softboiledeegs

The Hail Mary’s laboratory was usually a comforting hum of sterile ventilation, the soft clicking of Rocky’s claws on his Xenonite dividers, and the rhythmic scratching of pencil on paper as Ryland Grace calculated fuel consumption.

Today, however, the atmosphere was thick with a profound, multi-limbed existential crisis.

Rocky sat on his side of the xenonite partition, his central body tilted forward in an Eridian posture that screamed absolute, unadulterated bewilderment. His small, delicate hands were twitching rhythmically, a rapid-fire clicking sound vibrating from his vocal organ.

"Grace," Rocky’s mechanical translator droned, though the underlying Eridian tone was sharp and frantic. "Explain again. I require verification. The tape measure of time you provided. I am confused."

Ryland sighed, rubbing his temples. He looked exhausted, his jumpsuit stained with a mixture of dried astrophage residue and spilled soy-sauce-substitute. "Rocky, buddy, we’ve gone over this. It’s simple arithmetic. I am thirty-three Earth years old."

"Thirty-three," Rocky repeated, his claws tapping against the clear barrier. Tap-tap-tap. "A blink. A tiny fragment of life. You are a larva, Grace. You are a small, fragile, unhardened hatchling who has somehow learned to fly a spaceship. I am constantly terrified you will break because your carapace has not seasoned for a century."

"I don't have a carapace," Ryland muttered, adjusting his glasses. "And I'm a fully grown adult. On Earth, thirty-three means my joints hurt when it rains and I think about buying a house in the suburbs. I am mature."

From the corner of the lab, curled up on a makeshift pile of insulated blankets and spare jumpsuits, you snorted.

You were the third, unexpected variable in this interstellar equation. A brilliant, albeit incredibly stubborn, high school prodigy who had crossed paths with the Project Hail Mary initiative under circumstances that were ninety percent bureaucratic oversight and ten percent "well, they have a genius-level understanding of Eridian harmonic frequencies, put them on the backup crew." When the primary crew died, and the mission parameters shifted into high gear, you had somehow ended up in the extra astrophage-sleeper berth.

You were currently seventeen.

"If Grace is a larva," you chimed in, turning a page of your digital tablet, "what does that make me?"

Rocky’s central eye-analog didn't move, but his entire body pivoted toward you. The Eridian had become fiercely protective of both humans, but his understanding of human biology was largely filtered through Grace's terrible, rushed explanations.

"You are smaller than Grace," Rocky observed, his voice synthesizer dropping a octave into what Grace called his serious-science voice. "Your bone structure is less dense. You consume more simple carbohydrates and sleep in erratic patterns. Grace, what is the chronological status of [Name]?"

Ryland froze. He looked at you, then at Rocky, then back to you. A look of sheer, impending doom crossed the scientist's face. He had purposefully avoided this specific conversation because he knew exactly how Rocky’s hyper-protective, communal Eridian instincts worked.

"Uh," Ryland started, waving his hand dismissively. "They're fine, Rocky. Don't worry about it. They're part of the science team."

"Grace," Rocky said, his tone growing dangerously sharp. Click-clack-click. "Do not lie to a watchmaker. State the number of Earth orbits [Name] has existed."

You grinned mischiefly, completely ignoring the frantic, pleading head-shakes Ryland was throwing your way. "Seventeen, Rocky. I've been alive for seventeen Earth years."

The silence that followed was absolute.

For three full seconds, Rocky didn't move. Then, a sound erupted from his vocal organ that sounded like a bag of marbles being violently shaken inside a metal bucket—the Eridian equivalent of a choked gasp. He stumbled backward on his five legs, his claws scraping frantically against the deck plates.

"Seventeen?!" the translator blared, the digital voice struggling to match the sheer panic vibrating through the partition. "Seventeen?! Grace! Grace! What mean they are younger than Grace?!"

"Rocky, calm down—"

"Seventeen orbits!" Rocky’s arms waved in a chaotic, defensive pattern, his body spinning in a small, anxious circle. "You brought a hatchling into deep space! A literal soft-shell! A tiny, unformed, pre-molt embryo!"

"I am a teenager!" you protested, though you were laughing so hard you had to press your face into a pillow. "I can drive a car! Well, legally, back home."

"You are baby!" Rocky yelled through the speaker, his frantic pacing accelerating. "Grace, you are incompetent caregiver! You are terrible elder! Why is the pebble doing calculus?! Why is the pebble handling toxic astrophage?! Why is baby in vacuum tube?!"

"They're a genius, Rocky! And it wasn't my choice to bring them!" Ryland defended himself, throwing his hands in the air. "They sneaked into the final selection process because they solved the Eridian-coordinate translation bottleneck! I didn't personally kidnap a child and put them on a suicide mission!"

"Is a child!" Rocky insisted, flattening himself against the xenonite glass to get as close to you as possible. His delicate hands tapped against the divider right next to your head. " [Name]. Look at me. Do you feel your bones hardening? Are you receiving proper minerals? Grace, where is the milk? Humans require milk for the tiny ones!"

"They don't need milk, Rocky, they're seventeen, they eat normal food—"

"Silence, incompetent larva!" Rocky snapped at Grace. He turned his attention fully to you, his tone shifting into something incredibly gentle, a soft, low thrumming sound echoing from his chest. " [Name]. Do not fear. I am here. Adrian is here. We are adults. We will protect the tiny, squishy human."

From that exact moment, the dynamic on the Hail Mary shifted entirely.

If Grace was a crewmate, you were suddenly elevated to the status of a precious, endangered galactic artifact. When the mission finally succeeded—when the Taumeeba were contained, the sun-eating crisis averted, and the choice was made to head to Erid instead of a dying Earth—Rocky’s protective protocols went from high to absolute planetary defense system.

By the time the ship arrived at Erid, you had spent years in the company of a frantic scientist and a hyper-fixated Eridian. You had grown a bit taller, your voice a bit more mature, but to Rocky, you were still the seventeen-year-old hatchling who needed to be shielded from the universe.

And then, you met Adrian.

The Eridian atmosphere was a crushing, super-heated soup of ammonia, meaning you and Grace lived in a custom-built, sprawling human habitat dubbed The Castle. It was a massive, reinforced structure filled with Earth-normal air, proper gravity, and large xenonite viewing bays that looked out into the dim, bustling underground city of the Eridians.

Adrian, Rocky’s mate, had been briefed extensively before your arrival. Rocky had sent light-signals ahead, thousands of them, detailing every aspect of the vulnerable human hatchling they were bringing home.

The first time Adrian came to the viewing partition, you were sitting at a table eating a bowl of reconstituted oatmeal.

Adrian was larger than Rocky, with a carapace that had a deeper, more textured blue-gray hue. They stood next to Rocky, and the moment they saw you, both Eridians tilted their bodies in a synchronized, protective lean.

"The pebble," Adrian’s translator murmured. The tone was softer than Rocky's, imbued with a deep, resonant weight that instantly felt like a warm blanket. "Rocky told me the stories. It is so small. Rocky, it has no shell at all. Just skin. How does it stay together?"

"I use glue," you joked, looking up from your breakfast with a bright smile.

Adrian’s claws clicked in a frantic, distressed pattern. "Glue?! Grace! The pebble is falling apart! Bring the medical paste!"

"They're joking! It's a joke!" Grace shouted from the kitchen, sounding deeply tired. He walked into the common area holding a mug of coffee. "Adrian, don't listen to them. They've been spending too much time with Rocky. They're completely fine."

Adrian did not listen to Grace. In fact, within a week, it became abundantly clear that both Rocky and Adrian had mutually agreed that Ryland Grace was an unfit parent, and they were taking over full custody of your well-being.

Because Eridians couldn't enter your environment without dying, and you couldn't enter theirs without being instantly crushed and cooked, they expressed their doting affection through engineering.

Every morning, the airlock's sterilization chute would cycle, and a small, custom-made Eridian drone would trundle into your living area. The drone, painted a bright, friendly yellow (which Rocky had learned humans associated with warmth), carried gifts curated by Adrian and Rocky.

One day, it was a perfectly spherical, polished piece of Eridian stone, smoothed out so it wouldn't hurt your "frail, squishy hands."

Another day, it was a complex, mechanical puzzle made of pure iron, designed to keep your "fast, hatchling brain" entertained.

" [Name]," Rocky’s voice would come through the habitat's intercom system, always accompanied by Adrian’s supportive thrumming in the background. "Adrian has constructed a new clothing-shell for you. It is made of woven fiber-metal. It will protect you from predatory Earth creatures should they manifest in your room."

"Rocky, there are no predators in my room," you laughed, pulling out a heavy, incredibly flexible, and surprisingly comfortable metallic jacket from the drone. It was lined with soft insulation they had replicated from the ship's stores.

"Better to be safe," Adrian’s voice joined in. "The hatchling must be armored. Grace is lazy. He does not wear his armor. He is foolish. You must be wise, tiny friend."

You put the jacket on. It was a bit heavy, but it felt like a hug. You walked over to the giant xenonite window and pressed your hand against the thick glass. On the other side, Rocky and Adrian were standing side-by-side. Seeing you wear their creation, they both began to sway from side to side—a rhythmic, joyful Eridian dance.

"Look at the pebble," Adrian clicked softly. "A very stunning hatchling. Very sturdy now."

"Yes," Rocky agreed proudly, his claws tapping against the glass right where your hand was. "The strongest hatchling on Erid."

Grace walked into the room, took one look at you wearing a custom suit of Eridian chainmail while eating a bowl of cereal, and sighed. He looked out the window at his alien best friend and his mate.

"You guys are spoiling them," Grace complained, though there was a fond, relaxed smile on his face. "They have chores to do. We have to analyze the crop yields for the hydroponics bay today."

"No!" Rocky shouted through the speaker, his body tilting defensively in front of Adrian. "The pebble will not do labor! Labor is for hardened shells! The pebble will rest and grow their bones!"

"I'm literally eighteen now, Rocky," you pointed out, leaning against the glass. "I had a birthday last month, remember?"

"Eighteen is nothing!" Adrian declared fiercely. "In Eridian years, you are a negative number! You are a thought! You are a whisper! You will sit on the soft cushions and eat the sugar-carbs we sent."

You looked over at the drone, which was currently unloading a massive plate of sweet, baked treats the Eridians had synthesized using human-safe organic compounds. They looked like giant, golden-brown honeycombs and smelled like cinnamon.

You looked at Grace, raising an eyebrow. "Sorry, Ryland. The council has spoken. My bones are too soft for agricultural analysis today."

Grace rolled his eyes, but his expression was soft. He walked over, patting your shoulder—the heavy, metallic shoulder provided by two overprotective alien parents who lived in a hyper-pressurized world of ammonia, but whose hearts were completely universal.

"Fine," Grace smiled, looking out at Rocky and Adrian. "But if they get a cavity, you two are inventing an Eridian dentist."

Through the glass, Rocky and Adrian clicked in triumphant unison, their bodies swaying as they watched over their favorite, most precious little human.

The morning the world started ending, the sun didn’t look like a dying star. It just looked muted, a pale imitation of the gold that used to spill across your kitchen table.

You had been tracing the grain of the dark wood, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling between your hands, when Ryland called you. He didn’t look like a junior high school teacher who had just spent the day managing chaotic classrooms. He looked hollowed out. There was a sharp, clinical edge to his posture that usually only appeared when he was deep into a research paper he claimed not to care about anymore.

He didn't say anything at first. He just, looked at you, really looked. As if you were about to get ripped away from him at any given moment.

"They asked me," he whispered, his voice muffled hugging your sweater, the one you gifted him.

You didn't need him to elaborate. The Project Hail Mary initiative had been consuming the global news cycle, a desperate, multi-national Hail Mary pass to stop the Astrophage from choking the sun to death. They were looking for scientists, for experts, for anyone with the specific genetic markers to survive the coma. Ryland had been drafted into the research team months ago, but this was different. This was the final step. The one-way ticket.

"They want you to go," you murmured.

"Eva Stratt thinks I’m the only one who can reliably handle the cell cultures in transit," he said, a bitter, terrified laugh hitching in his throat. He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes, usually so bright and animated when he talked about science, were wide and swimming with a raw, unadulterated fear. "It’s a suicide mission. There’s no fuel for a return trip, sunshine. If I say yes... I’m dying out there. Light-years away from you."

The weight of the universe felt like it was pressing down on the roof of your small house, threatening to collapse the rafters. Your chest ached with a physical, tearing agony. You wanted to beg him to stay. You wanted to tell him to hide, to let someone else save the world, to give you whatever years the dying sun had left so you could spend them in each other's arms.

But you looked at the ring on your finger—a simple, elegant band that matched the one he wore on a chain around his neck because he always forgot to take it off before labs. You looked at the man who explained the cosmos to teenagers with the reverence of a poet.

"I love you," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the fracturing of your heart. "And because I love you, I am not going to tie you to a sinking ship. If you stay here, we watch the world go dark together. If you go... you give everybody a chance. Including me."

"I don't want to leave you," he choked out, pressing his forehead against a table. "Tell me what to do. Just tell me to stay, and I'll stay. I swear to God, I will."

You shook your head slowly. "No. I won't make this choice for you, Ryland. But whatever you decide... I support you. I am with you. Always."

That night, he held your photo as if he could merge his soul into yours, memorizing the cadence of your breathing, the exact scent of your skin, the way your fingers curled into his shirt. And when the black government SUVs pulled up to your shared house, three days later, saying "We honor your fiancee, Ryland Grace for his honorable sacrifice." you didn’t cry until the tail lights disappeared down the gravel driveway.

