⋆♱ tessa ♱⋆

The automatic doors of PTMC slid open as you stepped into the fluorescent-lit emergency department for your first night shift. The smell of antiseptic and that peculiar hospital scent washed over you. You were the new omega nurse practitioner on the night shift, and despite your years of training and clinical experience, first nights always made your palms sweat.

The moment you crossed that threshold, Parker Ellis had caught your scent. She was standing at the nurses' station, reviewing a chart with a furrow between her brows. But then her head snapped up, nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly, and her pen stilled on the paper. Vanilla. Rich, warm, sweet vanilla with undertones of something softer maybe honey or cream. It cut through every other smell in the ED like a knife through butter, and Parker's alpha hindbrain sat up and took immediate notice.

She tracked the scent to its source and found you: new face, nervous energy, and absolutely beautiful in a way that made her chest tighten.

"You must be the new NP," she said, approaching with an easy smile. "Parker Ellis. Welcome to the Pitt."

You shook her hand and tried not to notice how her scent wrapped around you. Vetiver and cedar, something earthy and grounding that made your omega instincts relax with contentment.

"Thanks," you managed, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt. "Happy to be here."

The first few weeks were torture. Parker seemed to find reasons to work close to you. You would be reviewing charts and somehow end up at the same computer, she would be consulting on cases you could have easily handled alone. Her hand would land on your lower back when she leaned over to look at a monitor, warm and steady, lingering just a fraction too long to be purely professional. You told yourself it didn't mean anything. She was just being helpful, mentoring the new hire. Never mind that your heart raced every time she smiled at you, or that you found yourself timing your breaks to coincide with hers.

"Nice work on that sepsis case," she said one night, appearing beside you at the coffee station. It was 3 AM, the ED temporarily quiet.

"Thanks." You added cream to your coffee, hyperaware of how close she was standing. "I had a good teacher."

"I didn't teach you that. That was all you." Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled and in that moment you were sure that her beautiful brown eyes were going to kill you.

The way Parker looked at you made your breath catch. For a moment, you thought she might lean in, might close the distance between you. But then a call light went off down the hall, and the moment shattered.

It became a sick pattern. Her fingers brushing yours when she handed you a chart. Late-night conversations in the break room that felt more intimate than they should, where she'd tell you about her family and her decision to go into emergency medicine. You'd share your own stories, and she'd listen with an intensity that made you feel like the only person in the world.

"You two need to just fuck already," Jack said one night, startling you as you stared after Parker's retreating form. "The sexual tension is killing everyone."

"I-I uh don't know what you're talking about," you lied, face burning.

Jack snorted. "Sure you don't. Look, she's into you. You're into her. What's the holdup?"

Shut up, Jack, you thought. The "holdup" is the worry that you were misreading things and that acting on this attraction would make work awkward. Parker had never explicitly said she was interested—maybe the lingering touches and intense eye contact were just her flirty personality.

But then came the night that changed everything. It was a bad shift. A multi-vehicle accident had flooded the ED with trauma patients, and you'd lost one. A teenager, too young, and you couldn't stand losing kids. You'd done everything right, but sometimes everything right wasn't enough.

You found yourself in the supply closet afterward, ostensibly looking for gauze but really just needing a moment away from the chaos. The door opened behind you, and Parker's alpha scent washed over you before she even spoke.

"Hey," she said softly. "You okay?"

"Fine." Your voice cracked on the word, betraying you.

She closed the door and suddenly the small space felt even smaller. "You did everything you could," Parker said with a soft voice, way softer than usual.

"I know." You did know, intellectually. But it didn't make it hurt less. Parker's hand found your shoulder, warm and grounding.

"First loss here?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

"Don't bare it alone," she said. "I care about you, and you can talk to me.”

You turned to face her, and she was right there, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. Her scent wrapped around you like warm pheromone blanket. Her hand slid from your shoulder to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen.

"Parker," you whispered, and it came out like a plea.

Something shifted in her expression, you could tell there was hesitation. "I've been trying so hard to be professional," she murmured. "To not cross lines. But fuck, you make it impossible."

"Then stop trying."

She kissed you like she'd been starving for it, one hand still cradling your face while the other pulled you closer by the waist. You melted into her, fingers tangling in her locs, and everything else fell away. All of the grief and exhaustion dissolved under the press of her lips. When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she rested her forehead against yours.

"I want this," she said. "I'm not playing games anymore. I want to take you to dinner." She laughed, a little breathless. "Shit, I sound like a teenager."

"I want that too," you admitted. "I've wanted it for weeks."

"Yeah?" Her smile was radiant, transforming her whole face. "Then let's do this right. Dinner tomorrow? Actual date, not just grabbing food between traumas?"

"I'd like that."

She kissed you again, softer this time, sweet and full of promise. "Good. Now let's get through the rest of this shift, and then I'm taking you home."

You left the supply closet separately. Just two innocent emergency department colleagues grabbing supplies but Jack caught your eye across the ED and gave you a knowing smirk. You flipped him off, but you couldn't stop smiling.

That first date turned into a second, then a third. Within a month, you'd stopped pretending you weren't spending every night at each other's places. Within two, Parker asked you to be official, to be hers in the way that mattered to both your human hearts and your alpha-omega biology.

Of course, you said yes without hesitation. Now, as you finished giving report to the incoming day shift, you felt the bone-deep exhaustion that came with twelve hours of heightened cortisol. The night had been relatively calm with a few chest pains, a drunk college kid with a laceration, an elderly woman with pneumonia—but even calm nights in the ED were draining.

Abbot was already halfway out the door, his tall frame disappearing toward the parking lot where his Jeep waited. Dr.Shen waved a tired goodbye, his other hand clutching a now-stale Dunkin' coffee that he'd probably been nursing since…3 AM. The day shift nurses were settling in, fresh-faced and caffeinated, ready to take over.

Parker appeared at your elbow, her hand finding the small of your back in a gesture that was both possessive and protective. "Ready to get out of here?"

"God, yes."

The morning air was cool and fresh after the recycled hospital atmosphere, and you breathed it in gratefully. Parker's car was parked in the staff lot, and she opened the passenger door for you with the kind of old-fashioned courtesy that still made your heart flutter even after all these months together. Before you could slide in, she caught your chin and tilted your face up for a kiss. It was soft and sweet, tinged with exhaustion but no less genuine for it.

"Ugh, I'm so ready to be asleep!" Parker groaned as she rounded the car and dropped into the driver's seat. "I think I could sleep for a week."

"Only a week?" you teased, buckling your seatbelt. "Amateur."

She shot you a look that was equal parts amused and fond, then started the engine. Parker's hand found yours on the center console, fingers intertwining, and you watched the world pass by in the grey pre-dawn light. Most people were still asleep. In an hour or two, they'd be waking up, starting their days, drinking their first cups of coffee.

It had taken some adjustment at first, but now you couldn't imagine it any other way. Home was a modest two-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood, and you and Parker moved through your post-shift routine with practiced efficiency. Shoes off at the door. Scrubs into the hamper.

Showers—together of course, because you'd learned early on that showering separately just wasted time and hot water. The water was gloriously hot, washing away the hospital smell and the accumulated stress of the shift. Parker's hands were gentle as she washed your hair, her fingers massaging your scalp in a way that made you want to fall asleep. You returned the favor, soaping up her shoulders and back, pressing a kiss between her shoulder blades just because you could.

After the shower came scrambled eggs and toast that you ate standing at the kitchen counter, too tired to bother with plates or sitting down properly. Then it was finally, blessedly, time for bed. The bedroom was cave dark thanks to the blackout curtains you'd invested in early on. They blocked out every trace of sunlight, creating an artificial night that made sleeping during the day actually possible. You crawled under the covers with a sigh of relief, and Parker followed, her body warm and solid as she pulled you against her chest.

These were the moments you treasured most. Parker's heartbeat steady under your ear. Her scent surrounding you, making you feel safe and protected. Her arm draped over your waist, holding you close even as sleep began to pull you both under. You fell asleep in each other's arms around 7 AM, just as the rest of the world was beginning to wake up.

