Red

The knock came at six-thirty, exactly when it always did.

The reader's heart kicked against her ribs—a Pavlovian response she'd never managed to train out of herself. Four years of this routine, and her body still reacted like she was seventeen again, waiting for him to pick her up for a date that would inevitably end with his hands under her shirt in the back of his car.

Except they weren't seventeen. They were parents. Co-parents, technically. The kind who existed in a strange liminal space between being together and not, between being lovers and not, between something and nothing.

She smoothed her hands down her hips, over the soft curve of her stomach that had never quite flattened after pregnancy, and crossed the small living room. Through the peephole, she could see him—tall, broad-shouldered, with that shock of blue hair that had seemed ridiculous when she'd first met him but now just seemed like him.

The reader opened the door.

"Hey," Grimmjow said, and his voice did what it always did—sent a shiver of awareness down her spine, pooling low in her belly.

"Hey." She stepped back to let him in, hyper-aware of how small she was compared to him and how he had to duck slightly through the doorway. He smelled like cologne and something sharper, cleaner—like he'd just showered before coming over.

The thought of him showering made her mouth go dry.

"She's been asking about you all day," Reader said, closing the door and turning to find him already looking at her. His eyes—that strange, piercing blue—tracked over her face, down her body, lingering on the curve of her hips in her leggings before flicking back up.

"Yeah?" The corner of his mouth twitched. "What'd she say?"

"That Daddy promised to bring her a surprise."

Grimmjow's grin was sharp and unapologetic. "Shit. I did, didn't I?"

Before Reader could respond—before she could lecture him about making promises he might forget—a shriek of delight echoed from down the hallway.

"DADDY!"

Their daughter came barreling into the living room, all wild dark hair and bright eyes, wearing her favorite purple pajamas with the unicorns on them. She launched herself at Grimmjow, absolutely confident that he would catch her.

And she was. Grimmjow scooped her up effortlessly, lifting her high enough that she squealed, her little hands grabbing at his shoulders.

"There's my girl," he said, and Reader's chest tightened at the softness in his voice—the way it only ever sounded like that when he was talking to their daughter.

"Did you bring me a surprise?" their daughter demanded, and Grimmjow laughed.

"Maybe. Have you been good for your mama?"

"Yes!" She looked over at Reader for confirmation. "Right, Mama? I was good?"

Reader smiled despite herself, despite the ache in her chest that came from watching them together. "You were excellent, baby."

Grimmjow set their daughter down and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small stuffed animal—a blue dragon with glittery wings. Their daughter gasped like he'd just handed her the moon.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She hugged the dragon to her chest, then hugged Grimmjow's leg for good measure.

"You're welcome, kiddo." He ruffled her hair, then glanced at Reader. "Does she eat dinner?"

"Chicken nuggets and broccoli. She actually ate the broccoli this time."

"Damn. That's character growth."

The reader bit back a smile. This phase waships, and the easy part—the co-parenting choreography they'd perfected over the years. They talked about their daughter, shared updates, and pretended that the air between them wasn't thick with everything they weren't saying.

Grimmjow crouched down to their daughter's level. "Alright, squirt. Show me what you've been working on. Your mama said you've been drawing."

Their daughter grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the coffee table, where her coloring books and crayons were scattered. Grimmjow folded his long body onto the floor beside her, and Reader stood there for a moment, just watching.

He was adept with her. The patient behaved in a way that surprised people who didn't know him well. He listened when their daughter explained her drawings in the rambling, circular logic of a four-year-old. He asked questions. He made her laugh.

And Reader—God, Reader was still so stupidly in love with him it hurt.

She turned away, heading into the kitchen under the pretense of cleaning up. Through the doorway, she could hear their daughter's bright chatter and Grimmjow's lower responses. Domestic. Easy. The readerIt was as if they were a family.

Except they weren't. Not really.

They'd never been together—not officially. It had always been something undefined, something that existed in the spaces between other things. They'd hooked up on and off for years before she got pregnant, and even after their daughter was boThey neverhey'd never put a label on it. Never had the conversation about what they were to each other.

The reader knew what she wanted. She'd known for years.

But Grimmjow—Grimmjow was harder to wonderful. He showed up. He was present. He was a good father. But he'd never said the words she wanted to hear, never made a move toward something more permanent.

And she was too afraid to ask. Too afraid of the answer.

"Mama, come look!"

Reader wiped her hands on a dish towel and returned to the living room. Their daughter was holding up a drawing—a lopsided house with three stick figures in front of it.

"That's you, and that's me, and that's Daddy," she explained, pointing to each figure.

The reader's throat tightened. "It's beautiful, baby."

Grimmjow was looking at the drawing with an expression she couldn't quite read. Then he glanced up at her, and for a moment—just a moment—something passed between them. Something heavy and complicated and full of all the things they'd never said.

Their daughter yawned, breaking the moment.

"Alright," Reader said, her voice a little too bright. "Bedtime, sweetheart."

"Nooo," their daughter whined, but it was half-hearted. She was already rubbing her eyes.

"Come on," Grimmjow said, standing and scooping her up again. "I'll tuck you in."

The reader's heart squeezed. "You don't have to—"

"I want to."

So she followed them down the hallway to their daughter's small bedroom, watching as Grimmjow laid her gently in her toddler bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Their daughter clutched her new dragon, already half-asleep.

"Love you, Daddy," she mumbled.

"Love you too, kiddo." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then stepped back.

Reader moved forward, smoothing her daughter's hair back and pressing her own kiss to her temple. "Sweet dreams, baby."

"Mama?"

"Yeah?"

"Is Daddy staying?"

The reader's breath caught. She glanced at Grimmjow, who was standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable in the dim light from the hallway.

"Not tonight, sweetheart," Reader said softly. "But he'll come visit again soon."

Their daughter accepted this with the easy resilience of childhood and closed her eyes.

Reader waited until her breathing evened out, then followed Grimmjow back into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed behind her.

The living room felt different now. Quieter. The toys scattered across the floor, the coloring books on the coffee table—all are evidence of the life they'd built separately, together.

Grimmjow was standing by the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the street below. The reader's apartment was on the third floor of an older building, and from here you could see the glow of streetlights and the occasional car passing by.

"You want something to drink?" Reader asked, because she needed something to do with her hands, some excuse for the nervous energy thrumming under her skin.

"Sure. Whatever you've got."

She went into the kitchen and pulled two beers from the fridge—the cheap kind they both liked—and returned to find him sitting on the couch, legs spread, arms draped across the back. He looked too big for her furniture, too big for this small space.

Too big for her life, maybe. Or maybe she'd just never made enough room.

Reader handed him a beer and sat on the opposite end of the couch, tucking her legs under her. The distance felt deliberate. Safe.

Grimmjow took a long drink, his throat working, and she watched despite herself. Watched the way his Adam's apple bobbed, the way his fingers wrapped around the bottle, the way his thighs looked in those dark jeans.

God, she needed to get a grip.

"She's getting big," Grimmjow said, breaking the silence.

"Yeah. "Growing like a weed." Reader smiled. "She's starting to ask more questions. About... things."

"What kind of things?"

"Like, why don't you live here? Why do some of her friends have their mommies and daddies together and we're not?"

Grimmjow's jaw tightened. He took another drink. "What do you tell her?"

"That every family is different. That you love her and I love her, and that's what matters."

"That's good." He was quiet for a moment. "That's... yeah. That's good."

But it wasn't good, not really. It was a placeholder answer, a way to avoid the harder conversation. And their daughter was smart—she'd start asking more pointed questions eventually.

Reader took a sip of her own beer, the cold bitterness grounding her. "She drew that picture of the three of us today. The one she showed you."

"I saw."

"She draws them a lot. Pictures of us together."

Grimmjow looked at her then, really looked at her, and Reader felt pinned by the intensity of his gaze. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm not—" She stopped and shook her head. "I don't know. Nothing. Forget it."

"Doesn't sound like much."

"Grimmjow—"

"You think I don't know what she wants?" His voice was rough, edged with something she couldn't name. "You think I don't see it?"

The patient behavedThe reader's heart was pounding now. "Then why—"

"Why what?"

"Why don't you—" She stopped herself, biting down on the words. This wasn't a conversation she could have. Not without risking everything.

But Grimmjow was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, his eyes locked on hers. "Say it."

"It doesn't matter."

"Bullshit. Say it."

Reader set her beer down on the coffee table with more force than necessary. "Why don't you stay?" The words came out sharper than she intended. "Why do you always leave?"

"Because—" He stopped, his jaw working. "Because it's easier."

"Easier for who?"

"For both of us."

"That's not true." Her voice cracked, and she hated herself for it. "That's not true, and you know it."

Grimmjow stood abruptly, pacing to the window and back. The living room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. "What do you want me to say? That I'll move in? Play house? We both know that's not—"

"I'm not asking you to play house," Reader said, standing too. "I'm asking you to be honest. About what this is. About what we are."

"We're parents."

"We're more than that, and you know it."

The silence that followed was deafening. Grimmjow stared at her, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, and Reader felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he'd pull her back or let her fall.

"You're right," Grimmjow said finally, his voice low. "We are."

The reader's breath caught. "Then why—"

"Because I don't know how to do this." He gestured between them, frustrated. "I don't know how to be what you need."

"I need you to try." The words came out barely above a whisper. "That's all I've ever needed."

Grimmjow crossed the space between them in two strides, and suddenly he was right there, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body and smell his cologne mixed with something uniquely him.

"You think I don't want to?" His voice was rough, almost angry. "You think I don't think about it? About you?"

The reader's heart was hammering so hard she thought it might break through her ribs. "Then why do you keep leaving?"

"Because every time I'm here, every time I see you—" He stopped, his hand coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "I want to stay. And that scares the shit out of me."

She leaned into his touch without meaning to, her eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. When she opened them, he was staring at her with an intensity that made her knees weak.

"Grimmjow—"

"I think about you," he said, his voice dropping lower. "All the fucking time. I think about how you look in the morning when you're still half-asleep. I think about the way you laugh at our daughter's terrible jokes. I think about—" His thumb traced her lower lip. "I think about the way you taste."

The reader's breath hitched. "We can't—"

"Can't what?" He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. "Can't want each other? Pretty sure that ship sailed a long time ago."

"That's not what I meant." But her voice was weak, unconvincing even to her own ears.

"Then what did you mean?"

She didn't have an answer. Or maybe she did, but it was buried under four years of longing, of late nights alone, of watching him leave over and over again.

"I still love you," she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I never stopped."

Grimmjow's eyes darkened. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. "Fuck," he breathed.

"I know we're not together. I know this isn't—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "But I can't keep pretending I don't feel this way."

"You think I don't feel it too?" His grip on her neck tightened slightly, possessive. "You think I don't want you every goddamn time I see you?"

"Then why—"

He kissed her.

It wasn't gentle. It was four years of desperate, hungry, unresolved tension pouring into the press of his mouth against hers. Reader gasped, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against hers, claiming her in a way that made her head spin.

She grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groaned into her mouth. His free hand found her hip, squeezing the soft curve there, and she remembered suddenly, viscerally, what it was like to be touched by him. To be wanted by him.

"Grimmjow," she breathed against his lips, and he pulled back just enough to look at her.

"Tell me to stop." His voice was wrecked. "Tell me this is a bad idea, and I'll leave right now."

But she couldn't. She'd spent four years being sensible, being the responsible They talked about their daughter, shared updates, and pretendedone, and putting their daughter first. And she would always put their daughter first—but right now, their daughter was asleep, and Grimmjow was here, and Reader was so tired of pretending she didn't want this.

"Don't stop," she whispered.

Grimmjow's control snapped.

He kissed her again, harder this time, walking her backward until her back hit the wall beside the hallway. The impact made her gasp, and he swallowed the sound, his body pressing against hers, pinning her in place.

"Fuck, I've missed this," he muttered against her mouth, his hands roaming over her body—her waist, her hips, the curve of her ass. "Missed you."

Reader's head fell back against the wall as his mouth moved to her neck, kissing and biting the sensitive skin there. Her hands found his hair, tugging, and he groaned.

"Bedroom," she managed, and he pulled back just enough to look at her.

"You sure?"

She answered by grabbing his hand and pulling him down the hallway, past their daughter's closed door, to her own room at the end. Her heart was pounding, her whole body thrumming with anticipation and need.

The door closed behind them with a soft click, and then Grimmjow was on her again, his hands everywhere, his mouth hot and demanding. They stumbled toward the bed, a tangle of limbs and desperate touches.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Reader breathed, even as her hands found the hem of his shirt and pulled it up.

"We've done it before." His voice was rough, teasing, but there was an edge to it—something raw and vulnerable.

"Not like this." She pulled his shirt over his head, her hands immediately going to his chest, tracing the hard planes of muscle. "Not when it means something."

Grimmjow stilled, his hands on her hips, his eyes searching hers. "It always meant something."

The confession hung between them, heavy and true, and then he was kissing her again, softer this time but no less intense. His hands found the hem of her shirt, and she raised her arms to let him pull it off.

Cool air hit her skin, and she fought the instinct to cover herself. She'd had a baby. Her body had changed. The soft curve of her stomach, the stretch marks, the way her hips were wider now—she knew she looked different than she had before.

But Grimmjow was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Fuck," he breathed, his hands skimming over her sides, her stomach, and up to cup her breasts through her bra. "Look at you."

"Grimmjow—"

"No." His voice was firm. "Don't do that. Don't hide from me."

She bit her lip, and he leaned down to kiss her again, his hands working the clasp of her bra. It fell away, and then his mouth was on her breast, his tongue circling her nipple, and she gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance.

"That's it," he murmured against her skin. "Let me hear you."

Grimmjow guided her back onto the bed, and she went willingly, her body already aching for him. He followed her down, his weight pressing her into the mattress, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

"These need to come off," he said, tugging at her leggings, and she lifted her hips to help him. He pulled them down along with her underwear, leaving her completely bare beneath him.

For a moment, he just looked at her, his eyes roaming over every inch of her body, and Reader felt exposed in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he said, his voice rough with sincerity.

"Grimmjow—"

"I mean it." He leaned down, pressing kisses to her stomach, her hips, the inside of her thigh. "Every part of you. You drive me crazy."

His mouth moved lower, and Reader's breath caught. "You don't have to—"

"I want to." He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire. "Let me take care of you."

And then his mouth was on her, and Reader's back arched off the bed, a moan escaping her lips before she could stop it. His tongue was skilled and relentless, and she had to bite down on her hand to keep from crying out.

"Don't," Grimmjow said, pulling back just enough to speak. "I want to hear you."

"Our daughter—"

"Is asleep." He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. "And I've been thinking about this for months. So let me hear you."

He went back to work, and Reader gave up trying to stay quiet. Her hands found his hair, tugging, and he groaned against her, the vibration sending shockwaves through her body.

"Grimmjow, I'm—" She couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't think past the pleasure building inside her.

"That's it," he murmured. "Come for me. Let go."

And she did. The orgasm hit her like a wave, crashing over her and pulling her under, and she cried out his name, her whole body trembling.

Grimmjow worked her through it, his mouth gentle now, until she was boneless and gasping. Then he crawled back up her body, kissing her deeply, and she could taste herself on his tongue.

"Good girl," he murmured against her lips, and the praise sent another jolt of heat through her.

The reader's hands went to his jeans, fumbling with the button. "Your turn."

He helped her, kicking off his jeans and boxers, and then he was naked above her, all hard muscle and heated skin. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking slowly, and he groaned, his hips jerking forward.

"Fuck, that feels good."

"Yeah?" She stroked him again, firmer this time, and he dropped his forehead to her shoulder.

"Yeah. But if you keep doing that, this is gonna be over way too fast."

Reader smiled, feeling powerful in a way she hadn't in a long time. "We can't have that."

She pushed at his shoulder, and he let her roll him onto his back. She straddled his hips, her hands on his chest, and looked down at him.

"You're so good to me," she said softly, and his hands came up to grip her hips.

"You deserve it." His thumbs traced circles on her skin. "You deserve everything."

She leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, and then she reached between them, positioning him at her entrance. They both stilled, the weight of what they were about to do settling over them.

"No condom," Grimmjow said, his voice strained. "We should—"

"I don't care." The reader looked into his eyes, her heart pounding. "I want to feel you. All of you."

His grip on her hips tightened. "You sure?"

"Yes."

Reader sank down onto him slowly, inch by inch, and they both groaned at the sensation. He was big, stretching her in a way that was almost too much, but she didn't stop until he was fully inside her.

"Fuck," Grimmjow breathed, his head falling back against the pillow. "You feel so good."

She did feel good. Full. Complete. Like this was where she was always meant to be.

Reader started to move, rolling her hips experimentally, and Grimmjow's hands tightened on her waist. "That's it. Take what you need."

She did. She rode him slowly at first, finding her rhythm, her hands braced on his chest. His eyes were locked on her, watching the way her body moved, the way her breasts bounced with each movement.

"You're so fucking sexy," he said, his voice rough. "Look at you."

Reader felt herself flush, but she didn't stop. She moved faster, grinding down on him, chasing the pleasure building inside her again. Grimmjow's hands roamed over her body—her thighs, her hips, her breasts—touching her everywhere he could reach.

"That's my good girl," he murmured, and the praise made her moan.

"Grimmjow—"

"I know, baby. I know." One of his hands slid up to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his presence. "You're doing so good for me."

Reader threw her head back, riding him harder now, her body chasing the release she could feel building. The hand on her throat tightened slightly, and she gasped, her movements becoming more erratic.

"Fuck, yes," Grimmjow groaned. "Just like that. Don't stop."

She didn't. She couldn't. She was lost in the sensation of him inside her, the way he filled her completely, the way his hand on her throat made her feel owned and cherished all at once.

"You're such a good boy," she gasped out, and Grimmjow's hips bucked up into her, a guttural sound escaping his throat.

"Say it again."

"Good boy," she repeated, her voice breathy. "You're so good for me."

"Fuck." His other hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise, and he started thrusting up into her, meeting her movements. "You're going to make me come."

"Not yet." Reader leaned forward, changing the angle, and they both moaned. "I'm close. So close."

"Then come for me." His hand tightened on her throat again, and his thumb found her clit, rubbing in tight circles. "Come on, my cock; let me feel you."

The combination of sensations—his hand on her throat, his thumb on her clit, the way he was hitting that perfect spot inside her—sent her over the edge. She came with a cry, her whole body shaking, her inner walls clenching around him.

"That's it," Grimmjow groaned, his hips still moving, prolonging her orgasm. "Good girl. Such a good fucking girl."

Reader collapsed forward onto his chest, gasping for breath, but Grimmjow wasn't done. He wrapped his arms around her and flipped them over, pinning her beneath him.

"My turn," he said, his voice dark with promise.

Grimmjow pulled almost all the way out, then thrust back in hard, and Reader cried out, her hands clutching at his shoulders. He set a punishing pace, his hips snapping against hers, and she could do nothing but hold on.

"You feel so fucking good," he groaned, his face buried in her neck. "So tight. So perfect."

"Grimmjow," she gasped, her nails digging into his back. "Oh god, Grimmjow—"

"I'm not going to last," he warned, his movements becoming more erratic. "Fuck, I'm so close."

"Then come," Reader said, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Come inside me."

Grimmjow's rhythm faltered. "You sure?"

"Yes." She pulled his face down to hers, kissing him desperately. "I want it. I want you."

That was all it took. Grimmjow thrust into her one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and came with a groan that she felt reverberate through her whole body. She could feel him pulsing inside her, filling her, and the sensation sent another small aftershock of pleasure through her.

They stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, their bodies tangled together. Grimmjow's weight was heavy on top of her, but Reader didn't mind. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, savoring the feeling of him still inside her.

"Fuck," Grimmjow finally said, his voice muffled against her neck.

The reader laughed breathlessly. "Yeah."

He lifted his head to look at her, and there was something vulnerable in his eyes, something she'd rarely seen before. "I meant what I said. About thinking about you."

"I know." She reached up to brush his hair back from his face. "I think about you too."

"I don't want to leave tonight." The confession came out quiet, almost hesitant.

The reader's heart squeezed. "Then don't."

"What about—"

"Our daughter will be thrilled to wake up and find you here." She smiled softly. "And so will I."

Grimmjow studied her face for a long moment, then leaned down to kiss her, slow and sweet. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll stay." He pulled out of her carefully, and they both winced at the loss. "But we should probably clean up."

The reader nodded, suddenly aware of the mess between her thighs, the evidence of what they'd just done. Grimmjow disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth, and he cleaned her gently, his touch tender in a way that made her throat tight.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"For what?"

"For staying. For... this."

Grimmjow tossed the washcloth aside and climbed back into bed, pulling her against his chest. "I should've done it a long time ago."

Reader settled against him, her head on his shoulder, her hand over his heart. She could feel it beating, strong and steady, and for the first time in four years, she felt like maybe—just maybe—they were going to be okay.

They lay in the dark, their breathing gradually slowing, their bodies cooling. Grimmjow's hand traced lazy patterns on her back, and Reader's fingers drew circles on his chest.

"What happens now?" she asked quietly.

"What do you want to happen?"

Reader was quiet for a moment, gathering her courage. "I want you to stay. Not just tonight. I want... I want us to try. Really try."

Grimmjow's hand stilled on her back. "You mean—"

"I mean, I want us to be together. Officially. I want our daughter to have both her parents living together. I want—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "I want you."

"I want that too," Grimmjow said, and Reader's breath caught. "I've wanted it for a long time. I was just too scared to fuck it up."

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"No," Reader agreed, lifting her head to look at him. "But we can figure it out together. That's what people do when they love each other."

Grimmjow's hand came up to cup her face. "I do love you. I should've said it before, but I do."

Tears pricked at the reader's eyes. "I love you too."

He kissed her again, soft and lingering, and when they pulled apart, he was smiling—a real smile, not the cocky smirk he usually wore.

"So we're doing this?" he asked.

"We're doing this."

"Our daughter's gonna lose her mind."

The reader laughed. "She really is."

They settled back into the pillows, wrapped around each other, and Reader felt something settle in her chest—something warm and hopeful and right.

Outside, the city hummed with late-night traffic. Down the hall, their daughter slept peacefully, clutching her new dragon. And in this bed, in this moment, Reader and Grimmjow held each other and let themselves believe that maybe, finally, they could be a family.

Not the perfect family. Not the easy family.

But theirs.

And that was enough.

The penthouse elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a sprawling living space that screamed wealth and power. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering city below, but what caught your attention were the colorful toys scattered across the pristine hardwood floors and the crayon drawings taped to the expensive walls.

This was the home of Naruto Uzumaki—mafia Hokage, feared by many, and father of two.

You smoothed down your comfortable sweater, suddenly self-conscious of your casual appearance in such a luxurious space. The agency had briefed you: divorced father, two young children, demanding schedule. They hadn't mentioned how your heart would hammer when the man himself appeared from the hallway.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with striking blue eyes that seemed to assess you in a single glance. His blonde hair was slightly disheveled, his dress shirt rolled up to his forearms. He looked exhausted and guarded in equal measure.

"You're the babysitter." Not a question.

"Yes, sir. I'm—"

"Papa! Papa, is she here?" A small whirlwind of energy burst into the room—a boy with his father's blonde hair and infectious enthusiasm. He skidded to a stop when he saw you, dark eyes going wide. "Whoa! Are you our new babysitter?"

You couldn't help but smile, crouching down to his level despite your knee protesting slightly. "I am! You must be Boutro. I've heard you're quite the artist."

His face lit up like the sun. "You know about my drawings?"

"Your dad told the agency all about you and your sister." You glanced up at Naruto, who was watching the interaction with an unreadable expression. "Speaking of which..."

"I'm here." A softer voice announced. A little girl with dark hair and the same striking eyes as her father peeked around the corner, more cautious than her brother. Himawari clutched a stuffed sunflower, studying you carefully.

You didn't push, just offered her a warm smile. "Hi, Himawari. That's a beautiful sunflower. Does it have a name?"

She blinked, surprised you'd addressed the toy. "...Sunny."

"Sunny is a perfect name. You stood slowly, giving her space. "I hope Sunny and I can be friends too."

Something in Himawari's expression softened.

Naruto cleared his throat. "Their bedtime is eight-thirty. Boutro will try to negotiate for later—don't fall for it. Himawari doesn't like the crusts on her sandwiches. Emergency numbers are on the fridge. I should be back by ten."

"We'll be just fine, Mr. Uzumaki."

"Naruto." His eyes met yours, and for a moment, something flickered there—curiosity, maybe, or assessment. "Just Naruto."

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone with two pairs of eyes studying you intently.

"So," you said brightly, looking between them. "Who wants to show me those drawings?"

The next two hours flew by in a blur of laughter and imagination. Boutro was indeed an enthusiastic artist, covering you in marker "tattoos" while explaining elaborate stories about ninja warriors and ramen dragons. Himawari warmed up gradually, eventually sitting close enough that her small shoulder pressed against your arm as you read from her favorite storybook.

You were sprawled on the living room floor, Boutro demonstrating his "ultimate ninja move" (which looked suspiciously like a somersault), when the elevator chimed.

But it wasn't Naruto.

The woman who stepped out was beautiful—delicate features, long dark hair, and an expression that turned cold the moment she saw you on the floor with her children.

"Mama! "Himawari scrambled up, running to hug her mother's legs.

You rose more slowly, suddenly aware of the marker stains on your hands and the way your curls had escaped their clip. The woman's pale eyes swept over you, and you felt every inch of your soft curves, your casual clothes, your complete lack of sophistication.

"You must be the new babysitter." Her voice was soft but carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "I'm Hinata. The children's mother."

"It's nice to meet you." You extended your hand, which she looked at but didn't take.

"Mama, look what I drew!" Boutro bounded over, oblivious to the tension. "This is a dragon made of ramen and—"

"That's lovely, sweetheart." Hinata's attention remained fixed on you. "I wasn't aware Naruto had hired someone so... young. And inexperienced."

Your smile didn't waver, though something uncomfortable twisted in your stomach. "I have five years of childcare experience and excellent references—"

"I'm sure." Her tone suggested she was anything but sure. "It's just that my children require someone more... appropriate. Someone who understands their needs. Not just someone who plays on the floor and makes a mess."

"We like playing on the floor!" Boutro protested. "She's fun, Mama. She actually listens to my stories."

"Boutro—"

"And she does the voices different for each character," Himawari added quietly, still clutching her mother's hand but looking back at you. "All the voices. Not just one."

Hinata's expression tightened. "I'm sure she's very entertaining. But entertainment isn't what you need. You need structure, discipline—"

"We need someone who doesn't make us feel bad for being kids," Boutro said, and the adult weariness in his young voice broke your heart.

"Boutro Uzumaki, that's enough."

"No, Mama." Himawari's soft voice somehow carried more weight than her brother's protests. "She's nice. She asked Sunny's name. You never ask Sunny's name."

You wanted to intervene, to smooth over the situation, but something told you these children needed to speak their truth.

Hinata's face had gone pale, then flushed. "We'll discuss this later. Get your things. We're leaving."

"But Papa said—"

"Now."

The children gathered their belongings with the practiced efficiency of kids used to being caught between parents. Boutro paused at the elevator, turning back to you.

"You'll come back, right? You won't leave like the others?"

Your throat tightened. "I'll be back. I promise."

After they left, the penthouse felt cavernous and cold. You cleaned up the art supplies, erased the marker from the coffee table, and tried not to replay Hinata's words in your mind.

Someone more appropriate.

You were loading the dishwasher when you heard the elevator again. This time, it was Naruto, and the tension in his shoulders suggested he'd already heard about his ex-wife's visit.

"She called you inappropriate." He said it flatly, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over a chair.

"She's protective of her children. I understand—"

"She's jealous and controlling, and she has no right to speak to you that way." As he stepped into the kitchen, the space suddenly felt much smaller. "The kids called me. Both of them. Boutro was crying because he thought you'd quit. Himawari told me, and I quote, "Mama was mean to the nice lady and it's not fair."

"They're sweet kids."

"They defended you." Naruto leaned against the counter, studying you with those intense blue eyes. "They never defend the babysitters. Usually, they're the reason the babysitters quit."

You couldn't help but smile. "They're not that bad."

"You have marker all over your arms."

"Battle scars. I wear them proudly."

Something shifted in his expression—the hard edges softening just slightly. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you do this? You're young; you could be doing anything else. Why take care of other people's kids?"

You considered the question, really considered it. "Because kids are honest. They don't care if you're not perfect. They just want someone to see them, really see them. And..." You hesitated, then decided honesty deserved honesty. "I like who I am when I'm with them. I like the world through their eyes."

Naruto was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rougher. "Boutro struggles with the divorce. He acts out and pushes boundaries. He's angry and doesn't know how to express it."

"He's seven, and his world changed. That's terrifying."

"Himawari's too sensitive. She feels everything and takes it all in. I worry she's going to break under the weight of it."

"She's not fragile. She's strong. Sensitive doesn't mean weak."

"Hinata thinks I'm failing them." The admission seemed to cost him. "She thinks my work, my life, it's all too dangerous, too unstable. Maybe she's right."

You moved closer without thinking, drawn by the vulnerability in his voice. "Your kids adore you. Boutro told me three separate stories tonight, each beginning with 'the time Papa did this' and 'when Papa said that.' Himawari has a drawing of your family on her wall—all four of you, even though you're divorced. They know you love them."

"How do you know what's on Himawari's wall?"

"She showed me. Gave me the full tour of their room, including every stuffed animal's name and backstory."

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "She doesn't warm up to people easily."

"I'm hot."

This time he did smile, and it transformed his entire face. "That's not a word."

"It is now. I'm making it a word."

You were standing close enough now to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes and to catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something earthier—whiskey, maybe, and the city night air. His gaze dropped to your lips, just for a second, before snapping back up.

The air between you felt charged and electric.

"I should go," you said, but didn't move.

"Yeah," he agreed but didn't step back.

Your hand was on the counter. His was inches away. If either of you moved just slightly...

The elevator chimed—a delivery person with a late package. The spell broke.

You grabbed your bag, suddenly flustered. "Same time Thursday?"

"Thursday," Naruto confirmed, his voice slightly rough. "And... thank you. For today. For defending yourself to Hinata, even though you didn't have to. For making my kids feel heard."

"That's my job."

"No," he said quietly. "That's who you are."

You carried those words home like a secret treasure.

Three Months Later

Thursday nights became your favorite.

Then Thursdays and Tuesdays.

Then Thursdays, Tuesdays, and Saturday afternoons.

Somewhere between teaching Boutro to make origami cranes and braiding Himawari's hair while she told you elaborate stories about Sunny's adventures, you'd become part of their routine. Part of their lives.

And somewhere between the first time Naruto came home early to find you all asleep on the couch (Boutro sprawled across your lap, Himawari tucked under your arm) and the night he stayed to help with dinner because Boutro insisted he needed to show Papa the "special recipe" you'd taught him, something had shifted between you.

It was in the way his hand would brush yours when passing plates.

The way conversations stretched longer after the kids were asleep, with both of you finding excuses to linger.

The way he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention—like you were something precious and unexpected.

Tonight, you stayed later than usual. Boutro had a nightmare and wouldn't settle until you'd checked his closet for monsters three times and promised to stay until he fell back asleep. By the time you'd tiptoed out of his room, it was nearly midnight.

Naruto was in the hallway.

You nearly collided with him, his hands coming up to steady you—one on your waist and one on your arm. In the dim light filtering from the living room, his face was all shadows and sharp angles.

"Sorry," you whispered. "Didn't know you were home."

"Just got back. Is he okay?"

"Bad dream. He's sleeping now."

You should step back. His hands were still on you, warm through your thin sweater. You could feel the heat of him and smell the whiskey on his breath mixed with mint.

"You're good with them," he murmured. "Better than good. They love you."

"I love them too."

His thumb traced a small circle on your waist—probably unconscious, but it sent electricity racing up your spine. "Hinata called today. She wants to reduce my custody time."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm 'exposing them to inappropriate influences.' His jaw tightened. "She means you. She's been building a case—the young babysitter, the single father, and the 'questionable' situation."

Anger flared hot in your chest. "That's ridiculous. I've never been anything but professional—"

"I know." His hand moved from your waist to your face, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that stole your breath. "I know. But she's not entirely wrong, is she?"

Your heart hammered. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." His thumb brushed your lower lip, and your breath hitched. "I mean, there's nothing professional about the way I think about you. The way I want—"

He cut himself off, but his eyes said everything his words didn't.

You swayed forward, drawn like gravity. His other hand came up to frame your face, tilting it up toward his. You could feel his breath on your lips, see the war in his eyes—want versus responsibility, desire versus restraint.

"We can't," he whispered, but he was leaning closer.

"I know," you breathed, but you were rising on your toes.

A breath of space between you. Less. Your lips almost touching, the anticipation so intense it was almost painful—

A small sound from Boutro's room. Just a sleep-murmur, but it was enough.

Naruto stepped back like he'd been burned, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck. I'm sorry. That was—"

"Don't." You pressed a hand to your racing heart. "Don't apologize. But you're right. We can't. The kids..."

"The kids," he agreed roughly.

But as you gathered your things and left, you could feel his eyes on you. And you knew—you both knew—that this wasn't over.

It was just beginning.

The almost-kiss became the elephant in the room, present in every interaction after.

When he handed you the payment and your fingers brushed, it was electric.

When you'd laugh at something Boutro said and catch Naruto watching you with heat in his eyes—incendiary.

When you'd reach for the same toy to put away and end up chest to chest, breathing hard—it's devastating.

It was torture. Sweet, aching torture.

"You like Papa," Himawari said one afternoon, so matter-of-fact that you nearly dropped the juice box you were opening.

"Of course I like your papa. He's a good dad."

"No." She fixed you with those too-knowing eyes. "You like him. Like in the movies. When people look at each other all soft."

"Hima—"

"It's okay." She patted your hand with the gravity of someone much older. "Papa looks at you softly too. Mama never looked at him softly. She looked at him worried."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you just hugged her.

The tension built like a storm gathering strength.

There was the night you wore a dress instead of your usual casual clothes (you'd had a date before—a terrible date that made you realize you were comparing every man to Naruto). His eyes had gone dark when he saw you, tracking over your curves with barely restrained hunger before he'd forced his gaze away.

There was the afternoon he came home early from a meeting, dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, looking dangerous and powerful and so attractive it hurt. You'd excused yourself to the bathroom just to breathe.

There was the night you'd both reached for the remote at the same time and ended up with your hand trapped under his, neither of you pulling away for a long, loaded moment.

"This is insane," you'd whispered.

"Completely," he'd agreed, but his thumb was stroking your wrist, finding your racing pulse.

It couldn't continue like this. Something had to give.

It was a Saturday night, three months after that first almost-kiss. The kids were at Hinata's for the weekend—something about a family event. You'd come by to drop off Boutro's forgotten backpack, intending to leave it and go.

But Naruto had answered the door in jeans and a soft t-shirt, looking more relaxed than you'd ever seen him, and he'd invited you in for a drink.

One drink became two.

Two became three, and a conversation that ranged from childhood dreams to favorite books to the scars you both carried.

"I was married for five years," Naruto said, staring into his whiskey. "And I don't think Hinata ever really knew me. She knew the Hokage, the provider, and the father of her children. But me? The person who still eats instant ramen at two AM and watches terrible action movies? She thought that was something I'd outgrow."

"That's sad."

"What about you? Someone as amazing as you—there must be someone."

You laughed, but it was hollow. "I'm twenty-six, plus-size, and I spend my nights babysitting other people's kids. Not exactly a dating profile that gets a lot of swipes."

"Then men are idiots." He said it so fiercely that you looked up, startled. "You're beautiful. Not despite your curves, not even because of them—you're just... you're fucking beautiful. The way you laugh with your whole body. The way you listen like every word matters. The way you look in the morning light with marker on your cheek and your hair all wild because Himawari wanted to 'style' it."

Your breath caught. "Naruto..."

"I know. I know we can't. You work for me; the kids are involved; Hinata would use it against me." He set down his glass and turned to face you fully. "But I'm tired of pretending I don't feel this way. I'm tired of lying to myself that it's just attraction or just gratitude. I—"

You kissed him.

Just leaned forward and pressed your lips to his, cutting off his words with action because you couldn't bear another second of restraint.

For a heartbeat, he froze. Then he was kissing you back with months of pent-up hunger, his hands coming up to cup your face, angling you deeper. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you moaned, fisting your hands in his shirt to pull him closer.

"Fuck," he gasped against your lips. "We shouldn't—"

"I know."

"The kids—"

"Aren't you here?"

"Hinata will—"

"I don't care." You pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "I don't care about any of it. I just care about this. About you. I've been going crazy, Naruto. Months of wanting you and not being able to have you."

His eyes were nearly black with desire. "You have no idea what you do to me. Watching you with my kids, being so natural and loving. Seeing you in my home, like you belong here. I've imagined—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

"Tell me." You traced his bottom lip with your thumb. "Tell me what you've imagined."

"Everything." His voice was rough and raw. "I've imagined everything. Kissing you. Touching you. Tasting every inch of your skin. Making you come so hard you forget your own name. Waking up with you in my bed, in my life, in my future."

Heat pooled low in your belly. "The kids won't be back until tomorrow afternoon."

The words hung between you—an invitation, a question, a point of no return.

