maggie’s library

a thick sound grunts out of you when john collapses on top of you, his cock slicks the remaning veined legnth inside you. you curse, eyes trying not to roll when the man readjusts, somehow sinking himself deeper, head nudging against a place that warms you well past the capabilities of the setting sun.

“oh, my g-god.” you gasp. and then gasp again, reaching but failing to grab onto something as his beard drags along the skin of your shoulder.

“i mean it, dove. give y’anything ya like. get ya set up real nice. a house. dog. whatever you want… jus’ come home with me.” john’s vows come out low, just at the shell of your ear. in between each sentence, a long, dragged-out drive of his hips. always concluded with a smacking of his sack, heavy with need, and a squeezing of john’s embrace around your shivering, sweaty figure. he’s holding you like you’re already his. as if you’ve already agreed to leaving all you know by replacing it with him. john fucks you the same way, raw and sticky skin and to pattern of silent claims. “and just think… we can do this every night, ’n then some. keep y’nice ’n full. drunk on me, yeah?”

with blurred vision, you mumble and nod. drunk on him. drunk on the way he’s fucking you from behind, smushing you under him. drunk on the very recent memory of how you sucked him until he painted your mouth, then the feeling of his fingers swiping against your swollen lips to rub in the thick seed. drunk on the pants at your ear and the cream you can feel forming a ring at the base of john’s cock. drunk on the possibility of feeling like this again and again.

tears in your eyes, you clench at the building of hot pressure that has you barely able to breathe. john’s really taking you now. less rambly and more focused, hips striking your ass, pumping inside you with deep desperation. he’s got you pinned and closer enough to wail at how his weight won’t let you do anything but take it.

“ah… f-fuck. go-gonna come again… i–john…” your croaks tug a smirk at the man's lips.

“s'alright. go ‘head ’n come if it’s a yes, dove.”

he’s trying to look tough, with his arms folded and his jaw set, but every few minutes he squints up at you, blue eyes watering, lips twisting into a wry grin. “i’m like a sunday roast, babe,” he says, voice warm as melted chocolate, his particular accent curling around every word. “turn me over, will you? don’t want to burn uneven.”

you snort, reaching for the sunscreen bottle, its plastic chilled from sitting in the ice bucket. “you’re the only footballer who needs spf fifty just to exist,” you tease, climbing onto his lap. his thighs are solid beneath you, warm and tensing automatically as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer so your knees bracket his hips. the breeze tugs at your bikini strings, but he’s too busy watching you, mouth twitching as he tries not to laugh.

“i’m very delicate,” he says, fluttering his lashes exaggeratedly. “porcelain. just look at this masterpiece of a nose.” he leans forward, bumping his sun-reddened nose against yours until your lips brush. the heat of him is everywhere—his hands splayed across your back, his chest rising and falling in a slow, contented rhythm.

you squeeze a dollop of sunscreen onto your fingers and he goes cross-eyed trying to watch. “hold still,” you murmur, and he does, dramatically straightening his spine, jaw jutted out like a statue. you drag your slick fingers over the bridge of his nose, the apples of his cheeks, your thumbs pressing gently over the pinkest spots. his skin is impossibly soft, and he shivers a little at your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, lashes golden in the sunlight.

“mmm,” he hums, low in his chest, “that’s the stuff. you have no idea how much i love you right now.” he tilts his chin, giving you better access, and you trace the sunscreen down to his jaw, feathering it along his hairline, over his high cheekbones. the sun catches in his hair, gilding every strand, and you think he looks a little like a myth—some ancient god who’s just embarrassingly bad at being mortal.

you keep going, just because you can, stroking the sun lotion down to the delicate skin under his eyes, then over his forehead, careful not to miss a spot. his fingers tighten at your waist, thumbs tracing idly back and forth, and when you finish, he opens his eyes and grins, impossibly bright, impossibly happy.

“am i pretty now?” he asks, mock-serious, and you can’t help but laugh, pressing a kiss to his pink nose, tasting the faint tang of coconut and sweat and the sea.

“you’re gorgeous,” you tell him, and his smile gets even wider, if that’s possible. he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, big hands so gentle it makes your chest ache, and leans in, his mouth brushing your ear. “thanks for keeping me alive, min kjære,” he murmurs, voice low and sweet.

The summer sun was brutal this time of year, the middle of July was making everyone stir crazy. The heat, the baking sun, it was enough to make anyone irritable if they were inside long enough.

So, that's why you and Connor decided to pack up and spend some time at his friend's beach house. The glimmering water, the cool breeze of the ocean, and the excitement of finally being away from the stifling city heat of Chicago was too good to pass up.

The beach house was small, just a little cabin type place meant only for sleeping after long days in the water. The entire place smelled of salt and sunscreen, a scent you'd been missing since last summer.

On your first day there, Connor and his friends decided to stuff one of their cars with blankets, chairs, and other supplies. The trip to the public beach was short, just a few minutes of beautiful water and sandy shores blurring by through the window.

You couldn't wait. Your bikini ties sticking out of your shirt collar and the sides of your shorts. Connor was sitting in the front seat, occasionally glancing back to fondly watch you looking out of the car window at the passing scenery.

At the beach, the energy was high. Full of playful teasing as everyone unpacked the car. An umbrella was pitched in the sand, chairs spread out all around, and plenty of bottles of sunscreen littered the blanket laid in the middle.

You watched as Connor stripped off his shirt, revealing a lean, tanned torso you knew every inch of by heart. Yet that didn't stop the breath that caught in your throat as you traced every line of his abs. He caught you staring, and raised a brow.

"You wanna help me put this on," he said, holding a spray bottle out to you, "or are you just going to enjoy the view?"

You rolled your eyes as he smirked, turning away so you could get his back. He flinched as the cold sunscreen made contact with the taut muscles of his back, but he relaxed as your steady hands worked it into his skin.

The first half of your beach day was a blast. Playing volleyball in the sand, your competitive nature battling against Connor's as you two tried to sabotage each other. You swam, the salty water cooling your skin as you splashed and laughed with him. He spent time with his friends, kicking around a soccer ball and retrieving it from the water when it went astray.

As he kicked it to someone else, you watched him from your chair. You were "reading," really you were just watching him with a thinly veiled excuse.

It started to bug your brain; the way his broad shoulders looked when the sun beat down on them, the way his gold chain reflected the light as he moved. His bright smile and laugh seeming to be accentuated on the hot beach.

He came jogging over to you, fixing you with that same wide smile.

"Having fun, princess?" he said, crouching down to your eye level in the chair.

It was too much. His hair messy from the salt water, the smell of sunscreen mixing with his cologne and sweat, the sand plastered to his legs and arms. The way he was looking at you with those eyes and that little grin that made your stomach flip.

"Yeah-" you started, before grabbing his arm, "I actually need your help. I think I got a cut on my ankle and it might have sand in it. Will you help me wash it out?"

It was an excuse, a pretty easily debunked one too. Connor's face immediately dropped with concern, his other hand reaching for your ankle. You stood quickly, not letting him have the the chance to figure out your little lie just yet.

You pulled him by the arm, letting him stumble behind you as he followed quickly.

"Yeah, of course. Are you okay?" he said, his voice sweet with a need to comfort you.

You almost felt bad, making him worry. But you were too worked up to care.

When you'd made it to the edge of the beach, you thanked every lucky star that you'd noticed the enclosed beach showers on your way in. Without another word, you pulled him in behind you, shutting the door with a thud. It wasn't entirely closed though, just four walls with no roof. And the walls were thin at that, a sound too loud and his friends would definitely hear you.

When you turned to him, Connor's face was morphing from concerned, to confused, to intensely curious.

"Your ankle isn't cut, is it" he said bluntly, starting to follow your intentions from your prior urgency to your pleading eyes.

"No, it's not," you conceded, "But I just need you so bad. Seeing you out there, looking so sexy. God I couldn't take it."

Connor's brow raised as his lip quirked up at your breathless confession.

"Yeah? You're bad, you know that? All my friends are right out there, and you're thinking about my hands on you?" his voice was a low rumble, his hands coming to grab your waist.

You just nodded, leaning into his touch. He could feel the heat of your gaze, the way your body yielded so easily to him.

Connor slid one of his hands past your bikini bottoms and you gasped softly. You pressed your hand against your mouth, trying to keep yourself quiet.

His fingers dipped into your wetness without a second of teasing, not wanting to risk getting caught like this. His other hand held you firmly against him, his eyes dark as he watched your eyelids flutter.

He slid two fingers into you slowly, curling them in the way he knew you loved. They moved methodically, stroking against the sensitive part of you with a practiced knowledge. Connor knew every inch of you, and he knew how to get you to a peak quickly.

"Come on baby, you gonna cum? Right here? Where anyone could see? See how much my girl needs my fingers," he murmured against your temple, adding his thumb to circle your clit.

Your one hand was still pressed over your mouth, but a few soft noises slipped by as your other hand gripped him desperately.

Your nails dug into his bicep as he finally pushed you over, your orgasm both soft and devastating from his fingers alone. He worked you through it, kissing your hair and slowly sliding them out of you.

But it wasn't enough. Seeing him standing there, satisfied as he licked his fingers clean, it only served to make you more needy.

"Please," you whispered, pulling at his swim trunks, "Need more. Need you," you pleaded, giving him those big eyes he couldn't say no to.

Connor let out a long breath, his arousal pressing insistently against his trunks, his expression warring between need and responsibility. He looked at the door as if it might open at any second, but the look you gave him as his eyes met yours again was too much.

His desire won fairly quickly, and he spun you around in his grasp.

His voice was low when he growled in your ear, taking his own hand to replace yours over your mouth.

"This is a terrible idea, but at this point, I don't care. You need to stay quiet, okay? Unless you want everyone to hear," he said as he pushed his trunks down just enough.

His length was hot against your ass, insistently pressing against your bikini bottoms.

You nodded against his hand, trying to shove back against him, to feel him closer. His hand grabbed your hip hard, pinning you in place against him. He reached down, shoving your bottoms to the side.

His hand wrapped around his cock, giving a few strokes as he groaned softly. He couldn't wait much longer, the sight of you bent over for him, his hand against your mouth, was becoming too tempting to give up.

So he pushed himself inside you in one long, slow thrust, burying himself to the hilt with a soft hiss.

"Fuck baby," he murmured, his free hand running through his damp hair as he pressed his hips as close as he could to yours, "So wet huh? Needed me this bad?"

You nodded your head frantically against him, your response muffled by his hand.

His pace started slow, making sure to avoid any slapping sounds that he'd usually take pleasure in.

"Ah, ah," he said softly, "Quiet, remember?"

He picked up his pace slightly, driven by the way you were trying and failing to stop your moans in his palm. He reached around, flicking and tweaking your nipple as he fucked into you.

He was trying to keep himself quiet, desperately biting his lip as he watched himself disappear inside you. But he couldn't help the little grunts that fell from his mouth, your cunt was just too good.

His hand grabbed your hip now, any semblance of his ridgid control fading quickly. He did his best to keep it down, but the need to fuck you harder was winning out more.

You had your hands braced on the wall, his cock pressing so deep inside you that you needed some kind of support to stay standing. The sound of Connor barely containing himself only served to push you closer and closer, needing to finish with him. Your cunt gripped him tight, and Connor let out a choked groan.

"Don't- don't do that," he hissed, his thrusts losing rhythm for a second as he tried to regain control.

You, of course, didn't listen. Clenching down on him hard as he hit deep on the next thrust.

Connor let out a long moan, fucking into you faster and with less consideration for the sounds he was making.

"Fine," he gritted out, "You don't want to listen? I'll make this whole fucking beach hear you scream," his hand moved from your mouth, coming grip your other hip as he started pounding into you.

You squeaked, trying your best to still keep yourself quiet as he relentlessly hit that spot, the one that made your vision blurry and your legs tremble.

"C-Connor, m'gonna- cum again," you managed to stutter out, as quietly as you could as you choked on a moan.

His pace didn't slow, if anything, he picked it up. His hips didn't meet your ass with each thrust, didn't give the stinging slap that usually accompanied his hard thrusts from behind. He was trying to hang on to a small thread of decency, even if it was small.

Yeah?" he whispered, feeling himself approaching his edge as well, "Come on princess. Cum on my cock. Want to hear you say my name when you do, want everyone to hear it," he panted out, eyes squeezing shut.

You smacked your hand over your mouth just in time, covering up your keening cry of him name as you came. Your walls spasmed around his cock, your legs shook as you tried to stay standing through it.

Connor's arm wrapped around you, holding you against his chest as he thrusted a few more times, spilling into you with a groan into your ear.

"Fuuuck- god, this fucking cunt feels so good," he said into your shoulder, biting softly which made you jolt.

The two of you stayed standing, his arm holding you tight to keep you upright. After a few seconds of you both catching your breath, Connor pulled out of you with a wince. He turned you to face him gently, and watched as a drop of his cum ran down your thigh.

It sent a shiver down his spine, but he quickly replaced the possessive chill with a more practical, focused attention.

"Come on princess, let's get you cleaned up before anyone sees the mess I made in you," he said, his voice a low murmur as he turned on the water.

He kept you tucked into his side as he tested it, getting it as warm as he could before gently holding you under the stream. He wiped the evidence of himself from your thighs, stroking your side with his other hand as he did.

You hummed softly, leaning into him, satisfied and a little smug.

"So... better than washing sand out of my scraped ankle?" you teased softly, your hands traced patterns along his shoulders and chest.

Connor snorted softly, shutting off the water as he fixed his trunks.

"Scraped ankle, my ass," he said, pushing your bottoms back into the place they belong, "But yeah, much better than your little injury stunt."

You giggled, and he pulled you to the door of the shower, opening it and peering out before turning to you.

"Let's hope no one heard me fucking my girlfriend on a public beach. I don't think the sports columns would love to hear that one," he smirked, walking out with your hand in his.

As you walked back down to the beach, you heard a voice call out.

"Hey Bedsy! You two alright up there? It's been like, twenty minutes!"

You and Connor turned to each other, and he gave you a little private smile.

"Yeah!" he yelled back, as you approached his friends, "She just got a little scrape on her ankle. Needed some taking care of," he said casually, though a little smirk quirked the side of his mouth.