You stirred awake slowly, consciousness returning in lazy waves. The room was still dark, the blackout curtains doing their job and for a moment you had no idea what time it was. Your internal clock was thoroughly scrambled from years of shift work.You reached for your phone on the nightstand, squinting at the bright screen. 3:57 PM. You'd gotten almost nine hours of sleep, which was practically luxurious by night shift standards. You felt genuinely well-rested, your body loose and relaxed.

Rolling over, you found Parker still asleep beside you, and the sight made you bite your lip.

She was sprawled on her back, one arm thrown over her head, her sleep shirt bunched up around her ribs to expose the hard planes of her stomach. The afternoon light filtered through a gap in the blackout curtains, casting a golden stripe across her skin, highlighting the definition of her muscles. The sheets were pooled around her waist, and she was very obviously hard and straining against her boxer briefs, a visible wet spot darkening the fabric where she was already leaking.

Afternoon wood, you thought with amusement. Shift work really did mess with everything.

Slowly, you trailed your fingers up her thigh, watching her face for any sign of waking. Her breathing hitched slightly but her eyes stayed closed. You grew bolder, palming her through the silk of her boxers, feeling the heat radiating from her. Her cock hardened further beneath your touch, and when you pressed your palm against the dampness at the tip, she leaked more, the silk growing slicker under your fingers.

"Mmm," Parker hummed, still mostly asleep. "That's nice."

"Is it?" you murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "You're making quite a mess here, alpha."

Her eyes cracked open, still heavy-lidded with sleep, and she looked down at herself.

"Fuck—" she breathed, her voice rough and commanding, cutting off any amusement you might have voiced.

You bit back a smile, running your thumb deliberately over the wet spot. "Poor baby. All worked up with nowhere to go."

"Oh, I've got somewhere to go," Parker growled, her eyes sharpening as they fixed on you. "Right into that smart mouth of yours if you don't watch it."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" you teased, pressing a bite to her collarbone.

That woke her up completely. In one smooth movement, she had you flipped onto your stomach, her body covering yours, pinning you to the mattress. Her hand gripped the waistband of your sleep shorts and yanked them down baring your ass to the cool air. Before you could even process the movement, her palm came down with a sharp crack that echoed through the room.

One. You yelped, the sting blooming across your skin, but Parker didn't pause. Her hand came down again, landing just beside the first strike.

Two. "Parker—" you gasped, but she was relentless.

Three. Four. Five.

Each slap landed with precision, the impact reverberating through your soft flesh. Your ass was burning now, each nerve ending alive with sensation. Pain and pleasure intertwined until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. You were moaning into the pillow, your hips trying to squirm away even as your body pushed back for more.

Six. "Stay still," Parker commanded, her alpha voice wanting no argument, her free hand pressing down on the small of your back to keep you in place.

Seven. Your skin was tender now, throbbing with heat, and you could feel how soaked you were, how your arousal was dripping down your thighs.

Eight. The final slap was the hardest, landing right in the center of your ass, and you released a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob. The recoil sent waves of sensation rippling through you, and Parker groaned at the sight, her hips grinding against you.

"Fuck, omega," she breathed against your ear, her voice dark with need. "You smell so good. So ready for me."

She didn't waste time with more teasing. Her boxer briefs came off, and then she was positioning herself behind you, pulling your hips up so you were on your knees, face still pressed into the pillow. You felt the aching head of her cock pressing against your entrance, and then she was pushing in, stretching you, filling you so perfectly it made your toes curl.

"Yes, Parker—", you moaned, pushing back against her.

She set a punishing rhythm, her large hands gripping your hips guiding you, her cock driving into you over and over. The room filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and your breathless moans.

Your pleasure built slowly. Each thrust drove deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur. Your inner walls fluttered around her, gripping Parker’s length. The fullness of her was overwhelming, the stretch and burn of her cock filling you completely, and with each stroke the tension coiled tighter in your core. Your muscles clenched involuntarily, drawing her deeper, and you could feel the pressure mounting, building, becoming almost unbearable.

When your orgasm finally hit, you cried out into the pillow, your body shaking as your inner walls clenched rhythmically around her, milking her. Parker fucked you through it, relentless, chasing her own pleasure. When she finally came,her hips stuttering as she spilled inside you. You both collapsed onto the bed, panting and sweaty. You thought that might be it. You were both thoroughly spent, boneless with satisfaction.

But then Parker was moving, sitting up against the headboard, and she was pulling you into her lap.

"Come here, baby" she said, her voice still rough. "Want you to ride me."

You straddled her thighs, sinking down onto her cock with a whimper. From this angle she hit deeper spots, and you had to brace your hands on her shoulders to steady yourself. As you settled onto her, Parker's hands came up to your ass. She touched you gently at first, her palms skimming over the tender, marked skin where she'd spanked you. Then she began to massage, her strong fingers kneading the sensitive flesh, working out the ache while simultaneously sending fresh waves of sensation through you.

It was tender and sensual all at once, the contrast between the lingering soreness and her careful touch making you gasp. She caressed the curves of your ass, her thumbs tracing the marks she'd left, and you felt yourself growing wetter, your body responding to the mixture of pain and ecstasy.

You started to move, rolling your hips, and Parker's hands slid up your back, pulling you closer. She kissed you then, and it was nothing gentle. Her mouth was demanding, her tongue pushing past your lips to taste you deeply. You bit at her lower lip, and she groaned into your mouth, her tongue sliding against yours in a dance that was all desperation and need.

She tasted like you, like sex, like everything you craved. Her teeth grazed your chin, your jaw, and you tilted your head to give her better access. The kiss was consuming, her mouth working yours with an intensity that made your head spin. You couldn't tell where you ended and she began, couldn't think of anything but the feel of her lips, her tongue, the way she was devouring you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Your hips moved in a slow grind that kept you both on the edge without tipping over. It felt like a lifetime, suspended in that perfect moment. Parker's cock inside you, her mouth on yours, her hands sliding down to play with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you were gasping into her mouth.

And then you felt it. The swelling at the base of her cock, her knot beginning to form. It caught on your rim with each movement, growing larger, until finally it formed inside and locked you together.

"Fuck," Parker groaned, her head falling back against the headboard. "So good, omega. So perfect."

The pressure of her knot was intense, and when she pinched your nipples again you came with a cry, your whole body shaking with the force of it. The sensation of you clenching around her knot triggered Parker's own orgasm, and she filled you again, her hands gentle now as they stroked your sides.

You collapsed against her chest, both of you breathing hard, locked together and utterly content. Parker's fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, and you felt like you could stay like this forever.

Her phone started to ring. You both ignored it, too blissed out to care. It stopped, then started again almost immediately. Then your phone joined in, the two devices creating a discordant duet on the nightstand.

"Fuck," Parker muttered, reaching for her phone without dislodging you. She looked at the screen and groaned. "It's Shen."

She answered, and you had to press your face into her neck to muffle your laughter at the way she tried to sound normal.

"Shenny Shen!" Parker said, her voice only slightly strained.

"Elly Ells!" came Shen's cheerful response through the speaker, and you had to bite your lip hard to keep from snorting. The nickname was ridiculous and Shen knew it, which was exactly why he used it.

"Listen," Shen continued, his tone shifting to something more serious. "I got called in early. There's a mass MVA on the interstate. Multiple casualties. Think you and your better half can come down? We're going to need all hands on deck."

Parker's eyes met yours, and you could see the conflict there. You were still locked together, her knot showing no signs of going down anytime soon. It would be at least another twenty minutes, maybe thirty.

She looked down at where you were connected, then back up at your face. You could see her trying to calculate—how long until the knot went down and how badly they needed help.

"Shen," Parker said carefully, "how bad is it?"

"Bad enough that they're calling in off-duty staff. We've got at least fifteen incoming, and that's just the first wave. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't serious."