You chose to stay behind. There was no place for you on a spaceship meant for three scientists and a mountain of life-support equipment. You would stay on Earth, waiting under a dimming sky, holding onto a remnant of hope that defied all mathematical probability.

~

Space was black, and grey, and terrifyingly silent.

When Ryland Grace woke up from the forced coma, his brain was a clean slate wiped by amnesia. He knew how to speak, he knew the laws of physics, and he knew how to test the chemical composition of the sludge in his feeding tubes. But he didn't know his name. He didn't know why he was in a metal cylinder hurtling through the void.

And he didn't know why his chest felt like a phantom limb was being torn from it.

It took weeks for the memories to trickle back, arriving in agonizing, disjointed fragments. He remembered Eva Stratt. He remembered the Astrophage. He remembered the absolute terror of being forced onto the ship. He remembered his crewmates—and the suffocating grief of realizing they hadn't survived the journey. He was alone.

Or so he thought.

It happened while he was cleaning out one of the tertiary storage lockers in the dormitory area. A small, unassuming metal canister had slipped from a shelf, clattering against the deck plates. When Ryland picked it up, the lid popped open. Inside wasn't a piece of scientific equipment or a spare component for the air scrubbers.

It was a photograph.

Ryland sat down heavily on the floor, the cold metal of the ship vibrating through his jumpsuit. He stared at the glossy paper. It was a picture taken in a backyard. The sun was bright—blindingly, beautifully bright, the way it used to be. A person was laughing, their head tilted back, their eyes crinkling with pure, unbridled joy. They were holding a plate of half-burnt barbecue, and their other hand was reached out toward the camera, as if trying to swat away the person taking the photo.

On their left ring finger, a simple band caught the sunlight.

Ryland’s breath hitched. A sudden, violent surge of emotion crashed over him like a tidal wave, knocking the air straight out of his lungs. A name echoed in the cavernous, empty spaces of his mind.

[Name]. you.

"[Name]," he whispered aloud, the syllables foreign and yet intimately familiar on his tongue.

The amnesia had stripped away the specific dates, the anniversaries, the exact sound of your voice, but it hadn't touched the feeling. Seeing your face was like a blind man suddenly regaining his sight. The phantom ache in his chest instantly materialized into a profound, devastating longing. He remembered the kitchen table. He remembered the pale sun. He remembered the words you had told him, preserved in the amber of his subconscious.

“Whatever you decide… I support you. I am with you. Always.”

He hadn't been a brave man who volunteered to save humanity. He remembered that now, too. He had been a coward who had to be dragged kicking and screaming onto the Hail Mary. But you... you had given him your blessing anyway. You had loved him enough to let him go into the dark.

Ryland pressed the photograph against his chest, right over his racing heart, and let out a broken, sobbing laugh. "I'm not alone," he whispered to the empty room. "I have to finish this. I have to save the sun. I have to go home to you."

~

The mission changed the moment Ryland met Rocky.

An alien being made of stone and heavy metals, living in a hot, high-pressure environment, shouldn't have been able to coexist with a fragile human from Earth. But necessity and a shared existential dread create strange bedfellows. Over the months of grueling scientific labor, of building a translation dictionary word by melodic, musical word, the Eridian and the human became more than allies. They became brothers.

Rocky was a creature of pure logic, an engineering genius who could forge complex machinery with his bare claws. But he also understood the concept of family.

One evening, while they were docked together in the Tau Ceti system, analyzing the Taumoeba cultures that would hopefully cure their respective home stars, Rocky noticed Ryland staring at the small photograph taped neatly next to the primary monitor of the Hail Mary science lab.

Rocky tapped his claws against the dividing glass, a series of melodic, clicking chimes vibrating through the speaker. “Who is the small-photo-person, Question?”

Ryland smiled, a soft, melancholy expression that always appeared when he looked at the picture. "That’s [name], Rocky. My... my fiancée. The person I am going to marry."

Rocky tilted his carapace, his echolocation tracking Ryland's movements. “Fiancée. Pre-mate? Partner of life?”

"Yes," Ryland said, his voice thick with emotion. "My partner of life. I left them behind on Earth to come here. I thought I would never see them again. The ship... it was only supposed to be a one-way trip."

Rocky made a low, mournful rumbling sound, a vibration that Ryland had come to understand as Eridian comfort. “Earth sun is dying. You leave partner to save partner. Good. Very good. But now, ship has fuel. Taumoeba is found. You go back to partner now?”

Ryland looked at the monitors. The Hail Mary had indeed been modified. Thanks to Rocky's incredible engineering skills and the abundance of localized resources, they had managed to cultivate enough fuel. The beetles—the automated probes meant to carry the data back to Earth while Ryland died in space—were no longer his only option. He could actually fly the ship back.

But it wasn't that simple.

"The Taumoeba are leaking, Rocky," Ryland said softly, staring at the latest telemetry data from Rocky's ship, the Blip-A. The Eridian ship's fuel tanks were being consumed by a mutated strain of the organism. Rocky was trapped. If Ryland left for Earth now, he would live, and Earth would be saved. But Rocky would die here, alone in the dark, and Eridian civilization would perish.

If Ryland stayed to save Rocky, he would have to use his own ship's fuel to transport Rocky back to Erid, abandoning his own chance to return home. He would be stranded on a foreign world, thousands of light-years away from the person he loved.

Ryland looked from the telemetry screen to the photograph of your laughing face.

“I support whatever you decide.”

Your voice echoed in his mind, clear as a bell across the vacuum of space. You hadn't asked him to be a hero; you had asked him to be true to himself. And Ryland knew, with absolute certainty, that if he abandoned his friend to save his own skin, he wouldn't be the man you loved anymore.

"I have to help him," Ryland whispered to the photograph. "I'm sorry, sunshine. I have to save him first."

With a heavy heart but a clear conscience, Ryland Grace turned his ship around. He sent the automated beetles hurtling toward Earth with the cure for the sun, and he set a course to rescue his alien friend. He gave up his ticket home.

~

Years blurred into a surreal tapestry of alien landscapes and sulfur-scented air. Ryland lived on Erid for over a decade. He ate their synthetic, vitamin-infused pastes, he lived in their specialized high-pressure domes, and he taught Eridian children the basics of human science, just as he had once taught the kids in junior high.

He grew older. Strands of grey invaded his hair, and fine lines etched themselves around his eyes. Rocky was his constant companion, a steadfast friend who did everything in his power to make the human feel at home.

But Erid was not home.

One day, while sitting in the observation dome looking out over the dark, starless sky of Erid, Rocky walked in. He didn't chime his usual cheerful greeting. Instead, he dropped a heavy, metallic cylinder onto the table.

“Grace,” Rocky sung, his pitch deadpan and serious. “Look at the sky-data from Earth system.”

Ryland frowned, hooking his laptop up to the cylinder. As the data decoded, his breath hitched. The automated astronomical readings from the Eridian space telescopes showed Sol—the Earth’s sun.

It wasn't dim anymore. The Astrophage infection had broken. The light output was back to one hundred percent efficiency. The beetles had made it. The world had been saved.

But that wasn't all.

"Eridian scientists figured out how to fix Hail Mary. Grace go home!" Rocky chimed, the musical notes sounding more like salvation to him.

Ryland stood up so fast his chair flipped over. He turned to Rocky, his chest heaving. "Rocky, I—"

“I know, I know!” Rocky interrupted, his chimes a joyful, chaotic symphony. "I go with you, Grace! I see this Earth. I see partner-of-life who makes my friend look at a tiny paper for fifteen years! Adrian come aswell! Amaze amaze amaze!”

Ryland laughed, a loud, sobbing sound, and threw his arms around the hard, rocky carapace of his best friend. "Thank you. Thank you, Rocky."

It took a few more months to build and prepare the reinforced Hail Mary, It was a marvel of dual-species engineering—half of it a pressurized, nitrogen-oxygen environment for Ryland, the other half a super-heated, ammonia-filled chamber for Rocky and Adrian, separated by a massive, reinforced viewport.

When the ship finally broke orbit from Erid, Ryland didn't look back. His eyes were fixed firmly on a tiny, distant blue speck on the navigation console.

The trip took nearly three years at relativistic speeds. For Ryland, it was a time of intense anticipation, a slow-burning agony of hope. He spent hours talking to both Rocky and Adrian through the glass, describing what grass felt like, how rain smelled, and what it was like to hold someone you loved. Rocky listened with rapt attention, his claws clicking in fascination.

As the ship finally decelerated into the Sol system, Ryland stood at the viewport of his quarters. The Earth grew larger and larger, a brilliant, breathtaking jewel of blue, white, and vibrant green. The brown, dying hue it had worn when he left was completely gone.

They had done it. They had saved it.

~

The landing of the Hail Mary was not a covert affair. The Earth military and scientific communities had been tracking the massive, alien-built vessel since it passed Jupiter. When Ryland broadcasted his identity and his intentions, the global response was a mixture of absolute shock and euphoric celebration. The legendary Ryland Grace, the savior of humanity who was assumed dead a decade ago, was returning. And he had brought friends.

They were cleared to land at a secure military facility in the desert of New Mexico, equipped with the specialized atmospheric containment units both Eridians required to survive on Earth.

The ship touched down with a heavy, pressurized hiss. Ryland stood in the airlock, his hands shaking so violently he could barely cycle the manual release. He was wearing a standard flight suit, the ring on the chain heavy against his collarbone.

Through the thick glass of the internal viewport, Rocky tapped a rhythm against the partition. “Go, Grace. Find the small-photo-person. We am safe in my box. We watch from the window.”

Ryland smiled, his eyes stinging. "I'll be right back, buddy."

The external airlock door groaned open, lowering a ramp onto the tarmac. The air of Earth hit Ryland like a physical blow. It was warm, thick with oxygen, and smelling intensely of dry dirt, ozone, and distant sagebrush. It was a beautiful, overwhelming sensory overload.

A crowd of officials, scientists, and military personnel stood a respectful distance away, their faces a sea of wide eyes and dropped jaws. But Ryland didn't look at them. His gaze swept wildly across the tarmac, searching, desperately searching.

And then, he saw you.

You were standing just outside the security perimeter, held back by a line of guards who didn't quite know what to do with you. You looked different. Fifteen years had woven silver strands into your hair, and there were faint lines at the corners of your eyes and mouth—the marks of a life spent enduring, waiting, and hoping against hope.

But your eyes were exactly the same. They were wide, filled with tears, and locked onto him with a fierce, unwavering intensity.

Ryland forgot about the protocol. He forgot about the dignitaries, the cameras, and the alien ship behind him. He broke into a run.

"[Name]!" he screamed, his voice cracking with the sheer volume of his emotion.

The guards didn't even try to stop you as you ducked under the barrier. You met him halfway across the concrete, colliding with a force that nearly knocked both of you to the ground.

Ryland’s arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you off your feet, pulling you so close that there was no space left between you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, just as he had done fifteen years ago on the morning the world started ending. But this time, the sun above you was bright, hot, and blindingly alive.

"You're here," you sobbed into his shoulder, your hands clutching at his back, your fingers digging into the fabric of his flight suit as if convincing yourself he wasn't a ghost. "You're real. Oh my god, Ryland, you came back."

"I came back," he choked out, his tears wetting your collar. "I always wanted to come back. I remembered you, [name]. Even when I forgot my own name, I remembered you."

He set you down carefully, but his hands didn't leave your face. He held you by the cheeks, his thumbs wiping away the tears streaming down your face, repeating the gesture from a lifetime ago. He drank in the sight of you, memorizing every new line, every nuance that time had added to the face he had stared at on a tiny piece of paper for light-years.

"I kept my promise," you whispered, reaching up to cover his hands with yours. "I stayed. I waited. I knew you'd find a way."

"I had help," Ryland said with a wet, breathless laugh. He turned slightly, keeping one arm securely wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his side as he pointed back toward the massive, gleaming structure of the Hail Mary.

Through a massive, reinforced viewport near the base of the ship, a large, dark, five-legged creature was pressing its carapace against the glass, waving two of its claws in an enthusiastic, chaotic greeting.

You gasped, your eyes widening as you stared at the Eridians. "Is that...?"

"That's Rocky," Ryland said, his voice brimming with affection and pride. "He's the reason I'm alive. He's the reason the sun is bright. And he really wanted to meet the person from the photograph."

You looked from the alien waving frantically from the spaceship to the man standing beside you. The weight of the fifteen-year nightmare, the cold winters under a dying sun, the suffocating loneliness of an empty house—it all evaporated, burning away under the brilliant, triumphant heat of the afternoon sky.

You turned back into Ryland's embrace, wrapping your arms around his neck, hiding your face against his chest as he held you like you were the most precious thing in the entire universe.

"Let's go introduce him then," you murmured against his skin, a soft, radiant smile finally breaking across your face. "We have fifteen years of catching up to do."

Above you, the sun shone on a saved world, and for the first time in a very long time, Ryland Grace was finally home.

1. The Man Who Saved You

2. The Man You Make Uneasy

3. The Man With a Beautiful Smile

4. The Man Who Kiss You for the First Time

5. The Man Who Speaks With His Eyes

6. The Man Who Makes You Whole

7. The Man Who Found His Fire in You

8. The Man You Didn’t Expect to Need

9. The Man Who Knew Before You Did

10. The Woman He Followed Into the Dark

You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.

“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.

But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.

In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.

“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”

“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.

“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”

You’re not even wearing any earbuds.

He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.

It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. 

Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them, you had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.

But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.

Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.

Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.

You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.

He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.

Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.

It’s infuriating.

But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences. 

No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.

No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.

Why?

Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.

It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.

It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.

Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.

Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.