Naruto stood, extending his hand. "Are you sure? Because if we do this, I won't be able to go back to pretending. I won't be able to watch you leave and not follow. I won't—"

You took his hand. "Then don't let me leave."

He pulled you up and into his arms, kissing you deeply as he walked you backward toward his bedroom. You fumbled with his shirt, desperate to feel skin, while his hands mapped your curves with reverent appreciation.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmured against your neck, nipping at your pulse point. "Do you know how many times I've thought about this? About you?"

"Show me," you gasped as his hands found the hem of your sweater. "Show me everything."

He pulled back just long enough to lift your sweater over your head, his eyes going hot as he took in your lacy bra and the way it cupped your full breasts. "Christ. You're perfect."

"I'm not—"

"Perfect," he insisted, cutting off your protest with a kiss. His hands spanned your waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "Every curve, every inch. Perfect."

You'd never felt beautiful like this—being desired not despite your body but because of it, for it. The way Naruto looked at you and touched you was like worship.

He walked you back until your legs hit the bed, then gently lowered you down. The room was dim, lit only by the city lights filtering through the windows, casting everything in silver and shadow.

Naruto stood over you, pulling his shirt off in one smooth motion. You'd seen him in casual clothes before, but this—his bare chest, the defined muscles, the few scars that spoke of a dangerous life—this was intimate in a way that stole your breath.

"You're staring," he said, but he was smiling.

"You're worth staring at."

He climbed onto the bed, caging you in with his arms, and kissed you slowly. Deeply. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second.

His lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, and the hollow of your throat. When he reached your breasts, he paused, looking up at you with dark eyes. "Can I?"

"Please."

He unclasped your bra with practiced ease, tossing it aside. For a moment, he just looked at you, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.

"Don't," he said softly, catching your hands. "Don't hide from me. You're so beautiful it hurts to look at you."

Then his mouth was on your breast, tongue circling your nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You arched up with a cry, hands fisting in his hair. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, until you were writhing beneath him.

"Naruto, please—"

"Please, what?" He kissed down your stomach, hands working at your jeans. "Tell me what you want."

"You. I want you."

He pulled your jeans and panties off in one motion, leaving you bare beneath him. His hands ran up your thighs, spreading them gently, and the look on his face—hunger and awe and something deeper—made you feel like the most desirable woman alive.

"So wet already," he murmured, fingers tracing through your folds. "All this for me?"

"Yes," you gasped as he circled your clit. "All for you. Only you."

He worked you with his fingers, finding every spot that made you gasp and moan, building you higher and higher. When he added his mouth, tongue lapping over your clit while his fingers curled inside you, you shattered with a cry that probably echoed through the penthouse.

Before you could catch your breath, he was kissing his way back up your body, settling between your thighs. You could feel him, hard and hot against you, and you reached down to palm him through his jeans.

"Fuck," he hissed. "You keep doing that, and this will be over embarrassingly fast."

"Then get naked," you challenged.

He did, and oh god, he was beautiful. Long and thick and already leaking for you. You reached for him, but he caught your hand.

"Next time," he promised. "Right now, I need to be inside you. Need to feel you around me. Is that okay?"

"More than okay. But Naruto—I'm on birth control, but we should probably—"

"I'm clean. Got tested after the divorce. Haven't been with anyone since." His eyes searched yours. "But if you want me to use a condom—"

"No." The word came out more forcefully than you intended. "I want to feel you. All of you."

Something primal flashed in his eyes. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. "Look at me. I want to see your face when I fill you."

You locked eyes with him as he pushed forward, slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size. The stretch was intense, almost too much, but then he was fully seated inside you, and it felt like coming home.

"Okay?" he asked, voice strained with the effort of holding still.

"Perfect," you breathed. "Move. Please move."

He did, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that was slow and deep and devastating. Each thrust hit something inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.

"You feel so good," he groaned. "So tight and wet and perfect. Like you were made for me."

"Maybe I was," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist to take him deeper.

He kissed you as he moved, swallowing your moans, his hands everywhere—your breasts, your hips, your thighs. The pleasure built like a wave, higher and higher.

"I want to see you ride me," he said suddenly, pulling out. Before you could protest the loss, he was on his back, pulling you on top of him. "Want to watch you take your pleasure. Want to see these beautiful tits bounce while you fuck yourself on my cock."

The dirty talk sent heat straight to your core. You positioned yourself over him and sank down slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure.

"That's it," he encouraged, hands gripping your hips. "Take what you need. Use me."

You started to move, finding a rhythm that had you both gasping. His hands moved to your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and the dual sensation was almost too much.

"So beautiful," he murmured. "Look at you, taking me so well. Such a good girl."

The praise made you clench around him, and he noticed, a wicked smile crossing his face.

"You like that? Like being my good girl?"

"Yes," you moaned, moving faster.

"That's right. My good girl. Riding my cock so perfectly. Gonna make me come so hard."

One of his hands left your breast to find your clit, rubbing in tight circles. The added stimulation pushed you closer to the edge.

"Naruto, I'm—I'm close—"

"Come for me," he commanded. "Come all over my cock. Let me feel you."

You shattered, crying out his name as pleasure crashed through you in waves. He thrust up into you, prolonging your orgasm, before pulling you down for a deep kiss.

"My turn," he growled against your lips. In one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back, never leaving your body. "Wrap your legs around me."

You did, and he started to move with purpose, chasing his own release. His hand wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, a possessive gesture that made you clench around him.

"Mine," he growled. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"Yours," you gasped. "I'm yours."

"Fuck, yes." His thrusts became erratic. "Gonna fill you up. I'm going to come so deep inside you. Would you like that? Want me to fill this pretty pussy with my cum?"

"Yes!" The breeding talk shouldn't turn you on this much, but it did. "Please, Naruto. Want all of you."

"Gonna give you everything. I'm going to fill you up so good. Maybe put a baby in you. Would you like that? Want me to breed this perfect body?"

"Oh god—" You were coming again, the fantasy and his words and the feeling of him so deep inside you combining into overwhelming pleasure.

He followed you over the edge with a shout, burying himself as deep as possible as he came. You could feel him pulsing inside you, filling you with warmth, and it was the most intimate thing you'd ever experienced.

He collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms. For a long moment, you just breathed together, hearts racing in sync.

"That was..." you started.

"Yeah," he agreed.

You laughed, the sound breathless and happy. He tilted your face up to kiss you, this one soft and sweet.

"Stay," he murmured against your lips. "Stay the night. Stay forever."

"That's the post-orgasm talking."

"No." He pulled back to look at you seriously. "That's me talking. That's me saying I don't want this to be just tonight. I want you in my life, in my bed, in my future. I want my kids to have you as a permanent fixture, not just the babysitter. I want—"

You kissed him to shut him up. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes to staying. Yes to more than tonight. Yes to seeing where this goes." You traced his jaw with your fingers. "But we need to be smart about it. The kids, Hinata—"

"I'll handle Hinata. And the kids already love you. This just makes it official."

"Official," you repeated, testing the word.

"Official," he confirmed. "You're mine now. I don't share."

The possessiveness should probably bother you, but instead, it sent a thrill through you. "Prove it."

His eyes darkened. "Again?"

"I have months of fantasies to work through. We're not sleeping tonight."

He laughed, the sound rich and warm. "I've created a monster."

"You love it."

"I love you," he said, and the world stopped.

You stared at him, heart in your throat. "Naruto..."

"Too soon?" He didn't look away, didn't take it back. "Maybe. Probably. But it's true. I've been falling for you for months. Every smile, every laugh, every moment I watched you with my kids made me think, 'This is what I want.' This is what's been missing. 'So yeah, too soon, but also—I love you."

Tears pricked your eyes. "I love you too. So much it scares me."

He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, until you were both breathless again. "Don't be scared. I've got you."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He made love to you again, slower this time, worshiping every inch of your body with his hands and mouth. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks—overwhelmed by pleasure and emotion in equal measure.

Afterward, you experimented with positions, finding what made each other gasp and moan. When you shyly suggested you wanted to try sitting on his face, his eyes had gone nearly black with lust.

"Fuck yes. Get up here. I want to drown in you."

You'd been self-conscious at first, worried about your weight, but he'd gripped your thighs and pulled you down onto his mouth with a groan of pure satisfaction. His tongue worked magic, and the angle let him go so deep, hitting spots that had you seeing stars.

"Don't hold back," he'd commanded between licks. "Ride my face. Use me. I want to feel you come all over my tongue."

You'd done exactly that, grinding against his mouth while he moaned beneath you, the vibrations adding to the pleasure. When you came, it was so intense you nearly blacked out.

Hours later, exhausted and satisfied, you lay tangled together in his sheets. Your afro curls were a wild halo around your head, your body marked with love bites and whisker burn. Naruto's head rested on your soft stomach, his arms wrapped around your waist.

You thought he was asleep until he spoke.

"I could stay like this forever."

"Your neck would cramp."

"Worth it." He pressed a kiss to your belly. "You're so soft. So perfect. I love every inch of you."

Your hand found his hair, fingers threading through the blonde strands. "I'm not used to this."

"To what?"

"Being looked at like I'm something precious. Being touched like I'm something treasured."

He propped himself up on his elbows, looking at you seriously. "Then every person before me was a fool. You are precious. You are treasured. And I'm going to spend every day proving it to you."

You pulled him up for a kiss, pouring everything you felt into it. When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling.

"Sleep," he murmured, settling back down with his head on your stomach. "We'll figure out the rest in the morning."

You drifted off with his warmth surrounding you, feeling safer and more content than you ever had.

You woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the feeling of being watched.

Naruto was awake, propped up on one elbow, just staring at you with an expression of such tender awe that it made your breath catch.

"How long have you been awake?" Your voice was rough with sleep.

"A while," he reached out to trace the curve of your cheek, your jaw, and your lips. "I wanted to memorize this. You, in my bed, with your hair all wild and the morning light making your skin glow. You're so beautiful it hurts."

You felt yourself flush. "I probably have mascara smudged everywhere and morning breath."

"You're perfect." He leaned in to kiss you, slow and sweet. "And you're mine."

"Possessive this morning."

"Possessive every morning from now on." His hand trailed down your neck, over your collarbone, tracing the curve of your breast through the sheet. "How are you feeling? Sore?"

"A little," you admitted. "But in a good way."

"I'll run you a bath. We have a few hours before the kids get back." His eyes darkened. "Plenty of time for round... what are we on? Five? Six?"

"You're insatiable."

"For you? Always."

He was kissing his way down your neck when you heard it—the distant sound of the elevator.

You both froze.

"The kids aren't supposed to be back until two," Naruto said, but he was already moving, grabbing his jeans.

"Maybe it's a delivery?"

But then you heard it—Boutro's distinctive laugh and Himawari's softer voice.

"Shit." You looked around frantically for your clothes, which were scattered across the room. "Shit, shit, shit—"

"It's okay," Naruto said, but he looked panicked too. "Just—stay here. I'll go talk to them."

He pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt, running a hand through his thoroughly mussed hair. He paused at the door, looking back at you wrapped in his sheets, and despite the panic, he smiled.

"Worth it," he said.

Then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

You could hear voices in the living room—Naruto's deep rumble, Hinata's sharp tones, and the kids' excited chatter. You scrambled for your clothes, pulling on your jeans and sweater, trying to tame your hair into something presentable.

You were searching for your other shoe when the bedroom door opened.

Himawari stood in the doorway, her eyes going wide as she took in the scene—you, obviously just out of bed, in her father's bedroom, with the bed clearly slept in by two people.

"Hima—" you started.

"I KNEW IT!" She shouted, loud enough that everyone in the penthouse definitely heard. "BOUTRO! BOUTRO, COME HERE!"

"Himawari, please—"

But Boutro was already barreling down the hallway, skidding to a stop next to his sister. His eyes went comically wide.

"Is that—are you—did you and Papa—"

"Have a sleepover?" Himawari finished, but her knowing smile suggested she understood more than her innocent words implied.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. "Kids, this isn't—we didn't—"

"This is AWESOME!" Boutro shouted, pumping his fist. "Does this mean you're going to be here all the time now? Will you be our new mom?"

"Boutro!" You and Naruto said at the same time. He'd appeared in the doorway, looking torn between mortification and amusement.

"What's going on here?" Hinata's cold voice cut through the chaos. She appeared behind Naruto, and her eyes went from you to the bed to Naruto and back again. Her face went pale, then red. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Hinata—" Naruto started.

"In your bedroom? With my children in the apartment?" Her voice was rising. "This is exactly what I was talking about. This inappropriate—"

"We weren't here," Himawari said quietly, but firmly. "We just got here. And even if we were, Papa's allowed to have someone special. You have someone special."

Everyone turned to look at her. She stood her ground, small but fierce.

"That's different—"

"Why?" Boutro demanded. "Because you're the mom? That's not fair. Papa's been sad for so long, and she—" He pointed at you. "—she makes him smile. She makes all of us smile. Why is that bad?"

"Yeah," Himawari added. "We like her. We love her. And if Papa loves her too, that's good. That's really good."

You felt tears prick your eyes. These kids, these amazing kids, defending you and their father without hesitation.

Naruto moved to stand beside you, his hand finding yours. The gesture was clear—a united front.

"Hinata, I understand this is a shock," he said calmly. "But the kids are right. My personal life is my own. As long as I'm not putting them in danger or exposing them to anything inappropriate—which I'm not—you don't get a say."

"She's the babysitter—"

"She's the woman I love," Naruto said firmly. "And she's been nothing but amazing with our children. They adore her. She adores them. And yes, we're together now. That's not going to change."

Hinata looked between you, her face a mask of emotions. Finally, she turned to the kids. "Get your things. We're leaving."

"No," Boutro said.

"Excuse me?"

"No," he repeated. "We want to stay with Papa. And with her." He grabbed your free hand. "Please don't make us leave."

Himawari took your other hand. "Please, Mama."

Hinata's eyes were shining with unshed tears. For a moment, you almost felt sorry for her—watching her children choose someone else, seeing her ex-husband move on.

"Fine," she said finally. "But this isn't over. My lawyer will be hearing about this."

"Let him," Naruto said. "I've done nothing wrong. We've done nothing wrong. And I'm not going to apologize for finding happiness."

After Hinata left, the four of you stood in awkward silence for a moment.

"So," Boutro said finally. "Are you guys gonna kiss now? Because in the movies, after the big speech, people always kiss."

You couldn't help it—you laughed. Naruto joined in, and then the kids were laughing too, and the tension broke like a popped balloon.

"How about breakfast instead?" you suggested. "I make really good pancakes."

"With chocolate chips?" Himawari asked hopefully.

"Is there any other kind?"

As you headed to the kitchen, Boutro and Himawari running ahead, Naruto caught your hand.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Honestly? I'm terrified. Hinata's going to make this difficult, and the kids just found out in the most awkward way possible, and I'm probably going to lose my job, and—"

He kissed you, cutting off your spiral. When he pulled back, he was smiling.

"We'll figure it out together."

"Together," you agreed.

In the kitchen, you made pancakes while Naruto made coffee and the kids set the table. It was domestic and chaotic and perfect.

"So if you're Papa's girlfriend now," Boutro said through a mouthful of pancake, "does that mean you're not our babysitter anymore?"

"I—" You looked at Naruto helplessly.

"It means she's family," he said firmly. "She'll still be here when I'm working, but not as the babysitter. As someone who loves you and wants to be part of your lives. If that's okay with you guys."

"More than okay," Himawari said. "It's perfect."

"Yeah," Boutro agreed. "But does this mean we can't pay her to play with us anymore? Because that seems like a bad deal for her."

You laughed so hard you nearly choked on your coffee.

Two Weeks Later

Hinata's lawyer had indeed called. There had been a tense meeting where you'd had to explain your relationship, your qualifications, and your intentions. Naruto had been a wall of calm strength beside you, never wavering.

In the end, the lawyer had found nothing actionable. You weren't living together (yet), the kids were thriving, and your relationship had begun after months of professional conduct. Hinata's case fell apart.

She'd been forced to accept it, though she made her displeasure known at every custody exchange.

But the kids were happy. That was what mattered.

You'd officially quit the babysitting agency and found a job at a local preschool—better hours, better pay, and no conflict of interest. But you still spent most evenings at Naruto's penthouse, cooking dinner, helping with homework, and being part of their routine.

Being part of their family.

Tonight, after the kids were asleep, you and Naruto sat on the couch, your feet in his lap while he absently massaged them.

"I have something to ask you," he said suddenly.

"Okay?"

He turned to face you fully, his expression serious. "Move in with us."

Your heart stopped. "What?"

"Move in. Officially. The kids ask me every day when you're going to live here for real. And I—" He took your hand. "I want you here. Every morning, every night. I want to wake up with you and fall asleep with you and build a life with you. So move in. Please."

"Naruto, that's—that's huge. We've only been officially together for two weeks."

"We've been falling for each other for months. And I know what I want. I want you. I want this. I want us to be a real family."

Tears spilled down your cheeks. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll move in. Yes to all of it."

He pulled you into his lap, kissing you deeply. "I love you."

"I love you too."

From the hallway, you heard a whispered "YES!" followed by frantic shushing. You and Naruto looked at each other and laughed.

"Think they were listening?" you asked.

"Definitely."

"Should we say something?"

"Nah." He pulled you closer. "Let them have their moment. We'll tell them officially tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," you agreed, settling against his chest.

Tomorrow you'll start packing. Tomorrow you'll begin the next chapter. Tomorrow you'll officially become part of this beautiful, chaotic family.

But tonight, you just held each other and dreamed of the future you'd build together.

Six Months Later

"Papa, you're doing it wrong!" Boutro complained. "The bow goes on TOP."

"I'm doing my best here, kid," Naruto muttered, wrestling with wrapping paper.

You watched from the doorway, smiling. It was Christmas morning, and the living room was chaos—torn wrapping paper everywhere, new toys scattered about, the kids in their pajamas and high on sugar and excitement.

Your pajamas matched theirs—a family set that Himawari had insisted on. You'd cried when you opened them on Christmas Eve, understanding what they represented.

Family. You were family now.

"Need help?" you asked.

Naruto looked up, his hair sticking up at odd angles, tape stuck to his shirt, and gave you a helpless smile. "Please."

You settled beside him, taking over the wrapping while he watched with obvious relief.

"How are you so good at this?"

"Practice. And patience. Two things you lack."

"I have patience," he protested.

"You tried to assemble Boutro's new bike at midnight last night and gave up after twenty minutes."

"That instruction manual was in Swedish!"

You laughed, leaning over to kiss him. He tasted like coffee and cinnamon rolls, and you could happily kiss him forever.

"Ew, they're kissing again," Boutro announced.

"I think it's sweet," Himawari said.

"You think everything is sweet."

"Because everything IS sweet!"

You pulled back from Naruto, both of you grinning at the kids' bickering.

"This is nice," he murmured. "This is everything."

"Yeah," you agreed, looking around at the messy, chaotic, perfect scene. "It really is."

Later, after the kids had finally crashed from their sugar high and were napping on the couch, Naruto pulled you into the bedroom.

"I have one more present for you," he said.

"Naruto, you already got me too much—"

"This one's different." He pulled a small box from his nightstand drawer, and your heart stopped.

"Is that—"

"Open it."

With shaking hands, you opened the box. Inside was a beautiful ring—not an engagement ring, but something else. A promise ring, with three small stones.

"One for each of us," Naruto explained. "Me, Boutro, and Himawari. Because you're not just with me—you're with all of us. You're part of this family. And when you're ready, when the time is right, I'll ask you properly. But for now, I wanted you to have this. A promise that we're yours, and you're ours."

You were full-on crying now. "It's perfect. You're perfect. This whole crazy family is perfect."

He slipped the ring on your finger, then pulled you close. "I love you."

"I love you too. All of you."

He kissed you deeply, and you could feel his smile against your lips.

From the living room, you heard Boutro's sleepy voice: "Are they kissing again?"

"Probably," Himawari replied. "Get used to it."

You and Naruto broke apart, laughing.

"Think we should go back out there?" you asked.

"In a minute." He pulled you down onto the bed, wrapping around you. "Just want to hold you for a minute. Want to remember this moment—this perfect, chaotic, beautiful moment."

You settled against him, the ring on your finger catching the light.

"Merry Christmas," you whispered.

"Merry Christmas, love."

And it was. It really, truly was.

There's a photo somewhere in your mother's house—faded at the edges, stuck in an album with a cracked plastic cover—of you and H/N at three years old. You're wearing a purple dress with ruffles, he's in a tiny button-up that's already half-untucked, and you're both covered in chocolate cake from someone's birthday party. His arm is slung around your shoulders like he's already decided you're his person, even at three.

Twenty years later, not much has changed.

Well. Except for the tattoos that now sleeve his right arm, the way he's grown into his height and his sharp jawline, and the fact that he studies business at Howard while you're drowning in nursing coursework. And except for the way your heart does this stupid flutter thing whenever he smiles at you like you're the only person in the room.

But you don't think about that.

You're not thinking about it now as you stand in the campus courtyard, clipboard in hand, directing Delta Sigma Theta volunteers for the health awareness day function your sorority is hosting. It's a beautiful October afternoon, the kind where the D.C. weather can't decide if it's still summer or finally fall, and you're in your element—organized chaos, helping people, and making a difference.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You already know who it is before you check.

H/N: good luck today. I wish I could be there, but this group project is killing me. You're going to kill it, though. You always do.

You smile despite yourself, thumbs flying across the screen.

You: Thanks, babe. Don't work too hard. i'll tell you all about it later

The "babe" slips out naturally. It always does. You've called each other that since high school, when you both thought it was hilarious to pretend to be a couple to get annoying relatives off your backs at family gatherings. Somewhere along the way, it just stuck.

You slip your phone back into your pocket and return to directing foot traffic, helping students sign up for free health screenings, and handing out information packets about sexual health and mental wellness. Your Delta sisters are scattered around the courtyard in your signature red and white, and the turnout is better than you'd hoped.

You're in the middle of explaining the importance of regular STI testing to a nervous freshman when you feel it—that prickle at the back of your neck that means someone's watching you.

You turn.

And there he is.

H/N stands at the edge of the courtyard, hands in the pockets of his black jeans, a leather jacket over a white t-shirt that shows off the ink curling up his neck. His dark hair is pushed back from his face, and he's wearing those silver rings you'd helped him pick out last month. He's watching you with this soft expression that makes your stomach flip, and when your eyes meet, his whole face transforms into that smile—the one that's just for you.

Your clipboard nearly slips from your hands.

"I—excuse me for just a second," you tell the freshman, who's already distracted by H/N anyway because of course she is. Half the campus has a crush on him, which is something you try very hard not to think about.

You weave through the crowd, and he meets you halfway, and suddenly you're standing in front of him, and he's here, and he wasn't supposed to be here, and your heart is doing that stupid thing again.

"You said you couldn't make it," you say, and you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"I lied." He shrugs, completely unapologetic. "You really think I'd miss this? You've been talking about this event for weeks."

"Your group project—"

"Finished it last night. Pulled an all-nighter, but it's done." He reaches out and adjusts the Delta pin on your shirt that's gone slightly crooked, his fingers brushing against your collarbone. The touch sends electricity skittering across your skin. "You look good. Professional. Very 'future nurse who's going to save lives.'"

"Shut up," you laugh, swatting at his arm. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

I love you, you think, and then immediately shove that thought into the box in your brain labeled "Things We Don't Examine Too Closely."

"Come on," you say instead, grabbing his hand because that's normal; that's what you've always done. His fingers lace through yours automatically, and you ignore how right it feels. "Let me show you around. We have free condoms."

He laughs, that deep sound that vibrates through his chest. "Is that your sales pitch? Because I have to say, you might need to workshop it."

"Oh my God, I hate you."

"No, you don't."

He's right. You don't.

You pull him through the function, introducing him to your sorority sisters (who all give you looks that you steadfastly ignore), and showing him the different stations you've set up. He's genuinely interested, asking questions about the health screenings, complimenting the setup, and charming everyone he meets because that's just what H/N does.

But the whole time, you're hyperaware of him beside you. The way he keeps his hand on the small of your back as you walk. The way he leans down to hear you better when you're explaining something, his breath warm against your ear. The way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention—like you're something precious, something he's afraid to break.

You've been friends for so long that you know all his tells. You know he's tired from the all-nighter because he keeps running his hand through his hair. You know he's happy because of the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. You know he's—

You don't let yourself finish that thought.

"Hey," he says softly, after you've finished talking to another volunteer. The function is starting to wind down, the afternoon sun slanting golden across the courtyard. "You've been on your feet for hours. When does this wrap up?"

You check your watch. "Another thirty minutes, maybe? Why?"

"Because I'm taking you out of here." He says it like it's already decided, like there's no other option. "You've been working your ass off. Let someone else handle cleanup. Come with me."

"H/N—"

"Please?" He steps closer, and suddenly you're very aware of how much taller he is, how broad his shoulders are, and how good he smells—like cedar and something clean and him. "I want to spend time with you. Just us. It's been a crazy week, and I—I missed you."

Your heart does a full somersault.

"You saw me two days ago," you point out, but your resolve is already crumbling.

"Two days too long."

How are you supposed to say no to that?

Twenty minutes later, you've delegated the rest of the cleanup to your line sisters (who absolutely give you shit about leaving with H/N, but they do it with knowing smiles that make you blush). You've grabbed your bag from where you'd stashed it, and now you're walking across campus toward the parking lot, H/N's arm around your shoulders like it belongs there.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"My place," he says, and something in his voice makes you shiver. "I want to show you something."

His car is exactly what you'd expect—a sleek black sedan that probably cost more than your tuition, because H/N's family has money and he's never been shy about it, but he's also never been an asshole about it either. He opens the passenger door for you, waits until you're settled before closing it gently, and then slides into the driver's seat beside you.

The engine purrs to life, and then you're pulling out of the parking lot, leaving Howard's campus behind.

For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. The radio plays something low and melodic, and you watch the city slide past your window—the familiar streets of D.C., the monuments in the distance, the way the late afternoon light turns everything golden.

"Thank you for coming today," you say finally, turning to look at him. "I know you were tired. It meant a lot."

His hand finds yours across the center console, threading your fingers together. "I'll always show up for you. You know that, right?"

There's something in his voice—something weighted, something that makes your breath catch.

"I know," you whisper.

"Do you?" He glances at you, and the intensity in his dark eyes makes your stomach flip. "Because sometimes I wonder if you really know. How important you are. How much you—" He stops, jaw tightening, and turns his attention back to the road.

"How much do I what?"

"How much you matter," he finishes, but you get the sense that's not what he was going to say.

Your thumb strokes across his knuckles, tracing the silver ring on his index finger. "You matter too. You know that, right? You're my best friend, H/N. You're my person."

"Your person," he repeats, and something flickers across his face—something almost like pain. "Yeah. I'm your person."

The conversation shifts after that, sliding into easier territory. He tells you about his group project, about the business plan they had to develop for a hypothetical startup. You tell him about your clinical rotation, about the patient who'd held your hand during a difficult procedure and told you that you were going to be an amazing nurse.

"You already are," H/N says firmly. "Amazing, I mean. At everything you do."

"Stop," you laugh, feeling your cheeks heat. "You're biased."

"Damn right I am. I've known you since you were in diapers. I've got twenty years of evidence that you're incredible."

"You're going to make me cry," you warn him, "and I'm wearing mascara."

"Waterproof?"

"Not the point!"

He laughs, and the sound fills the car, warm and rich. His thumb is tracing circles on the back of your hand, and you wonder if he knows he's doing it. Probably not. Touch has always been easy between you—casual, constant, and comfortable.

Except lately, it hasn't felt quite so casual.

Lately, every time he touches you, it feels like a match striking.

"Remember when we were kids," H/N says, "and we made that pact that if we weren't married by thirty, we'd marry each other?"

You laugh. "Oh my God, I forgot about that. We were what, ten?"

"Nine. You were very serious about it, made me pinky promise and everything."

"Well, you were my best friend. It made sense. Why marry a stranger when I could marry someone I actually liked?"

"Nine-year-old you was very logical."

"Nine-year-old me didn't know anything about marriage."

"And now?" His voice is careful, almost too casual. "What does twenty-three-year-old you think?"

You're quiet for a moment, watching the way the light catches in his hair. "Twenty-three-year-old me thinks marriage is complicated. That it should be with someone who knows you. Really knows you. Someone who's seen you at your worst and still chooses you."

"Someone like a best friend," he says softly.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Someone like that."

The air in the car feels thick, charged with something you can't quite name. Or maybe you can name it, but you're too scared to say it out loud.

H/N's penthouse is in a nice part of the city—the kind of building with a doorman and a lobby with marble floors. You've been here before, plenty of times, but tonight feels different. Tonight, as you ride the elevator up to the top floor, you're hyperaware of how close he's standing, how his hand is still holding yours, and how your heart is racing for no reason at all.

Or maybe for every reason.

The elevator doors open directly into his apartment—because of course they do, because H/N has the penthouse—and you step into the familiar space. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, the skyline spread out like a promise. The furniture is modern and expensive but comfortable and lived-in. You've spent countless nights here, studying on his couch, raiding his kitchen, and falling asleep during movie marathons.

But tonight, something's different.

H/N locks the door behind you, and the sound feels significant somehow. Final.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asks, shrugging out of his leather jacket. The movement makes his t-shirt ride up slightly, and you catch a glimpse of his stomach, the tattoo that curves along his hip bone.

You look away quickly. "Water's fine."

He moves into the kitchen, and you drift toward the windows, looking out at the city as the sun begins to set. The sky is painted in shades of orange and pink and purple, and D.C. is spread out below you, all monuments and history and possibility.

You hear him come up behind you before you feel him—the soft pad of his feet on the hardwood, the way the air shifts. Then his hand is on your shoulder, gentle, and he's pressing a cold glass of water into your palm.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he murmurs, and he's so close you can feel the heat of him against your back.

"Yeah," you breathe, but you're not looking at the view anymore. You're looking at his reflection in the window, at the way he's watching you.

"I need to tell you something," he says quietly.

Your heart stops. "Okay."

"I lied earlier. About why I came to your function."

You turn to face him, and suddenly he's right there, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" He stops, jaw working, and you can see him gathering courage. "I didn't come because I finished my project early. I came because I couldn't not come. Because the thought of you being there, working so hard on something you care about, and me not being there to see it—it was unbearable."

"H/N—"

"Let me finish. Please." He sets his own glass down on the side table, then takes yours and does the same. Then he's taking both your hands in his, and his palms are warm and slightly rough and perfect. "I've been trying to figure out how to say this for years. Years. And I keep chickening out because I'm terrified of losing you. But I can't—I can't keep pretending anymore."

Your breath catches. "Pretending what?"

"That I don't love you." The words come out raw and honest, and his eyes are so intense you feel like you might burn up. "Not like a best friend. I mean—yes, like a best friend, but also so much more than that. I'm in love with you. I have been since we were sixteen and you showed up to junior prom in that gold dress, and I realized I wanted to fight every guy who looked at you. Maybe even before that. Maybe always."

The world tilts.

"You—what?"

"I love you," he says again, and his hands tighten on yours. "I love the way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating. I love how you always order the same thing at restaurants, but you always ask to see the menu anyway. I love how passionate you are about helping people and how you light up when you talk about nursing. I love your laugh, your smile, the way you look in the morning with your bonnet on and your face all soft from sleep. I love everything about you, and I have for so long that I don't remember what it feels like not to love you."

Tears are streaming down your face, and you don't remember when you started crying.

"I know this might ruin everything," he continues, and his voice cracks slightly. "I know I'm risking twenty years of friendship. But I can't keep watching you date other people, can't keep pretending it doesn't kill me every time. I can't keep acting like you're just my best friend when you're so much more than that. You're everything. You're—you're it for me. You always have been."

"H/N," you whisper, and your voice is shaking. "I—"

"You don't have to say anything," he says quickly. "If you don't feel the same way, we can forget I said anything. We can go back to how things were. I just needed you to know. I needed to be honest with you, because you deserve honesty, and I—"

You kiss him.

You don't think about it or plan it. You just push up on your toes, grab the front of his shirt, and press your lips to his.

For a heartbeat, he freezes. Then he makes this sound—something between a gasp and a groan—and his hands are cupping your face and he's kissing you back like you're oxygen and he's been drowning.

It's not your first kiss ever, but it feels like it. It feels like every kiss before this was practice, preparation for this moment. His lips are soft and firm and perfect, and he tastes like mint and something sweet, and when his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open for him without hesitation.

The kiss deepens and turns hungry. His hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel every hard line of his body against your soft curves. One of your hands fists in his shirt, the other slides up to tangle in his hair, and when you tug slightly, he groans into your mouth.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips. "Fuck, baby, I—"

"I love you too," you gasp out between kisses. "I love you too, I love you, I've been so scared to admit it but I love you—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wild, pupils blown wide. "Say that again."

"I love you." The words come easier now, tumbling out like they've been waiting for permission. "I'm in love with you. I think I have been for a while, but I was terrified because you're my best friend and I couldn't lose you, but H/N, I love you—"

He kisses you again, harder this time, more desperate. His hands slide down to your thighs, and then he's lifting you like you weigh nothing, and your legs wrap around his waist automatically. You've never felt small in your life—you're plus-size and proud of it and have never let anyone make you feel like you're too much—but in H/N's arms, you feel delicate. Cherished.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips, and he's walking, carrying you through the apartment. "I've got you, baby. I've always got you."

Your back hits a wall—his bedroom wall, you realize dimly—and then he's pressing against you, and you can feel him hard against your core, and pleasure sparks through you so intensely you gasp.

"Is this okay?" he asks, pulling back to search your face. His lips are swollen, his hair messed up from your fingers, and he's never looked more beautiful. "Tell me this is okay. Tell me you want this."

"I want this," you breathe. "I want you. I've never—I haven't done this before, but I want to. With you. Only you."

He goes very still. "You're a virgin?"

You nod, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "Is that—is that okay?"

"Okay?" He laughs, but it sounds almost pained. "Baby, you're trusting me with something so important, and I—fuck, I want to make this perfect for you. I want to make you feel so good. But you have to promise me you'll tell me if anything doesn't feel right, okay? Promise me."

"I promise."

"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise sends heat flooding through you.

He carries you to the bed, laying you down gently on the dark sheets. Then he's hovering over you, and the city lights are streaming through the windows, painting him in shades of gold and shadow.

"You're so beautiful," he says, and his hand comes up to cup your face. "So fucking beautiful. Do you know how many times I've imagined this? How many times I've thought about what it would be like to touch you, taste you, and make you mine?"

"Show me," you whisper. "Show me everything."

His eyes darken, and then he's kissing you again, slower this time but no less intense. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the column of your throat, and when he finds that sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, you moan.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let me hear you, baby. Let me know what feels good."

His hands slide under your shirt—your Delta shirt that you'd been so proud to wear today—and his palms are warm against your stomach. You tense for just a moment, old insecurities rising, but then he's pulling back to look at you.

"You're perfect," he says firmly, like he can read your mind. "Every inch of you. I'm going to spend all night proving it to you."

He pulls your shirt off slowly, giving you time to stop him, but you don't want to stop. You want more. You want everything.

Your bra is next—simple, black, nothing fancy—but the way he looks at you, you'd think you were wearing the finest lingerie.

"Fuck," he breathes, and then his mouth is on your breast, tongue circling your nipple, and the sensation shoots straight to your core.

Your hands tangle in his hair, holding him to you as he lavishes attention on your breasts, sucking and licking and gently biting until you're writhing beneath him. His hand slides down your stomach to the button of your jeans, and he pauses.

"Still okay?"

"Yes," you gasp. "God, yes, please—"

He makes quick work of your jeans and panties, sliding them down your legs and tossing them aside. And then you're naked beneath him, and he's still fully clothed, and somehow that makes it hotter.

"Spread your legs for me, baby," he says, his voice rough. "Let me see you."

You do, feeling exposed and vulnerable and so turned on you might die from it. He settles between your thighs, and his hands stroke up and down your legs, gentle and reverent.

"So pretty," he murmurs. "So wet already. Is this all for me?"

"Yes," you whimper. "H/N, please—"

"Please, what? Tell me what you need."

"Touch me. Please touch me."

His finger slides through your folds, and you both groan. "So wet," he says again, almost in awe. "So perfect. Have you ever touched yourself, baby? Ever made yourself come?"

You nod, too far gone to be embarrassed.

"Good girl. So you know what you like. You're going to tell me, okay? You're going to tell me exactly what feels good."

Then his finger is circling your clit, and white-hot pleasure sparks through you. Your hips buck up involuntarily, and he uses his other hand to hold you down.

"Stay still," he commands gently. "Let me take care of you."

He works you slowly, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, and what makes your thighs tremble. When he slides one finger inside you, you cry out at the intrusion—it's different from your own fingers, longer and thicker and so much better.

"That's it," he encourages. "Taking my finger so well. Think you can take another?"

"Yes, yes, please—"

He adds a second finger, and the stretch is intense but not painful. He pumps them slowly, curling them inside you, and when he finds that spot that makes you see stars, you nearly come off the bed.

"There it is," he says, satisfaction in his voice. "That's your g-spot, baby. Feels good, doesn't it?"

"So good," you pant. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"

He doesn't. He works that spot relentlessly while his thumb circles your clit, and the pleasure builds and builds until you feel like you might explode.