You could hear the tension in Shen's voice, the underlying urgency. You caught Parker's eye and nodded, even though the thought of moving right now seemed impossible. She understood immediately.

"Yeah," Parker said into the phone, her hand coming up to cup the back of your head, holding you close. "We can be there. Give us... forty-five minutes?"

"You're a lifesaver, Ellis. Both of you. See you soon."

The line went dead, and Parker let her phone drop onto the bed beside her.

"So much for our day off," she said wryly.

"Duty calls," you replied, pressing a kiss to her jaw.

"My knot's not going down for at least another twenty minutes."

"I know. We'll make it work."

And you would, because that was what you did. You were both healthcare workers and willing to sacrifice your own comfort when lives were on the line. It was part of what had drawn you together in the first place, Parker had that understanding that sometimes the job came first.

But for now, for these next twenty minutes, you were still locked together, still wrapped in each other's arms. Parker's fingers found your nipples again, teasing them gently, and you sighed into her neck.

"Might as well enjoy it while we can," she murmured, and you couldn't argue with that logic.

You stayed like that, trading lazy kisses, her hands roaming your body with familiar affection. The urgency of the phone call hung over you both, but there was nothing you could do until biology allowed you to separate.

Finally, you felt Parker's knot begin to soften. The process was gradual, and you had to move carefully as you lifted yourself off her, both of you wincing at the sensitivity. Her cum leaked out of you, warm and slick down your thighs.

Parker sat up immediately, her hands gentle on your hips. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," you breathed, still catching your breath. "I'm good."

"Not too sore?" Her palm smoothed over your ass, careful over the tender spots where she'd spanked you. The touch was soothing now, all concern and tenderness.

"A little. But good sore."

She pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You did so well for me. You always do." Her fingers traced gentle patterns on your back, grounding you, bringing you down slowly. "Take a minute. We've got time."

You leaned into her touch, letting her care for you. This was Parker at her best, dominant and demanding in the moment but always, always making sure you were okay after. Her hands moved to your shoulders, kneading the tension there, and you sighed contentedly.

"Okay," you said after a moment. "Shower time."

The shower was quick and functional. Soap, rinse, done. None of the extras from before. You were both dressed in clean scrubs within minutes, hair pulled back, badges clipped on. You looked like the competent healthcare professionals you were, not two people that were just knotted together 30 minutes ago.

The drive to the hospital was quiet, Parker's hand finding yours. You used the time to mentally shift gears, switching from off-duty to focused.

The ED was obviously chaos when you arrived. Dr. Robby directed you both to trauma bays, and just like that, you were working. The exhaustion from your night shift got shoved into a mental box. Right now, there were people who needed help.

Hours later, nearly midnight, things finally calmed down. Parker found you at the nurses' station, looking as exhausted as you felt.

"Ready to go home?" she asked quietly.

"Hell, yeah."

When you finally made it home, you both stripped out of your scrubs and fell into bed without bothering to shower. You were too tired to care about hospital smell or proper hygiene. You'd deal with it when you woke up. Parker pulled you against her chest, and you went willingly, tucking yourself into her embrace. Her heartbeat was steady under your ear, and her scent wrapped around you.

"Love you," she mumbled, already half-asleep.

"Love you too," you whispered back.

And then you were both asleep, tangled together in the darkness, two night shift workers stealing rest whenever and however you could get it. You had each other, and a wonderful life you'd built together. That was all you needed. The blackout curtains kept the world at bay, and you slept.

A/N: NO TAGS BC I DON'T HAVE A PARKER ELLIS TAGLIST... YET.

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The hotel suite was a flurry of motion—makeup brushes scattered across the marble counter, three different pairs of heels lined up by the door, your phone buzzing incessantly with notifications you were too anxious to check. The ESPY Awards. Your first major red carpet event as Rhyne Howard's girlfriend, and everything had to be perfect.

You stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom, your hands trembling as you reached behind yourself for the zipper of your dress. The emerald green fabric hugged your curves beautifully, at least, it would once you could get it zipped. But your fingers kept slipping, your palms slick with nervous sweat, and the zipper wouldn't budge past the middle of your back.

"Come on," you whispered to yourself, stretching your arm at an awkward angle. "Please."

The thought of the paparazzi waiting outside made your chest tighten. You'd seen the photos from other events. They are known to crowd around, cameras flashing like lightning, shouting questions and comments. What if you tripped? What if your dress malfunctioned? What if they didn't think you were good enough for her? The pressure built behind your eyes, hot and insistent.

You tried the zipper again, yanking harder this time, and felt the fabric strain. That was it. A sob escaped your throat before you could stop it, then another, and suddenly you were crying in earnest, frustrated tears streaming down your carefully applied makeup.

In the other room, Rhyne had been adjusting her bow tie when she heard it, that unmistakable sound of her girl in distress. She was across the suite in seconds, her long strides eating up the distance between you.

"Baby?" Her voice was soft as she appeared in the doorway, concern etched across her beautiful features. She was already dressed in a tailored black tuxedo that fit her athletic frame perfectly, her locs styled elegantly. "What's wrong?"

You tried to speak, but another sob came out instead. Rhyne crossed to you immediately, her hands gentle as they found your shoulders.

"Shh, come here," she murmured, turning you to face her. "Talk to me."

"I just—" You sniffled, trying to catch your breath between tears. "I can't get this zipper up. I can't—everything has to be perfect and I can't even—"

"Hey, hey," Rhyne interrupted softly. She brought her hands up to your face, the pads of her thumbs carefully wiping away the hot tears that streaked your cheeks. Her touch was impossibly tender, her brown eyes full of nothing but love and understanding. "It's okay. We're gonna fix it."

You hiccupped, trying to compose yourself, embarrassed by the breakdown. Rhyne kept her hands on your face for another moment, making sure you were breathing steadily, before she spoke again.

"Turn around for me, baby."

You did as she asked, turning back toward the mirror. Through your blurred vision, you could see her reflection behind you. She looked tall and confident. Everything you felt like you weren't in this moment.

Rhyne's fingers found the zipper, and she worked it with a patience and care that made your heart ache. She eased it up slowly, making sure not to catch the fabric or your skin, her other hand steadying the dress at your lower back. The zipper glided smoothly under her touch, all the way to the top.

But she didn't step away. Instead, she leaned forward, and you felt the soft press of her lips against the back of your neck. A kiss so gentle and sweet it made fresh tears spring to your eyes, though these were different.

"It's okay, baby," Rhyne said, her voice low and sincere as she looked at you through the mirror. Her stature towered over you. "You look beautiful. There's nothing to be worried about."

You watched her reflection, saw the absolute certainty in her eyes, but your anxiety still churned in your stomach. The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

"Do you—" You paused, swallowing hard. "Do you not want to go? We don't have to. I know this is important for you, but if I'm going to mess it up—"

"Are you kidding me?" You whipped around to face her, your eyes wide.

Rhyne's expression was patient, understanding. She didn't look annoyed or disappointed, just concerned for you.

"I'll shake it off. I'm good. I can do this," you continued quickly, trying to pull yourself together. 

"You sure?" your girlfriend asked, her voice gentle but searching. She needed to know you meant it.

Before you could answer, Rhyne took your jaw in her hand—that confident, possessive gesture that always made your knees weak—and kissed you. Really kissed you. Her lips moved against yours with a passion that made you forget about cameras and crowds and everything else. Her other hand slid down to grab your ass, pulling you flush against her, and you melted into her embrace. When she finally pulled back, you were breathless for entirely different reasons.

"Better?" she asked with a small smirk, though her eyes were still soft with concern.

You nodded, unable to form words, your lips still tingling.

Rhyne's phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and then looked back at you. "Driver's here, baby. You ready?"

You took a deep breath, looking at yourself in the mirror one more time. Your makeup was slightly smudged from crying, but Rhyne was already grabbing a tissue, carefully dabbing under your eyes with the kind of focus she usually reserved for the basketball court.

