jassy

Every night in August looked the damn same: your dad’s friends crowded in the garage, smoking, drinking, shouting nonsense at the sports game. It was a sight you didn’t like, you hadn’t since you were a young thing–the overbearing noise, the smell, the way they always shooed you out anyway. It wasn’t your territory, and you respected it. Barely.

It’s Friday night, and you stand in the kitchen, yawning from being woken up. It was the stupid yelling again, a bunch of deep voices shouting over a commentator. Your mom was elsewhere, wine-drunk on the patio with her own friends, and you were stranded here on college vacation. 

You groan, stomping towards the garage door, swiftly opening it, seeing the five men lazily lounging around at twelve o’clock in the morning. You scowl at their collective glances, and you can tell that your dad is scowling at them, too.

“What can I do for ya’, honey?” your dad slurs out, leaning back into the lawn chair, his head turned over his shoulder. He’s drunk, of course he is.

“I’d… I’d appreciate it if you kept it down; I’m trying to sleep,” you explain with a little nod, leaning against the doorway, and he sighs, rolling his eyes. It’s a male-connection type of thing, and the other four smirk around the rim of their beer bottles.

“Sure… sure thing, baby girl, we’re sorry,” he mumbles out, chuckling to himself as he turns back to the television mounted on the garage wall, and you groan.

It’s not promising, not at all. 

Just as you shut the garage door, it returns; the cheering, the yelling, the laughs and high-fives, and you freeze, tipping your head back in frustration. It’s no use; why even bother going into your bedroom if you’ll be interrupted by grown men overreacting to other grown men kicking balls?

You settle for the living room–at least there’s a television there, something that can drown out the sound. You’d stay in your room, but you know your sleep schedule–you won’t be falling asleep for the next five hours, and you’ve made peace with that inconvenience.

Leaning into the cushions, you curl up a bit more, focusing on the idle screen. It’s playing some shitty rom-com, something that barely stimulates any part of your mind, but the commotion outside is slowly being forgotten, and you ease into the cheesy movie.

You jump when the garage door shuts, and you quickly turn your head over the couch to see who just entered your house: two men, standing tall, laughing quietly among themselves, rambling on about the game. One turns, the shorter one, noticing the peeking eyes over the back of the couch, and he narrows his eyes, smirking.

“Sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” he says, his voice deep, low, shaking his head as he holds the empty beer box. “Your daddy says there’s an extra case… somewhere… mind helpin’ us?”

The other one beside him, just a bit taller, glances out of the corner of his eye, his hands straightening the hem of his shirt. You sigh quietly, nodding and crawling off the couch, wandering towards the two of them.

“Thanks, baby,” the other one finally chimes in, his voice much different, softer, gentler, and you suddenly feel the weight of two men towering behind you as you lead them towards the small fridge, where your dad specifically left beers to chill.

“There you go,” you say softly with a confident nod, turning around to face the two of them, and they have the same look on their face; knowing, eyes darkened and low–barely drunk, but tipsy enough to be staring at their friend’s daughter.

“Perfect, thank you, baby,” the taller one says, leaning a bit forward and patting your shoulder, warm fingers grazing the bare skin revealed by the thin strap of your tank top. You nod again.

You slowly walk back towards the living room, glancing back at the two of them; hovering around the mini fridge, one leaned down, fishing out three beers, and you settle back onto the sofa. 

“Hey,” one of them says, and you look back again, but they’re both approaching the living room, bypassing the garage door. You furrow your eyebrows, biting your lip.

“Yeah?” you ask quietly, swallowing back the nerves settling in your throat.

“Want one?” he asks, and the taller one nudges him slightly–he’s the quieter one, you notice, always making faces and glances when the confident, short one says something your dad would punch him in the face for.

“Yeah… yeah, that would be cool,” you smile and nod, watching as the two men part ways, both walking on each side of the couch, carefully crowding you in.

You don’t realize what’s happening until either one is sitting beside you, and you’re sandwiched between them. You’d be lying if you didn’t feel the slightest bit lucky; they were always the ones you found most attractive, the ones who gave you attention when you’d stare at them during stupid backyard get-togethers. 

“Thanks… thank you,” you say nervously, taking the cold beer from the one on your right, giving him a polite nod. He’s looking past you at the one on your left; he’s adjusting his hips, his longer legs struggling to adapt to the smaller space. He’s so tall.

“Of course,” he mumbles, a charming smile pulling into his lips, and he’s finally looking at you. You bite your lip out of habit.

“Sweetheart,” the left one begins, and you’re turning your head, suddenly realizing how overwhelming this is; two men, two handsome men, two sets of prying eyes, four hands, and you’re struggling to process it. “We’re just sorry about your daddy, yelling and all that,” he grins.

You feel the touch from behind, not the one you’re making eye contact with, gently pushing a piece of hair behind your ear. You flinch, laugh nervously, and look between them.

“No… no, it’s okay, I’m used to it.” You shake your head, unable to choose which one to focus on.

“It’s not okay, sweetheart,” the one behind you chimes in, pulling his hand away from your hair, and you can only focus on him now–the short one, you register. “Not very polite of us to disturb a guest,” he smiles again, and you’re smiling too, but nerves fuel it. 

“I swear–it’s okay, it’s fine, you don’t have to worry about that,” you defend quickly, shaking your head, and the taller one suddenly has a light grip of your hair, a fistful of it, forcing your head to face him instead.

“You don’t have to take things you don’t like,” he says quietly, shaking his head as if he’s scolding you. “You’re tough, though; we’ve noticed it,” he adds, and you’re staring at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to deal with men like that,” a deeper voice says–you noticed it: the cockier, shorter one has a deeper voice, and the taller, gentler one has a softer one.

Huh. Funny how that works. 

“Yeah, he’s right,” the soft voice says, and you’re staring into his eyes, nodding like you’re somehow being hypnotized. You wish you weren’t so weak, but you are.

A flick of his eyes has the other one joining in, leaning forward and gently kissing your neck from behind. Your eyes flutter, and the one before you smiles, already watching you melt. 

The tall, soft one with the soft voice, and the shorter, rough one with the deep voice.

 That’s the only way your fuzzy brain can distinguish the two of them.

“She’s already enjoying it,” he suddenly calls out, the one your brain has deemed as soft and tall, and you look at him, lips parting in embarrassment. “You like how he’s kissing you, baby?”

You’re moaning softly now, feeling lips move more insistently after hearing how much you’re apparently enjoying it. His deep voice mumbles against your neck: “Gonna let him touch you while I kiss you, sweetheart?”

The one who is holding your hair, tall with that soft voice, still slides his hand away, gently cupping your cheek instead, feeling you lean into it; eyes heavy and cheeks flush, feeling lips moving again, sliding up to your jaw, and you’re whimpering.

“You tell him you want me to touch you?” the tall one asks, his voice soft and quiet. The soft one, right.