"I'm—H/N, I'm going to—"

"Come for me," he says. "Come on, my fingers, baby. Let me feel you."

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, and you cry out his name as pleasure floods through every nerve ending. Your walls clench around his fingers, and he works you through it, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you're boneless and gasping.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his fingers. "You're so beautiful when you come."

You watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, and the sight is so erotic you feel arousal stirring again already.

"Taste so good," he says. "Next time, I'm going to eat you out properly. Going to make you come on my tongue. But right now, I need to be inside you. Need to feel you around my cock. Is that okay?"

"Yes," you breathe. "I want that. I want you."

He stands and strips quickly, and you get your first look at him fully naked. He's all lean muscle and golden skin and ink, his cock hard and flushed and bigger than you'd expected. For a moment, anxiety flickers through you—will it fit? Will it hurt?

"Hey," he says softly, crawling back onto the bed. "We'll go slow. I'll make it good for you, I promise."

"I trust you," you say, and you mean it.

He settles between your legs again, and you feel the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. "I'm not using a condom," he says. "I'm clean—got tested last month. But if you want me to use one—"

"I'm on birth control," you interrupt. "And I trust you. I want to feel you. All of you."

He groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "You're going to kill me. You're so perfect, and you're going to kill me."

Then he's pushing inside, slowly, giving you time to adjust. The stretch is intense—more than his fingers, a burning sensation that borders on pain. You must make a sound because he stops immediately.

"Breathe, baby," he says. "Just breathe. Tell me when you're ready for more."

You take a few deep breaths, willing your body to relax. "Okay. More."

He pushes in another inch and another until finally he's fully seated inside you. You feel impossibly full, stretched in a way that's almost too much but also exactly right.

"Fuck," he grits out. "You feel—fuck, baby, you're so tight. So perfect. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," you gasp. "Just—give me a second."

He holds still, pressing kisses to your face, your neck, and your shoulders, murmuring praise and encouragement. Slowly, the burning fades, replaced by a different kind of ache—a need for movement, for friction.

"Okay," you say. "You can move."

He pulls out slowly, then pushes back in, and the drag of his cock against your walls sends pleasure sparking through you. He sets a slow, steady rhythm, and with each thrust, it gets better. The discomfort fades completely, replaced by building pleasure.

"That's it," he encourages. "Taking my cock so well. Such a good girl. My good girl."

The praise makes you clench around him, and he groans. "You like that? Like being my good girl?"

"Yes," you moan. "Yes, I'm your good girl; I'm yours—"

"Damn right you are." His thrusts get harder, faster. "Mine. You're mine now. Say it."

"I'm yours," you gasp. "Yours, H/N, only yours—"

He hooks your legs over his shoulders, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you with every thrust. The pleasure is overwhelming, building faster than before.

"Touch yourself," he commands. "Play with your clit while I fuck you."

You obey, your hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out.

"That's it, baby. Make yourself feel good. Want to feel you come on my cock. Can you do that for me? Can you be a good girl and come for me?"

"Yes, yes, I'm so close—"

"Come," he growls. "Come for me now."

Your second orgasm hits you even harder than the first, and you scream his name as pleasure whites out your vision. Your walls clench around him rhythmically, and you feel something different—a gush of wetness, a release that's more intense than anything you've felt before.

"Fuck, baby, did you just squirt?" H/N's voice is awed and reverent. "That's so fucking hot. So perfect. My perfect girl."

He fucks you through it, his rhythm getting erratic, and you can tell he's close. "Where do you want me to come?" he grits out.

"Inside," you gasp. "Want to feel you come inside me."

"Fuck—" His hips stutter, and then he's coming with a groan, and you feel the warmth of his release filling you. He buries his face in your neck, and you hold him close as he shudders through his orgasm.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling. Then he's pulling out carefully, and you wince slightly at the sensitivity.

"Sorry," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Let me clean you up."

He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm washcloth. He cleans between your legs gently and carefully, and the intimacy of it makes your eyes sting with tears.

"Hey," he says softly, noticing. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"No," you say quickly. "No, it was perfect. You were perfect. I just—I love you so much."

His expression softens, and he tosses the washcloth aside to pull you into his arms. "I love you too. So fucking much. Are you sure you're okay? I wasn't too rough?"

"You were perfect," you repeat. "It was everything I wanted."

He kisses you softly and sweetly, and it's different from the heated kisses earlier. This is a promise, a beginning.

"Stay here," he says. "I'm not done with you yet."

Your eyes widen. "What?"

He grins, and there's something feral in it. "Baby, that was just round one. I've been waiting years for this. I'm going to make love to you all night."

Heat floods through you again, and you realize you're not even close to satisfied. You want more. You want everything.

"But this time," he says, rolling onto his back and pulling you on top of him, "I want you to ride me. Want to watch you take your pleasure. Can you do that for me?"

You're straddling him now, and you can feel him already hardening again beneath you. "I don't—I've never—"

"I'll guide you," he promises. "Just trust me."

You do. You trust him more than anyone.

He helps you position yourself over him, and then you're sinking down onto his cock, and the angle is completely different. He's deeper this way, hitting spots that make you gasp.

"That's it," he encourages, his hands on your hips. "Take what you need. Use me. Make yourself feel good."

You start to move, rolling your hips experimentally, and the friction against your clit makes you moan. His hands guide you, helping you find a rhythm, and soon you're riding him in earnest.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans. "So beautiful. Love watching you like this. Love seeing you take my cock."

His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and the added stimulation makes you move faster. You're chasing your pleasure now, using him exactly like he told you to, and it feels powerful. Intoxicating.

"That's my good girl," he praises. "Taking what you need. So fucking perfect."

One of his hands slides down to where you're joined, his thumb finding your clit, and you cry out at the sensation.

"Come for me again," he says. "Want to feel you come on my cock again. Give me another one, baby."

You're so sensitive from your previous orgasms that it doesn't take long. Your third orgasm builds quickly, and when it hits, you throw your head back and scream. Your walls clench around him, and you feel that gush again—squirting on his cock, making a mess of both of you.

"Fuck yes," he growls, and suddenly he's sitting up, wrapping his arms around you, and he's fucking up into you hard and fast. "One more. Give me one more."

"I can't," you sob, but your body is already responding, pleasure building impossibly again.

His hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive—and the gesture sends you over the edge again. Your fourth orgasm crashes through you, and this time he comes with you, groaning your name as he fills you again.

You collapse against his chest, completely spent, and he holds you close. His hand strokes up and down your back, soothing, while you both catch your breath.

"I love you," he murmurs into your hair. "I love you so fucking much."

"Love you too," you mumble against his chest. "So much."

He carefully lifts you off him and lays you down on the bed, then disappears to get another washcloth. He cleans you both up again, then climbs back into bed and pulls you into his arms.

"How do you feel?" he asks softly.

"Sore," you admit. "But good. Really, really good."

"I wasn't too rough?"

"You were perfect," you say again. "Everything was perfect."

He presses a kiss to your forehead. "This changes everything, you know. We can't go back to just being friends."

"I don't want to go back," you say firmly. "I want this. I want you. I want—I want everything with you."

"Good," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Because you're stuck with me now. I'm never letting you go."

"Promise?"

"Promise. You're mine now, baby. And I take care of what's mine."

You snuggle closer to him, feeling safe and loved and completely satisfied. Outside the windows, the city lights twinkle like stars, and you think about that photo in your mother's house—three-year-old you and H/N with his arm around your shoulders.

He's always been your person. You've always been his.

It just took you twenty years to figure out what that really meant.

"Hey," you say softly. "Remember that pact we made? About getting married if we weren't married by thirty?"

"Yeah," he says, and you can hear the curiosity in his voice.

"I don't want to wait until thirty."

He goes very still. Then he's pulling back to look at you, and his eyes are intense in the dim light. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I know we just did this, just crossed this line, and maybe it's too soon to talk about forever. But H/N, I've known you my whole life. I've loved you for years, even if I didn't realize it. And I don't want to waste any more time. So I'm saying—I'm saying that when you're ready, when we're ready, I want that. I want forever with you."

His eyes are suspiciously bright. "You're going to marry me someday?"

"If you'll have me."

"If I'll—" he laughs, and it sounds almost like a sob. "Baby, I've been yours since I was three years old. Of course I'll have you. I'll have you any way you'll let me."

He kisses you then, soft and sweet and full of promise. And you know, with absolute certainty, that this is just the beginning.

You've been best friends for twenty years.

You'll be lovers for the rest of your lives.

"I love you," you whisper against his lips.

"I love you too," he whispers back. "Always have. Always will."

And wrapped in his arms, with the city lights painting patterns on the ceiling and his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you fall asleep thinking about the future.

About nursing school and business school and building lives together.

About family gatherings where you won't have to pretend anymore.

About that photo in your mother's house and how right it was—how he'd decided you were his person at three years old and how he'd been right all along.

About forever.

Because that's what this is.

That's what you've always been.

Forever.

The morning after Satoru kissed me, I woke up alone in my own bed.

For a moment, I thought I'd dreamed it. The kiss. The heat. The promise in his eyes.

But my lips were swollen, and I could still taste him.

It had been real.

So why had he carried me to his room only to bring me back to mine?

I found him in the kitchen, making coffee. He looked up when I entered, and the heat in his eyes told me he remembered every second of last night.

"Morning," he said casually, like he hadn't kissed me senseless hours ago.

"Morning," I echoed, confused.

He poured me coffee, added cream and sugar the way I liked it, and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, and electricity sparked between us.

"Why did you bring me back to my room?" I asked.

"Because when I take you for the first time, I want you fully awake and aware of every single thing I do to you." His voice was low and intimate. "Last night, you were exhausted. So I let you sleep."

Heat flooded through me. "Oh."

His smile was wicked. "Patience, sweetheart. I promise it'll be worth the wait."

He made me wait three more days.

Three days of lingering touches and heated looks. Three days of him finding excuses to be close to me—his hand on my waist when he passed behind me, his fingers trailing down my arm when he handed me things, his body pressed against mine when we watched movies on the couch.

Three days of slowly losing my mind.

I knew what he was doing. He was building anticipation. Making me want it. Making me beg for it.

It was working.

By the third night, I was wound so tight I thought I'd shatter.

We were on the couch, watching some movie I couldn't focus on. Satoru's arm was around my shoulders, his fingers playing with my hair.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I turned to face him. "Satoru."

"Hmm?" He looked down at me, all innocence, like he didn't know exactly what he was doing to me.

"I can't—" I swallowed hard. I need—"

"What do you need, sweetheart?" His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. "Use your words."

"You," I whispered. "I need you."

His eyes darkened. "Yeah?"

I nodded.

"Say it properly," he commanded. "Tell me what you want."

My face burned, but I forced the words out. "I want you to touch me. To—to take me. Please."

"Please," he repeated, his smile sharp. "Such a good girl, asking so nicely."

The praise sent heat straight to my core.

He stood, pulling me up with him. "Come on."

He led me to his bedroom, and this time, I knew I wasn't leaving until morning.

The room was dark and masculine, dominated by a massive bed. He closed the door behind us and turned to face me.

"Strip," he said.

I froze. "What?"

"You heard me. Take off your clothes. Slowly."

My hands shook as I reached for the hem of my sweater. I pulled it over my head, letting it fall to the floor. Then my jeans, shimmying out of them awkwardly.

I stood before him in just my bra and panties—plain, simple, and nothing sexy.

"All of it," he said, his voice rough.

I unhooked my bra with trembling fingers and let it drop. Then my panties.

I was completely naked, and he was still fully dressed.

I'd never felt more vulnerable in my life.

His eyes traveled over me, slow and thorough, and I fought the urge to cover myself.

"Fucking beautiful," he murmured. "Every inch of you."

"I'm not—" I started to protest. I was too soft, too round, too much of everything.

"Don't," he interrupted sharply. "Don't you dare talk shit about this body. This perfect fucking body that's mine now."

He crossed to me in two strides and pulled me against him. I could feel every hard plane of his body through his clothes and could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against my stomach.

"Get on the bed," he ordered. "On your back."

I obeyed, my heart racing.

He stood at the foot of the bed, watching me. Then, slowly, he started to undress.

His shirt came off first, revealing a body that looked carved from marble. Broad shoulders, defined chest and abs, a trail of white hair leading down from his navel.

Then his pants. His boxer briefs.

And oh God.

He was huge. Thick and long and already hard, the tip glistening.

Fear spiked through me. That was supposed to fit inside me?

"Don't look so scared," he said, climbing onto the bed. "I'll make it good for you. I promise."

He settled between my legs, and I instinctively tried to close them.

He pushed them apart, his hands firm on my thighs. "No hiding from me. I want to see all of you."

He looked down at me, at my most intimate place, and groaned. "So fucking pretty. And all mine."

His fingers traced through my folds, and I gasped at the sensation.

"Already wet for me," he observed. "Good girl."

There it was again. Good girl. The praise made me clench around nothing.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"You like that?" he asked. "Like being my good girl?"

I nodded, unable to speak.

"Say it."

"I—I like being your good girl," I whispered.

His smile was devastating. "Then be good for me and spread your legs wider."

I did, and he rewarded me by sliding one finger inside me.

I cried out at the intrusion. It didn't hurt, but it felt strange. Foreign.

"Relax," he murmured, working his finger in and out slowly. "Let me in."

He added a second finger, and the stretch was more intense. I whimpered.

"That's it," he praised. "Taking my fingers so well. Such a good fucking girl."

He curled his fingers inside me, hitting a spot that made me see stars.

"Oh God," I gasped.

"Not God," he said. "Satoru. Say my name."

"Satoru," I moaned as he worked that spot relentlessly.

"Again."

"Satoru, please—"

"Please, what?"

"I don't—I don't know—"

"You're going to come," he said. "All over my fingers. And then I'm going to make you come again on my tongue. And then, when you're so desperate you can't think straight, I'm going to fuck you until you forget everything but my name."

His words alone nearly sent me over the edge.

He added a third finger, and the stretch burned slightly. But he kept hitting that spot inside me, kept murmuring praise, and the burn faded into pleasure.

"Come for me," he commanded. "Now."

And I did. I shattered, crying out his name, my body clenching around his fingers.

He worked me through it, drawing out every last wave of pleasure.

When I finally came down, I was trembling and oversensitive.

He withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean.

"Delicious," he said. "But I need more."

He moved down my body and settled between my thighs, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh.

"Wait—" I started to protest, but then his tongue was on me, and I forgot how to speak.

He licked and sucked and devoured me like a man starving. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me open for him, and when I tried to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation, he held me down.

"Stay still," he ordered against my skin. "Let me taste you."

I was already sensitive from my first orgasm, and it didn't take long before I was climbing again.

"Satoru," I gasped. "I can't—it's too much—"

"You can," he said. "And you will. Come on my tongue, sweetheart. Give me another one."

He sealed his lips around my clit and sucked, and I came apart again, even harder than before.

This time, I felt something different. A pressure building, intense and almost frightening.

"Let go," he commanded. "Don't hold back."

And then I was gushing, liquid spilling from me as I came harder than I'd ever thought possible.

I heard him groan and felt him lapping it up, and the realization of what had just happened made me want to die of embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," I gasped. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize," he said roughly, moving back up my body. His face was wet with me, and he looked absolutely feral. "That was the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen. You're going to do that again. On my cock this time."

He reached for the nightstand and pulled out a small box.

A cock ring.

My eyes widened.

"I'm going to fuck you for hours," he said, sliding it on. "And I'm not going to stop until you're so full of my cum you can't hold anymore."

The crude words should have shocked me. Instead, they made me clench with need.

He positioned himself at my entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against me.

"This is going to hurt," he warned. "But I'll make it good. I promise."

"Okay," I whispered.

He pushed in slowly, and the stretch was immediate and intense. I gasped, my hands flying to his shoulders.

"Breathe," he murmured. "Relax for me."

He pushed in another inch, and I whimpered. It burned. It was too much.

"I know, baby. I know." He kissed me softly, his hand coming up to cup my face. "You're doing so good. Taking me so well."

He pushed in further, and I felt something tear. I cried out, tears springing to my eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, stilling. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. The worst is over."

He stayed still, letting me adjust, kissing away my tears.

Slowly, the pain faded. And in its place came a fullness, a sense of completion I'd never felt before.

"Okay," I whispered. "You can move."

He pulled out slightly and pushed back in, and this time, there was more pleasure than pain.

"Good girl," he praised. "Such a good fucking girl, taking all of me."

He set a slow, steady rhythm, and I felt myself relaxing into it. The pain faded completely, replaced by a building pressure.

"More," I heard myself say. "Please, more."

His smile was wicked. "Yeah? You want more?"

I nodded frantically.

He pulled out almost completely and slammed back in, and I screamed.

"Like that?" he asked.

"Yes! God, yes!"

He set a brutal pace, fucking into me hard and deep. The bed shook with the force of it. I could hear the wet sounds of our bodies joining, could feel him hitting something deep inside me that made me see stars.

"Touch yourself," he commanded. "Play with your clit while I fuck you."

I'd never touched myself before, but I obeyed, my hand sliding between us.

The added stimulation was overwhelming. I was climbing again, fast and hard.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Make yourself come on my cock. Show me how good I make you feel."

I rubbed frantically, and within seconds, I was coming again, clenching around him.

He groaned. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight. Again. Come again."

"I can't," I sobbed. "It's too much."

"You can." He changed his angle, hitting that spot inside me with every thrust. "And you will."

He was right. I came again and again until I lost count. Until I was a sobbing, shaking mess beneath him.

"Please," I begged, though I didn't know what I was begging for. "Please, Satoru, please—"

"Please what, sweetheart? What do you need?"

"I don't know," I cried. "I just—I need—"

"You need me to fill you up?" he asked roughly. "Need me to breed this pretty pussy? Make you mine in every way?"

"Yes," I sobbed. "Yes, please, please—"

He reached down and removed the cock ring, and I felt him swell even larger inside me.

"Fuck," he groaned. "I'm going to come. Going to fill you up so full—"

He slammed into me one last time and stilled, and I felt him pulsing inside me, felt the warmth of his release flooding me.

It triggered another orgasm, and I came with him, our bodies locked together.

He collapsed on top of me, both of us breathing hard.

After a moment, he rolled us so I was on top, him still inside me.

"We're not done," he said.

My eyes widened. "What?"

"I told you. Hours," his hands gripped my hips. "Ride me."

"I don't—I don't know how—"

"I'll teach you." He guided my hips, showing me the motion. "Just like that. Up and down. Take what you need."

I started moving, awkward at first, but he was patient. Encouraging.

"Good girl," he praised. "Look at you, riding my cock like you were made for it."

The new angle hit different spots inside me, and I moaned.

"Faster," he commanded.

I moved faster, chasing the pleasure building inside me.

He sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around me, and the shift made him go even deeper.

"Satoru! " I cried out.

"I know, baby. I know." He kissed me, deep and filthy. "You feel so fucking good. So tight and wet and perfect."

He thrust up into me, meeting my movements, and I felt another orgasm building.

"I can't," I whimpered. "I can't come again—"

"Yes, you can." His hand slid between us, finding my clit. "One more. Give me one more."

He rubbed tight circles, and I shattered, screaming his name.

He followed me over, groaning as he filled me again.

We stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, both trembling.

"Bathroom," he finally said. "You need to clean up."

He carried me to the bathroom and set me on the counter. I caught sight of myself in the mirror—hair wild, lips swollen, marks blooming on my neck and chest.

I looked thoroughly fucked.

"Beautiful," Satoru murmured, following my gaze. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

He cleaned me gently, and I hissed when he touched between my legs.

"Sore?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Good." His smile was satisfied. "You'll feel me for days."

He carried me back to bed and pulled me against his chest.

"Sleep," he ordered.

"Satoru?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

He pulled back to look at me. "For what?"

"For making it good. For being gentle. For—for everything."

His expression softened. "You don't have to thank me for taking care of you. That's my job now."

"Is that all I am?" I asked quietly. "A job?"

"No." He cupped my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "You're so much more than that."

"What am I, then?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Mine. You're mine."

It should have bothered me. Should have felt like ownership.

Instead, it felt like belonging.

"Yours," I agreed softly.

He kissed me, slow and sweet, and I felt something shift between us. Something deeper than desire.

Something that felt dangerously close to love.

I woke to sunlight and the feeling of being watched.

Satoru was propped up on one elbow, looking down at me with an expression I couldn't read.

"Morning," I said, my voice rough.

"Morning." He brushed hair out of my face. "How do you feel?"

"Sore," I admitted. "But good."

"Good." He kissed my forehead. "Stay here. I'll make breakfast."

He climbed out of bed, completely unselfconscious in his nudity, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants.

I watched him go, then looked around his room properly for the first time.

It was surprisingly personal. Books on the shelves. Photos on the dresser—him with people I assumed were his men. A jacket thrown over a chair.

This was his space. His sanctuary.

And he'd let me in.

I got up carefully, my body protesting, and found one of his shirts. I pulled it on—it fell to mid-thigh on me—and made my way to the kitchen.

He looked up when I entered, and something heated flashed in his eyes.

"You're wearing my shirt."

"Is that okay?"

"More than okay." He pulled me against him and kissed me thoroughly. "You look good in my clothes."

I blushed.

We ate breakfast together, and it felt normal. Domestic. Like we were a real couple and not a man and the woman he'd bought.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"With us. With this." I gestured between us. "What are we?"

He set down his fork and looked at me seriously. "What do you want us to be?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I just know I don't want to go back to how things were before. The distance. The waiting."

"Neither do I." He reached across the table and took my hand. "You're mine. I'm yours. That's all that matters."

"Is it really that simple?"

"It can be." He squeezed my hand. "If you let it be."

I wanted to let it be simple. Wanted to believe that this could work, that I could be happy here with him.

But a small voice in the back of my mind whispered that this was wrong. That I was falling for my captor. That this was Stockholm syndrome, not love.

Satoru seemed to read my thoughts. "You're overthinking."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can see it on your face." He stood and came around the table, pulling me to my feet. "Stop thinking. Just feel."

He kissed me, and I let myself sink into it. Let myself feel without analyzing.

And what I felt was safe. Wanted. Cherished.

Maybe that was enough.

The days that followed were a blur of domesticity and passion.

Satoru worked from home more often, keeping me close. We'd have breakfast together, and then he'd disappear into his office while I wrote. We'd have lunch together. Dinner. And then he'd take me to bed and worship my body until I couldn't remember my own name.

He was insatiable. And I was learning that I was too.

One afternoon, I was in the kitchen making tea when he came up behind me.

"I need you," he said without preamble.

"Now?" I asked, breathless.

"Now."

He spun me around and lifted me onto the counter, his hands already pushing up my skirt.

"Satoru, we're in the kitchen—"

"I don't care." He pulled my panties aside and thrust two fingers into me. "I've been thinking about you all day. About how you taste. How you feel. How you sound when you come."

I was already wet for him. Always wet for him.

He worked me quickly and efficiently until I was panting and clutching at his shoulders.

"Come for me," he ordered. "Right here in the kitchen, where anyone could walk in and see you falling apart for me."

The thought should have horrified me. Instead, it sent me over the edge.

I came with a cry, and he swallowed it with a kiss.

"Good girl," he murmured against my lips. "Such a good fucking girl."

He pulled out his cock—already hard and ready—and thrust into me in one smooth motion.

I gasped at the sudden fullness.

"Hold on," he warned.

Then he was fucking me hard and fast, the counter digging into my back, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.

It was rough and desperate and perfect.

"Touch yourself," he commanded. "Make yourself come on my cock."

I obeyed, my hand sliding between us, and within seconds I was coming again.

He followed me over with a groan, filling me with his release.

We stayed like that for a moment, both breathing hard.

"I love fucking you," he said. "Love how responsive you are. How you take everything I give you and beg for more."

"I can't help it," I admitted. "You make me feel things I've never felt before."

"Good." He kissed me softly. "Because I'm never letting you go."

That night, he introduced me to something new.

"I want to try something," he said as we lay in bed.

"What?"

"Sixty-nine."

I blinked. "What's that?"

He smiled. "I'll show you."

He positioned us so we were lying on our sides, facing each other's bodies.

"I'm going to eat your pussy," he explained. "And you're going to suck my cock. At the same time."

My face burned. "I've never—I don't know how—"

"I'll teach you." He guided my head down. "Just take me in your mouth. Use your tongue. I'll tell you what feels good."

I wrapped my hand around his length—still amazed that something so big fit inside me—and tentatively licked the tip.

He groaned. "Fuck, yes. Just like that."

Encouraged, I took him deeper, hollowing my cheeks.

"Good girl," he praised. "Such a good girl, sucking my cock so well."

Then his mouth was on me, and I moaned around him.

The sensation of pleasuring him while he pleasured me was overwhelming. I could barely focus, could barely think.

"Don't stop," he ordered against my flesh. "Keep sucking. I want to come in your mouth while you come on my tongue."

I worked him faster, taking him as deep as I could, and he rewarded me by sucking hard on my clit.

I came first, crying out around his cock, and the vibration must have sent him over because suddenly he was pulsing in my mouth, hot and salty.

"Swallow," he commanded.

I did, and he groaned.

When we finally pulled apart, we were both trembling.

"You're perfect," he said. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

A week later, he took me against the wall.

We'd been watching a movie, and I'd made some innocent comment that had set him off.

Before I knew it, he had me pinned against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist, his cock buried deep inside me.

"You drive me crazy," he growled, thrusting up into me. "Everything you do. Everything you say. I can't get enough of you."

"Satoru," I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders.

"Say it again. Say my name."

"Satoru!"

"Louder. I want the whole building to hear who's fucking you."

"Satoru! "I screamed as he hit that spot deep inside me.

"That's my good girl." He adjusted his grip, changing the angle, and I saw stars. "Come for me. Soak my cock."

I came with a scream, and I felt that pressure building again.

"Yes," he hissed. "Squirt for me. Make a mess."

And I did, liquid gushing from me as I came harder than ever before.

He followed me over with a roar, filling me with fear once again.

My legs were shaking so badly he had to carry me to the couch.

"I can't walk," I said, half-laughing, half-crying.

"Good." He looked supremely satisfied. "That's exactly how I want you."

One night, as we lay tangled together, he said something that changed everything.

"I love you."

I froze. "What?"

"I love you," he repeated, looking down at me with those impossibly blue eyes. "I've loved you since the moment I saw you. Since before I bought you."

"That's not possible," I whispered.

"It is." He cupped my face. "I saw your picture. Your parents sent it when they were negotiating. And I saw this beautiful, sad girl who looked so lost. And I knew I had to have you. Had to protect you. Had to make you mine."

Tears spilled down my cheeks. "You bought me because you loved me?"

"I bought you because I couldn't stand the thought of anyone else having you. Because I knew they'd hurt you, and I couldn't let that happen." He kissed away my tears. "I know it's fucked up. I know I should have found another way. But I don't regret it. Because now you're here, and you're safe, and you're mine."

"I love you too," I whispered. "I think I've loved you for a while now. I was just too scared to admit it."

"Don't be scared." He pulled me closer. "Not of this. Not of us."

"What if this is wrong?" I asked. "What if I'm just confused? What if—"

"It's not wrong," he interrupted. "What your parents did to you was wrong. What your father did was wrong. But this? Us? This is the first right thing in your life."

I wanted to believe him. And looking into his eyes, seeing the truth there, I realized I did.

"I'm yours," I said. "Completely."

"And I'm yours," he replied. "Always."

We made love that night—slow and sweet and tender. And when I came apart in his arms, I wasn't thinking about cages or captivity or Stockholm syndrome.

I was just thinking about him. About us. About the future we were building together.

The next morning, I woke to find him watching me again.

"What?" I asked, smiling.

"I'm just thinking about how lucky I am," he said.

"Lucky? You bought me."

"Best purchase I ever made." He grinned, and I laughed.

"You're terrible."

"You love it."

"I do," I admitted. "I really do."

He pulled me on top of him, and I felt him already hard beneath me.

"Again?" I asked.

"Always." He guided me onto his cock, and we both groaned. "I'll never get enough of you."

I rode him slowly, savoring the feeling of him inside me, the way he looked at me like I was the most precious thing in the world.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too." He thrust up into me. "My perfect girl. My good girl."

"And you're my good boy," I said, testing the words.

His eyes darkened. "Say that again."

"My good boy," I repeated, moving faster. "My perfect, good boy."

He groaned, his hands tightening on my hips. "Fuck, I love when you talk to me like that."

"Yeah?" I leaned down to whisper in his ear. "You like being my good boy?"

"Yes," he hissed. "Fuck, yes."

I rode him harder, chasing my pleasure, and he met me thrust for thrust.

"Come for me," I commanded, using his own words against him. "Fill me up. Breed me. Make me yours."

He came with a shout, and the feeling of him pulsing inside me sent me over the edge too.

We collapsed together, both breathing hard.

"You're going to be the death of me," he said.

"But what a way to go," I replied, and he laughed.

Later that day, as we sat together on the couch, I asked the question that had been nagging at me.

"What about my parents?"

His expression hardened. "What about them?"

"Have they tried to contact me?"

"No. And they won't." His voice was cold. "I made it very clear what would happen if they did."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing they didn't deserve." He pulled me closer. "They sold you. They don't get to have you back."

"I don't want to go back," I said quickly. "I just... I needed to know."

"They can't hurt you anymore," he promised. "I won't let them."

I believed him. Because Satoru had proven, again and again, that he would protect me. That he would care for me. That he would love me.

"Thank you," I said.

"For what?"

"For saving me."

He kissed my forehead. "You saved yourself, sweetheart. I just gave you a safe place to land."

That night, he made love to me with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes.

"You're everything," he whispered against my skin. "Everything I never knew I needed."

"So are you," I replied.

And as we moved together, as he filled me and completed me, I realized something.

I'd been sold. Bought. Owned.

But somewhere along the way, I'd chosen this. Chosen him. Chosen us.

This penthouse wasn't a cage anymore. It was home.

And Satoru wasn't my captor. He was my lover. My protector. My everything.

"I'm never letting you go," he said as we came together.

"Good," I replied. "Because I'm never leaving."

And I meant it.

I was his. He was mine.

And that was exactly how it was supposed to be.

Epilogue

Three months later, I stood at the window of the penthouse, looking out at the city below.

So much had changed. I'd changed.

I was writing again—really writing. Satoru had encouraged me, supported me, and believed in me when no one else ever had.

I was happy. Genuinely, truly happy.

I heard him come up behind me and felt his arms wrap around my waist.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"How different my life is now," I said. "How different I am."

"Better?"

"So much better." I turned in his arms to face him. "I never thought I could be this happy."

"You deserve it," he said. "You deserve everything."

"I have everything," I replied. "I have you."

He kissed me, soft and sweet, and I melted into him.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

And I did. With everything I had. With everything I was.

He'd bought me. But I'd chosen him.

And that made all the difference.

Chapter 1: Sold

The text message was simple: Come home this weekend. Family dinner. Important.

I stared at my phone screen in the dim light of my dorm room, dread pooling in my stomach like ice water. My parents never asked me home. Not for holidays, not for birthdays, not for anything that mattered. My adopted sister, Maya—she was the one they called. The one they celebrated. The one they loved.

I was just... there. An obligation. A mistake they'd made before they found the daughter they actually wanted.

But something in that message felt different. Urgent. Wrong.

I should have trusted my instincts.

The house looked the same as it always had—cold, pristine, unwelcoming. My mother's obsession with appearances extended to every corner of our home. Perfect landscaping. Perfect paint. Perfect family, if you didn't count me.

I let myself in with the key I'd never bothered to return when I left for college. The silence hit me first, thick and suffocating. Then I heard voices from the dining room. My father's low rumble. My mother's clipped, precise tone. And someone else. A man I didn't recognize.

My heart started hammering.

"She's here," my mother said, not warmly. Never warmly. "Come in."

I walked into the dining room on shaking legs, my oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder, my worn jeans suddenly feeling too casual, too wrong. My mother's eyes swept over me with that familiar look of disappointment. I was too soft, too round, too quiet. Too much of everything she didn't want and not enough of anything she did.

My father sat at the head of the table, his face hard and unreadable. And across from him—

My breath caught.

The man was tall. Impossibly tall. Even sitting, I could tell he'd tower over me. White hair that seemed to catch the light, sharp features that looked carved from marble, and eyes—God, his eyes. Bright blue, almost crystalline, and so intense I felt pinned in place just from his gaze.

He looked at me like he was assessing merchandise.

"Sit," my father said.

I sat.

My mother folded her hands on the table, her wedding ring catching the light. "We need to discuss something important."

The stranger hadn't stopped looking at me. I felt exposed, vulnerable, like he could see through my clothes, through my skin, straight to the scared little girl I'd always been.

"Your father and I have made a decision," my mother continued, her voice as cold as ever. "We've been dealing with some... financial difficulties. Significant ones."

My stomach dropped.

"We've found a solution," she said. "Mr. Gojo has agreed to help us. In exchange—" She paused, and for the first time in my life, I saw something like guilt flicker across her face. It was gone in an instant. "In exchange, you'll be going with him."

The words didn't make sense. Going with him. Like I was a package. A transaction.

"What?" My voice came out small, broken.

"You'll be living with Mr. Gojo," my father said, his tone flat. "He's paid off our debts. All of them. This is the arrangement."

The room tilted. "You're... you're selling me?"

"Don't be dramatic," my mother snapped. "We're ensuring your future. Mr. Gojo is a very powerful man. You should be grateful."

Grateful.

I looked at the stranger—Gojo—and he was still watching me with that unreadable expression. Not cruel. Not kind. Just... assessing.

"I have school," I whispered. "I have—"

"You'll withdraw," my father interrupted. "This is already decided."

Already decided. Without me. About me, but without me.

Just like everything else in my life.

"What about Maya?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

My mother's expression hardened. "Maya has nothing to do with this. She's—"

"The daughter you actually want," I finished, my voice hollow.

The silence that followed was damning.

Gojo finally spoke, his voice deep and smooth, with an edge of something I couldn't identify. "If we're done with the family drama, I'd like to finalize this."

He stood, and I'd been right—he was massive. Easily over six feet, broad-shouldered, moving with a predatory grace that made my pulse spike with fear.

My father stood too, extending his hand. They shook. A business deal. That's all I was.

"She's all yours," my father said.

I wanted to scream. To run. To fight. But I'd learned young that fighting only made things worse. My father's temper was legendary. My mother's cruelty was surgical. I'd spent my whole life trying to be small enough, quiet enough, good enough to avoid their wrath.

I'd failed every time.

Gojo's eyes found mine again. "Get your things."

"I don't—I don't have anything here," I said. Everything I owned was at school. This house had never been home.

"Then we're done here." He looked at my parents with something like contempt. "Don't contact her. Don't contact me. We're finished."

My mother opened her mouth to protest, but something in Gojo's expression made her close it again.

He walked toward the door, then paused, looking back at me. "Coming?"

It wasn't really a question.

I stood on trembling legs and followed him out of the house where I'd grown up, where I'd never been wanted, where I'd just been sold like property.

I didn't look back.

His car was exactly what I expected—sleek, black, expensive. The kind of car that screamed money and power. Two men in dark suits stood beside it, their expressions blank but their eyes sharp. Dangerous.

Gojo opened the back door himself. "Get in."

I climbed in, my body moving on autopilot. He slid in beside me, and suddenly the spacious car felt tiny. He took up so much room, his presence overwhelming.

The door closed. The locks clicked.

I was trapped.

One of the men got in the driver's seat. The other took the passenger side. Neither spoke. The car pulled away from the curb, and I watched my parents' house disappear in the side mirror.

Good riddance.

But what came next?

I risked a glance at Gojo. He was looking out the window, his profile sharp and perfect. He'd loosened his tie slightly, the first sign that he was human and not some marble statue.

"What—" My voice cracked. I tried again. "What happens now?"

He turned to look at me, and I immediately regretted asking. Those eyes were too intense, too knowing.

"Now you come home with me," he said simply.

"And then?"

"And then you live there."

"As what?" I needed to know. Needed to understand what I'd been sold into. "As your... your..."

I couldn't say it. Couldn't voice the fear that had been clawing at my throat since my mother said you'll be going with him.

Something flickered in his expression. "As mine," he said. "That's all you need to know right now."

His.

The word should have terrified me. It did terrify me. But there was something in the way he said it—not cruel, not leering. Just... matter-of-fact. Like it was the simplest truth in the world.

"I won't hurt you," he added, and I didn't know if I believed him.

I'd heard those words before. From my father, right before his hand connected with my face. From my mother, right before she tore me apart with words sharper than any blade.

I won't hurt you.

Liars, all of them.

But I didn't have a choice. I was in his car, driving to his home, bought and paid for.

I turned to look out the window, watching the city lights blur past, and tried not to cry.

The penthouse was obscene.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Marble floors. Modern furniture that probably cost more than my entire college tuition. Everything was clean, minimalist, expensive.

Beautiful and cold.

Just like him.

Gojo led me through the space, his hands in his pockets, completely relaxed. Like he brought home purchased women every day.

"Your room," he said, opening a door.

I stepped inside and froze.

It was... beautiful. A massive bed with soft white linens. A window with a view of the city skyline. A closet that was already filled with clothes—expensive clothes in my size. How did he know my size?