His friends bought it, at least mostly, some giving a suspicious eyebrow raise, but not saying anything more.

Safe to say, your ankle was just fine. Though, you'd never been so happy to have faked an injury.

Still groggy, you stretch just a little, registering how Fraser's whole body is glued to your back, his arm draped heavily over your side. Heat is already pooling between your legs, the steady press of his cock sending sparks up your spine. "good morning baby," you murmur, turning your head on the pillow and leaning back to nose at his cheek, "open those eyes for me, hm?"

Slowly, his blue eyes blink open, mouth parting as he feels you reach back, your warm hand cupping the base of him. "H-hi," he looks up as you roll over, pushing his shoulder back and swinging a leg over his hips. "S-shit, oh fuck," he breathes, sealing his eyes shut again, like he could cum just from the sight of you, his fingers grasping wildly at your hips.

"You were dreaming about me, huh pretty boy?" you ask him, voice soft, sliding your hips over his, the soft cotton of your black panties gliding easily against his tight boxers. “Wanna tell me about it?” You slow your movements and reach down to cup Fraser’s jaw, tilting his face up to look at you and adding, “eyes open.”

Fraser blinks up at you again, obedient as always, his pupils dilated as he scans your face, equal parts eager and submissive. He stammers, trying to get the words out, he knows what you want from him. “I-It was—fuck—you were on your knees,” he starts, blinking rapidly when you start to move again, grinding oh so slowly on his aching cock. “You were on your knees, y-your hair was down and you were sucking me off.”

Hot. You smirk down at him, steadying yourself with your arms on either side of his ribcage and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth before you trail your lips down his bare chest. “What was I wearing?” you ask.

“W-What?

“In the dream, what was I wearing,” you repeat, grabbing his hips while you move your face closer to his bulge. “You remember, don’t you?”

The question hangs in the air as you pull down his waistband, watching his leaking cock spring free. You take the base of him in your hand and give it a few slow strokes, a sly smile toying at your lips. "Come on baby, use your words."

Fraser threads his fingers through your hair like he needs it to ground himself, then sucks in a deep breath and continues. “One of my t-shirts, a-a black one. And panties, t-they were purple.”

“I don’t have purple panties,” you say, scrunching your brow. You lick him from base to tip, pausing to swirl your tongue around the head. “That must’ve been your other bitch,” you tease, pulling off to stroke him slowly.

“I-It was you,” he whines, abs tensing up as he pants, trying so hard not to cum. “Baby, it's always you, every dream I have—” Fraser cries out suddenly, thighs trembling as his cock jerks in your hand, making a mess on himself and the sheets “—ah, ah! Fuck! I‘m sorry, didn’t mean to, I—”

His sentence never finishes, his voice cracking before melting off into something between a moan and a sigh. He deflates, mussed brown hair sticking to his forehead as he finally closes his eyes again, blindly fumbling for your hips.

“How’d it end?” you ask, catching his wrists and guiding his hands towards your body.

He pouts and tugs you down to lay on his chest. “Well, I was trying to take those purple panties off you when I woke up,” he explains, “so close I could almost taste it.”

“Is that right?” You murmur, rolling off his chest and onto your back. “Hmm, that sounds pretty nice, don’t you think?”

“Y-Yeah.” his voice is low and needy, he sits up and reaches towards the nightstand to grab his glasses. He shoves the clear frames on his face, the lenses fogging when he leans down close to your core. “Please, baby, let me taste you?”

Fraser doesn’t wait, he practically whimpers as he pulls your panties down, wasting no time before hiking one of your thighs over his shoulder and hovering his face close to your pussy. He breathes in your scent, letting it out in a sweet little sigh before he dives in, eating you like a starved man. He knows just how to work you, his tongue flicking over your clit while he reaches up to knead your breast, moaning into the heat of you.

You can see how he’s watching you, blue eyes warm but intense, focused solely on your body spread beneath him. It’s not long before the wave of your orgasm crashes over you, your body mirroring the way Fraser’s had trembled mere minutes ago, but your moans were much louder. He doesn’t stop at first either, lapping up your wetness with fervor until you tug him off of you, whining from the overstimulation.

“Fuck, I’ll never get used to that,” he groans, his cheek resting against your lower belly. He looks so pretty like this, his cheeks flushed pink as he looks up at you in awe. It’s quiet for a while after that as the two of you take some time to soak in the feeling of each other. He crawls out of bed when the both of you have caught your breath, cleaning himself off and tugging on a fresh pair of boxers. There’s a little smirk on his face when he turns around, tossing you a black t-shirt, just like he’d mentioned. He grabs you by your ankles, dragging your body towards the edge of the bed, and wipes you down with a gentle touch.

The warmth of the mattress pulls you in, you sink back into the pillows and let him do the work for you, sighing wistfully. You feel Fraser lift your legs, sliding a clean pair of panties up past your thighs and murmuring for you to lift your hips. “See, I told you,” he says, pinching your side with no real force. “They’re purple.”

Confused, you look down at the underwear. “Oh my god—” a laugh cuts through your incredulous tone as you sit up, grabbing at his hips, “—these are blue!”

© oscmints, 2026

You told yourself you’d never do it again.

Never text him. Never meet up with him. Never let him sweet-talk you into “just one last time.” You were done. Over it. Moving on.

But then Matthew Knies walked into the bar, and suddenly, your new chapter of self-respect was scribbled over with his name in bold, messy letters.

He wasn’t even subtle about it. Six-foot-three of stupidly attractive hockey player energy, walking in with that cocky grin and the sleeves of his black shirt pushed up to show off massive forearms that should be illegal. He did the thing he always does—pretending he didn’t see you, but angling himself just enough so you’d notice him anyway. His friends crowded around, but his eyes kept darting to you like a goddamn moth to a flame.

And you? Well, you were no better. Grinding on some random guy whose name you hadn’t bothered to catch, all to get back at Matthew for the stunt he pulled an hour ago. You’d walked up and seen him chatting up some girl, his hand low on her back, leaning in to whisper something that made her laugh. It was all you needed to down two vodka sodas and drag the nearest semi-attractive guy onto the dance floor.

Because two could play at this game.

Except the random guy you’re dancing with doesn’t smell like Matthew. Doesn’t have that raspy, teasing voice that gets under your skin. He’s smiling at you, saying something you can’t hear over the music, but all you can think about is how Matthew would’ve already pulled you closer, his hands gripping your waist like he owned it.

It’s toxic. You know it. You know you’re just as bad as he is. But knowing doesn’t stop your heart from jumping when you glance over and catch him staring. His jaw is clenched, his eyes dark, and he’s not even pretending to pay attention to the girl next to him anymore.

“You good?” random guy asks, leaning closer.

“Yeah, just…” You’re not. Not even a little. You’re halfway through an excuse when you feel the heat of Matthew’s presence behind you.

“Mind if I cut in?” His voice is low, casual, but there’s a sharpness underneath it that makes your stomach flip.

The random guy glances between you and Matthew, reading the situation in about two seconds flat. He’s getting the fuck out.  “Uh, sure, man.” He’s gone before you can even pretend to protest.

“Really?” you say, spinning around to face him. “You couldn’t let me have five minutes?”

“Oh, come on,” Matthew says, his hands sliding onto your hips like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You were barely into it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?” He’s close now, his breath warm against your ear. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been waiting for me all night.”

God, he’s infuriating. And also right. But you’ll die before admitting it.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, even as your body betrays you, leaning into his touch.

“Yeah, but you love it.” His grin is cocky, but there’s something softer in his eyes, something that makes your resolve crumble just a little more.

“This doesn’t mean I’m forgiving you,” you say, letting him pull you closer.

“Forgive me for what? You were the one all over that guy.”

“Because you were all over that girl!”

He laughs, low and teasing. “Jealous?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

But you are. Always. It’s pathetic, really. The way he gets under your skin, the way you’d cancel plans, lie to your friends, do whatever it took just to end up here again. His hands on you, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

You should say no. You should stay with your friends, dance with someone else, prove to yourself you’re stronger than this. But you’re not. And the way he’s looking at you right now, like you’re the only person in the room, makes it impossible to care.

“Fine,” you say, rolling your eyes for show. “I just need to do one thing first…”

You’re doing it again. Making choices that Future You will regret, all because Present You has the impulse control of a golden retriever with a tennis ball. But in your defense, Matthew Knies—standing there with his infuriating smirk and arms crossed like he already knows how this night ends—is a damn good tennis ball, even if he’s more of a golden retriever around everyone else.

“Be right back,” you mumble, tearing yourself away from his gravitational pull. It’s like trying to swim against a rip current, but you manage to reach your best friend, Cora, at the bar. She’s mid-sip of a margarita, her skeptical gaze locking onto you the moment you approach.

“Don’t say it,” you warn, raising a finger.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she replies, far too innocently. Then, after a beat: “You’re leaving with him, aren’t you?”

“No! Well, yes. But not like that.”

“Not like what? Like you’re about to hook up with the human embodiment of a bad decision?”

You groan, running a hand through your hair. “I’m going home. Alone. I just… need to talk to him about something first.”

“Mhm.” Cora takes another sip, eyes narrowing over the rim of her glass. “Let me guess. You’re going to ‘talk’ about how he’s a manipulative asshole, and then you’re going to end up at his place anyway.”

“That is absolutely not going to happen,” you lie through your teeth, smiling in a way that you hope screams “trustworthy” and not “pathetic liar.”

She’s not buying it. “Sure. And I’m quitting margaritas starting tomorrow.”

“Look, it’s not like that,” you insist, though even you’re not convinced. “I just need to clear the air.”

“Clear the air? Honey, you’re basically breathing in toxic waste at this point.”

You glance back toward Matthew, who’s leaning against a column like some kind of brooding movie villain, checking his phone but clearly watching you out of the corner of his eye. 

God, he’s annoying. And hot. And annoying.

“I’ll call you later,” you say, giving Cora a quick hug. “Promise.”

“You better. And if I don’t hear from you by noon tomorrow, I’m sending the search party to his place.”

You laugh, waving her off, and head back to Matthew. He’s pocketed his phone by the time you reach him, looking you up and down like he’s been starving and you’re the buffet.

“Took you long enough,” he says, his voice low and gravelly.

“Had to reassure my friend I wasn’t doing anything stupid.”

“And did you convince her?”

“Not even a little.”

He smirks, slipping an arm around your waist as you both start toward the exit. “So, can we go now?”

“Yes, but not out the front,” you whisper, glancing around. “Let’s take the back door.”

His grin widens. “What, afraid someone might see us?”

“No,” you lie again, shooting him a glare. “I just… don’t want to deal with the questions.”

“Whatever you say.”

He’s leading you through the dimly lit hallway toward the back door now, his hand warm on your hip. You’re acutely aware of how close he is, the way he smells like expensive cologne and a little bit of trouble. The rational part of your brain is screaming at you to stop, to turn around and go back to your friends, to salvage what’s left of your self-respect.

But then he pushes open the door, glances back at you with those maddeningly gorgeous eyes, and you know you’re a goner.

Future You is going to be so pissed.

***

The hallway leading to Matthew’s apartment is dimly lit, the kind of place where a decent person would think twice before lingering. But you? You’re currently pinned against the beige wall, your back pressing into a framed poster of some generic city skyline as Matthew’s lips trail a hot path down your neck.

“You’re… so annoying,” you manage to breathe out between sloppy, desperate kisses, even as your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his voice thick. His hands slide to your hips, pulling you flush against him. “Then why’re you here, huh? Could’ve walked away anytime, but you didn’t.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, though your resolve is nonexistent. It melts with every press of his lips, every rough touch of his hands on your body.

“No,” he says, lips curling into a smirk against your collarbone. “I’m serious. I’m…” He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his own dark and half-lidded, pupils blown wide. “I’m gonna take you out tomorrow morning. Real date. No bullshit. I’ll pay for the fancy coffee you like. Hell, I’ll even sit through one of those brunch places you love where they put avocado on everything.”

“Oh, great,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “The bare minimum. My dream.”

“I mean it,” he insists, his voice softer now. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “I like you. I really…”

You cut him off with a groan, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him back into a kiss. “Matty, for the love of God, shut up.”

“What? I’m being serious,” he mutters against your lips, but you kiss him again, harder this time, effectively silencing him. It’s not that you don’t want to hear it—okay, maybe you don’t want to hear it—but the last time he said things like this, you ended up spending three days waiting for a text that never came.

“You always say this,” you snap when you pull back, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You say all this sweet shit, and then the second I start to believe you, you…”

“Hey,” he interrupts, his voice low but firm. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his hands firm on your waist. “I know I’ve… messed up before. But I mean it this time. Okay? Tomorrow morning. I’ll prove it.”

You stare at him for a beat, your heart doing its usual traitorous flip-flop at the intensity in his eyes. Then, because you’re you, and because your brain’s response to vulnerability is deflection, you arch an eyebrow and say, “So, is this your idea of foreplay?”

Matthew’s lips twitch into a grin. “I mean, it’s working, isn’t it?”

“Barely,” you deadpan, though your body is doing absolutely nothing to back up your words. If anything, the way you press into him makes it abundantly clear that yes, it’s working.

“Guess I’ll have to try harder,” he says, his voice dropping lower, and before you can fire back, he’s kissing you again. This time, it’s not soft or sweet. It’s messy and consuming, like he can’t get enough, and you’re not exactly innocent in your response. Your hands slip under the hem of his shirt, fingers dragging over the planes of his stomach, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, his lips ghosting over your jawline as he presses you against another wall. You can feel the faint vibrations of someone’s music playing through the drywall, but you don’t care.

“You’ll survive,” you shoot back, and he chuckles low in his throat, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“Cocky, huh?” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

“Learned it from you.”

“God, I hate how much I like you,” he mutters, and for once, you believe him. Not because his words mean anything—they’re cheap, easy—but because of the way he says it, like the admission is dragging itself out of him against his will.

You want to say something snarky, something that will keep the upper hand firmly in your court, but all that comes out is a half-gasp, half-moan as his hands roam lower, gripping your bare thighs and lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your back hits the wall again, and you’re vaguely aware of a door opening nearby.