You can feel the rough one, well, getting rough: his hand gently grips your waist from behind, practically guiding you to lie back against him, between his legs, while the other one nudges his way between your parted thighs. It’s hard to believe this is real, but it is.

You stare up, blinking slowly, the one above you moving his long legs, nudging your thighs apart, all while your neck still has attention on it; light kisses, and now rough hands cradling your hips.

“How’re you feeling, baby?” he mumbles as he kisses your neck, and you’re staring up, seeing a completely different man looking down at you. It’s hard to comprehend it: two different men, touching you, wanting you.

“Good… I feel good,” you mumble, and the one between your thighs is currently spreading yours even further, smirking, his ears paying close attention to the conversation he’s not a part of. 

“Good.. you deserve to feel good,” the shorter one whispers beneath you, a trail of saliva spreading across the slope of your neck. “Isn’t that right? Our girl deserves to feel good?” he suddenly asks, clearly not talking to you.

“Of course,” the one above you mumbles casually, nodding, leaning closer, two hands finding the waistband of your shorts, lightly tugging the fabric down. “Such a good girl.”

“Your daddy always tells us how good you are,” a deep voice is mumbling into your ear, but your eyes watch above you, lips parted in awe, and he’s working your underwear off; meanwhile, the one beneath you is holding your hips still.

You shift your hips awkwardly, but a rough grab of your body keeps you still, and the one who nudged his way between your thighs is slowly tossing your underwear aside, and you breathe heavier and heavier, gazing up at him.

“Stay still, let him do what he needs to do,” you feel against your ear, eyes focusing on strong hands unbuckling his belt, and you’re melting into the firm body beneath you, all the while, the other way is undressing himself.

“Keep kissing her neck,” you hear from above you, and lips are back against your neck, slowly closing your eyes as you give in to the feeling. “Wish you could see what she looks like.” 

Big hands rub your thighs, another pair holding your hips, keeping you still and spread open. You’re moaning softly again, panting quietly, overwhelmed by the feelings, and the next time your eyes flutter, you quickly realize he’s about to fuck you right here, with his damn friend beneath you.

“I–” you stutter quietly, but a large hand slides from your hip and clasps over your mouth, suddenly shutting you up, and the one who is currently aligning himself with you is smirking, looking past you, nodding. 

“Keep quiet for him, baby,” a rough voice says into your ear, and you tip your head back onto his shoulder, suddenly feeling pressure between your warm thighs; he’s already burying himself in you, and the other short one is soothing you, kissing your jaw still.

You whimper into his palm. Meanwhile, the tall one, buried inside of you, has his hands holding your knees, keeping them spread open, ensuring he has all the room in the world to push deeper and deeper, and your hips attempt to lift; thank God the other one has one hand pinning them down, the other forbidding any noise to come out of your mouth.

He’s groaning softly, head tipped back in awe, and you can feel every inch of him inside of you; warm and thick, twitching, and you’re being gently cradled in the arms of another man the entire time.

“She takes me so fucking good,” he drawls out, the soft voice bordering on rough, and the one beneath you chuckles. “So.. fucking tight,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

“Yeah? She feel good?” he asks beneath you, his eyes turning to see what you look like; eyes squeezed shut, forehead glistening with sweat. “Looks like the poor thing feels good, too,” he taunts, slowly sliding a hand away from your hip.

“Mhm, feels like a fucking dream,” he agrees, smiling through the groans and moans he can't conceal, and you’re sinking further into the one who is still lightly kissing at your neck, but you notice his hand detaching from your hip, sliding to press against your stomach.

“Gonna let him fill you up, huh?” he chimes in, applying pressure to your stomach. “Think you owe it to him, for fucking you so good, yeah?” he taunts again, the roughness poking its head out, influencing his sharp words you’re getting sick off.

You whine against the warm palm, clenching around the one above you, and the stretch sends your head back, tipping further onto the other one’s shoulder. It feels so good, waves of guilt and pleasure clashing.

“God, she’s fucking tight,” the tall one groans with a solid thrust, pushing deeper into you, your body pressing against the thick one beneath yours. “Wraps around me so nicely, isn’t that right, baby?” he asks you, and you’re nodding, feeling licks against the shell of your ear.

The hand on your stomach slides lower, and you suddenly feel a warm thumb push against your clit, a gentle circle, only adding to the stimulation. You whine louder into the palm, noticing the two other hands above you forcing yourself to spread open more.

“You’re gonna break her,” he mumbles between your legs, talking to one who is currently kissing your neck from behind, all while focusing on rubbing slow circles, right against that one part of you that even you barely fucking touch. “Need some help, yeah?”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly, nose scrunching as the two men communicate, and you watch a hand slide down your thigh; two fingers part, lightly spreading you open, forcing your clit to be on display, all while the other one’s thumb presses down harder. He’s fucking you, and keeps you stretched.

“Oh, baby,” the one beneath you coos, kissing your jawline, rubbing circles, the one above you still fucking into you, a helping hand spreading your folds, eager to help his friend, and you. “All spread for us, aren’t you?”

“So stretched out, you are,” he groans, the thrusts becoming quicker, harder, his body leaning forward slightly to keep that hand between your thighs, allowing those long fingers to keep that sensitive bud right in the open. 

It’s a burst of warmth with that final thrust, and he pushes in deeper than you thought you could handle. He finishes, deep, that full feeling, accompanied by the continuous, agonizing drag of the stray thumb on your clit. You’re helplessly whining into a palm still wrapped around your mouth, your eyes shutting.

“She’s stuffed,” he groans, pulling out, his hand sliding away from between your thighs, though the one beneath you insists on letting you ride out the orgasm, still circling. “Like, leaking onto the front of your fucking jeans, stuffed,” he scoffs, gazing down at the unfortunate mess you’re making.

He chuckles into your ear, and the tall one admires the piece of work you are; flushed and already exhausted, cum dripping out of you, and he glances at his friend, who is kissing your jaw still.

“Your turn,” he smiles, and your eyes widen at the thought–round two, different guy? 

The thought makes you dizzy, and you whine into your hand, eyes blinking quickly.

“It’s only fair, sweet girl,” he coos like he wasn’t just buried inside of you, his own hands now reaching forward and grabbing hold of your hips, the hand against your clit redacting, and the two men are working you into a different position. 

You gasp in relief when the hand is pulled away, panting heavily, nervous eyes glancing around the living room. The television is still playing; there’s quiet chatter from the garage, and it hits you that you’re really doing this in your living room.

“My–my dad,” you plead softly, feeling the way you’re being carefully lifted, noticing the four sets of hands working around; it’s confusing; you can barely pick out who is who; just long fingers, quick, touching you effortlessly.

“What about him, baby?” the one you’re now straddling asks, the short one–reverse cowgirl, to be exact- quickly realizing you’re about to be fucked by him next, and you glance down; he’s already pulling himself out, thick and ready.

“Don’t watch that, watch me.” A strong hand grabs your chin, and you’re forced to look up at him; instead of the taller one fucking you this time, he’s half-kneeling on the couch, getting you almost eye-level with his groin–he’s always been tall, and it’s working to his advantage. 