"There," she said, stepping back to admire her work. "Perfect."

And somehow, with her hand in yours as you headed toward the door, you actually believed it. The cameras could flash all they wanted. You had Rhyne by your side, and that was all that mattered.

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The Minnesota Lynx had been electric that night, riding a twelve-point lead all the way to the final buzzer. The whole team was buzzing in the locker room, laughter bouncing off the walls, plans for post-game drinks already flying. But in the tunnel, Natisha’s hand found yours and didn’t let go.

“Wanna skip all that?” she murmured, low enough only you could hear. Her eyes still carried a sharp, competitive gleam, but it softened now, just for you. “I just wanna unwind. My place?”

The answer was obvious.

The drive was a slow burn. Her hand rested on your thigh the whole way, thumb brushing higher with every shift of the city lights. At red lights, she stole kisses and quick pecks that deepened into slow, lingering ones, until your head spun and your body ached for more. Horns blared behind you when Natisha missed the light turning green. The leather of the seat was warm under you, the faint hum of the engine only making the air between you feel heavier and hotter.

When you stepped inside her apartment, the LED lights washed everything in a bright pink glow. It was pure Natisha: clean, warm tones, and a quiet kind of confidence that made you feel like you’d stepped into her orbit completely. The faint scent of vanilla and amber from a candle on the counter wrapped around you, heady and inviting. She toed off her sneakers, glanced at you over her shoulder with a half-smile that made your stomach flip, and said, “Shower with me.”

The curve of your lips and the mischief in your eyes told her everything she needed to know.

Clothes fell away one by one, your gaze tracing the elegant strength of her body when her clothes came off. She made you feel utterly breathless. You caught yourself admiring the sculpted definition of her core, the taut lines of her arms, the smooth curve of her chest, and the flushed, sensitive peaks that seemed to beg for your lips before you even realized you’d moved. She let out a low, breathy laugh when you dipped down to take her nipple into your mouth, the soft peak warm against your tongue. Her fingers threaded through your hair, a gentle tug that sent a shiver through you before she guided you toward the bathroom.

Steam greeted you the moment she turned the water on, heat curling into every corner of the small space. You stepped into a wide shower lined with smooth tile. The spray pounded steadily against your shoulders while warm water traced over your skin. Her mouth was on yours instantly, all tongue and heat. The taste of her sent sparks through your veins.

At first, it felt almost innocent, her hands soaping your shoulders, laughs echoing softly against the glass. But then her palms lingered at your waist, sliding lower, nails grazing lightly over slick skin. Your lips found the curve of her shoulder, and the sound she made that low, hushed groan, vibrated straight into your chest.

The air between you was thick with heat and something else, that unspoken closeness that felt dangerous in its own way. Now, she pressed against you slowly and steadily, her firm and warm abs against your stomach, and her voice's velvet rasp made your pulse trip and your thighs tense.

The water cascaded over both of you when Natisha reached for the black gym bag she’d left just outside the shower door. You raised an eyebrow, breath still unsteady from her mouth and her touch.

She just grinned, pulling out a tangle of black straps attached to a waterproof base with a gleaming metal ring.

“Gonna make you feel me everywhere,” she said, voice dripping with heat, holding up a thick, deep-pink silicone strap that made your core clench hard. The base slid neatly into the harness, and she stepped into the straps like she’d done it a hundred times before, tightening them low across her hips with practiced ease, eyes barely leaving yours.

“Still with me?” she teased, water dripping from the ends of her hair, her competitive gleam now something darker.

“Very,” you breathed, voice catching on the edge of something you weren’t ready to name.

There was a certain silliness to it at first, the bright deliberate length jutting from Natisha’s lean hips, but it disappeared the moment she stepped closer. The wet heat of her body pinned your back to the slick tile, water cascading over her shoulders and down the ridges of her muscles. Her eyes had darkened to something almost dangerous, locked on you as if the steam itself bent around her focus.

Her hands were steady, sure, sliding along your hips before one trailed between your legs. She took the tip of the strap and dragged it through your slick folds, the textured silicone catching just enough to make your breath stutter. She moved with maddening patience, running it over your clit in slow, deliberate passes until your knees nearly gave out — and when they did, she caught you without hesitation, one strong arm bracing you against the wall.

“Hold on to me,” she rasped.

You were in no position to oppose. Natisha moaned as your nails dug into her wet, flexing shoulder muscles. A gasp left your lips as she hoisted you up with effortless strength. Your legs wrapped around her waist, the brutal position sliding the tip inside you in a slow, stretching glide that made your head tip back. Bruised lips parting in a shaky gasp. She filled you so perfectly it bordered on unbearable, her hips moving with a measured rhythm that made everything beyond her touch fade into nothing. Her hands guided every thrust at your waist, pulling you down onto her like she owned every inch of you.

“Breathe, baby… look at me.”

You forced your eyes open just in time to see her pull out almost completely before driving back in, the sharp press of her hips stealing the air from your lungs. Steam clung to your skin, curling in your hair, the heat from the water tangling with the furnace of her body until it was impossible to tell which made you shiver harder. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed in the shower, each thrust punctuated by the deep rasp of her breathing and the soft, unguarded grunt she made when you clenched around her.

The moment her angle shifted, she found that spot — the one that made you jolt and cry out, hands clutching at her like you could anchor yourself against the pull of it. Your hips began to move with hers, the two of you falling into a rhythm that had your core tightening, heat blooming in your stomach until it was all you could feel.

“Just like that… that’s it… you’re doing so good for me,” she murmured, the words wrapping around you like silk and pulling you in deeper. Heat curled low in your stomach, every thrust winding you tighter. Her breath brushed your ear, warm and uneven, and the scent of her shampoo mixed with the steam around you until it was all you could taste.

“So tight for me… taking me so well…” Her hips rolled with precision, each movement stealing a little more air from your lungs. The slick slide of her inside you made your thighs tremble, your nails pressing into her shoulders just to keep yourself anchored.

“God, I could stay right here forever…” She kissed you between words, lips and tongue dragging you under until you couldn’t tell where the heat of the water ended and hers began.

“Look at you, baby, so perfect like this.” Her gaze locked with yours, dark and unyielding, and the rhythm of her body against yours sent you hurtling toward the edge before you could even think about stopping.

Her praise came between hot, open-mouthed kisses. Natisha’s tongue sliding against yours, tasting of lust and something darker, hungrier. Her breathing matched yours, ragged and urgent, her hands gripping you with a kind of intimacy that went beyond just holding you in place. She kissed you like she could press every ounce of herself into you, her thrusts never faltering even as your moans tangled together in the thick, humid air.

You were falling apart, the tension snapping in a rush of heat and wetness, the sound of your release mixing with her low groan. Somewhere between the pulse of your heartbeat in your ears and the relentless slide of her hips, you heard it. 

 Soft, almost swallowed by the noise.

“I love you.”

It took you a moment to realize what had slipped out of her mouth, the words soft and unguarded in the steam. When it clicked, you felt the faint tremor in her hold, like she wasn’t sure if she’d just crossed a line neither of you could uncross.

Her movements slowed, just enough for you to notice. A flicker of something, surprise maybe even fear, cracked through her usual composure. Her lips parted, and her breath stalled like she wasn’t sure if she should lean into it or pull away. Her eyes searched yours, still wide, but the corners of her mouth softened. She pressed her forehead to yours, her breath warm and uneven against your lips, and when she moved again it was slower and deeper, like the words had settled between you in a way she wasn’t ready to name but could not ignore. 

You smiled, fingers brushing her jaw, your thumb stroking over the damp line of her cheekbone.

The water still poured over you both, but the urgency had melted into something molten and unhurried. Her hips slowed, drawing the moment out until you were clinging to her more for balance than for release. Then she eased back, slipping free with a careful pull that left you aching from the sudden absence. The loss of her made your breath hitch, a hollow throb where the fullness had been, your body instinctively chasing her even as she steadied you.