“Oh, for the love of—Matthew, take it inside!” a voice calls, and you crane your neck to see one of his neighbors, a middle-aged guy holding a trash bag and looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Sorry, man,” Matthew says over his shoulder, not sounding remotely sorry. He shoots you a lopsided grin as he carries you the rest of the way to his apartment.

“This is mortifying,” you hiss, but you can’t even muster up real indignation. Not when he’s looking at you like that, like you’re the only thing that matters.

“Eh, he’ll live,” Matthew says, kicking the door shut behind him and pinning you against it. “Now, where were we?”

***

You wake up to the blinding streaks of sunlight slicing through the curtains, your head pounding and body sore in that way that screams, “You made questionable decisions last night.”

Matthew’s bed is as infuriatingly comfortable as ever, the kind of plush that makes you hate yourself for loving it. You’re completely naked, sprawled on your stomach with one leg half-tangled in the sheet, the other dangling off the edge. 

Then you roll over and catch sight of the condom wrapper in the garbage can near his bed. Relief floods through you like a dam breaking. Okay, past me… not a total disaster. Nice job.

Your phone is nowhere in sight, and you’re not about to make the rookie mistake of digging through Matthew’s mess of an apartment naked. The man lives like an unrepentant frat boy—half-empty protein shake bottles on the nightstand, a pair of hockey gloves somehow perched on top of his TV, and a mysterious pile of laundry that smells faintly of regret.

“Matty,” you mutter, nudging his shoulder. He’s face-down beside you, the sheet barely covering his hips, and his hair looks like it’s trying to launch an escape plan. “Wake up.”

He groans, burying his face further into the pillow. “‘S too early.”

“It’s past ten.”

“Exactly. Too early,” he mumbles, voice muffled.

You poke him harder. “I need you to find my clothes.”

He cracks one eye open, glaring at you like you’ve just asked him to run a marathon. “You’re perfectly capable of—”

“I’m not getting up naked,” you cut him off, glaring back. “And considering the state of your apartment, I’d probably step on something gross and die.”

Matthew snickers, turning onto his back and stretching lazily. The sheet slips lower, and you quickly look away, your cheeks burning. Why is he built like this? It’s so unfair.

“Fine,” he says, sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck. His voice is rough with sleep, and you hate how much you like the sound of it. “But only because I’m feeling generous.”

“Oh, so generous,” you deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands.

And there it is—the full Matthew Knies experience, all six-foot-three of him again, stupidly big and built out of entirely sharp angles and lines like he’s a statue made of marble, in nothing but his boxers. He stretches again, scratching his stomach, and you catch yourself staring. Focus. Clothes. Dignity.

“Where’s the last place you remember having them?” he asks, ruffling his hair like a golden retriever that’s just woken up.

“I don’t know, probably on the floor somewhere,” you say, waving vaguely toward the living room. “And my phone needs to be plugged in. It’s dead.”

“Anything else, your majesty?” he teases, shooting you a grin that’s far too smug for someone who’s probably going to trip over his own hockey stick in two minutes.

“Just hurry up,” you snap, pulling the sheet tighter around yourself. “I’m starving.”

He mutters something about demanding princesses under his breath but disappears into the chaos of his apartment. You hear him opening and closing drawers, followed by a loud crash and a string of curses.

“Found your bra,” he calls out, triumphant.

“Amazing,” you yell back, rolling your eyes. “How about the rest of my clothes?”

“Working on it,” he says, followed by the sound of something heavy being moved. “Jesus, how did your underwear end up on the… never mind. Got it.”

You’re half-tempted to make a snarky comment but decide against it. Instead, you grab his phone from the nightstand and plug yours in, hoping it’ll have enough juice by the time he’s done playing scavenger hunt.

When Matthew finally returns, he’s holding your clothes in a messy pile, looking absurdly proud of himself. “Mission accomplished.”

“Barely,” you mutter, grabbing the pile from him. “Turn around.”

“What, you’re shy now?”

“Matthew,” you warn, glaring.

“Fine, fine,” he says, throwing up his hands and turning around, but not before you catch his amused smirk.

Your phone pings from the bedside table. It’s finally charged. The screen lights up with the kind of urgency reserved for spam emails or catastrophic life updates. When you grab it, the lock screen shows seven texts and two missed calls from Cara.

You groan, already anticipating the “I told you so” conversation. The vibration of the phone against your palm feels like it’s judging you. And honestly, fair.

“What’s that?” Matthew’s voice is gravelly, the kind of post-sleep rasp that should be bottled and sold as a weapon. He’s not obeying you anymore, getting back into bed. He rolls over, propping himself up on one elbow. His green eyes, still hazy with sleep, lock onto yours with a weirdly intimate intensity.

“Nothing,” you lie, already opening the texts because curiosity is a curse.

Cara: Girl, you better not have left with him.

Cara: Seriously, I will disown you.

Cara: Call me. I’m not joking. CALL. ME.

Cara: You know he’s not worth it.

Cara: If you’re at his place, I’m sending an Uber.

Cara: Or a priest. Maybe both.

Cara: CALL ME BACK.

The two missed calls are timestamped at 2:47 and 3:15 a.m. respectively. You can practically hear Cara’s voice in your head, somewhere between exasperation and outright despair.

“You’re smiling,” Matthew observes, shifting closer. His hair is adorably messy, sticking up in a way that’d be endearing if you weren’t actively trying to suppress how much you’re into him. He nudges your knee with his. “What’d she say this time? Did she finally threaten to change the locks on your apartment?”

“Worse,” you reply, scrolling back through the texts. “She’s considering an exorcism.”

“Harsh.” He stretches out on his back, arms behind his head, looking for all the world like a smug, overgrown golden retriever. A very ripped, very cocky golden retriever. “What’re you gonna tell her?”

“That you died in a tragic accident and I’m grieving.”

“Ouch.” He places a hand over his heart, mock-offended. “Can’t you at least make it something cool? Like a bear attack or a skydiving mishap?”

“Nope. You tripped over your ego and hit your head. Instant death.”

Matthew grins, wide and boyish, and it’s almost enough to make you forget the dumpster fire of your situation. Almost.

The phone pings again. Cara: If you don’t call me in the next five minutes, I’m driving over there.

“She’s serious,” you mutter, dialing before she makes good on the threat. Matthew watches you with the kind of laser-focused attention that’s both flattering and annoying.

Cara picks up on the second ring. “Finally! Are you alive? Did he kidnap you? Blink twice if you need help.”

“Good morning to you too,” you say, leaning back against the headboard. Matthew shifts closer, resting his chin on your shoulder like he’s part of this conversation now. You swat at him half-heartedly.

“Don’t ‘good morning’ me,” Cara snaps. “Where are you?”

“At my place,” you lie, wincing.

You’ve always considered yourself a decent liar. Not a master manipulator by any means, but good enough to smooth over awkward situations and talk your way out of speeding tickets. But with Cara on the phone and Matthew’s warm hand tracing lazy circles on your thigh, your abilities are failing spectacularly.

“Your place?” Cara’s voice is sharp, cutting through your thin attempt at nonchalance. “I swear to God, if I hear his voice in the background, I’m—”

“Relax,” you interrupt, forcing your voice into something approximating calm. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

It is not fine. Not even close. Matthew’s lips brush your shoulder now, his stubble scraping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. He’s smiling, of course. He always smiles when he knows he has the upper hand. The worst part? He isn’t even trying to hide it, his fingers creeping higher while he presses a kiss just beneath your ear.

“Tell her I say hi,” he murmurs, his voice low. You shoot him a glare that only makes his grin widen.

“Did he just…” Cara’s tone is dangerous now, like she’s one step away from driving to your “place” and dragging you out by your hair. “I swear, if that was him…”

“It wasn’t,” you lie, your voice tight. You swat at Matthew, mouthing, Stop it, but he just catches your hand, lacing his fingers with yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re the worst liar,” Cara snaps. “I’m coming over.”

“Don’t!” you yelp, sitting up straighter, which only encourages Matthew to press closer. His hand on your thigh slides to your waist, his touch light but possessive. “I mean it, Cara. I’m fine. I’ll call you later.”

“You better. And you’d better not be at his place,” she warns. “I’ll kill him. Or you. Maybe both.”

“Understood,” you say quickly, hanging up before she can elaborate. You let the phone drop onto the bed and turn to Matthew, your irritation warring with the way his green eyes sparkle in the morning light.

“She’s scary,” he says, his tone amused but faintly impressed. “Kind of love that for you.”

“You’re not helping,” you mutter, though your resolve softens when he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is annoyingly gentle, like he isn’t the same guy who pinned you down on this very bed and rocked your world a few hours ago.

“Wasn’t trying to,” he says with a shrug. Then, as if he hasn’t spent the last ten minutes actively ruining your life: “What do you want for breakfast?”

You blink at him, thrown. “What?”

“Breakfast,” he repeats, his lips quirking into a lopsided smile. “You know, the meal after the bad decisions.”

“I don’t…” You falter, your brain short-circuiting under the weight of his casual sweetness. It’s infuriating, the way he can switch from cocky to earnest in a heartbeat. “I don’t need breakfast.”

“Everyone needs breakfast. Plus, you said you were starving,” he counters, his fingers brushing over your knee. “You like those places with the tiny waffles, right? Or is this more of a pancakes-and-bacon kind of morning?”

“Matt—”

“Or we could go fancy,” he continues, completely ignoring you. “Somewhere with mimosas. You love mimosas.”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, trying to ignore the way your heart is doing somersaults. “And I’m not going to breakfast with you.”

“Why not?” he asks, his brows furrowing slightly. He shifts closer, his hand now resting on your cheek, tilting your face so you can’t look away. “You scared of spending time with me when it’s not dark out?”

“No,” you say quickly, though the warmth in his eyes makes your stomach twist. “I just… I have things to do.”

“Liar,” he says softly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Come on. Let me take you out. Real date. No bullshit.”

“Matthew…” Your voice wavers, your carefully constructed walls crumbling under the weight of his sincerity. “This doesn’t… It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” he asks, his gaze searching yours. “Because it feels like it does.”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words won’t come. Instead, you let out a frustrated sigh and look away, hating how easily he can unravel you.

God, this man is really, really good at making you make bad decisions.

“Breakfast,” he says again, his tone lighter now. “It’ll be fun. We’ll sit in some overpriced café, drink too much coffee, and argue about what to order. Isn’t that what normal couples do?”

“We’re not a couple,” you point out, but the fight is slipping from your voice.

“We could be,” he says, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Just for a little while.”

The honeymoon phase always seemed to wrap itself around you like a comforting embrace, and here you were again, caught in its sweet allure. The funny thing? It never seemed to fade—not with him. Three months had passed since the start, and today, your heart still raced at the thought of seeing Fraser, just as much as it had in the beginning.

Your plane had just landed in Toronto after a long week in California visiting your grandparents. As you stand in the baggage claim, the hum of the airport fading into the background, you can’t help but feel an impatient flutter in your chest. The anticipation feels like electricity. You’re scanning the room, eyes darting over the crowd, searching for that familiar face. But you don’t see him. A little knot of worry tightens in your stomach—Is he late? You check the time on your phone, forcing yourself to breathe. Maybe something came up. He’s coming. He’ll be here.

Your thoughts spiralled, and that hint of doubt creeped in—until, out of nowhere, you felt it. Warm arms slipped around your waist, pulling you close from behind, and your heart leaped before your brain even caught up. It’s him. You could feel it in the way his body fit perfectly against yours, the warmth of his chest pressing against your back, and the familiar scent of his cologne that instantly melted away every shred of doubt.

"Miss me?" His voice was soft, just above a whisper, brushing against the curve of your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, and you couldn’t help but smile, your body instinctively relaxing into his hold. His lips were gentle as they pressed against your neck, trailing slow, soft kisses along your skin.

"Of course I did," you murmured, turning slightly to catch a glimpse of him. Your heart skipped when your eyes met his, that same playful spark in his gaze as he leaned in for a kiss—soft at first, but quickly deepening, and you could feel every ounce of affection pouring into it.

Your bags? Forgotten. The busy airport? Distant noise. All that exists at that moment is him, Fraser, and the way he makes you feel like the world shrinks to just the two of you.

His hands never seemed to leave you, one wrapped around your waist, the other cupping your cheek as he leaned in again for another kiss, this one softer, sweeter, like he was savoring the moment. He pulled back, just barely, his lips hovering close to yours. "I missed you more," he whispered, his eyes locked on yours with that tender intensity that always makes your heart flutter. You couldn't help but blush, the warmth of his affection making you feel weightless.

When he finally released you, it was only to grab your luggage, his hand slipping back into yours as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. The car ride home is just another excuse to stay close—Fraser is always touchy, always affectionate, but today, after a week apart, it feels even more intense, more intimate.

By the time you reached the car, your heart was fluttering again, more from him than anything else. He tossed your bag in the back seat before opening the door for you with a teasing bow.

“Such a gentleman,” you teased, sliding into the seat.

Fraser slid in beside you, reaching across to buckle you in before taking his place behind the wheel. His hand settled naturally on your thigh as he started the engine, thumb brushing against your skin with deliberate, slow strokes. It was subtle at first, but you could feel the warmth of his hand growing, his touch lingering.

Your heart sped up again, heat rushing to your cheeks as you glanced over at him. The look in his eyes as he focused on the road told you he wasn’t just thinking about driving. You just bit your lip, trying not to grin too wide.

*** You fumbled with the keys to your apartment door, your heart still racing from the way-too-long car ride. Fraser was practically glued to your side, his hand intertwined with yours, fingers squeezing lightly every few moments as if to remind you he was there. The second the door opened, he wasted no time, dropping your luggage unceremoniously in the hallway and tugging you toward the living room.

“Fraser,” you laughed, breathless as he led you to the couch, “I need to unpack first.”

But he didn’t seem to care about that, not one bit. His arms circled your waist, pulling you close, and he practically fell back onto the couch, dragging you with him until you were pressed against his chest. “We can unpack later,” he murmured, his voice soft and low, lips grazing the side of your neck. “I missed you too much for that.”

You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. He had this way of making the world disappear, like nothing else mattered but the two of you tangled up in each other. His hands slid up your back, tracing slow, lazy patterns over your shirt as he let out a contented sigh. You felt his heartbeat beneath your palm, steady and strong, and it was like your own heart started to sync up with his.