Another pair of hands is holding your soft hips, carefully aligning you, all while you stare up at the other man, eyes darkened, ready to watch you be used a second time, eager to see the same expressions that curled at your lips and scrunched at your nose. Though he knows your mouth will be full this time around.

“Gonna fuck her mouth, use it too?” he asks below you, pressing up into your already used hole, and you whine softly, which makes him quickly nod.

“To shut her up, yeah,” he chuckles, condescendingly, acting like you’re barely part of the conversation, merely an observer, and you whimper, glancing behind you at the short one. He pats your hip, telling you to focus on the man who is tall and looming over.

You look back, and it nudges your lip, the tip of him, and he reaches out, gently patting your head. “Look at me, baby,” he mumbles, and you whine softly, closing your eyes instead.

It’s simultaneous; the thrust of the hips beneath you, carried by the way he nudges his cock between your pouty lips. It’s all-consuming, and your mind instantly goes fuzzy at the feeling of being completely stuffed–both ends.

Two large hands grip your hips, guiding them, adjusting them, keeping a steady rhythm that has your eyes rolling back, though a sound can’t leave your mouth; it’s full, and drool trickles down your chin, feeling the veins rolling across your tongue, the prodding against the back of your throat.

The lack of moans from you is made up of gags instead, soft chokes of slight defiance, a reaction to your body adjusting to the size of both; one focused on fucking up into you, while the other keeps a hand on your head, holding it steadily, mercilessly moving back and forth.

“Good girl, that’s it, baby” rings in your ears, and at this point it’s difficult to tell which voice is speaking to you; with three hands on you, both ends pounded, it’s hard to register a single word.

“Taking us so well,” a low voice hums, and you’re sure it’s the one pushing deep inside you, into your stomach, focusing on going deeper and deeper, but it’s hard to tell with your eyes closed and your mouth stuffed.

“Looking like a fucking dream, huh?” the one who is using your throat asks, and you can’t make a sound, but the one beneath you does; “God, feels like one–you were right,” he grunts out, panting softly.

Your eyes fill with tears, just a plain reaction to what you’re feeling, and he smiles, his head tipping back in a nod. “You’re okay, sweetheart, we’re… we’re taking care of you,” he reassures.

It’s all so fuzzy; the voices are a blend, no longer soft or rough, just a mindless haze of lust washing over you, and them, of course. You’re choking on the one stuffed in your mouth, his long legs giving an unforgiving angle, and the short one is still holding your hips, fucking up into you. 

Both ends are currently being stuffed in your living room, and all you can do is gag and whine about what’s in your mouth and what’s happening beneath. It’s rough and soft, warm and cold, the two men clashing, and you don’t even know who is who; you just know that every inch of you is being used, and you sit and take it.

The tall one has his hand on your head, thrusting into your mouth, and he’s watching behind your shoulder, his friend mercilessly fucking up into you. He grins at the sight, panting and sweating, and it happens like a burst of lightning; both of them finish at the exact same time.

It’s the most overwhelming thing you think you’ve felt; three times, being filled, and you’re whining when he finally pulls out of your mouth, immediately wiping the cum, but still stuffed from the other end. You’re a mess, an absolute mess, and the tall one grasps your face, his hands holding your cheeks.

"Because you like me."

June 27.

It was a hot, sticky summer day, and you were practically melting after beating all the other kids in a game of tag. Everyone else had gotten into the pool for a swim, but your father had just gotten back from a twelve hour shift the night before and had completely forgotten to pack your swimsuit for the day.

You were upset, as any seven-year-old girl would be at her best friend's birthday party, and it showed in the way you sulked in one of the Abbots' porch swings.

"What's wrong, sweet girl? Why aren't you in the pool with everyone else?"

The voice was warm, motherly, even.

You looked up to see Ben's stepmother, a woman named Ziyana. She had a concerned pinch in her dark brow and a small frown curving her lips downward.

"My dad forgot my suit.." you mumbled, straightening up– almost embarrassed to admit it.

"Oh," Ziyana hummed before chuckling and ruffling your hair. "Come with me, I'm sure we have extra from my niece being over," she offered, holding out her hand.

You looked up at her in shock before sliding off the bench and taking her hand, the coolness of her palm a reprieve from the sweltering inferno you were surrounded by.

After a bit of rummaging around in the cozy guest bedroom, Ziyana eventually found a swimsuit the both of you could agree on– a tankini with lemons printed on the top and blue straps with matching blue bottoms.

You were more than ecstatic at the opportunity to just jump in the water with everyone else and continue your games, so you dressed quickly and thanked the older woman profusely.

"Don't worry about it, silly, now go back outside," she chuckled, giving you a guiding touch at the top of your back.

You ran down the stairs and out to the backyard, ready to get into the pool when you heard Ben talking with one of his other friends over a Caprisun.

"Why doesn't she look like her dad?" The other boy asked, looking over at your father as he did.

The words make you stop in your tracks and you could hear your pulse in your ears. It had always been a sensitive subject for you ever since you asked your father where your mother was and he explained how you weren't biologically his child.

Ben just shrugged at his friend's question. "I dunno, probably the same reason I don't look like my mom," he replied nonchalantly, sending relief flooding through your bones.

His friend seemed content enough with his response and went back to sipping his drink. You sighed and walked over to the pool, sitting on the edge to slide yourself in, until–

"What if she's adopted?"

Your heart sank to your stomach and your head whipped over your shoulder just to catch Ben looking at you too.

Ben laughed then. "No way, she's too cool for that– that's my best friend!" He shot back, shoving the boy lightly.

"I bet you won't ask your dad then!" The boy replied, shoving Ben back.

You began to panic, knowing if Mr. Jack was anything, it was honest and he would tell his son the answer. You scrambled out of the pool as the boys raced to Mr. Jack and ran to your own father.

"Hey, hey, slow your roll, kid. What's the matter?" Your dad asked as you barreled into his leg, setting his beer down and lifting you in his arms.

"They're gonna ask Mr. Jack if I'm adopted–" you breathed, feeling your body begin to tremble and your nerves light on fire.

Your father's brows pinched and he adjusted you in his arms. "What's so wrong with being adopted?" He asked gently.

You felt your little eyes well with tears. He didn't understand, of course he wouldn't– he hadn't been seven in a long time. "They're gonna make fun of me–" you tried to explain before the boys came running back.

"No, they won't, just go keep playing," your dad sighed, setting you back down on the concrete. You sniffled and tried to pull yourself together so you could go back to the party, but the task proved more difficult than expected.

You'd finally settled back on the edge of the pool when Ben and his friend came up behind you, their reflections staring up at you from the pool.

"Is it true your real parents didn't want you?" The friend asked, a stupid grin on his mouth.

You whipped around, bottom lip already trembling. "No! That's not true!" You shot back defensively, scrambling to stand up again.