The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.

Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.

He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.

Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.

Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.

He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.

When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,

—getting you in his bed.

Your lieutenant's acting strange.

Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.

It's suspicious as fuck.

You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)

So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.

Exhibit A.

Standing up for you.

The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?

These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.

"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"

The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.

You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.

"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.

"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"

Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.

"Let's see how good you are then."

The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.

Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.

Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?

Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.

(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)

Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.

Exhibit B.

Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?

"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."

An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.

"My bloodline? Not happening."

He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.

There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.

"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"

"Got plenty," he says.

The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.

"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.

A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.

It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.

If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.

"You volunteerin'?"

Your brain short-circuits.

What?

Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.

Shit hits the fan faster than you can gather your thoughts.

Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.

"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"

You don't need to be told twice.

There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.

And then, Exhibit C.

This is how it culminates.

Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.

You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.

“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.

“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.

The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing! It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.

Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.

A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.

You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.

Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.

Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.

You did it.

Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.

It occurs to you then the position you're in.

Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.

He's so warm.

An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.

Big mistake.

Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.

You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.

A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.

There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.

Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.

"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.

"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."

You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.

Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.

How did you end up here?

Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?

Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?

You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.

It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?

(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)

Knock knock.

The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.

Ghost stands there, towering over you.

"Alright, Sergeant?"

His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.

"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."

The silence that falls between you is unsettling.

“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.

“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.

You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”

He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”

Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”

“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”

Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.

“Yes or no, Sergeant?”

His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.

“…N-no, I—”

“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”

He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.

Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.

He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.

But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.

You chase him when he pulls back.

“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.

"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"

He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.

"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."

You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"

Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.

"Arms around me, love," he grunts between pecks.

Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.

"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."

You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.

Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!

"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."

He groans into your skin. It excites you infinitely more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.

Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.

The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.

Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?

It’s unbearable how turned on you are.

Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.

Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.

Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.

Ghost moves down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.

When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.

"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."

You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"

He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.

If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

He pulls you close in his arms and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.

Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.

"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.

But then he stills.

Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.

"W-why'd you stop—,"

"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.

"Huh?"

"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."

Your breath hitches. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“

You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.

"Answer the question, Sergeant."

Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still holding your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.

"Mmhh—"

The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.

"Please, Lt.—"

"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."

And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?

You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.

"C'mon, pet," Ghost encourages you. "Know y'want it."

Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.

"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."

The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.

"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.

It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.

The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.

Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.

He's still smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.

“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.

“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”

He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.

"Jerk— hngh!"

Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he eats you up without mercy, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it first fell.

You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.

(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?

It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)

His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.

It's all too much for you to take.

When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.

"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.

He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.

With the crash comes some of your rationality.

"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.

"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."

You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"

He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.

"Don't you?"

Don't you?

Your breath catches in your chest.

And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?

His name? His face?

Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?

Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.

You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.

"You with me, pet?"

Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.

"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."

You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.

“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"

The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.

"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."

Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.

"—off," you manage to say between breaths.

Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.

His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.

"Scared?" He teases.

You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.

"I've had bigger," you lie.

He tilts his head. "S'that right?"

Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.

Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.

He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.

"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"

You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."

"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.

"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.

"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."

Fucking. Asshole!

Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."

You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.

Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.

"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.

His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.

“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”

"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.

"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.

"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.

It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.

Simon doesn't stop teasing you.

"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.

"Cock's got your tongue?"

"F-fu-ungh—"

Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.

He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.

"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."

"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.

It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.

He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.

You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.

His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.

"Come f'me, pet."

And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.

Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.

When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.

Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes balls deep in your pussy.

“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.

But there’s no real venom in your voice.

Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.

“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”

You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.

Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.

"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"

You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.

His quiet chuckle rumbles deep in your ear.

Fucking prick.

holly was reteaching him how to drive a car by spewing unsolicited advice at every street sign. they were cruising by yet another beach. a particularly bad investigation hit him and healy last weekend, and it left him bruised up like a dropped mango. he had a black eye and a trickle of purple dots from the neck to the chest. doctors also suspected his ankle might have been sprained, but so far there had been no clear signs, which was enough for him to pop a few pain pills and call it a day. his hands were good too. at least, his left hand was. the knuckles on his right were wrapped in gauze that would not stop staining. no matter. he kept that hand on his lap as he drove with his left. but the suckiest part was that they didn't even solve the case. a man named mr. watkins was still missing and they had ran out of clues.

"i don't think jess is gonna notice one cookie out of a dozen missing," he was telling holly, ignoring her backseat driving.

"it's called a dozen for a reason, dad. it's a number. and i baked enough cookies specifically for me and her family."

"ah! it's actually 'her family and i,'" he corrected and beckoned his hand again. still, nothing dropped.

"no, it's 'me and her family.' the choice between 'me' or 'i' depends on how the sentence would sound without the additional object."

holland readjusted in his seat. "... you and her family," he muttered.

if his memory served him right, jess' place would be two streets down to the left, then another three streets until they got to a two story house on the slope of mitchell drive. he turned down his music to focus a little more, but suddenly two hands grabbed his shoulders from behind. "w-wait, that's her house!"

holland screamed and his head whipped to check all surroundings, then followed holly's pointed finger to see a different two story house, five streets before the expected destination. his daughter's grip was so tight, he pulled over regardless and turned into a calmer street to park by the sidewalk. "you sure? i could have sworn it was a little farther down."

but holly was adamant. "nope, this is it," and she jumped out of the car like a bat out of hell. holland looked around again.

"but we saw that motorcycle accident by the four-way stop," he said, half to holly and half to himself. weird. normally, he didn't doubt holly on these things, but the motorcycle was a pretty vivid memory. they saw it together two weeks ago, right after healy told him the story of his worst crash. it made holland want to puke.

just like that, holly was gone with the bag of cookies in her hand. he settled into the driver's seat and watched her carefully tread up to the stairs, but still keeping her head high. he thought to say hello to the parents. surprisingly, he hit it off with them last time. maybe he should go after holly, he thought. he rested his arm on the outside of the car and saw the door open after three polite knocks.

jess' parents didn't greet her at the door, though, unless jess' mom got a new haircut, hair color, style, and shoes. from afar, he couldn't see much. the woman was young, maybe his age (jess' parents waited a long while before kids), and dressed casually. she spoke to holly with a calm expression, but guarded in a way. did they get jess a babysitter? no, holly baked for their family. and he wasn't even sure this was the right house. but again, it was hard to doubt holly when she was usually right about everything.

you were the one actually at the door. you were trying to do your own research on your latest case, but someone knocked at the door, not like you were expecting anyone. your new air freshener already got delivered yesterday. still, you opened it and were met with a sweet, blonde teenage girl.

"excuse me," she said politely, and asked if this was the house of a person with the same name as yours. naturally, you said she had the right person, and she nodded, pleased with herself. "my name is holly march and i'm looking to ask you a couple questions about a man named mr. watkins."

you huffed out a laugh, intrigued but incredibly confused. the girl was well spoken, but she couldn't have been older than twelve, and what was her involvement with mr. watkins? "i'm sorry, i'm not too sure i follow," you said politely.

she seemed to grow irritated and covered the reaction poorly with a deep breath. "mr. watkins was an insurance agent on the edge of california that went missing approximately a week ago. i'm trying to find information about his most recent whereabouts and what occurred before his disappearance, and i was told you might have some intel."

you smiled at the bizarre nature of this conversation. she was talking about a real case that you were very well aware of, but she sounded like a spy in a children's television show. "i don't think i have any information you would want," you replied, still trying to figure out how in the world this girl got your address. "barely learned anything about the guy when i was involved with his family."

"miss, if you would cooperate, i promise this will be both quicker and easier for the both of us," she insisted, and you bit back the bigger smile that threatened to appear on your face. this girl was half a foot shorter than you, not to mention with a bag of cookies in her hands.

you pointed at them, unable to resist. "you gonna bribe me with these next?"

she didn’t find it funny. you did, though. and luckily, you didn’t have to answer to whatever scripted lecture she was going to put you through, because holland finally figured, ‘yeah, there’s no way this is where jess lives. i commented on the front yard ‘cause of their dog statue outside and they said it was the shining star of their decor—so where the hell is it?’ and he walked over.

his footsteps grew closer, which caused holly’s shoulders to tense and refuse to turn. something was definitely wrong. he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride. this was why he was a detective. he reached the stoop of the house and invitied himself onto it. he placed his hands upon holly’s shoulders in claiment. “deepest apologies, this is my daughter, i don’t know what she’s—!”

and he froze. quite possibly the most gorgeous woman in the world was standing in the door way, smiling, and looking directly at him. your hair framing your face, your clothes fitting you in all the right ways, the twitch of your nose as you smiled a second longer. you had a way of making casual wear look worthy of a editorial. he didn’t even know if you put on makeup today. maybe it was just your natural glow. was he crazy for already thinking about what to wear for a proposal? holland had a specific type. it wasn’t rare, but he knew what got his attention. and you seemed to had hit the jackpot without even knowing you were on a game show, called “can we kill march with just a look?” he had yet to say anything. but the importance of talking in a conversation hadn’t hit him yet, and instead, he just grasped holly’s shoulders even tighter to ground himself.

your smile never faltered, even as he gaped at you so obviously. instead, you leaned against the door frame and said, “hello.”

“hi,” he squeaked. a beat passed of the two of you just looking at each other, but holly seemed to have other plans that revolved around the logistics of the situation.

she squirmed out of her dad’s touch and announced your name with a tinge of defeat. “she’s another detective in LA looking into mr. watkins' disappearance,” she sighed.

holland was about to cum in his pants. he wiped any possible crumbs that were left on his mustache from breakfast and let out a hiccup of a laugh, nervous and completely out of his depth. “detective! what do you know, a chance to… network, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.” you didn’t miss the way he breathed out those last words. he did, though. he was too caught up in how pleasurable it was.

you crossed your arms and nodded. "nice to meet you too, detective...?"

"march! detective march!" he then felt his suit pockets, knowing damn well he had the flyer healy gave him. "uh, i work with my buddy, healy, we're new on the scene. or, not new, we were just—! we both did our own thing, and now we're together, heh! er, not together, i'm not—! not like there's anything wrong with that." he found his saving grace in his inside pocket, pulling out the small yellow sheet and unfolded it. "we're called the nice guys. it's funny, 'cause!" he cleared his throat. "we can do it the nice way or the... you get it. i thought it was cool. when i first heard it, i mean, i didn't make it up. just in case you didn't... think it was cool." and he finally held it out for you to inspect. "in which case, i can be swayed to think the same."

in his peripherals, he could spot holly visibly upset. he just hadn't had a lot of time recently on the playing field, that's all. he watched you carefully as you checked the paper front and back, then looked back up at him. "i like the graphic. you wanna trade?"

"trade? what do you mean, trade?" he stammered.

you pulled out your wallet and, from that, a business card. white, sleek, semi-matte, with your name and contact information. "i don't have a cool picture of myself on it, but since we're meeting," you offered, then held it out.

he took it with both hands and bowed in thanks. "great! contacts!" he then shook his head. get on track, holland, jesus. "um, again, sorry for bothering you. my daughter's very independent, and my partner and i have been struggling with a watkins case for a while now. she could be a detective someday, not like i recommend it," he said.

you held up a hand and replied, "it's no problem, really. i actually had a mrs. watkins reach out to me and i looked into it for a while, but i had to decline further investigation. i'm just too busy."

"ah, me too. everyone's dying in LA," he replied, leaving out the important fact that this was the first case he and healy have had in a while. they accounted it to a dry spell, or so they thought. "but um, how far did you get with your investigation?"

"i was talking to watkins' ex-wife."

holland paused. "he has an ex-wife?"

you smiled. his somewhat pathetic nature was unknown to him, but you still couldn't help it. there was a level of charm that his stammering held. "how about this: come inside for a drink, i'll tell you what i know, and i'll even throw in a little check-up 'cause those bruises aren't looking great."

holly's eyes lit up for her plan, albeit taking a turn or two, worked out. meanwhile, holland touched his eye unconsciously with his gauzed hand and looked down at his unbuttoned collar, the other bruises on full display. how badly did he look standing next to you? "that's... great. that'd be really great. i hope we wouldn't be disturbing your boyfriend or anything."

"i don't have a boyfriend."

a tiny, passable, desperate noise slipped out of his mouth, which he then stuffed with his gauzed knuckles until he bit down too hard and agitated the wounds; he pulled his hand out after. "that's... wow. me neither."

it took him a second for him to realize it, a second you willingly gave him. when he exclaimed, you just opened the door and said, "come in, detective march."

still recovering from his fumble, he walked in and his daughter followed. "you can call me holland, i don't mind." he turned around and began to walk backwards to keep his eyes on you. "but would you like me to keep formalities with you?"

"you can call me by my first name," you assured, and gently nudged him to turn back around. the brush of your hand made him squirm, but hopefully he hid it well (he didn't). "take a seat. make yourself at home."

your house was nice. extremely comfortable and stylish, but personal. he didn't have the time to look closely at any framed photos, but he spotted a few pictures of family and friends, vacations and award ceremonies. blankets were folded neatly across the couch, shoes were in line at the door, and was that an oil diffuser in the corner? "lovely place you got," he called out, tracing the edges of his gauze with his free hand.

you busied yourself going through your bathroom and office, collecting journals, notes, and your first aid kit that was under the sink. you replied, throwing your voice down the hall, "thank you! i paid it off a year ago." you balanced the items on top of each other, then walked back with the stack of items and placed them on the kitchen island. "want a drink?"