Still, a day’s worth of travel clung to your skin, and as much as you wanted to give in to his sweet, insistent touch, you felt the need to freshen up.

“I should shower,” you mumbled against his chest, though the warmth of his body made it hard to pull away.

Fraser groaned softly, tightening his grip as if that would stop you. “Do you have to?” he whined, burying his face in your hair. “You just got back. Can’t we stay like this for a little longer?”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek before gently untangling yourself from his arms. “I won’t be long,” you promised, standing and stretching slightly, your muscles aching from the flight.

He watched you go, his gaze heavy, and you could practically feel the weight of it on your back as you made your way to the bathroom. It took every ounce of willpower not to turn around and crawl back into his arms, but you knew if you didn’t shower now, you’d never get around to it.

The sound of the water cascading in the shower was soothing, the steam filling the room and relaxing your tired limbs. You let out a small sigh of relief as the hot water washed over you, your mind finally starting to unwind. You reached for the shampoo, fingers working it into your scalp when you heard a familiar creak—the bathroom door opening.

“Fraser?” you called out, though you already knew it was him.

“Couldn’t wait,” he replied, his voice soft and playful as he stepped inside. A second later, the shower curtain shifted, and there he was, slipping in behind you, his arms immediately wrapping around your waist. “You know I hate being away from you for too long.”

You leaned back into him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. His hands splayed across your stomach, gentle and unhurried, as the water cascaded over both of you. “You’re such a baby,” you teased, though your voice softened as you felt the slow rise and fall of his chest, his breath steady against your skin.

“Mmm, maybe,” he murmured, resting his chin on your shoulder. “But you like me anyway.”

The way he held you, so close, like he couldn’t stand even the smallest distance between you—it made your heart ache in the best way. His hands slid up your sides, slow and careful, like he was savoring every inch of you, and you found yourself melting into him all over again. The steam wrapped around both of you, making the space feel smaller, more intimate, and his touch, warm and insistent, made your skin tingle.

Fraser’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the playful teasing melted away, leaving something deeper, something tender. His fingers traced small circles along your waist, like he needed to keep touching you, keep reminding himself that you were real and here, not just a memory from the last week. You reached back, threading your fingers through his hair, and he let out a soft hum of contentment.

He wasn’t rushing; every touch felt deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the feel of you all over again. You felt his lips against your shoulder, soft and lingering, and then he murmured, almost to himself, “You’re so beautiful…”

Your heart fluttered, and you smiled, leaning back into him, feeling the warmth radiating from both his body and his words. His hands slid lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, and you could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he sighed contentedly. “You look different,” he whispered, his voice full of awe. “Your hair’s lighter… and you’ve got these little tan lines now.” His fingers brushed against your skin, following the faint lines where the sun had kissed you, and a soft hum escaped his lips. “God, you look so good.”

You couldn’t help the blush that crept up your neck, the heat mixing with the steam around you. Fraser’s hands were everywhere—on your waist, up your sides, fingers ghosting over the faint golden marks that lined your skin. His touch was gentle, but it held a kind of reverence, like he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And maybe, just maybe, you liked that. Maybe you liked the way he clung to you, as if the week apart had been unbearable and he couldn’t stand another moment without touching you.

“You’re all sunkissed, like summer followed you home,” he continued, his voice soft but full of something deeper, something almost needy. “It’s not fair. You come back looking like this, and I… I just—” His words faltered for a moment, and you could feel the subtle tension in his hold. His lips brushed against your shoulder again, this time lingering longer, the pressure of his kiss more insistent, as if to prove his point without saying it.

You turned slightly, catching his gaze over your shoulder, and the look in his eyes made your heart skip. There was something raw in the way he stared at you, his eyes wide and full of longing, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and here in his arms. “You missed me, huh?” you teased, though your voice was softer than usual, a little breathy from the intensity of his touch.

“Obviously. I hate that you went away,” he mumbled, his voice tinged with a whine that made your lips quirk up. “I couldn’t stand not having you here.” His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “I missed you so much.” The words came out almost plaintive, like he was confessing something he couldn’t keep hidden any longer.

You turned in his embrace, your body facing his as you wrapped your arms around his neck. His eyes met yours, and there was something soft and vulnerable in his gaze that made your heart ache in the best way. You reached up, your fingers brushing along his jaw, feeling the slight stubble that hadn’t been there before. “I’m right here now,” you whispered, the words a quiet reassurance, though you could see the way he was already holding onto you like you might disappear again.

Fraser leaned down, his forehead pressing gently against yours, his hands settling on your hips. “Yeah,” he breathed, though there was still a hint of frustration in his tone, like even that wasn’t enough. “But I can’t be attached to you all the time. It’s torture.” His lips brushed against yours, soft and lingering, as if to prove his point. You could feel the need in his touch, the way his body pressed against yours, seeking as much contact as possible.

A soft laugh escaped you, and you pulled back just enough to look up at him, the teasing warmth of his gaze sending another wave of affection through you. “You’re so clingy,” you whispered, your fingers playing with the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

“Of course I am,” he shot back, his tone light but filled with sincerity. “How could I not be when you look like this?” His eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail, the awe in his gaze making you blush under the warmth of his attention. “You’re too gorgeous. It’s distracting.”

You laughed again, though your heart swelled with the weight of his compliments. Fraser wasn’t usually this sweet—at least, not so openly—and every word felt like it was wrapping around you, cocooning you in the warmth of his affection.

As the two of you finally emerged from the steam-filled bathroom, skin still warm and damp from the shower, Fraser’s hands didn’t leave your body for a second. It was like he was making up for lost time, for every moment he couldn’t touch you, couldn’t feel your skin beneath his palms. You barely had time to dry off, each towel swipe punctuated by his impatient fingers tracing along your shoulders, down your back, across your hips. His eyes never left you, dark with need, but there was also something so soft in his gaze, like he couldn’t quite believe you were there in front of him.

Your mind is racing. The moment Fraser speaks, everything else melts away—it's like he's the only thing in the room. His words, "You're glowing," feel like they're sinking deep into you, making your skin buzz. You want to respond, but nothing comes. All you can do is feel the heat of his hands, the pull of his body as he guides you toward the bed. It’s overwhelming, the weight of his attention, the way he looks at you like he’s about to devour you. Your heart pounds, and your thoughts jumble, focusing on how close he is, how much you want him.

When he says you’re beautiful, you almost laugh. It's embarrassing, the way it affects you—like you're a teenager again, feeling desired for the first time. You want to hide, but you can’t, not with the way he's touching you, every brush of his fingers making your skin tingle. His words are so raw, so sure, and you can feel them sinking into you, making you ache for more. You try to play it off, to joke, but there's no denying how much you're falling apart beneath him.

And then, he says he can't handle the way you look, and you don’t know how to handle it either. The way he’s touching you, speaking to you, makes it impossible to think about anything other than the feeling of him. You can feel the heat rising in your chest, spreading through your body as his hands move lower. You bite your lip, trying to keep from moaning as his fingers trace over your skin, each touch driving you crazy.

When his fingers drift down between your legs, you can barely breathe. “Fuck,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. His fingers moved higher, brushing just barely over the slickness between your legs, and you gasped, your body arching into his touch instinctively. “I can’t believe how wet you are already. Jesus.”

It’s like he knows exactly how much you want it, like he’s been waiting for this too, and that’s what drives you crazy. His fingers just barely brush over your slickness, and you’re already gasping. It’s embarrassing how quickly you’re falling apart, but you can’t stop it. The tension is unbearable, and you hate how much power he has over you right now.

His breath is warm against your ear, and you can’t help but shiver. “I wanna go down on you,” he murmurs, and you freeze. The words hit you like a jolt, and suddenly, all your thoughts are crashing into each other.

The idea of him down there, of feeling his mouth, it’s overwhelming. You don’t even know what to say. Part of you wants to say no, to keep things simple, but the other part of you—the part that’s aching with need—wants it more than anything.

He notices your hesitation, his fingers still teasing, and you can feel the shift in the air. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he says, his voice a little rougher, a little more serious. “Every time I’ve touched myself this week, I’ve been thinking about how you’d taste.”

Your heart skips. It’s too much. It’s raw, and you don’t know how to handle it. He’s so honest about what he wants, so direct, and you’re not used to that. It makes you nervous, but it also makes your body buzz with anticipation.

His fingers drift lower, just above your pelvis, and you can’t stop the way your body reacts. You’ve never had anyone do this for you, and the thought makes your cheeks burn. You feel shy, almost embarrassed by how much you want it, but it’s all you can think about now.

He seems to sense it, his hand pausing to cup your face, gently forcing you to look at him. “No one’s ever done this for you?” His tone is soft, but there’s something behind it—something that makes you feel vulnerable.

You nod, swallowing hard. The truth makes you feel exposed, but it’s also freeing in a way. He’s different. He’s not just touching you—he’s paying attention, like he wants to know every part of you.

His thumb brushed against your skin in slow, deliberate circles, soothing and grounding. “Baby,” he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling sound that made your toes curl. “That’s a damn shame.” His tone was full of genuine disbelief, like he couldn’t fathom how someone hadn’t already worshiped every inch of you the way he was about to. “I’m gonna fix that.”

The way he said it—so confident, so sure—made your heart skip, and you couldn’t help the breathless laugh that slipped out. “Are you, now?”

He didn’t even respond before his lips were on you. Soft, but purposeful, right at your collarbone. Your breath caught as he kissed along your skin, trailing lower, his fingers following, touching you like he couldn’t get enough. He whispered something about how much he wanted to taste you, how he had been thinking about it for days, and the need in his voice sent a shiver through your whole body.

You tried to keep up, to respond, but the way his lips moved down your neck, it was impossible to think clearly. Your body was already reacting on instinct, arching toward him, craving more. It wasn’t just his touch—it was how he made you feel like he meant every word.

His hands were slow, deliberate, making your skin tingle as they trailed down your sides. He was taking his time, savoring it, and it made your heart race. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, his voice so close to your ear. “Every part of you.”

The heat was unbearable now. Every inch of you felt like it was burning under his touch, and you could barely keep up with what was happening. Your thoughts were jumbled, overwhelmed by the way he was making you feel—his hands sliding down your body again, his lips still leaving a trail of heat wherever they touched. Your breath caught as his hands parted your legs, his grip firm but gentle, guiding you into it like you’d never felt before.

And then, he was between your legs. The anticipation built as you waited, your heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears. His breath against your thighs sent another wave of need through you, and when his lips pressed to your skin, you gasped. You couldn’t stop your hands from gripping the sheets, every nerve in your body alive with anticipation.

“Try to stay still for me, okay?” he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin, and then his tongue flicked over your clit. It was light at first, teasing, but the sensation hit you so hard, you moaned before you could stop yourself. The need inside you was unbearable now, every stroke of his tongue driving you closer to the edge. Your mind was blank, focused entirely on him and the way he was making you feel.

His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, each one dragging a little more pleasure out of you. Your body was trembling, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. You couldn’t hold on much longer. You didn’t even care how loud you were, only that the pressure was building, tightening inside you until you were right on the edge. He knew it, too, groaning softly as his tongue worked faster, each flick and gentle suck sending shockwaves through your body.

You wanted to tell him how good it felt, but you couldn’t get the words out. All you could do was moan his name, barely able to keep your body still as he took you apart. You were right there, teetering on the edge, and then—everything crashed down. The orgasm hit so hard it left you trembling, your back arching as your body shook with the intensity of it. His mouth stayed on you, riding out every last wave of pleasure, not stopping until you were a mess beneath him.

You can barely think. Everything feels hazy, the warmth still spreading through your body as you lie there, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The way his hands move, softly gliding over your thighs, keeps you grounded, but it’s not enough. Your mind is racing, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, replaying everything that just happened. He’s so good at this. Too good. You still can’t believe how quickly he unraveled you.

When he kisses your inner thigh, your body reacts immediately, shivering at the contact. It feels like every nerve is on edge, sensitive from the aftermath, but still craving more. The feeling of his mouth lingering there, right where you’re most vulnerable, only heightens that need. It’s so much, but you want more. You always want more with him. The thought of how easily he controls your body like this only makes the heat in your stomach swirl even faster.

As he moves up, pressing his lips to yours, you can taste yourself on him. It sends a new rush of warmth through your veins, making you wonder how he always manages to leave you feeling so desperate. His hands, tracing up your sides, ignite something inside you that’s impossible to ignore. You’re still trembling, still recovering, but you’re not done yet. You don’t want to be done yet.

His words float through your mind, that playful glint in his eyes almost mocking you as he asks how you’re feeling. But you can’t find the words. You just nod, feeling the way his thumb brushes over your lip. It’s maddening how gentle he is after everything he’s just done. It’s like he’s teasing you, pretending not to know how badly you need him again. His body, hard and warm against yours, is all you can focus on now. That and the growing need building between your legs.

He calls you pretty, and it’s like the air gets knocked out of you all over again. You feel raw, exposed, but you can’t help the way your body reacts to the praise. His eyes scan your face like he’s memorizing every detail, and it makes your heart race. You feel wrecked in the best way possible, and the way he’s looking at you now, so full of pride and desire, only makes it worse. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how much you want him to keep going, but he’s holding back, making you wait. Making you need him more.

You’re trying to calm down, but the sight of him, mouth still glistening from earlier, sends a fresh wave of desire through you. It’s almost too much, the way he touches you now, slowly dragging his hands over your body like he has all the time in the world. He’s savoring it. Savoring you. And you can’t stand it. You want him closer, deeper, but he’s still taking his time, his fingers tracing your waist, your breasts, with that maddening slowness. It’s driving you crazy.

When his lips brush over your skin again, murmuring how beautiful you are, it’s like every thought in your head vanishes. You feel warm all over, too vulnerable under his gaze, but somehow, it feels good. Like he’s worshipping you, like he’d spend all night doing nothing but admiring you. And that thought alone sends a jolt of heat straight through your core. It’s overwhelming, how much you want him, how much you need him.

