, your thoughts too slow, too scattered.

"I have to go home."

"What happened?"

"I don't… feel good." You weren't even sure the words made sense, only that they were easier than the truth.

Your mother is dead. Your mother is dead? Your mother is dead.

The sentence refused to settle anywhere inside your head, racketing and echoing off the walls with a shaking disbelief. Your coworker offered to call someone. You declined. Another suggested taking you to urgent care when they saw the shake of your hands. You declined that too. You just turned and started walking. At some point you reached your apartment, the space between those events simply vanished. Later, you'd remember flashes. The subway. An elevator. Your keys falling twice before fitting into the lock.

But mostly there was nothing, just blank space, missing time.

You sat on the couch still wearing your blazer, still holding your phone. Sunlight crawled slowly across the hardwood floor as hours passed. Then darkness with the glinting shine from the moon. Then morning. The city continued outside your windows, cars honking, people beginning their commute, the construction over on twelve that's been going on for three months.

Life. Buzzing and beating around you.

You sat perfectly still. Waiting for reality to catch up. Waiting for someone to call and explain there had been a mistake. Waiting for your phone to ring with your mother's name across the screen.

It never did.

Days blurred together afterward. Your coworkers checked on you constantly, their worry of any sickness overrun with condolences when you had told them the truth of your disappearance. Missed calls filled your phone screen, apologetic voicemails, and wilted flowers began to crowd every corner of your apartment next to takeout containers accumulating in the kitchen. You slept in fragments, and woke disoriented. Forgot what day it was, whether you'd eaten, forgot entire conversations. And then, little by little, the words started sticking. Your mother. The accident. The funeral arrangements. Gone. Gone. Gone. The true realization arrived in pieces, each one cutting deeper than the last.

You found yourself functioning on instinct. Not like the autopilot you had been able to tap into for work. This one was lethargic and unsteady. Thoughts either sticking in your head on repeat or fading into the fog the second you'd heard them. You had written out the most important things on sticky notes on your fridge. Plane tickets. Funeral home. Death certificate. Insurance paperwork. Hotel reservations for family members. Endless forms. Endless signatures. An endless nightmare you'd never thought you'd have to live.

You tried to keep it all at arm's length, to complete them all without thinking. As if handling someone else's tragedy, as if you were merely assisting with a project. Another deadline. Another checklist. Another task that needed doing. Your brain yearned for the familiar. Soon the time came and your manager approved your leave immediately, told you to take however much time you needed. Coworkers sent more flowers, cards, and meals. You thanked all of them, but you couldn't remember a single thing you said past that.

The night before your flight, you stood alone in your apartment. Suitcase packed beside the door, silence filling every room. Your eyes drifted toward your phone sitting on the kitchen counter, for a long time, you simply stared at it. Then, with shaking hands, you opened your contacts, scrolled and found her name.

Mom.

Your thumb hovered over the call button. You already knew what would happen but you pressed it anyway. The line rang once, twice, the endless trilling echoing in your ear. Then her voicemail answered.

"Hiya, you've reached—"

The sound of her voice shattered something inside you. And for the first time since the phone call, you cried. You cried until your chest ached and eyes burned, then you cried some more.

The drive into town from the airport felt shorter than you remembered. Or maybe grief simply swallowed distance whole. One minute you were staring blankly out the airplane window as clouds drifted beneath the wing. The next, you were pulling onto familiar roads lined with sea oats and weathered beach fences.

Everything looked exactly the same and completely different. The faded welcome sign, the bait shop on the corner, the ice cream stand that somehow survived every hurricane season. You recognized all of it yet it felt like looking at someone else's memories. Like peering through fogged glass. The ocean appeared between buildings as you drove. Blue, endless and unchanged.

Your chest tightened.

The sight should have felt like coming home, instead it felt like arriving too late. The funeral passed in much of the same way, a blur or a faded dream. Like you'd stepped out of your body and was watching something happening to someone else.

You remembered standing beside the casket. Remembered staring at polished wood because looking anywhere else felt impossible. People approached in waves. Old neighbors and former teachers, friends of your mother you'd known your entire life. They all said variations of the same thing.

"She was wonderful."

"She talked about you constantly."

"I'm so sorry."

"If you need anything..."

You nodded and thanked them. Accepted hugs, condolences and casseroles wrapped in aluminum foil. You couldn't recall a single face afterward. Only fragments of perfume, the scent of lilies, a hand squeezing yours and someone crying. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice kept insisting this was temporary. That eventually your mother would appear from somewhere and laugh about the misunderstanding.

The service ended, the people left, the flowers remained. And your mother stayed where she was.

The reality of that never fully landed, not then, not yet. A week later, you were back in the city. Back in your apartment, back in the life you'd built. At least physically, mentally, it felt as though some essential piece of you had been left behind. The apartment greeted you with silence, not peaceful silence. Wrong silence, the kind that seemed to stretch into every corner.

You dropped your suitcase near the door and waited. For what, you weren't sure. Maybe for your phone to ring. Maybe for your mother to ask if you'd gotten home safely. She always did, even after ten years, even when you reminded her you were a grown woman. Especially then. You stood in the foyer for several minutes before remembering why she wouldn't call. The realization hit like a fresh bruise, tender, immediate and cruel.

Your mother was supposed to grow old.

The thought had entered your mind and wouldn't leave, compounding itself onto every fired neuron in your brain. She was supposed to complain about her knees, supposed to start forgetting where she left her glasses, supposed to become the eccentric old woman feeding seagulls from her porch despite repeated warnings not to.

There was supposed to be more time.

Years of it. Decades.

Not this. Not an intersection. Not a truck. Not a stranger's mistake. Not a phone call in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday.

The following weeks slipped apart around the edges. Texts arrived, you ignored them. Coworkers checked in, you answered with vague responses. Friends invited you out, you declined every time. Work became something you endured, you still showed up, still attended meetings and reviewed presentations but the spark that once drove you had vanished.

People eventually noticed, you knew they did but nobody said much. Everyone seemed afraid of saying the wrong thing. You appreciated that and hated it all at once. Some afternoons you found yourself staring at a design board for twenty minutes without absorbing a single detail. Colors blurred together, furniture layouts became meaningless.

The things that once mattered suddenly felt very small.

You stopped cooking, stopped grocery shopping regularly. Most nights consisted of takeout eaten standing at the kitchen sink, the containers piled up faster than they should have. You'd kept promising yourself you'd throw them away tomorrow. Tomorrow kept moving.

Sleep became impossible in your bedroom. The bed felt too large, too empty. It was strange. You had never noticed it before but now it felt that there was an internal tie cut within you, and everything felt so one sided. So lonely. Things you had often, if not always, done on your own, felt empty. Even the apartment felt too hollow, the walls in your bedroom echoed differently now. So you migrated to the couch with one blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the television on low volume as lights from the city filtered through the windows.

It wasn't comfortable, but it was easier. Everything became easier when you stopped caring, like the voicemails.

The voicemails remained unheard in your phone, seven messages to be exact.

The number had burned itself in the back of your mind, a tiny red number you couldn't bring yourself to clear. They were the last parts of your mother that were left unscathed by all this. You knew most were likely ordinary, your mother reminding you to call her, telling you about a recipe she'd tried, asking if you'd seen some news story she'd forgotten to send.

The final voicemail sat at the bottom of the list, untouched. Untouched because once you listened to it, there would never be another one and as long as it remained unheard, some irrational part of you could pretend her voice was still waiting. Still alive. Still there.

Some mornings your hand reached for your phone before you were fully awake. You'd see something funny online, find a new coffee shop, see a bookstore she'd love have a sale and instinctively think: I should call Mom. The thought happened dozens of times, every day, a reflex that built over years. Each time reality followed seconds later. A delayed collision. A fresh impact. She isn't here. You'd lower the phone, swallow hard and continue with your day. Until the next time. And the next. And the next.

One rainy Thursday evening, you found yourself standing in the cereal aisle of a grocery store, frozen, staring at a box your mother always bought. Without thinking, you pulled out your phone, your thumb moved automatically, scrolling through your contacts until you found it.