"oh—!" he raised his hand but soon pulled it back. did he really want to drink around you? one drink would turn to two, and then he'd be begging for you to drink his third with him. "i'll just have water," he corrected. he adjusted his hips and leaned back, his arm behind him, and zoned out watching you gather your things.

matter of fact, all he did was watch you. when you replaced his bandages, when you reported what you knew on the watkins. more so whenever you brushed your hair away from your face or laughed at a note you couldn't make out in your books. you were probably telling him really important stuff, but he decided quickly that since holly would remember everything, why bother paying attention? they were on a first-name basis now, he didn't have to be overly professional.

in the midst of you rewrapping his gauze and explaining the last conversation watkins had with his ex-wife, holland blurted out, "so no boyfriend." you raised your brow at him.

"no boyfriend. not for a while," you replied. "the last one didn't like my work hours. said i was putting myself in danger. i think he just didn't like that i came back unharmed from the danger all the time. made it look like i had my shit together. how horrible."

"you really do," he breathed out and held back the urge to look you up and down. no biggie, he could just stare into your eyes. "you got a good job, comfortable life, great house."

"where do you live?"

"not too far from here. got a nice place myself. this is kind of my area. which is why i was so confused when my daughter here tried to trick me into thinking this was her friend's house for me to drop her off at. i know all of LA like the back of my head." he tapped his temple, but in doing so, unraveled the gauze yet to be secured. he panicked, little oh, oh no's leaving his lips, but you grabbed them calmly and rewrapped the losses.

"back of your head, huh? here i thought the saying was back of your hand," you teased. the tiny, little gears in holland's head clicked about, but you continued speaking. "well, mr. march, after i wrap this up, you can take my notes with you back to mrs. march and enjoy a lovely early dinner."

he jumped on the opportunity you gave him, spurting out, "oh, there's no mrs. march." you raised your brows again, this time in acknowledgement. "she died. house fire."

after a quick pause, you dutifully focused on the gauze. you really shouldn't have entertained the flirting, now, huh? you replied with a solemn tone you quickly mustered. "that's horrible, i'm so sorry."

but he shook his head. "no, no, no! it's alright! it was a long time ago. and truth be told, i think she would've taken me down with her if i was home when it happened." he looked up in thought. "both of us knew the relationship would only end if one of us died. we would've done anything to keep arguing with each other."

"huh." you took in this information as you finished securing the gauze. when it was done, you gave it a gentle pat and said, "well, at least you both made peace with it?"

"of course. if it was me that went down, i wouldn't have been too bitter, so i'm sure she was alright going down." a beat passed and he turned his head back to you with a sudden, sweetie-pie smile. "thank you for the check up."

he was a real character, wasn't he? "anytime." this reply caused many scenarios to flash through holland's mind: him appearing at your door, bloodied and bruised, saying in a deep, gravelling voice that he had nowhere else to go. you taking care of him in the bathroom. a steamy make out session in the tub. but he blinked and was back in reality.

"so, if i have any questions or if i can't make out a word or two in your notes?"

"you can call me."

"i'd be happy to come over—i mean, call you," he corrected. you stood up and packed the books and printed packets into a box for him, then escorted him to the front door where you said your goodbyes, not like holland wanted to leave. he had the thought of pretending to faint so you had to take care of him more, maybe bring him to a bedroom, but holly was too excited about the new information.

"been great meeting you. uh, parting gift!" he looked to his daughter and whispered, "the cookies, holly."

she clutched them to her chest. "but they were just a decoy. i was gonna bring them to maxine's tomorrow."

"yeah, you should've thought about that before bringing us to this lovely woman who really helped us out, now give her the cookies."

it wasn't like you couldn't hear, but it felt like familial matters that you shouldn't be intruding on. holly sighed and held out the bag, which you took with a sincere thanks and an additional vague apology, to which holland just waved his hand in dismissal. "you did more than enough," he told you.

you took one final look at him. he wasn't all that bad looking. the mustache, the suit, the slicked back hair that had easily fallen down in the past hour you've been together. again, the messy, pathetic nature of it all was a little endearing. he definitely noticed you looking too, because he gave you some eyes of his own, looking you up and down and smiling with a little more flirt. "get home safe," you said.

Ryland opened his mouth with an automatic comeback already forming — something sarcastic, something easy. But the words caught before they left.

Maybe she had.

Or maybe he’d already been weak long before her. Tired. Angry. Half-living through routines because it was easier than thinking too hard about anything else. Or to plan for the future, something beyond what to eat for lunch or how to prepare for upcoming lessons.

Ryland liked a thought that maybe you had done the opposite. Maybe you’d made him stronger without even trying. The thought sat strangely warm in his chest.

Right now he only shook his head and started toward the exit. “See you Monday.”

“Pathetic,” Martin called after him.

Ryland grinned the entire drive home anyway. He regretted nothing.

The apartment smelled like garlic and butter when he walked in. It wasn't a large apartment, but it was cozy. It was filled with books, plants—you were in the era of "plant moms"—and all sorts of little things that made the house feel cozy.

You looked over your shoulder from the stove. You smiled at the sight of him. “Hey.”

“There she is.” He dropped his bag by the couch and crossed the room to kiss your temple before peeking into the pan. “That smells illegal.”

“You say that every time I cook.” you chuckled. 

“Because every time you cook I consider proposing again.”

“You already proposed.”

“Right. Then I’ll propose harder.”

You laughed quietly, nudging him away with your hip. “Go wash your hands.”

"In a moment," he announced, quickly taking off his jacket and loosening his tie. "I actually need to check something first."

That immediately made you suspicious. Ryland disappeared into the bedroom and came back holding a stethoscope. He rolled up his shirt sleeves as if he was getting ready for something serious.

You frowned, not fully understanding what he meant. “Ryland.”

“What?”

“You are not that kind of doctor.”

“I have a doctorate.” he argued.

“In molecular biology.”

He smiled disarmingly. “Still counts.”

You rolled your eyes but Ryland ignored you entirely, already stepping closer with the stubborn determination of a man about to conduct groundbreaking research in the dumbest way possible. You tried not to smile as he crouched carefully in front of you.

“Grace,” you warned. "You know I'm still making dinner, right?"

“Shh. Medical procedure.”

“You borrowed that from school, didn’t you?”

“Temporarily acquired.”

He gently lifted the hem of your shirt just enough to press the cold metal against your stomach.

You inhaled sharply. “Jesus—”

“Sorry.”

Immediately afterward, he frowned in concentration. Completely serious and engaged. The same expression he got while solving impossible problems. Only now he was listening for a heartbeat.

Your heartbeat. 

The baby’s heartbeat.

Four months in, and sometimes it still didn’t feel real. The ultrasound photos sat on the fridge. Tiny blurry proof that there was actually someone there.

Ryland adjusted the stethoscope again. Nothing. He frowned harder.

"You know people study for years to do this correctly, right?" you said gently.

“I am literally a scientist. Hang on.”

Another few seconds passed and then suddenly his entire face changed. Ryland froze.

“Oh,” he breathed.

You softened immediately. “Did you hear something?”

His blue eyes lifted to yours, wide with something so open it almost hurt to look at.

“Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, as if waiting for some signal or sign. Then Ryland smiled — small, disbelieving, helpless.

“That’s my kid.”

Your chest tightened painfully with affection. “Our kid,” you corrected softly.

“Right.” He laughed under his breath. “Right. Sorry.”

He listened for a few more seconds, as if physically unable to contain himself. You gently stroked his tousled hair. Finally he pulled away.

“It’s a girl,” he announced.

You stared at Ryland in astonishment. "You can't know that."

"I know."

"Scientifically?"

"Emotionally."

"That's not science."

"That's advanced science. A higher level."

You laughed again, and he stood, leaning down to kiss you quickly before resting a hand against your stomach almost unconsciously. Still smiling andl looking a little stunned.

Then, far too casually, he said, “So… you got plans this weekend?”

You turned off the stove and put the spoon down. “Ryland.”

“What? Normal question.” He pressed his lips together, pretending to think. “Okay, maybe I had a small idea.”

“Oh no.” you sighed.

“There’s this place downtown—”

“The courthouse?”

“Maybe.”

You laughed before he could continue. “Ryland.”

“What? We’re already engaged.” He grabbed your hand and lifted it, pointing to the ring as if to remind you of something obvious.

“And?”

“And statistically, we are extremely good at this relationship.” You were. 

“That is not how people decide to get married.”

“I think you’ll find most successful marriages involve one incredibly charming microbiologist.”

“Molecular biologist.” You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Not yet.”

He groaned softly, letting his forehead fall against your shoulder. “You always say that.”

“Because you ask me every two weeks,” you said.

“That’s persistence. A very romantic trait.”

“You literally asked me once, while I was brushing my teeth.”

“And you still didn’t agree.”

You gently threaded your fingers through his hair. He hummed softly. “I’ll do it,” you murmured. “Just… not yet.”

He sighed dramatically into your shoulder. But after a moment, he wrapped his arms around you anyway, holding you carefully, in a way he’d never held anything from you before.

“Fine,” he murmured. “But by the way, our daughter agrees with me.”

“You don’t even know if she’s a daughter.”

“I know,” he said confidently. “She told me.”

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the dishwasher and the rain tapping softly against the windows. Ryland sat at the other end of the couch with a laptop balanced on his knees, pretending to work. Pretending, because for the last twenty minutes, he’d reread the same sentence in a research paper six times and still couldn’t tell you what it said.

You were half-asleep beside him, curled under a blanket with your head resting against the armrest. One hand lay over your belly unconsciously now, like it belonged there already.

Four months.

He still couldn’t believe that. Every once in a while he caught himself staring at the ultrasound picture on the fridge just to reassure himself it was real. You two did it. And although it was a surprise to you, you were truly happy.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, and the blanket slipped from your shoulder. In a second Ryland reached over to pull it back up. You made a soft sound, eyes still closed.

“Sorry,” he murmured automatically.

“You say sorry every time I breathe too hard.” your voice was quiet, with remnants of sleep around the edges.

“That’s because you’re carrying a tiny human. Feels medically important.”

Your lips twitched faintly before settling again. He smiled to himself. Then his eyes caught the glint of the ring on your finger. The engagement ring he’d given you almost a year ago now. And suddenly, painfully, he remembered every stupid way he’d brought up marriage since then.

While grocery shopping. While brushing his teeth. Once during a fire drill at school - he then called you, saying he was in serious danger and this was your last chance to agree. Only a child's voice in the background said, "Mr. Grace, it's just a drill."

You always laughed. Always kissed him afterward. Always said not yet. It wasn't out of anger or uncertainty. Just… not yet.

Ryland quietly closed his laptop and set it aside. For a moment, he just stared at you. At the gentleness in your face. At the tiredness that was now taking its toll on you. At the trust you had in him. At the way, you somehow made his apartment seem less temporary. Less like a place he happened to sleep in, and more like a place where life actually happened. With you.

It scared him sometimes, how much he loved you. Because before you, he’d gotten very good at existing without needing anyone. And now the thought of losing this felt unbearable.

You stirred slightly when he brushed his thumb across your hand, eyes halfway opened. "You're staring again."

"I'm not staring."

"You get strangely emotional at night," you observed.

"That's slander. Definitely not true."

You smiled faintly, still barely conscious. Then you noticed the expression on his face and immediately softened.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Ryland looked down at your intertwined hands for a second before answering. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve done a really bad job explaining something.”

You pushed yourself up a little. “Okay…”

He laughed quietly through his nose, suddenly nervous. Which was ridiculous, he talked in front of classrooms full of teenagers every day. He’d presented research to rooms full of scientists. But this? This was somehow worse. Because it was you.

“I know I joke about the wedding stuff a lot,” he admitted. “And I know I keep asking at objectively terrible moments.”

“Very terrible moments.”

You smiled a little, but stayed quiet. And Ryland swallowed before continuing.

“It’s not because I’m trying to pressure you.”

“I know.”

“I just…” He paused. “Every time I think about the future, you’re already there.”

Something in your expression changed. Small, almost invisible, but enough to make his chest tighten. He kept going anyway.

“You and the baby and all the stupid little things.” He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen and the rest of the apartment. “Your coffee mug in the sink. Your books everywhere. The fact that there are suddenly vegetables in my refrigerator.”

You laughed softly, but his voice turned quieter after that.

“Before you, I don’t think I really think about the future.” He stared down at his hands as he said it. “Not a real one. I had work. Research. Classes. Days to get through.” A small shrug. “And I was okay, mostly. And then you showed up, and now every version of my life I can imagine has you in it.”

Your eyes were shining now. Ryland smiled nervously.

“So I think maybe…” He exhaled softly. “Maybe I keep asking because I already think of you as my family.”

Silence fell. Not an awkward silence, but one that felt complete. Then you reached for his hand, fully this time, intertwining your fingers with his.

“Ryland…”

“I know,” he said quickly. “And if you still need time, that’s okay. Seriously. I can wait.”

“You’d keep asking, though.”

“Oh, absolutely. Relentlessly.”

You laughed through a shaky breath. Then you moved closer until your forehead rested against his. And very quietly, you said: “Okay.”

Ryland blinked. “…Okay?”

“I’ll marry you.”

For one full second he only stared at you, like his brain had stopped functioning entirely.

And after a few seconds: “Oh my God.”

You burst out laughing as he grabbed your face with both hands. 

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“You’re not delirious from sleep deprivation?”

“Ryland—”

“You said yes.”

“I did.”

“You actually said yes.”

He looked genuinely stunned, overwhelmingly, hopelessly happy. Then he kissed you hard enough to make you laugh again, one hand cradling your jaw while the other instinctively rested over your belly.

“Our daughter was definitely on my side,” he informed you proudly.