"Bathroom's through there," he continued, pointing. "You have access to the whole penthouse except my office and my bedroom. Don't go in either without permission."

I nodded, mute.

"There's food in the kitchen. Help yourself. If you need anything, tell me or one of my men."

His men. Right. Because he was—what? Mafia? Crime lord? I didn't even know.

"What are you?" I asked, the question slipping out.

He smiled, and it was the first real expression I'd seen on his face. It should have been reassuring. It wasn't.

"Dangerous," he said. "But not to you."

"You bought me."

"I did."

"That makes you dangerous to me."

He stepped closer, and I instinctively stepped back. My shoulders hit the wall. He kept coming until he was right in front of me, one hand braced on the wall beside my head, caging me in.

I should have been terrified. I was terrified.

But I was also... something else. Something I didn't have a name for.

"Your parents sold you," he said quietly, his voice low and intimate. "I bought you. But I'm not them. I won't neglect you. I won't make you feel worthless. I won't pretend you don't exist."

His eyes searched mine, and I felt like he was seeing too much. All my broken pieces. All my scars.

"I'll take care of you," he continued. "Feed you. Clothe you. Keep you safe. All I ask is that you follow my rules and don't try to leave."

"And if I do?" I whispered. "Try to leave?"

His smile widened slightly. "You won't."

It should have sounded like a threat. Somehow, it sounded like a promise.

He pushed off the wall and stepped back, giving me space to breathe again. "Get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."

He left, closing the door behind him.

I stood there for a long moment, my heart racing, my mind spinning.

Then I walked to the bed and sat down. The mattress was soft. Expensive. The kind of bed I'd never had growing up.

I looked around the room—at the beautiful furniture, the expensive clothes, the view of the city.

A gilded cage.

But maybe... maybe a cage was better than what I'd left behind.

I lay down, still fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling.

I didn't cry. I was too numb for tears.

I just lay there, wondering who the hell Gojo really was beneath that cold, controlled exterior.

And wondering what he wanted from me.

I woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the disorienting realization that I wasn't in my dorm room.

Right. The penthouse. Gojo. Being sold.

I sat up slowly, my body aching from sleeping in my clothes. The room looked the same as it had last night—beautiful, expensive, foreign.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," I said, my voice rough.

Gojo entered, and I was struck again by how tall he was, how he seemed to fill the entire doorway. He was dressed more casually today—dark jeans, a white t-shirt that clung to his chest and arms. He looked... younger. Less intimidating.

Still dangerous.

"Breakfast," he said, jerking his head toward the door. "Kitchen."

He left without waiting for a response.

I climbed out of bed and caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked exactly how I felt—exhausted, rumpled, lost. My dark hair was a mess. My eyes were shadowed. I was still wearing yesterday's clothes.

I should shower. Change. But the thought of going through that closet full of clothes he'd bought for me made my skin crawl.

I settled for washing my face in the bathroom—which was, of course, as luxurious as everything else—and trying to tame my hair.

Then I made my way to the kitchen.

Gojo was at the stove, cooking. The sight was so unexpected I stopped in the doorway.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Sit."

I sat at the island, watching as he plated eggs, bacon, toast. He set a plate in front of me, then poured coffee.

"Eat," he said.

I picked up my fork with shaking hands. The food smelled amazing. When was the last time someone had cooked for me?

Never. The answer was never.

I took a bite, and it was delicious. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until that moment.

Gojo leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, watching me eat.

"You're quiet," he observed.

I swallowed. "You told me to eat."

"I meant in general. You barely said a word yesterday."

"What was I supposed to say?" I looked up at him. "Thank you for buying me?"

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. "You could start with your name."

Oh. Right. He didn't even know my name.

"It's—" I hesitated. My parents had never used my name with any affection. It always sounded like a curse in their mouths. "Everyone just calls me by my last name. Or nothing at all."

His expression darkened. "I'm not asking what everyone calls you. I'm asking your name."

I told him. Whispered it, really. It felt strange on my tongue.

He repeated it, and it sounded different in his voice. Softer. Like it meant something.

"I'm Satoru," he said. "Gojo Satoru. But you can call me Satoru when we're alone."

When we're alone. Like this was going to be a regular thing. Like I was going to be here long enough to have private moments with him.

I supposed I was.

"Okay," I said quietly.

"Finish eating," he said. "Then we need to talk about rules."

Rules. Right. Because I was his now, and he got to dictate how I lived.

I finished breakfast in silence, acutely aware of his eyes on me the entire time.

The rules were simple.

Don't leave the penthouse without permission. Don't go in his office or bedroom. Don't contact my parents or anyone from my old life. Be available when he wanted me.

That last one made my stomach twist.

"Available for what?" I asked.

We were sitting in the living room, me on the couch, him in a chair across from me. Casual. Relaxed. Like we were discussing the weather.

"Dinner. Conversation. Company." He paused. "Whatever I want."

There it was. The confirmation of what I'd feared.

"I'm not—" I swallowed hard. "I've never—"

"I know," he interrupted. "I'm not asking you to fuck me. Not yet."

Not yet.

The words hung in the air between us.

"But you will," I said. Not a question.

"Eventually." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "When you're ready. When you want to."

"And if I'm never ready? If I never want to?"

He smiled, and it was almost gentle. "You will."

The confidence in his voice should have angered me. Instead, it sent a shiver down my spine.

"Why me?" I asked. "Why did you agree to this? You could have anyone."

"I could," he agreed. "But I wanted you."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough." His eyes traveled over me, slow and deliberate. "I know your parents are pieces of shit who never deserved you. I know you've been hurt. I know you're scared. And I know that underneath all that fear, you're strong."

I laughed, bitter. "I'm not strong. I let them sell me."

"You survived them," he corrected. "That takes strength."

I didn't know what to say to that.

"I'll take care of you," he said again, like he had last night. "All you have to do is trust me."

Trust him. The man who bought me. The stranger who now owned me.

Impossible.

But what choice did I have?

The days blurred together.

Gojo—Satoru—was gone most of the time. Business, he said. I didn't ask what kind. I didn't want to know.

When he was home, he was... attentive. He made sure I ate. Asked about my day, even though my days consisted of nothing but wandering the penthouse and staring out windows. He never touched me beyond the occasional brush of his hand against mine.

But he watched me. Constantly.

I felt his eyes on me when I moved through the penthouse. When I curled up on the couch with a book. When I stood at the window, looking out at the city I couldn't access.

It should have felt invasive. Somehow, it felt... protective.

I hated that I was starting to feel safe here.

One night, I couldn't sleep. I wandered to the kitchen around two in the morning, planning to make tea.

Satoru was already there.

He looked up from his phone, unsurprised. "Can't sleep?"

I shook my head.

"Nightmares?"

How did he know?

I must have looked startled because he smiled slightly. "You talk in your sleep sometimes. I hear you."

His room was next to mine. Of course he heard me.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"Don't apologize." He stood and moved to the stove. "I was making tea. Want some?"

I nodded.

We sat in silence while the water boiled. He made two cups, added honey to mine without asking how I took it. Somehow, he knew.

We sat at the island, drinking tea in the middle of the night, and it felt surreal. Domestic. Almost... normal.

"Tell me about college," he said.

I blinked. "What?"

"Before all this. What were you studying?"

"Literature," I said quietly. "I wanted to be a writer."

"Wanted?"

"Want," I corrected. "I want to be a writer."

"Then write."

"I don't have my laptop. My notebooks. Everything's at my dorm."

"I'll have someone get them," he said. "What else do you need?"

I stared at him. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you care? Why does it matter what I want?"

He set down his cup and looked at me with those impossibly blue eyes. "Because you're mine. And I take care of what's mine."

Mine.

That word again.

"I don't understand you," I whispered.

"You will," he said. "Give it time."

Time. Like I had a choice.

But sitting there in the quiet kitchen, drinking tea with a man who'd bought me but was treating me with more care than my own parents ever had, I wondered if maybe... maybe time wasn't the worst thing.

A week passed. Then two.

My things arrived from my dorm—my laptop, my books, my notebooks. Satoru had them placed in my room without comment.

I started writing again. Just journaling at first, trying to process everything. Then stories. Escapes into fictional worlds where I had control.

Satoru asked to read them.

I said no.

He didn't push.

But he kept asking about my day, about what I was writing, about what I needed. He brought me books he thought I'd like. He was right every time.

I started to relax around him. Just slightly. Enough that I didn't flinch when he entered a room. Enough that I could meet his eyes without my heart racing.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"You're getting comfortable," he observed one evening. We were having dinner—another meal he'd cooked. He was a surprisingly good cook.

"Is that a problem?" I asked.

"No." He smiled. "It's progress."

Progress toward what, I didn't ask.

I was starting to suspect I knew.

It happened on a random Tuesday.

I was in the kitchen, reaching for a glass on a high shelf. I was too short, even on my toes. I was about to give up when I felt him behind me.

Satoru reached over my head and grabbed the glass easily, his body pressing against my back.

I froze.

He didn't move away. Instead, he set the glass on the counter beside me and stayed there, caging me in against the counter.

"You could have asked for help," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.

His hand came up to brush my hair aside, exposing my neck. I felt his fingers trail along my skin, feather-light.

"You're shaking," he observed.

"I'm scared," I admitted.

"Of me?"

"Of this. Of what you make me feel."

His hand stilled. "And what do I make you feel?"

I closed my eyes. "Safe. And that terrifies me."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he stepped back, giving me space.

I turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. Heat. Want. But also something softer.

"I told you I'd wait until you were ready," he said. "I meant it."

"What if I'm never ready?"

"You will be." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture achingly gentle. "Because you're already starting to trust me. And once you trust me, you'll want me."

The confidence in his voice should have annoyed me. Instead, it sent heat pooling low in my belly.

"How do you know?" I whispered.

He leaned in close, his lips almost brushing my ear. "Because I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. The way you lean into my touch. The way you've stopped flinching."

He pulled back, and his smile was knowing. Predatory.

"You're already mine," he said. "You just haven't admitted it yet."

He left me standing in the kitchen, trembling and confused and aching with something I didn't want to name.

That night, I had a nightmare.

Not about Satoru. About my father.

I was back in my childhood home, and he was screaming. I couldn't remember what I'd done wrong—I never could. It was always something. Existing was enough.

His hand connected with my face, and I fell. He kept hitting. Kept screaming.

I woke up gasping, tears streaming down my face.

And Satoru was there.

He was sitting on the edge of my bed, his hand on my shoulder.

"Breathe," he said quietly. "You're safe. He can't hurt you here."

"How did you—"

"I heard you crying out." His thumb brushed away my tears. "Tell me what you need."

I should have told him to leave. Should have pushed him away.

Instead, I whispered, "Stay."

He didn't hesitate. He lay down beside me, on top of the covers, and pulled me against his chest.

I buried my face in his shirt and cried. For the childhood I'd lost. For the parents who'd never loved me. For the girl I'd been who'd thought she deserved the pain.

Satoru held me through it all, one hand stroking my hair, the other wrapped around my waist.

"I've got you," he murmured. "I've got you."

And for the first time in my life, I believed it.

I fell asleep in his arms, safe and warm and protected.

When I woke in the morning, he was gone. But there was a note on my nightstand.

You're stronger than you know. —S

I held the note to my chest and let myself believe it.

Things shifted after that night.

Satoru was more openly affectionate. His hand on the small of my back when we walked through the penthouse. His fingers brushing mine when he handed me things. The way he'd pull me against his side when we watched movies.

I stopped pulling away.

I started leaning in.

And the tension between us grew unbearable.

I caught him watching me with undisguised hunger. I knew he caught me doing the same.

We were circling each other, waiting for someone to break.

It was only a matter of time.

Three weeks after I'd arrived, I found him in his office.

I knew I wasn't supposed to be there. But I'd heard him on the phone, his voice cold and deadly, and I'd been worried.

Stupid. He was a grown man. A dangerous one. He didn't need me to worry about him.

But I did anyway.

I knocked softly. "Satoru?"

The door opened, and he looked down at me with raised eyebrows. "This room is off-limits."

"I know. I just—I heard you on the phone. Are you okay?"

Something in his expression softened. "You were worried about me?"

I nodded.

He pulled me into the office and closed the door. Then he backed me against it, his hands on either side of my head.

"You're not supposed to care about me," he said.

"I know."

"You're supposed to hate me for buying you."

"I know."

"So why don't you?"

I looked up at him, at this man who'd taken me from hell and given me something that felt dangerously close to heaven.

"Because you're the first person who's ever made me feel like I matter," I whispered.

His eyes darkened. "You matter. You matter so fucking much."

Then he kissed me.

It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, claiming, consuming. His hands tangled in my hair, tilting my head back so he could deepen the kiss.

I kissed him back with everything I had, pouring weeks of confusion and fear and want into it.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

"I want you," he said roughly. "I've wanted you since the moment I saw you."

"Then take me," I whispered.

His eyes searched mine. "Are you sure?"

I nodded. "I'm sure."

"You're a virgin."

"I know."

"I'll hurt you."

"I know." I reached up and cupped his face. "But you'll make it good too. Won't you?"

His smile was pure sin. "I'll make it so good you'll forget your own name."

Then he lifted me into his arms and carried me out of his office, down the hall, to his bedroom.

The room I'd never been allowed to enter.

He laid me on his bed, and I looked up at him—this beautiful, dangerous man who owned me in every way that mattered.

"Last chance to change your mind," he said.

I reached for him. "I'm not changing my mind."

"Good," he said. "Because I'm not letting you go."

And as he came down over me, his mouth finding mine again, I realized I didn't want him to.

I was his.

As you fumbled with your keys at Choso's front door, your arms weighed down with grocery bags, the summer sun mercilessly beat down on you. You had pledged to assist him in preparing meals for the upcoming week, a ritual you consistently engaged in every Sunday. Three years of friendship had created routines like these, comfortable patterns that felt as natural as breathing.

"Need help?" His deep voice rumbled from behind you, and you nearly dropped everything.

"Jesus, Choso!" You spun around, heart hammering. "How do you always sneak up on me like that?"

He stood there in nothing but black swim trunks, water still dripping from his dark hair, trailing down the defined planes of his chest and abs. His purple-grey eyes held that familiar hint of amusement as he reached around you—so close you could smell chlorine and something distinctly him—and unlocked the door with his spare key.

"I wasn't sneaking. You were just distracted." He took the bags from your arms effortlessly, his fingers brushing yours. "Were you checking me out?"

Heat flooded your cheeks. "I—no! I was just—you startled me."

"Mhmm." That knowing smirk played at his lips as he headed inside, leaving you to follow.

The moment was new. Well, not entirely new. Over the past few months, something had shifted between you. There were lingering glances that seemed to last too long. Touches that felt charged with electricity. There were comments that straddled the boundary between friendly teasing and overt flirtation. You'd been trying to ignore it, convincing yourself it was all in your head.

But the way Choso looked at you lately... like he wanted to devour you whole... that was definitely not in your head.

You followed him into his spacious kitchen, watching as he set the bags on the marble counter. His house was beautiful—modern and minimalist, just like him. You'd always felt a little out of place here, with your soft curves and colorful personality against all his sharp edges and monochrome aesthetic.

"You were in the pool?" you asked, trying to focus on unpacking groceries instead of the way water droplets were sliding down his spine.

"Yeah. It's hot as hell today." He turned to face you, leaning back against the counter. "You should join me after we're done here. You brought a suit, right?"

You always kept a swimsuit in your car for spontaneous pool days. "Maybe. We'll see."

"You always say that, and then you always end up in the pool anyway." He moved closer, reaching past you for a bag, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder. "Why do you always play hard to get with me?"

Your breath caught. "I don't—"

"You do." His voice dropped lower, intimate. "You've been doing it for months now. Ever since that night we got drunk and you almost kissed me."

Oh god. You'd hoped he didn't remember that. You'd both had too much wine, sitting on his couch watching terrible movies, and you'd leaned in... but chickened out at the last second, making some excuse about needing the bathroom.

"I didn't—that wasn't—" You couldn't form a coherent sentence with him this close.

"Hey." His finger tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. The intensity there stole your breath. "I wanted you to kiss me. I've wanted you to kiss me for a long fucking time."

"Choso..." Your voice came out as barely a whisper.

"Tell me you don't feel this." His thumb traced your lower lip, and you shivered despite the heat. "Tell me I'm imagining the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. Tell me you don't want this, and I'll back off. But if you do want this..." He leaned down, his lips a breath away from yours. "Then stop running from me."

Every rational thought evaporated. Three years of friendship, of secret longing, of convincing yourself he could never want someone like you—it all crumbled under the weight of his gaze.

"I want you," you breathed. "I want you."

The words had barely left your lips before his mouth crashed against yours. It wasn't gentle or tentative—it was hungry, desperate, like he'd been starving for your kiss. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you gasped at the feeling of his body against yours. He took advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your knees weak.

You'd imagined kissing Choso countless times, but nothing compared to the reality. The way he commanded the kiss, tilting your head exactly how he wanted it. The little groan that rumbled in his chest when your fingers tangled in his damp hair. The way his hands roamed your body, as if he couldn't get enough, squeezing your hips, your thighs, and your ass.

"Fuck," he muttered against your lips. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this?"

"How long?" You were breathless and dizzy.

"Since the day you walked into my life wearing that ridiculous sunflower dress and smiled at me like I was worth something." He kissed down your jaw, your neck, finding that sensitive spot that made you whimper. "I've been losing my mind trying to be a good friend when all I wanted was to make you mine."

His words sent heat pooling between your thighs. "I thought... I thought you wouldn't want someone like me."

He pulled back, his eyes dark with desire and something fiercer—anger, maybe, that you could think such a thing. "Someone like you? You mean beautiful? Funny? Kind? Smart as hell?" His hands squeezed your ass possessively. "You mean soft and curvy and flawless?"

"Choso—"

"I love every inch of you." His voice was rough and sincere. "I love your curves, your thighs, your stomach, your tits—fuck, especially your tits." He cupped your breasts through your shirt, and you moaned. "I've fantasized about worshipping every part of your body. Want me to show you?"

You could only nod, lost in the heat of his gaze.

"Words, baby. I need to hear you say it."

"Yes," you gasped. "Please, Choso. Show me."

Something primal flashed in his eyes. In one smooth motion, he lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your thighs. His hands found the hem of your shirt, and he paused, giving you one last chance to back out. When you didn't, he pulled it over your head, tossing it aside.

"Fucking gorgeous," he murmured, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. He unclasped your bra with practiced ease, and then his mouth was on you, hot and wet, sucking your nipple while his hand kneaded the other breast.

You arched into him, fingers gripping his shoulders. Every touch felt electric, overwhelming. He lavished attention on your breasts, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp nips that made you gasp, until you were squirming on the counter, desperate for more.

"Please," you whimpered.

"Please, what?" He looked up at you, lips swollen, eyes wicked. "Tell me what you need."

"Touch me. Please touch me."

He unbuttoned your shorts with maddening slowness, maintaining eye contact as he slid them down your legs along with your panties. The cool marble against your bare skin made you shiver, but then his hands were on your thighs, spreading them wider, and all you could feel was heat.

"So wet already," he groaned, his fingers sliding through your folds. "All this for me?"

"Yes," you breathed. "All for you."

He circled your clit with his thumb, and your head fell back with a moan. He worked you expertly, building the pleasure slowly, watching your every reaction. When he slid two fingers inside you, you cried out, your walls clenching around him.

"That's it, baby. Let me hear you." He pumped his fingers steadily, curling them to hit that perfect spot while his thumb worked your clit. "You're so tight. Can't wait to feel you around my cock."

His words pushed you closer to the edge. The pressure built and built, your thighs trembling, until—

"Choso, I'm—I'm gonna—"

"Come for me," he commanded, and you shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you, intense and overwhelming. You cried out his name, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crashed over you. He worked you through it, his fingers never stopping until you were oversensitive and pushing at his hand.

"Beautiful," he murmured, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean. The sight made your core clench with renewed desire. "You taste even better than I imagined."

Before you could respond, he was lifting you off the counter, carrying you through the house. "Where—"

"Shower," he said simply. "I want you wet in every way possible."

The bathroom was all sleek tile and glass, the shower large enough for four people. He set you down and stripped off his swim trunks, and your mouth went dry. He was big—thick and hard and perfect. A bead of precum glistened at the tip, and you wanted to taste it.

"Like what you see?" His smirk was cocky, but you could see the vulnerability underneath. He wanted your approval as much as you'd wanted his.

"You're perfect," you said honestly, and his expression softened.

He turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature before pulling you inside. The hot water cascaded over both of you, and he pressed you against the tile wall, his body covering yours. This kiss was slower, deeper, and full of emotion that made your chest tight.

"I need to taste you properly," he murmured against your lips. "Get on your knees for me."

You sank, the water streaming over your back, and looked up at him. His hand cupped your cheek tenderly, his thumb brushing your lips.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this," he said. "But I want to taste you too. Turn around."

Confused, you obeyed, and then he was lowering himself behind you, his hands guiding your hips back. "Sit on my face, baby. Let me eat you while you suck my cock."

Oh. Oh.

With his guidance, you positioned yourself over his face, his hands gripping your thighs as he pulled you down onto his mouth. The first swipe of his tongue made you moan, and then his cock was right there in front of you, and you wrapped your hand around it, stroking slowly before taking him into your mouth.

He groaned against your pussy, the vibration making you whimper around his length. You'd never done this before, but something about it felt incredibly intimate—both of you giving and receiving pleasure simultaneously. His tongue worked magic on your clit while you bobbed your head, taking him as deep as you could.

The water streamed over both of you as you lost yourselves in each other. His hands kneaded your ass, spreading you open so his tongue could explore everywhere. When he sucked your clit hard, you moaned around his cock, and he thrust up slightly, hitting the back of your throat.

You could feel another orgasm building, different from the first—deeper, more intense. His tongue was relentless, and when he slid two fingers inside you while sucking your clit, you came with a muffled scream, your thighs shaking on either side of his head.

But he didn't stop. He kept licking, kept fingering you, and the pleasure built again impossibly fast. You pulled off his cock, gasping, "Choso, wait, I—"

"Give me another one," he demanded against your pussy. "I want to feel you come on my tongue again."

His fingers curled inside you, hitting that spot over and over, and suddenly the pressure was too much. You came with a cry, and this time was different—you felt yourself gush, liquid squirting from you as the most intense orgasm of your life tore through your body.

"Fuck yes," Choso groaned, lapping at you hungrily. "That's my good girl. So fucking perfect."

You collapsed forward, trembling, barely able to hold yourself up. He gently moved you off him and stood, pulling you up and into his arms. "You okay, baby?"

"That was..." You couldn't find words. "I've never... I didn't know I could..."

"Squirt?" He grinned, looking incredibly pleased with himself. "You can, and you will again. I'm going to make you come so many times tonight you lose count."

He kissed you deeply, and you could taste yourself on his tongue. His cock pressed against your stomach, still hard and demanding attention.

"I need to be inside you," he said roughly. "Can't wait anymore."

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

He turned you around, pressing your hands against the tile wall. His cock slid between your thighs, coating himself in your wetness, and then he was pushing inside you slowly, stretching you deliciously.

"Fuck," he groaned. "So tight. So perfect. You feel incredible."

He bottomed out, and you both moaned at the sensation. He gave you a moment to adjust before pulling back and thrusting in again, setting a steady rhythm. The angle had him hitting deep, and you pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts.

"That's it, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock." His hands gripped your hips fiercely enough to bruise, and you loved it. "You take me so well. Like you were made for me."

The water, the steam, the feeling of him inside you—it was overwhelming in the best way. He reached around to rub your clit, and you cried out, your walls clenching around him.

"Going to come again already?" His voice was strained. "Come on my cock, baby; let me feel it."

A few more thrusts and you were coming again, your body shaking as pleasure washed over you. He fucked you through it, his pace becoming erratic, and then he was pulling out, coming with a groan, his release painting your back and ass.

You both stood there panting, the water washing away the evidence of your passion. Choso turned you around gently, his expression soft as he cupped your face.

"That was..." He kissed you tenderly. "You're wonderful."

"So are you," you said, smiling.

He washed you carefully, his touches reverent, and you did the same for him. It felt intimate in a different way, caring for each other in the aftermath.

After drying off, he carried you to his bedroom—you protested that you could walk, but he insisted—and laid you on his bed. You expected him to collapse beside you, but instead he was kissing down your body again.

"Choso, I can't—I'm too sensitive—"

"Shhh." He settled between your thighs, his breath hot against your core. "Just one more. I want to taste you coming on my tongue again."

He licked you slowly and gently, building the pleasure gradually. It was different from before—less urgent, more worshipful. He took his time, exploring every fold, every sensitive spot, until you were writhing on the bed, your hands fisted in his hair.

When you came this time, it was slow and rolling, pleasure spreading through your body like warm honey. He licked you through it, gentle and sweet, before crawling up your body and kissing you deeply.

"Perfect," he murmured. "You're so fucking perfect."

You fell asleep in his arms, sated and content, thinking that was it for the night.

You were mistaken.

You woke to the feeling of Choso's mouth on your neck, his hand sliding between your thighs. The room was dark—you'd slept for a few hours—and your body was already responding to his touch.

"Again?" you murmured sleepily.

"Can't help it." His voice was rough with desire. "Woke up hard, and you were right here, soft and warm and mine."

Mine. The possessiveness in his voice sent heat through you.

"I want you to ride me," he said, rolling onto his back and pulling you on top of him. "Want to watch you take your pleasure from me."

You straddled his hips, his cock hard and ready beneath you. In the moonlight streaming through the window, you could see his expression—hungry and adoring all at once.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs brushing the soft skin of your stomach. "Love seeing you like this. Above me, in control. Take what you need, baby."

You lifted up and positioned him at your entrance, sinking slowly. You were still sensitive from earlier, and the stretch was intense but excellent. His hands guided your hips, helping you find a rhythm.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Ride my cock. Use me."

You rolled your hips, finding an angle that made you both moan. His hands roamed your body—your thighs, your stomach, your breasts—touching you like he couldn't get enough. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and rode him harder.

"Fuck, yes." His head pressed back into the pillow. "Just like that. You look so fucking good taking my cock."

The praise spurred you on. You rode him faster, chasing your pleasure, and his thumb found your clit, circling it perfectly. The pressure built quickly, and when you came, clenching around him, he groaned and thrust up into you, finding his own release.

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing hard. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

"Stay," he murmured. "Stay with me. Not just tonight. Always."

"Always," you agreed, and felt him smile against your hair.

The next morning, you woke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee. You found one of Choso's shirts and pulled it on, padding downstairs to find him in the kitchen, shirtless and making breakfast.

"Morning," he said, pulling you in for a kiss. "Sleep well?"

"Eventually," you teased, and he grinned.

"Hungry?"

"Starving."

He made you sit at the counter while he cooked, and you watched him move around the kitchen, comfortable and domestic. It felt surreal—like you'd crossed into an alternate dimension where your best friend was now your... what? Boyfriend? Lover?

"I can hear you overthinking from here," he said without turning around.

"I'm just... processing."

He plated the food and came around the counter, tilting your chin up. "What's there to process? I want you. You want me. We're together now."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." He kissed you softly. "Unless you're having regrets?"

"No!" You grabbed his wrist. "No regrets. I just... I want to make sure we're on the same page."

"Baby, we're not just on the same page. We're in the same fucking sentence." He sat beside you, his expression serious. "I'm all in. Have been for a long time. This isn't just sex for me—though the sex is fucking incredible. I want everything with you."

Your heart swelled. "I want everything with you too."

"Good." He kissed you again, deeper this time. "Now eat. You're going to need your energy."

"Why?" But you already knew the answer from the heat in his eyes.

"Because I'm nowhere near done with you yet."

After breakfast, he pulled you into his lap, kissing you until you were breathless. His hands slid under the shirt you wore—his shirt—and he groaned when he realized you weren't wearing anything underneath.

"Fuck, you're trying to kill me," he muttered, his fingers finding your wetness. "Already ready for me again?"

"Can't help it," you gasped as he slid two fingers inside you. "You make me like this."

"Good." He pumped his fingers slowly, his thumb circling your clit. I want you always wet and ready for me. Want to be able to bend you over and slide right in whenever I want."

His words made you clench around his fingers. "Yes," you moaned. "Want that too."

He stood, lifting you with him, and set you on the counter—the same counter where their encounter had all started yesterday. But instead of continuing, he dropped to his knees.

"Choso—"

"Let me eat my breakfast properly," he said, spreading your thighs and diving in.

His tongue was magic, licking and sucking until you were writhing on the counter, your hands in his hair, thighs shaking. He made you come twice before standing and freeing his cock from his sweatpants.

"Wrap your legs around me," he commanded, and you obeyed.

He thrust into you in one smooth motion, both of you groaning at the sensation. He fucked you hard and fast, the counter shaking and dishes rattling, and you didn't care about anything except the feeling of him inside you.

"Love this pussy," he groaned. "Love how wet you get for me. Love how tight you are. Love how you take my cock so perfectly."

"Choso," you gasped, "I'm close—"

"Come for me, baby. Soak my cock."

You came with a cry, and he followed moments later, burying himself deep as he filled you.

You stayed like that for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard.

"Pool?" he suggested, and you laughed.

"You're insatiable."

"Only for you."

The pool water was cool and refreshing after the heat of the kitchen. You floated on your back, relaxing, while Choso swam laps. You watched him cut through the water, admiring the play of muscles in his back and shoulders.

When he finished, he swam over to you, pulling you into his arms. "Having fun?"

"Mmhmm." You wrapped your legs around his waist, and his hands supported you under your thighs.

"You look so fucking good in this bikini," he murmured, his lips finding your neck. "But I think I'd like you better without it."

"Choso, we're outside—"

"So?" He untied the strings of your bikini top, letting it float away. "No one can see. Privacy fence, remember?"

His mouth found your breast, sucking your nipple while his hand slid into your bikini bottoms. You gasped, clinging to his shoulders as he fingered you under the water.

"Gonna make you come in my pool," he said against your skin. "Going to fuck you in every room of this house, every surface, until you know you belong to me."

"I already know," you moaned.

"Yeah?" He bit your neck gently. "Say it. Tell me who you belong to."

"You," you gasped. "I belong to you, Choso."

"That's my good girl."

He pulled your bikini bottoms aside and thrust into you, the water creating resistance that made every movement feel more intense. You clung to him as he fucked you, his hands gripping your ass, pulling you onto his cock with each thrust.

The combination of the cool water and his hot body was intoxicating. You came quickly, crying out his name, and he followed, groaning into your neck.

"I love you," he said suddenly, and your heart stopped.

"What?"

He pulled back to look at you, his expression vulnerable. "I love you. I've loved you for so long, and I can't keep it in anymore. You don't have to say it back if you're not ready, but I needed you to know—"

"I love you too," you interrupted, tears pricking your eyes. "God, Choso, I love you so much."

He kissed you deeply, pouring all his emotion into it. When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling.

"Best summer ever," you said, and he laughed.

"It's only just begun, baby. I have so many plans for us."

Later that evening, after ordering takeout and watching movies on the couch—clothed, for once—Choso suggested going for a drive.

"Where to?" you asked.

"Nowhere in particular. Just want to be with you."

You drove through the city as the sun set, his hand on your thigh, music playing softly. It felt normal and domestic and perfect. Eventually, he pulled into an empty parking lot overlooking the city lights.

"Pretty," you said, admiring the view.

"Not as pretty as you."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "That was cheesy."

"Don't care." He leaned over and kissed you. "Get in the back."

"Choso—"

"Please?" His hand slid higher on your thigh. "Want to fuck you under the stars."

How could you resist that?

You climbed into the backseat, and he followed, immediately pulling you into his lap. The space was cramped, but that just meant you were pressed closer together. He kissed you deeply, his hands roaming your body, and you ground against him, feeling him harden beneath you.

"Need you," he muttered, unbuttoning your shorts and sliding them down. "Always need you."

You freed his cock from his jeans and sank onto him, both of you moaning at the sensation. The angle was different in the confined space, deeper, and you had to brace your hands on the roof of the car as you rode him.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, his hands on your hips, guiding your movements. "Love watching you take my cock. Love seeing you lose control."

You rode him harder, chasing your pleasure, and his thumb found your clit, circling it perfectly. The windows fogged up as you moved together, the car rocking slightly, and you didn't care if anyone saw. All that mattered was him, this, and the way he made you feel.

"Choso," you gasped, "I'm going to—"

"Come for me," he commanded. "Come on my cock, baby; let me feel it."

You came with a cry, your walls clenching around him, and he thrust up hard, finding his release with a groan.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, sweaty, and satisfied.

"I'm never going to get enough of you," he murmured, stroking your hair.

"Good," you said. "Because I'm never going to get enough of you either."

The next few weeks were a blur of passion and discovery. You learned each other's bodies intimately, finding what made the other gasp and moan and beg. Choso was insatiable, always finding new ways to make you come and new places to take you.

He fucked you in his home office while he was supposed to be on a conference call, his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet. He ate you out in his car in the parking garage of your apartment building. He made you ride his face on the couch while you tried to watch TV.

Every surface of his house became a memory. The dining table. The laundry room. The guest bedroom. Even the front hallway when you couldn't make it any further than that before he needed to be inside.

But it wasn't just about sex. He took you on dates—real dates, with flowers and hand-holding and sweet kisses. He cooked for you, learned your favorite foods, and remembered the little things you mentioned in passing. He held you when you had bad days, made you laugh when you were stressed, and supported your dreams and ambitions.

He was everything you'd ever wanted, and more.

One night, a few months into your relationship, you were lying in his bed, wrapped in his arms, when he said, "Move in with me."

You pulled back to look at him. "What?"

"Move in with me," he repeated. "You're here almost every night anyway. I want to wake up with you every morning. I want this to be our home, not just mine."

"Choso..."

"I know it's fast," he said quickly. "But when you know, you know. And I know I want to spend the rest of my life with you. We can take other things slow, but this... I don't want to wait for this."

Tears filled your eyes. "Yes," you said. "Yes, I'll move in with you."

His smile was brilliant, and he kissed you deeply. "You've made me so fucking happy."

"You make me happy too," you said. "Happier than I ever thought possible."

He rolled you onto your back, settling between your thighs. "Let me show you how happy you make me."

And he did, making love to you slowly and tenderly, whispering words of love and devotion until you were both crying and laughing and coming together.

Afterward, as you lay in his arms, you thought about how much your life had changed. A few months ago, you'd been convinced he could never want you. Now, you were moving in together, building a life together, and planning a future together.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

"How lucky I am," you said honestly. How grateful I am that you saw me. You really saw me.

"Baby." He tilted your chin up, his eyes intense. "You're not lucky. You're incredible. You deserve to be seen, to be loved, and to be worshipped. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know that."

"I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," he said. "More than anything."

You fell asleep in his arms, dreaming of your future together—a future full of love and laughter and passion. A future where you were cherished and desired and loved exactly as you were.

A future with Choso, your best friend and the love of your life.

The California sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Chris's studio, casting golden rectangles across the hardwood floor. You sat cross-legged on the leather couch, scrolling through your phone while the sound of a beat played softly in the background. Chris was at the mixing board, headphones half-on, one ear free so he could hear you when you inevitably started talking.

"You know what I was thinking about today?" you said, not looking up from your screen.

"Uh oh," Chris replied, spinning around in his chair with a grin. "That's never good."

"Remember that time we tried to make pancakes at three in the morning and nearly burned down your kitchen?"

Chris threw his head back and laughed, the sound filling the entire studio. "Yo, we were so confident too! Like we were about to create some gourmet shit."

"You said, and I quote, 'I got this; I'm basically a chef,'" you mimicked his voice, making it deeper and more dramatic than it actually was.

"I don't sound like that!" he protested, but he was still laughing. "And for the record, those pancakes would've been fire if you hadn't distracted me."

"I distracted you? You're the one who started freestyling about pancakes!"

"That was a bop, and you know it. 'Flippin' flapjacks, got the syrup on deck'—that was hot."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't stop smiling. This was your favorite thing about your friendship with Chris—how effortless it was. You could show up at his studio at any time of day, and it would feel like coming home. No pressure, no pretense, just two people who genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

"Play me what you're working on," you said, setting your phone aside and giving him your full attention.

Chris's expression shifted slightly, becoming more serious. He always got like this when it came to his music—focused, almost vulnerable. "It's not done yet," he warned.

"When has that ever stopped you from playing me something?"

He smiled at that, a softer smile than before. "True." He turned back to the board, adjusted a few levels, and then the studio filled with music.

The beat was smooth and melodic, with layers that seemed to unfold the longer you listened. Then Chris's voice came in, and you closed your eyes, letting it wash over you. His voice had always done something to you—not in a romantic way, but in a way that made you feel things deeply. It was like he could take emotions and translate them into sound.

When the track ended, you opened your eyes to find him watching you, waiting for your reaction.

"Chris," you said softly. "That's beautiful."

His shoulders relaxed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Like, really beautiful. The part where the strings come in? Chef's kiss." You made the gesture, and he laughed.

"See, this is why you're my best friend," he said, standing up and stretching. "You get it. You always get it."

"Someone has to appreciate your genius," you teased, but there was truth in it. You did appreciate him—not just his talent, but him as a person. The Chris that the world didn't always get to see. The one who was goofy and thoughtful and surprisingly sensitive about his art.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, grabbing his phone. "I'm thinking we order from that Thai place you like."