"No, it is! You're adopted!" The boy yelled back.

"And we're gonna go tell!" Ben added in a sing-song tone. The boys ran off together, going to tell everyone else at the party.

"No! Stop!" You yelled, running after them, but it was no use. You were faster than them, but they yelled louder and soon everyone knew the ugly secret.

Everyone laughed and to the adults it looked like just a game, but you knew what it was. For the rest of the party, no one talked to you or asked to play, thinking your adoption status was contagious and their parents wouldn't want them either if they talked with you.

You ended up going inside and sitting at the dining room table with Ben's grandmother until your dad and Ben's parents came in, looking for you.

"Why weren't you out there playing with everyone else, kid?" Your dad asked as he came up to you at the table, turning your chair out so you faced him.

Your eyes welled up again and you could feel your teeth chattering in your mouth as you tried to speak. "They were making fun of me.." you finally managed, voice hoarse.

You could see Jack over his shoulder pinching his brows together in anger. He hated bullies, you knew firsthand after he yelled at a kid's parent because they bit Ben at the park.

Your father paused at your words and picked you up. "We're going home," he told you quietly. He turned and looked to Jack and Ziyana with a nod before leaving out the door with you in his arms.

On the drive home, his eyes kept flicking to you in the rear view mirror– the way you stared out of the window at the passing views and the Pittsburgh city lights.

"You know.. being adopted just means you were wanted way more than those other kids," he finally spoke, making your head lift from the window.

"Really?" You asked, almost silently.

"Yeah, really. I wanted you so much, I tracked you down and went through a really long process just so I could get my perfect girl," he replied with a small smile.

You sat in silence for a moment before smiling back.

"Because I like you?" You scoffed, shocked at the sheer audacity of his words.

You watched his face fall as he realized his assumption was completely wrong. "Well– I mean, yeah– you were kinda, like, checking me out–" he stammered, trying to explain his thinking.

You blinked once, then twice before laughing in his face. "Yeah, I checked you out. You're a guy! I check every guy out!" You shot back. "That doesn't mean I like you."

Ben's face scrunched in this ugly shape, like he was trying to figure out how someone like you– a girl, to be exact– could just check guys out without having feelings. "That's not–"

"–how that works?" You hummed. "No, it is. I have no interest in you," you told him seriously. "Don't think I forgot."

"Forgot what–?"

You slammed the door in his face, again.

You could almost cry because for a second there, the banter felt good, natural, and you almost let your guard down.

You grabbed your things from the cabinet and redressed before slinging your purse over your shoulder and opening the bathroom door, half-expecting him to still be there. He wasn't.

You walked down the staircase, seeing Ziyana and a few other moms chatting over the birthday cake as she finished adding the candles on it.

"Oh, hi sweet girl," she beamed as soon as she caught sight of you. "You're staying for cake, right?" She hummed excitedly.

Your heart clenched and you forced a small smile onto your mouth. You hated to disappoint, but you couldn't stay any longer– you already made your attempt for your father.

"No, I'm sorry, Mrs. Ziyana. I'm gonna just head home, stomachache," you replied to which she nodded.

"No, I understand, sweetheart. Go home and get some rest," she replied. "And limit your sun exposure tomorrow! You've had a lot today!" She called after you, like a true doctor.

You walked out of the house and found your dad still with Jack, talking over a beer, as always. You looked around for any sight of Ben, but couldn't find him. It gave you a weird feeling in your chest, like you wanted to find him again, but you pushed him away. You couldn't stand him.

"Dad," you called, making both the men turn.

"Yeah, what's up, kid?" Your father replied once he registered it was you calling for him.

"Let's go," you sighed. "I tried."

A small frown tugged at his lips before he caved and nodded. "Okay, let's go," he replied, tossing the beer into the nearby trash, making Jack shoot him a look. He noticed his friend's look and went over to put it into the recycling bin instead.

"Later, Rabbit," your dad sighed, patting his friend on the back.

"Later, Gator," Jack shot back before looking to you with a softer look. "Don't let them get to you, kiddo," he said as if he knew.

During the drive home, your father turned to look at you with a sigh. "What was it this time? Silly string in your hair? Crumbs in your swimsuit?" He asked, trying to lighten the tense mood.

You shot him a look before looking back out the window. "He said I liked him," you murmured.

He raised a brow at that. "And do you?"

You whipped your head to look at him. "Dad! You cannot–" you groaned. He laughed then.

"Hey, just asking the important questions here," he simply replied.

"No, I do not like him. I can't stand that idiot!" You retorted.

"Can't stand him, or can't stand that you still like him?" He hummed curiously.

"Okay, now you're pushing it."

"Okay, okay, sorry."

That night you sat in your room, picking at the exposed threads on your comforter as you thought about everything that happened through the day.

Ben's bold assumption, Jack's warning, Ziyana's look, and of course.. your father's words.

You knew you couldn't stand him– especially not after he made fun of you with his friends and never apologized or made up for it.

But at one point in time he had been your best friend and the sweetest guy you knew. Even from his reputation at school, he was still a massive sweetheart which only made you more conflicted. Then there was also the confusion he had at your words. Had he truly forgotten what happened at that party? The real reason you stopped being friends?

You sighed and flopped back against the mountain of pillows pressed against your headboard, unsure of what to think.

He was all grown up now– officially too– and maybe he had grown and changed. He sure looked it, and damn if that wasn't attractive enough–

You shook the thought entirely from your head and sighed before burying your face into the pillows.

You had no clue what the hell you were going to do.

a/n: holy hell, thank you so much for all the support, i really was not expecting this influx of people 😭. i love every bit of support though and you, my wonderful lovebugs, are so amazing! if the support for this stays this way, i might just have to post on my ao3 which has been sitting barren for almost a year now since ik aus are also loved there. but yeahhh, tell me what you guys would like to see more of and don't be shy to say what you'd like to see less of!

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chatter ran all around the house, because some reality show was on and you all had been hooting and hollering. he was in the kitchen, attempting to study for a french quiz. you padded in, tanktop and sweats with an empty glass in your hand.

with a smile his way, you turned to open the fridge, “hey, jacky.”

his eyes darted up, shifting in his seat. then, he was relieved it was you and not one of rachel’s more uppity, obnoxious friends. he kept his mouth shut anyway, turning focus back on his book.

there’s always been a soft spot for you. sure, you ran with that group, you were the mastermind behind a few harmless shenanigans. however, he tolerated— even liked you. maybe it was the way you spaced out your drinks, how you kept an eye out for allergies among the group, how you stuck around when someone felt sick. you were more… responsible.

after filling your glass with water, you moved to where jack was sitting and peered over his shoulder. immediately, he felt your presence on his back and your hand stable against the back of his chair.

“doing some reading?” you smirked, eyes moving to scan his face.

“i have a test,” he mumbled before turning to look at you. he was blushing, like really blushing, face hot and cheeks pink. you were leaned only inches above him, after all. face above his and arm around his chair.