Her palms stayed firm at your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles like she could soothe the emptiness she’d left behind. You leaned into her touch, forehead resting against her collarbone, the heat of her skin a tether in the cooling air.

Eventually, she reached past you, twisting the shower knob until the water stilled. The silence that followed felt strange—heavy in your ears after the steady roar, broken only by the faint drip of water from your hair onto her chest.

Beyond the glass, her LED lights spilled into the bathroom, a soft wash of pink and gold that made the steam glow. She didn’t rush you. Just stood there, hands still on your waist, eyes tracing over you like she wasn’t quite ready to let go.

You giggled when she started drying your hair with slow, messy swipes, and she smirked like she was memorizing the sound of your laugh. In the mirror’s fogged reflection, you caught the way her gaze lingered on you — not lust now, but something warmer, steadier. She pressed a kiss to your temple before guiding you toward her bedroom, where the sheets were cool and the air smelled faintly of the candle still burning low in the corner.

You collapsed together in a tangle of limbs, her arm around your waist, your head on her chest. She traced lazy circles against your hip, the rhythmic drag of her fingertips syncing with your slowing breaths. You felt her lips press to your hair, her quiet murmur of your name sinking into your skin.

And maybe she didn’t say it again right away, but the way she moved against you, the way she whispered your name, made it feel like she was saying it over and over, keeping the world suspended until sunrise.

Move-in day had been a blur of boxes, sweat, and Paige pretending she was some kind of pro mover. She carried everything like it weighed nothing, throwing you cocky grins every time you tried to help.

“See? You basically got a U-Haul mover with built-in muscle,” she teased, flexing her arms as she grabbed another box.

You’d kept one particular box close, shoved under blankets in the back of your car. The kind of box you really didn’t want misplaced. It made it into the apartment first thing, tucked in the corner where you figured Paige wouldn’t notice.

Of course, she noticed.

“Damn, this one’s heavy—what do you got in here, bricks?” she laughed, hefting it up. Before you could lunge for it, the cardboard bottom gave, and suddenly the floor was littered with silicone and leather.

Paige froze. Then her eyes widened, and then that cocky grin came back, slow and wicked. “Oh… oh.”

Your face went hot. You scrambled to scoop them back up, but she crouched first, picking up a bright orange vibrator and holding it up like evidence.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” she said, voice low, teasing. “Didn’t know you were this freaky.”

“Paige”

“No, no, don’t ‘Paige’ me.” She sat back on her heels, still smirking. “Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me how you use them.” She tossed the toy onto the bare mattress with no box spring yet, just a sheet and the frame squeaking every time you sat on it. 

“C’mon,” Paige drawled, crossing her arms, muscles flexing and looking smug. Her eyes had gone darker, sharp with something that wasn’t just amusement. “You can’t keep all this to yourself.”

You froze, heat crawling up your neck. “Paige—”

Her teeth caught her bottom lip as she eyed the toy on the mattress. “Strip. Right here. Mattress’ll do.”

Your throat went dry, but your body moved anyway, slipping out of your shorts. She watched every inch of skin revealed, gaze dropping between your thighs. The air in the unfinished bedroom felt hotter, heavier, the mattress springs squeaking as you climbed on.

Paige didn’t hand it over right away. She let you reach, then pulled it back just out of range. “Spread your legs. Show me how wet you are first.”

Your face burned, but you leaned back on your elbows, parting your thighs until she could see the glisten at your core. A soft gasp left her, followed by a grin that made your stomach flip. “Fuck, babe. Already dripping.”

Finally, she pressed the vibrator into your hand. The first buzz against your clit had you arching, a shaky moan spilling out as you found a slow rhythm. Paige tilted her head, studying you like you were a puzzle she’d already solved.

“That’s it. Good girl,” she murmured. “Keep going.”

Your hips rocked as wetness spread down your thighs, the hum against your clit dragging louder sounds from you. Paige shifted, crouching low, her face inches from where the toy worked between your legs. Her hand darted out and snatched it away just as you started to crest. You whined, chest heaving.

Her smile was cruel. “Not yet. Beg.”

“Paige, pleaseee”

“Louder.”

“Please, let me( please, I need you, I’ll do anything—”

Her eyes gleamed, satisfaction dripping from every word: “That’s more like it.”

She pressed the toy back to your clit, but this time her other hand slipped lower, two fingers sliding between your aching folds, circling your most sensitive spot. The teasing touch had you gasping, thighs trembling as vibration and pressure blurred into one sharp edge of need. Paige shoved two fingers deep inside your dripping core, curling them just right until your back arched off the mattress with a desperate cry.

Every nerve felt lit, overstimulated, your moans spilling uncontrollably. The bare mattress creaked beneath your writhing, your thighs spread wide, hips jerking, body begging harder than your voice could.

Paige’s voice cut through, low and commanding. “Look at you. Can’t even keep still. Dripping all over the sheets like a slut. Keep your eyes on me baby—don’t you dare look away.”

You tried, lashes fluttering, but when Paige increased the speed on the vibrator, the buzz against your clit had your eyes rolling back. She gripped your jaw, forcing your head toward her, lips curving in satisfaction.

“That’s better. I wanna see every second of you falling apart.”

She didn’t stop until your body was trembling violently, tears spilling, your release dragged from you with a sob that shook your chest. Even then, she didn’t let up, switching toys, slick silicone pushing into your soaked core with ease. You whimpered at the stretch, only for her other hand to press lower, her fingers traced over your rim, circling slowly.

“Relaxx,” she cooed, pushing lightly at the tight ring of muscle. “Just a finger. You can take it. Breathe for me, baby.”

The first press had you gasping, clenching around her knuckle. She pumped the slick toy in your pussy at the same time, filling you everywhere at once, overwhelming sparks tearing through your body.

“Fuck, listen to you,” Paige groaned, biting her lip as she worked you open. “Two holes stuffed and you’re still begging for more. You love it, don’t you? Being used like this.”

“Yes—Paige, please—”

“That’s my good girl,” she praised, though her smile stayed sharp, cruel. “So fucking wet for me, dripping down my hand. Don’t stop. Take it all.”

The rhythm built until you were choking on your own moans, hips rolling helplessly into every thrust, tears blurring your vision as wet noises filled the room. She didn’t give you a second to breathe, every movement designed to push you higher, tighter, closer.

When you finally broke again, release tearing from you with a scream, Paige only slowed enough to keep you twitching, wrung out, spent beyond words.

By the time she finally relented, you were limp against the mattress, body quaking, throat raw from begging. Your eyes were wet, lashes sticking, the mess of your arousal smeared over your thighs and her fingers.

She climbed over you, straddling your hips, pressing a kiss to your damp temple as if she hadn’t just destroyed you. Her smirk was sharp, satisfied.

“Move-in day.” She murmured, lips brushing your ear.

“Congratulations, you just made this mattress the best in the apartment.”

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The press row at the Atlanta Dream game is buzzing with reporters and flashing screens creating a sense of excitement. You adjust your press badge and smooth your blouse, already feeling the adrenaline from tip-off coursing through you.

Midway through the third quarter, you finally get your chance. Weaving through the sideline crowd, mic hot in your hand, you quickly catch Britney's attention. She arches an eyebrow, and that trademark smirk is playing at her lips as she heads your way. The arena noise swells around you, and she has to bend down, way down, so her ear is just inches from your lips. You try to keep your voice steady as you ask about her defensive strategy, but your core heats up at the proximity. Her gaze lingers a beat too long, and you swear you see her tongue dart across her bottom lip.

Nearby fans cheer, oblivious to the current running between you, to the flutter in your chest you desperately try to ignore. When she straightens up and walks away, she glances back over her shoulder, and her smirk deepens. She knows exactly what she's doing to you.

Atlanta pulls ahead in the fourth, sealing the win with a roar from the crowd. You're gathering up all your gear when your phone buzzes.

"Drinks at your hotel tonight?"