Mom.

You pressed it before your brain could catch up. The line began ringing. Once. Twice. Three times. Then her voicemail answered. You hung up immediately, heart hammering, breath caught somewhere in your throat. Around you, people continued shopping comparing prices, pushing carts, living their lives. You stood motionless beneath fluorescent lights and finally understood something terrifying.

The world had not stopped when your mother died, only yours had.

You turned and left the grocery store that second, your cereal and basket of food abandoned as you darted for the the nearest exit and went back home.

Back to being alone.

The typical silence of your apartment greeted you with a bitter chill. You found yourself suddenly restless, arms unable to stay at your side, legs buzzing to break free from where they stood still. You had to do something, anything. It didn't take long for your eyes to catch onto a target and lock in on it. Soon you were kneeling beside an overstuffed bookshelf you'd been meaning to organize for months before… now it had become a monstrous pile that claimed ownership of the better half of your hallway.

The apartment had become a reflection of you. Untended, and half-finished. Stuck.

A thin layer of dust coated the shelves as you sifted through, tossing donations into a pile near the laundry-occupied armchair in the corner. The television murmured softly in the background, providing noise you weren't actually listening to.

You pulled a book free and a postcard fluttered to the floor, you almost ignored it, but then you recognized the image. The beach. Home.

You stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. The edges were worn, sun-faded and old. On the front, the ocean stretched endlessly beneath a summer sky. The very same stretch of shoreline you'd spent your childhood exploring. The same beach where your mother used to wake you before sunrise with a thermos of hot chocolate and a promise that the dolphins were out this morning.

Old memories flooded your mind as you held the cardstock in your fingers. You remembered sand sticking to your ankles, the smell of sunscreen, the weight of seashells collected in your pockets, your mother's laughter carried away by the wind. You remembered sitting beside her on the porch after long days at the beach, both of you wrapped in oversized sweatshirts watching the waves disappear into darkness talking about everything and nothing.

Back then, you'd thought those summers would last forever. Back then, your mother had seemed immortal.

The postcard trembled slightly in your hands. Without warning, something inside you cracked. In one fell swoop, enough to let everything spill through as you sank against the wall, the postcard clenched in your fist. The apartment suddenly felt suffocating, the walls too close, the city too loud. The life you'd spent years building suddenly looked unfamiliar, as though it belonged to someone else. You glanced around the room at the expensive furniture, the carefully chosen decor, framed certificates. The polished version of yourself you'd spent years creating. None of it mattered. Not anymore.

The thought arrived quietly, then rooted itself deep. What am I still doing here?

The answer never came, instead another thought followed, simple but dangerous. If I leave everything behind, maybe none of this has to be real.

You didn't examine it too closely, didn't question the logic, didn't even give yourself time to. Because if you did, you might realize it wasn't healing you were after, it was escape. The decision happened quickly after that. Three days later your manager stared at you across the conference table with your letter of resignation laying between you.

"You don't have to make any permanent decisions right now."

You understood what he meant, that grief wasn't the time for life-altering choices, right next to tattoos or drastic haircuts. People always said that. You smiled politely, then quit anyway.

Furniture disappeared next. A couch purchased after your first promotion, the dining table you'd spent months saving for, bookshelves, artwork, decorative pieces. One by one, strangers carried them out the door. Each departure left the apartment looking less like a home and somehow that felt like relief. You donated bags of clothing, kitchenware, boxes of things you'd once convinced yourself were important.

The pile that remained grew smaller until eventually your entire life fit into three boxes. Ten years condensed into cardboard in the back of your trunk. You stood outside your apartment for a long while, looking up at the windows that shed so much light into your life over the years. It should've felt more ceremonious. Instead you just shrugged into the car and drove away.

The drive home took nearly twelve hours. You spent most of it staring at the road, not even the radio turned on. The silence felt appropriate. By the time you crossed the town line, evening had begun settling over the coast, the sky glowed orange and gold as the ocean flashed between buildings.

It felt familiar, almost patient as if something in the blue crashing waves could sense you were back, could sense the ghost haunting you. You refused to look at it for long, instead, you focused on the road or on the steering wheel, or on anything else.

Soon the beach cottage appeared at the end of a narrow lane, exactly as you remembered. Weathered cedar siding, white trim, a wraparound porch softened by years of salt air, the porch swing your mother refused to replace despite its constant squeaking. Your chest tightened and for a moment, you considered turning around, driving away and finding a new city to start back over, pretending none of this had happened. You swallowed thickly and put the car in park, hands twitching as you unbuckled your seatbelt. Silence greeted you as you stepped from the car, no porch light humming, no music drifting through open windows, no mother waiting inside.

Just stillness.

The key turned easily in the lock, the door opening with a familiar creak and suddenly you were standing inside your childhood home. Everything remained exactly where she'd left it. A mug beside the sink, a cardigan draped over the back of a chair, reading glasses resting atop a stack of books. The house looked less like someone had died and more like someone had stepped out for groceries and simply hadn't returned yet. Frozen and waiting.

You carried your boxes inside and set them in the living room, then stopped. You couldn't bring yourself to unpack, not really, not yet. A toothbrush in the bathroom, a few clothes in a dresser. Essentials, nothing permanent because permanence meant acceptance. And acceptance remained impossible. This wasn't forever. You told yourself that repeatedly. Just a few weeks, a month, maybe. Long enough to figure things out, to catch your breath, to decide what comes next. Not forever. The lie settled comfortably inside your chest. You avoided the hallway as you walked further into the house, specifically one door, your mother's bedroom. You passed it without looking, passed it the next day too, and the day after that. The door remained closed and you remained unwilling.

Outside, waves rolled endlessly against the shoreline.

You could hear them through the walls as you laid on the couch, the sound should have been comforting, instead, you shut every window and closed every curtain. Blocked out every glimpse of blue water, every reminder of childhood, every reminder of her. The cottage grew dim and shadowed as days passed, then more. You rarely ventured into town, rarely spoke to anyone. The grocery store clerk received brief answers, neighbors received polite waves, nothing more. Connection required energy and you had none left to give so your world became very small. Just you, the house, and the beach beyond it.

A life narrowed down to its simplest form.

You stood on the porch one evening as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, beautiful, the type of scene you see movie proposals filmed in or a romantic fervent confession of long withheld feelings. You stared at it for only a second before stepping back inside, closing the door and locking it.

As though keeping the world out might somehow keep your grief out too. As though both weren't already living inside the house with you.

By the seventh day, you were running out of excuses. The refrigerator contained half a carton of milk, questionable leftovers, and a bottle of ketchup that had probably survived three presidential administrations. The pantry wasn't much better, bearing a sleeve of crackers, instant coffee and a can of soup. You'd spent the whole week moving between the couch, the porch, and every room in the cottage except one.

The walls had started feeling closer, the silence heavier so when you finally grabbed your keys that morning, it felt less like an errand and more like surrender.

The town looked exactly as it always had. Sun-bleached storefronts with flower boxes beneath windows. Locals sitting outside the diner with coffee mugs in hand. Everything familiar and unchanged. You hated it a little for that. How dare the world stay the same?

The grocery store came first. You moved through the aisles quickly avoiding conversation, and eye contact, and Mrs. Patterson from three streets over who've you known you since kindergarten. You escaped with two bags and a brief wave. The hardware store came second. The front porch light had burned out two days ago and one of the kitchen cabinet hinges had started pulling loose, plus the screen door stuck every time you opened it. Your mother would've fixed all three before breakfast.

You bought supplies you weren't entirely sure you knew how to use as the teenage cashier wished you a nice day. You nodded and walked out, the warm ocean air greeting you and for the first time all morning, you felt almost accomplished. You'd left the house, you'd bought groceries and nothing terrible had happened. Maybe tomorrow wouldn't feel quite so impossible.