He knows it too. The way he grins as his lips trail down to your chest, it’s like he can feel the desperation building inside you. You want him so badly, you can’t even form a coherent sentence. You just need more of him. His touch, his mouth, anything. And when his fingers finally brush between your legs again, you almost lose it. Every inch of you is still sensitive, still throbbing, but that only makes you crave him more. You gasp, your hips bucking into his hand, and it’s like he knows exactly how close you are to begging for him.

But he’s still teasing you, still making you wait. His fingers move slowly, drawing out every bit of your frustration, and it’s driving you insane. You can’t stand how good it feels, how easily he pulls you apart, and you can’t help the way your body reacts, pushing into him, silently begging for more. You need him. All of him. But he’s still holding back, wanting to make this last.

"I know, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with desire as his fingers slid through your wetness, teasing you. "I want you too. But I wanna take my time with you. Wanna make sure you feel good."

His lips grazed your chest, right above your heart, and the warmth spread through you, but all you could focus on was his fingers. The way he teased you, dipping just inside before pulling back, left you desperate, aching for more. Your breath hitched. It was slow, deliberate. Torture. He knew exactly what he was doing.

His words, low and breathy, sent a pulse of heat through your body. "You deserve to feel this good every day. I'm gonna make sure you never forget it." His breath against your neck sent chills racing down your spine, but you could hardly focus on anything but his touch. Every nerve felt on fire.

Your chest tightened as the slow burn of need overwhelmed you. The teasing, the slow pace—it was too much, but not enough. You needed him. You needed more. "Fraser..." His name came out in a broken whisper as your hands found his shoulders, clinging to him, desperate for relief. "Please."

His low chuckle only made it worse. His fingers slid deeper, his thumb pressing against your clit, and your hips jerked up without thinking. You couldn’t stop the needy little whimper from escaping your lips.

"I want..." You couldn’t think straight, the words fumbling as his touch overwhelmed every thought. "I want you inside me."

He shifted, and your body tensed in anticipation. The thought of him filling you made your skin flush. His hard cock pressed against your thigh, and you couldn’t stop the way your breath quickened, chest rising and falling in short bursts as the need built.

But then you saw his hand reaching for the nightstand. You acted on impulse, grabbing his wrist, breathless as the words tumbled out before you could think. “No... I don’t want one. I want to feel all of you.”

The surprise in his eyes was brief, replaced by that cocky grin that always made your heart race. "You want it raw?" His voice was teasing, but there was something deeper behind it. The way he looked at you... you bit your lip and nodded, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

His groan was low, almost pained, as he rested his forehead against your collarbone. "Fuck, you're gonna kill me." You could feel the tension in his body, every muscle tight as he struggled to keep control. "You sure you can handle it?”

Your entire body trembled, but you couldn’t hold back anymore. "Please," you whispered, barely able to get the word out, the desperation in your voice making you cringe, but you couldn’t help it. "I want all of you."

He paused for just a second, then kissed you hard, like he was holding back everything. His weight pressed against you, his cock heavy and thick between your legs, and you could feel the heat rolling off him. He was trying so hard to stay in control, but you could sense it—the crack in his restraint.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he muttered against your lips, pulling your thighs apart. The head of his cock brushed against you, slick and teasing, and you could hardly breathe, the tension coiling tighter inside you. He wasn’t rushing, taking his time, and it was killing you. Every inch of him felt like too much and not enough all at once.

When he finally pushed in, slow and steady, you couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped your lips. He filled you completely, stretching you until you couldn’t think of anything else. Your fingers dug into his back, needing something to hold onto as your body tightened around him.

"You're taking it so well," he murmured, his voice rough, almost strained. Every word made your skin burn hotter. Every inch of him had you spiraling, unable to keep up with the sensations that crashed over you in waves. You couldn’t hold back the small cries, couldn’t stop your body from moving against him, needing more.

You whimpered softly, your hips bucking up against him as if begging for more, but he wasn’t going to rush it. He wanted to feel every inch of you, savor every moment. “Shh, baby,” Fraser murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

The way his voice wrapped around the words made your toes curl. His tone was soft, almost tender, but the roughness underneath it sent a bolt of desire straight through you. His hands slid up your sides, tracing the lines of your body in a way that made your skin buzz with electricity. He was teasing, dragging his fingers over every sensitive spot he could find, but always returning to your hips, holding you steady as he pushed in a little deeper.

Your breath hitched, your head falling back against the pillow, mouth slack, as another wave of pleasure hit. It was so much, too much—but in the best way possible. The sound of your own voice, soft gasps and moans, filled the room, but it felt distant, like you weren’t entirely in control of yourself anymore. Everything in you was unraveling, your thoughts dissolving into nothing but pure, raw sensation.

Fraser watched every second of it, his gaze locked on your face, the way your body responded to him, how your mouth fell open, the way you couldn’t seem to catch your breath. His lips pulled into a lazy, cocky grin, and you could feel the low rumble of his laugh vibrating in his chest as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, tasting the way your breath stuttered.

​​Fraser grinned down at you, that lazy, cocky smirk only making your chest tighten more as he wiped the trail of drool with his thumb before pressing it back against your lips. "God, you’re so fucking gone, aren’t you?" His voice was rough, low, but there was a teasing lilt to it that only fueled the heat building in your belly. "Look at you. Can’t even keep your mouth shut. Just a little messy thing for me, huh?"

The words made your body respond instinctively, your hips rising up to meet his, chasing more of that slow, devastating pressure. But Fraser’s hands were firm, gripping your hips and pushing you back down into the mattress, refusing to let you take control. He was making you take it, making you feel every inch of him as he pressed into you, the head of his cock dragging along that perfect spot again, sending another jolt of pleasure that left you gasping. Your back arched off the bed, your mouth falling open as a broken, choked moan slipped out, eyes squeezing shut as your head fell back against the pillow.

His hand slid up your side, fingers tracing over your skin with a featherlight touch before his palm pressed against your lower belly, pushing down just enough for you to feel it. The pressure mixed with the slow, deep thrusts sent your mind spiraling, every coherent thought slipping further and further away. A broken moan escaped your lips, and you didn’t even realize that your mouth was still hanging open until Fraser chuckled softly, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"You’re still drooling, baby," he murmured, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, catching the wetness there before dragging it down your chin this time. His pace never faltered, deep and steady, the rhythm making you whimper helplessly beneath him. "You’re going all brainless for me, aren’t you?"

The words should’ve embarrassed you, but all you could do was moan in response, your body trembling as another wave of pleasure hit. Your hips bucked up instinctively, desperate for more, for anything, but Fraser wasn’t giving in just yet. He kept that same slow, agonizing pace, dragging it out, making every thrust feel like it was going to break you apart in the best way.

“Yeah, you are,” he continued, his voice rough but soft, dripping with pride as his fingers curled around your hip, gripping you tight as he pushed in deeper, hitting that spot again that made your brain short-circuit. "Look at you, baby. Fucking perfect. Can’t even think straight, can you?"

Your response was nothing more than a choked whimper, your hands gripping his shoulders as your body trembled, the pleasure building and building with each slow, deliberate movement of his hips. You were a mess, drooling and gasping, the only sound you could manage a string of broken, breathless moans.

"God, you’re so fucking hot like this," Fraser muttered, his voice thick as he watched you fall apart beneath him. "So fucking pretty, baby. So perfect. Taking everything I’m giving you. You don’t even realize how good you are, do you?"

His words washed over you, but they barely registered. You were too far gone, your mind melting with every thrust, every press of his body against yours. Your nails scraped down his back, leaving red lines in their wake, and Fraser groaned at the sensation, his hips pressing a little harder, a little deeper, but still keeping that same torturous, deliberate pace.

Your body was on fire, every nerve ending buzzing, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps as you tried to keep up with the intensity of it all. But it was impossible. Every time he hit that spot, the one that sent pleasure shooting up your spine, your mind blanked, leaving nothing but the overwhelming need for more.

Fraser’s hand moved back to your face, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip, and your mouth instinctively opened, desperate for him in any way you could have him. He grinned at the sight, his eyes dark with desire as he watched you, his thumb slipping past your lips. You sucked on it automatically, eyes fluttering shut as you moaned around him, the sensation sending a new wave of heat pooling in your belly.

"Fuck, you’re so good for me," he groaned, his voice rough as his cock pressed deep inside you again, making you whimper around his thumb. "So fucking good, baby. Doing everything just right."

The praise made your body respond even more, hips lifting off the bed to meet his thrusts, but he still wasn’t letting you take control. His hands gripped your hips, holding you down as he pushed deeper, slower, the sensation making you see stars.

“God, you’re so fucking hot like this,” he groaned, his voice thick with admiration as he watched you fall apart. His hand slid down to your thigh, lifting your leg higher, opening you up even more, and the new angle made you see stars, the pleasure so intense it felt like your body was going to break apart at the seams.

“Fraser…” Your voice was barely a whisper, a broken sound that didn’t even sound like your own. He grinned at the sound of his name on your lips, his thumb slipping from your mouth as he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“I know, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I know. You’re so fucking perfect for me. Doing so good. Just a little more, okay? You can take it.”

Fraser’s hand slid down your side, his fingers splayed wide over your skin as if he couldn’t get enough of touching you. He wasn’t rushing it—just savoring it, savoring you, the way your body trembled and responded to him. His thumb brushed lightly over your belly, then drifted lower, the sensation making you shiver. His fingers found the slick mess between your legs, and the sudden shock of it, the pressure of his touch, had your hips jolting up involuntarily, chasing after more.

"Shh, baby," he breathed, his voice thick with amusement as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "I’ve got you. Don’t need to rush.”

The feeling of his fingers circling slowly, combined with the maddening, steady thrusts of his hips, had you falling apart in a way you couldn’t control. You felt like you were coming undone, like every inch of you was burning and tingling, and you were barely hanging on, your breaths coming in short, frantic gasps as he kept you on the edge.

"I know," he muttered, his voice rough and strained, but still so full of care. His thumb pressed a little harder, the pressure hitting just right, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed as your body reacted on instinct, chasing after that high that was just out of reach. "God, you’re doing so fucking good. Just like that, baby. Just like that."

The praise, the way he was watching you fall apart beneath him, sent you spiraling, and suddenly, you couldn’t hold on any longer. The coil snapped inside you, your entire body seizing up as the orgasm ripped through you, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your vision blurred, and all you could hear was the sound of your own broken moans mixed with Fraser’s soft, raspy words of praise.

"That’s it," he groaned, his hips stuttering as he fought to keep his control, watching the way you trembled and gasped beneath him. "So fucking perfect, baby. You’re so perfect. Look at you—fuck, you’re amazing."

His words barely registered through the haze of pleasure that was consuming you, your body still shaking from the aftershocks as Fraser’s pace picked up. He wasn’t slow anymore, couldn’t be, his thrusts coming faster, harder, as he chased his own release. You could feel how close he was, his body tensing, the muscles in his back tightening beneath your hands as he buried himself deep inside you.

"Fuck—" Fraser’s voice broke as he gasped for breath, his grip on your hips tightening as he pressed as deep as he could, his entire body trembling above you. He groaned low in his throat, the sound rough and raw, and you could feel him shuddering as he came, his hips stuttering through the final thrusts. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he collapsed on top of you, both of you still shaking from the intensity of it all.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your combined heavy breathing, the two of you lying in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat, your hearts pounding in unison. Fraser’s hand was still on your belly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against your skin, and you could feel the soft, lingering press of his lips against your collarbone, like he couldn’t quite let go of you just yet.

“You okay?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of concern, the rough edge of exhaustion barely hidden beneath the gentleness of his tone. His lips barely brushed your skin as he spoke, like he couldn’t pull away from you, like he needed to stay connected, even after all that intensity.

You nodded weakly, the movement making your head spin as you forced yourself to find your voice. “Yeah,” you breathed, though it came out as more of a sigh than anything else. You weren’t even sure how to form words at this point, your mind still swirling in the afterglow. “Just… tired.” It was an understatement. You felt completely spent, your limbs heavy, like you couldn’t move if you wanted to. But it was a good kind of exhaustion, the kind that left a deep warmth blooming in your chest.

You felt his chest rise and fall steadily against yours, the weight of him grounding you in a way that was so comforting it almost made you want to cry. There was something so intimate about the quiet after, the way he stayed so close, his hand drifting lazily over your skin, tracing the remnants of the moment you’d shared.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmured softly, his voice thick with exhaustion but still filled with that familiar care. He pressed a lingering kiss to your shoulder before slowly lifting himself off you, his movements unhurried and careful, like he didn’t want to pull away just yet.

You watched him move, the way his muscles shifted under his skin, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to him. He grabbed a towel from the edge of the bed, his touch gentle as he wiped away the mess between your legs, his gaze never leaving yours. There was no rush, no sense of urgency—just slow, deliberate movements, as if he was savoring this quiet moment of aftercare.

Your body trembled slightly as he finished, and when he finally tossed the towel aside, he was back beside you in an instant, pulling you into his arms like he couldn’t stand to be away from you for too long. His chest was warm against your back, his arm looping around your waist as he held you close, his lips brushing lightly against your temple. “You’re amazing,” he murmured, his voice rough but so full of affection that it made your heart swell.

You melted into him, your body still buzzing from the intensity of it all, but now there was a deep sense of contentment settling into your bones. Fraser’s arms were tight around you, his hand splayed wide over your belly as he pulled you even closer, like he needed to feel every inch of you against him. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back, and it soothed you in a way you hadn’t expected.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. There was no need. The quiet was filled with the soft sounds of your breathing, the gentle rustle of the sheets as Fraser shifted slightly, pulling the covers up over both of you. His body was warm, his chest pressed firmly against your back, and you felt completely enveloped by him, cocooned in this perfect, blissful stillness.

The sun's soft glow of the early morning was spilling through the thin fabric of the curtains, painting a golden hue across the entire bedroom.

Everything felt quiet, snuggled in a peaceful silence before the rest of the world decides to wake up.

There was only a occasional sound of birds chirping to their own song ooutsid and the sleepy breathing against your neck that belonged to Oscar.

You slowly woke up, your eyes blinking to adjust to the sudden light intruding your sleep. For a minute, you decided to just lay there, enjoying the warmth around you.

You noticed how Oscar had somehow migrated during the night. One of his arms was lazily draped around the curve of your waist, his face tucked into your neck as if he decided in the middle of the night that you were the best pillow.