You've been flirting with each other for months: stolen glances across crowded press conferences and lingering conversations that stretch well past professional courtesy. The tension between you is impossible to ignore, the kind that makes your skin hum whenever she's near. There have been close calls before, a hand on your lower back that lingered too long, her eyes dropping to your lips mid-sentence, but neither of you has crossed that line. Tonight feels different.

You meet in the lobby, and the moment you spot her leaning against a marble column in joggers and a fitted tank, your pulse kicks up. She straightens when she sees you, that slow smile spreading across her face.

"There she is," Britney says, pushing off the column with a grin. "My favorite reporter."

"Your favorite?" You arch a brow. "Pretty sure you left me hanging last week when I asked about your pre-game ritual and you said, ‘positive energy and manifestation.’"

She laughs, low and genuine. "Yeah, and watching you scramble for a new question? Adorable." Her gaze drifts over you, slow and deliberate. "Plus, you bite your lip when you're thinking. It's distracting."

"Distracting?" You fall into step beside her toward the elevators, warmth creeping up your neck.

"I'm a serious journalist, Griner."

"Uh-huh." She presses the elevator button, glancing down at you with a smirk. "And I'm just here for the intellectual conversation."

The elevator doors slide open. Inside, the space feels smaller than it should, the air charged. She leans against the brass railing, arms crossed, studying you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

"You know," she says as the floors tick upward, "I've been thinking about you all game."

"Yeah?" Your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

"Yeah." She steps closer, close enough that you can smell her cologne—something clean and expensive. "Couldn't focus on the post-game interviews. Kept wondering if you'd actually say yes."

To drinks?" You meet her eyes, emboldened. "Or to something else?"

The elevator chimes. Doors slide open, but neither of you moves right away. Then her hand finds the small of your back, firm but easy, steering you out into the hallway. You can’t help noticing how effortlessly she takes the lead.

"Let's start with drinks," she murmurs near your ear, voice low enough to spark heat along your skin, "and see where the night takes us."

At the minibar, your hands buzz as you pour two shots, the smell of tequila cutting through the air. She clinks her glass against yours with a lazy grin, and you two throw back shots.

Britney settles onto the barstool, elbows resting casually on the minibar counter like she’s perfectly at home. You’re still standing, somewhere between nervous and bold, and before you realize it, you’ve stepped between her knees. Her thigh brushes yours— her firm muscle under the soft give of joggers and your breath catches.

"So," you blurt out, powered by tequila and proximity, "what are we doing here, Griner?"

She grins, all mischief and heat. "What do you want us to be doing?"

You pour another round, the tequila burning down your throat. "I don't know yet," you admit. "But I have some ideas."

"Yeah?" She pulls you closer, her hand finding your hip. "Tell me."

Instead of answering, you kiss her. She tastes like salt and lime. When she deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against her, your knees nearly buckle. Her hands slide down to cup your ass and you gasp into her mouth. She pulls you closer until you can feel every breath she takes. The counter digs lightly into your hip, but you don’t care—you’re too caught up in the way her tongue moves against yours.

Your hands find her shoulders, then her jaw, fingers tracing the sharp line of it before curling into her hair. The kiss grows slower, heavier, your mouths parting only to find each other again. Her lips are slick and swollen, and every time they meet yours, you feel that heady mix of liquor and want curling low in your stomach.

When she finally pulls back just enough to breathe, your lips tingle, your chest rising and falling fast. You’re dizzy, drunk on tequila and her, every nerve alive and buzzing.

"Bed," you manage between kisses. "Now."

She walks you backward until your legs hit the mattress, and you fall together onto the plush duvet. She hovers over you, all six-foot-nine of her, and the size difference makes your pulse race. Her mouth finds yours again, hungry and demanding, while her hands pull your shirt over your head. She's exploring the newly revealed skin, calloused fingers trailing up your ribcage.

"You're so fucking beautiful," she murmurs against your lips, her hand cupping you through your bra. You arch into her touch, and she grins.

"Britney—" you gasp as her hands tighten on your chest. She silences you with another kiss, her thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaks beneath the fabric. You whimper, and she unhooks your bra with practiced ease pushing the fabric aside. When her mouth closes around your nipple, you cry out.

"That's it," she encourages, her tongue circling and flicking while her hand works your other breast. The dual sensation has you squirming beneath her, heat pooling between your thighs.

Her hand slides down your stomach, popping the button of your jeans. "Can I?"

"Yes, God, yes-"

She works your jeans down your hips, her fingers trailing teasingly over your inner thighs. When she finally cups you through your underwear, she groans. "Fuck, you're soaked."

"Your fault," you gasp, hips bucking into her hand.

She laughs, low and satisfied, rubbing slow circles that have you seeing stars. "All for me?" She pushes your underwear aside, her fingers gliding through your wetness.

You're trembling. "Wait..." You nod toward her bag. "What's in your bag?"

She pauses, eyebrow raised, then that wicked grin spreads across her face. "You want to know?"

"Show me."

She climbs off the bed, crossing to her duffel bag near the door. When she unzips it and pulls out the harness and a strap on, your breath catches. "I had a feeling," she says, watching your reaction. "That okay?"

"More than okay."

She strips off her clothes unselfconsciously, all lean muscle and confidence, then steps into the harness and adjusts it. The sight of her like this makes your core clench with anticipation.

She starts heading back toward you, but you hold up a hand.

"Wait, I want another shot first."

She laughs, surprised, but gestures toward the minibar. "Go ahead."

You pour tequila with shaking hands, bringing the glass to your lips. Just as you are about to drink, you feel her behind you—her presence massive and overwhelming. Her large hand wraps around your throat, not choking, just holding, possessive and sure. Your head falls back against her chest, the shot glass trembling in your hand.

"Mmhmm," you manage, the sound caught between a moan and a sigh.

"Take your shot, baby," she murmurs against your ear, her other hand sliding around your waist. "Then I'm taking you against that wall."

You down the tequila in one burning gulp, grab the lime, and bite down. Before you can even set the glass down, she's spinning you around, lifting you, pressing you against the wall with a force that steals your breath.

"You ready?" The head of the strap presses between your legs, and her eyes are on you.

"Please."

She slowly pushes in, watching your reaction. The stretch makes your head thunk back against the wall, and she fills you completely. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you up.

"Fuck, Britneyy"

"Yeah, that's it." The angle is perfect. Every thrust hits that spot and you're clinging to her shoulders, nails definitely leaving marks.

Britney is so strong it's stupid, holding you up like it's nothing, her hips snapping into you with a perfect rhythm.She's watching your face the whole time, reading every reaction, adjusting based on the sounds you're making.

"Look at me," she says, voice rough. "Taking it so good. You gonna come for me?"

"Yes—fuck, yes—"

Her thumb finds your clit and you completely unravel. You come hard, crying out her name. Your core clenching around the strap while you try to catch your breath. But she keeps moving, keeps talking you through it until you're shaking and can barely hold on.

"Good girl," she says, kissing your temple. "I got you."

Your legs are jelly. Actually useless. "I can't... I don't think I can stand."

She laughs, still holding you up easily. "Good thing I'm not done with you yet."

Britney carries you to the bed, sitting down on the edge with you still impaled on the strap. The new angle makes you gasp, and she grins up at you.

"Come on, baby," she says, hands on your hips. "Ride me."

"Britney, I just... I can barely..."

"I know." Her hands guide you, helping you move. "I've got you."

You start to move, grinding down, and oh fuck. This angle is different. Deeper somehow. Your hands brace on her shoulders because your thighs are still shaking.

"That's it," she encourages. "Use me. Take what you need."

You find a rhythm, rolling your hips, grinding down. The friction is doing something to her too because her breathing gets heavier, her grip on your hips tighter.

"Fuck," she mutters. "Keep doing that. The harness... you're..."

Oh. Oh. The base is rubbing against her clit every time you grind down. You do it again, harder, and she actually groans.

"You like that?" you manage, even though you're the one falling apart.

"Don't get cocky," she says, but her hips are moving now too, meeting your movements, and suddenly you're both chasing this.