Balancing two bags and a cardboard box against your hip, you climbed into your car, started up the engine, adjusted the mirror and took three deep breaths. Sometimes being in the car made you sick, not the kind where you'd lose your lunch, the kind where you'd lose your mind if you thought about all the possibilities for a second too long.

You let out your last breath and shifted into reverse.

Crunch.

The sound froze your blood and you slammed on the brakes. For a moment, everything went completely still.

No.

No, no, no.

Slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, you looked into the rearview mirror and saw a motorcycle crookedly the ground behind your bumper. It looked big, and big most likely meant expensive.

Your eyes squeezed shut, head hitting the headrest behind you.

"Shit." The word escaped in a whisper.

You threw the car into park and climbed out to inspect the damage. It wasn't catastrophic, the motorcycle had fallen on its side, a scrape on the fender, a fresh dent where one definitely hadn't existed five minutes ago. You'd managed to survive the worst months of your life only to immediately become the kind of person who backed into parked vehicles.

Fantastic.

You crouched beside it as if staring hard enough might somehow reverse time when a voice murmurs behind you.

"Please tell me that's not mine."

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Right. The owner. Straightening, you turned to the voice. The man stood several feet away carrying paint supplies beneath one arm. He was tall, bearing a faded henley rolled up on one side. Broad shoulders with dark hair that was once cropped short and now it looks like it can't tell if it wants to be longer or not.

The expression on his face suggested he'd already decided this interaction was going to be annoying, and you couldn't entirely blame him.

"You're the owner?"

He glanced between you and the motorcycle. "Depends."

You stared. He stared back.

"Depends on what?"

"Whether you're the person who hit it."

The irritation in his voice immediately sparked your own, because somehow you were already exhausted by this conversation.

"Well, I wasn't aiming for it."

His eyebrow lifted. "Oh, good."

You blinked. "What?"

"Just checking."

You exhaled sharply, the sound could've almost been a laugh, almost. Instead it emerged somewhere closer to annoyance.

"Look, I'm sorry." You offered vexed, trying to extend the first branch of peace. "I genuinely didn't see it."

"That makes me feel much better."

"Would you stop doing that?"

His brow furrowed. "Doing what?"

"Being sarcastic. I said sorry."

His gaze dropped to the motorcycle, the dent and scraped fender, then back to you.

"Somebody backed into my bike."

You scowled. "By accident."

"Still happened."

Your jaw tightened and that familiar irritation that had followed you since the funeral immediately surfaced. Too close to the skin, too easy to access. You knew he wasn't actually the problem, but grief had a way of turning every inconvenience into a personal attack.

"Fine." You grumbled as you pulled out your phone and opened up a payment app. "I'll send you my insurance and pay for whatever repairs it needs."

The man looked surprised by how quickly you offered, only briefly, then the expression vanished.

"Don't worry about it."

"What?"

"It's cosmetic."

You stared and he just shrugged.

"Not worth the paperwork."

Several seconds passed and neither of you spoke. The parking lot buzzed quietly around you. A truck pulling into a nearby space, someone loading lumber, wind carrying the distant scent of saltwater. You suddenly realized this was the longest conversation you'd had with anyone all week.

A depressing thought.

"Well then," you shoved your phone back into your pocket. "Sorry."

The man nodded once. "Try not to hit any more vehicles on your way home."

There it was again, that dry sarcasm. Couldn't go two seconds without it, it seemed.

You narrowed your eyes. "Try to park them where people can actually see them."

One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but it was close enough to annoy you. You turned immediately toward your car. Conversation over, interaction complete. Exactly how you preferred it. As you adjusted your supplies next to you, you could feel his eyes on you, or maybe you imagined it, either way you refused to look back. You climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. Only once you'd turned onto the main road did you realize something.

You hadn't gotten his name.

Not that it mattered, you weren't staying long, you weren't here to make friends or meet people. You were here to be alone.

By the time you got home, the sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, golden light spilled across the water turning the ocean into something molten, something alive.

You carried your groceries inside, put away what needed refrigeration, and left the hardware supplies in a neat pile beside the kitchen table. It should have felt normal, domestic. Instead, every movement felt rehearsed, like you were following instructions someone else had written.

The cottage settled around you with familiar creaks, wood expanding and contracting with the changing temperature. The distant hum of the refrigerator. The rhythmic crash of waves beyond the shore.

Life continuing. Always continuing.

After a while, you found yourself stepping onto the porch. A mug of coffee cooling between your palms, the evening breeze carried the scent of seaweed and sunscreen from somewhere down the coastline. The town looked different at this hour. Softer, almost, the sharp edges worn smooth by the sunset. Below, the diner glowed warmly against the darkening street, its neon sign flickered to life casting pink and blue reflections across parked cars.

And there, just near the curb you spotted it immediately. The motorcycle. Sleek, black, and large, impossible to miss.

You frowned, not because you cared. Because apparently now you recognized random strangers by their vehicles, a deeply concerning development. The memory irritatingly resurfaced, the dent, the sarcasm, the aggravating twitch of amusement he'd worn the entire conversation. Your mouth pulled into something dangerously close to a smile, brief and unintentional and gone the second it formed.

Still, the interaction lingered. Not because it had been pleasant, but because it had been different. For ten minutes today you'd thought about something other than your dead mother. And somehow that felt wrong. You stared out at the water as the waves rolled endlessly toward shore, one after another, steady and predictable.

Your mother used to say the ocean was proof that life kept going. You'd hated that phrase growing up. Whenever something upset you, she'd say it. Whenever a friendship ended, a bad grade ruined your week, or your first boyfriend broke your heart.

"The tide keeps coming in, sweetheart."

As though that explained everything. As though the ocean somehow agreed with what she was talking about.

Your throat tightened and without thinking, you reached for your phone, the movement happened automatically. You unlocked the screen, opened your contacts and pressed call. The phone rose to your ear as your gaze remained fixed on the horizon. You didn't even bother to wait for the voicemail.

The words came easily. "You'll never believe what happened today, Mom. I backed into someone's motorcycle."

A wet laugh escaped, soft and shaky.

"The guy was such an asshole about it too." The ringing on the other end stretched, you kept talking anyway.

"He acted like I committed a federal crime."

A wave crashed against the shoreline, the breeze shifted and then—

"Hiya, you've reached—"

Reality caught up, brutally. The words died in your throat as you let phone fall from your ear, the screen illuminated in your hand.

Mom.

The contact photo stared back at you and your stomach dropped, feet frozen in place. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to hang up. Because somewhere deep inside, some stubborn, broken piece of you still expected her to answer.

Still expected her voice.

Still expected—

The voicemail went on, and you couldn't take it anymore, you ended the call so fast your phone nearly slipped. The porch disappeared behind a sudden blur.

No. No. No.

The phone trembled violently in your hands as a sound escaped you, small and broken. You didn't recognize it as your own. The ocean continued moving, the breeze still blowing, the world hadn't changed.

Only yours. Again.

You stumbled inside before you realized you were crying, the front door slammed shut behind you. The cottage felt too quiet, too empty, too full of things she should have been filling. Your mother's mug still sat in the cabinet, her favorite blanket remained folded over the armchair, her books lined the shelves. Evidence everywhere, proof of a life that had existed, proof of a life that no longer did.

You sank onto the couch. The same couch you'd occupied nearly every evening since arriving, phone still clutched tightly in your hand. Tears came harder this time. Not the neat, silent tears you'd cried at the funeral, not the restrained grief you'd carried for weeks. This hurt was messy and raw. The kind that left your chest aching, the kind that made breathing feel impossible. Because for one brief, careless moment you'd forgotten. You'd forgotten she was gone. You'd forgotten there wasn't anyone waiting on the other end anymore.

And somehow realizing it all over again hurt just as much as the first time.

You cried until darkness swallowed the room whole. The phone remained in your hand the entire time, her number still sitting at the top of your call history.

As though she might call back.

As though she still could.

ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ › comment/inbox to be added!