You rolled your eyes immediately and touched his cheek gently. “You’re really happy about this, huh?”

Ryland looked at you for a moment like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really am.”

The honesty of it settled warmly between you. No jokes this time and no deflection. Just him.

Outside, the rain continued tapping against the windows, turning the apartment into something small and safe and separate from the rest of the world. Your quiet space. Just for you.

Ryland leaned back into the couch, pulling you with him until your head rested against his chest. One arm wrapped around you automatically while the other stayed over your belly, his thumb moving absentmindedly against the fabric of your shirt. Protective already.

You listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. “You know,” you murmured, “you’re going to cry when the baby’s born.”

“I am absolutely not.”

“You cried watching that documentary about the octopus.” you chuckled.

“I don't remember that.”

You laughed softly. After a moment, Ryland tilted his head down to kiss your hair. “I know I joke around a lot.”

“A little.”

“But…” He hesitated briefly. “Thank you. For staying long enough for me to get this right.”

Your chest ached at the words. You lifted your head just enough to look at him.

“You already did.”

Something vulnerable flickered across his face then — brief, almost shy. And maybe that was the thing that made you love him most. Not intelligence, not sarcasm. Not even the way he somehow made ordinary days feel lighter. It was this - the fact that underneath all the humor and rambling and badly timed jokes, Ryland Grace loved with his entire heart once he finally let himself.

He tucked the blanket more securely around you before resting his cheek against the top of your head. And for the first time in a very long time, the future didn’t feel frightening to him.

It felt warm. It felt like home. An you were in it.

Noticing he’s halted his set, you scurry closer, excitement visible on your face. He's not sure what you’re admiring, so Sebastian peers over his shoulder, only finding confrontation awaiting him. Bill stands by the kitchen entrance, arms crossed and face flush with anger; holding back the public outburst he’s clearly teetering on the edge of. 

“Um, excuse me,” you squeak out, and Sebastian turns back to you, raising a confused brow. “I don’t want to interrupt, really, but you just…” You shake your head, and at the sound of muffled giggles, he spots a crowded table behind you, the patrons rolling their eyes. Immediately, your features scrunch in embarrassment and you reach back, swatting your hand quietly at what must be your friends or family teasing you for boldly approaching the pianist on such a busy night. “Sorry, just, you’re really amazing.”

“Oh,” Sebastian breathes, feeling a light flush bloom on his cheeks. “Thank you. Thanks.” He nods and watches as you shove a crumpled twenty-dollar bill into his fish bowl tip jar. 

“I’d totally give you more but I just moved here and I’m pretty broke.” You laugh nervously, but all Sebastian can think is how truly appreciative you seem, even without the money. Most people carelessly toss their change at him after he plays a couple of boring songs from the setlist, but you enjoyed his music, the kind he actually liked playing. “Do you perform anywhere else?”

“Herman’s Habit, actually,” he starts, breaking into a soft smile. “When they let me, I mean. It’s pretty competitive there with all the different jazz bands.”

“That sounds amazing,” you reply, moving closer until he can see all the details on your face in the dim mood lighting. He could look at you for hours, he thinks, and for once in a long time he feels genuinely nervous, wringing his hands together to keep them from twitching. “Where is it at? I’d love to go. Live music is just so…” You make a face, searching for the right word but failing to find it. “I don’t know.” You sigh and he knows exactly how you feel. “But I don’t have to tell you that,” you continue, reading his mind.

“It’s great.” Sebastian can already imagine it, you dancing, watching him in his element. “I’ll take you,” he offers, so quickly it feels like the words are coming from someone else. “Tomorrow night, you and me. What do you say?” The look of surprise on your face is hard to miss and he worries he’s being too forward. “Or we can meet there. Anywhere, actually. But we should really go to Herman’s.”

When you tug your bottom lip between your teeth, he’s struck with the overwhelming urge to kiss you. “Like… on a date?”

“Yes,” he says, so confidently he almost believes it himself. “You’ll love it, I promise.” At least, he hopes you will. After months of living in a slump, it’s as if the universe has dropped his soulmate right in front of him, and he wants to know you so badly it makes his skin tingle. 

Another beat passes. “Alright,” you agree, unable to fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Give me the address.” You quickly pull your phone out, typing in exactly what he tells you and having him double-check it for good measure. “I really didn’t expect this when I came over here,” you admit, hoping you don’t sound too flustered. “I just wanted to compliment you, I swear.”

“Me either,” Sebastian jokes, and when you laugh, it sounds just like jazz. “How’s eight?”

Jacob is here. Again. Of course he is. You roll your eyes, although you really shouldn't judge, because you wouldn't see him this often if you didn't spend way too much time in this bar yourself, but Jacob really is in a league of his own when it comes to irritating men. Smug and arrogant, always perfectly dressed, never a hair out of place. It's infuriating that he looks good, but it's more infuriating that he knows it.

Maybe the most infuriating thing about him, however, is the fact that when he tells someone they'd never regret going home with him, because he's just that good in bed, he says it so earnestly that you know it's true. You just know. A lot of men brag in a lot of different ways and, yes, technically Jacob is bragging too, but more than that– he's promising. And that? That makes you angry. A frustrated kind of anger that's not even really Jacob's fault. After all, you rejected him.

It wasn't even because you weren't attracted to him. You very much were, but you'd only just left a very tumultuous relationship that wasn't even really a relationship and were only at that bar to drink away all your spiraling thoughts. Jacob had started flirting with you very aggressively and you'd been too drunk, too tired and too riled up to go home with a cute guy from a bar, so you very quickly and firmly rejected him.

You regretted it not even a day later, when you're ex-not-ex texted you the next evening and you couldn't get him out of your head. His kisses, his gentle hands and fluffy hair. Maybe you really should have gone home with Jacob because as all your friends keep saying: The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

You kept going to the bar because you were single after all and sometimes your friends were right. But most of the men and women you went home with, or took home, were either just decent in bed or downright awful. None of them managed to properly keep your mind off your ex, so you kept coming back.

Most nights Jacob would be there. And without fail your gazes would meet and he was always the first to turn away. He never came on to you again after that first time you rejected him, apparently respecting the boundary you very callously created that first night. Or he just thinks it's embarrassing how you rejected him, but still can't keep your eyes off him. 

Tonight he's here too. You saw him when you walked in. Sitting at the bar, drinking some fancy cocktail, looking more beautiful than should really be possible. Soft blond hair neatly styled, blue eyes bright and lively and perfectly tailored suit hugging his lean form. You could seriously curse your past self for turning him down. He gave you a look, a pained grimace on his face that he didn't manage to completely suppress, and looked away quickly, moving to sit next to a pretty blonde over by the couches.

-

You see him stumble out of the bathroom about an hour later. He took off his suit jacket at some point, sleeves rolled up to bare his forearms and he looks…disheveled. Not at all how you've come to know him, neat to an extreme extent. He looks pale too, now that you're studying him more closely, but his cheeks carry an unhealthy flush making him look almost feverish. He's stumbling his way out of the bar through the back door but he's unsteady enough on his feet that you start to worry. He drinks, yes, but never during the countless times you've seen him here did he drink enough to be this uncoordinated and sloppy. 

He nearly falls trying to open the door and you get up with a bitten off curse, abandoning your drink at the bar. He's in no state to drive home like this, no matter how good of a driver he usually is. 

You find him leaning against the wall of the club, seemingly trying to catch his breath. "Jacob?" 

He whips his head around, eyes focusing on you and you can see the confusion in them. 

"Are you alright?"

"No, yeah, I'm fine," He says unconvincingly, sounding simultaneously like he just ran a marathon and like he's ten different kinds of wasted. 

"You're clearly not," You say, stepping closer when he sways dangerously, looking like he's just going to keel over any second. "You can't drive home in this state. I'll give you a lift, come on."

"No, I'm fine, I-" He starts, but when he tries to push off from the wall he takes two steps, stumbles and nearly falls face first into the asphalt. He kind of deflates, realizing that he might really not be fine and nods, finally giving in. Jacob lets you half lead and half carry him to your car. He's not normally this quiet and that makes the vague worry in the back of your mind bloom into full blown concern. What the fuck happened to him? 

You get him into your passenger seat then realize you don't have his address. "Jacob?" 

He just mumbles something intelligible in vague acknowledgement. 

"Jacob, I need you to give me your address."

"Hmm?" He hums and looks at you properly for the first time.

"Fuck, are you high?" 

"Wha-, no?" 

"You're high, you have pupils the size of Texas, Jesus! What did you take?" You ask while he looks away to put on his seatbelt, and you're glad to see he's at least still capable of that much, but you'd really like for him to tell you what's currently coursing through his veins.

"I only had two drinks," He says. He sounds genuine enough and there's no reason to lie at this point, he's already agreed to let you drive him home, so you nod, believing him.

He gives you his address and you put it into your GPS while he spells it for you. Twenty minutes, that's not bad at all in this city, you think as you turn onto the road following the directions displayed on the small screen. You look at Jacob again. His head is resting against the headrest and he swallows hard, his legs are tightly crossed and he looks tense.

You drive in silence for most of the way, deep in your thoughts and Jacob doesn't say much either, just asks you to put on music after a few minutes. When you reach his house you park in his driveaway, a bit crooked admittedly, but you've never been a good parker and who cares really. You get out first and wait for him to unbuckle his seatbelt and step out of the car too. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," He grunts, while rooting around in his pocket for his house keys. "I can feel my blood pounding, I feel like I'm vibrating out of my skin and I'm so fucking hot." 

You suck in a sharp breath, "Shit."

He gets the door unlocked and steps inside leaving the door open, although you're not sure if he just forgot to close it or if he left it open for you to follow him in. He hangs up the keys on a hook in the hallway, toes off his shoes then puts a hand against his own forehead and curses.

He lets his hand fall again and you follow it down, but quickly snap your gaze back up when you see the very clear bulge in his crotch. Fuck, he's hard. This complicates matters, because that? That's not a side effect of being drunk.

"Did the drinks taste weird? Like they changed the recipe," You ask haltingly, not liking where this is going. 

"Fuck, yeah actually. The second one was god awful-" He starts, then realizes what you're getting at. "You think someone drugged me?" He chokes out, incredulous at the idea, but his whole form is tense and trembling and there's definitely something not right. He seems to know it too, tries to hide his shaky hands by putting them in his pockets and sees how visibly hard he is and how little his slacks hide. He looks up at you, panic starting to show in his eyes as he realizes that you definitely didn't miss the raging hard-on he's sporting.

"What did it taste like?" He doesn't answer. "Jacob, tell me what it tasted like." 

"Metallic and sour," He chokes out and you both know what it means. He takes a step back, then takes another, but can't seem to take a third one. A whimper escapes him. 

"Fuck," You say with feeling, pushing your hands into your hair and tugging, trying to ground yourself. "Fuck."

Jacob is this high and fucked up, because someone gave him honest to god Selmovig. An innocuous name for a drug that's anything but. When it was first invented a few years ago, very illegally one might add, the chemist behind it just dubbed it 'Sex Pollen' as a joke which was really way more accurate than the name it got a few years later after some hotshot dealer tried to start a street PR campaign for a fucking date rape drug. It's banned in pretty much all countries, possession lands you right in jail most of the time and for good reason. Selmovig makes your heart pump faster, widens your blood vessels and turns you on so much that it quickly becomes painful. It makes touch more intense and over the course of about an hour or two it doesn't just lower a person's inhibitions but removes them altogether, pretty much directly replacing them with aggression and arousal. It can kill you unless you fuck– and no, masturbation does not count –, which the chemist stated from the very beginning, but no one believed it, because it frankly sounded like a bad plot point right out of some underfunded network show, until people started dying left right and center. 

In men aged 30 to 35 the possibility of death lies at about 65%, which means that if you leave now, Jacob has a very real chance of literally keeling over and dying. You look back at Jacob, who takes an aborted step towards you, then draws back.

"You need-" He gasps, like it hurts to even form the words. "You need to leave. I can't- There's no- I can't control it." He's breathing hard, chest heaving with the sheer strength it's taking to hold himself back. He looks worse than before and he's clearly overheating, his dress shirt is sticking to him and there's sweat beading on his brow. How long has it been since he had that drink? 

"You could literally die if I leave you like this," You answer incredulously, already toeing off your shoes, closing the door behind you, decision made. "I'm giving you consent, this is me giving you consent."

"That's not how consent works," He gasps, which is true, but you hoped it would be enough.

"It's fine," He adds, but it's clearly not judging from the pained grimace on his face. His hands are shaking, where they're balled into fists, veins clearly visible from where you're standing. He's biting at his lip, a worried and rhythmical gesture, canine catching the light and glinting sharply, giving him an air of something dangerous. You're not sure he could control himself if you turned and ran. Maybe he'd give chase. 

But you're not planning on running away. "I'm staying," You say, tone firm. 

He shakes his head, frantically, panic overtaking his features and you know he's not going to be able to hold on for much longer. "You don't want this. I don't want to make you do this," He says, voice cracking. 

"I'm staying," You repeat, taking a step towards him. Jacob flinches back, wide-eyed. He reaches out with one trembling hand, then seemingly catches himself and immediately pulls it back close to his body with a curse, guilt clear in his voice.

"No, no, no-" He keeps saying under his breath, flexing his hands and clenching them again. "Not- Not like this."

You ignore it, taking off your shirt, dropping it to the ground and when he looks at you he stills suddenly, body relaxing unnaturally. He looks up at your face, his gaze meets yours and there's not much blue left in his eyes. His pupils have taken over most of it and it leaves him looking nearly delirious. His gaze drops to your lips, then lower then he drags it up to your eyes again. "I'm so sorry," He chokes out and then he's on you.