You're laughing a little, breathless and overwhelmed, because this is fun. It's hot as hell but it's also fun, the two of you grinning at each other between moans, her hands everywhere, your bodies moving together.

"Come on," she says, voice strained now. One hand slides between you, fingers finding your clit again. "Come with me. Can you do that?"

"Yeah... fuck, yeah..."

She works you with her fingers while you grind down harder, faster, the strap hitting deep and her breathing ragged in your ear. When you come this time it's different, slower but somehow more intense, and you feel her tense beneath you, her hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as she comes too.

You collapse against her, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and spent. She wraps her arms around you properly this time, holding you close.

"Holy shit," you mumble against her shoulder.

She laughs, the sound rumbling through her chest. "Yeah. Holy shit."

Afterward, she carries you to the bed, both of you collapsing in a tangle of limbs and laughter. She holds you close, wrapped in her arms. You drift off against her forearm, your heartbeat syncing with hers.

Sunlight eventually peeks through the hotel curtains. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand:

"Early morning press. Didn't want to wake you. Let's not wait so long next time."

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The library was completely empty at this hour. Just the faint hum of the heating system and the muted click of your pen as you finished another catalog entry. The desk lamp threw a golden halo over the open ledger, your cardigan slipping from one shoulder as you leaned forward, glasses sliding down your nose.

You loved the quiet here. The world shrank to the soft scratch of ink on paper, the faint scent of old bindings and dust. It was safe and familiar to you. The kind of silence that made time feel suspended. The library had been closed for nearly an hour, the doors locked, the front lot empty except for your car. Which meant when Nika spotted it on her way back from practice, she knew exactly where you’d be. And she knew how to get in, too — slipping through the back entrance near the old bronze statue, the one she’d shown you once during a late-night walk across campus.

You hadn’t heard her come in until the soft click of the back door swinging open echoed faintly in the vast space. The sudden shift in the still air was like a ripple across a still pond. Then her voice, low and teasing, cut through the quiet like a spark in the dark.

“Hey, bookworm.”

She appeared just beyond the stacks, framed by the glow of the dim hallway light, her damp hair pulled back messily, warm-ups clinging to her like a second skin. She walked toward you slowly and deliberately. She was confident. It was like she was claiming the sanctuary for herself and for you.

“Shouldn’t you be heading back to your dorm?” you asked, trying to act casual as you pushed your glasses up.

She walked over, setting her elbows on your desk and leaning in until her smirk was just inches from your face.

“Could be. But then I wouldn’t get to see you like this.” Her gaze dragged deliberately over your chest, your cardigan, the mess of papers around you.

You cleared your throat, glancing back at your ledger. “I have to finish cataloging.”

“Mhm.” The way she hummed it told you she didn’t care. “Or…” She tilted her head, that mischievous spark lighting in her eyes. “You keep working… and I’ll handle the rest.”

The implication hit instantly, and you froze, pen hovering above the paper. “Nika—”

But she was already moving, circling behind your chair, her warm-up pants swishing softly in the hush of the library. Her fingers trailed over your shoulder, slipping the cardigan the rest of the way down your arm. You shivered, and she caught it, smiling softly against the shell of your ear, her breath warm and scented faintly with the sharp tang of sweat and mint from practice.

“Keep working,” she murmured, her voice a low promise that sent heat curling through your veins. 

You tried. For maybe ten seconds. But then her hands slid lower, unbuttoning your blouse with unhurried precision, fingertips grazing over your skin like whispered secrets. The cool air of the library pressed against your exposed flesh, a sharp contrast to the fire blossoming wherever her fingers touched. By the time she tugged your skirt down, your breath had grown shallow, the taste of her lips still lingering on yours. 

She stayed fully clothed, the soft rustle of her hoodie brushing lightly against your bare skin as she knelt between your legs. The position felt deliciously daring — her warm, confident hands parting your thighs while the cool air of the library brushed over your heated skin, anchoring you in the electric tension humming between you.

“You look so pretty like this,” she said, voice low, almost reverent. “All naked for me while I’m still dressed.”

The first touch of her mouth made you gasp, the sound too loud in the silence. You glanced toward the darkened rows of shelves, half-expecting someone to appear, but no one did. The danger only made your pulse race harder.

She was unhurried, wickedly so, building you up until you were gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Your pen rolled off the ledger, hitting the floor with a small clatter you barely registered.

“You’re not working anymore,” she teased. The sudden loss of warmth made a hollow ache settle deep in your chest.

“Shut up,” you breathed, fingers tangling gently in the damp strands at the nape of her neck, pulling her closer like a lifeline.

She smiled against your skin, sharp and satisfied, before diving back in. The wet heat of her mouth trailed fire along your jaw, down your throat, making your vision swim in a haze of sensation and need. Her hands ghosted over your ribs, fingertips tracing delicate patterns that sent shivers racing across your skin, while the soft scrape of her nails tugged lightly at your hips.

You were close—so close—when she eased up just enough to force your eyes open, your lashes fluttering like fragile wings against the lamplight.

“Look at me,” she whispered, and you obeyed. Her gaze held you captive, dark, smoldering, and fiercely alive, hoodie casting shadows that softened the sharp edges of her face.

The feeling broke over you like a wave: sudden, overwhelming, raw. Your knees buckled, and you slumped back in the chair, breath catching in a ragged gasp. 

Your cardigan pooled forgotten on the floor, a soft reminder of how undone you’d become.

Nika rose, still fully dressed, and bent down to press a slow, steady kiss to your temple, as if nothing about the messy papers, your flushed skin, or the racing of your heart was out of place.

“Library’s a mess now,” she said, eyes flicking to the scattered papers and your disheveled state.

“You’re a menace,” you muttered, voice thick with breathlessness.

Her smirk deepened, wicked and unapologetic. “And you love it.”

She was already halfway to the door, but glanced back with a final tease. “Finish cataloging, bookworm.”

Three weeks.

That's how long it's been since the ambush. Three weeks of parties. Beach bonfires with Craig. Bars in Pacific Beach where nobody asks questions. Coming home sunburnt and barefoot with sand in your hair, ready to do it all again. Three weeks of outfits that make Pope's jaw tighten. Sleazy crop tops and short shorts, bikinis that barely qualify as clothing, dresses cut so low that even Smurf raises an eyebrow.

Three weeks of ignoring the way Pope watches you. The way his eyes follow you across a room. The way he stands too close in the kitchen and doesn't say a word. Three weeks of pills. Just to take the edge off. Just to make the ache in your shoulder bearable. Just to quiet the noise in your head that won't shut up about blood on bathroom floors and the way Pope's hands felt on your skin.

You're fine. Everything's fine. It's Tuesday morning and you're standing in the kitchen in one of Craig's oversized tank tops and sleep shorts, pouring cereal into a bowl. Your hands are steadier than yesterday. That's progress.

The house is quiet. Smurf's out. Deran's at the beach. Craig's still asleep, probably will be for another three hours. J's outside doing homework by the pool like the nerd he is. Pope's leaning against the counter across from you, drinking coffee, not saying anything. He's been doing that  alot llately. Just existing in your space, watching you, silent as a ghost.

You ignore him. Pour milk. Too much milk. It sloshes over the side of the bowl.

"Shit."

You grab a towel and try to wipe it up. Your movements are slow and deliberate. Everything takes more effort than it should. Pope's still watching.

"What?" Your voice comes out wrong. Thick. Sluggish.

He doesn't answer. Just sets down his coffee cup very carefully. Then he's moving. Crossing the kitchen in three strides, and suddenly he's right there, his stature towering over you.The bowl slips from your hands. Ceramic shatters. Cheerios scatter across the tile.The milk pools at your feet.

Then Pope's hands are on your face, tilting your head up, and he's looking at you like he's searching for something. His thumbs press against your cheekbones. He turns your face left, right. His eyes are dark and frantic and angry.

"What the fuck—" you start, but your words come out slow, syrupy.