The glow of the television washes the living room in soft, shifting light, some familiar comfort show murmuring in the background as you sink deeper into the corner of the sofa. The apartment still carries that faint in-between feeling that always follows a trip, your half-unpacked suitcase sitting by the wall, your carry-on slouched near the entryway. You scroll through Moments without really seeing much of it, your thumb moving on autopilot as photos and captions blur together, and when your eyes flick to the time in the corner of the screen, a quiet sigh leaves you – it’s past midnight. You only got back yesterday, but it annoys you that your body still refuses to remember what time zone it belongs to.

With a small frown, you toss your phone beside you, only to reach for it again a few seconds later. Sleep feels nowhere near, but so does doing anything useful. Your gaze drifts back to the screen, catching on the photo you posted from the trip a few hours ago. For a moment, you just stare at it, thumb hovering near the comments before you see a new notification at the top of your screen, and your breath catches.

Valko.

You stare at his name for a second before tapping on the message, your pulse giving one traitorous flutter as the chat opens.

‘Why are you still up??’

Your finger lingers above the keyboard, a smile already tugging at your lips, before you type back.

‘Why are you up?’

His reply comes quickly.

‘I asked you first.’

A quiet laugh slips out of you.

You shift further into the corner of the sofa, glancing toward the television even though you are no longer paying attention to whatever scene is playing out on the screen.

‘I’m still a little jet-lagged. Can’t sleep.’

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Your thumb brushes the edge of your phone as you stare at the screen, suddenly wondering whether that sounded too flat. Maybe you should have added something else. Maybe –

Another message appears.

‘Then can I come over and keep you company?’

You sit up so quickly the blanket pooled over your legs slips halfway to the floor.

For a moment, you can only stare at the words – it’s such a simple message, but the thought of Valko here, in your apartment, at this hour, sends a rush through you that makes it impossible to stay curled up on the sofa like nothing happened.

You try to sound casual as you type back.

‘Sure.’

His answer appears almost immediately.

‘I’ll be there in twenty.’

Your eyes widen.

Twenty?

You glance down at yourself, at the pajamas you changed into after your shower. You push yourself off the sofa, hurrying to the bathroom to make yourself more presentable.

By the time you step back into the living room, changed into your new loungewear – an oversized sweater and a pair of shorts – and a light layer of makeup, your heartbeat has still not quite calmed down.

And then you nearly jump out of your skin.

There, just beyond the glass, Valko is already waiting outside on the balcony.

Your hand flies to your chest before you let out a quiet breath, your nerves settling almost as quickly as they spiked. What did you expect? Of course he used the balcony again, like it is a perfectly normal substitute for a front door.

You step closer and slide the door open. Before he can even get a word out, you point toward the entryway and try your best to sound serious.

“You need to immediately take off your shoes and put them by the front door like any other normal person would.”

A grin pulls at his mouth, and a soft chuckle slips from him as he steps inside. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” you say, with as much dignity as you can manage, even though you already feel far too giddy to properly stay in character. “Those are the rules.”

He does exactly as he’s told, walking over to the front door to slip off his shoes and leave them neatly where they should be.

You don’t really get a chance to say anything before he closes the distance between you and pulls you into a hug.

It’s warm and almost a little too tight, the kind of hug that steals your breath for a second, but you don’t care, not when his arms are around you like this. You tuck your face against his chest, breathing him in, and something in your chest loosens.

You missed this. Two weeks wasn’t even that long, but the moment his arms close around you, it hits you how much you’d been craving this exact feeling. The solid warmth of his body, the way he hugs like he means it, the faint familiar scent of his skin.

You squeeze him a little tighter, hoping he can’t feel how reluctant you are to let go.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against the top of your head.

A smile presses against his chest.

“I’m happy to hear that,” you say softly.

His arms loosen just enough for him to pull back and look at you, though his hands still linger at your waist.

“Only happy to hear that?” he asks, head tilting just a little. “You didn’t miss me at all?”

Your heart gives another hard, hopeless thud.

With the way he is looking at you, warm and teasing and still standing too close, it’s hard to hold onto any version of coolness for very long. So you say nothing, only glance away as if that will somehow hide the fact that your pulse is stumbling all over itself.

When he finally lets you go, the loss of his warmth feels immediate. His gaze flickers over you. It’s brief, almost nothing at all, but you catch it anyway – the quick dip of his eyes, the split-second pause that lingers just a touch too long before he looks back up.

Heat stirs low in your stomach.

If he noticed the bare stretch of your legs beneath the sweater, he does not say it.

Then his gaze drifts past you, over the living room.

You follow it, and only then do you properly take in the small signs of the last two days still scattered around the apartment. It’s not a mess, but it’s enough to make you realize, with a small jolt of horror, that while you had been busy changing, fixing your face, and deciding whether those shorts were too much, it had not once occurred to you to make the place look more presentable.

Valko glances back at you, amusement already tugging at his mouth. “You really made yourself at home.”

You stare at him.

Then at the open suitcase, then back at him.

“I – ” You stop, because there is truly no dignified recovery from this. “I just got back.”

His laugh is soft and boyish, bright with amusement, and before you can fumble your way into a proper defense, his hand comes up to rest lightly on your shoulder.

“I’m teasing,” he says. “Relax.”

Something in your chest loosens at once, though the embarrassment still lingers warm at your cheeks.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter, without much conviction.

He only grins and walks past you toward the sofa, entirely too pleased with himself, and drops down onto it, one arm spreading along the backrest.

You stand there for a second, trying not to think about the fact that he’s in your apartment, at almost one in the morning. Instead of sitting down beside him, you linger on your feet and start folding the few clothes left draped over the armchair, because you need something to do with your hands.

For a little while, the conversation comes easily – you ask him what he was doing up so late, and he tells you he got caught up researching something and lost track of time, and then he asks you how the trip was. As you smooth one of the shirts between your hands, you tell him that it was beautiful, that you enjoyed it more than you expected, that you and your friends managed to explore a few cities in between all the wedding preparations, though by the end of it you were exhausted from helping with everything. Even so, you admit that it had been worth it, because seeing your friend that happy, that deeply in love, had made all of it feel strangely tender and a little overwhelming in the best way.

The words trail off there for a second, because the memory rises too clearly, your friend smiling through tears, music drifting through warm evening air, the soft gold of the lights, the feeling of standing just outside someone else’s happiness and being moved by it anyway. You pause with the folded fabric still in your hands. When you look up, Valko is already watching you in that way of his that makes it seem like he notices more than he lets on.

So you shake yourself out of it before the moment can linger too long, and with a softer laugh, you steer the conversation somewhere lighter, telling him that the food alone had probably been worth the trip, and that you would have enjoyed it even more if you had not managed to spill some of it on your dress before the night was over.

“That’s a shame,” he says. “You looked beautiful.”

A soft flutter moves through your stomach, and for a brief second, you remember the small rush of giddiness you felt earlier when the notification popped up and you saw that he had liked the photo. Heat rise to your cheeks. “Thank you,” you murmur.

You clear your throat softly and glance toward the suitcase.

“Oh, right,” you say. “I almost forgot.”

His brows lift a little as you cross the room and crouch beside the half-open case, pushing aside a few last things until your fingers find what you had tucked in carefully. When you straighten again, you are holding a small sachet of dried flowers and a box of chocolates.

Valko watches you come back toward him, his expression shifting into mild confusion. “What’s that?”

You stop in front of him and hold the two things out. “A gift for you,” you say, “The flowers are from a little shop near where we stayed,” you explain. “They smelled really good, and they made me think of you. And the chocolates are from a local chocolaterie.”

A quiet breath leaves him, almost like a laugh, though there is something more touched than amused in it.

“That’s... really nice of you,” he says. “Thank you.”

You shrug. “It’s nothing.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not nothing.”

Before you can answer, he reaches for you.

His hand catches your wrist gently and tugs you closer, and the next thing you know, you are half stumbling onto the sofa as he pulls you down beside him and gathers you into another hug, and a startled little laugh slips out of you.

His cheek brushes your temple, and then his lips do too. “You’re sweet,” he murmurs.