"The one with the drunken noodles?"

"Is there any other?"

Twenty minutes later, you were both sitting on the floor of the studio, takeout containers spread out between you like a feast. Chris had put on some old-school R&B—Usher, Aaliyah, Brandy—and you were both singing along between bites, doing elaborate hand gestures and ad-libs.

"Okay, okay, real talk though," Chris said, pointing his fork at you. "Why are you still single? You're a catch."

You nearly choked on your noodles. "Where is this coming from?"

"I'm serious! You're smart, you're funny, you've got good taste in music—"

"Because I'm friends with you?"

"Exactly! See, you get it." He grinned. "But for real, what's the deal? You haven't talked about dating in a minute."

You shrugged, twirling noodles around your fork. "I don't know. I guess I just haven't met anyone who... fits. You know?"

Chris nodded slowly. "Yeah, I feel that. It's challenging to find people who get you. Like really get you."

"Exactly. Like, I can't imagine dating someone who doesn't understand why I need to randomly show up at your studio at midnight, or why I have to send you every funny meme I see, or—"

"Or why you have to steal my hoodies even though you have like fifteen of them at home already," Chris added, raising an eyebrow at the grey hoodie you were currently wearing.

You looked down at it, feigning innocence. This? I've had it forever.

"That's literally mine. I wore it last week."

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law."

"That's not how that works!"

You stuck your tongue out at him, and he threw a balled-up napkin at your face. You threw it back, and suddenly you were both laughing again, the kind of laughter that made your stomach hurt and your eyes water.

When you finally calmed down, Chris looked at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. You know you're one of the most important people in my life, right?

The sudden sincerity caught you off guard. " Chris—"

"Nah, let me say this." He set down his food, giving you his full attention. "I know I don't say it enough, but you mean a lot to me. Like, you've been there through everything. The good stuff, the bad stuff, and all the messy in-between stuff. And you never judged me, never made me feel like I had to be anyone apart from who I am."

You felt your throat tighten with emotion. "That's what best friends do."

"Yeah, but not everyone's lucky enough to have a best friend like you." He reached over and squeezed your hand. "I'm just saying, I appreciate you. A lot."

"I appreciate you too, you big softie," you said, squeezing back. "Even when you eat all my fries and claim you're 'just trying one.'"

"That was once!"

"It was literally three days ago."

"Okay, maybe twice."

You both dissolved into laughter again, and the moment of heaviness passed, replaced by the comfortable warmth that always existed between you.

Later that night, after you'd helped Chris clean up and he'd played you two more tracks he was working on, you found yourself on his balcony, looking out at the Los Angeles skyline. The city glittered below, alive with lights and possibility.

Chris joined you, handing you a mug of hot chocolate. "Extra marshmallows, just how you like them."

"You know me so well," you said, accepting the mug gratefully.

You stood in comfortable silence for a while, sipping your drinks and watching the city. This was another thing you loved about your friendship—you didn't always need to fill the silence. Sometimes just being together was enough.

"Can I tell you something?" Chris said eventually.

"Always."

"Sometimes I think about how different my life would be if we'd never met. What if you hadn't attended that party five years ago? What if our conversation had never started?"

You remembered that night vividly. You'd been dragged to some industry party by a friend, feeling completely out of place, when Chris had struck up a conversation with you about the terrible music the DJ was playing. You'd hit it off immediately, spending the entire night talking and laughing like you'd known each other for years.

"I think about that too sometimes," you admitted. "It's weird how one random night can change everything."

"Best random night of my life," Chris said, bumping your shoulder with his. "You're stuck with me now, you know that, right? Like, we're going to be those old people sitting on a porch somewhere, still roasting each other."

"Oh God, we're going to be terrible old people," you laughed. "You're going to be like eighty and still trying to show me dance moves."

And you're going to be sitting there like, 'Chris, your hip!' but secretly filming it for the grandkids.

"Bold of you to assume I won't be dancing right alongside you."

"There's my girl," he said warmly, and your heart swelled with affection for this person who knew you so well, who had seen you at your best and worst and chose to stick around anyway.

Your phone buzzed, and you glanced at it to see a text from your mom asking if you were still at Chris's. You smiled and typed back a quick yes.

"Your mom checking on you?" Chris asked.

"Yeah. She says hi, by the way. And you need to come to dinner soon.

"I love your mom. She makes that lasagna."

"That's the only reason you want to come to dinner, isn't it? The lasagna."

"I mean, you're cool too, I guess," he said with a completely straight face.

You shoved him, and he laughed, catching your arm and pulling you into a side hug. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Your whole family is dope. They actually treat me like a normal person, you know? Not like Chris Brown the artist, just... Chris."

"That's because to us, you are just Chris. Chris who can't make pancakes, Chris who steals the aux cord, and Chris who cries during Pixar movies."

"Yo, if you don't cry during Coco, you don't have a soul!"

"I'm not disagreeing! I'm just saying, you're not some untouchable celebrity to us. You're just our Chris."

He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion. "That means more to me than you know."

You leaned your head on his shoulder, and he rested his head on top of yours. The city sprawled out before you, full of millions of people, millions of stories, but in that moment, yours was the only one that mattered.

"Hey," you said softly.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for being my best friend."

"Thanks for being mine."

You stayed like that for a while, two best friends against the world, knowing that no matter what life threw at you, you'd face it together. Because that's what best friends did. They showed up; they stayed; they loved each other through all the chaos and beauty of life.

And as far as you were concerned, there was no one else you'd rather have by your side.

The text from Suguru had been simple: Come to dinner Saturday. My family wants to meet you.

You'd stared at your phone for a solid ten minutes, heart hammering against your ribs. Family. The word felt foreign in the context of whatever this thing between you and Suguru Geto was. You'd met him three months ago at the club—Velvet Noir, the kind of upscale establishment where the clientele wore watches worth more than your car and tipped in hundreds. He'd been different from the start. Older, yes, but not in that sleazy way most men his age were when they walked into a strip club. He'd watched you with dark, intelligent eyes, and when you'd finally approached his table, he'd smiled like he'd been waiting for you specifically.

"You're stunning," he'd said, and somehow it hadn't sounded like a line.

Three months of late-night conversations, expensive dinners you'd initially refused, and increasingly intense encounters that left you breathless and confused about what exactly you were to each other. And now he wanted you to meet his family.

You'd almost said no. Almost.

But Suguru Geto had a way of making you want things you'd convinced yourself you didn't need.

Saturday evening found you standing outside a mansion that made your studio apartment look like a shoebox. Your hands smoothed down the front of your dress—a deep burgundy number that hugged every curve, every roll, everything you'd learned to love about your body even when the world told you not to. You'd paired it with heels that made you almost average height, though you knew you'd still barely reach Suguru's shoulder.

The door opened before you could knock.

Suguru stood there in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and your mouth went dry. His long dark hair was pulled back in his usual half-bun, and those eyes—god, those eyes—swept over you with unmistakable hunger.

"You're late," he said, but his lips curved into a smile.

"Traffic," you lied, lifting your chin. "And maybe I was making you wait on purpose."

He laughed, low and rich, and pulled you inside. His hand settled on the small of your back, possessive and warm through the thin fabric. "Still stubborn, I see."

"You'd be bored if I wasn't."

"True." He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. "You look fucking incredible."

Heat flooded your cheeks, your thighs. Three months and he could still make you feel like this with just his voice.

The mansion's interior was exactly what you'd expected—elegant, expensive, tasteful. Hardwood floors, art that was probably worth more than you'd make in a lifetime, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking manicured gardens. You felt simultaneously out of place and defiant about it.

"They're in the sitting room," Suguru murmured, guiding you down a hallway. "Fair warning—my daughters can be... intense."

"Daughters?" You'd known he had kids, but he'd been vague about details.

"Adopted. Twins. They're twenty-two, so don't worry—they're not children." His hand squeezed your hip. "And they're going to love you."

You weren't sure why that made you more nervous.

The sitting room was gorgeous—all cream and gold accents, with a fireplace that probably cost more than your car. Two young women sat on an ivory sofa, and they looked up in unison when you entered. They were beautiful in that effortless way that made your stomach twist with inadequacy. Long dark hair, delicate features, designer clothes that fit like they were made for them.

Because they probably were.

"Girls," Suguru said warmly, "this is the woman I've been telling you about."

You managed a smile, trying not to fidget. "Hi. I'm—"

"We know who you are!" The twin on the left stood, beaming. "Dad hasn't shut up about you for weeks. I'm Nanako."

"And I'm Mimiko," the other added, rising as well. "It's so nice to finally meet you!"

The warmth in their voices caught you off guard. You'd expected... well, you weren't sure what you'd expected. Judgment, maybe. Cool politeness. Not this genuine enthusiasm.

"It's nice to meet you both too," you said, and meant it.

Dinner was surprisingly pleasant. The twins asked questions about your life—carefully avoiding your work, you noticed—and shared stories about Suguru that made him roll his eyes fondly. You found yourself relaxing, laughing, even forgetting for stretches that you were a stripper from the wrong side of town sitting in a mansion with people who summered in the Hamptons.

Nanako complimented your dress. Mimiko asked where you got your nails done. Suguru's hand found your thigh under the table, squeezing gently, and when you glanced at him, his expression was soft. Proud.

Like you belonged here.

After dinner, you all moved back to the sitting room. Suguru poured wine—something old and expensive that tasted like velvet—and you settled into an armchair, feeling pleasantly warm and fuzzy.

That's when things started to shift.

It was subtle at first. Nanako and Mimiko began talking about people you didn't know, places you'd never been. A charity gala. A yacht party in Monaco. Their private university. The conversation flowed around you like water around a stone, and suddenly you were on the outside looking in.

"Oh, you wouldn't know about that," Mimiko said sweetly when you tried to contribute. "It's a family thing."

Family thing. The words stung more than they should have.

You caught them whispering, heads bent together, eyes flicking toward you. When you met their gazes, they smiled, but it didn't reach their eyes anymore.

Suguru was called away to take a phone call—something about business that couldn't wait. He squeezed your shoulder as he left, and you felt suddenly exposed.

"So," Nanako said, swirling her wine. "How did you and Dad meet again?"

Your stomach dropped. "At... at a club."

"Right. The club where you work." Mimiko's tone was light, conversational. Poisonous. "That must be interesting work."

"It pays the bills," you said, lifting your chin even as shame burned in your chest.

"I'm sure it does." Nanako smiled. "Especially with generous clients like Dad."

The implication hung in the air like smoke. Your hands clenched around your wine glass.

"Must be nice," Mimiko continued, "finding someone so... willing to take care of you. To bring you into his home. His life."

"Girls—" you started, but Nanako cut you off.

"We're just saying, it's sweet. How Dad wants to help you. Elevate you." Her eyes were cold. "Like a project."

Something cracked inside your chest. You stood abruptly, wine sloshing in your glass. "Excuse me. I need to use the restroom."

You didn't wait for directions, just walked blindly down the hallway, vision blurring. A project. Like you were some charity case he'd picked up, a broken thing to fix. Like you weren't good enough as you were.

Like you didn't belong.

You found yourself in what looked like a library, all dark wood and leather-bound books. Your hands shook as you set down your wine glass. Stupid. You'd been so stupid to think this could work, that someone like Suguru Geto would actually want someone like you for real. Not as a novelty. Not as a secret.

"There you are."

You spun around. Suguru stood in the doorway, concern etched across his handsome features.

"I'm fine," you said automatically, swiping at your eyes. "Just needed a minute."

He closed the door behind him, crossed the room in three long strides. "You're crying."

"I'm not—"

"Don't lie to me." His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling. "What happened?"

You wanted to be strong. Sassy. Stubborn. But his touch undid you. "Your daughters hate me."

"What?"

"They—" Your voice cracked. "They think I'm some project. Some stripper you're trying to fix. And maybe they're right. Maybe I don't belong here, in your world, with your family—"

"Stop." The command in his voice made you freeze. His dark eyes burned into yours. "Stop talking."

"Suguru—"

"I said stop." His grip tightened, not painful but firm. Possessive. "You think I brought you here as a project? You think I've spent three months learning every inch of you, every thought in that brilliant stubborn head, because I want to fix you?"

"I don't know what you want," you whispered.

"You." The word was fierce. "I want you. Exactly as you are. The woman who told me to fuck off the first night we met. The woman who makes me laugh and makes me crazy and makes me feel alive for the first time in years." His forehead pressed against yours. "The woman I'm falling in love with."

Your breath caught. "Suguru..."

"My daughters are scared," he continued. "Scared of losing me. Scared of change. But that doesn't give them the right to hurt you, and it sure as hell doesn't make them right." His lips brushed yours, feather-light. "You belong here because I want you here. Because I choose you. Do you understand?"

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.

"Say it," he demanded. "Say you understand."

"I understand," you breathed.

"Good." His mouth claimed yours, hard and demanding, and you melted into him. This was what you needed—his certainty, his dominance, the way he took control when your world felt like it was spinning apart.

You kissed him back desperately, hands fisting in his shirt. He walked you backward until your ass hit a desk, then lifted you onto it effortlessly. Your dress rode up your thick thighs and he groaned, hands spreading them wider.

"Suguru, we can't—your daughters—"

"Are going to learn that you're not going anywhere." He bit your lower lip, soothing it with his tongue. "That you're mine."

The possessiveness in his voice sent heat straight to your core. "Yours?"

"Mine." His hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. Claiming. "Say it."

"Yours," you gasped, and he smiled against your mouth.

"That's my good girl."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours. His free hand roamed your body—squeezing your soft stomach, your wide hips, your heavy breasts. Touching you like you were precious. Like you were everything.

"Bedroom," he growled. "Now."

You didn't argue.

Suguru's bedroom was masculine and elegant—dark colors, expensive furniture, a bed that looked sinfully comfortable. He locked the door behind you and you heard the click of finality.

"Strip," he ordered, leaning against the door with his arms crossed.

Your hands trembled as you reached for your zipper. "Suguru—"

"Did I stutter?"

The dominance in his voice made your pussy clench. You loved this—loved when he put you in your place, when he took control and made you feel small in the best way. You unzipped your dress slowly, let it pool at your feet. Stood before him in just your lingerie—black lace that contrasted beautifully with your brown skin.

His eyes darkened with hunger. "Fuck. Come here."

You crossed to him on shaky legs. He pulled you close, one hand tangling in your hair, the other gripping your ass hard enough to bruise.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured against your neck. "Every inch of you. These curves, this attitude, this fire." His teeth grazed your pulse point. "Mine."

"Yours," you agreed breathlessly.

He walked you backward to the bed, laid you down with surprising gentleness. Then he was on you, kissing you like he wanted to devour you. His hands made quick work of your bra, and he groaned when your breasts spilled free.

"Perfect," he muttered, taking one nipple into his mouth. You arched into him, fingers threading through his long hair. He sucked hard, teeth scraping, and you cried out.

"Suguru, please—"

"Please what?" He switched to your other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. "Use your words."

"Need you," you whimpered. "Need you inside me."

He pulled back, eyes blazing. "Yeah? Need my cock?"

"Yes, fuck, yes—"

He stood, stripping off his clothes with efficient movements. Your mouth watered at the sight of him—lean muscle, golden skin, his cock hard and thick and perfect. He didn't bother with a condom, and you didn't ask him to. You wanted him raw, wanted to feel every inch.

"Birth control?" he asked, and you shook your head.

"No."

Something primal flashed in his eyes. "No?"

"No," you confirmed, heart racing. "I want—I want to feel you. All of you."

"Fuck." He crawled over you, settling between your thighs. "You're going to be the death of me."

He hooked his fingers in your panties, dragged them down your legs. Spread you open with his thumbs, groaning at the sight of your wetness.

"So fucking wet for me," he praised. "Such a good girl."

Then his mouth was on you and you nearly screamed. He ate you out like a man starving, tongue circling your clit, fingers pushing inside. You ground against his face shamelessly, chasing your pleasure, and he moaned encouragement.

"That's it," he growled. "Take what you need. Use me."

You came hard, thighs clamping around his head, and he worked you through it until you were shaking.

"Suguru," you gasped. "I need—"

"I know what you need." He rose up, positioned himself at your entrance. "Look at me."

You met his eyes as he pushed inside, slow and deep and perfect. The stretch was intense without a condom, the heat of him almost overwhelming. You moaned, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Feel that?" he gritted out. "Feel how perfectly you take me?"

"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, fuck—"

He started moving, deep rolling thrusts that hit every spot inside you. His hand found your throat again, squeezing lightly, and you clenched around him.

"You like that?" he asked. "Like when I hold you down? Remind you who you belong to?"

"Yes," you admitted. "Love it."

"I know you do." He squeezed a little harder, watching your eyes glaze with pleasure. "My perfect girl. So stubborn everywhere else, but here? Here you're mine to control."

He was right. You loved giving him this power, loved the way he wielded it. He made you feel safe even as he dominated you, cherished even as he used you.

"Ride me," he commanded suddenly, pulling out. "Want to watch you."

He lay back and you straddled him eagerly, sinking down onto his cock with a moan. From this angle he went even deeper, and you had to brace your hands on his chest.

"That's it," he encouraged, hands gripping your wide hips. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you need it."

You started moving, grinding down on him, and the friction against your clit was perfect. Your breasts bounced with each movement and he watched them hungrily.

"So fucking sexy," he groaned. "Love watching you like this. Love seeing you take your pleasure."

You rode him harder, chasing another orgasm. His hands roamed your body—your stomach, your thighs, your ass. Worshipping every inch.

"Spit in my mouth," you demanded breathlessly, and his eyes widened.

"Fuck, you're filthy." But he sat up, cupped your jaw. "Open."

You opened your mouth and he spit, and you swallowed with a moan. The depravity of it made you clench around him.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. Then he was kissing you again, messy and desperate. His hips thrust up to meet yours and you could feel another orgasm building.

"Suguru," you whimpered. "I'm close—"

"Come for me," he ordered. "Come on my cock like a good girl."

You shattered, crying out his name, and he flipped you over before you'd finished. Pinned you to the mattress, threw your legs over his shoulders, and fucked into you with brutal intensity.

"Mine," he growled, sucking marks into your neck. "You're mine. Say it."

"Yours," you sobbed. "All yours, Suguru, please—"

"Please what?"

"Come inside me," you begged. "Want to feel it. Want you to fill me up."

He groaned, hips stuttering. "You sure?"

"Yes," you insisted. "Please, Suguru, need it—"

That broke him. He thrust deep and came with a shout, and you felt the hot pulse of him inside you. It triggered another orgasm and you clenched around him, milking every drop.

He collapsed on top of you, breathing hard. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close.

"I love you," he murmured into your neck. "I fucking love you."

Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time they were happy. "I love you too."

He pulled back to look at you, brushing hair from your sweaty face. "You belong here. With me. In my life, in my bed, in my future. My daughters will come around, and if they don't, that's their problem. Not yours."

"Okay," you whispered.

"Okay?"

"Okay." You smiled, feeling lighter than you had all evening. "I believe you."

"Good." He kissed you softly. "Because I'm not letting you go. Ever."

"Possessive much?"

"When it comes to you? Absolutely." He grinned, and you saw the man who'd first caught your attention three months ago. "You're stuck with me now."

"I can think of worse fates," you teased.

He laughed and rolled to the side, pulling you against his chest. You could feel his cum leaking out of you, marking you as his, and you didn't even care about the mess.

"Stay tonight," he said. It wasn't a question.

"What about your daughters?"

"They'll deal with it." His arms tightened around you. "You're not running from this. From us."

"I'm not running," you agreed. And you meant it.

For the first time since you'd arrived, you felt like you belonged. Not because of the mansion or the money or the family drama. But because Suguru Geto had chosen you, claimed you, loved you.

And that was enough.

His hand traced lazy patterns on your hip. "Next time they say something, you tell me immediately."

"I can handle myself," you protested.

"I know you can. You're the strongest woman I know." He kissed your temple. "But you don't have to handle everything alone anymore. That's what I'm here for."

Your chest tightened with emotion. "Suguru..."

"I mean it. You and me. We're a team now." He tilted your chin up, eyes serious. "I'm not going to let anyone make you feel less than you are. Not even my daughters."

"They're important to you."

"So are you." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "And they need to understand that you're not going anywhere. That I've made my choice."

"And what choice is that?"

"You," he said firmly. "Always you."

You kissed him, slow and deep, trying to pour everything you felt into it. When you pulled back, you were both smiling.

"So," you said, trailing your fingers down his chest. "Think you can go again, old man?"

He laughed, low and dangerous. "Old man?"

"Well, you are significantly older than me—"

He flipped you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head. "Keep talking and see what happens."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Both." He kissed you hard. "And I'm going to enjoy proving just how much stamina this old man has."

You grinned up at him, sassy and stubborn and completely his. "Bring it on."

And he did.

Later, much later, you lay tangled together in his sheets. Your body ached in the best way, marked with his teeth and hands and love.

"I should probably go talk to them," Suguru murmured. "Set some boundaries."

"Tomorrow," you said sleepily. "Tonight, just stay here with me."

"Always," he promised, and you believed him.

Because despite the drama, despite the differences in your worlds, despite everything that said this shouldn't work—it did. You fit together. You belonged.

And anyone who had a problem with that could deal with Suguru Geto.

You smiled into the darkness, feeling safe and claimed and loved.

The fluorescent lights of the convention center buzzed overhead as you adjusted the display of lip glosses for what felt like the hundredth time. Your hands trembled slightly—they always did at these events, no matter how many you attended. Three years of running Velvet & Bloom, your beauty brand, and you still felt like that shy girl who could barely make eye contact with customers.

But you'd learned to push through it. Had to.

"Excuse me, is this the cruelty-free line?"

You plastered on your professional smile, the one you'd practiced in the mirror countless times, and turned to face the potential customer. "Yes, everything we—"

The words died in your throat.

Ravin Wong stood three feet away, his hand frozen halfway to reaching for a product, his dark eyes wide with recognition. He looked the same—tall, devastatingly handsome, with that slight wave in his black hair that he'd never quite managed to tame. But there were differences too. Fine lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before. A wariness in his expression that was new.

"Hi," he said, and even that single syllable sent you spiraling back three years.

You couldn't breathe. The convention center suddenly felt too small, too hot, too loud. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table.

"I—" you started, but nothing else would come.

Ravin's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I didn't know you'd be here. I mean, I saw Velvet & Bloom on the vendor list, but I didn't realize... I should have realized it was yours. The name. You always talked about velvet textures and—" He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry. I'm rambling."

"What are you doing here?" The words came out sharper than you intended.

"Panel," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the main hall. "Voice acting workshop. I'm one of the speakers this year."

Of course he was. Ravin had always been good at what he did—his voice was liquid gold, able to shift from commanding to vulnerable in a heartbeat. It's what had drawn you to him initially, back when you'd met at a mutual friend's birthday party. You'd been twenty, working a retail job you hated, dreaming of starting your own business but too afraid to take the leap. He'd been twenty-seven, confident, successful, and everything you weren't.

He'd made you feel seen.

Until he hadn't.

"Congratulations," you managed. "On the panel."

"Thanks." He shifted his weight, and you noticed he was wearing the watch you'd given him for his twenty-eighth birthday. Your stomach twisted. "Your brand... it's really taken off. I've seen it in stores. That's incredible."

"Thank you."

The silence stretched between you like taffy, sticky and uncomfortable. A group of teenagers pushed past, giggling about some cosplay, and Ravin stepped closer to your booth to avoid them. Closer to you.

You could smell his cologHe wore something woodsier and more mature than what he used to wear.ure.

"Look, I know this is awkward," Ravin said quietly, his eyes finally meeting yours fully. "But I'm glad you're doing well. Overjoyed. You deserve it."

Something hot and sharp lodged in your chest. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't act like you care about what I deserve." Your voice was barely above a whisper, but the words cut through the ambient noise. "You lost that right."

Ravin flinched like you'd slapped him. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just—" He looked down at his hands. "I've wanted to apologize for three years. Properly apologize, not just the pathetic texts I sent that you never answered."

"I blocked you."

"I know. I deserved that too." He glanced around at the growing crowd, then back at you. "Is there any chance we could talk? Not now, obviously; you're working. But maybe... coffee? Tomorrow morning?"

Every instinct screamed at you to say no. To protect yourself. To keep the walls up that you'd spent three years building.

But there was something in his expression—genuine remorse, maybe, or the ghost of the man you'd once loved—that made you hesitate.

"Why?" you asked.

"Because I owe you a real explanation and an apology that's not delivered through a phone screen." He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and held it out to you. "Put your number in. If you change your mind, you don't have to show up. But I'll be at the Bluebird Café at nine. I'll wait."

Your hand moved before your brain could stop it, taking his phone and typing in your new number. When you handed it back, your fingers brushed his, and the contact sent electricity up your arm.

"I'm not promising anything," you said.

"I know," Ravin's smile was sad, resigned. "It's more than I deserve anyway."

He left, disappearing into the crowd, and you spent the rest of the day in a daze, barely able to focus on customers or sales. Your assistant, Maya, kept giving you concerned looks but didn't pry.

That night, alone in your hotel room, you stared at the ceiling and let yourself remember.

Three Years Ago

You'd been together for two years when it happened. Two years of Ravin being your first real relationship, your first love, your first everything. He'd been patient with your shyness, gentle with your insecurities about your body, and encouraging about your dreams of starting a beauty line.

"You have an eye for beauty," he'd said, watching you experiment with pigments at your tiny kitchen table. "People are going to love what you create."

You'd believed him. Believed in him. Believed in the future you were building together.

Then came the night he didn't come home.

He'd been at a wrap party for Quinn, the animated series that had become his biggest role yet. You'd been invited but had begged off, feeling too anxious about being around so many industry people, so many beautiful, confident women who wouldn't stumble over their words or blush at every interaction.

"Go without me," you had said. "I'll just hold you back."

"You never hold me back," Ravin had insisted, but he'd gone alone anyway.

He came back at four in the morning, and you knew immediately. It was written all over his face—the guilt, the shame, the horror at what he'd done.

"Baby, I—" he'd started, and you'd held up a hand.

"Don't. Just... tell me the truth."

So he had. Her name was Sienna, one of the producers. It had been one time, he swore, too much to drink and a moment of weakness, and it meant nothing, absolutely nothing.

But it meant everything to you.

"Why?" you'd asked, tears streaming down your face. "Was I not enough?"

"No, God, no. You're everything. This is about me, about my own shit—"

"Don't make excuses."

"I'm not, I just—" He'd reached for you, and you'd stepped back. "Please." Allow me to explain."

But there was no explanation that could fix it. No words could unbreak your heart.

You moved out the next day.

Present Day

You almost didn't go to the café.

You stood outside the Bluebird for ten minutes, watching through the window as Ravin sat at a corner table, two coffee cups in front of him, checking his phone every few seconds. He looked nervous. Good.

Finally, you pushed through the door.

His head snapped up immediately, relief flooding his features. "You came."

"I almost didn't." You slid into the seat across from him, accepting the coffee he pushed toward you. Caramel latte with oat milk. He'd remembered. Your throat tightened.

"Thank you for giving me this chance." Ravin wrapped his hands around his cup like he needed something to hold onto. "I know I don't deserve it."

"You don't," you agreed. "So talk. You said you wanted to explain."

He took a deep breath. "I was terrified."

Whatever you'd expected, it wasn't that. "What?"

It was about us. It was about how much I loved you. It was about how you were becoming this incredible person right in front of me, while I felt... stuck. He stared into his coffee. "You were talking about launching your brand, taking this giant leap, and you were so brave even though you were scared. And I was just... the same. Same job, same life, same everything. I felt like I was watching you outgrow me in real time."

"So you cheated on me?" The words came out flat, disbelieving.

"No. I mean, yes, but—" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not saying it was justified. It wasn't. Nothing justifies what I did. But you asked why, and that's why. I sabotaged us because I was afraid you'd eventually realize you could do better than me anyway."

You stared at him. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"I know."

"You destroyed us because you were insecure?"

"Yes."

"You broke my heart, made me question everything about myself, made me feel like I wasn't pretty enough or interesting enough or—" Your voice cracked. "Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

"I think about it every day." Ravin's eyes were glassy. "I think about how I took someone who already struggled to see how amazing she was and made her doubt herself even more. I think about how you used to light up when you talked about your dreams and how I probably killed some of that light. I think about—"

"Stop." You held up a hand, fighting back tears. "Just stop."

Silence fell between you. The café bustled around you—the hiss of the espresso machine, the chatter of other customers, the clink of cups and plates. Normal sounds for a normal morning. But nothing about the situation was normal.

"I'm sorry," Ravin said finally. "I'm so, incredibly sorry. Not just for cheating, but for all of it. For not being honest about my fears. For not communicating. For taking the coward's way out instead of talking to you about what I was feeling. For hurting you in a way that can't be undone."

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. "I spent a year in therapy because of you."

He flinched. "I'm glad you went. I've been going too. For two years now."

That surprised you. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I had to figure out why I kept sabotaging the good things in my life. Turns out I have a whole mess of issues around self-worth and success." He laughed bitterly. "Ironic, right? You thought you weren't enough, and I thought I wasn't enough. We were both wrong."

"Were we?" You met his eyes. "Because you proved you weren't enough. You proved I couldn't trust you."

"I did. And I hate that I can't take it back. I hate that I can't undo it." He leaned forward slightly. "But I've spent three years becoming someone who would never do that again. Someone who deals with his shit instead of projecting it onto the people he loves. Someone who communicates. Someone worthy of a second chance, even if I never get one."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve to know it wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault." His voice was fierce now. "You were perfect. You are perfect. And I was an idiot who couldn't see what he had until it was gone."

More tears spilled down your cheeks. "I'm not perfect. I'm still shy and awkward and—"

"And you built a successful business from nothing. And you're sitting here having this conversation even though it's probably killing you. And you're one of the strongest people I've ever known, even if you don't see it." Ravin reached across the table, stopping just short of touching your hand. "Can I?"

You should say no. Should pull away. Should protect yourself.

But you nodded.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and familiar and achingly gentle. "I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm not even asking for another chance, though God knows I want one. I just needed you to know that what happened was about my failures, not yours. You were always enough. More than enough."

You sat there, hand in his, tears streaming silently down your face. Part of you wanted to yank away, to run, to hide behind your walls. But another part—the part that had never stopped loving him, even when you hated him—wanted to hold on.

"I don't know if I can trust you again," you whispered.

"I know."

"I don't know if I can get past what you did."

"I know that too."

"So what are we doing here, Ravin?"

He squeezed your hand gently. "Honestly? I don't know. Maybe just... this. Talking. Being honest. Seeing if there's anything left worth salvaging. Or maybe just getting closure so we can both move on." He paused. "What do you want?"

What did you want?

You'd spent three years telling yourself you were over him. That you'd moved on. That the occasional dreams about him meant nothing, that seeing his name in credits didn't make your heart skip, that you were completely, totally fine.

But you weren't fine. You'd just gotten better at pretending.

"I want..." You took a shaky breath. I want to stop hurting.

"Then let me help with that. However, I can. Even if it's just by staying away."

"I don't want you to stay away." The admission came out small and frightened. "I hate that I don't want that, but I don't."

Something like hope flickered across Ravin's face. "No?"

"No. I just... I don't know what I want instead."

"That's okay. We can figure it out together. Or not together. Whatever you need." He rubbed his thumb across your knuckles, the gesture so familiar it hurt. "May I ask you something?"

"Maybe."

"Are you happy? With your life, your business, everything?"

You considered the question. "Mostly. The brand is doing well. It is better than I ever dreamed. I have excellent people working with me. I'm proud of what I've built."

"But?"

"But I'm lonely," you admitted. "I haven't dated anyone since you. Can't seem to let anyone close enough."

Ravin's expression crumpled. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not just you. It's me too. I'm still... me. Still shy, still awkward, still convinced that anyone who shows interest is just being nice or has ulterior motives." You laughed wetly. "Therapy helped, but it didn't fix everything."

"You don't need fixing. You never did."

"Says the man who cheated because I was too much of something or not enough of something else."

"No." His grip on your hand tightened. "I cheated because I was broken, not you. Please don't twist the situation into being about your worth. You're incredible. You were incredible then, and you're even more incredible now."

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him.

"I saw you on a podcast last month," you said, changing the subject slightly. "Talking about your work on Quinn. You seemed pleased."

Ravin blinked at the shift but went with it. "You watched it?"

"I watch a lot of your stuff. Not in a creepy way," you added quickly. "Just... I like hearing your voice. It's soothing."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Yeah?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." But his smile faded into something more serious. "I think about you when I'm recording occasionally. Especially the emotional scenes. I remember how you used to listen to me practice, how you'd give me feedback even though you always said you didn't know anything about voice acting."

"I didn't."

"You knew about emotion. About truth. You always knew when I was phoning it in versus when I was really feeling it." He paused. "You made me better at my job. Made me better at everything, really. Until I fucked it all up."

"Yeah. You did."

"I know. And I'm sorry. I'll never stop being sorry."

You pulled your hand back, needing space to think. Ravin let you go without resistance, though you saw the flash of loss in his eyes.

"I need time," you said. "I can't just... jump back into anything. I don't even know if I want to jump back into anything."

"I understand."

"Do you? Because you're looking at me like—"

"Like I'm still in love with you?" Ravin's voice was quiet. "Because I am. I never stopped. However, that is my issue, not yours. You don't owe me anything."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Don't say things like that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Because it makes this harder."

"I'm sorry. I just—I've spent three years not being honest about my feelings, and I'm trying to do better. But I'll stop if it's too much."

You pressed your palms against your eyes, overwhelmed. "I don't know what to do with this. With you. With any of it."

"Then don't do anything. Not yet." You felt him stand and heard the scrape of his chair. "Take all the time you need. I'll be around for the rest of the convention if you want to talk more. And if you don't, that's okay too. I'll respect whatever you decide."

You lowered your hands to find him standing beside the table, looking down at you with such tenderness it made your chest ache.

"For what it's worth," he said softly, "seeing you yesterday, seeing what you've accomplished, how you've grown... I'm so proud of you. Even if I have no right to be."

Then he left, and you sat alone with your cooling coffee and your racing thoughts.

You didn't seek him out that day. Or the next. But on the final day of the convention, as you were packing up your booth, you found yourself walking toward the main hall where the voice acting panel was being held.

You slipped into the back of the room just as Ravin was answering a question about emotional authenticity in performance.

"The key is vulnerability," he was saying. You have to be willing to access real emotions and real experiences, even when they're painful. Especially when it's painful. The audience can tell when you're faking it."

Someone asked how he accessed those emotions, and Ravin was quiet for a moment.

"I think about the people I've loved," he said finally. "The moments that mattered. The mistakes I've made. The things I wish I could change but can't." His eyes scanned the crowd, and you knew the moment he spotted you. His voice softened. "I think about what it feels like to lose something precious because you were too stupid to appreciate it while you had it."

Your breath caught.

The panel ended twenty minutes later, and you waited while Ravin talked to attendees, signed autographs, and posed for photos. He was good with people—patient, kind, genuinely interested in what they had to say. It was one of the things you'd loved about him.

One of many things.

Finally, the crowd dispersed, and Ravin made his way over to you. "Hi."

"Hi." You twisted your hands together. "You were good. Up there."

"Thanks. I didn't think you'd come."

"Neither did I."

He smiled slightly. "But you did."

"I did." You took a breath. "Can we walk? I need to move."

"Of course."

You ended up in a small park near the convention center, walking slowly along a tree-lined path. The late afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, dappling everything in gold.

"I've been thinking," you said after a while. "About what you said. About being in love with me."

Ravin's hands were shoved deep in his pockets. "Yeah?"

"It's not fair."

"I know."

"I spent three years trying to get over you. Three years building a life that didn't include you. And now you show up and say things like that, and it's like—" You gestured helplessly. "It's like no time has passed at all. Like I'm right back to being that girl who loved you so much it scared her."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it."

"No, I'm glad you did. Because I need to say something too." You stopped walking, turning to face him. "I'm still in love with you too. And I hate it. I hate that I never moved on. I hate that seeing you again made me realize I was just going through the motions for three years. I hate that you still have this power over me."

Ravin's eyes were wide, hopeful, and terrified. "You... you still love me?"

"Yes. And it's the worst thing in the world because I don't know if I can trust you. I don't know if I can get past what you did. I don't know if loving you is enough."

"It's not," he said quietly. "Love isn't enough. I learned that the hard way. We need trust, communication, and honesty. All the things I failed at before."

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

You looked at him—really looked at him. At the man who'd broken your heart and spent three years trying to become someone worthy of putting it back together. At the face you'd loved and hated and missed and dreamed about.

"I want to try," you whispered. "I want to be smart and protect myself and run away, but I want to try. Is that stupid?"

"No. It's brave." Ravin took a careful step closer. "But I need you to know what you're signing up for. I'm still a work in progress. I still have bad days. I still struggle with insecurity and self-worth. The difference is now I talk about it instead of letting it fester."

I'm still working on myself too. I still have panic attacks before big meetings. I still struggle to believe I deserve my success. I still—" Your voice cracked. "I still have nightmares about that night sometimes."

Pain flashed across his face. "I'm so sorry."

"I know you are. And I'm trying to believe that's enough. That you've changed enough. That we could be different this time."