“madame fowler?” you raised an eyebrow. slowly, he nodded. you continued, “cool, i have her for french 3.”

“you wanna help me study?” he watched as a grin danced on your mouth, terminating with a bite down on your bottom lip.

shaking your head, “i don’t know a lick of french. you’re on your own, buddy boy.”

with a harsh pat of his back, you made your way out of the kitchen. your pants rode low on your waist, creating a sliver of skin between your top and your sweats. eyes surfacing over your back, jack watched you sway away, shaking his head.

that's kind-of how it began. you'd slink around their house, around school, the neighbourhood, parties, anything to catch his attention. of course, he'd been watching, exhibiting perfect restraint.

when it started to get hot, though, something in him begged to differ.

the abbot pool was another go-to spot for your group. it was another excuse to prance around jack half-naked. this particular friday in may, it was you and naomi who joined rachel in her quest for tan skin. 

jack had been coming home from playing pick-up basketball with his friends. shirt stained in sweat, red curls pushed back, biceps pumped out of his sleeves. if you hadn’t been wearing those huge sunglasses, it would’ve been obvious you were ogling at him. you weren’t sure why you came through the back, though.

he looked right back at you, eyes piercing at that turquoise bikini on your lotion-glazed skin. your head was tilted back, exposing your neck. you had a book in hand, jane austen from what he could see on the cover. It rested over your stomach, both hands on either side. your ankles were crossed, legs glistening in the sun.

he had never really stared at anyone like this. You were blinding in the best way, shiny and beautiful. it was embarrassing how his mouth hung open, embarrassing how his eyes softened at the sight of you, embarrassing how he just stood there like an idiot. he wasn't usually like that, he was known as a classic charmer.

naomi, sitting furthest most from the gate, tilted her head over and caught jack, “gawk much?”

quickly, he adjusted his position, rubbing the back of his neck. “uh, rach, mom wants to know if they’re sleeping over.”

rachel, who had been laying so still for 20 minutes that you thought she was asleep, opened her eyes and scrunched her nose, “yeah… now, buzz off.” she waved her hand in the air, “i can smell you from here.”

jack nodded, looking away and trekking to the house with a sarcastic yeah, sorry. he caught a glimpse of you before going through the patio door.

with a smirk, you closed your book and placed it on the ground. sitting up, you were ready to follow him inside. slipping your t-shirt over your head, your legs fell to face naomi and rachel. you slipped your flip flops on as you stood, prepared to move out.

“don’t even think about it.” naomi spoke, unmoved from her position.

“w-what?” you furrowed your eyebrows at her. turning her head towards you, she lifted her sunglasses. hand over your hip, you gasped defensively, “i was going to get water.”

“mhmm, thirsty as hell,” naomi shook her head sarcastically, “i see the way he stares at you, like he wants to eat you up like the little tart you are.” she laughed, the joke being more for herself than you.

“ew, guys, are you talking about jack?” rachel whined, turning over to face down. her voice muffled in her towel, “that’s disgusting. keep me out of it.”

"need anything?" you raised an eyebrow at naomi before you made your way inside.

"you clearly do."

in the kitchen, jack had been biting into an apple, sifting through the mail on the table. he was still in his workout clothes, dampness slowly fading from his shirt. you shut the door behind you, making your way over to him. his eyes darted up, and you pressed a finger to your lips.

“hey,” he said lowly, cheeks flushed as a slow smile grew on his face. 

you neared him, palm pushing on the cold marble of the counter as your body entered his atmosphere. you nodded your chin up at him, only inches away.

"so." you began.

"so," he nodded back at you.

you saw jack press his lips together and his gaze fall to your mouth. his hand found your waist through the big t-shirt you'd thrown over. your skin was hot, but he didn't seem to mind.

leaning in, he was delicate with you. his mouth grazed over yours, kissing you softly. you giggled into it, not expecting him to be a good kisser. his body went flush against you, like it was meant to be there. it was soft little presses, the push of your head away, then the rebound back into him.

your hands met his chest eventually, patting lightly as you pulled away from him. his eyes eyes grew soft and wimpy, like he'd been available for you if you called.

"'kay, thanks." you whispered with a smile, moving away from him to return to the backyard.

you rendered him speechless, leaving him in the middle of the kitchen without explanation. he stood dumbfounded, embarrassed as he was when he had come home.

later into the evening, the girls had fallen asleep through dirty dancing, but you stayed awake. sneaking away from rachel's bedroom, you shut the door slowly as you spotted the light on in the laundry room.

knowing it was far too late for their parents to be awake, you toed your way over, catching a glipse of jack, who was messing with the dryer settings. in a t-shirt and his flannel pyjama pants, he caught your eye through the doorway and grinned.

"it's late," you said as the dryer started up.

he nodded, a smug, mocking look in his eye, turning to you, "'kay thanks? i don't think a girl has ever said that to me."

you got closer, resting your hands on his shoulders, batting your lashes at him, "well, how else was i supposed to thank you?"

he grinned, pressing his hands on your sides and caging you against the rumbling dryer. your fingers found their way up to his curls, running through just like you daydreamed of.

"i could think of a few things." he mumbled before pressing his lips to yours again.

Cycling through the Folsom database, you chose Andrew on a whim, in between puffs of a joint. His mugshot was interesting. He looked angry— who wouldn’t be—, but there was a subtle sadness behind his eyes that you could catch through the black and white grain. You even joked to your friend how cute he was, that he had guard dog face. 

You decided to handwrite it, thinking it would be the least effort you could put in what might be the worst written letter of your life. You wrote the usual “Stay Strong” spiel every example letter you found on the internet started with. 

Throughout the letter, you found yourself trailing off, telling him meaningless information— the weather outside, what songs you listened to sounded like. You tried asking about himself without being too insistent or nosy, though you weren’t even sure if you’d hear back. 

Finishing the letter unsurely, you attempted a friendly goodbye, trying not to seem like you looked down on him or pitied him in any way. 

Respectfully, Yours

You didn’t expect to hear back. 

Two weeks or so passed and an envelope from Folsom found its way into your mailbox. Having forgotten about the letter due to your event-heavy week, the government-style envelope scared you. Sure, you skipped Jury Duty once to go Cabo on Spring Break, but that didn’t warrant a direct summons from jail.

With the furrow of your eyebrows, you tore open the envelope and realized it was from Andrew. His handwriting was neat and meticulous, not messy and boyish like you thought it would be. The weight of the graphite, though, was heavy and strong, like it had been yelling at you.

Thanking you for the letter, he said he was surprised to hear from a stranger. He told you about his family, his mom and brothers, without any explicit details. You mentioned the beach and sunshine in your letter, and Andrew mentioned salt air in his, dropping that he’d grown up in Oceanside.

His letter was quite brief, sentences cut short and proper specificity thrown out the window. He didn’t say much about his conditions but he did end the letter with a

I hope to hear from you again soon. I don’t get many letters.