For a moment, you simply let yourself stay there, tucked against him on the sofa.

“So,” he says, leaning back, “are you feeling sleepy yet?”

You shake your head. “Not at all. I’m wide awake.”

His gaze lifts toward the digital clock on the wall, and the faint crease that appears between his brows makes you want to laugh a little. “It’s past one,” he says, glancing back at you. “That’s a problem.”

You tilt your head. “Is it?”

“Yes,” he says, with enough seriousness to make the corners of your mouth twitch. “It is. We need to get you to sleep.”

Your lips pull into a small pout. “But you said you wanted to keep me company.”

His expression softens with amusement. “I do want to keep you company, but you should really get your sleep sorted out.”

The pout lingers, growing just enough to make him narrow his eyes at you like he already knows you are about to be difficult on purpose.

“So you said you missed me, and now you’re trying to get me to go to sleep. Rude.”

Valko looks ready to answer right away, but then he stops. His mouth closes again, and something shifts in his expression – a glint of mischief appears in his eyes so suddenly and so familiarly that you know you’re in trouble.

“Oh,” he says slowly, his grin beginning to spread, “so that’s what this is?”

Heat starts rising before you even know where he is going with it.

“Are you saying you missed me too?” His smile widens. “You just want to spend more time with me. Is that what you’re saying?”

Your whole face goes hot.

For a moment, you can only stare at him, feeling the burn spread across your cheeks as your mouth opens and closes once, then again, with absolutely nothing useful coming out. Valko’s grin only widens at your silence, clearly delighted with himself, and before he can say anything worse, you reach up and grab his cheeks between your fingers, squishing them without mercy.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he protests, though the laugh in his voice ruins any real attempt at sounding injured. “No need for violence!”

You let go, trying to look far less flustered than you feel, while he rubs at his cheeks with both hands and gives you a faint little pout that does nothing to make him less smug.

“Well,” you say, refusing to let him have the last word so easily, “you’re awake at this hour too, so why don’t you go to sleep?”

He leans back into the sofa, still rubbing one cheek as if you have truly wounded him, and lets out a thoughtful hum. “You know,” he says after a moment, “you’re right. The research I was doing didn’t help. My brain is still working through it, so I should probably try to relax too.”

His gaze drifts around the apartment then, over the sofa, the blankets, the cushions, and when he looks back at you, there is something almost casual in the way he says, “I can stay here, if you want. I can sleep over and take the sofa. Your apartment is cozy, after all.”

Your heart gives a quick, sudden flutter.

Then he pauses, glances toward the half-open suitcase by the wall, and adds with a grin, “Even with all this mess around.”

You smack his shoulder and he only laughs, like he had been waiting for exactly that reaction.

“Well,” you say, trying, and failing, to hide your smile, “if you think the sofa will be comfortable enough, then sure. You can stay over.”

Before he can find something else to tease you about, you pat your hands against your thighs and start to stand up. “Okay, then,” you say sweetly, already turning away. “Goodnight.”

Valko’s hand catches your waist before you get more than halfway up, stopping you without any real effort. A soft, amused laugh escapes him, like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“No, no, no,” he says, gently pulling you back down beside him. “Now we both have to help each other fall asleep.”

You glance at him, unable to keep your smile from slipping through. “Oh, so that’s how it is?”

“That’s exactly how it is.”

Valko grabs the blanket you’d been using and spreads it over both of you. “We can watch whatever you had on,” he says, nodding toward the TV.

You settle deeper into the sofa, close enough that your knee brushes his beneath the blanket. For a while, neither of you says much. Then, slowly, his arm slips along the back of the sofa and curls around your shoulders, drawing you gently against his side – and you can’t help but lean into him.

At one point, you see him nuzzle lightly into the blanket – that sweet, familiar habit of his that always made you smile.

The episode plays on. A few small comments pass between you, easy and low, but gradually his body grows heavier against yours. His head tips until it rests lightly on top of yours, and his breathing slows into deep, even breaths.

You go still, listening.

A smile tugs at your lips when you carefully tilt your head to glance up at him.

His eyes are closed.

So much for his very serious plan.

Carefully, so you do not jostle him too much, you lift a hand and give his arm a small nudge. “Hey,” you murmur. “You’re gonna hurt your neck like that.”

He makes a soft sound first, then shifts against you, his cheek brushing against your hair before his eyes crack open only halfway. There is a moment where he looks thoroughly confused, caught between sleep and waking, and then his brows draw together faintly as if he is trying to remember where he is.

“Hey…” he mumbles, voice drowsy. “I’m supposed to be the one helping you sleep.”

“You’re doing a terrible job,” you whisper back, smiling as you say it.

He exhales a sleepy, half-formed laugh and instead of pulling away, sinks closer, his arm tightening around you.

You stay quiet for a moment, letting the comfortable silence settle between you. Then Valko’s voice breaks it, barely more than a murmur when he asks, “Did you miss me?”

The question is simple, stripped of any teasing. For a second, you just look at him – at his sleepy face, at the hopeful, searching look in his eyes.

“Yes,” you say softly. “I did.”

His arm tightens just slightly around you.

“I was really happy to see you tonight,” you add after a moment. “I know it was only two weeks, but it felt longer than that. And with everything getting busy again soon...” You trail off, then glance up at him. “I just wanted a little more time with you, I guess.”

Valko is quiet for a moment, his thumb brushing slowly against your side. Then he shifts slightly, turning more toward you. His gaze drops to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes, and the air between you feels suddenly heavier, sweeter.

His other hand lifts slowly, and when it settles against your upper back, the touch sends a small shiver through you. Then his hand slides higher, fingers spreading gently at the back of your head, cradling you there. You feel yourself drift closer, and he does the same.

Then his lips press against yours.

The kiss is soft and warm and careful. You melt into him. One of your hands holds onto the fabric of his hoodie, your body pressing closer of its own accord as happiness blooms through you so suddenly and so completely it almost feels unreal.

When your lips part, neither of you moves far.

Then he looks at you again, his gaze is softer than before but clearer too.

“I like you too much to pretend this is nothing,” he says, his voice soft and unguarded. He holds your gaze for another second. “Tell me if this is what you want too.”

Your answer comes easily. “I do.”

A small smile touches his mouth, sweet and a little disbelieving.

Then you lean in and kiss him again.

The hand at the back of your neck stays steady as he kisses you, and when your fingers slide from his chest to curl around the back of his neck, his breath catches softly against your mouth.

His mouth parts against yours, and when your tongues meet, the sensation is warm, slow, and so intimate it makes a deep shiver run through you. The slide is unhurried at first – soft, wet strokes that make heat bloom low in your belly. His tongue brushes against yours in ways that make your toes curl and your thoughts melt away. Then he gently catches your bottom lip between his teeth, giving it a soft, teasing nibble before soothing it with another slow pass of his tongue.

You make a small, helpless sound into his mouth, pressing closer, and he answers with a low hum that vibrates through you. The kiss grows deeper, more consuming, but never rushed – every stroke of his tongue leaves you dizzy, aching in the best way, your body melting even further into his hold.

When the kiss finally breaks, you stay curled against him, forehead resting lightly against his, your breaths still uneven.

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

Then you pull back to look at him. “The sofa’s not that comfortable. You can… sleep in the bed with me. If you want.”

His eyes soften, that small smile returning. “I’d like that. A lot.”

While he heads to the bathroom, you slip into your bedroom and freeze for a second. The bed is still a mess from earlier – clothes scattered everywhere from when you’d frantically tried on different loungewear before he arrived – your cheeks burn at the evidence of how much you’d wanted to look nice for him.

You move fast, scooping everything up in armfuls and jamming the pile into your closet. Then you quickly change into your own pajamas: a loose shirt and flowy shorts. From the back of your closet, you pull out the biggest oversized t-shirt you own, with a goofy graphic and a band’s name splashed across the front.

By the time Valko returns from the bathroom, you’re already settled on the now-tidied bed, heart fluttering.

You hold the oversized shirt out to him. “Here. It’s the biggest one I have.”