We would be. I swear to you, we would be. He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you didn't, he cupped your face in his hands. "If you give me another chance, I will spend every single day proving I deserve it. I will be honest, even when it's hard. I will communicate, even when I'm scared. I will never, ever take you for granted again."

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and he wiped them away with his thumbs.

"And if I can't do it?" you asked. If I try and just can't get past it?

"Then I'll let you go. For real this time. No texts, no calls, no holding on. I'll let you go and be grateful I got to try."

You searched his eyes, looking for any hint of deception, any shadow of the man who'd betrayed you. But all you saw was sincerity, remorse, and a love so fierce it took your breath away.

"Okay," you breathed.

"Okay?"

"Okay, we can try. Slowly. Very slowly."

The smile that broke across Ravin's face was like sunrise. "Slowly. I can do slowly."

"And if you ever—"

"I won't. I swear on everything I am; I won't."

You believed him. Maybe you were a fool, but you believed him.

"Can I hug you?" he asked. "I've wanted to hug you for three years."

You nodded, and then you were in his arms, and it felt like coming home. He was warm, solid, and familiar, holding you as if you were precious, as if you were everything.

"I missed you," he murmured into your hair. "God, I missed you so much."

"I missed you too." You pressed your face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "I'm still scared."

"Me too. But we'll figure it out together this time. No more running, no more hiding. Just honesty."

"Just honesty," you echoed.

You stood there in the park, holding each other as the sun set around you, and for the first time in three years, you felt something like hope.

It wouldn't be easy. There would be hard conversations ahead, moments of doubt, and old wounds that needed tending. But maybe—just maybe—you could build something new from the ashes of what you'd lost. Something stronger, something real.

Something worth the risk.

Ravin pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "Can I take you to dinner? A real date, not just coffee and crying."

You laughed wetly. "There was a lot of crying."

"Important crying. Necessary crying. But maybe now we could have some non-crying time?"

"I'd like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. " You smiled up at him, and it felt natural, effortless. "But nowhere fancy. I'm not dressed for fancy."

"You look perfect." His eyes were soft, adoring. "You always look perfect to me."

"Flatterer."

"Truth-teller," he corrected. "I'm trying this new thing where I say what I actually think and feel. It's terrifying."

"Welcome to my entire life."

He laughed, and the sound wrapped around you like a blanket. "Come on. I know a place that makes incredible pasta and doesn't care if you show up in jeans."

You let him take your hand and let him lead you out of the park and toward whatever came next. It felt fragile, this new beginning, like something that could shatter with one wrong move. But it also felt right.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe love and honesty and the willingness to try were enough.

The voicemail clicked on—your brother's cheerful voice telling you to leave a message, and he'd get back to you. The sound of it, so normal and unbothered, made something crack inside your chest. A sob caught in your throat as you ended the call, staring down at your phone through blurred vision.

He wasn't answering. Of course he wasn't answering—it was late on a Friday night, he was probably out with friends or asleep or—

You couldn't think about that. You needed to focus. You needed to get somewhere safe.

Your thumb hovered over your recent calls, and your breath hitched when you saw the name just below your brother's: Kento Nanami.

Your brother's best friend. The man who'd been a steady, quiet presence at family gatherings and birthday dinners for as long as you could remember. The man whose calm, composed demeanor had always made you feel inexplicably safe—and inexplicably nervous, in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way your heart would skip a beat when he smiled at you.

You shouldn't call him. It was late, and you barely knew him outside of those family events, and what would you even say—

But your fingers were already pressing his name, already lifting the phone back to your ear.

This time, he answered on the second ring.

"Hello?" His voice was low and smooth, touched with concern even in that single word. You could hear the rustle of movement, like he'd been sitting down and had just stood up. "Is everything alright?"

The sound of his voice—steady and real and there—broke something loose inside you. You tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked gasp, and then you were crying, really crying, the kind of tears that shook your whole body.

"Hey—hey, it's okay." Nanami's voice sharpened with urgency, all traces of sleepiness gone. "Talk to me. What happened? Where are you?"

"I'm sorry," you managed, the words tumbling out between sobs. "I'm so sorry; I tried to call my brother but he didn't answer and I didn't know who else—I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize." His tone was firm but gentle, grounding. "Just tell me where you are. Are you safe right now?"

You looked around, taking in the empty street, the rain, and the distant glow of a convenience store sign. "I—I think so. I'm on Maple Street, near the 7-Eleven. I just—I had to leave; I couldn't stay there anymore, and—"

"I'm coming to get you." You heard the jingle of keys and the sound of a door opening. "Stay where there are lights, okay? Go inside the store if you can. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Nanami, you don't have to—"

"I'm already in my car." There was a pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "You did the right thing by calling me. Just stay on the line with me until I get there, alright?"

You nodded even though he couldn't see you, clutching the phone tighter. "Okay."

"Good girl." The words were absent, automatic, but they sent a strange flutter through your chest even in the midst of your panic. "Now tell me—are you hurt?"

You swallowed hard, looking down at the bruises already forming on your arm where your boyfriend had grabbed you. Ex-boyfriend, you corrected yourself. You were never going back there. "Just some bruises. Nothing serious."

You heard him exhale slowly, like he was trying to keep his composure. "Alright. We'll take care of that. Can you make it to the store?"

"Yeah." You started walking, your legs unsteady beneath you. The fluorescent lights of the 7-Eleven grew brighter as you approached, and you pushed through the door into the artificial warmth. The clerk looked up at you with mild curiosity before returning to his phone.

"I'm inside," you said quietly.

"Perfect. I'm five minutes away." There was a pause. "Do you want to tell me what happened, or would you rather wait?"

You leaned against the wall near the door, watching the rain through the glass. "My boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—he... we got into a fight. He's been getting worse lately, and tonight he just..." You trailed off, not wanting to relive it. "I grabbed my phone and left. I didn't even get my purse."

"You don't need your purse." Nanami's voice was tight with barely controlled anger, but none of it was directed at you. "You just need to be safe. Everything else can be dealt with later."

The certainty in his voice, the way he made it sound so simple, eased some of the panic clawing at your chest. You closed your eyes and focused on breathing, on the sound of his car engine through the phone, on the knowledge that he was coming for you.

"I can see the store," he said after what felt like both an eternity and no time at all. "I'm pulling into the parking lot now."

You looked up and saw the sleek black sedan pulling up to the curb, and then Nanami was getting out, and the sight of him made something in your chest unclench. He was dressed casually—dark jeans and a fitted henley that emphasized his broad shoulders—but he moved with the same composed confidence he always had, like nothing could shake him.

His eyes found you through the glass, and his expression softened. You ended the call and pushed through the door, and then he was there, standing in the rain like he didn't even notice it, his full attention on you.

"Come here," he said quietly, and you went to him without thinking, letting him pull you into his arms. He was warm and solid and he smelled like clean cotton and something woodsy, and you buried your face against his chest and tried not to start crying again.

"I've got you," he murmured, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. "You're safe now. I've got you."

You believed him.

Nanami kept one hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side of his car, opening the door for you and waiting until you were settled before closing it gently. He shrugged out of his jacket as he rounded the car, and when he slid into the driver's seat, he draped it over your shoulders without a word.

The interior of the car was warm and quiet, insulated from the storm outside. You pulled his jacket tighter around yourself, breathing in the scent of him, and felt some of the tension start to drain from your body.

Nanami didn't start the car immediately. Instead, he turned to face you, his dark eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Let me see your arm."

You hesitated, then slowly pushed up the sleeve of your shirt. The bruises were already darkening, finger-shaped marks that stood out starkly against your skin. Nanami's jaw tightened as he looked at them, and for a moment, you saw something dangerous flash in his eyes before he carefully schooled his expression back to calm.

"We should get some ice on that," he said quietly. He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and when you didn't, he gently touched the unmarked skin near the bruises. His fingers were warm and careful. "Does it hurt?"

"A little," you admitted. "But I'm okay. Really."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but instead, he nodded and withdrew his hand. "I'm going to call your brother. He needs to know what happened."

Your stomach dropped. "Nanami, please don't—I don't want him to worry—"

"He'll worry more if he finds out later that something happened and no one told him. " Nanami's voice was gentle but firm. "And he needs to know you're safe. Trust me on this."

You bit your lip and nodded, sinking back into the seat as Nanami pulled out his phone. He kept his eyes on you as he made the call, like he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away.

Your brother answered on the third ring, his voice groggy. "Nanami? What's up, man? It's like midnight—"

"Your sister called me tonight," Nanami said, cutting straight to the point. "She's with me now. She's safe, but she had to leave her boyfriend's place in a hurry. He hurt her."

There was a beat of silence, and then your brother's voice came back sharp and awake. "He what? Is she okay? Let me talk to her—"

"She's okay. Shaken up, but okay." Nanami glanced at you. "Do you want to talk to him?"

You took the phone with trembling hands. "Hey."

"Jesus Christ, are you alright? Where are you? I'm coming to get you right now—"

"I'm fine," you said quickly. "I'm with Nanami. I tried to call you first, but you didn't answer, so—"

"Fuck, I'm so sorry. I was at a bar with some friends, and I left my phone in my jacket. Your brother sounded anguished. "I should have been there. I should have—"

"It's not your fault," you said firmly. "And I'm okay. Nanami came and got me."

There was a pause, and then your brother said, "Put him back on."

You handed the phone back to Nanami, who listened for a moment before saying, "I'm taking her back to my place. She can stay in my guest room for as long as she needs."

You couldn't hear your brother's response, but Nanami's expression softened slightly. "I know. I'll take care of her, I promise. Another pause. "Alright. I'll have her call you in the morning." He ended the call and looked at you. "Your brother says he loves you and he's going to come by tomorrow to check on you. And that if your ex tries to contact you, you're to call the police immediately."

You nodded, feeling drained. "What else did he say?"

Nanami's lips quirked in something that wasn't quite a smile. "He told me to take care of you and that he trusts me completely." He started the car, the engine purring to life. "So that's what I'm going to do."

The drive to Nanami's apartment was quiet, the rain pattering against the windshield and the soft hum of the heater filling the silence. You found yourself stealing glances at him as he drove, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the way his hands rested confidently on the steering wheel, and the focused set of his expression.

You'd always thought he was handsome—devastatingly so—but you'd never let yourself dwell on it. He was your brother's best friend, older and sophisticated and completely out of your league. And you'd been with your boyfriend for the past year, even if that relationship had been slowly crumbling for months.

But now, sitting in his car wearing his jacket, watching the way the streetlights played across his features, you couldn't help but notice. Couldn't help but feel a flutter of something warm in your chest that had nothing to do with the heater.

"Thank you," you said softly, breaking the silence. "For coming to get me. For... everything."

Nanami glanced at you, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. "You don't need to thank me. I'm glad you called." He paused, then added quietly, "I wish you'd called sooner. Before it got to this point."

You looked down at your hands. "I kept thinking it would get better. That he'd go back to how he was at the beginning. But he just kept getting worse, and I didn't know how to leave."

"You left tonight," Nanami pointed out. "That took courage."

"I was terrified," you admitted.

"Courage isn't the absence of fear. It's acting despite it." He reached over and briefly squeezed your hand, the touch sending warmth racing up your arm. "You were very brave."

You didn't feel brave. You felt exhausted and shaky and like you might fall apart at any moment. But the conviction in Nanami's voice made you want to believe him.

The rest of the drive passed in comfortable silence, and before long, Nanami was pulling into the underground parking garage of a sleek modern building. He parked and came around to open your door again, offering you his hand to help you out.

His apartment was on the eighth floor, and as he unlocked the door and ushered you inside, you were struck by how perfectly the space suited him. It was clean and minimalist, all smooth lines and neutral colors, but there were touches of warmth—a well-worn paperback on the coffee table, a framed photo of him and your brother on a hiking trip, and a soft throw blanket draped over the back of the couch.

"Make yourself at home," Nanami said, locking the door behind you. "Are you hungry? When's the last time you ate?"

You tried to remember and couldn't. "I don't know. Lunch, maybe?"

He frowned. "I'll make you something. But first, let's get some ice on those bruises." He guided you to the couch and disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel. He sat down beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and carefully pressed the ice pack to your arm.

You winced at the cold, and he immediately eased up. "Sorry. Too much?"

"No, it's okay." You held the ice pack in place, hyperaware of how close he was and of the way his knee was almost touching yours. "You don't have to take care of me like this. I can manage."

"I know you can," Nanami said. "But you don't have to. Not tonight." He stood and headed back to the kitchen. "Just sit and rest. I'll make you some tea and something to eat."

You watched him move around the kitchen with easy efficiency, pulling out a kettle and a pan, and felt something warm and unfamiliar unfurl in your chest. When was the last time someone had taken care of you like this? When was the last time you'd felt safe enough to let them?

The tea was ready first—chamomile with honey, served in a sturdy ceramic mug that warmed your hands. You sipped it slowly, feeling the heat spread through your body, and watched as Nanami plated up a simple but perfect meal: fluffy scrambled eggs, toast with butter, and sliced fruit.

He sat down beside you again as you ate, not hovering but present, and you found yourself relaxing in increments. The food helped, grounding you back in your body, and by the time you'd finished, you felt almost human again.

"Better?" Nanami asked, taking your empty plate.

"Much better. Thank you." You set down your mug and looked at him, really looked at him, and found him watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. " Nanami, I—"

"Kento," he said quietly. "You can call me Kento."

The intimacy of it, of using his first name, made your heart skip. "Kento," you repeated, testing the shape of it on your tongue. "I don't know how to repay you for this."

"You don't need to repay me." He leaned back against the couch, his arm resting along the back in a way that made you very aware of how easy it would be to lean into him. "I'm just glad you're safe."

There was something in his voice, something deeper than simple concern, and when you met his eyes, you saw the way he was looking at you—like you were precious, like you mattered, like he'd been waiting for an excuse to have you here.

The realization hit you like a physical thing: Kento Nanami cared about you. Not just as his best friend's little sister, but as you.

And suddenly, you were very aware of the fact that you were alone with him in his apartment, wearing his jacket, sitting close enough to touch. The air between you felt charged, electric, and you could see the moment he noticed the shift too, the way his eyes darkened and his posture tensed slightly.

"I should show you the guest room," he said, his voice a little rougher than before. "You must be exhausted."

You should agree. You should let him show you to the guest room and get some sleep and deal with everything in the morning when your head is clearer.

But you didn't want to. You didn't want to be alone, didn't want to lie awake in a strange bed thinking about everything that had happened. And more than that, you didn't want to ignore the way your heart was racing, the way your body was hyperaware of every inch of space between you and Kento.

"I'm not tired," you said softly. It was a lie—you were exhausted—but it was also the truth. You were too wired, too aware, too something to sleep.

Kento studied you for a long moment, and you could see him weighing his options, trying to decide what the right thing to do was. "Would you like to watch something? Or we could just talk."

"Talk," you said immediately. "I don't think I could focus on a show right now."

He nodded and shifted slightly, angling his body toward yours. "What do you want to talk about?"

You, you thought. I want to talk about you, about why you dropped everything to come get me, about the way you're looking at me right now like I'm something worth protecting.

But you couldn't say that, so instead you said, "Tell me about your week." Something normal. I need normal right now."

So he did. He told you about his job, about the project he was working on, and about the new coffee shop that had opened near his office. His voice was low and soothing, and you found yourself relaxing into the couch, into the sound of him, letting the normalcy of it wash over you.

At some point, you shifted closer without really meaning to, drawn to his warmth and his presence. And at some point, his arm slipped from the back of the couch to rest around your shoulders, a gentle weight that made you feel safe and grounded.

"Can I ask you something?" you said during a lull in the conversation.

"Anything."

You hesitated, then forged ahead. "Why did you come get me? I mean, I know we're... we know each other through my brother, but we're not exactly close. You could have just told me to call an Uber or something."

Kento was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was careful. "Do you really not know?"

Your heart started to pound. "Know what?"

He turned to look at you, and the intensity in his eyes made your breath catch. "That I've been half in love with you for the past two years? That every time your brother invites me over and you're there, I have to remind myself that you're off-limits? That when you called me tonight, scared and hurt, the only thing I could think about was getting to you as fast as possible?"

You stared at him, your mind reeling. "You... what?"

"I'm sorry." He started to pull away, his expression shuttering. "I shouldn't have said that. You've been through enough tonight without me adding to it—"

"No." You grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Don't apologize. I just... I had no idea. I thought you barely noticed me."

"I notice everything about you," Kento said quietly. "The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're nervous. The way you light up when you talk about things you're passionate about. The way you're kind to everyone, even when they don't deserve it." His jaw tightened. "The way your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—didn't appreciate any of it."

Your breath hitched. "Kento..."

"I know the timing is terrible," he continued. "And I'm not telling you this because I expect anything from you. I just... I don't want to lie to you. Not about this."

You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the truth of it written in every line of his face. He meant it. He'd been carrying this for years, and you'd never known.

And suddenly, you were very aware of how close you were, of the way his hand was still resting on your shoulder, of the way your body was angled toward his. Of the way your heart was pounding not with fear but with something else entirely.

"The timing is terrible," you agreed, and watched his expression fall slightly. "But I don't care."

His eyes widened. "What?"

"I don't care about the timing." You shifted closer, your hand coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel his heart pounding beneath your palm. "I've had a crush on you since the first time my brother brought you home. I just never thought... I never thought you'd be interested in someone like me."

"Someone like you?" Kento repeated, his voice rough. "You mean someone beautiful and kind and brave? Someone I can't stop thinking about?"

The words sent heat flooding through your body. "I'm not—I'm not beautiful. I'm not—"

"Yes, you are." He cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle but firm. "You're gorgeous. Every single inch of you. And if that bastard made you think otherwise, then he's even more of a fool than I thought."

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at him as he looked at you like you were something precious, something worth cherishing.

"Kento," you whispered. "Kiss me."

For a moment, he didn't move, and you thought maybe you'd misread everything, maybe he didn't actually want—

And then his mouth was on yours, and every thought in your head evaporated.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost tentative, like he was afraid you might break. But when you made a soft sound and pressed closer, his control seemed to slip. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you melted into him with a soft moan.

He tasted like tea and something uniquely him, and the feel of his lips moving against yours sent electricity racing down your spine. You'd been kissed before, but never like this—never with this much care, this much want. Your ex had always kissed you like it was a chore, something to get through on the way to what he actually wanted.

But Kento kissed you like it was a privilege. Like he wanted to savor every second of it.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, and his hands were still cradling your face like you were something delicate.

"We should stop," he said, his voice rough. "You've been through a lot tonight, and I don't want to take advantage—"

"You're not." You grabbed the front of his shirt, holding him in place. "Kento, you're not taking advantage of me. I want this. I want you."

"You're sure?" His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt. "Because we can wait. We can take this slow. I'm not going anywhere."

The certainty in his voice, the promise of it, made your chest ache. But you didn't want to wait. You'd spent the past year in a relationship that made you feel small and unwanted, and now here was Kento, looking at you like you hung the moon, and you wanted to feel that. Wanted to feel wanted.

"I'm sure," you said firmly. "I've never been more sure of anything."

Something in his expression shifted, the careful control giving way to raw desire. "Tell me if you want to stop. At any point. Promise me."

"I promise."

He kissed you again, harder this time, and you responded with equal fervor. Your hands slid up his chest to loop around his neck, and his hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss grew heated and desperate, and when his tongue swept across your lower lip, you opened for him with a gasp.

You were vaguely aware of moving, of Kento standing and pulling you up with him, but you couldn't bring yourself to care about anything except the feel of his mouth on yours and his hands on your body. He walked you backward until your back hit the wall, and then he was pressing against you, letting you feel the hard length of him through his jeans.

"Fuck," he breathed against your lips. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this. Wanted you."

"Show me," you said, your voice coming out breathy and desperate. "Kento, please, show me."

He groaned and captured your mouth again, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh and hitch it up around his hip. The new angle pressed him more firmly against you, and you could feel the hard ridge of his cock through the layers of clothing between you. It sent a bolt of heat straight to your core, and you rolled your hips against him instinctively.

"Christ," Kento hissed, his hips jerking forward. "You're going to kill me."

"Good," you managed, doing it again. The friction was delicious, even through your clothes, and you were already aching for more.

Kento's hand slid under your shirt, his palm warm against your skin, and you arched into his touch. His fingers traced the curve of your waist and your hip, and you could feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

"I want to take my time with you," he said, his voice strained. "Want to worship every inch of you the way you deserve. But right now, I need—"

"I need to," you interrupted, grabbing his hand and guiding it higher, over your ribs, until his palm was cupping your breast through your bra. "Please, Kento. I need you."

He made a sound that was almost a growl and squeezed gently, his thumb finding your nipple through the fabric and circling it until it was a hard peak. The sensation shot straight to your core, and you whimpered, your head falling back against the wall.

"You're so responsive," Kento murmured, his lips finding the curve of your neck. "So perfect. Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

You couldn't form words, and could only gasp as he sucked a mark into the sensitive skin below your ear. His other hand was still gripping your thigh, holding you against him, and you could feel how hard he was, how much he wanted you.

"Kento," you managed. I want—I need—"

"What do you need, sweetheart?" His voice was rough and wrecked. "Tell me. I'll give you anything."

"You," you said desperately. "I need you. Now. Please."

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Here? Against the wall?"

You shook your head, suddenly shy despite everything. "Your car."

His eyebrows rose. "My car?"

"I don't want to wait," you admitted, your cheeks flushing. "I don't want to make it to the bedroom. I just—I need you now."

For a moment, Kento just stared at you, and you thought maybe you'd said the wrong thing, maybe it was too much—

And then he was kissing you again, hard and possessive, and lifting you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, and he carried you toward the door, somehow managing to grab his keys on the way.

The elevator ride down to the parking garage was a blur of heated kisses and wandering hands. You were dimly aware that anyone could have gotten on at any floor and could have seen you wrapped around Kento like you were trying to climb inside him, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

By the time you reached his car, you were both panting. Kento set you down long enough to unlock the back door, and then you were climbing in, pulling him after you. The space was confined and intimate, and the windows were already starting to fog from your combined body heat.

"Come here," Kento said, his voice rough as he settled into the seat and pulled you onto his lap. You straddled him, your knees on either side of his hips, and the position pressed your core directly against the hard length of him. You both groaned at the contact.

"God, you feel so good," you breathed, rolling your hips experimentally. The friction was incredible, even through your clothes, and you could feel yourself getting wetter with every movement.

Kento's hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements. "That's it, sweetheart. Take what you need. Use me."

The words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you ground down harder, chasing the pleasure building in your core. Kento's hands slid under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head, and then his mouth was on your skin, kissing and sucking marks across your collarbone and down to the swell of your breasts.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against your skin. "So fucking beautiful. I could look at you forever."

Your ex had never said things like that. Had never made you feel like your body was something to be appreciated rather than tolerated. But Kento touched you like you were a work of art, like every curve and soft place was exactly what he wanted.

His hands moved to your back, unclasping your bra with practiced ease, and then your breasts were free and he was cupping them, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped and arched into his touch, your hips still rolling against him in a steady rhythm.

"Please," you whimpered. "Kento, please, I need more."

"I know, baby. I know." He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and laving it with his tongue, and you cried out at the sensation. "I'm going to take care of you. Going to make you feel so good."

His hands moved to the button of your jeans, and you lifted up enough for him to push them down your thighs along with your underwear. The cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, but then Kento's hand was between your legs, his fingers sliding through your wetness, and you forgot how to breathe.

"Fuck," he groaned. "You're soaked. Is this all for me?"

"Yes," you gasped as his fingers found your clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure. "Yes, all for you, only for you—"

"Good girl." He slid two fingers inside you, and you moaned at the stretch. "That's my good girl. So wet and ready for me."

You rocked against his hand, chasing the pleasure, and he worked you with expert precision, his fingers curling to hit that spot inside you that made you see stars. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you could feel your orgasm building embarrassingly fast.

"Kento," you whimpered. "I'm going to—I'm close—"

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice rough. "Let me feel you come on my fingers."

His words pushed you over the edge, and you came with a cry, your body clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Kento worked you through it, his fingers never stopping, drawing out your orgasm until you were shaking and oversensitive.

"Beautiful," he murmured, slowly withdrawing his fingers. "You're so beautiful when you come."

You were still catching your breath when you felt him shifting beneath you and heard the sound of his zipper. You looked down and watched as he freed his cock, and your breath caught at the sight of him—thick and hard and already leaking at the tip.

"I want you inside me," you said, your voice shaky with need. "Please, Kento. I need to feel you."

He groaned and gripped your hips, positioning you over him. "Wait. Do you have—I don't have a condom—"

"I don't care," you said quickly. The rational part of your brain knew you should care, knew you should stop and think about this, but you were too far gone. "I'm not on birth control, but I don't care. I want to feel you. All of you."

Kento's eyes darkened, and his grip on your hips tightened. "You're sure? Because once I'm inside you, I don't know if I'll be able to stop. And I'm going to come inside you. Going to fill you up."

The words sent a bolt of heat straight to your core, and you nodded frantically. "Yes. Please. I want that. Want you to fill me up."

"Fuck." He lined himself up with your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. "You're going to be the death of me."

And then he was pulling you down, and you were sinking onto him, and the stretch was so intense you couldn't breathe. He was bigger than your ex, thicker, and the feeling of him filling you was almost overwhelming.

"Breathe," Kento said, his voice strained. "Breathe, sweetheart. You're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly."

You forced yourself to breathe, to relax, and slowly sank down until he was fully seated inside you. You both groaned at the sensation, and for a moment, you just sat there, adjusting to the feeling of him.

"You okay?" Kento asked, his hands gentle on your hips.

"More than okay," you managed. "You feel amazing. So full."

"You feel like heaven," he said roughly. "So tight and wet and perfect. Made for me."

You started to move, lifting up and sinking back down, and the friction was incredible. Kento's hands guided your movements, helping you find a rhythm, and soon you were riding him in earnest, chasing the pleasure building in your core.

"That's it," Kento encouraged, his eyes locked on where you were joined. "Ride me, baby. Take what you need. You look so fucking good like this, taking my cock so well."

His words spurred you on, and you moved faster, harder, your hands braced on his shoulders for leverage. The car rocked with your movements, the windows completely fogged now, and you didn't care who might see or hear. All that mattered was the feeling of Kento inside you, the way he was looking at you like you were everything.

"Touch yourself," Kento commanded. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

You slid one hand down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation made you cry out. You were close, so close, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

"That's it," Kento groaned. "Fuck, you're clenching around me. You're going to come, aren't you? Going to come all over my cock like a good girl."

"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, I'm going to—Kento—"

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, and you came with a scream, your body clenching around him rhythmically. But this time was different—you felt a gush of wetness, felt yourself squirting around his cock, and the sensation was so intense you nearly blacked out.

"Holy fuck," Kento groaned, his hips jerking up into you. "Did you just—fuck, that's so hot. You're so perfect. My perfect girl."

He thrust up into you through your orgasm, prolonging it, and you were vaguely aware that you were making a mess, that you were soaking him and the seat beneath you, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. It felt too good, too intense, too right.

"I'm close," Kento warned, his voice strained. "I'm going to come. Going to fill you up just like I promised. You want that? Want me to come inside you?"

"Yes," you sobbed, still riding the waves of your orgasm. "Please, Kento. Come inside me. Fill me up. I want it. Want all of you."

With a groan, Kento thrust up hard one last time and came, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his release. You could feel the warmth of it, feel him marking you from the inside, and the thought sent another small aftershock of pleasure through you.

"Fuck," Kento breathed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "That was... fuck."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound breathless and giddy. "Yeah. That was... yeah."

For a long moment, you just sat there, still joined, both of you trying to catch your breath. Kento's hands were gentle on your back, stroking up and down your spine, and you felt safe and cherished and utterly satisfied.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "I wasn't too rough?"

"You were perfect," you assured him. "That was perfect. I've never... I didn't know it could be like that."

He pulled back to look at you, his expression serious. "It should always be like that. You should always feel good. Feel wanted." His hand came up to cup your cheek. "You deserve to be worshipped."

Your eyes stung with sudden tears, and you blinked them back. "Kento..."

"I mean it." He kissed you softly, tenderly. "You're incredible. And I'm going to spend as long as you'll let me proving it to you."

You kissed him back, pouring everything you couldn't say into it, and felt him twitch inside you. Your eyes widened. "Are you—"

"Give me a few minutes," he said with a rueful smile. "But yes. I want you again. Want to take you to my bed and take my time with you properly."

Heat flooded through you at the thought. "I want that too."

Carefully, Kento helped you off his lap, and you both winced as he slipped out of you. You could feel his release starting to leak out, and your cheeks flushed at the evidence of what you'd done.

"Don't be embarrassed," Kento said, reading your expression. He reached into the center console and pulled out some tissues, gently cleaning you up. "I love knowing my cum is inside you. Love the thought of you walking around with it dripping down your thighs."

His words sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, and you bit your lip. "You're going to kill me."

"Not before I make you come at least three more times," he promised, helping you back into your clothes. "Come on. Let's go back upstairs. I want you in my bed."

The elevator ride back up was quieter than the ride down, but no less charged. Kento kept his arm around your waist, holding you close, and you leaned into him, feeling boneless and satisfied and eager for more all at once.

Back in his apartment, he locked the door behind you and immediately pulled you into his arms, kissing you slow and deep. This kiss was different from the frantic ones in the car—this one was languid, exploratory, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth.

"Bedroom," he murmured against your lips. "I want you spread out on my bed where I can see all of you."

You let him lead you down the hall to his bedroom, and your breath caught when he flicked on the bedside lamp. The room was simple but elegant, dominated by a large bed with crisp white sheets. The thought of being in that bed with Kento, of letting him do whatever he wanted to you, made your pulse race.

Kento turned to face you, his eyes dark with renewed desire. "Take off your clothes for me. Slowly."

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head. Your bra was already gone, left somewhere in the car, and you watched Kento's eyes darken as he took in your bare breasts.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "Keep going."

You unbuttoned your jeans and pushed them down your hips along with your underwear, stepping out of them until you were completely naked before him. The urge to cover yourself was strong—your ex had never made you feel comfortable being naked, had always made little comments about your weight or your stretch marks—but the way Kento was looking at you made you feel like a goddess.

"Perfect," he said, his voice rough. "You're absolutely perfect. Every single inch of you."

He closed the distance between you and ran his hands over your body, mapping every curve and soft place. His touch was reverent and worshipful, and you found yourself relaxing into it, letting him explore.

"I love your body," he murmured, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "Love how soft you are. How you fit perfectly in my hands." His hands moved lower, over your stomach and your hips. "Love these curves. Love everything about you."

Tears pricked at your eyes again, and you blinked them back. "Kento..."

"Let me show you," he said, guiding you to the bed. "Let me show you how much I want you."

You lay back on the bed, and Kento stood at the foot of it, just looking at you. His gaze was so intense it made you squirm, but you forced yourself to stay still, to let him look his fill.

"Spread your legs for me," he said, his voice low. "I want to see where I was inside you. Want to see my cum leaking out of you."

Your cheeks flushed, but you did as he asked, letting your thighs fall open. You could feel his release still inside you, could feel it starting to drip out, and the look on Kento's face as he watched was almost feral.

"Fuck," he breathed. "That's the hottest thing I've ever seen." He stripped off his own clothes quickly and efficiently, and then he was climbing onto the bed, settling between your thighs. "I'm going to make you come on my tongue, and then I'm going to fuck you again. Going to fill you up even more. Would you like that?"

"Yes," you gasped. "Please."

He didn't waste any time, lowering his head and licking a long stripe up your center. You cried out at the sensation, your hips jerking, and he gripped your thighs to hold you in place.

"Stay still," he commanded. "Let me taste you. Let me taste us together."

The thought of him tasting his own cum mixed with your arousal should have been strange, but instead it was incredibly hot. You forced yourself to stay still as he worked you with his tongue, licking and sucking and driving you slowly out of your mind.

He was methodical about it, learning what made you gasp and what made you moan, adjusting his technique until you were writhing beneath him. When he slid two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that perfect spot, you nearly came off the bed.

"Kento," you whimpered. Please, I'm so close—"

"I know, baby. I can feel you clenching around my fingers." He sucked your clit into his mouth, and that was all it took. You came with a cry, your back arching off the bed, and once again you felt that gush of wetness as you squirted.

Kento groaned against you, not letting up, working you through your orgasm until you were shaking and oversensitive. When he finally pulled back, his face was wet, and he looked absolutely wrecked.

"I could do that all night," he said, his voice rough. "Could spend hours between your thighs making you come."

"Later," you managed. "Right now I need you inside me again."

He didn't need to be told twice. He crawled up your body, settling between your thighs, and you could feel the hard length of him pressing against your entrance.

"You're sure?" he asked, even though you could see how much it cost him to hold back. "We can use protection this time if you want—"

"No," you said firmly, wrapping your legs around his waist. "I want to feel you. I want you to fill me up again. Want to be full of your cum."

Kento groaned and thrust forward, burying himself inside you in one smooth motion. You both gasped at the sensation—you were so sensitive from your orgasms that every inch of him felt magnified, and he was so hard you could feel him throbbing inside you.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, starting to move. "So tight and wet and perfect. Made for my cock."

This time, he set a slower pace, deep and rolling, hitting spots inside you that made you see stars. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, and you could see every flicker of pleasure in his eyes.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmured, punctuating his words with deep thrusts. "Taking me so well. My perfect girl."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, and he responded eagerly, his tongue sliding against yours in the same rhythm as his hips. The intimacy of it, the way he was looking at you like you were everything, made your chest ache.

"Kento," you gasped against his lips. "I want—can I—"

"What do you want, sweetheart?" He slowed his thrusts, giving you time to speak. "Tell me."

"I want to ride you again," you admitted. "Want to be on top."

His eyes darkened, and he pulled out, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him. "Then ride me, baby. Take what you need."

You straddled him, positioning yourself over his cock, and sank down slowly. From this angle, he felt even deeper, and you both groaned as you took him to the hilt.

"That's it," Kento encouraged, his hands on your hips. "Fuck, you look like a goddess like this. Riding my cock so perfectly."

You started to move, finding your rhythm, and Kento's hands roamed over your body—cupping your breasts, gripping your hips, sliding over your stomach. Every touch felt like worship, like he couldn't get enough of you.

"You're so perfect," he said, his voice rough with pleasure. "So fucking perfect. I could watch you like this forever."

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the new angle made you both gasp. You could feel him hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, and the pleasure was building again, faster this time.

"Touch yourself," Kento commanded. "I want to feel you come on my cock again. Want to feel you squeeze me."

You slid one hand down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation made you cry out. You were close, so close, and from the way Kento's hips were starting to jerk up to meet yours, you could tell he was too.

"I'm going to come," you gasped. "Kento, I'm—"

"Come for me," he groaned. "Come on my cock, baby; let me feel it."

Your orgasm crashed over you, and you came with a scream, your body clenching around him rhythmically. And once again, you felt that gush of wetness, felt yourself squirting around his cock, and the sensation was so intense you nearly collapsed.

"Fuck, yes," Kento groaned, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "That's it, baby. Soak my cock. You're so perfect. So fucking perfect."

He thrust up into you hard, once, twice, and then he was coming, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his release. You could feel the warmth of it and feel him marking you again, and the thought made you clench around him, drawing out both of your orgasms.

"God," you breathed, collapsing onto his chest. "That was..."

"Incredible," Kento finished, his arms coming around you. "You're incredible."

You lay there for a long moment, both of you catching your breath, and you could feel his heart pounding beneath your ear. His hands stroked up and down your back, soothing and gentle, and you felt utterly safe and cherished.

"We should probably clean up," Kento said eventually, though he made no move to let you go.

"In a minute," you murmured, not wanting to move. "I'm too comfortable."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Alright. In a minute."

But a minute turned into several, and before long, you felt him starting to harden inside you again. Your eyes widened, and you lifted your head to look at him.

"Again?" you asked, half-laughing.

He grinned, looking almost sheepish. "I can't help it. You feel too good. And the thought of my cum inside you, of potentially getting you pregnant..." He groaned. "It's driving me crazy."

Heat flooded through you at his words. "You want to get me pregnant?"

"I want everything with you," he said seriously. "I want to date you properly, take you out, and introduce you as my girlfriend. But yes, the thought of you around with my baby, of everyone knowing you're mine... fuck, yes, I want that."

Your breath caught. "Kento..."

"Too much?" he asked, searching your face. "I'm sorry, I know we should probably talk about this when we're not—"

"It's not too much," you interrupted. "It's... I want that too. All of it. With you."

His expression softened, and he cupped your face, pulling you down for a tender kiss. "Then let me keep filling you up," he murmured against your lips. "Let me fuck you until you're so full of my cum there's no way you're not pregnant."

You moaned at his words, your body responding immediately. "Yes. Please."

He rolled you over, settling between your thighs again, and this time when he entered you, it was slow and deliberate. He made love to you like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to memorize every gasp and moan, every place that made you shiver.

"I'm going to take care of you," he murmured, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm. "Going to make sure you never doubt how much you're wanted. How much you're loved."

"Loved?" you gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

"Loved," he confirmed, his eyes locked on yours. "I'm in love with you. Have been for a long time. And I'm going to spend every day proving it to you."

Tears spilled down your cheeks, but they were happy tears this time. "I love you too," you whispered. "I think I have for a while. I just didn't let myself believe it could be real."