His hair was messy and tickled your chin with every breathe he took, his legs were entwined with yours in such way that escaping his grasp would be nearly impossible.

A smile formed on your lips as you glanced down at him, he looked ridiculously peaceful. He looked so different from the focused formula one driver everyone saw on race weekends

Here in your arms he was just Oscar. Sleepy, warm and surprisingly clingy Oscar

You absentmindedly ran your fingertips through his soft hair.

The action earned you a tiny hum of approval that made your heart melt.

"You awake?" you whispered softly against his hair, fingers still softly massaging his scalp.

"Mmm..."

Not exactly an answer.

You felt him nudge his nose against your pajama top before he let out the smallest sigh you had ever heard and snuggled even closer. You let out the softest laugh, "I think that's a yes."

Then another sleepy hum escaped him, "...No."

"You literally answered me.", your voice was full of admiration as you glanced down.

"No, I didn't." He continued to protest, his morning voice making you weak.

"You did."

"I dreamed it."

"So I'm also dreaming with that logic. Are we sharing a dream?"

"Mhm." he sighed against your neck, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine but you couldn't help but grin. Morning Oscar was something else. Eventually, you glanced over at the bedside clock. It was already pretty late and one of you should probably have started making breakfast already.

Carefully, you tried sliding your arm out from underneath him. That was one big mistake. Before you eveven managed to move, Oscar's grasp around your waist tightened on instinct.

"Nuh-uh."

"I haven't even done anything." you let out a breathy whine, your hands flying up to his shoulders.

"You moved."

"I barely even shifted." your voice was laced with amusement as you watched him.

"You shifted with escape intentions." he kept coming up with excuses for his reasoning.

"I need the bathroom." You whined as you left gentle taps against his shoulder blades.

"No."

You stared down at the top of his head, "...Oscar."

"Mmm?"

"I physically have to get up." He responded by burying his face deeper into your chest.

"No." he kept on whining with a raspy voice.

"You can't hold me hostage." you tried your best to say with a stern voice but failed.

"I can."

"You absolutely cannot." you were completely amused by ohis tactics to keep you in bed with him.

"I believe in myself." A laugh escaped from your lips before you could stop yourself. "You are so unbelievable."

"I've been told, darling." His voice was so sleepy that every word blended together perfectly.

One again you tried, but this time you tried by gently pushing yourself upward.

Oscar let out the most dramatic little whine, "Mmmmmm..." It wasn't very loud. It wasn't actually even very coherent. It was just one long, raspy complaint.

His arms wrapped around you even tighter, "Five more minutes, please babyyy." You sighed at words, hearing it for the second time that morning, "You said that ten minutes ago."

"I did?"

"You did." you said with a little giggle in your tone.

"...Then another five."

"Oscar..." you tried protest but it was no use with him.

"Please." His voice was just too adorably raspy from sleeping. "So comfy."

"I know, but—"

"You smell nice."

"...That's your argument?" you raised your brows at his words, knowing he's using every tactic he can think of.

"Mhm."

"You realize flattery isn't going to stop time." you whispered against his hair again making him laugh.

"It might stop you." you said softly with a hopeful tone as he tilted his head up just enough to look up into your eyes.

He looked adorable with his hair sticking up in every possible direction and eyes barely even open. His cheeks still had those little lines indented into his skin from his pillow or maybe even your shirt.

He looked so ridiculously domestic.

And impossibly cute.

"I don't want you to go." He continued with his whining as his fingers slipped underneath your shirt and started tracing random figures on your stomach.

His fingers were ice cold against your skin, each touch making your stomach flip, "I'm not going anywhere."

"You were." his fingers stopped tracing and he looked back up at you.

"I was going to brush my teeth." tried your best to reason with the sleepy man, "You can do that later.", but he had something to say for everything.

"I don't think society would appreciate morning breath."

"I appreciate you staying here." Damn your heart for melting so easily at his words.

"You know," you whispered, your hand brushed through his messy hair again, "you're a lot clingier than people think."

"I'm not clingy." He immediately denied your words as if he's not almost completely on top of you, "You've practically fused yourself to me."

"I'm conserving warmth." he continued to defend himself.

"It's summer."

"...I'm emotionally conserving warmth." his voice of tone was a lot less confident with his answer.

You giggled so hard that the bed beneath you to slightly shook, but Oscar didn't find it amusing at all, a frown covering his lips ddramaticall, "You're laughing at my completely valid scientific explanation."

"Oh, absolutely." He only huffed at your response and snuggled his head back into your chest, "...Mean."

"I'm mean?" you looked down at him with a confused expression covering you face.

"Mhm."

"You won't let me leave the bed." It was your time to defend yourself.

"I love you." The words left his mouth so naturally, so casually as he whispered it into your shirt. You almost believed he didn't realize he said it, it made you freeze for a second before a big smile covered your lips. So big that it did hurt your cheeks, "I love you too." He immediately squeezed his arms around again, satisfied and content with you saying it back.

Also how to him those words were more than enough to convince him that there was no reason for either of you to move. Minutes kept passing one another quietly. You started to trace lazy circles over his bare back as he slowly drifted between being awake and being asleep.

Every few second or minute he pressed a soft little kids against your chest or neck without opening his sleepy eyes as if he was doing it instinctively.

Every kiss made your heart flutter. Eventually, you looked back toward the clock, "Okay."

"No." He immediately whined again against your chest.

"I haven't even said anything." you whispered yelled in a questioning tone.

"I know that tone."

"What tone?"

"The responsible tone." he said softly as a tiny pout lingered on his lips, making you giggle, "We really do need to get up."

Only silence followed.

"...Oscar?"

Haven gotten no response in return made you glance down at him, "...Did you really fall asleep again, baby?"

"...Maybe." he mumbled quietly.

"Oscar."

"Mhm?"

"I know you're awake." you shaked his shoulders a little.

"No proof." he hummed against your skin.

"You literally just answered me, you dummy."

"...Lucky guess." His response made you reach down and gently pinch his side and he let out the softest squeak before he looked up at you with slight mock betrayal, "You attacked me."

"I motivated you." You simply responded to him making him huff, "I'll remember this."

"You won't. You'll forget after i make you your favorite coffee." you gave him a teasing smile.

"I don't forget." he mumbled under his breath.

"You forgot where you put your phone yesterday." You tried to reason with him again but again, he has excuses for everything, "...That was different."

"It was in the fridge." you whispered yelled again, stunned by his logic.

"I had reasons!" Before he could continue you responded, "You absolutely did not."

He sighed and looked away from your gaze as he continued with his confusing logic, "I was...testing the cooling capabilities."

"For your phone?"

"Mhm."

You raised an eyebrow, "Sure."

Oscar tried his best to keep a straight face, but failed as a smile spread across his lips before he could stop it. A little laugh quickly followed after his smile, the sound was still rough and raspy from being tired.

You leaned down and left a gentle kiss on his forehead, "Come on, baby." And yet again he groaned dramatically, "Nooooo!!"

"Breakfast?"

"No."

"Coffee?"

"...Maybe." he raised his eyebrows, slightly getting interested in your offerings for getting up.

"Pancakes?"

One eye cracked open.

"...Chocolate chip?"

"If you actually get out of our bed." you said with a teasing voice. As you looked at him, you realized how he's considering the offer with overly exaggerated seriousness, "...Fine."

You smiled triumphantly, "I win."

"I never said you won." He immediately followed up.

"You surrendered." You said with a certain tone.

"I strategically retreated." he continued...

"You accepted pancakes." You proudly said.

"...The pancakes won."

And before you could have teased him again, he abruptly reached up and cupped your face with one of his hands and pulled you down into a slow, lingering kiss. The kids was messy and warm and wasn't rushed.

As he pulled away, he gently rested his forehead against yours.

"...Actually," he mumbled.

"What?" you asked curiously.

"...Five more minutes?"

You reluctantly laughed as you wrapped your arms around him once more, "Five minutes."

Oscar smiled triumphantly before immediately snuggling back into your chest, perfectly content.

"...Best decision you've made all morning."

"...We are absolutely going to be late because of you." you sighed into his hair.

"Worth it."

✨Thank youu✨

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So you saw it happen, saw him and the team pull it off.

After Jackson handed the Cup off to someone else, you turned your TV off. It was late, and you didn’t want to think about him anymore. All you wanted was to go to sleep, and wake up in a world where you didn’t care about Jackson Blake anymore.

You should’ve known better than to think that was ever possible.

Especially given what happened a few hours later.

You’re… kind of asleep. You’ve been going in and out of it since you laid down, your comfort show playing on the TV in your room, but you can’t seem to shut your mind off long enough to actually sleep. He keeps running through your mind, the huge smile on his face, the scruffy beard he hadn’t yet started growing when you broke up. You hate it, but you can’t stop thinking about him. You should be sharing this moment with him, this amazing accomplishment in his life, but you’re not.

And then your phone rings.

Instantly, your heart is beating ferociously in your chest. Usually, calls at this time of night are a bad thing. Maybe something’s happened in your family, an emergency that can’t wait until morning.

You sit up so fast your head spins, and then you look at the name on your phone and your stomach drops.

Jackson.

Of all the people you thought would be calling you tonight, he was at the very bottom of that list.

You hesitate for a second, wondering if the better decision would be to let it ring, or just decline the call. But then you click the little green button, and hold the phone to your ear with shaking hands. “Hello?”

There’s lots of noise on the other end, music blasting and the sounds of an entire hockey team celebrating becoming Stanley Cup champions.

”Y/n! Baby!” he’s yelling into the receiver, and definitely sounds drunk. You want to hang up immediately, but he just called you baby. It shouldn’t affect you as much as it does. “How are you?” he asks.

You scoff. “I’ve been better. Some asshole just called me at—“ you check the time, “—two in the morning. I was asleep,” you say, even though it’s kind of a lie.

He whines on the other end. “M’sorry baby, m’so sorry. Just thinking about you, and how pretty you are, and how much I miss you,” he says this all so matter-of-factly, with no hint of shame or embarrassment. It catches you off guard,but you don’t get a chance to think about this, because he keeps talking. “Everyone’s here with their girls, and I miss mine. Can’t stop thinking about you. And ‘m hard.”

Your eyes widen at the blunt admission, and can’t help the little giggle that escapes your mouth. “Woah, okay. Jackson, how drunk are you right now?”

”Pretty drunk,” he admits with a giggle. “But it’s the truth! You’re in my head tonight, but you always are. Wished you were there tonight, wanted to kiss you after the game. Still wanna kiss you now.”

”Where is this coming from?” you ask, laying back down and pulling the blanket up over your shoulders. The phone is sandwiched between your ear and the pillow, your cheek pressed snugly against the screen that’s getting warmer by the second.

Jackson sighs. “Baby, it’s not coming from anywhere. Been thinking this since we… y’know.”

The fact that he won’t say the words broke up does something to your heart, as embarrassing as that is. You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing yourself to stay as rational as possible, despite the fact that your sleep-deprived brain and Jackson-deprived heart want nothing more than to ask him where you’re meeting.

”Okay,” you say slowly, “but why are you calling me?”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, and the sound of celebration fills your ears for a few seconds. You hold your breath in that short amount of time, not quite sure you’re fully ready for what he might say.

”Wanna see you,” he finally says, and your breath stutters. “Tonight. Miss you so bad, I-I can’t enjoy this. Not without you. You’re my reason for everything, even though we’re not… not together anymore.”

“Jackson…” you say slowly, gently.

”Don’t say my name, not like that,” he begs. “I know, I know it’s a bad idea. If you don’t want to, really don’t want to, that’s fine. But be honest with me. Tell me you don’t miss me, don’t think about me, and I’ll leave you alone. Be honest.”

You open your mouth to tell him just that, but you can’t. If you’re being honest, with him and with yourself, all you want is to go see him.

”You’re… you’re drunk right now,” the excuse is weak even to your own ears, but still. “I’m not sleeping with you while you’re drunk.”

”But you’d sleep with me when I’m sober?” he asks, with more hope in his voice than you can handle.

”You are drunk right now!” you repeat, heart aching. “I can’t trust anything you say right now, because you’re drunk. You’re not thinking clearly.”

Jackson lets out a long groan, and you can hear someone on the other end of the phone asking him what’s wrong. Someone asks who he’s on the phone with. He ignores both questions.

”Drunk words are sober thoughts, baby,” he protests. “I’m sober a lot of the time, and a lot of the time I’m thinking about you. Please meet me somewhere, I wanna see you, wanna feel you.”

You think for a few seconds, weighing the pros and cons of agreeing to meet your ex somewhere after his Stanley Cup win. Really, it’s the baddest of bad ideas. The absolute worst.

And yet….

“Where are you?” you ask, and you can hear the gasp of excitement that Jackson lets out.

”At-at a bar!” he rushes out, and you sigh at the fact that he doesn’t know exactly where he is. “Um, I’ll… I’ll send you my location!”

You shut your eyes, hard, trying to talk yourself out of it, but knowing that you’re going to go get him. When you sit up, you let out a long sigh. “Okay, but we’re not hanging out at the bar. If I pick you up we’re going to whoever’s apartment is closest and you’re going to sleep off the alcohol.”

”But it’s party time!” Jackson declares, loudly. “I just won the fucking Stanley Cup!”

”I don’t care,” you grit out harshly. “If you want to see me tonight, your partying is over.”

Jackson doesn’t hesitate to say his next few words. “Yes ma’am.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re at a random bar in Raleigh texting Jackson that you’re outside. He’s in your car two minutes later, excitedly thanking you and telling you how amazing you are. He tries to kiss you, but you pull away, telling him that you can’t kiss him while his breath smells like that.

He promises to brush his teeth as soon as you’re home.

Home. A word that used to mean the same place to both of you, but no longer does.

Your apartment is closer, so that’s where you go. Thankfully, Jackson’s able to walk to your apartment by himself, though he stands as close to you as he possibly can the entire elevator ride to your floor, and his hand grazes yours the entire walk through the hallway to your actual apartment.

As soon as you’re inside the apartment, Jackson rushes to the bathroom, yelling over his shoulder to ask if you have any spare toothbrushes.