He takes it from you, eyes crinkling with amusement as he reads the front. “Nice choice,” he teases. “Didn’t know you were a fan.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up and just put it on.”

Instead of stepping out, Valko stays right there in front of you. With that easy confidence of his, he reaches back and tugs the hoodie off in one smooth motion. The movement pulls his t-shirt up slightly underneath, revealing a glimpse of his toned stomach and the sharp cut of his hips before the fabric falls back into place. He peels that off too, and for a moment you forget how to breathe.

Broad shoulders, the hard strength of his arms and chest that you’ve felt against you so many times, now fully on display in the soft glow of your bedroom lamp. Your gaze traces the lines of his body before you can stop yourself, lingering on the way his muscles shift as he unfolds the oversized shirt, then dipping lower to the faint trail of hair on his lower stomach.

Then he unbuttons his jeans.

The soft sound of the zipper feels impossibly loud in the quiet room. He pushes them down his hips and steps out of them, leaving him in just his boxers. The fabric clings to the firm lines of his thighs and the unmistakable outline underneath, and your face burns. You know you should look away, but you can’t.

Valko catches you staring.

A knowing smile curves his mouth, “Enjoying the show?”

You immediately avert your gaze. “No.”

You turn off the last light and climb into bed.

He chuckles softly and finally pulls the t-shirt over his head. A moment later he joins you, pulling the blanket over both of you as he settles on his side facing you.

For a second, you just look at each other in the low glow of moonlight from the window. Then he reaches out, sliding an arm around your waist and drawing you closer until your bodies press together again.

“You okay?” he asks softly, the same careful warmth in his voice from earlier.

You nod, tucking your face against his chest, breathing him in. “Yeah.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head… then another to your forehead… then, when you tilt your face up, to your lips.

This kiss starts slow and sweet, like the first one, but the closeness of the bed changes everything. Your hands find his chest again, sliding over the soft, worn fabric of your own shirt on him. He tastes like toothpaste, and the warmth of his body pressed against yours under the covers makes your head spin. One of your hands drifts up to the back of his neck, fingers threading gently into his hair, while his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you even closer until your legs tangle together.

A soft sound escapes you when his hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm warm and broad against the bare skin of your lower back. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, but it sends a slow shiver through you all the same. He pauses there, thumb stroking small circles against your spine, as if checking whether you want him to stop.

When you press closer instead, he lets his hand explore further, sliding up the curve of your back, mapping the warmth of your skin like he’s been wanting to do this for just as long as you have.

The kiss breaks only so you can both catch your breath, but his mouth doesn’t go far. He trails soft, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his teeth graze there lightly, your breath hitches.

“Still okay?” he whispers, voice husky now, lips brushing your skin with every word.

“Yes,” you manage, a little breathless. “Don’t stop.”

Valko makes a low, pleased sound deep in his chest. His hands slide to your waist, and with gentle strength he rolls you both over so you’re on top. He helps you settle, guiding your legs until you’re straddling his hips.

For a moment you brace yourself on your hands, hovering just slightly above him. Your heart is racing – nervous, excited, and suddenly worried about settling your full weight on top of him.

Valko looks up at you. One of his hands stays on your hip while the other smooths slowly up your back.

“Come here…” he murmurs. “All of you.”

When you hesitate for half a second, he adds gently, “Just relax.”

Carefully, you lower yourself until your full weight rests on him. The moment your chest presses fully against his, a quiet sigh escapes both of you. He feels so solid beneath you – the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his skin, the firm strength of his body supporting yours so easily. Your legs settle on either side of his hips, and the intimate press of him right between your thighs makes heat bloom low in your belly.

Valko’s arms wrap around you immediately, one hand splaying wide across your lower back, the other sliding up between your shoulder blades to hold you closer. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck with a deep inhale, breathing you in.

For a long moment you just stay like that – bodies aligned, hearts beating against each other. Then he gently nudges your face with his, and you tilt your head down to meet him.

His lips move against yours, and when the kiss deepens, it happens gradually – tongues brushing, mouths opening wider, breaths growing a little heavier. The weight of you on top of him, the way your bodies fit together so completely, makes everything feel more intense. You can feel the hard line of him pressed right against your core, and the sensation sends little sparks of pleasure through you with every tiny movement.

Still a little shy, still a little uncertain, you roll your hips in one slow, experimental movement. The friction drags right where you need it most, pulling a soft, involuntary sound from your throat. Valko groans – low, rough, and completely unguarded – the sound vibrating against your mouth. His arms tighten around you instantly, and the way he pulls you down against him makes it clear just how much he felt that.

“Fuck…” he breathes against your lips. “Do that again.”

Emboldened by his reaction, you roll your hips again, grinding down against him. The pleasure sparks sharper, deeper. You can feel every inch of him through the thin layers of fabric separating you, and the way his body responds – the way he twitches underneath you – makes your stomach flutter.

Valko meets you on the next roll. He rocks his hips up into yours in a slow, deep rhythm, pressing firmly against your core with each movement. His hold on you never loosens – he keeps you flush against his chest, bodies moving together in a slow, rolling grind.

The kiss grows sloppier, hotter – tongues slide deeper, mouths open wider, little wet sounds mixing with your shared breathing. You feel his heartbeat hammering against yours.

“You feel so good on top of me,” he murmurs. “Keep moving just like that, baby.”

Valko’s hands are everywhere. One stays anchored on your hip, guiding your movements, while the other slips under your pajama shirt, palming the soft skin of your back, then sliding down to squeeze your ass. He pulls you down harder against him on every roll, making sure you feel exactly how hard he is.

Then his hand moves between your bodies.

He presses two fingers against the front of your shorts, right over your core. The moment he touches you, you realize just how soaked you are. The fabric is warm and damp, clinging to you, and the pressure of his fingers makes the wetness even more obvious. A flush of embarrassed heat rushes through you, but it only makes you ache more.

Valko groans deeply into your mouth, the sound raw. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs. He rubs slow circles over the soaked fabric, pressing just right against your clit through the layers. The sensation makes your hips jerk, a sharp little whimper escaping you.

He pulls back from the kiss just enough to look at you, breathing hard. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but there’s a flicker of hesitation there too. His throat works as he swallows, and when he speaks, his voice has the slightest tremble in it.

“Still okay?” he asks, fingers still gently pressing against your soaked shorts. He pauses, searching your face. “Can I…?”

You nod quickly, cheeks burning. “Yeah,” you whisper, barely audible. “Please.”

A soft, relieved breath escapes him.

He shifts just enough to reach between you. With one hand, he tugs his boxers down far enough to free himself, his cock springing up hot and heavy against your inner thigh. With the other, he hooks his fingers into the crotch of your pajama shorts and panties, tugging the soaked fabric to the side. The cool air hits your slick, exposed folds for only a second before the blunt, burning heat of his tip presses right against your entrance.

The slight sting of his girth against your sensitive opening makes you inhale sharply. Still, your thighs tremble as you fight the instinct to sink down all at once.

Valko’s eyes never leave your face. His breath is shaky, his grip on your hip almost bruising as he visibly holds himself back from thrusting up.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and strained. “Just relax… I’ve got you. Trust me.”

He rocks his hips up in the tiniest, careful movement, letting just the head slip inside you. The stretch is intense – a burning, aching fullness that makes your mouth fall open on a quiet, broken sound. You feel every thick inch as he slowly works you open, his eyes locked on yours the entire time, watching every flicker of sensation across your face.

Another shallow thrust, and he sinks a little deeper. His hand on your hip keeps guiding you down slowly, patiently, even as his own breath trembles and a low groan escapes his lips. You can feel how much he’s holding back – the tension in his arms, the way his fingers dig into your skin, the way his cock twitches inside you with the effort of going slow.

He presses his forehead to yours, nuzzling your nose, his voice dropping to a whisper between heavy breaths.