"It's real," Kento promised, kissing away your tears. "This is real. You and me. I'm not going anywhere."

He made love to you slowly and thoroughly until you were both trembling and desperate. And when you came this time, it was together, your bodies perfectly in sync, and you felt him fill you up once more.

Afterward, he carried you to the bathroom and cleaned you both up gently, pressing kisses to your shoulders and neck as he did. Then he tucked you into his bed, pulling you against his chest, and you felt safer and more content than you had in years.

"Thank you," you murmured sleepily. "For everything. For coming to get me. For making me feel..."

"Wanted?" he supplied softly. "Cherished? Loved?"

"All of that," you agreed. "I didn't know I could feel like this."

"You deserve to feel like this every day," Kento said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "And I'm going to make sure you do."

You snuggled closer to him, feeling his arms tighten around you, and let yourself drift off to sleep. For the first time in a long time, you felt safe. You felt wanted. You felt loved.

And you knew that whatever came next, you'd face it together.

You woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the feeling of Kento's arms still around you. For a moment, you just lay there, savoring the warmth of his body against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

Last night felt like a dream—the fear and panic of escaping your ex, the relief of Kento coming to get you, and then everything that had happened after. The way he'd touched you, the things he'd said, the way he'd made you feel beautiful and wanted and loved.

"Good morning," Kento's voice rumbled beneath your ear, and you tilted your head up to find him watching you with soft eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," you said, and realized you meant it. Despite everything that had happened, despite the bruises on your arm and the uncertainty of what came next, you felt good. "Really good, actually."

He smiled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I'm glad. Are you hungry? I can make us breakfast."

Your stomach chose that moment to growl, and you both laughed. "I guess that's a yes."

"Stay here," Kento said, carefully extracting himself from the bed. "I'll bring you something."

You watched him pull on a pair of sweatpants, admiring the lean muscles of his back and the way the morning light played across his skin. He caught you looking and grinned.

"Like what you see?"

You blushed but didn't look away. "Very much."

His expression heated, and for a moment, you thought he might climb back into bed with you. But then he shook his head, as if clearing it, and headed for the door. "Breakfast first. Then we can discuss... other activities."

You laughed and settled back against the pillows, pulling the sheet up to cover yourself. The room smelled like him—clean and woodsy—and you found yourself breathing it in, feeling content and safe.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, and you reached for it, your heart sinking slightly when you saw several missed calls and texts from your brother. Right. The real world. You'd almost forgotten about it in the bubble of last night.

You opened the messages:

Are you okay? Nanami said you're staying with him.

Call me when you wake up. I'm coming over.

I'm going to kill that bastard.

Love you. Stay safe.

You typed out a quick response: I'm okay. Really. Kento took good care of me. You can come over whenever.

The response was almost immediate: Be there in 20.

You set the phone down and looked up to find Kento standing in the doorway with a tray. "Your brother?"

"He's coming over in twenty minutes," you said. "I hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay. He's worried about you." Kento set the tray on the bed—toast, eggs, fruit, and coffee—and sat down beside you. "But that means we should probably talk about... this. About us. Before he gets here."

Your heart skipped. "Okay."

Kento took your hand, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. "I meant everything I said last night. I'm in love with you, and I want to be with you. But I also know you just got out of a bad relationship, and you might need time to process everything. So I want you to know that there's no pressure. We can take this as slow as you need."

"What if I don't want to take it slow?" you asked softly. "What if I want to jump in with both feet?"

His eyes searched yours. "Are you sure? I don't want you to feel like you have to—"

"I'm sure," you interrupted. "Kento, I've had feelings for you for years. And last night... last night showed me what it's supposed to feel like. To be with someone who actually cares about me. Who makes me feel safe and wanted and loved. I don't want to waste any more time."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Then we won't. But I am going to take you on proper dates. And court you the way you deserve. Even if we're already..." He gestured vaguely at the bed, and you laughed.

"Even if we're already sleeping together and you've come inside me multiple times?" you supplied, feeling bold.

Kento groaned. "You can't say things like that. Your brother is going to be here in fifteen minutes, and if you keep talking like that, I'm going to have to fuck you again."

Heat flooded through you at his words, but you forced yourself to focus on the breakfast tray. "Later," you promised. "After my brother leaves."

"I'm going to hold you to that," Kento said, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Now eat. You need your strength."

You ate breakfast together, talking quietly about mundane things—what you wanted to do that day, whether you needed to go back to your ex's place to get your things (Kento immediately volunteered to go with you, his expression darkening at the thought of you going alone), and what you were going to tell your brother.

"He's going to figure it out," you said, gesturing between the two of you. "That something happened between us."

"Probably," Kento agreed. "How do you feel about that?"

You considered it. Your brother had always been protective of you, and you knew he'd have opinions about you dating his best friend. But you also knew he trusted Kento completely and that he'd want you to be happy.

"I think he'll be okay with it," you said finally. "Eventually. He might be weird about it at first, but... he'll come around."

Kento nodded. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then he'll have to deal with it," you said firmly. "Because I'm not giving you up."

The look Kento gave you was so full of love and pride that it made your chest ache. "That's my girl."

The doorbell rang, and you both jumped. Kento stood and held out his hand. "Come on. Let's go face the music."

You took his hand and let him pull you up, and together you walked to the door. Kento had lent you one of his shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, both of which were too big on you, and you were very aware that you probably looked thoroughly ravished.

Your brother took one look at you when Kento opened the door, and his eyes narrowed. "What—"

"Come in," Kento said calmly, stepping aside. "We should talk."

Your brother walked in slowly, his eyes moving between you and Kento, clearly trying to piece together what had happened. You could see the moment it clicked—the way his eyes widened, the way his jaw dropped.

"Did you two—" He looked at Kento. "Did you sleep with my sister?"

"Yes," Kento said simply. "And I'm in love with her. And I'm going to keep seeing her, with your blessing or without it. But I'd prefer it, because you're my best friend and she's your sister, and I don't want this to come between us."

Your brother stared at him for a long moment, and you held your breath, waiting for the explosion. But instead, he just sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"I should have seen this coming," he muttered. "The way you've been looking at her for the past two years... I just didn't think you'd actually do anything about it."

"I wouldn't have," Kento said. "Not while she was with someone else. But last night, when she called me, when I saw what that bastard had done to her..." His jaw tightened. "I couldn't pretend anymore. And neither could she."

Your brother looked at you. "Are you okay? Really okay?"

"I'm more than okay," you said softly. "I'm happy. Kento makes me happy."

Your brother studied you for a long moment, and then his expression softened. "Okay. Okay, if you're happy, then I'm happy for you." He pointed at Kento. "But if you hurt her, best friend or not, I will end you."

"If I hurt her, I'll let you," Kento said seriously. "But I'm not going to. I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure she knows how loved she is."

Your brother groaned. "God, you're already disgustingly in love, aren't you? This is going to be so weird."

You laughed and threw your arms around him. "Thank you. For understanding. And for trusting him with me."

"I do trust him," your brother said, hugging you back. "He's a good man. Better than that asshole you were with before." He pulled back and looked at you seriously. "Speaking of which, we need to talk about what you're going to do. Are you pressing charges? Do you need to get a restraining order?"

The thought of dealing with your ex made your stomach churn, but you knew your brother was right. You couldn't just pretend it hadn't happened. "I don't know. I need to think about it."

"Whatever you decide, we'll support you," Kento said, coming to stand beside you. "And I'll go with you to get your things from his place. You're not going alone."

"Neither of you are going alone," your brother said firmly. "I'm coming too. Safety in numbers."

You felt a rush of gratitude for both of them, for the way they were rallying around you, making sure you felt protected and supported. "Thank you. Both of you."

Your brother stayed for another hour, and the three of you talked through the logistics of what came next. By the time he left, you had a plan—you'd go to your ex's place tomorrow with both Kento and your brother, get your things, and then you'd stay with Kento for a while until you figured out your next steps.

"You can stay as long as you want," Kento said after your brother left, pulling you into his arms. "Forever, if you want."

"Forever sounds good," you murmured, tilting your head up for a kiss.

He obliged, kissing you slow and deep, and you felt the now-familiar heat starting to build between you. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire.

"Your brother's gone," he said, his voice rough. "Which means I can finally do what I've been wanting to do all morning."

"Oh?" you asked innocently. "And what's that?"

"Take you back to bed and make you scream my name," he said, lifting you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist automatically, and he carried you toward the bedroom. "I believe I promised to fuck you again. And I always keep my promises."

He did. Multiple times. And by the time you finally collapsed, exhausted and satisfied, you knew without a doubt that you'd made the right choice.

Manchester. The concert. The kiss.

Thank you for coming back to me.

You sat up slowly, careful not to wake Caleb, and checked your phone. 9:47 AM. Later than you usually slept, but the jet lag and emotional exhaustion had clearly caught up with you.

The laughter came again, followed by Chris's voice: "Aeko, baby, we don't put syrup on our sister's head. I don't care how funny Lovely thinks it is."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest.

You climbed out of bed, smoothing down Chris's t-shirt and running your fingers through your hair. When you emerged from the bedroom, the scene that greeted you made you stop in your tracks.

Chris's hotel suite had been transformed into what could only be described as controlled chaos. The dining table was covered with breakfast—pancakes, fruit, eggs, bacon, and pastries—and seated around it were all four of Chris's children.

Royalty, the oldest at ten, sat with the poise of someone used to being the responsible one, cutting up fruit for Lovely, who was three and more interested in building a tower with his pancakes than eating them. Aeko, four years old and clearly the instigator, was indeed holding a syrup bottle and grinning mischievously at his father. And there was Caleb's empty chair, waiting for him to wake up.

Chris stood at the head of the table in sweatpants and a white t-shirt, his hair still messy from sleep, looking simultaneously exhausted and radiantly happy.

He looked up and saw you, and his whole face softened.

"Morning, beautiful," he said, and Royalty's head snapped up with interest.

"Is that Caleb's mommy?" she asked, her voice bright with curiosity.

"Yeah, baby girl. This is—" He looked at you, and you saw the question in his eyes. What did he call you? What were you to him?

You saved him by stepping forward with a small wave. "Hi. I'm Caleb's mom. You can call me by my name if you want."

Royalty beamed. "I'm royalty. "That's Aeko, and that's Lovely. Is Caleb still sleeping?"

"He is, but I'm sure he'll be up soon. He's not usually a late sleeper."

"None of them are," Chris said dryly. "Which is why I've been up since seven fielding requests for chocolate chip pancakes and explaining why we can't have ice cream for breakfast."

"Daddy said maybe later," Lovely announced, syrup on his chin.

"Daddy says a lot of things," Royalty said with the world-weariness of an oldest child.

You couldn't help but smile. "Can I help with anything?"

"You can sit down and eat," Chris said firmly. "I've got this under control."

"Do you, though?" you asked, eyeing Aeko, who was now trying to pour syrup directly into his mouth.

Chris lunged forward and intercepted the bottle. "Okay, maybe 'under control' is generous. But I've got it handled. Mostly."

You moved into the kitchen area, poured yourself coffee from the pot Chris had already made, and watched as he managed the beautiful chaos of feeding four children under ten. He was patient, playful, and clearly adored by all of them. Royalty helped without being asked, Aeko tested boundaries with a grin, and Lovely narrated everything he did in a running commentary that was equal parts adorable and exhausting.

"Daddy, I'm eating a pancake. Now I'm eating another bite. Now I'm drinking juice. Daddy, are you watching? Daddy—"

"I see you, baby boy. You're doing great."

It was such a tender, domestic scene that you felt like an intruder. But then Chris looked up and caught your eye, and the warmth in his gaze made it clear you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The bedroom door opened, and Caleb emerged, rubbing his eyes with one fist and clutching his stuffed elephant with the other.

"Mama?" he said sleepily.

"Morning, baby," you said, setting down your coffee and crouching to his level. "Did you sleep good?"

He nodded, then seemed to register where he was. His eyes went wide as he took in the other children, the food, and then—

"Daddy!"

Chris's face lit up like the sun. "There's my boy. You ready for breakfast?"

Caleb nodded enthusiastically and let you lead him to the empty chair. Royalty immediately started talking to him, asking if he liked pancakes and if he wanted to see the drawing she'd made earlier. Caleb, usually shy around new people, responded with surprising enthusiasm.

You stood back, watching your son integrate seamlessly into this group of siblings he barely knew, and felt your throat tighten.

Chris appeared at your elbow, close enough that you could feel his warmth. "You okay?" he murmured.

"Yeah," you managed. "Just... this is a lot."

"Good a lot or bad a lot?"

You looked up at him. "Good. Definitely good."

His hand found yours, fingers threading through yours in a gesture that felt both new and familiar. "I'm glad you're here."

Before you could respond, the suite door opened, and Nia walked in, followed by Ammika, Diamond, and Cassie. They were all dressed casually—leggings, oversized sweaters, comfortable but put-together—and they took in the scene with the practiced ease of women who had done this before.

"Morning, everyone," Nia called, and the kids chorused greetings without looking up from their food.

"Mama, I'm eating pancakes!" Lovely announced to Diamond.

"I see that, baby. Are you sharing with your brother?"

"No."

"Lovely—"

"Okay, fine."

The mothers moved through the space with easy familiarity, pouring coffee, stealing bites of bacon, and kissing their children's heads. You felt suddenly self-conscious in Chris's t-shirt and bare feet, but Ammika caught your eye and smiled.

"Morning. You sleep okay?"

"Yeah, thanks. You?"

"Hotel beds are always weird, but yeah." She glanced at Chris, who was now mediating a dispute between Aeko and Lovely over the last chocolate chip pancake. "He's in his element, huh?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Cassie appeared on your other side, coffee mug in hand. "We're going to step out onto the balcony for a bit. Let Chris have his downtime. You want to join us?"

It wasn't really a question, and you found yourself nodding. You checked on Caleb—he was happily eating pancakes and listening to Royalty explain something with grand hand gestures—and followed the women outside.

The balcony overlooked Manchester's skyline, the morning sun casting everything in soft gold. There were several chairs and a small table, and the mothers settled into them with the ease of long practice.

You took the remaining seat, feeling like you were about to be interviewed.

Nia was the first to speak. "So. How are you feeling about all this?"

You wrapped your hands around your coffee mug. "Honestly? I'm not sure. It's a lot."

"It is," Cassie agreed. "It's weird and complicated, and sometimes I can't believe this is my life. But it works. Somehow."

"We make it work," Diamond corrected. "It doesn't just happen. We all had to decide this was worth the effort."

Ammika nodded. "When I first met everyone, I was terrified. I thought it was going to be this competitive, hostile thing. But Nia—" She gestured to the other woman. "She set the tone. She made it clear we were going to be a family, even if it looked different than what anyone expected."

Nia shrugged, but you could see the pride in her expression. "My daughter deserves to know her siblings. And I wasn't going to let my feelings about Chris—or anyone else—get in the way of that."

"So you all just... decided to get along?" you asked, skeptical despite yourself.

"God, no," Diamond laughed. "There were some rough moments. Still are, sometimes. But we're all here for the same reason—we love our kids, and we want what's best for them. That means showing up, being civil, and sometimes putting our egos aside."

"Plus," Cassie added with a grin, "it helps that Chris actually tries. He's not perfect, but he shows up for his kids. He makes the effort. That makes it easier to work with him."

You thought about Chris inside, managing four children with patience and love, and nodded slowly.

"Can I ask you something?" Nia said, her voice gentle. "What made you come? After two years of keeping your distance?"

You'd known this question was coming, but it still made your chest tight. "I... Caleb deserves to know his father. And his siblings. I was keeping him from that because I was scared."

"Scared of what?" Ammika asked.

"Of this," you admitted. "Of not fitting in. Of being the outsider. Of wanting something I couldn't have."

The women exchanged glances, and Diamond leaned forward. "You're talking about Chris."

It wasn't a question. You nodded anyway.

"He's been different since you left," Nia said carefully. "More... I don't know. Restless. Like he was looking for something he couldn't find."

"He talks about you," Cassie added. "Not all the time, but enough that we noticed. He'd mention something Caleb did, or something you said, and there'd be this look on his face."

"What kind of look?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

Diamond smiled. "The kind of look that says he's not over you. Not even close."

Your heart was pounding. "He said... last night, he said he messed up. That we were always together, just without labels."

"Were you?" Nia asked.

You thought about it—the late-night calls, the way he'd looked at you when Caleb was born, the feeling that you were always waiting for him to come back. "Maybe. I don't know. It felt real, but it also felt temporary. Like I was just another stop on his tour."

"And now?" Ammika prompted.

"Now I don't know what to think. He's saying all the right things, but I'm terrified it's just the moment, that when we go back home and real life kicks in, it'll fall apart."

Cassie reached over and squeezed your hand. "That's a valid fear. But here's the thing—you won't know unless you try. And from what I've seen, Chris is serious about this. About you."

"He arranged for all of us to come to London today," Nia said. "All four mothers, all four kids. Do you know how much coordination that takes? How much does it cost? He did it because he wants his family together. And you're part of that family now."

Tears pricked your eyes. "I don't want to mess this up. For Caleb, or for any of you."

"You won't," Diamond said firmly. "Because you care enough to worry about it. That's what matters."

"And if it helps," Ammika added, "we like you. You're good for him. You make him softer, happier."

"Plus," Nia said with a grin, "Caleb is adorable, and Royalty is already obsessed with being a big sister to him. So you're stuck with us now."

You laughed, wiping at your eyes. "I can think of worse things."

"So can we," Cassie said. "Trust me."

You sat there with them, watching the Manchester skyline and feeling something shift inside you. These women—who had every reason to see you as competition or a threat—had welcomed you instead. They'd made space for you in their complicated, beautiful family.

And maybe, just maybe, you could do this.

Inside, you could hear Chris's voice rising above the children's chatter: "Okay, who wants to go to London?"

The answering chorus of excitement made you smile.

Nia stood, stretching. "That's our cue. Are you ready for a road trip?"

"With four kids under ten?" you asked.

"It's an experience," Diamond said dryly.

"That's one word for it," Ammika added.

But they were all smiling, and when you followed them back inside, Chris's eyes found yours immediately. He was holding Lovely on one hip and had syrup on his shirt, and he'd never looked more attractive.

"We're going to London," he announced. "Everyone in?"

"In!" the kids shouted.

You met his gaze and nodded. "In."

His smile could have lit up the whole city.

The logistics of moving four mothers and four children from Manchester to London were, to put it mildly, chaotic.

Chris had arranged for two luxury SUVs, which meant dividing everyone up strategically. After some negotiation (and Royalty insisting she wanted to ride with Caleb), the groups were decided: Chris drove one vehicle with you, Caleb, Royalty, and Nia, while Ammika drove the other with Diamond, Cassie, Aeko, and Lovely.

"This is going to be a disaster," Nia predicted cheerfully as she helped buckle Royalty into her booster seat.

"Probably," Chris agreed. "But it'll be a fun disaster."

You settled into the passenger seat with Caleb behind you, and as Chris pulled out of the hotel parking garage, you felt the surreal nature of the situation hit you all over again. You were in a car with Chris Brown, your son, his oldest daughter, and his first baby mama, heading to London so you could all watch him perform together.

Your life had gotten very weird very quickly.

"Caleb," Royalty said from the backseat, "do you like Encanto?"

"Yeah!" Caleb said enthusiastically. "We don't talk about Bruno!"

"Oh no," you muttered.

"Oh yes," Nia said, grinning. "Royalty, baby, maybe we save the singing for later—"

But it was too late. Royalty had launched into "We Don't Talk About Bruno" with the confidence of a seasoned performer, and Caleb was attempting to join in despite only knowing about half the words.

Chris glanced at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. "You good?"

"Ask me in two hours," you said, but you were smiling.

The drive to London was long but surprisingly pleasant. The kids entertained each other, Nia kept up a steady stream of conversation that required minimal input from you, and Chris seemed relaxed in a way you hadn't seen before. He sang along with the kids, pointed out landmarks, and kept one hand on the wheel while the other occasionally drifted to rest on the center console near yours.

The third time his pinky brushed against your hand, you turned your palm up. He laced his fingers through yours without looking away from the road, and your heart did that complicated thing again.

In the backseat, Royalty had moved on from Encanto to interviewing Caleb about his favorite things.

"What's your favorite color?"

"Blue!"

"Favorite food?"

"Chicken nuggets!"

"Favorite person?"

"Mama. And Daddy. And you!"

Royalty giggled, clearly delighted. "I like you too, Caleb. We're going to be best friends."

You glanced back to see Caleb beaming, and your throat tightened. He'd never had siblings before. Never had this kind of easy, playful relationship with other kids. You'd deprived him of this for two years because you were scared.

Chris squeezed your hand, and when you looked at him, his expression was understanding. "Hey," he said softly. "You're here now. That's what matters."

"How do you always know what I'm thinking?"

"Because I know you," he said simply. "Better than you think I do."

Nia made a soft sound from the backseat that might have been approval, but when you glanced back, she was looking out the window with a small smile.

By the time you reached London, Caleb had fallen asleep, his head lolling against the car seat. Royalty was drowsy too, humming quietly to herself.

Chris had booked a hotel near the O2 Arena, and the check-in process was surprisingly smooth despite the size of your group. He'd reserved a suite for himself and another for the mothers and kids to use as a home base.

"You're staying with me," he said as the bellhop loaded luggage onto a cart.

It wasn't a question, but you raised an eyebrow anyway. "Am I?"

"Unless you want to share a room with four kids and three other women."

You looked at the mothers, who were already wrangling children toward the elevator. Diamond caught your eye and made a shooing motion.

"Go," she mouthed. "We've got this."

So you followed Chris to his suite, carrying a sleeping Caleb while Chris handled your bags. The room was similar to the Manchester one—luxury and space, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

Chris set up a makeshift bed for Caleb on the couch using extra pillows and blankets, and you laid your son down carefully. He stirred but didn't wake, and you brushed his curls back from his forehead.

When you straightened, Chris was watching you with an expression that made your breath catch.

"What?" you asked.

"You're a really good mom," he said quietly. "I don't tell you that enough."

"You don't tell me that at all," you pointed out, but your voice was soft.

"Then I'm telling you now. You're amazing with him. Patient and loving and everything he needs."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you just nodded.

Chris stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "I'm really glad you're here."

"You said that already."

"I'll probably say it a hundred more times before you leave."

"Chris—"

"I know," he said. "I know you're scared. I know this is complicated. But I meant what I said last night. I want this. I want you. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make it work."

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes. "What if it's not enough? What if we try and it falls apart and Caleb gets hurt?"

"What if we try and it works?" he countered. "What if we build something real? Something that lasts?"

"You make it sound so simple."

"It's not simple," he agreed. "But it's worth it. You're worth it."

He kissed you then, soft and sweet, and you let yourself sink into it. Let yourself believe, just for a moment, that this could work.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. "I have to head to the arena soon for a sound check. You want to come or stay here and rest?"

"I'll come," you said. "Caleb will want to see you before the show."

"And you?" he asked, his lips quirking. "Do you want to see me?"

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "Maybe a little."

"I'll take it."

The O₂ Arena was massive—bigger than Manchester, with an energy that felt almost electric even hours before the show. Chris's team had set up the family lounge similar to the night before, and when you arrived with Caleb, the other mothers and kids were already there.

Lovely was building a tower with blocks, Aeko was coloring with intense concentration, and Royalty was reading a book to a captivated Caleb.

"He's been asking for you," Nia said, nodding toward where Chris was visible through the window, on stage running through a song with his dancers.

"I'll take him down in a bit," you said, settling onto the couch next to Cassie.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

"Good. Tired. Overwhelmed. All of the above."

She laughed. "That sounds about right."

Diamond joined you, Lovely abandoning his blocks to climb into her lap. "So. Tonight's the big show. You ready?"

"Is it different from last night?" you asked.

"London's always bigger," Ammika said. "More energy. Chris feeds off it."

"Plus," Nia added, "tonight he knows you're here. He's going to be showing off."

You felt your cheeks heat. "He doesn't need to show off."

"Oh, honey," Diamond said, grinning. "He absolutely does. And he will."

She wasn't wrong.

When the show started a few hours later, you were in the VIP section with all four mothers and all four kids. Caleb sat on your lap, his noise-canceling headphones on, his eyes wide as he took in the massive stage and the sea of people.

"Daddy!" he shouted, pointing, even though there was no way Chris could hear him.

"Yeah, baby," you said, kissing the top of his head. "That's Daddy."

The show was incredible—even more high-energy than Manchester. Chris moved across the stage with the confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times, his voice strong and clear, his presence magnetic.

But every so often, his eyes would drift to the VIP section. To you.

And when they did, his smile would get a little wider, his performance a little sharper.

"Told you," Nia murmured in your ear. "Showing off."

You couldn't even deny it.

Midway through the show, Chris paused between songs, breathing hard, and addressed the crowd. "London, you've been amazing tonight. I want to take a moment to talk about family."

Your heart skipped.

"I've got four beautiful kids," he continued, and the crowd cheered. "And they're all here tonight, watching me. That means everything. Family means everything."

He looked directly at the VIP section, and even from this distance, you could feel the weight of his gaze.

"So this next song is for them. For my kids, and for the people who make me want to be better every single day."

The opening notes of "Little More (Royalty)" started, and Royalty gasped with delight. Nia wrapped an arm around her daughter, and you saw tears in her eyes.

Caleb didn't understand the significance, but he swayed along to the music, and you held him close, feeling the enormity of this moment.

Chris wasn't just performing. He was making a statement. To the world, to you, to everyone watching.

This was his family. And you were part of it.

By the time the show ended, Caleb was asleep again, and the other kids were drooping with exhaustion. The mothers gathered them up, and you all made your way back to the family lounge to wait for Chris.

He arrived twenty minutes later, still riding the high of the performance, his shirt clinging to him with sweat, his eyes bright.

"Did you see me?" he asked the kids, crouching down to their level.

"You were so cool, Daddy!" Royalty said.

"You sang my song!" Aeko added.

"I liked the dancing," Lovely said seriously.

Chris laughed, kissing each of their heads, and then his eyes found you. "What about you? What did you think?"

"I think you were showing off," you said, but you were smiling.

"Damn right I was." He stood, crossing to you, and despite the fact that you were surrounded by people, he cupped your face and kissed you.

It was quick and chaste, but it still made your heart race.

When he pulled back, the mothers were all grinning.

"Okay," Nia said, clapping her hands. "Kids are exhausted. We're going to head back to the hotel. You two—" She pointed at you and Chris—"do whatever you need to do. We've got the kids tonight."

"Are you sure?" you asked.

"Positive," Cassie said. "Go. Talk. Figure your shit out."

Diamond snorted. "Eloquent."

"But accurate," Ammika added.

Chris looked at you, a question in his eyes. You nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Thank you. All of you."

"Don't thank us yet," Nia said dryly. "You're taking all four kids for breakfast tomorrow."

"Deal."

The mothers herded the children out, and suddenly, you and Chris were alone in the lounge.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. "Come back to the hotel with me?"

"Okay."

The ride back was quiet, both of you lost in your own thoughts. But when you reached the suite and Chris closed the door behind you, the silence felt heavier.

"You want something to drink?" he asked. "Water, wine, something stronger?"

"Water's good."

He poured two glasses and joined you on the couch, sitting close enough that your knees touched.

"Hell of a show," you said.

"Yeah." He took a sip of water, then set the glass down. "I meant what I said up there. About family."

"I know."

"Do you?" He turned to face you fully. "Because I need you to understand—this isn't just about Caleb. It's about you. About us."

Your throat was tight. "Chris, I want to believe that. But I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Of this not being real. Of it being the adrenaline and the moment, and then we go home, and it all falls apart."

He took your hand, threading his fingers through yours. "I can't promise it'll be easy. I can't promise there won't be hard days, or that the distance won't suck, or that we won't have to work our asses off to make this work. But I can promise I'm all in. I'm not going anywhere."

"How do you know?" you whispered.

"Because I've spent two years trying to move on from you, and I can't. Because every time I see Caleb, I see you. Because when you walked into that family lounge in Manchester, it felt like I could finally breathe again."

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and he wiped them away with his thumbs.

"I love you," he said, and your breath caught. "I should have said it two years ago. I should have fought for you instead of letting you walk away. But I'm saying it now. I love you, and I want to build a life with you. A real one."

"Chris—"

"You don't have to say it back," he said quickly. "Not if you're not ready. I just needed you to know."

But the thing was, you were ready. You'd been ready for two years; you'd just been too scared to admit it.

"I love you too," you said, and his eyes widened. "I've loved you since before Caleb was born. I just didn't think I was allowed to."

"Why not?"

"Because you're you. Because I'm just—"

"Don't," he said fiercely. "Don't do that. You're not 'just' anything. You're everything."

He kissed you then, deep and desperate, and you kissed him back with everything you had. It was different from the kisses before—more urgent, more real.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathing hard.

"So what now?" you asked.

"Now we figure it out," he said. "Together. We talk to the other mothers about schedules and visits. We make a plan for how to do this long-distance until we can figure out something more permanent. We take it one day at a time."

"One day at a time," you repeated.

"Starting with tomorrow," he said. "We fly back to the States. All of us. Together."

"You're really flying everyone back together?"

"Yeah. I want to make a statement. I want everyone to know that this—" He gestured between you and me. "—is real. That you and Caleb are part of my family. That I'm serious about this."

You felt tears threaten again. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," you confirmed. "Let's do this."

His smile was blinding. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kissed you again, softer this time, and you let yourself sink into it. Let yourself believe that this could work. That you could build something real and lasting with this man who'd somehow become everything to you.

When you finally went to bed—together this time, curled up in each other's arms—you felt more at peace than you had in two years.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges. But tonight, you had this.

And for now, that was enough.

Monday morning came too quickly.

You woke wrapped in Chris's arms, his breath warm against your neck, and for a moment, you let yourself just exist in the peace of it. But reality was waiting, and you couldn't hide from it forever.

"We should get up," you murmured.

Chris groaned, tightening his hold on you. "Five more minutes."

"We have to pack and check on Caleb."

"He's with the others. He's fine."

"Chris—"

"Okay, okay." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and reluctantly let you go. "But for the record, I could stay in this bed with you all day."

"Noted," you said, smiling despite yourself.

You showered and dressed, and by the time you made it to the other suite, it was controlled chaos. The mothers were packing up the kids' things, the kids were running around with the manic energy of children who'd had too much sugar and not enough sleep, and there was a general sense of organized pandemonium.

Caleb spotted you and ran over, crashing into your legs. "Mama! We're going on a plane!"

"I know, baby. Are you excited?"

"Yeah! Royalty says planes have clouds!"

You glanced at Royalty, who shrugged. "He asked if we'd be close to the clouds. I said yes."

"Technically accurate," Nia said, zipping up a suitcase.

You moved to help, folding clothes and organizing toys, and fell into an easy rhythm with the other women. It struck you how natural this felt—how quickly you'd been integrated into their system.

"So," Diamond said as she wrestled Lovely into a clean shirt. "Chris told us he's arranging for everyone to fly back together."

"He mentioned that," you said carefully.

"It's a big deal," Ammika added. "He's never done anything like this before."

"He's making a statement," Cassie said, meeting your eyes. "About you. About this family."

You felt your cheeks heat. "I know."

"Good," Nia said. "Because we're all in on this. We want it to work."

"Why?" you asked before you could stop yourself. "Why do you care?"

The women exchanged glances, and it was Diamond who answered. "Because we've all been where you are. Scared, uncertain, wondering if we're making the right choice. And we've all decided that our kids are worth the effort. That this weird, complicated family we've built is worth protecting."

"Plus," Ammika added with a grin, "Chris is happier with you around. And a happy Chris is easier to co-parent with."

You laughed despite yourself. "Glad I could help."

"But seriously," Nia said, her voice gentle. "We're here for you. If you need advice, or just someone to vent to, or help figuring out logistics—we've got you."

Your throat tightened. "Thank you. Really."

"Don't thank us yet," Cassie said. "Wait until you've survived your first holiday with all of us."

"Oh God," you said. "I didn't even think about holidays."

"One crisis at a time," Diamond advised.

The flight back to the States was surreal. Chris had chartered a private plane, which meant there was enough space for everyone to spread out. The kids were thrilled, running up and down the aisle until the mothers corralled them into seats.

You sat with Chris and Caleb, watching as your son pressed his face to the window and narrated everything he saw.

"Clouds, Daddy! So many clouds!"

"I see them, buddy," Chris said, his hand resting on your knee.

Across the aisle, Nia caught your eye and smiled. Behind you, you could hear Diamond and Cassie debating the best way to handle Lovely's upcoming birthday party. Ammika was reading to Aeko, her voice soft and soothing.

It felt like family.

Midway through the flight, after Caleb had fallen asleep, Nia leaned across the aisle. "Can we talk logistics for a second?"

"Sure," you said.

She pulled out her phone, and soon the other mothers had gathered around, creating an impromptu planning session.

"Okay," Nia said. "So Chris's schedule is insane for the next few months. But he's committed to seeing the kids regularly. We usually coordinate visits so he can see everyone when he's in town."

"Where are you based?" Ammika asked you.

You told them, and Cassie nodded. "That's not too far from me. We could coordinate playdates. Let the kids see each other even when Chris isn't around."

"I'd love that," you said, meaning it.

"We have a group chat," Diamond said, pulling out her phone. "For coordinating schedules and sharing updates. I'm adding you."

Your phone buzzed a moment later with a notification. You'd been added to a group called "Chris's Baby Mamas + Kids."

You snorted. "Really?"

"Nia named it," Cassie said.

"And I stand by it," Nia said unapologetically.

Over the next hour, you worked out a tentative schedule. Chris would visit you and Caleb in two weeks. The following month, you'd bring Caleb to meet up with the other kids for a weekend. There was talk of a group trip to Disneyland, of coordinating holidays, of making sure all the kids stayed connected.

It was overwhelming and complicated and absolutely necessary.

"This is a lot," you admitted.

"It is," Nia agreed. "But it gets easier. And you're not doing it alone."

"None of us are," Ammika added.

By the time the plane landed, you had a plan. It wasn't perfect, and you knew there would be adjustments and challenges, but it was a start.

Chris helped you gather your things, and as you prepared to disembark, he pulled you aside.

"I'm going to miss you," he said quietly.

"I'll see you in two weeks."

"I know. But that feels like forever."

You smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek. "We'll make it work."

"Yeah," he said, covering your hand with his. "We will."

He kissed you, soft and sweet, and you let yourself sink into it one more time before reality fully reasserted itself.

When you pulled apart, Caleb was tugging on your hand. "Mama, can we go home now?"

"Yeah, baby. We can go home."

Two weeks later, you were in your kitchen making dinner when the doorbell rang.

Caleb, who'd been coloring at the table, jumped up with a shriek. "Daddy!"

You'd told him Chris was coming, but the excitement clearly hadn't worn off. You followed your son to the door, and when you opened it, Chris was standing there with a duffel bag and a smile that made your heart skip.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself."

Caleb launched himself at Chris, who caught him easily and swung him up into his arms. "Hey, buddy! I missed you!"

"I missed you too! Mama made spaghetti!"

"My favorite," Chris said, meeting your eyes over Caleb's head.

You stepped aside to let him in, and as he crossed the threshold into your home—your space—it felt significant. Like a line being crossed, a new chapter beginning.

Dinner was chaotic and perfect. Caleb talked nonstop, showing Chris his drawings and his toys and everything he'd done in the past two weeks. Chris listened with genuine interest, asking questions and laughing at Caleb's stories.

After dinner, you put Caleb to bed together, and when you emerged from his room, Chris was waiting in the hallway.

"Your place is nice," he said.

"It's small," you said. "But it's home."

"It feels like you," he said, and somehow, that felt like the highest compliment.

You made tea and settled on the couch, and for a while, you just talked. About his tour, about your students, about Caleb's latest obsession with dinosaurs. It was easy and comfortable and everything you'd been afraid to hope for.

"I've been thinking," Chris said eventually. "About the future."

Your heart skipped. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I know we're taking this slow, and I respect that. But I want you to know—I'm in this for the long haul. I want to build something real with you. A life."

"What does that look like?" you asked.

"I don't know yet," he admitted. "But I think we figure it out together. Maybe eventually you and Caleb move closer to me. Or I spend more time here. Or we find some middle ground. But whatever it is, we do it together."

You took his hand, threading your fingers through his. "Together sounds good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kissed you then, and it felt like a promise. Like the beginning of something that could last.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. "I love you."

"I love you too," you said, and meant it with everything you had.

Outside, the world kept turning. There would be challenges ahead—distance and schedules and the complications of blending a family that was already complicated. But sitting there with Chris, his hand in yours, you felt something you hadn't felt in two years.

Hope.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to build on.

Three months later, you were at the airport again. But this time, you weren't traveling alone.

Chris had arranged for all four mothers and all four kids to meet up in Los Angeles for a long weekend. It was ambitious and probably a little crazy, but everyone had agreed it was important.

The kids needed to see each other. The mothers needed to stay connected. And you and Chris needed to prove that this could work.

When you arrived at the rental house Chris had booked—a sprawling place with enough bedrooms for everyone and a backyard with a pool—the chaos was immediate and wonderful.