His slight vulnerability hit your heart with a pang. The honesty from him seemed like he really did need someone to talk to. You could’ve mistaken it as classic sympathy, but something tied you to him.

So, you wrote again, not as an assignment but just for you. Maybe you were lonely too, but a little letter could do no harm.

You told him how the initial letter was for a class, apologizing for formalities. You gave a neutral comment on his family, sharing about yours too. 

Andrew? Isn’t that too formal? Andrew. I feel like I’m scolding you just writing it. Is Andy okay? I hope it is. I won’t use it if it isn’t.

Although he basically had your home address, you shared that you also lived in San Diego, attending the public university. You told him about your classes, your favourite simple things in life. He seemed to enjoy it when you described your scenery to him, so you did. 

Writing back, he said he didn’t mind if you called him Andy. He said that no one really called him that, that his nickname back home was “Pope”— without an explanation. He shared that he didn’t finish high school, again, without an explanation, and said that you must be smart.

The letters flowed, maybe once or twice a month. Check-ins, details about your friends, things Andrew missed about the outside world, postcards, printed photos of the city, doodles of Rottweilers and Pitbulls in the margins (from you). 

You even threw in a photo your friend took of you on Crystal Pier. Wide smile, eyes squinting, skin glowing, and the waves rushing down below. Quickly and dismissively, Andrew had slipped that he thought you were beautiful, which made you blush. (Strangely, this was the most action you were getting lately.) 

Though he didn’t say, he pinned that photo of you up in his cell, and threatened anyone that commented or looked too close. He called you my girl, letting everyone interpret it as they would.

Eventually, it became a weekly thing.

Something about your gel pens scratching across the paper felt romantic to you. You felt like you were waiting for your husband to come back from war. Only, that wasn’t the case. On the off-chance you mentioned it, your friends never failed to remind you that you were writing to a dangerous man in his 30s that was locked up. It only thrilled you more.

Then, you started venting to him, telling him things you had a hard time saying aloud. Letters got deep, talking about your mental state and how you felt isolated. How much you loved San Diego, but was homesick half the time. How you craved proper human connection past fleeting moments at parties or networking around campus.

Andrew answered without judgement. He didn’t have much advice to give, but nonetheless offered his listening ears, or eyes. You never asked, but he told you about the bank robbery, how long they’d keep him in. Again, no details, you figured it was for safety. He told you about jail, the food, the walls, the boring days— nothing that mattered. He said he doesn’t get many visitors and how that made him feel even more lonely.

You shared how you wished you could visit, and you meant it. 

You were acting like one of Andrew’s friends, and not some stranger that wrote to him for a school project. You wished him a happy birthday, as he did you. Although small, you continued sending photocards, ticket stubs to movies you saw, sometimes a lipstick stain if you were feeling cheeky. You grew so attached, yet you didn’t even know him.

One month in particular was rough. Having all your midterms condensed into two weeks drove you insane. You spent most of your time at the library, then holed up in your room if not. All your time went to studying, working, then exhaustion. 

After your last midterm, your friends had mentioned Wine Wednesday and you jumped on the opportunity to go outside, only on principle.

The night was rough. Your friends had met some other people they knew at the party, and you trailed along like a beaten down horse. It was nice meeting new people, but you didn’t get comfortable. You got tipsy, though in a way that was no longer fun. When your adrenaline crashed, you decided it was time to take yourself home.

Missing your bed, you quietly toed into your apartment, locking the door behind. You thanked the gods that your roommates were on their own planets and far from your orbit. You just needed one cigarette, then to collapse and leave everything to the morning.

In your room, you reached for your light switch as you placed your keys on your table. You were mentally drafting how you’d change into your pyjamas, then head to the balcony. 

As you looked up, you saw that the articles of clothing that you had thrown around in search of an outfit hours prior were neatly folded on the bed. In fact, your room was about 50% less messy than you left it. A man had been sitting on the foot of your bed, perfect posture, dark clothes, and watching you.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You flinched as soon as you realized. Your eyebrows furrowed, more angrily than scared this time. You figured it must be a guest of your roommates, they were always bringing interesting characters over. You peered back into the common room, like you missed something, then dipped your head back to look at him. “Who the fuck—“

“You didn’t write last week.” His voice was simple yet gruff as he spoke, standing from his position. He didn’t come towards you and his arms remained at his sides, hands empty and unthreatening.

“What?” You decided you were too tired for this bullshit, sometime in between your breaths. It took you a second, but you squinted your eyes at him when you realized, “Andrew? What the hell are you doing here?”

His name on your tongue struck him harder than he thought it would. He’d lie awake some nights, attempting to give a tone and pitch to you. Were you sweet? Did you have a harsher voice? Or maybe you were loud and obnoxious (he didn’t like this one much, but decided he could live with it). He replayed what he thought your voice sounded like a billion times in his head, but it never matched up to the real thing, to this. 

Andrew would read your letters to himself as if you were reading them aloud to him. Your writing led him to believe you didn’t sound dumb or obnoxious, maybe expressive, maybe relaxed at times. He never really settled on one thing, as your syntax changed day-to-day when he imagined you. What mattered wasn’t the persona he placed you in, just that it was you. 

“You didn’t write last week.” He repeated. 

You placed him side-by-side to his mugshot in your head. His hair was now short, untamed, choppy. His puppy dog eyes looked sweeter in person, even though there seemed to be heat behind them. The crease between his eyebrows was his most distinct tell to you, as was the flat line of his mouth that bordered on upset. He had a dimple on his left cheek, which you couldn’t see in your mental image of the photo.

“What, so you broke out of prison?” You furrowed your eyebrows with a sigh, reaching for your cigarettes and lighter on your dresser. 

“I got out on parole.” 

“You can’t just break into people’s houses, Andy.” You said, as if you forgot that he was a criminal.

“I wasn’t going to.” He offered, though even he knew it wasn’t true. “You’re usually home before this time.”

With a gulp, you nudged your head towards the balcony. 

Sitting side-by-side in your patio chairs, Andrew told you about his good behaviour that allowed his parole, that they let him out after only 3 years. He also told you that he had just gotten back that day.

“You came to see me first?” You smiled before taking a puff of your cigarette. You looked at him, a twinkle surfacing your eyes. “I’m flattered… Even though you broke into my home.”

“It’s hardly a break-in if your balcony door is unlocked.” He stated sarcastically as you passed the cigarette to him. His tight lips had gone where yours had, and he coughed up a little since his lungs weren’t accustomed to the taste anymore.

“I’m on the third floor.” You said as he simply shrugged.

In between puffs and fingers gliding against each others’, he told you what he couldn’t say in letters. Not with visceral detail, but he told you about the guards, the isolation, the torture. There was a point in the conversation where his voice cracked and stalled, like he just might shatter in front of you.

“I did a paper on institutional abuse for my criminal justice class,” You told him quietly, “I’m not going to claim to understand, but it’s rough. I’m sorry you experienced that, Andy. You didn’t deserve it.”