“Just a little more… that’s it. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

He keeps guiding you with those slow, shallow thrusts, working himself deeper. Each gentle push stretches you further, the thick heat of him dragging against your walls in a way that makes your breath hitch and your fingers curl against his shoulders. The slight sting is still there, but it’s slowly melting into something warmer, fuller, more overwhelming.

Finally, with one last careful roll of his hips, he bottoms out completely.

A soft, broken sound escapes you as he fills you to the hilt. Your walls flutter around him, clenching instinctively at the overwhelming sensation of being so completely taken.

Valko goes very still beneath you, breathing hard against your neck.

He whispers your name. “Are you okay? Does it hurt anywhere?”

You take a shaky breath, then nod against his shoulder, melting a little more in his embrace. “I’m okay,” you murmur, voice soft and a little breathless.

The tension in his body eases at your words. He pulls you even closer, if that’s possible, until there isn’t a single inch of space left between your bodies. Your breasts press against his chest, your stomach against his, your thighs snug around his hips.

“Just stay like this for a moment,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Let me feel you… all of you.”

You melt into him completely.

He starts kissing you again – first pressing his lips to yours, tender and sweet. Then to your flushed cheek. Then along the line of your jaw. When he reaches your neck, he lingers there, nuzzling into the sensitive skin with a deep inhale, breathing in the scent of you as his lips trail soft, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat. Every kiss sends warm little sparks through your body, making you shiver and clench around him.

You feel completely surrounded by him. He makes you feel soft and safe and wanted in a way you’ve never quite felt before.

After a few long, still moments of just feeling each other, Valko starts to move.

He rolls his hips up in one slow thrust, pressing himself even deeper inside you. The drag of his thick length against your walls pulls a shaky moan from your throat. He does it again, and again – careful but steady, letting you feel every inch as he fills you completely with each roll.

You start moving with him.

Your hips begin to roll in a slow rhythm, grinding down to meet his upward thrusts. The pace is yours, and he lets you set it. Every time you sink down onto him, his cock grazes all the right spots inside you, sending sparks of sharp pleasure through your core. You can feel how wet you are – how your slick coats him completely, making every slide smoother, wetter, hotter. You angle your hips just right so that with every downward roll, your clit grinds against his pelvis. The added friction makes your thighs tremble. Pleasure builds fast and heavy, coiling tight in your belly with every movement.

You can’t stop looking at him.

Even in the low, dim light of your bedroom, he looks devastating. His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark with lust, but locked on your face like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. His lips are parted and glistening, soft groans and quiet curses falling from them every time you sink down on him. His hair is slightly messy from your fingers, and the way his jaw clenches when you roll your hips harder makes your heart stutter.

You roll your hips faster, chasing that building pleasure with every grind of your clit against his pelvis and every deep stroke of his cock inside you. The slick sounds of your bodies meeting grow louder, wetter with every movement. Your walls flutter and clench around his thick length, coating him even more with your arousal as the pressure inside you coils tighter and tighter.

A broken moan of his name slips from your lips – “Valko...” – raw and needy. The sound of it makes your cheeks burn – you feel suddenly exposed like this, riding him so shamelessly, your voice sounding so desperate, your body moving on instinct. The wave of pleasure is cresting dangerously close, and the intensity of it makes you shy for a moment.

You duck your head, hiding your face in the warm crook of his neck, breathing in his scent as you keep rolling your hips.

You know Valko notices. Instead of pulling you back, he cradles the back of your head with one large hand. His voice is full of affection as he murmurs against your ear.

“You can stay right here, sweetheart. Just feel it… That’s it. Come for me.”

His words, the steady praise mixed with the way he keeps thrusting up to meet your rolling hips, push you right over the edge.

With one more deep grind of your hips, your orgasm crashes through you. Pleasure surges hot and overwhelming, ripping a muffled, trembling cry from your throat against his neck. Your walls clamp down hard around his cock, pulsing and fluttering. Your thighs shake, slick gushing around him as you come hard, soaking his length and pelvis. Valko groans deeply, the sound vibrating against your chest, and holds you even tighter, his hips still moving with yours – slow, deep rolls that help you ride out every last pulse of pleasure.

Your hips gradually slow, then finally still as the last ripples of your orgasm fade into a warm, glowing haze. You stay draped over him, breathing hard against his neck, your heart still racing wildly in your chest.

After a few long seconds, you finally gather the courage to lift your head from its hiding place. Your face is glistening with sweat, your cheeks are burning, your hair slightly messy as you meet his gaze. You’re still catching your breath, lips parted, eyes a little dazed.

When your eyes lock, the intense heat in Valko’s gaze melts into something more tender. A small, gentle smile curves his lips as he looks up at you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. The hand that had been cradling the back of your head slides forward to graze your cheek with his thumb, stroking it with slow affection.

“There you are…” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “Hi, pretty girl.”

He searches your face for a moment. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, thumb continuing its gentle caress. “Do you want to keep going?”

You feel a sheepish little smile tug at your lips. You nod, still a bit breathless, cheeks warming even more under his attentive gaze.

“Yes,” you whisper.

His smile deepens, soft and warm. “You want me to take over?”

You nod again, a little quicker this time. “Yes, please.”

Valko’s gaze lingers on your face for a moment, an almost reverent smile curving his lips as he takes in the sight of you in front of him.

“Just relax for me,” he whispers against your temple, pressing a lingering kiss there. “Tell me if it gets too much, okay?”

After you nod, Valko doesn’t waste another second.

He captures your lips in a slow, deep kiss as he begins to move beneath you. His hips roll up in long thrusts, driving his thick cock deeper into your soaked heat with every stroke. One arm stays locked around your back, pressing your chest flush against his, while his other hand keeps your shorts and underwear tugged to the side so he can fuck you properly.

He keeps kissing you through it – slow and messy, tongues sliding together as his pace gradually picks up. His breath grows heavier against your lips, and between kisses he whispers –

“Am I doing good? Tell me… fuck, I need to hear it.”

You’re already losing yourself in the rhythm of his thrusts, the way his cock stretches and fills you so perfectly. The answer slips out of you in a hazy, breathless mumble, half-coherent and soaked in pleasure.

“You feel so good…” you moan, voice breaking. “Fuck – you’re so big… filling me up so deep…”

Valko groans loudly at your words, the sound low and guttural. His grip on you tightens, and his thrusts grow a little harder, a little faster, driving up into you with more purpose. The wet slap of skin on skin grows louder as he fucks you deeper, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot with devastating precision.

“Yeah? You like how deep I’m fucking you?” he rasps against your lips, voice thick with lust. “You’re taking me so well… so wet and tight around my cock. I could stay buried in you forever.”

You whimper at his filthy words, clenching hard around him. He keeps that perfect rhythm, holding you close, kissing you like he never wants to stop, while his cock drives into you again and again, pushing you closer and closer to the edge once more.

You can feel him starting to throb inside you, his rhythm beginning to falter as he gets closer to the edge. His thrusts grow a little rougher, a little more desperate.

He must feel how you’re close too, because your hips have started moving on their own, grinding down to meet every thrust. His breath stutters against your mouth.

“You close again, baby?” he groans, voice strained and low. “Fuck… I can feel you squeezing me so tight.”

You nod frantically, whimpering as another wave of pleasure builds fast and hot. “Yes – I’m close… please, Valko, go faster – ”

He clenches his jaw, a deep, guttural sound escaping him as he tries to hold back. His hips snap up harder, but you can tell he’s right on the edge.

“I’m too close,” he rasps, almost apologetic, still fucking you deep and steady. “If I go faster, I’m not gonna last – ”

“It’s okay,” you breathe, voice trembling with need as you roll your hips down to take him even deeper. “It’s fine, just – don’t stop. Please.”

Valko lets out a wrecked moan, his grip on you tightening almost painfully. He buries his face in your neck for a second, breathing you in, then pulls back just enough to look at you with dark, desperate eyes.

“Where can I finish?” he asks, voice hoarse and filthy. “Where do you want me?”

Without hesitation, still grinding down on his cock, you whisper against his lips –

“Inside. I want you to come inside me.”