He fulfills his promise to brushing his teeth as soon as he arrives, and as soon as that’s done, he’s back in the living area, practically jumping on you.

”Kiss me,” he begs. “Please, pretty pretty please. Can’t be in the same room as you and not kiss you.”

”Jackson…” you warn.

He steps back immediately, pinkness rushing into his cheeks. “Sorry. If you don’t want to kiss me you don’t have to. Didn’t mean to pressure you. I just… your lips look so kissable right now, and you look so pretty, and ‘m still drunk and I’ve missed you so bad I’m just… going a little crazy right now.”

Jackson rambles when he’s drunk, you know this. He also gets overly honest, telling literally anyone literally anything.

And even though you want to deny it, you know that he was right. Drunk words are sober thoughts, especially when it comes to Jackson Blake.

”Tell you what,” you start, and Jackson visibly perks up with anticipation. “I’m tired. It’s late, and you need to be sober before we can do literally anything else. Sleep it off, and then we can talk in the morning. Maybe we can kiss. Okay?”

Jackson nods eagerly. “Yes, of course! That sounds like a perfect idea!” he moves towards your couch and plops down on it. “I’ll see you in the morning where we can talk about things and then maybe kiss!”

You look at Jackson for a long moment while he gets comfortable on your couch, taking his shoes off and his shirt. He looks around before finding a blanket on your nearby chair, throwing it over himself, and laying down.

”Do you… do you want to sleep in my bed? With me?”

The question’s practically rhetorical.

Jackson’s up in seconds, a huge smile on his face. “Really?”

You nod, trying your best to keep the smile from completely taking over your face. You’re failing and you know it.

”Thank you so much baby, really,” he rushes towards you, but doesn’t kiss you. He just throws his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a tight, loving embrace. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this.”

Then he presses a kiss to the very top of your head, grabbing your hand and leading you to your own bedroom.

There are lots of things that you and Jackson need to talk about, that’s for sure. You need to tell him everything you’re feeling, he needs to do the same. Things aren’t going to be easy between the two of you just because playoffs are over, and Jackson is now a Stanley Cup champion. But you miss him a lot, and clearly he’s missed you, so…

You’re willing to give it a try.

***

Connor was fucking exhausted.

Long nights in a city he didn't know, even longer days in a practice arena he wasn't familiar with.

And loss. After loss. After loss.

He was tired of it, apparently being the only guy on the team that actually gave a fuck. Maybe he was being dramatic, the days away from you making him bitter and snappy. He didn't know, and didn't care.

Because when he walked into his apartment, the familiar warmth and comfort flooded him. His bedroom was steps away, and when he reached the doorway-

You were there. Asleep.

Laying in his bed, in his apartment. Right where you belonged.

It sent a possessive chill down Connor's spine, seeing you wrapped up in his blankets with his scent on them. Your hair fanned out across his pillow.

Fuck. He couldn't wait for you to wake up.

You were just... laying there so perfectly. So warm and soft in your sleepy state. Your mouth slightly open and cheek squished on the pillow.

There had been a night. A night where you two had been up late, talking in hushed tones on the living room floor, as if anyone could catch you. The topics started innocent enough; how his last game went, what your plans were for the offseason, and so on.

But as the Chicago skyline faded from a foggy gray to a deep navy blue, the conversation steered a different way.

It snowballed from Connor mentioning how worked up he got on road trips. About how sometimes, if he really needed it, he'd look at your pictures and jerk off. Because he knew you'd be sleeping when he got home, since he always got home way too late.

Instead of passing it off or laughing, you hummed in consideration.

"I mean... I wouldn't mind being woken up like that," you'd said, almost casually.

Connor's brain probably stopped functioning for a few seconds.

After that night, he'd thought about it. A lot. But the right time just didn't come. He'd get home weirdly early, he'd have morning skate the next day, or he just felt bad waking you up.

Well tonight... tonight he was beyond all of that.

The perfect picture of you in his bed, turned off any resignation he had. He'd missed you way too much, for way too long.

He slipped his team hoodie off, leaving his tight fitting t-shirt on. Carefully, he came closer to the bed.

He stood next to your pillow, running a gentle hand over your cheek and your hair. He wanted to see if you were really asleep, if he was really about to do this.

A shiver of excitement went through him when you didn't stir, barely moved at all really.

He lifted the comforter, letting it fall at your waist as he looked you over.

In the pale moonlight, Connor swore you looked like an angel.

You were in that tank top that drove him crazy. The one with the see through fabric, leaving nothing to his hungry imagination. Your nipples poked through, and he nearly groaned as he watched your chest rise and fall as you slept.

He slowly climbed into the bed, making sure not to jostle you too much. Once he was settled over you, hands by your head to steady himself, he moved his head down.

He wasn't in the mood for playful teasing tonight. He'd waited so damn long, so many nights without your warmth in his arms.

His mouth trailed slightly from your neck down to your collarbone, hot and insistent as he got closer to his target.

Connor's tongue ran over your nipple before taking it between his lips, thoroughly wetting the fabric of your thin tank top. He tried to keep quiet as best he could, humming ever so slightly into your breast. His hand came to your other nipple, rubbing his thumb over it. As he sucked on one, his fingers pinched at the other.

When he went to swap sides, he heard the faintest whine from you. Your face twisted slightly, maybe from a dream, maybe from the cold air rushing in where his mouth had been.

He smirked softly. Even in your sleep you needed his touch.

He worked on the opposite nipple, laving over it with a hunger that was starting to get tired of the fabric separating him.

He pulled back, pressing his fingers under the tank top's hem, pushing it up and over your tits, resting it just above.

This time, Connor wasn't as quiet. As soon as his mouth latched on, he let out a soft groan, sucking with renewed desire at the warmth of your skin.

His athletic shorts were doing nothing to hide how badly he needed you, the bulge in them growing each time he tweaked your nipple, or his tongue swept over the peak.

Once he pulled back from your second breast, he was thoroughly breathless. His length was twitching against your thigh, a heavy pressure that he couldn't ignore for much longer.

Quickly, he made his way down your body. Pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along your sternum, your stomach, and finally to the hem of your panties.

He shoved the blanket down his a swift kick, revealing you completely in the glow of the silver moon.

You shifted slightly, brows furrowing in sleep at the sudden cold that swept over your body.

The cold didn't last long, as Connor's warm body pressed closer. Not wanting to wake you, he pushed open your legs, not even bothering to take off your panties.

Connor caught his moan in his throat at the sight of you already wet through the lace. The damp fabric sticking to you, letting him see just what he'd been missing on the road.

He didn't wait. He couldn't. His face pressed between your legs, tongue darting out to taste you over the lace. His hands holding your thighs down on the mattress.

Connor grabbed the panties with his teeth, pulling them to the side. Without hesitating, he put his mouth on you.

He groaned, eyes almost rolling at the taste he'd been deprived of for days. It seemed dramatic, but he was obsessed with being right there. Tasting you and making you sound so pretty for him.

He was drowning in it, completely focused, when a sound caught his attention

It was you, stirring finally, and making your way out of your sleepy haze.

"Hmph-? C-Connor?" you whispered softly, still heavy with sleep.

Connor didn't make a move to leave his favorite spot, simply pulling away just a fraction.

"Shhhh, princess it's me. Just lay back down yeah?" he said, his lips brushing against your heat with every word.

He felt the way you shivered, sleepy confusion leading to a more intimate understanding. You whined softly as he continued, not slowing or stopping to try and explain.

Connor was starving, and he wasn't about to give up the meal he'd been aching for.

His warm mouth continued to suck on your clit, his tongue traveling down to slide in and out of you, tasting as much as he could on his lips.

Your moans were unrestrained now, consciousness coming in fast as the pleasure built in your body. You were basically dripping, with the way you'd woken up to his brown hair nestled between your thighs, mouth working without any outside encouragement.

You gasped as you felt two of his fingers slide in, curling and pushing at that spot that made you crazy.

Connor gave a satisfied groan, latching his mouth to your clit as he increased the pressure.

You put a hand in his hair, holding on as he pushed you quickly toward the edge. In the way that only he knew how, something he'd be annoyingly cocky about later.

"C'mon baby, you gonna cum on my face? Let me taste it all? Show me how bad you missed me," he breathed against you, instantly repositioning to flick his tongue at your clit.

That did it, and you came hard on his fingers, with a cry of his name as your head fell back against your pillow.

He hummed lowly as he lapped at you, messily cleaning up. When he leaned back up, he locked on your gaze, sucking his fingers clean as well.

The sight made you whimper slightly, but it was when your eyes traveled down his body that you really whined.

Connor wasn't just hard, he was literally about to rip the seams of his shorts. His cock was throbbing painfully, his brain foggy with the need to be inside you already.

He pulled off his shirt, throwing it to the floor. His body came to cover yours, his breath hot on your neck

"God princess, you don't even know how bad I missed you on that stupid fucking trip. Every goddamn day, just thinking about being inside you," he said as he pressed his hips into yours with a soft hiss.

His head dropped to your collarbone, his muscled arms shaking as his restraint clearly frayed. It was the last straw when you tugged on his hair.

"Then show me. Please Connie I want you so bad," you whispered, your lip pulled between your teeth.

He made a low growling sound from his throat, clearly ready to just push his shorts down and pound in to you.

And at that point, he didn't care. So he did just that.

Connors thumbs hooked into his shorts, shoving them down along with his boxers. His cock was achingly hard, the tip of it red and leaking with beads of precum.

He wasted no time. Dropping to one arm, the other hand coming to grip his length and guide it closer to you.

"C-Connor- shouldn't we grab a-" before you could finish, he was already pushing inside you.

"Don't care, can't wait for that bullshit right now. I'll buy you a hundred plan b's tomorrow. just let me- fuck- you feel so good like that," he panted softly, his eyes tracing where he was now pressed full in to you.

You moaned as the stretch of him set in, slightly unfamiliar after days without him.

Connor didn't wait before he was holding both your hips, angling his own to let his cock hit as deep as possible. He loved that punishing point, that stretch he gave you as he fucked into you hard.

His groan was loud as he slid one hand up your body, between your breasts to rest on your neck.

Your eyes widened as he squeezed gently on the sides. His gold chain dangling just above your eyes, moving in a hypnotic pattern.

"You miss me?" he rasped, accentuating his words with particularly deep thrusts, "Because I fucking missed you. Thinking about having this cunt wrapped around me so tight. Fuck- can't even breathe right," his lungs pushed out ragged breaths as his focus fractured.

Connor was insistent on the movement of his hips, harsh slapping sounds echoing in the soft quiet of the apartment. He relished in every high pitched whine or drawn out moan he pushed out of you, your eyes fluttering as he increased the pressure on your throat.

With him being gone for so long, missing you so much, and being so worked up, he knew he wasn't going to last long.

After a few more grinding thrusts, his hips lost rhythm as he moaned loudly. Mouth dropping open slightly and eyes screwed shut, his cock pulsing deep and leaving you with a warm flood of his release.

His arm gave out, and he fell to the side of you, pulling you close.

"God... I couldn't... couldn't last. You're too good. S'tight and sound s'pretty," he slurred slightly, eyes still shut as he held you tight to his chest.

Connor stroked your hair, muttering soft praises into your ear as you caught your breath.

"So happy... you're home," you said, sleep seeming to come back to claim you.

Connor hummed, suppressing a yawn as best he could.

"Me too princess. So happy to... be here... with you," he said, his words slowing as the exhaustion finally won him over.

You two stay pressed together all night, making up for all the lost time from his days on the road.

As much as connor hated roadies, maybe they wouldn't be so bad. That is, if he got to come home to that every time.

You’d been in love with Quinn Hughes since you were twelve years old.

It started innocently — the way he looked so focused when he played hockey in the driveway, how patient he was when he helped you and Luke with your shots, the quiet smile he gave you when Jack was being annoying. As the years passed, that crush never faded. It only grew deeper, even when Quinn moved away, even when you watched him become captain of the Canucks.

Luke was the only one who knew. He’d figured it out years ago and never told a soul. He’d just tease you gently in private and say, “One day you’re gonna have to tell him… or I’m gonna lose my mind watching you pine.”

Everyone else assumed you and Luke would end up together. Your parents. His parents. Jack. Even Quinn. The two of you were so close, so comfortable. It made sense to everyone.

But it was never like that for either of you.

It all came to a head during a quiet summer night at the lake house.

Most of the family had gone to bed. You, Luke, Jack, and Quinn were sitting around the fire pit, beers in hand, the conversation lazy and comfortable. Jack had been teasing you and Luke again — something about how you two were “basically married already” — and you’d laughed it off like always.

But after Jack headed inside, and Luke went to grab more drinks, Quinn looked over at you. The firelight danced across his face, making him look unfairly handsome.

“You and Luke really never…?” he asked, voice low. There was something unreadable in his tone.

You shook your head. “No. It’s never been like that.”

Quinn stared into the fire for a long moment. “Everyone always thought…”

“I know,” you said softly.

Luke returned then, but the tension in the air didn’t disappear. Later that night, when you and Luke were alone in the kitchen cleaning up, he finally sighed.

“You should tell him.”

Your stomach dropped. “Luke—”

“I’m serious. He’s been different around you this summer. Looking at you when he thinks no one’s watching.” Luke gave you a small, encouraging smile. “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t know you’ve been in love with my brother for fifteen years.”

Your heart hammered. “You really think I should?”

“Yeah. I do.”

The next evening, you found Quinn sitting alone on the dock as the sun went down. You sat beside him, legs dangling over the water, nerves making your hands shake.

“Quinn… can I tell you something?”

He turned to you, eyebrows slightly raised. “Of course.”

You took a deep breath.

“I’ve had feelings for you since we were kids. Since I was twelve. Luke’s known for years, but no one else does. I know it might be weird because I’m his best friend, and you probably see me as—”

“You’ve liked me since you were twelve?” Quinn cut in, voice quiet with surprise.

You nodded, cheeks burning. “Yeah. I never said anything because… well, everyone always expected me and Luke to get together. And you were older. Then you were in Vancouver. It just felt impossible.”

Quinn was silent for a long moment, processing. He ran a hand through his hair.