Big hands grab your face, hold it firmly and he kisses you, rough and uncoordinated. He's panting and shuddering, completely losing control. One of his hands buries itself in your hair and he tugs, forcing your head back so he can suck bruises into your throat. You moan involuntarily a shiver wracking your body and Jacob notices.

He draws back, a smug smile on his face that's achingly familiar, but he looks dazed and his eyes are clouded, the cleverness that usually shines in them is missing. You shouldn't be turned on by this, you really shouldn't. Not with how fucked this whole situation is. But there's no going back now one way or another. It's either this or he could die and he's always been open about wanting to fuck you, hasn't he?

Jacob crowds close again, derailing your thought process, and you feel his cock, hard and throbbing where he's grinding it to your center. You try to lead him into the direction of what you assume to be his bedroom, but he doesn't let himself be led far. He turns you around with an impatient sound, back to his chest and pushes you down onto the thick, white carpet that covers the wood paneling of his hallway. You land a bit weird, but there's no time to adjust or catch your breath, because Jacob's full weight is covering you pretty much immediately. He's taller than you and heavy and you're completely caged in like this, no chance of getting away or turning around. 

You can feel him struggling with your pants and you help him by lifting your hips a bit, letting him pull them down and off. You're naked then, but his overheated skin is keeping you warm and the carpet beneath you is fluffy and has to be ridiculously expensive judging from how unnecessarily comfortable it is. Who needs carpets that feel like you're lying on a cloud, you're wondering when you get distracted by the sound of a belt buckle.

You tense in anticipation, excitement pooling low in your belly. You turn your head to look back and you watch him tug down his slacks and briefs, just far enough to free his cock. It's long and hard, and Jacob gasps like a man close to death when he takes himself in hand and pumps a few times. He looks like a fucking mess, hair mussed and wild, shirt half-way undone giving you a glimpse of his strong chest and two coins he wears on a silver necklace around his neck that you've never seen before. 

He has a wide-eyed look in his eyes as he lines himself up and pushes into you fast and hard, pure desperation shining in them and it makes your heart start beating even faster, your center throbbing with the beat of your pulse when he bottoms out, his pelvis flush with your ass. 

He's rough, nothing gentle or considerate left, the drug having burned it all out of him. You try to crane your neck to see and watch, but he places a hand on your head, pushes you down into the carpet while he's fucking into you with hard deep thrusts. You can't see much of his house like this, but what you can see is that there's an entire front that's just windows and you seriously hope Jacob doesn't have any neighbors that are still awake, because you're pretty much in full view here, not a single curtain obstructing the view. 

You're incredibly grateful you managed to lead him away from the hard wooden floor at least, because the force of his thrusts would have definitely left some bruises on you without the padding of the carpet. The grip he has on your hips isn't any less punishing though and you're surprised at the strength behind his lean frame when you try to shift your hips upwards to balance out his weight a bit and realize you have no chance of moving even an inch. 

Jacob moans low and leans down closer, burying his face in your neck and pressing his lips to your skin in what can't really be called a kiss, but was probably intended as one. You're not sure if that's the drug or him.

His thrusts are more uncoordinated now, frantic really, he's panting and groaning, breath warm against your neck and there's sweat building up between your bodies. You can feel it when he comes, warm inside you, but mostly you feel his teeth close down on the space between your neck and shoulder. You shudder violently, the pleasure-pain of it zinging down your spine and between your legs. He's grunting and you're not sure if he's trying to say something or not, but you're not understanding anything. He keeps his teeth there and the pain turns into a deep, dull ache that tells you you're going to have a ring of bruising on your shoulder tomorrow. The pattern of his teeth literally bitten into your flesh and fuck, that shouldn't be hot either.  

Jacob stays there for another long minute and when he pulls out he does it slowly, but you groan anyway, feeling empty. He gets up then, getting rid of his slacks and briefs with efficient movements, so he can freely move his legs, leaving you shivering, cold now that his heat is gone. But he quickly pulls you upright, hand warm in yours and you turn around to see that he's still very much high, shirt soaked with sweat at this point and pupils blown out even more if that's even possible. He's looking at you, at the marks you're sure are blooming across your throat and there's something dark, something like satisfaction in his gaze that makes you shiver.

"Are you feeling any better?" You ask, but he doesn't answer, not that you really expected him to. You sigh and reach out to lead him into his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt while you're going. He takes control, pushing forward, but lets you deal with his shirt.

As you bare more of his skin you see that he's lean and muscled, skin tanned and smooth. Most importantly though he's hard, again, cock straining up against his belly, precum beading at the tip and it's just as pretty as he is, you note with a smirk.

As soon as the shirt is fully unbuttoned he pushes it the rest of the way off and crowds close, apparently done with being docile, molding his body against yours, hips making aborted little thrusts that he can't seem to suppress or maybe simply doesn't want to.

“Okay,” Holland says, walking from his connected bathroom into his bedroom. His hair is mussed, sticking up in different directions. His fingers fiddle with the buttons of his button-up. “You’ve gotta go to Jenny’s—”

“Jessica’s.” Holly interrupts, looking over at him from her spot on his bed. She’s sitting criss-crossed with her hands clasped in her lap. 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes, not even trying to remember the girls’ actual name. “You’re going there tonight.”

A frown captures her expression. “Why? It’s just—”

“Because I said so.” He grins, looking up at her. “Being a dad means I make the rules.” Holland pays no mind to the sour expression creeping onto his daughter's face. “And... I rule you go to Jessica’s.”

His brows raise, feeling completely triumphant in himself. 

You’re coming over tonight. It had been a week since you’d been in LA, off on a family trip and way too far from Holland for his liking. His happy medium had been thrown off. Between getting his house shot up, a court date finally settled on, and not being able to see you in the mornings, he felt like he’d been dropped in the Twilight Zone. He’s a creature of habit. Who could blame him?

The distance had cemented something, though. Being away from you for so long brought the same aching hole to his abdomen as when his house burned down. Each morning when he rolled into the office, when he left to speak with new clients, and when he came back to the empty office, he found himself missing you. The way you brewed coffee and made the whole office smell like a coffee shop, your laugh drifting around the room when you were on the phone. He missed everything about you. 

So, he invited you over tonight. He was gonna tell you how much he missed you. How he’d fallen head over heels in love with you. 

It seemed simple enough. 

But kids never make things simple. 

“I wanna see her too.” Holly protests, jumping down from her spot on his bed. 

Holland brings his wrist close to his face, using his free hand to tap at his watch. The hands displayed a scene he didn’t like one bit. You were supposed to be at the door in half an hour. 

“Holly.” He deadpans, taking a breath. “I’m telling her something—and that something is super important—tonight. No kids allowed.”

She huffs, stomping across the carpeted floor to the door. She dodges his dresser with her arms crossed over her chest. “Whatever.”

Holland normally would let her fester in whatever pre-teen angst she was in. But, something about tonight pulls at his heartstrings. A sigh leaves his lips and it deflates his shoulders. “Alright, kid. Wait a sec.”

Holly turns to find him with his hands on his hips, deflated, and looking like a tsunami of thoughts were crashing around in his mind. She stands firm. In her mind, she’d never allow herself to break first. 

“Look.” He quiets, trying to find the jumbled words in his mind. Maybe he can string them into something that makes sense. “I-I’m… ugh. You know when boys—no, that’s not..”

“Dad.” She finally says, relenting her stony glare. Her arms fall to her sides like she’s laying down her weapons. “You love her.”

Those words make the room quiet. It drowns the hum between Holland’s ears. Holly knew. Of course she knew. She’s one of the smartest people he knows—and he can never hide something from her. No matter how hard he tries. 

He feels a little guilty for admitting it out loud to her. He’d told her that no one could replace her mother. And that was true—she was one of a kind. But so are you. His conscience and heart had been at war with each other for almost a year now. Debating on admitting to his little girl he’d found someone else, which feels like a slap in the face, and following through with all the times he’s almost spat the confession out to you. 

But seeing her now, the way her mouth curls into a slight smile, it makes his chest warm. It’s not her throwing things at him or spitting out choice words. It’s an approval. Which is all he really wants from her.

“Yeah. I do.”

Holly sighs. “You’re really gonna tell her?”

Holland nods, sniffling slightly. “Yeah..”

“Alright.” She nods, glancing down at the floor for a moment. She looks back up at him. “I’ll call Jessica.”

When Holly leaves, Holland is hunched over his stove. There’s a pot of pasta cooking on the far right burner, steam wafting upwards. On the front left burner, he’s working on dumping ingredients into a pot for a homemade sauce. Well, kinda home made. The empty jar of Prego sits next to the sink. 

There’s an array of spices with the tops open scattered around his counter. Some of them he just assumed would work in the sauce. His mother used to smell the spices and decide if the scent alone would work if she dumped it in—but he didn’t have that skill set to use. So he relied on hope. And a bunch of italian seasoning. 

He sets the wooden spoon onto the counter, letting the red concoction simmer. With an absent mind, he checks his watch. Huh. You’re supposed to be here in a few minutes. His hands fall to his hips as he peers down at the sauce. 

It takes a second for his brain to lag. Somewhere along worrying about the taste of the sauce and the realization of the gravity of the words that were going to spill from his throat tonight, it all got jumbled in his neurons. But it clicks. Eventually. Which makes him cuss and scramble around the house. 

He finds nothing to pick up last minute, which eases his mind slightly. So he lights himself a cigarette, fingers shaking gently as he brings it to his lips. He takes a long drag. Just letting the smoke infiltrate down his throat and into his lungs. The smoke comes out in a plume, a sigh soon following the cloud. 

The front door opens. 

You’re here. 

“March! Where are you?” Your voice drifts through the house, a smile evident in your tone.

You were always such a positive person. Even when things went to shit, you were always there saying, ‘we’ll figure it out’. He’d reckon you were the next closest thing to the sun. With all that sweetness bursting from your seams, he felt himself justified in his thoughts. 

He almost dropped his cigarette. His heart drops down through the floor, pulse stuttering in his veins. His throat works around a swallow before clearing his throat. “I–” He clears his throat once more. Just to chase away the cracked edges of his tone. “In the kitchen!”

“Okay!” You call back, heels clicking softly against the wooden floors. When you cross the threshold out of the living room, the smell of food piques your interest. “Something smells good.”

Holland forgets how to breathe when you walk into the kitchen. Your hair is thrown into a poofy style that falls perfectly around your face. His gaze slips down your face, eyes tracing every dip and curve to burn them into memory. 

The breath in his lungs seems to freeze up. Bright eyes with a gentle smile. The way you’re looking at him is almost enough to bring him to his knees. 

He’s been quiet for a while. 

And staring at you. 

“..Hey.”

You sling your bag from your shoulder, setting it onto the edge of the table. “Hey.”

Holland grins, taking a step towards you. There’s just something about you that makes him forget about the anxiety that’s chewing on him whole. “Uh, do you want a drink? Wine or something?”

You give him a sideways glance, grin curving the side of your mouth upwards. “Wine and dinner? My, my, March. Are you trying to seduce me?” There’s a humorous undertone in your voice, the grin cracking into a smile cementing it.

Holland stumbles over himself. “What? I wouldn’t—not that you’re—Jesus.” He lets his cigarette dangle out the side of his mouth. The way his eyes widen and throat gets tight makes him scramble for words. “I’m not, yeah, not seducing…” His voice quiets. “You.”

A breathy laugh bubbles in your throat. “Jeez, March. I’m joking. Don’t pass out.”

Holland’s knees lock up. His throat works around a swallow. The sound of his voice is low, gravelly, and smoother than he thinks. “Right… sorry.”

You’re not one to let him settle in awkward tension. You can see the way his eyes are darting around the room. Poor guy looked like he was about to faint. You’d have to figure out the ‘why’ at a different time. 

“I’m good, actually.” You offer a comforting smile. “How’s the office been?”

At your soft spoken question, Holland seems to visibly relax. The tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders seemed to fizzle out. They hunched for the first time that night. His breathing returned to something resembling normality. “The office?”

He takes the cigarette from his mouth, letting it live between his fingers. He walks over to where you are. He’d left the ashtray over there. His fingers fiddle with the cigarette, tapping it until the ashes fall. 

“It’s alright.” He shrugs. “Uh… not the same without you.” 

Holland has never been very good at playing something down. 

You nod at him. Your gaze stays on him, picking up the way his brows furrowed as he answered. 

“How was your trip?” He asks, looking down at you. The words tumble out a little faster than he’d wanted them to. 

You take a second to let his question sink in through your skin. Holland wasn’t normally so interested in your affairs—granted, you’d never been gone so long. Nor has he been left by himself for that long since you’ve started working together. 

“It was nice to see them. But..” You sigh, tucking some hair behind your ear. “I missed you guys. I missed working.”

Holland practically melts. You’d missed them. And him by proxy. 

He tries his best not to giggle like a little girl. But he wanted to. Instead, he turns and tries to busy himself with stirring the pot of sauce. “Uh—well—I can say for sure..” He trails off, picking up his spoon and stirring the simmering sauce. “We missed you too.”

He glances over his shoulder, trying to offer an almost flirty smile. But once his eyes were taken off the saucepan, his hand became a little heavier than he wanted it. A yelp leaves his throat as he realizes the pan is falling. Red sauce was going to go all over the floor. Oh, God.

The sound of his scream catches you off guard. Your head whips in his direction—just in time to catch the cinematic way he scrambles like a cat to unsuccessfully save the pasta sauce. Holland jumps out of the way as the pan clatters to the floor. 