He didn’t say anything, just a singular nod. 

You placed a hand on his, which was resting on his thigh, “We don’t have to talk about it right now, if you don’t want to.”

Andrew’s lips quivered and his eyes hardened as he looked at you. He huffed, hand unmoving and body completely still. He wasn’t used to human touch— hell, it had been years since he'd properly seen a woman, but even before that…  Genuine affection wasn’t a familiar concept. Everything, even a hug from his own mother, bore deadweight or pity. 

When you had started being more than just nice in your letters— sharing how you’d thought of him throughout your day, how you anticipated each letter, how you felt connected to him—, he thought you were expecting something in return, money or whatever. Then, your letters carried on without manipulation. 

It was so overwhelming how much you actually seemed to care about him that it made him lightheaded. Your words, your loopy handwriting, hearts above your i’s, was a drug to him. Hitting each syllable after the next, like it was his only escape. If your letters were a puff of a joint, then your touch was heroin.

You had cased his demeanor and observed his stillness. It was like his brain shut down, eyes vacant and looking into yours. His mouth fell from the paper-thin line he pressed it into as he tried to make sense of the situation.

He was unsure what to do, but then he realized you weren’t asking anything of him or forcing anything out of him— you were giving him grace. His wrist turned over and his fingers grasped yours gently.

“Did you mean it?” He looked into your eyes again. 

“Mean what?” You tilted your head at him.

“If I could, I would visit you. I’d sit with you for as long as possible.” He recited from memory. His eyes stayed on you like a spot. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, or I’d talk your ear off if you’d let me.” 

Of course you meant it, but you winced when he said it, “Was that too much?”

He swore he almost smiled.

“I swear I’m not as cheesy as I come off.” You looked away. “I just like to pretend.”

“Pretend?” He furrowed his eyebrows.

It was embarrassing, the way he made you talk. Andrew made you verbalize and illustrate how you felt in ways you ordinarily weren’t able to. The letters were that escape for you, but now, face-to-face, you felt you knew him too much to have a little whimsy without feeling ridiculous. 

“I don’t know,” you looked back at him and gulped, “Just that I know you differently.”

“Differently?” 

With a hesitant sigh, you admitted, “Like you’re my soldier away at war, and I’m waiting for you to come home… so that we can get married and have a family together.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t mocking, just acknowledging. The way his calloused hand went limp in yours, you didn’t know how to feel. His face was a hard read, always completely still and utterly stoic. Although that was basically what he did too, he didn’t know what to say without sounding insane.

“I know… Playing a fantasy? It’s stupid.” You said dismissively, looking away. 

“No.” 

You looked back at him, not ready for more of your stupidly vast imagination to come to light. His thumb ran over your knuckles as you did so, gently over then back then over again, like he wanted to remember this feeling beneath his fingers. He looked down at your hand, then back at you.

Tapping on your ring finger, “Sorry, I would’ve brought a ring if that was the case,” he joked in that deadpan voice of his.

You smiled, nearly giggled like a schoolgirl then stopped yourself out of embarrassment. You couldn’t even care that he broke into your apartment and most likely went through your things while cleaning. 

Usually, you’d think of what your friends would say, the questions your family would have, the looks you would get, but it all went away. The noise of this is insane was blocked out with his real voice and his tangible body. 

“Do you, um…” You cleared your throat. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

Andrew remained silent, and you figured that was an answer.

You offered him clothes, some of your old boyfriends’ from years past and a big Snoopy t-shirt you got at a blood donation drive. He raised an eyebrow when you handed them to him.

“‘S all I have.” You pursed your lips with a shrug. 

While he was brushing his teeth in your bathroom, you meekly approached the door, rubbing your hands over each other. 

“I, um… I have class in the morning, but we can get lunch together after.”

Looking at you through the mirror, he nodded, face still emotionless. The t-shirt that hung on his frame casually and the loose fit of the sweatpants made him look like he belonged there. Serious face with your purple towels hung behind him and your flouncy shower curtain in the distance. Even with toothpaste on his lips, you couldn’t help but beam inside. Was it weird to extend your paper fantasy to reality? Was this unethical? 

You stared at his hand grasped around your extra toothbrush, the yellow Minions one you had stowed away for no reason in particular. The flex of his forearm intrigued you, and you wanted to reach out and feel it. You wanted to map places you’d take him on the freckles along his skin.

When you realized he was staring at you staring at him, you snapped out of it, nodding and heading back to bed.

Coming out of the bathroom, he was headed for the living room, presumably for the couch.

You don’t know why you said it but it came out anyway, “Can you stay here with me?”

When he remained still and didn’t say anything, you patted the mattress beside you. What gravitated you to his physical presence was beyond you, and it made him furrow his eyebrows. Maybe you were just as touch starved as him, but having him stay might’ve pushed it.

“I shouldn’t.” He said.

With a pause, you asked in a small voice, “But do you want to?” 

Sharply inhaling, he found the space on the left side of your bed. The mattress dipped as he laid down on his side, facing away from you. You watched him, nearly disappointed but glad he took your offer, and got under the covers yourself. 

“Goodnight, Andy.” You whispered before turning off your lamp. With a sigh, you bunched the comforter closer to your skin.

Andrew didn’t sleep until he knew you were. When your breaths slowed, he allowed his to, shutting his eyes like it was medication. It took a few minutes of forcing himself to relax, but your bed was much more comfortable than his jail cell.

At some point in the night, you had unconsciously rolled over to where Andrew was, an arm resting along his waist and your face nudging into his back. You curled up behind him, desperate to feel the heat of him on you. If you knew better and were awake, you would’ve kept to yourself. Nevertheless, his hand rested on yours.

When the sun floated by your blinds, Andrew woke up, stiff under your touch like no time had passed between last night and the morning. He realized your forehead was pressed between his shoulder blades and your hand was clutching his abdomen. He looked over his shoulder as he patted your hand with his, checking if you were awake.

Your hair was a mess over your face, mouth ajar and body relaxed. As Andrew shifted away, you let out a disappointed hum, pawing at his stomach. Although there was a thin layer of cotton beneath your fingertips, his skin burned at the movement of your fingers. 

“Five minutes,” you mumbled, morning voice hoarse and irritated.

He eased, turning over to face you. His eyes surfaced over your eyes shut tight and shoulders shrugged under your t-shirt. Your puffy cheek under the strands of hair, soft and supple, called him. His fingertips grazed over, pushing your hair out of your face and behind your ear.

Eyes fluttering open, you realized you had been clutching his middle and were now pressed against his shoulder. You inhaled sharply, sliding your hand away and onto the sheets.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, “Morning.”

You rubbed your eyes and Andrew watched how your hands came to your face and slipped down. He admired the spread of the thin fabric over your chest as you stretched your arms. He couldn’t believe this was real, that you were real.

“Did you sleep well?” Wide eyes waited for his approval after you adjusted to look at him.