Valko’s control finally snaps.

With a deep, guttural groan, he buries himself to the hilt in a few hard, fast thrusts. You feel every powerful spurt as he fills you up, warm and wet, his cock twitching deep in your pussy while he keeps rolling his hips in sloppy thrusts, pushing his release even deeper.

The sensation of him coming inside you sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. You’re right on the edge again, but you stay still for him, letting him use you however he needs, your body soft and pliant on top of his as he rides out the last pulses of his orgasm.

Then he pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, voice wrecked and breathless.

“Move, baby… don’t stop. Chase it. I want to feel you come on my cock again.”

You hesitate for half a second, worried it might be too much for him, but he doesn’t let you overthink it. His hands grip your hips firmly and start guiding you, encouraging you to roll and grind on him again.

You nod, eyes locked with his, and start moving.

You ride him through the mess, feeling his warm cum leak out of you with every roll of your hips, slick and obscene, coating both of you. His cock is still hard inside you, but you can feel how oversensitive he is now – the way he twitches and throbs helplessly with every movement, like it’s almost too much.

He meets your rhythm with shallow, desperate thrusts, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. His eyes stay locked on yours, heavy-lidded and burning, even as his breath turns ragged and broken.

Valko groans, low and wrecked. “That’s it… fuck, just like that,” he rasps, voice tight and strained. “Come on my cock, baby – you’re squeezing me so fucking tight… Good girl, so fucking good…”

It doesn’t take long.

Pleasure slams into you harder this time. You come with a trembling, broken cry, your walls clamping down around his oversensitive cock as another orgasm rips through you. The feeling of his cum leaking out around him with every pulse makes everything wetter, filthier, messier. Slick and cum mix between you as you grind down on him, thighs shaking violently.

This time you don’t hide your face. You stay right there, eyes locked with his, letting him see every second of it – the way your lips part on a silent gasp, the way your whole body shudders and tightens around him.

“Fuck – yes, baby… look at you,” he groans, voice slurred and desperate. “So fucking pretty when you come… good girl…”

His wrecked praise sends a fresh wave of heat through you, drawing out the pleasure for a few more trembling seconds. Then the intense peak of your orgasm slowly fades, leaving you utterly spent. You collapse completely on top of him, your cheek pressed against his chest as you try to catch your breath. Your body feels heavy, hot, and spent in the best possible way. Valko’s arms wrap around you, holding you close as he stays buried deep inside you, his cock still twitching with the last aftershocks. Neither of you makes any move to separate.

You nuzzle back into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting mix of his skin, sweat, and your own scent on him. His hands move slowly over your back in long, soothing strokes, fingertips tracing gentle patterns along your spine.

For a long while, you simply rest like that – tangled together, hearts slowing down, his warmth surrounding you completely.

Eventually, his voice breaks the comfortable silence, low and gentle against your ear.

“You okay?” he asks, still stroking your back. “Feeling alright?”

You manage a small nod against his neck, too tired and floaty to form proper words. A tiny, satisfied hum is all you can offer.

He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath you.

After a few more quiet, peaceful minutes, you finally shift. You slowly push yourself up on shaky arms and lift your hips. The moment he slips out of you, a low, disappointed groan escapes Valko’s throat. The sound is so genuine that you can’t help but let out a soft, breathless chuckle.

“We should probably clean up,” you murmur, still smiling.

He nods, but there’s a playful pout in his expression. Before you can move away, he cups your face with both hands and pulls you down into a slow, sweet kiss. It’s softer than anything that came before – gentle, lingering, and full of affection. When he pulls back, his thumbs brush over your cheeks, and his eyes are warm and tender in the afterglow.

 “You feeling sleepy now?” he asks, a hint of playful teasing in his tone.

You let out a soft, embarrassed little laugh. The reality of everything that just happened is starting to settle in, making your cheeks warm all over again.

“Yeah… I think I am,” you admit.

He chuckles quietly, but then that familiar warm smile returns as he pulls you back down into his embrace. He presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

“I never want to let you go.” He whispers.

he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t harder than ever before, watching the same girl he’d fuck into mattress missionary-style while hiding her face with a pillow on top of him right now.

“tryna’ be a big girl, huh?” he teases with a grin, flashing one of his canines as he reaches a hand underneath you — dwarfing your hand that’s holding the base of his length as he wraps his hand over yours.

“gotta lift those hips up a bit more.” he rasps low and gruff, giving your ass a soft tap with his free hand. “yeah— that’s it, baby.” he praises as you raise your hips while he positions himself in a way that’ll make it easier for him to ease in. “and, juuusttt like that.” he drags out the vowel as he guides your hips down before you’re pushing his hands away from your hips.

your palms pressed flat against his chest, trying to find an equilibrium of balance while tucking your under his thighs. “oh? guess you know what you’re doing, yeah?” his eyebrows raise, and the corner of his eyes wrinkle once he lets out an amused chuckle.

a warm buzzing feeling runs through your body when you nod your head. your lips pursed together as you slowly allow yourself to sink further down into jack’s lap — such an overwhelming stretch, feeling the way he stuffs you full almost immediately as the head of his dick nudges against the hilt.

“oh—f-fuck ..” a moan escapes your throat, before catching your bottom lip in-between your teeth in attempt to stifle the sounds you’re making. you lift your hips, your walls involuntarily squeezing around jack’s length as you drop your ass against his pelvis with a broken moan.

you’re raising your hips again, finding that perfect rhythm as you drop right against that sweet spot inside of you over and over again. completely conscious of how sloppy and inexperienced your bouncing may be, but it feels too good to stop.

“mmh, jack.” you whimper, lashes fluttering open when he doesn’t respond because he’s usually vocal and praising you.

your movement comes to a slow halt once you realize that his eyes are already on you — feeling the embarrassment kick in once you see how his eyes drag from your face, down to place where you two are connected making your tummy folds.

the way he’s just lying there, hands rested alongside your ankles, fixated on you fucking yourself dumb on his cock like an animal in heat. his jaw locked tight, letting out guttural groans that sound closer to growls as he restrains himself from doing things his way.

“stop looking at me like thaat.” you dragged, averting your gaze somewhere else because you’re too shy to hold eye contact. breaking jack out of his trance, “lookin’ at you like what, baby?” his eyes are low, pupils blown wide unable to control his aching lust as he twitches inside you. “like that, stop!” your eyes flicker elsewhere — reaching your arms out, an the last thing jack’s seeing is that pretty pout displayed on your lips as your hands close in near his face.

your palms press above his nose, covering his eyes. “hmm.. this your solution, yeah?” jack’s lashes flutter against your palms with a big grin plastered across his face, he loves when you get like this. too shy to let him watch you bounce on him, yet there you are. picking back up from where you left off as if he hadn’t already seen you before.

“y-yes.” you moan in response, rocking your body back and forth against jack — trying to find back your rhythm, though failing miserably while losing balance. “what’s the matter, hun’? having trouble?” he asks, feeling your staggered movements about his hands slide up your forearms, down to hold at your wrists until you’re pulling away and pushing his hands towards his face instead.

“keep your hands right there.” you instruct, halting your movements ensuring that he’s actually listening before continuing. your hands finding its place against jack’s chest, stabilizing your position — feeling jack’s diaphragm vibrate against your palms as he lets out a low groan. “s—shit.” he curses underneath his breath. “you’re gonna be the end of me, y’know that?” he murmurs, gravely tone slick in lust.

you can barely respond. not when his cock’s stuffing you full, nuzzling perfect against that sweet spot inside of you. “mmph, j—just keep your eyes… off me.” you pant, feeling every inch graze your sensitive walls.

“whatever you say, sweetheart.” the words came out gruff as jack tosses his head back, throwing an arm over his eyes to keep them covered — deciding to indulge in your cute, yet silly request even if he’d already seen every inch of your body seconds ago.

and as impractical as your request could get. it didn’t change the fact that his vision was capped, voluntarily granting your wishes with you on top, riding him as if there were no tomorrow.