His hands fall to his sides. The one time he tries to make dinner—this happens. He almost wants to laugh. Perhaps this was a foreshadowing event to show how the rest of the night would go. Confessing to you? Surely, it would go as well as the sauce. 

Your breath catches in your throat. Your hands come up to cup around your mouth in surprise. Holland still has his back to you. Just looking at the splattered sauce all over the floor. 

“Oh, shit, March.” You murmur, taking a few steps closer to him. 

Your hand pauses as your arm outstretches to touch his back. Your throat works around a swallow. The palm of your hand makes careful contact with his back as you step next to him. 

He stiffens. “My sauce.”

“I-I’m sure it’s fine..” The words falling from your lips are wrapped in apprehension, posing them as more of a question. 

“It’s—it’s floor sauce!” He stares at it in almost defeat. “Maybe if I—no. That’s not salvageable.”

“It looked like it was gonna be really good.” You offer, voice low.

His hands fall to his hips, a huff leaving his mouth. “I.. I tried. I’m sorry. I tried making this dinner—and now this—Jesus, I feel stupid.”

“Hey now.” You hum, patting his back. “It’s fine, March.”

His head turns to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes, big and sad, seem to ask you to rethink your answer. He doesn’t even need to say anything. Your lips press into a line.

“Pizza?” You ask after a moment, voice lilting to find a more positive tone.

March lets out a chuckle. “Pizza?”

“The spot downtown delivers.” You shrug, arm falling back to your side. “I’ll clean this up if you call.”

Holland instantly misses your touch. There’s an absence of warmth from where your hand was, and suddenly he feels cold. He’s not surprised that you’ve jumped into a way of fixing things. That was just.. Who you are. An ever-lovely jewel that just shines in even the darkest times. 

A laugh falls from his lips. The absurdity of it all brought the rising humor to his chest. He made dinner to confess his love to you—and it’s now on the floor. And you’re offering to clean it up and eat take out pizza. 

“We can get pizza, sweetheart.” He blurts through his laugh. The laugh halts immediately when he realizes the pet name had fallen into the space between you. 

You don’t miss a beat.

“Pizza sounds good.” 

The sauce gets cleaned up, and soon the pizza will be arriving. All that chaos was quelled with your quick thinking. Like always. You’d both made it into the living room to sit on the couch. Holland had declared he needed a drink, which turned into him getting a whiskey and a glass of wine for you. Laughter drifted between the two of you easily.

When the doorbell goes off, Holland debates telling whoever it is to go away. The interruption was at a terrible time—as most are. But your eyes had lit up at the promising sound of food. So, he’d stood up and fished around in his pockets for his wallet. 

He wouldn’t admit to it, but when he opened the door, he shoved the bills at the kid and snatched the pizza from him. Holland had been so caught up in it that he didn’t heed the warning of the box being hot. A breath gets sucked through his nose to keep the cuss at bay. The bottom of the box was like touching fire. Heat seeped into his palms and surely made them an angry shade of red. 

A forced grin captured his expression as he set it onto the coffee table. He waited for your eyes to avert away from him to flap his hands around. The pain, slowly, subsided. All that was left was the dull ache in the absence of pain.

That meant there was only one thing to do tonight—the hardest part.

The hardest thing he’s had to do in the past year of his life. Sit you down and… tell you that he loves you. He feels like he’s gonna puke.

“Hey, I–I’m gonna run to the bathroom.” He stutters over his words, his heartbeat starting to hammer in his chest. “Just, just gotta wash my hands—be right back!”

Holland almost trips over his own feet as he rushes out of the living room. His eyes don’t even register the passing furniture or other doors in his place. He’s got tunnel vision. Set on making it into the bathroom before he takes a nose dive into the floor. 

Thankfully, he does. His back thuds against the door, breathing faster than it should be. He needed to calm down. This was nothing. This was just telling his partner that he’s fallen madly in love with her and living a single day without her was torture—

A flick of his wrist turns on the faucet. He splashes water into his face. Droplets drip down his forehead. Holland grasps onto the sides of the sink, knuckles turning white from sheer force. 

“Alright, March.” He huffs, shaking his head like he’d be able to shake himself from the throws of anxiety. He looks up and peers into the mirror mounted on the wall. The face staring back at him looks too similar to that of one of a kid about to have his first kiss. “Pull yourself together.”

Jesus Christ.

He drums his fingers against the sink and takes a deep breath. Psyching yourself up is freakin’ hard, man. 

“March, March, he’s our man.” He mumbles under his breath, turning to pat his face dry with a towel. “If he can’t do it, no one can.”

His throat works around a swallow. He leaves the fluffyness of the towel behind to grasp onto the door knob. With one last hurrah, he mumbles under his breath, “Maaaarch!”

Then, he opens the bathroom door. Makes a point to walk a little slower back to the living room. Trying to appear like he wasn’t just psyching himself up. 

“I grabbed us plates.” Your voice is the first thing he registers when he enters the living room. It’s soft and sweet, like a gentle breeze. 

“Oh.” He hums, taking a seat on the couch. “Great.” 

There’s a visible gap between your bodies. He’s on an entirely different end of the sofa, instead of his usual place next to you. Your eyes squint as you take notice.

Holland plays with the fabric of his slacks, picking at it and keeping his head down. He only looks up when you extend him a plate with slices on it. 

“You alright?” Your words are wrapped in tender confusion, genuine as they fall from your lips like honeysuckle. 

He wishes he could just spit it out. 

No matter the consequences. 

Instead, he opts for shaking his head. Too quickly. Like a teenager trying to deflect something from a parent. “M’fine.”

You take a pause. The gaze you’re leveling him with turns analytical. Eyes tracing down his face, watching for the twitches of his micro-expressions. Damn you. And your detective brain that’s far too attractive to be normal. 

“Is it the sauce?” You question, voice softening. 

He wishes it was just the sauce. 

“Uh–no, I mean that was terrible but—no, it’s not the sauce.” He settles for a simple answer, avoiding the spiral of words that tried to spill from his mouth. A sigh rattles his chest. 

You place your half-eaten slice of pizza on your plate, turning your attention to him. “Seriously, March. You alright?”

He’s gonna puke. 

Yep. That’s what’s gonna happen.

His stomach churns. It twists itself into a knot so tight it physically pains him. His tongue has turned to stone, heavy in his mouth. 

Holland opens his mouth, but the words fail. For someone who never shuts up this was terrible. His throat works around a swallow. “No—okay? I’m not.”

His face contorts into something akin to anguish. His brows furrow, eyes wide and filled with urgency. Your chest pangs.

“Talk to me.” It’s not a command— more of a gentle plea. 

“I–I made dinner.” He huffs out, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “I sent Holly to Jenny’s. You know?” 

You grow quiet. Holland was someone who needed to spew out words before the meat of his point shines through. So you give it to him. 

But he’s terrible at silence.

“There…There was a reason.” His hand runs through his dark blonde hair, mussing it up. “I don’t—I don’t do this.” His hands clasp in his lap. 

He dips his head downwards, not looking at you. He fiddles with his fingers for a second. 

“Holland—”

“I did this for you!” He finally spits out, the words falling in droves. 

That shocks you. Enough to stun you into silence, unsure of what he’d meant by it. Was he upset that the good thing he tried to do was ruined? It wasn’t easy to read him when he won’t look at you. 

His leg starts bouncing. In the same way that someone with anxiety would do it, bouncing on the ball of his foot. Even without seeing his eyes, you knew they were darting around. It was the kind of anxiety that had made a home in his mind all night, and it was finally coming to the surface. 

“Holland.” Your voice is quiet. Grounding. “What do you mean?”

Holland splutters. “I m—I mean… God.” He causes quiet, finally looking over at you. His eyes are glassy. 

Barely a second passes.

“I love you!”

The silence is heavy. It’s the same silence after a nuclear bomb goes off. The moments before everyone scrambles to check the radio for survivors. And casualties.

Your jaw has dropped. The shock your body had just gone through—hearing those words, seeing him so nervous, and his eyes shimmering—made it feel like it didn’t happen. You have to take a second. Maybe pinch yourself. Make sure it was all real. 

Holland inhales a sharp breath. 

Your silence felt like a knife to the side. 

This was the rejection he was waiting for. The silence as he poured out his entire heart on the floor. And it got splattered worse than his stupid sauce ever could have been. He should have seen it coming—you were always too good for him.

He felt like an idiot. 

“Holland.” Your voice is paper-thin, frayed around the edges. Horse like you hadn’t used it in a while. 

He blinks. 

“Are you serious?” 

He didn’t expect that. Maybe this was when you started standing up and laughing at him. That’s how it worked in those movies Holly watches on the TV. “Yeah..?”

Your knees turn toward him, giving him your full face. The ghost of a smile is curving the sides of your mouth. It’s a stupid, childish grin that’s barely being kept off your face. You’re sure your eyes had started sparkling. 

A warmth unfurls through your chest.

“I love you, too.”

Holland falls silent. Everything he’d thought was happening had just been turned on its head. He felt like the floor had been ripped out from beneath his feet. 

“You… love me, too?”

You grin. “That’s what I said.”

The words sink into Holland. You weren’t rejecting him. In fact, you were on the exact same page as him. You loved him too. And he was over here stressing like a dope for no reason. He has to laugh at his own absurdity. 

Jesus. You loved him. 

And you’re sitting across from him with the biggest smile he’s ever seen. It makes you look younger. Brighter. Like any woe life had tossed onto your shoulders and slipped off. Like you’d just taken in a breath of fresh air. Holland feels himself fall in love with you all over again. 

It’s his turn to smile back.

There’s almost a minute of silence. Just the two of you smiling, relishing in the revelation. There wasn’t a need to rush anything. The hard part was over—but now as he’s sitting on the couch, looking into the eyes he saw before he drifted off to sleep, it didn’t actually feel hard. It was one of the easiest things he’s ever done, actually. 

“I was so scared to do that.” He breathes, palm flattening against the sofa.

Your palms rests against the plush cushions, slowly migrating towards his. “I’m glad you did it.”

He nods. “Me too.”

His eyes drop his gaze towards your lips. He stiffens, unsure of what to do. If he could do anything. His eyes flicker back up to yours. There’s a heaviness weighing in them now. 

You do the same. But you let your gaze linger on his lips. It’s easy to fantasize about them—how they’d feel against yours. How he’d taste. 

“Can I–?”

He’s leaning closer to you, internally cursing himself for sitting so far away. He wanted to be closer. A thrumming need courses through his veins, and the only cure was to be close to you. Be as close as possible. 

You’re already crawling across the couch, giggling quietly, nodding fervently.

Your fingers are cool against his skin. Your thumb brushes against his cheekbone as you cup his cheek. Holland melts into the touch like it was his first time. The normal breathing flowing through his lungs hitches, caught up by his spiking pulse. 

His eyes are wide and bright. Like oceans beckoning you to drown in.

There’s a moment when you just breathe each other in. Letting your breath mingle, mere inches apart. It isn’t until you brush your lips against his does he make a move. 

Your lips fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Connecting in a way they always should have been connected. His hand sprawls over your hip, grasping onto you like you’d float away. 

He’s kissing you so softly it’s torture. It’s reverent. His touch isn’t scalding—it’s more gentle than anything. Like he’s trying to savor the moment he’s in. And he is.

A soft sound bubbles up in your throat, muffled by his mouth. 

Holland’s grasp on your hip tightens just a fraction. His kisses have more pressure now. His tongue gently runs along the seam of your lips. Asking for permission. You open up for him like a flower. 

He groans into your mouth. There’s something thready about the sound. It’s almost painful. Like he was holding something back—himself. 

“Shit, hold on.” He murmurs, pulling back from you. He doesn't move far. Can’t.

His gaze drops down to your kiss bitten lips. A breath gets sucked in between his teeth. He can’t even begin to believe the vision before him. You’re just perfect. 

“Something wrong?” You ask, breath coming out in short pants.

“No.” Holland says quickly, head shaking so fast you’re sure he’d get whiplash. “God, no. Just.. wanna look at ‘ya.”

A familiar warmth slides itself down your abdomen. His thumb is caressing your hip, warming the skin beneath your bellbottoms. It feels like your skin is on fire. 

“So pretty.” He whispers the words more to himself, eyes wide in awe. 

“Holland!” You grin, heart fluttering. 

His other hand comes to your hip, slowly drifting down to under your thigh. He gives you a questioning tilt of his head. Waiting for permission to bring you closer. A nod is all he needs. 

Holland is surprisingly strong. Just at a glance, you wouldn’t think so. But he’s able to bracket your knees around his hips easily. He chuckles lightly when a surprised squeak slips from your lips. 

“Sorry.. Sorry, just.. Need you closer.”

You settle against him, couch cushions dipping beneath your combined weight. He wasn’t lying. You can feel something pressing against your thigh. It takes a second for you to realize what it was—and it definitely was not a banna in his pocket. 

His hand travels up your side, touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. He brushes your hair from your face. Tucks it behind your ear with a soft smile.

“Holland.” His name falls from your lips in a way it never has before. Soft and breathy.

Holland thinks he’s gonna pass out. But he doesn’t. 

“I love you.” He says again, quiet. Reverent. 

He leans up, making you slump against him slightly, to press a kiss against your shoulder. It’s feather light. Just enough pressure to make you feel like you’re spiraling. 

A cuss slips from your lips. Your body moves on instinct—pressing your hips closer to his. The stiffy in his pants had hardened fully, and the pressure of him makes you gasp. A moment like this has never played through your mind. There wasn’t even a fantasy that could have prepared you for this. 

“I love you, Holland.” The words fall in a lighter tone than you would have hoped, floating off your lips like fairy dust. 