He kept his lips pressed together as he nodded. 

A smile spread across your face as you pulled the blanket tight to your stomach. He felt bewildered, watching the sunrays across your nose and your crinkled eyes. Andrew remembered dreaming of this moment, not exactly but waking up next to you with everyday comfort. The normalcy of your grin and your morning eyes warmed him, face turning hot as your eyes trailed his body.

“You’re beautiful.” He let slip, like his mouth had been connected to his heart.

You wanted to scoff or make some self-deprecating quip, but his honey-glazed eyes pulled you into the moment. With a soft exhale, your lips fell into a softer and more relaxed position.

Timidly, you reached your hand to his face. His eyes followed your fingers, unsure and intrigued. The pads of your fingers reached his hairline and your fingers ran through the short strands to find the back of his head. 

By sheer force of will and desire, you moved closer to him, hovering and resting your arm on his chest. His eyes darted back to yours and, all of a sudden, you were only centimetres away. He held his breath in anticipation. Your lips fell into a pout as your eyes darted to the fine line of his mouth. 

“Andy,” you began, voice hush yet sure, “Is it okay—”

“Yes.”

So, you leaned down and pressed your lips to his. It was less of a kiss, and more of an adjustment. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes shut as he attempted to meet you in the middle. Your lips plush and soft against his, his chin had nudged forward, like he was kissing with his whole head and not his lips. It was like kissing a soldier’s statue, solid, strong, and unbreaking.

When you pulled away, he looked like he was trying, really trying, to please you. He hadn’t kissed anyone in awhile, and when he had, he wasn’t sure if he was doing it correctly. Eyebrows knit, he sought your approval.

“Relax for me, Andy. Please?” Your eyes went wide again, big and twinkling so you could take him in. The stress on his forehead released, as did the crease of his lips. “Open your mouth a little.” You guided, stabilizing yourself over his face.

He followed directions and you dipped your head back in. He followed your lead, allowing the muscle of your lips to guide his. This time, you felt the soft flesh of his lips. Your lips spilled into each others’ as your fingers found his jaw. Soft, testing presses became pleading sucks, then his hand found your neck, urging you towards him by the base of your skull.

Your mouth had fallen open when his grip tightened slightly, causing a noise to spill from your lips. He caught his breath when he pulled back to see you. Eyes shut with need, your mouth chased him with a heavy huff. And in this moment, Andrew discovered his passion for the art of kissing. 

“Good,” You whined, eyes still closed in bliss, “Perfect, Andy.”

He nuzzled himself into you again, placing one kiss after the other, just the way you wanted. 

Your fingers gripped into his hair as your body needily drifted towards him. 

Before you could properly assess what you wanted, your phone buzzed on your nightstand with the voice memo speech your friend recorded while cross-faded. Andrew flinched beneath you and you ripped yourself away from him.

You groaned, “Shit.” 

You rolled away and Andrew felt his skin buzz at the loss of your body. Reaching for your phone, you shut off your alarm and all the ones in 15-minute increments that followed. Placing your phone down, you turned back to him, now sitting up on your knees. He was watching you with those puppy dog eyes, consumed by how you made him feel. 

“Sorry,” you laughed nervously, “I’d skip this lecture, but it’s new content.”

Face soft, he gave you a singular nod, like he’d do anything you said in that moment. He wouldn’t move until you did. He looked too good in your sheets against the morning glow, so you leaned back down, kissing him deeply again before you knew you really had to go.

Andrew ended up walking you to class, or he walked with you and you showed him around. The sun was bright against the white of the buildings and the sky was clear. He largely stayed quiet, observing the throngs of people and the breeze against his freckled skin.

In the middle of the morning foot traffic, he bluntly said he didn’t like the people on your campus, but his eyes said he was fascinated by the skateboards zipping by as you walked. You shrugged and agreed, too enthralled with his face in the sunlight.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him with you. Warm skin, coated in freckles and tough lines on his face, he was more gorgeous than you ever imagined. It was embarrassing to admit, but you’d grown accustomed to daydreaming this situation. You were simply walking with Andrew and your heart felt full at the corporeal image.

Reaching your building, you pressed your hands to his chest and grinned. You hated to know you’d be away, but you loved that he’d be there when you returned.

“I’ll be done in, like, an hour.” You said, reaching your hands to the side of his neck. 

“I’ll be here.” He nodded, lips threatening a smile.

“I’m glad you’re here, Andy.” 

You leaned towards him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. He sighed into you, surfacing an arm on your shoulder. Pulling away, you smiled at him before skipping away to class. 

Andrew wandered around campus, while you learned about the Weimar Republic or whatever. He matched locations to places you described in your letters— the trees under which you liked to write letters at if you weren’t home, the benches where you had an overwhelmed meltdown before a Calculus exam, the booths in the library you fell asleep on for ten minutes at a time, the fast food place that you complained had bitchy cashiers. It was all there, the life before him and now the life with him.

When class ended, you were walking out with one of your friends, talking about the last episode of whatever show you were watching. When you caught Andrew in the corner of your eye, you smiled. 

Angela trailed your eyeline and gasped, hitting your abdomen with her arm.

“No fucking way.”

Andrew was exactly where you left him. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes searching for you in the crowd. She recognized him from the mugshot you showed her, when you drunkenly shared that you were sending letters to a stranger. Looking back at your face, she watched a smile grow from ear-to-ear. 

Scolding your name, she groaned, “Are you fucking serious? You cannot date a criminal.”

“We’re not dating… per se…” You mumbled, shoving your hands in your pockets

“He’s dangerous.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.” 

Softly sighing to yourself, you gazed back over to Andrew, who spotted the two of you among the moving passerbys. He kept that serious stare, not exactly threatening or predatory but saying he could pounce at any moment. His eyebrow rose when you turned away.

“It was cute when it was just letters, but—”

Looking back at her, you shrugged, “You don’t know him, Ang. Not like I do.” 

Before she could respond, you shook your head and started walking away. Andrew tilted his head at you when you approached. Your hand slid into his and urged him to walk away with a slight tug.

“Who’s that?” He followed you slowly, fingers loosely clasping your knuckles.

“Just a friend.” You looked over your shoulder, where Angela was still watching from feet away. 

“Is she causing you trouble?” He stopped you in your tracks with a protective squeeze of your hand.

“Uh,” you looked into his eyes, searching for any sense of seriosity, “No, no. Just some gossip.”

He nodded, allowing you to continue leading him. 

“Are you hungry?” You nudged his shoulder with the side of your jaw. 

“Mmmhmm,” He nodded, feeling the soft breeze against him.

Andrew’s eyes softened as he watched you talk about different food places nearby. Your face amongst the cloud-streaked blue sky, green trees that weren’t withering away, and buildings that didn’t look like security walls and barbed wire. He didn’t really care where you’d take him.

When you caught him staring, you looked down at your hands then back to his face. His cheeks tensed when you smiled at him.

Then, he asked quietly, “How do we do this?”