“I… didn’t know,” he admitted. “I always thought you and Luke would…” He trailed off, then looked at you again — really looked. “You’re gorgeous. You’re smart, funny, kind. Being around you this summer has been… different. In a good way. But Luke’s your best friend. It feels kind of…”

“Weird?” you offered with a small smile.

“Yeah,” he said honestly. “A little. I don’t want to mess up what you two have.”

“You won’t,” you said softly. “Luke already knows. He’s the one who told me to talk to you.”

Quinn let out a surprised laugh, shaking his head. “Of course he did.”

He went quiet again, then reached over and gently took your hand, threading your fingers together. His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“I’m not saying no,” he said carefully. “I’m saying… I need a minute to wrap my head around this. Because if we do this, it’s not casual for me. Not with you.”

Your heart soared.

“I’ve waited this long,” you whispered. “I can wait a little longer.”

Quinn smiled — that soft, real smile you’d loved for years — and squeezed your hand.

“Come here,” he murmured.

He pulled you gently into his side, wrapping an arm around you as the sun dipped lower. For the first time, you let yourself lean into him without hiding how you felt.

A few nights later, after more quiet conversations and stolen looks, Quinn found you in the kitchen after everyone else had gone to bed. He didn’t hesitate this time. He cupped your face and kissed you — slow, sweet, and full of years of unspoken feelings.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he whispered, “We’re really doing this?”

You smiled, heart full. “Yeah. We are.”

Quinn kissed you again, deeper this time.

this was never meant to be anything more than a quick thing—you and andrei sneaking away to a coat closet during an annual canes team bbq, with the sole purpose of fooling around for a few minutes to scratch that metaphorical itch.

nothing crazy, because one, you’re not together. well, not really.—just a friends with benefits situation that is definitely way more intense than simply just that, and all of your mutual friends are waiting with smirks for the pin to drop between you. regardless, the second reason is that you don’t want to be cooped up inside some coat closet packed full with expensive jackets and shoes, when the sun is shining outside and hot dogs are moments away from being served.

you’re not missing that, no matter how drool worthy andrei looks today—all loose, unbuttoned linen shirt, short inseam board shorts that never fail in getting you all fluttery, and the veins in his arms all prominent because of the heat.

god, help you.

it started innocent enough—well, innocent enough for the two of you.

with you nestled on andrei’s lap like an obedient dog, both of you all sweaty from the heat but not giving a single fuck about it. the tip of his sloped nose had brushed up a stripe of your damp neck, tickling you and making you squirm against him because he’s a little shit. which obviously got him hard under your ass because his cock was literally nestled into the crease of your ass. which then lead to a whispered proposition about sneaking away for a few minutes—which you agreed to because you’re just a girl.

a bad excuse about needing help with your dress and snickering coupled with side eyes from your friends later, andrei had your back pressed against the door with his hand down the front of your lacy panties. using skillful strokes and measured movements to quickly bring you to a toe curling peak.

a few minutes—that was supposed to be it, but now your cheek is against the wall, makeup transferred to the paint like art, your tits pulled out from the top of your dress while andrei sheathes himself inside of your pussy from behind, still hidden away in the enclosed, dim coat closet of his teammates house.

his large hands are at your hips, holding you at his mercy. large palms and long fingers wrapped around your front, fingerprints digging into your lower belly.

you’re both trying to be quiet, but it’s hard when it feels so good. and when andrei delivers a particularly hard smack against the glove of your ass, you whine out, eyes scrunching shut as you attempt to grip the wall for dear life. desperate for this to last but also to find another release.

"I knew you'd be a good girl for me and take it,” he grunts, lips brushing your shoulder as he leans over you.

the praise has your knees shaking, more so than they already are. “andrei,” you gasp, but when he nips at your skin it turns into a breathless, flurry of giggles, which earns you another smack on the ass—burning.

aorund his length, your walls clench, spreading more of your creamy arousal around the trimmed hair at the base of his cock. making an even bigger mess, which shouldn’t be so sexy but it is.

“you got so messy on my fingers, I just had to do it,” he murmurs, almost to himself as he continues thrusting into you, so hard and powerful that your nipples keep smacking off the wall like little diamonds. “doesn't my cock feel so much better?"

you can only whimper, but andrei’s not having that, delivering an unbelievably hard thrust into you, leaky head brushing your cervix with it.

“answer me,” he demands.

blindly reaching back, you grab at his wrist, squeezing tight, “yes,” you gasp, too loudly considering that it’s so quiet outside this closet that you could hear a pin drop.

freddie is unbelievably down bad for you. it’s obvious in everything he does—how he speaks to you in that low, raspy voice that gets you hot. how he treats you like you’re the most precious thing in his orbit. because the thing is, being love by your husband never comes quietly.

it’s in the way he looks at you like he still can’t believe you’re real, even after the ring, even after the house, even after years of waking up tangled together in the same sheets. it’s ridiculous, honestly. sometimes embarrassing, even. the kind of devotion people write songs about and swear can’t actually exist.

expect you’re living proof that it does.

because freddie would do anything for you.

you mention liking a certain brand of tea once, and suddenly the cabinet is stocked with every flavor they make. you complain about your feet hurting after a long day, and he’s on the floor in front of the couch before you can even ask, hands warm against your ankles, grinning when you call him dramatic. he remembers every tiny thing—how you like your coffee (black, one and a half sugars. almond milk added in the spring), which side of the bed you sleep on when you’re upset (the middle because you’re petty), -‘d the exact look you get when you’re pretending not to want attention.

and he’s so gone for you that he doesn’t even try to hide it.

his friends and teammates tease him constantly. hell, even your friends do too. they’ll make comments about how whipped he is, how pathetic he looks trailing after you at parties, eyes fixed on you like you hung the moon yourself. but freddie just laughs every single time, arm sliding around your waist while he says, “yeah, and?”

because to him, loving you like this isn’t humiliating. It’s the easiest thing he’s ever done. which is exactly how you ended up here now.

you’d made one passing comment at the beginning of summer about wanting a pool. not even seriously—just a distracted little “god, imagine having a pool right now” while sweating through a heatwave on the back patio of your carolina home. but your husband was already googling local landscaping places to deliver you just that.

so you weren’t even surprised when three weeks later, construction trucks started showing up.

and now there’s a massive in ground pool glittering in the middle of your backyard, sunlight dancing across the water while freddie lounges in a chair nearby looking entirely too pleased with himself simply because you’re beaming.

“all for me?” you had teased, stepping into his line of sight. looking entirely too beautiful in a tiny bikini you’d thrown on that morning—now suddenly feels very tiny under the weight of his attention as he gazes at you. sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as his eyes dragged over you, completely shameless, mouth parting slightly.

“jesus christ,” he muttered in danish under his breath.

you just laugh, shameless and feeling so in love before dropping onto his lap with a shameless straddle. then immediately started pressing kisses to his burnt cheeks and stubble covered jawline.

he moans under your, hands finding the hump of your ass to keep you close against him. “I bought you a pool,” freddie says, like this somehow proves a point. “you can’t come out here looking like that after I bought you a pool.”

you giggled again, pulling back just enough to meet his half lidded gaze. your bottom lip finds home between your teeth, sultry without even trying. “I love it baby,” a kiss to his already awaiting lips, “how can I show my gratefulness?”

that’s how you end up here—in the brand new, heated, pool. blue and turquoise tiles slippery against your back with your husband pressing you against them.

freddie’s got you held open and exposed, bikini bottoms abandoned in a wet heap on the side of the pool, because no half assed, pulled to the side works with him. not in your own house—in your brand new pool nonetheless. and with that, you’re at the perfect spot for him to thrust into your awaiting, greedy entrance. sucking him in like a vacuum.

you’re moaning with it, desperate for more. with every lazy, yet somehow perfectly executed thrust, your clit smacks against his pelvis. sending the water up your bare torsos and over the edge of the pool like an erotic, choline filled porno.

your small hands dig into his shoulders before sliding up to his neck, holding him tight, grounding yourself. “freddie,” you gasp, tears prickling at the corner of your eyes when he delivers a particularly beautiful, sharp thrust into you. “please.”

lips parted, heat crawling down his neck and giving him a sexy flush, your husband meets your needy gaze without stopping the attack on your fluttering pussy. “feel good baby?” his chest is heaving against yours, adding more delicious pressure. “like when i’m fucking you like this?”

you can only mewl, leaning forward in search of a sloppy kiss. and it’s like he knows what you’re asking for, because he gives you a toothy, sloppy kiss without a beat.

“god,” freddie curses, momentarily looking through the distorted water, watching his cock impale you like it’s a brand new sight and not something he’s witnessed hundreds of times. “you look so fucking pretty like this. my pretty wife in her pretty pool.”

it’s usual praise he gives you when you’re having sex, but that doesn’t mean your body is immune to hearing it, and the way your inner walls slicken and flutter afterwards is an indication of so.

“I’m close,” you tell him, even though your husband knows your body well enough to be well aware of your approaching climax—sometimes even before you are. “please don’t stop,” you whine.

he doesn’t stop, but instead, he increases the speed of his thrusts, using his sheer size and strength to keep you spread and held up for him. it probably burns your inner thighs, but you can’t even tell. not now. if anything, you’re craving that pain coupled with pleasure that only your husband could ever grace upon you.

“oh my, fuck—baby,” freddie grunts, dragging you impossibly closer against him. at this point, it’s more grinding and rubbing than anything else, but it’s honestly perfect. because your pebbles nipples are getting friction against his hair littered chest, and your puffy clit is perfectly gliding against the beat patch of hair above his length.

and just like that, you’re cumming with a shout too loud considering that even though they’re pretty far, you do have neighbours. but that’s something that freddie secretly love about it—your sheer volume. another way to tell everyone that you’re his.

Gabe leans back against it, hands still trembling slightly from the draft, from the crowd, from the hours of anticipation. The top two buttons of his dress shirt are already undone, his tie pulled loose, his cheeks flushed with an exhilaration that hasn’t yet had a chance to settle.

“You did it,” you whisper, crossing the room to him.

His hands find your waist before you can say another word, pulling you close. “We did it,” he breathes into your hair, voice husky with emotion. “God, I kept looking for you in the crowd.”

“I never took my eyes off you,” you reply, hands sliding up his chest. “First round. Just like I knew you would.”

He grins, eyes searching yours as if still trying to believe it. “I kept telling myself to play it cool up there, but all I could think about was getting back here with you.”

Your lips curve. “That eager?”

“More than eager,” he says and there’s a new edge to his voice that sends heat up your spine.

Before you can respond, Gabe’s hands tighten at your waist and he’s kissing you deep and unhurried, as if making up for all the minutes spent apart. His hands trail up your back, fingers curling into your dress like he can’t wait to touch more of you.

“You looked so gorgeous tonight,” he murmurs between kisses, lips brushing your cheek, then your neck. “All I could see was you.”

Your breath catches as his mouth finds that spot beneath your ear, teeth grazing your skin. “And now you’ve got me,” you whisper, threading your fingers into his hair.

That’s all the invitation he needs. Gabe scoops you up, carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing, and settles you gently onto the bed.

“You’re everything,” he says, hands already tugging at the zipper of your dress. “Every goal, every game, every damn moment I was thinking about you.”

Your dress falls to the floor and you help him shrug off his shirt before pulling him down to you. The weight of him is perfect strong, warm, entirely focused on you.

“You have me,” you assure him, breath hitching as his hands smooth over your bare skin.

“Good,” Gabe breathes. “Because tonight, I’m not sharing.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his mouth tasting like champagne and adrenaline. Every careful touch and whispered word sends shivers across your body.

“You feel so good,” he groans against your lips as he settles between your legs. “I need you so bad.”

“You have me,” you moan back, lifting your hips into him. “I’m all yours.”

And then there’s nothing left to wait for.

He moves into you slowly at first, savoring the way you fit together, his hands trembling against your skin as if this is the most important part of the night.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and caring all at once.

“More than okay,” you breathe, lips brushing his as you meet his rhythm.

He groans at that low and raw and you feel him deepen his thrusts, one hand gripping yours against the sheets.

“God,” he whispers into your ear, kissing along your jaw, “I never thought winning could feel like this.”

Your breath catches as heat pools in your belly. “You’re so good, Gabe. Don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He keeps you there, wrapped up together, moving as one until you’re trembling and crying his name his hands holding you steady as you come undone.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin when you finally catch your breath. “More than anything.”

“I love you,” you reply, hands stroking his back, lips pressing to his shoulder. “More than tonight. More than all of this.”

The off-season looked really, really good on Gabe Perreault.

Specifically his backwards hat, tailored golf shirt hugging his arms, and a swing so smooth it made the elderly men two carts over whisper something that sounded a lot like, “kid could’ve gone pro in this, too.”

You didn’t really care about golf. But sitting pretty in the passenger seat of the cart, oversized sunglasses on, iced lemonade in hand, and his cologne lingering every time he leaned over? Yeah. This was a dream.

"Another birdie," he called as the ball dropped clean into the hole from twenty feet out. He turned around like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just sunk a shot that made your jaw go a little slack.

"How many is that today?" you asked, squinting at the scorecard like it personally offended you.

He grinned, already walking back toward you. “Five. But who’s counting?”

"You are."

He leaned into the cart, plucking your sunglasses up with two fingers to see your eyes. “You’re just mad you said this was gonna be your ‘tanning and chaos’ day, and now you’re getting shown up by a guy in white quarter socks.

You swatted at his shoulder. “You're literally doing a victory lap and I’m just trying not to spill my drink.”

“You’re doing amazing, babe,” he said, planting a kiss on your temple. “Very supportive. Very hot. Exactly the kind of energy I need on the back nine.”

You kicked your feet up dramatically, letting them rest on the dashboard. “I’m here for vibes, not sports.”

He was already teeing up again, posture flawless, arms flexing just enough to make you consider actually paying attention to golf.

“I don’t think you understand how unfair it is,” you called to him. “You’re hot, good at hockey, and you can golf? Like... leave some talent for the rest of humanity?”

He turned his head slightly, smirking over his shoulder. “You forgot charming.”

You sipped your lemonade loudly. “I skipped that one on purpose.”

He barked a laugh, turned back to the tee, and crushed a drive so far down the fairway, you almost felt bad for the ball.