Pope's not listening. His hands move to your arms, your shoulders, pulling at your clothes. He yanks the neck of the tank top aside, looking for something. Track marks, maybe. Evidence.

"Stop—"

But he doesn't stop. His hands are everywhere, checking your arms, your wrists, rough and urgent and terrifying.

"Can you even hear yourself?" Pope's voice is angry. "You can't even talk!"

"I'm fine—"

"What did you take?" He's in your face now, so close you can see the hurt in his eyes. "What did you take?"

"Nothing, I didn't—"

"Bullshit." His chest is heaving, rising and falling like he's the one who's been running from something. His hand finds your chin, grips it in the triangle of his huge hand, forces you to look at him. "Tell me. Now."

You're scared. Actually scared. But somehow you also know that he wouldn't actually hurt you. Not really.

"Fine," you hear yourself say. "Oxy. Every once in a while. Just for the pain."

Pope's eyes narrow. He doesn't believe you. "Every once in a while?"

"Yeah."

"Look at your pupils." His thumb pulls down your lower eyelid. You try to jerk away but his grip is iron. "Pinpoint. You're fucked up right now. How many did you take this morning?"

"I don't—"

"How many?"

"Two. Maybe three. I don't remember."

Something in Pope's face breaks. Just for a second. Then it hardens into something cold and determined. Then he's moving again, his hand clamped around your waist, dragging you out of the kitchen. You try to resist but your legs don't cooperate, and he's so much stronger than you, and suddenly you're being hauled through the house like a rag doll.

"Get the fuck off me—"

"No."

J looks up from his textbook as Pope drags you past. His mouth opens slightly, probably to ask what the fuck is happening, but he takes one look at Pope's face and closes it again. Smart kid. Knows when to stay out of it.

Pope throws you into the bathroom. Not violently, but not gently either. You stumble, catch yourself on the counter.

"Pope, what the fuck—"

The door slams shut. You hear the lock click.

"Pope!" You lunge for the handle, pull at it. Locked from the outside. "Let me out!"

Silence.

Then you hear it, drawers opening. Cabinets slamming. The medicine cabinet. Craig's stash.

"Pope, don't—those are Craig's—"

The toilet flushes. Once. Twice. Three times.

"No! Fuck! You can't—"

But he can. He is. You hear more drawers, more flushing. He's dumping everything. All of Craig's pills, all the backups, everything. Everything that has been bringing you comfort over the last month, gone.

You bang on the door with both fists. "Let me out! Pope! Please!"

Nothing.

"Please," you sob. "Please, just let me out. I'm sorry. I'll stop, okay? I'll stop. Just let me out."

Silence on the other side of the door. You slide down to the floor, back against the door, and the crying really starts then. Ugly, desperate crying that makes your chest ache and your face burn. You can't stop. You can't breathe. Everything is too much and not enough and you just want it to stop. You cry until you're empty. Until there's nothing left. Until your eyes burn and your head pounds and your throat is raw. Eventually, you stop. Eventually, your exhaustion wins.

You curl up on the bathroom floor, the same floor where Pope fucked you three weeks ago. On the other side of the door, Pope sits with his back against the wood, listening to you break apart. A tear slides down his face. He doesn't wipe it away. He hears you beg. Hears you cry. Hears you eventually go quiet.

He stays there until he hears your breathing even out. Until he hears the soft sounds of sleep. Only then does he stand and unlock the door. He pushes it open slowly.

You're curled on the tile, face tear-stained and puffy, sleeping fitfully. There's dried milk on your legs from the cereal you dropped. Your hair is tangled. You look so young like this. So breakable. Reminds him of Julia. Pope crouches down, touches your shoulder gently. You don't wake up. Out cold.

He considers carrying you to his bed. To your room. Somewhere comfortable. Instead, he closes the door softly and leaves you there. You need to wake up uncomfortable. Need to wake up and face what you've been doing.

Waking up on the bathroom floor was never where you imagined yourself. But here you are. Your face burns, hot and tight from crying so hard. There's dried milk crusted on your legs. Your mouth tastes like death. Every muscle aches from sleeping on tile.

The doors are open now. Sunlight seeps in through the hallway, warm and accusing. You pull yourself up, legs shaky, and catch sight of yourself in the mirror. Jesus. Red-rimmed eyes. Splotchy face. Hair like you fought with a hurricane and lost.

You splash water on your face. It doesn't help much. Then you make your way to where you hear noise. Pope's at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. J's at the table, eating a Pop-Tart, pretending very hard to be absorbed in his phone.

"Hey," you say to J. Your voice is hoarse.

"Hey," he says, not looking up.

You ignore Pope, and slide into the chair next to J.

Pope plates up breakfast. Eggs, bacon, and pancakes. He sets it in front of you with orange juice. Like this is normal. Like he didn't just imprison you for twelve hours.

You look at the food. Look at him. "Why the fuck would you do that? You imprisoned me."

Pope gives J a look and jerks his head toward the pool. J's up and out the door in seconds. Then it's just you and Pope. He sits down across from you. Doesn't touch his own food. Just looks at you with those dark, unreadable eyes.

"I've been watching you," he says quietly.

"Stalker much?"

"How does a girl go from knowing everything—" his voice hardens slightly, "—to not remembering what day it is?"

The question lands like a punch. Because he's right. You don't remember what day it is. You barely remember yesterday. You look down. All you can feel in the moment  is embarrassed. Ashamed.

Pope's voice softens when he sees you put your head down. "Hey."

You don't look up.

"Hey," he says again, gentler. "I'm protecting you."

"By locking me in a bathroom?"

"By keeping you alive." He leans forward. "You need to stop. And you need to stop being around Craig."

That makes you look up. "Craig's not the problem—"

"Craig's exactly the problem. You think I don't notice? You come home wasted every night. You can barely stand up half the time. You're killing yourself."

"I'm fine—"

"You're not fine!" His hand slams on the table, making you jump. Then he takes a breath. Controls himself. "You're not fine. And I'm not gonna watch you fade away into nothing."

Silence stretches between you.

"Now eat," Pope says, his voice firm but not unkind.

You look at the breakfast. At him. At the orange juice sweating condensation onto the table. You pick up a fork. Pope watches you take a bite. Then another. Satisfied, he finally starts on his own food. You eat in silence. The pancakes taste like rust to you but you force them down anyway.

Later, after breakfast, Pope tells you to get ready. Won't say why. Just gives you that look that means you don't argue. You shower for a while. Find energy to put on real clothes. Find your shoes. Pope drives you to the pier in his truck. Doesn't explain. Doesn't talk. Just parks and jerks his head toward the boardwalk. You walk together in silence until you reach the ice cream stand. Pope orders two ice creams without asking what you want—mint chocolate chip for you, chocolate for him. He knows your order.

You two walk down to the beach, find a spot in the sand. The ocean is gray today, choppy with wind. Seagulls shriek overhead. You eat your ice cream in silence. It does NOT taste like toothpaste. But it's also cold and sweet and the first thing that's felt real in weeks.

"I'm sorry," you say finally.

Pope doesn't look at you. "I know."

"I didn't mean to—" You stop. "I don't know what I meant to do."

"You meant to not feel," Pope says. "I get it. But that's not living. That's just... existing until you don't anymore."

"Deep."

"I'm serious."

"I know." You take a breath. "I'll stop. I mean it this time."

Pope looks at you then. Really looks at you. "You promise?"

"Yeah. I promise."

He nods. Seems satisfied. Turns back to his ice cream. You're about to say something else. Maybe thank you, maybe I'm scared, maybe I don't know how to do this without help—when both your phones buzz simultaneously.

You pull yours out. Text from Smurf.

Smurf: meeting now

You and Pope lock eyes. The moment breaks. Whatever peace you just found evaporates instantly.

"Shit," you breathe.

"Yeah," Pope agrees.

You both stand, dump your half-eaten ice cream in the trash, and head back to the truck. Whatever Smurf wants, it's not good. It's never good.

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