The kids ran shrieking through the house, claiming bedrooms and exploring every corner. The mothers settled into the kitchen, unpacking groceries and catching up.

And Chris pulled you aside, into a quiet corner, and kissed you like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it.

"I'm glad you're here," he murmured against your lips.

"You always say that," you teased.

"Because it's always true."

That weekend was a blur of pool time and meals around a too-small table and bedtime routines that involved four adults wrangling four exhausted children. It was chaotic and messy and absolutely perfect.

On the last night, after the kids were asleep, the adults gathered on the back patio. Someone had opened wine, and the conversation flowed easily.

"I can't believe we pulled this off," Diamond said, shaking her head.

"We're basically superheroes," Cassie agreed.

"Or insane," Ammika added. "Could go either way."

Nia raised her glass. "To insane superheroes, then."

Everyone laughed and clinked glasses, and you felt a swell of affection for these women who'd become your friends, your support system, your family.

Chris's hand found yours under the table, and when you looked at him, his eyes were soft.

"What are you thinking?" you asked quietly.

"That I'm the luckiest man alive," he said. "I've got four incredible kids, four amazing women who've made co-parenting work, and you."

"Me?"

"You," he confirmed. "The love of my life."

Your breath caught. " Chris—"

"I mean it," he said. "I know we're still figuring things out. I know it's complicated. But I've never been more sure of anything."

You leaned in and kissed him, not caring that the others were watching. When you pulled back, Nia was grinning.

"About damn time," she said.

"Agreed," Diamond added.

You laughed, feeling lighter than you had in years.

Later, when everyone had gone to bed and the house was quiet, you and Chris stood in the backyard, looking up at the stars.

"You think we can really do this?" you asked. "Make this work long-term?"

"I know we can," he said. "Because we're not doing it alone. We've got help. We've got support. And we've got each other."

You leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around you.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you too," he replied. "Always."

And standing there under the stars, surrounded by the family you'd built together—complicated and unconventional and absolutely perfect—you believed him.

This was your life now. Your family. Your future.

And you wouldn't change a single thing.

"Mama, big!" Caleb's voice was filled with wonder as he tilted his head back, his brown eyes—so much like his father's—wide with amazement.

"Yeah, baby. Really big," you murmured, your own voice barely steady.

The air smelled of rain-soaked concrete and the faint sweetness of street vendor food—roasted nuts and something sugary you couldn't quite place. Around you, the city hummed with pre-concert energy. Fans were already gathering, their excited chatter creating a buzz that made your stomach flip with a mixture of anticipation and nerves.

You'd been standing here for three minutes now, frozen on the sidewalk like a woman on the edge of a cliff, trying to convince herself to jump.

What are you doing?

The question had plagued you for the entire eight-hour flight from Los Angeles, through the cramped economy seats (you'd refused Chris's offer to upgrade you—pride was a funny thing), through Caleb's restless sleep against your shoulder, through customs and the taxi ride to the hotel and the two hours you'd spent getting both of you ready.

What are you doing, showing up here unannounced?

Your phone buzzed in your purse. You didn't need to check it to know it was probably one of the other mothers—they'd been texting all day, excited that you were actually coming, that you'd finally accepted one of their many invitations to join them at a show.

You'd been the ghost in their group chat for two years. The quiet one. The one who sent polite responses and heart emojis but never actually showed up to anything. Birthday parties for the kids, casual meetups, the few times they'd all gathered to celebrate something Chris-related—you'd always had an excuse.

I have to work. Caleb has a cold. It's too far. Maybe next time.

The truth was simpler and more complicated than any excuse: seeing Chris hurt. Being reminded of what you'd had and lost hurt. Watching him be present for your son in short, scheduled bursts hurt. And the idea of standing among the other women who'd loved him, who'd created life with him, who occupied the same strange, fractured space in his world that you did—that hurt most of all.

But three weeks ago, Nia—Chris's first baby mama, mother to his oldest daughter Royalty—had sent you a voice message instead of a text.

"Girl, I know you're gonna say no, but I'm asking anyway. We're all flying out to the UK for the Manchester and London shows. All the kids are coming. It's gonna be like a whole family thing, and Chris is really excited about it. I know things are... complicated between you two, but Caleb should see his daddy perform. He's two now—he'll actually remember this. And honestly? We miss you. You're part of this family whether you show up or not, but we'd really love it if you did. Think about it, okay? No pressure. But... think about it."

You'd listened to that message seventeen times.

And now here you were, across an ocean, holding your baby's hand, about to walk into the belly of the beast.

"Okay," you whispered to yourself, squeezing Caleb's hand gently. "Okay. We can do this."

You smoothed down the front of your outfit—a soft, burnt orange sweater that draped beautifully over your curves, paired with dark jeans that fit you perfectly and made you feel confident. You'd spent an embarrassing amount of time choosing this outfit, wanting to look good but not like you were trying to look good. Your hair was pulled back in a low bun, a few curls framing your face, and you'd kept your makeup simple: a little foundation to even out your brown skin, mascara, a touch of bronze on your lids, and a nude-brown lip.

Casual. Comfortable. Confident.

Fake it till you make it.

"Come on, baby boy," you said, injecting brightness into your voice for Caleb's sake. "Let's go see Daddy."

Caleb's face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds. "Dada!"

Your heart clenched. He hadn't seen Chris in person for almost two months—FaceTime calls and video messages could only do so much. Chris's tour schedule had been relentless, and your teaching job didn't allow for the flexibility to just fly out whenever. You'd made it work, the way you always did, but you could see how much Caleb missed his father in the way he rewatched videos of Chris on your phone, in the way he slept with the stuffed bear Chris had sent him, in the way he asked about "Dada" every single day.

That was why you were here, you reminded yourself. For Caleb. This was about giving your son a memory, a moment with his father that would stay with him.

Just for Caleb.

You approached the VIP entrance, your credentials—sent by Chris's assistant, though he didn't know you'd actually be using them—clutched in your free hand. The security guard, a tall white man with kind eyes, checked your passes and smiled down at Caleb.

"Someone's excited," he said warmly.

"He's going to see his dad perform," you explained, and saying it out loud made it feel real in a way it hadn't before.

"Lucky lad. Enjoy the show."

And just like that, you were inside.

The backstage area was a controlled chaos of people with headsets and clipboards, rushing with purpose through hallways that smelled of industrial cleaning products and, faintly, of cologne and hairspray. Someone—a young woman with a bright smile and a "PRODUCTION" badge—intercepted you almost immediately.

"You must be Caleb's mom!" she said warmly. "We've been expecting you. Well, they've been expecting you. Follow me—the family lounge is this way."

Your pulse quickened. They've been expecting you. The other mothers. The women you'd been avoiding for two years, who'd somehow still welcomed you into their fold with a grace you weren't sure you deserved.

You followed the production assistant through a maze of corridors, Caleb trotting beside you, his little sneakers lighting up with each step. He was babbling now, a stream of toddler consciousness about planes and clouds and "Dada sing."

"He's adorable," the production assistant said over her shoulder. "How old?"

"Two. Just turned two last month."

"The terrible twos treating you okay?"

You laughed, and it sounded almost natural. "Some days better than others."

She led you to a door marked "FAMILY LOUNGE - PRIVATE" and knocked twice before pushing it open.

The room beyond was spacious and comfortable, designed to be a haven away from the chaos of the arena. Plush couches lined the walls, a catering table was laden with food and drinks, and a play area had been set up in one corner with toys and cushions. Large monitors on the wall showed different camera angles of the stage, currently empty as the crew did final sound checks.

And there, scattered across the couches and standing in small clusters, were the women you'd only ever really known through phone screens.

Four faces turned toward you as you entered, and for a moment, time seemed to suspend itself.

Nia was the first to move. Chris's first baby mama rose from the couch with the grace of someone completely comfortable in her own skin, her long braids swaying as she crossed the room. She was beautiful—she'd always been beautiful—with warm brown skin, high cheekbones, and a smile that could disarm anyone.

"Oh my God, you actually came!" Nia's voice was full of genuine delight as she pulled you into a hug before you could even think to prepare for it.

You stiffened for just a second—physical affection from near-strangers had never been your strong suit—but then you let yourself relax into it. She smelled like cocoa butter and vanilla, and her embrace was warm and welcoming.

"I can't believe you're here," she said, pulling back to look at you, her hands still on your shoulders. "And you brought this handsome man!"

She crouched down to Caleb's level, her smile widening. "Hi, Caleb! Do you remember me? I'm Royalty's mama."

Caleb, suddenly shy, pressed himself against your leg, peeking at Nia from behind the safety of your body.

"He's a little overwhelmed," you said softly, your hand automatically going to his head, fingers threading through his soft curls. "It's a lot of new people."

"Of course it is, baby," Nia said gently, straightening up. "No pressure. He'll warm up when he's ready."

The other women had approached now, and you felt the weight of their attention like a physical thing.

Ammika—mother to Chris's son Aeko—was stunning in person, even more so than in photos. Thai-German, with striking features and an effortless style that made her look like she'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine even in casual clothes. She gave you a warm smile.

"It's so good to finally meet you in person," she said, her voice soft and genuine. "We were starting to think you were a myth."

You managed a small laugh. "No, just... really good at avoiding things."

"Well, we're glad you stopped avoiding us," said Diamond—mother to Chris's son Lovely. She was petite and pretty, with box braids pulled into a high ponytail and an easy, friendly energy. "Seriously. The group chat isn't the same without you actually being in it, you know?"

The fourth woman stepped forward, and you recognized her immediately: Cassie, mother to Chris's daughter Royalty's half-sister. She had a quiet elegance about her, and when she smiled at you, it was with understanding.

"I know this is probably weird," she said simply. "It's okay if it's weird. It's kind of weird for all of us sometimes."

And just like that, something in your chest loosened.

"It's definitely weird," you admitted, and the honesty felt good. "But... thank you. For inviting me. For wanting me here."

"Girl, please," Nia said, waving a hand dismissively. "You're Caleb's mama. That makes you family. Period. Now come sit down, take a breath, and let us introduce you to the chaos."

She gestured to the play area, where several children were engaged in various activities. A little girl who had to be Royalty—you'd recognize her anywhere from the photos—was carefully building a tower of blocks. Two boys were racing toy cars across the carpet, and a toddler girl was contentedly chewing on a stuffed animal.

"Royalty, Aeko, Lovely, and baby girl makes four," Nia narrated. "Plus your Caleb makes five. It's a whole production."

"Literally," Diamond added with a laugh. "Chris keeps saying he's gonna need a tour bus just for the kids soon."

You found yourself being guided to a couch, Caleb still attached to your side like a barnacle. Someone—Ammika—pressed a bottle of water into your hand, and someone else—Diamond—was already asking Caleb if he wanted to see the cool toys in the corner.

Your son looked up at you, uncertain, and you gave him an encouraging nod. "It's okay, baby. You can go play."

He hesitated for another moment, then toddled off toward the play area, immediately gravitating toward the toy cars. Within seconds, one of the boys—Aeko, you thought—had handed him a blue race car, and just like that, your son was absorbed.

"So," Nia said, settling onto the couch beside you, "how was the flight? Did he do okay?"

And that was how it started. Not with awkwardness or tension, but with the simple, universal language of mothers talking about their children.

You told them about Caleb's fascination with the airplane window, about the snacks you'd packed, about the minor meltdown in Heathrow when he'd dropped his favorite toy and you'd had to backtrack through the terminal to find it. They laughed and nodded and shared their own travel horror stories—Ammika's tale of Aeko's explosive diaper mid-flight had everyone in stitches.

The conversation flowed easier than you'd expected. They asked about your job—teaching high school English—and seemed genuinely interested when you talked about your students. Diamond was fascinated that you worked with teenagers.

"Girl, I could never," she said, shaking her head. "I can barely handle one toddler. A whole classroom of teenagers? You're a saint."

"Or a masochist," you said with a small smile, and they laughed.

"Both," Cassie said wisely. "Definitely both."

As the minutes passed, you felt yourself relaxing incrementally. These women weren't what you'd feared. There was no cattiness, no competition, no judgment. They were just... mothers. Women navigating the same complicated situation you were, trying to do right by their kids while co-parenting with a man whose life existed on a scale most people couldn't fathom.

"Can I ask you something?" Ammika said after a while, her voice gentle. "And you can totally tell me to mind my business."

You tensed slightly but nodded. "Sure."

"Why did you stay away so long? Like, really. We've been trying to get you to come to stuff for two years."

The room got quieter. Not uncomfortably so, but you could feel their attention focusing on you, curious and non-judgmental.

You looked down at your hands, twisting the water bottle cap between your fingers.

"I guess..." you started, then stopped. How did you explain it without sounding pathetic? Without revealing too much? "I guess I didn't know where I fit. In all of this. Chris and I... we were never really together-together, you know? It was complicated. And then I got pregnant, and it got more complicated. And I just... I didn't know how to be around all of you without feeling like I was intruding on something."

"Intruding?" Nia's voice was incredulous. "Girl, you have a whole child with him. You're not intruding on anything."

"I know that logically," you said quietly. "But emotionally? It's different. You all seem so comfortable with each other, so... I don't know. Together. And I'm just the quiet one who never shows up."

"You're the quiet one who's here now," Cassie said softly. "That's what matters."

Diamond leaned forward, her expression earnest. "Look, I get it. This whole situation is weird as hell. Like, objectively, it's insane that we're all sitting here, co-parenting with the same man, and somehow we've become friends. But that's exactly why it works—because we decided to make it work. For the kids, yeah, but also for us. Because this is our reality, and we can either make it miserable or make it family."

"And we chose family," Nia added. "Which includes you, whether you're here in person or just in the group chat. But I gotta say, having you here in person is pretty damn nice."

You felt your eyes prickle with unexpected emotion. You blinked rapidly, willing yourself not to cry.

"Thank you," you managed. "Really. I didn't expect... this."

"What, basic human decency?" Ammika teased gently. "Girl, the bar is on the floor."

That startled a laugh out of you, and the tension broke completely.

"Okay, real talk though," Diamond said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Does Chris know you're here?"

Your stomach dropped. "No. I wanted it to be a surprise. For Caleb."

The women exchanged looks—knowing, amused looks that made you nervous.

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing," Nia said, but she was smiling. "Just... he's gonna lose his whole mind when he sees you."

"It's not like that," you said quickly. "We're not... we're just co-parenting."

"Mm-hmm," Diamond hummed, completely unconvinced.

"We are!"

"Sure, honey," Cassie said, patting your knee. "Whatever you say."

Before you could protest further, one of the monitors on the wall flickered to life, showing the stage from a new angle. The crew was clearing out, which meant the show would be starting soon.

"Oh shit, it's almost time!" Nia jumped up. "Okay, kids, we need to get ready to head to our seats!"

The room erupted into organized chaos as the mothers gathered their children, checked bags for snacks and sippy cups, and made sure everyone had what they needed. You stood, automatically scanning for Caleb, and found him still playing with the cars, completely content.

"Caleb, baby, we need to get ready," you called.

He looked up, his little face scrunched in concentration. "More play?"

"We're going to see Daddy perform, remember? On the big stage?"

His eyes went wide. "Dada sing!"

"Yeah, baby. Dada's gonna sing."

He abandoned the cars immediately and ran to you, crashing into your legs with the full force of toddler enthusiasm. You scooped him up, settling him on your hip, and he immediately wrapped his arms around your neck.

"You good?" Nia appeared at your elbow, her own daughter Royalty holding her hand.

"Yeah," you said, and meant it. "I'm good."

"Come on, then. Let's go watch your baby daddy put on a show."

The way she said it—casual, teasing, without any edge—made you smile despite yourself.

The production assistant from earlier reappeared to escort your group to the VIP section. As you walked through the corridors, you could hear the roar of the crowd already assembled in the arena, a sound like ocean waves crashing against shore. The energy was palpable, electric, and it made your skin prickle with anticipation.

Caleb was wide-eyed and alert now, his head swiveling to take in everything. "Loud, Mama."

"I know, baby. It's gonna get louder, too. You okay?"

He nodded, but you could feel the way he pressed closer to you, seeking comfort in the familiar.

The VIP section was positioned stage left, elevated enough to have a perfect view but separated from the general crowd by barriers and security. The seats were plush, the area spacious enough that the kids could move around if needed. As you settled into your seat with Caleb on your lap, you looked out at the sea of people filling the arena.

Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. All here for him.

For Chris.

Your ex. Your son's father. The man you'd loved and lost and never quite gotten over, though you'd never admit that out loud.

The lights dimmed, and the crowd's roar intensified to a deafening level. Caleb's hands flew to his ears, and you quickly grabbed the child-sized noise-canceling headphones you'd packed specifically for this moment, sliding them over his head.

"Better?" you asked, and he nodded, his eyes huge.

The stage exploded with light and sound, and then there he was.

Chris.

Even from a distance, even as one figure among the dancers and the pyrotechnics and the massive LED screens, he commanded attention. He moved across the stage with the confidence of someone who'd been performing since childhood, his voice strong and clear as it filled the arena.

Your breath caught.

You'd seen him perform before, of course. In the early days, when you'd first met, when things between you had been new and exciting and uncomplicated. But that was years ago, and you'd forgotten the sheer magnetism of him on stage, the way he seemed to grow larger than life under the lights.

Caleb was transfixed, his mouth hanging open as he watched his father dance and sing. "Dada," he whispered, even though Chris couldn't possibly hear him.

"Yeah, baby," you murmured. "That's your dada."

Beside you, the other mothers were equally absorbed, though they'd seen this countless times before. Nia was recording on her phone, probably for Royalty to watch later. Diamond was singing along, knowing every word. Ammika was swaying to the music, Aeko drowsy in her arms.

And you... you were trying very hard not to feel everything you were feeling.

Pride, because he was incredible and he was the father of your child.

Nostalgia, because watching him brought back memories of late nights and whispered conversations and the way he used to look at you like you were the only person in the room.

Longing, because some part of you—the part you kept locked away and refused to acknowledge—still wanted him in ways that went beyond co-parenting.

And fear, because he didn't know you were here, and when he found out...

What would happen when he found out?

The concert continued, song after song, each one met with screams and applause. Chris was in his element, feeding off the crowd's energy, giving them everything they wanted and more. He was playful and sexy and commanding, and you couldn't look away.

Caleb lasted about forty-five minutes before he started to get restless, squirming in your lap. You'd expected this—two-year-olds weren't known for their attention spans—and you'd come prepared with snacks and quiet toys. But he was getting tired, you could tell, the excitement and the late hour (it was past his bedtime by several hours) catching up with him.

"You want to go back to the lounge for a bit?" you asked him quietly.

He nodded, rubbing his eyes.

You caught Nia's attention and mouthed, "Taking him back," gesturing to Caleb. She nodded understanding and gave you a thumbs up.

Carefully, you stood, settling Caleb on your hip, and made your way out of the VIP section. Security let you pass without question—your credentials were clearly marked—and you retraced your steps back to the family lounge.

The room was empty now, quiet and cool after the heat and noise of the arena. You could still hear the concert, muffled through the walls, but it was manageable. Caleb immediately perked up a bit, the overstimulation easing.

"Better?" you asked.

"Yeah," he said, then, "Hungry."

Of course he was. You settled him on the couch and raided the catering table, finding crackers and cheese and apple slices—safe, easy toddler food. He ate mechanically, his eyes drooping, and you knew he'd be asleep within the hour.

You pulled out your phone, intending to text Nia that you were fine and would rejoin them later, but your thumb hovered over the screen.

You had a text. From Chris.

Your heart stopped.

Chris: You watching the show?

It was sent twenty minutes ago. You stared at it, your mind racing. He sometimes texted during shows—quick messages during costume changes or brief breaks. But why was he asking if you were watching?

Did he know?

No. He couldn't know. You'd been careful, and the VIP section was far enough away that he wouldn't have been able to pick you out in the crowd, especially with the stage lights in his eyes.

You typed back, keeping it casual.

You: Caught some of it. You're killing it, as always.

The response was almost immediate.

Chris: Thanks, baby. Wish you could be here.

Your throat tightened. He called you that sometimes—baby—even though you weren't together, even though it complicated things. You'd never asked him to stop because some pathetic part of you liked it.

You: I'm sure you've got plenty of people there cheering you on.

Chris: Not the same. Miss you. Miss Caleb.

You: He misses you too. Asks about you every day.

Chris: FaceTime tomorrow? I know the time difference is shit but I wanna see his face.

You looked at your son, currently shoving cheese into his mouth with the determination of someone who'd discovered the meaning of life.

You: Yeah. Tomorrow.

Chris: You good? You seem off.

Perceptive, even through text. That was Chris—he'd always been able to read you better than you wanted him to.

You: I'm fine. Just tired. Long day at work.

Chris: Get some rest. Take care of yourself.

You: You too. Don't overdo it.

Chris: Yes ma'am. 😏

You put your phone down, your hands shaking slightly.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd want to FaceTime, and you'd have to tell him you were in the UK, that you'd surprised him, that you'd been at his show. Or maybe you'd tell him tonight, after the concert, when he came back to the lounge and found you here.

Either way, the secret wouldn't last much longer.

Caleb finished eating and crawled into your lap, his head resting against your chest. You wrapped your arms around him, breathing in the scent of his baby shampoo and the lingering smell of airplane and new places.

"You did so good tonight, baby boy," you whispered. "Daddy's gonna be so happy you came to see him."

"Dada," Caleb mumbled, already half-asleep.

"Yeah. Dada."

You sat there in the quiet lounge, holding your son, listening to the muffled sounds of Chris's voice echoing through the arena, and tried to prepare yourself for what came next.

The concert ended with a spectacular finale—you could hear the crowd's roar even from the lounge, a wall of sound that seemed to shake the building. Caleb was fully asleep now, dead weight in your arms, his mouth slightly open and his breathing deep and even.

You'd moved him to one of the couches, laying him down carefully and covering him with your jacket. He didn't stir. The kid could sleep through anything when he was truly out.

The door to the lounge burst open, and the other mothers flooded in, their children in various states of wakefulness. The energy was high, everyone talking over each other about the show, about Chris's performance, about the moment he'd brought a fan on stage.

"Girl, where did you go?" Nia asked, spotting you. "You missed the best part!"

"Caleb needed a break," you explained. "Too much stimulation. He's out now."

She looked at your sleeping son and smiled. "He's precious. Looks just like his daddy."

"Don't remind me," you said, but there was no heat in it.

The women settled in, their children gravitating back to the play area or curling up on couches like Caleb. Someone turned on one of the monitors, which was now showing a replay of the concert from different angles.

"So," Diamond said, dropping onto the couch beside you with a knowing look. "You ready?"

"Ready for what?"

"For Chris to come back here and find out you're here."

Your stomach flipped. "He's coming here?"

"He always comes to the family lounge after shows when we're here," Ammika explained. "Likes to see the kids before they go back to the hotel, even if it's just for a few minutes."

"Oh God," you breathed.

"Oh God is right," Nia said, grinning. "This is gonna be good."

"It's not—we're not—" you started, but Cassie cut you off.

"Honey, we have eyes. We've seen the way he talks about you in the group chat with us. We've heard the way his voice changes when someone mentions you. Whatever you two are or aren't, there's something there."

"We're co-parenting," you insisted weakly.

"Sure," Diamond said. "And I'm the Queen of England."

Before you could respond, the door opened again.

And there he was.

Chris.

He was in a post-show state—hair slightly damp with sweat, a towel around his neck, still in his performance outfit though he'd thrown a hoodie over it. His face was flushed from exertion, his eyes bright with the adrenaline that always followed a good show.

He was looking down at his phone as he entered, saying something to someone behind him—probably his assistant or manager. He hadn't looked up yet, hadn't seen the room.

"Daddy!" Royalty's voice rang out, and she launched herself at him.

Chris's face transformed into pure joy as he caught her, lifting her up and spinning her around. "There's my princess! Did you like the show?"

"You were so good, Daddy!"

"Yeah? You think so?"

He was moving into the room now, greeting each child, asking about their night, being present in the way he always tried to be despite the chaos of his life. He hugged Aeko, ruffled Lovely's hair, kissed the baby.

And then his eyes swept the room and landed on the couch where Caleb was sleeping.

He froze.

You watched his face cycle through confusion, recognition, and shock in the span of about three seconds. His eyes moved from Caleb to you, and the expression that crossed his features was so raw, so unguarded, that you had to look away.

"Surprise," you said weakly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chris didn't move. He just stared at you, at Caleb, at you again, like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

The room had gone quiet. The other mothers were watching with barely concealed interest, and you wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.

"You're here," Chris finally said, his voice rough. "You're actually here."

"Yeah," you managed. "We're here."

"When—how—" He seemed unable to form a complete sentence.

"We flew in this morning," you explained, your hands twisting together in your lap. "Nia invited us, and I thought... I thought Caleb should see you perform. He's old enough to remember now, and he misses you, and I just... I wanted to surprise you."

"You surprised me," Chris said, and there was something in his voice you couldn't quite identify. "You really fucking surprised me."

He crossed the room in three long strides, and suddenly he was right there, standing in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne mixed with sweat and the lingering scent of stage smoke.

"Stand up," he said softly.

"What?"

"Stand up. Please."

You stood on shaky legs, and before you could process what was happening, Chris pulled you into his arms.

The hug was tight, almost desperate, his face buried in your neck. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, could feel the way his hands splayed across your back like he was trying to convince himself you were real.

"I can't believe you're here," he murmured against your skin, and his voice cracked slightly. "I can't believe you came."

Your arms came up automatically, wrapping around him, and you let yourself have this moment. Let yourself feel the solid warmth of him, the familiar shape of his body against yours, the way you still fit together after all this time.

"Hi," you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands moving to cup your face. His eyes were intense, searching yours like he was looking for answers to questions he hadn't asked.

"Hi," he whispered back.

The moment stretched between you, heavy with everything unsaid, everything unresolved. You were aware of the other women watching, of the children playing, of the fact that you were standing in the middle of a room full of people having what felt like an incredibly private moment.

But you couldn't look away from him.

"You look beautiful," Chris said quietly, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones. "You always look beautiful, but right now... fuck, I can't believe you're here."

"You said that already," you said, trying for levity, but your voice came out breathless.

"I'm gonna keep saying it until it feels real."

A small sound from the couch broke the moment—Caleb, stirring in his sleep. Chris's attention immediately shifted, and he moved to the couch, kneeling beside his son.

You watched as he gently brushed Caleb's curls back from his forehead, his touch infinitely tender. "Hey, little man," he whispered. "Daddy's here."

Caleb's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused in the way of children woken from deep sleep. He blinked once, twice, and then his gaze focused on Chris's face.

"Dada?" His voice was small and uncertain, like he wasn't sure if he was dreaming.

"Yeah, buddy. It's Dada." Chris's voice was thick with emotion.

"Dada!" Suddenly fully awake, Caleb launched himself at Chris, little arms wrapping around his father's neck with the fierce love only a toddler could manage.

Chris caught him easily, standing and holding him close, his eyes squeezed shut. "I missed you so much, Caleb. So much, buddy."

"Missed you," Caleb echoed, and then, with the randomness of a two-year-old, "You sing good, Dada."

Chris laughed, the sound watery. "You saw me sing? You were at the show?"

"Yeah! Big lights! Loud!"

"Was it cool?"

"So cool!" Caleb's enthusiasm was infectious, and Chris was grinning now, that full-wattage smile that had charmed millions.

He looked at you over Caleb's head, and the gratitude in his eyes was almost overwhelming.

"Thank you," he mouthed.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

The room had returned to its normal chaos, the other mothers giving you and Chris space while managing their own children. But you could feel their awareness, their attention, even as they pretended to be occupied with other things.

Chris moved back to where you were standing, Caleb still in his arms. "How long are you here for?"

"We fly back Monday," you said. "So we'll be here for the London show too, if that's okay."

"If that's—" He looked almost offended. "Of course it's okay. More than okay. I just... I wish I'd known. I could've arranged better accommodations, made sure you had everything you needed—"

"We're fine," you interrupted gently. "I booked a hotel, we're all set. I didn't want to make a big thing out of it."

"You flying across the ocean with my son to surprise me at a show isn't a big thing?"

"You know what I mean."

He studied you for a long moment, and you could see him processing, thinking, trying to figure out what this meant. You and him and Caleb, here together, in a way you hadn't been since Caleb was born.

"Have you eaten?" he asked finally.

"I—what?"

"Have you eaten? You and Caleb? It's late, and I know he's probably off schedule, and you must be exhausted from the flight—"

"Chris, we're fine—"

"Come back to my hotel," he said, and it wasn't quite a question. "Please. I have a suite, there's plenty of room, and we can order room service and just... talk. I want to spend time with you. Both of you. I haven't seen Caleb in two months, and you..." He trailed off, his free hand reaching out to touch your arm. "I've missed you."

Your heart was hammering. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

Because being alone with you is dangerous. Because I'm not strong enough to keep my walls up if you look at me like that. Because I'm terrified of what I might feel, what I might do, what I might want.

"It's late," you said instead. "Caleb needs to sleep."

"He can sleep in the suite. There's a whole bedroom he can have. Please." Chris's voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I just got you back for a few days. Let me have this time with you."

You looked at Caleb, who was already dozing again against Chris's shoulder, perfectly content in his father's arms. You looked at Chris, at the hope and want and something deeper in his eyes.

You looked at Nia, who was watching with a knowing smile and gave you a subtle nod, as if to say, Go. It's okay.

"Okay," you heard yourself say. "Okay, we'll come back with you."

The smile that broke across Chris's face was like sunrise.

The ride to Chris's hotel was surreal. He'd arranged for a car—of course he had—and the three of you sat in the back seat, Caleb sprawled across both your laps, fast asleep again. Chris's hand rested on your knee, casual and possessive in a way that made your skin tingle, and he couldn't seem to stop looking at you.

"What?" you finally asked, self-conscious.

"Nothing. Just... I really can't believe you're here."

"You're gonna wear that phrase out."

"Don't care." His thumb traced small circles on your knee, and you tried very hard not to read into it. "Tell me about the flight. Tell me about everything. I want to know all of it."

So you told him. About booking the tickets on a whim after listening to Nia's voice message for the seventeenth time. About the anxiety leading up to the trip, the fear that you were making a mistake. About Caleb's excitement when you told him he was going to see Dada. About the flight and the hotel and the moment you'd stood outside the arena, frozen with uncertainty.

Chris listened to all of it, his attention never wavering, his hand never leaving your knee.

"I'm glad you came," he said when you finished. "Even if you were scared. Especially because you were scared. That means it mattered."

"Of course it mattered," you said quietly. "You matter. To Caleb. To... to me."

His hand tightened on your knee. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The hotel was exactly what you'd expected—luxury, security, discretion. Chris led you through a private entrance and up to a suite that was bigger than your entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Manchester skyline, and the space was decorated in modern neutrals with plush furniture that looked like it cost more than your car.

"The bedroom's through there," Chris said, gesturing to a door. "Let me put him down."

He carried Caleb into the bedroom, and you followed, watching as he gently laid your son on the massive bed and carefully removed his shoes. Caleb didn't even stir. Chris pulled a blanket over him, kissed his forehead, and stood there for a moment just looking at him.

"He got so big," Chris said softly. "Two months, and he looks so much older."

"He's growing like a weed. I can barely keep him in clothes."

"Send me the bills. For everything. Clothes, food, whatever you need."

"You already send more than enough—"

"I want to send more." He turned to look at you, his expression serious. "I want to do more. Be more. I know I can't be there every day, I know my life is complicated and fucked up, but I want to be present for him. For you."

"Chris—"

"I mean it." He crossed to you, and suddenly you were very aware of how small the bedroom felt with both of you in it, with Caleb sleeping peacefully just feet away. "I know I haven't always been... I know I've made mistakes. With you, with us. But seeing you here, seeing you with him... it reminds me what matters."

"What matters?" you whispered.

"This. You. Him. Family." He reached up, tucking a curl behind your ear. "I fucked up when I let you go."

Your breath caught. "We were never really together."

"Weren't we?" His voice was low, intense. "Maybe we never put a label on it, maybe we never made it official, but what we had... that was real. You know it was real."

"Chris, don't—"

"Why not? Why can't I say it? You're here, you came all this way, you brought our son to see me... why did you really come?"

"For Caleb—"

"Bullshit." The word was soft but firm. "You could've sent him with Nia, could've arranged a visit some other way. But you came. You got on a plane and flew across an ocean and showed up at my concert. Why?"

You stared at him, your heart racing, all your carefully constructed walls crumbling under the weight of his gaze.

"I don't know," you whispered, and it was the truth. "I don't know, Chris. I just... I needed to."

"Needed to," he repeated, and he was so close now, close enough that you could count his eyelashes, could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "What do you need right now?"

You, your brain supplied helplessly. I need you.

But you couldn't say that. Couldn't open that door. Because if you did, if you let yourself fall back into him, you weren't sure you'd survive climbing back out.

"I need..." You swallowed hard. "I need to check on Caleb."

It was a coward's answer, and you both knew it.

Chris stepped back, giving you space, but the intensity in his eyes didn't fade. "Okay. Yeah. Check on Caleb."

You moved past him to the bed, unnecessarily adjusting Caleb's blanket, buying yourself time to breathe. When you turned back, Chris was leaning against the doorframe, watching you with an expression that made your chest ache.

"Come on," he said quietly. "Let's get you some food. You must be starving."

You followed him back into the main room, and he immediately grabbed the room service menu, ordering what seemed like half the menu despite your protests that you weren't that hungry. While he was on the phone, you moved to the windows, looking out at the city lights.

London tomorrow. Another show. More time in this strange limbo between past and present, between what you were and what you could be.

You felt Chris come up behind you before you heard him, his presence a warm weight at your back.

"Penny for your thoughts," he murmured.

"Just thinking about how surreal this is. Being here. With you."

"Good surreal or bad surreal?"

"I don't know yet."

His hand came to rest on your hip, a gentle touch that sent electricity through your body. "I want it to be good. I want... a lot of things."

"Chris—"

"I know. I know we're complicated. I know I have a whole fucked-up situation with four baby mamas and a career that keeps me away more than I'm home. I know I'm not the easiest person to be with. But I also know that what I feel when I look at you... that's not complicated. That's the simplest thing in my life."

You turned to face him, and the vulnerability in his expression nearly undid you.

"What do you feel?" you asked, even though you weren't sure you wanted to know the answer.

"Like I'm home," he said simply. "Like everything else is noise, but you... you're the signal. You and Caleb. You're what matters."

"You can't just say things like that," you whispered, your eyes stinging.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not fair. Because you'll go back on tour, and I'll go back to LA, and we'll go back to our separate lives, and saying things like that just makes it harder."

"What if I don't want separate lives anymore?"

Your heart stopped. "What?"

"What if I want to figure this out? Really figure it out, not just co-parent from a distance, but actually be together. Be a family."

"Chris, you have three other families—"

"I have four children with four incredible women, and I love all my kids more than life. But that doesn't mean I can't want more with you. That doesn't mean I can't want us."

"This is crazy," you breathed. "You're crazy."

"Probably," he agreed, and then he smiled, that devastating smile that had gotten you into this situation in the first place. "But I'm crazy about you, so it tracks."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to list all the reasons this was a terrible idea, why you couldn't just fall back into his orbit, why you needed to protect yourself and Caleb from the inevitable heartbreak.

But then he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling, and all your arguments died in your throat.

"I'm not asking you to decide anything tonight," he said softly. "I'm not asking for promises or commitments. I'm just asking you to be here. With me. For these few days. Can you do that?"

Could you?

Could you let yourself have this, even knowing it might hurt later?

You looked into his eyes and saw hope and want and something that looked dangerously like love, and you made a decision that was probably stupid and definitely reckless.

"Okay," you whispered. "Okay, I can do that."

The smile that broke across his face was worth every risk.

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away, but you didn't. You let him close the distance, let his lips brush against yours in a kiss that was soft and sweet and full of promise.

It felt like coming home.

It felt like falling.

It felt like the beginning of something that terrified and exhilarated you in equal measure.

When he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you were both breathing hard.

"I missed you," he murmured. "So fucking much."

"I missed you too," you admitted, and it felt like releasing a weight you'd been carrying for two years.

A knock at the door announced room service, and the moment broke. Chris went to answer it, and you took the opportunity to collect yourself, to try to process what had just happened.

You'd kissed Chris.

You'd agreed to... what, exactly? To be here? To see where this went?

You were playing with fire, and you knew it.

But as you watched him set up the food, as he called you over with a grin and started telling you about the craziest moments from tonight's show, as he made you laugh and feel lighter than you had in months...

You thought maybe getting burned might be worth it.

You ate together on the couch, Chris insisting you try everything he'd ordered. The conversation flowed easily, moving from the concert to Caleb's latest milestones to your students' most recent drama. It felt natural, comfortable, like no time had passed at all.

"So this kid," you were saying, gesturing with a forkful of pasta, "literally tried to turn in a book report on a book that doesn't exist. Like, he made up the entire thing—title, author, plot summary, everything."

Chris was laughing, his head thrown back. "What'd you do?"

"Gave him an A for creativity and an F for the actual assignment. Then I made him write a real report."

"That's cold."

"That's teaching." You grinned. "You gotta keep them on their toes."

"I don't know how you do it. Teenagers scare the shit out of me."

"They're not so bad once you figure out they're just tiny adults with no impulse control and way too many hormones."