His hand on your hip tightens. There’s an audible noise coming from him; the sound of his breath stuttering in his chest. It’s like he still hadn’t fully digested the words yet. Each time he heard it was a shock to his system. 

“I want you.” You breathe out, your own palms resting on his chest. “I need you.”

He’s the happiest man in the world. 

“O-okay..” He mutters, gaze flickering over your face. There’s a second where he looks to make sure this wasn’t a dream. That you’re serious. And you are. “Okay.”

The next few seconds happen in a blur. All you remember is straddling Holland’s lap, then suddenly his palms are holding under your thighs, and he’s lifting you up and laughing at your surprise. 

“My room?”

“Absolutely.”

flower divider by @hatoslay !

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The request makes his throat go dry. This was supposed to be an easy weekend with the two of you gathering tangible evidence for a housewife whose husband was cheating on her with his secretary. It was as open and shut as cases come, especially when the wife, Mrs. Watson, provided the booking information on where her husband would be staying on his “work” trip. But you? You were making this case much harder than it needed to be. 

First, you confiscated his flask when he picked you up and made him promise not to drink so he’d have a “sound mind” while working (whatever that means). Then, you told the desk clerk not to worry when he sheepishly told you there was a double booking and that the two of you would share. And now this…how was he supposed to keep a level head when you were half naked in front of him? How was he supposed to focus on anything, knowing he’d be sleeping beside you over the next two days? 

It felt like you were doing it on purpose to fuck with him; you had to be. He knew that you knew about his less-than-subtle crush on you, but having you so close and seeing you like this without the ability to act on it felt like a punishment.  

“Holland?” The sound of your voice and the wave of your free hand in front of his face bring him back to reality. “Mhm? What’d you say?” He asks, his eyes trailing over your figure.  

You turn and glance at him from over your shoulder before repeating yourself, “Can you help me tie my bikini? It doesn’t feel secure enough when I do it.” 

“I can help you take it off, too,” he mumbles while grabbing hold of the strings. Flirty remarks from him were the norm, drunken or not, his attraction and need to be around you were always apparent. Compliments, suggestive comments, and light touches were far from unusual. He liked you and made it known, and given that you never passed up the chance to make him blush, you liked him too.  

“If you keep your promise to lay off the booze this weekend, I just might let you.” Your teasing prompts a groan to escape his lips as he pulls and knots the strings together. A part of you is grateful that he’s seemingly caught up in envisioning the scene to notice the slight shiver that travels down your spine from his fingers grazing the skin of your back. “Well, in that case, Sweetheart, I’ll be on my best behavior.”  

“I’ll hold you to that, Honey,” you hum, turning around to face him and tying your matching sarong around your waist.  

“Jesus,” he says under his breath as he gives you a one over again. 

“Now, I know this is a difficult thing to ask, but can you stop staring at my tits so we can go over the game plan? Just for a second?” You watch Holland’s eyes dart up from your chest and to your face, the pink hue that had already covered his face darkening. Despite his flushed cheeks, he remained quick on his feet even if he did stumble a bit, “They looked at me first.” The excuse, as quick and idiotic as it was, made you smile. This man was a fool, and you couldn’t help but love it. “And I remember the plan,” he states with enough conviction that you believe him.  

—  

The plan in question was simple and admittedly formed last minute while checking in and overhearing the affair partners discussing their plans for the day which consisted of only three things: going to the beach, dinner at Rossini’s, a fancy and popular Italian restaurant that you was unable to book a reservation after finding the number in yellow pages and giving it a call, and of course, sex!  

Strategizing was easy and followed the standard protocol that you and Holland often followed after taking on affair cases, with the two of you agreeing that your best bet would be following them to the beach and sneaking pictures of them canoodling under the guise of taking photos of each other, and then staking out the restaurant for more evidence. 

Everything was going smoothly, excluding Holland’s constant complaining about the sand burning the soles of his feet after refusing to keep his flip flops on after almost tripping while carrying the webbed chairs Holly insisted he pack. The beach was big, but spotting the couple wasn’t as difficult as you both anticipated due to them choosing to stray too far from the entrance of the beach.  

You and Holland opted to set up camp a few feet ahead of them to ensure clear shots of any lewd behavior. The wait, as it turns out, wasn’t very long. Mr. Watson proved to be a rather handsy man, fondling his mistress mere minutes after you and Holland settled into the folding chair. Holland stood, taking off his sunglasses and stuffing them into the breast pocket of his short-sleeved button down, and brought the camera up to his eye as he pretended to take a shot of you.  

Maybe it was instinctive because there was a camera around, but you felt the need to smile and pose even if you knew the focus wasn’t on you. “Big smile, Sweetheart, big smile,” Holland ribs, egging you on.  

“Are you getting them?”  

His face contorts into a disgusted scowl from observing Mr. Watson slip his hand through the cutout of his mistress’s swimsuit to cop a feel, “I feel like I’m shooting the start of a bad porno.”  

You turn your head just enough to catch a glimpse of the woman’s hand dipping under the waistband of shorts through your periphery before looking back at your partner, “Didn’t realize there were good pornos.” 

“They exist. You're just not a connoisseur like I am.” If you weren’t preoccupied with attempting to hide the laugh bubbling to the surface, you would’ve noticed the frequent clicks of the camera and the soft smile that brightened Holland’s face as he watched you giggle.  

It wasn’t until the sizzling afternoon slowly started to simmer once the sun began disappearing over the horizon that the lovers packed up their belongings and headed back to the motel, with you and Holland waiting a few minutes before following their lead.  

The walk back to the motel was short, the only highlight of it being Holland nearly walking into oncoming traffic, and you hold his hand the rest of the way back. “How come I’ve never seen you wear this before?” The inquiry fell from his lips once you made it to the parking lot to pack the folding chairs back into the trunk of his car. 

“It’s new, I ordered it from the Sears catalog a few weeks back,” you answer.  

He puts a cigarette between his lips, lighting it and taking a drag before speaking, “Suits you.” 

“Thank you.” You stretch your hand out for him to take. “You have the key to the room, right?”  

He fishes the key out of his pocket and takes your hand again, allowing you to lead him up the steps. “Do you want to shower first?”  

“No, you should go first. I know you well enough to know you’ll want to sit or lie down on the bed, and if I find any sand in my sheets tonight, I will kill you.”  

“You can do whatever you want to me, Sweetheart. I don't mind.” He flirts, unlocking your shared room and motioning for you to enter first.  

“Careful, one of these days I might just take you up on that.”  

“A man can dream,” he mumbles, walking in behind you and closing the door. “You sure you don’t want to shower first?”  

“I’m sure, Holls.”  

He hums and b-lines for the bathroom, closing the door and then opening it back up just enough to poke his head out, “And you’re sure you don’t want to join me? I won’t bite…unless you like.” 

You walk over to the bathroom, and for a second, you can see his face light up. The spark, however, dims when you push his head back. “Go shower, their dinner reservation is in less than an hour.”  

He lets out a huff, retreating fully into the bathroom and closing the door with a pout. 

–  

You sink into the driver’s seat and let the camera hang around your neck. You and Holland had been parked across the street from the restaurant for about forty-five minutes, and the only bit of evidence worth snapping a photo was of the pair entering the restaurant, arm in arm, and the kiss on the cheek Mr. Watson received after pulling out the chair for his mistress.  

Holland had left you to get dinner from the takeout spot he saw when turning onto the street. He’d been gone for a while, and a part of you hoped there was just a long wait, but you’d also spotted a bar neighboring the store, so you had your doubts and were bracing yourself for disappointment just in case your partner came back tipsy with no food in hand.  

You drummed your fingers on the steering wheel, making sure to keep a watchful eye on the couple inside. “Why are you in my spot?” You nearly jumped out of your skin upon hearing Holland’s voice.  

“Jesus! You scared me,” you say, pressing a hand to your chest.  

“You put the roof up,” he points out after rounding the front of the car and climbing into the passenger’s side, a white plastic bag in hand. “Did you get any more shots of them?” 

“No, they've surprisingly been modest so far.” 

He nods and reaches into the bag, the plastic rustling as he unpacks the takeout containers. “Did you get–” 

“Chicken and broccoli with white rice?” He finishes for you, passing you two of the white boxes. “One of them might be the chicken fried rice I ordered, but I did get it.”  

“What about–”  

“I got your extra fortune cookie and sauce packets too, Sweetheart. Asked the guy at the counter for ‘em. He said no, but I nabbed it when he wasn’t looking.”  

“Thanks, honey.”  

“Of course.” 

A comfortable silence falls over the car as you both start to dig into your meals. You nudge him slightly, extending a forkful of white and chicken to him, which he happily accepts, offering up a sip of his soda in return. His gaze was fixed on you, more than usual, as if he were trying to read your mind. “I didn’t go into the bar, y’know. I’m keeping my promise to you.”  

“I appreciate that, March.”  

Another wave of silence falls over the car, this one more tense than the last. You could tell that he was hurt by your lack of faith in him. “I know you're trying.” You weren’t sure if your words would provide comfort, but you wanted to make it clear that you understood that he was putting in the effort.  

When he doesn’t respond and instead lights up another cigarette, you worry that this would be how the rest of the stakeout would go, with your usually chatting partner now sulking in the passenger seat. 

“Are you ever going to let me take you out?”  

You stare at him for several moments, your mind reeling as you attempt to process what he just blurted out. “W-what?”  

“Are you ever going to let me take you out?” He repeats. “You know I’m in love with you, and always flirt back. I know you don’t want a drunk of a boyfriend, but I think I’m getting better at managing my drinking.” 

A part of you is almost bewildered by what he’s telling you. Yes, he flirted with you, but you didn’t realize just how deep his feelings ran. “You love me?”  

“Probably too much.”  

“I didn’t know that.”  

He squints his eyes at you, “You know I have a crush on you.”  

“Yeah, but I thought it was because you just wanted to fuck me. A crush and being in love with someone are very different,” you explain, your mind reeling as you replay your interactions with him. Had you been mistaking love for lust this entire time? 

“I do want to fuck you, but I want more. I want everything.” Your entire demeanor softens as you listen to him speak sincerely. “You just make everything better for me and Holly. I just want that forever, I want you forever,” he adds.  

Acting without thinking was more of Holland’s thing, but you couldn’t help but take a page out of his book as you carefully set down the drink and takeout box on the dashboard and leaned over to the passenger seat to kiss him. You could tell that he was caught off guard by the way he froze for a moment, and you're almost worried you made the wrong move, but then he melts into the kiss, his hand cupping the back of your neck to deepen the kiss.  

When you pull away, he starts to chase your lips in search of another kiss, his eyes are half shut, and his lips are curved into a dopey smile. You were just about to lean in again when his eyes flickered past you to the window of the restaurant, “Oh! Oh! They’re kissing!” He scrambles for the camera on your lap, leaning half his body on top of you to get the shot.  

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” he says, sinking back into the passenger seat. You nod, “I think we have enough for the entire trip.”  

“Oh…do you want to go home in the morning?”  

You shake your head, “No…I think we should stay.”  

“Oh…and what do you want to do with our day off?”  

“Thought you wanted to take me out?”  

The corner of his mouth curls up, “You’ll let me?” 

“If we manage to make it out of our room,” you tease. 

There’s an undeniable spark in his eyes at the implication, “Oh really? Got big plans for me, Sweetheart?” 

You angle your body towards him, getting close and whispering, “Well, you did say I could do anything I wanted to you.”  

It was Spring of 1979, well whatever Spring looked like in Los Angeles anyway, it was pretty warm and balmy despite it being rather late in the afternoon, almost sunset. You had moved to the fervent city and found the amount of hustle and bustle already a little overwhelming considering the small town you had just come from.  

Currently you were struggling to lug out an oversized box out of your rear seat. With some great manoeuvring you managed to finally get it out of the door. It was heavy and awkwardly shaped so you let it fall to the ground, nothing precious in it, just some heavy textile samples you had. It was one of two boxes left, thankfully, but you were tired and jet lagged (can you be jet lagged after driving for hours?). Unloading any more boxes was the last thing you wanted to do. Especially when you had to haul them up two flights of stairs into your new – and admittedly dingy – apartment. You have to remind yourself that this was only temporary, just whilst you settled into your new city.  

Hands on hips you stared at the offending oversized box, as if some miracle would present itself into getting it upstairs.  

“Need some help?” Came a voice from behind you. 

You whipped around to see a man, probably mid-thirties, tall, with tousled hair and of course sideburns with a goatee to match. He was rather stylish, donning on classic flared pants with a patterned shirt with the top buttons undone – he was wearing some kind of necklace – and a dark jacket. The aviation sunglasses really sold the outfit. “I'm not sure inviting some strange man to help move my boxes into my new apartment is a good idea,” you replied somewhat sarcastically. Yeah, it would be a stupid move, but you also needed to get this over and done with.  

He scoffed as he put a cigarette in his mouth, pausing for a second to light it. “Ma’am, I'm a private investigator. It'd be rather foolish for me to enact any foul play.”  

“If anything that worries me more – you'd be excellent at covering the scene of the crime!” You said with a stupid grin on your face.  

The man across from you seemed to find this rather entertaining, “You assume I'm good at my job.” His reply was impassive but not entirely serious.  

Sighing you threw all caution to the wind, “Well if the offer still stands, yes I do need some help. I've been unloading boxes all day.”  

He took a long puff of his cigarette before stamping it out on the concrete. “Your wish is my command, though if I throw my back out I'm suing you,” he joked. Although, it wouldn't surprise you if he did sue you, he was a stranger.  

You stepped around to the other side of the car to grab the smaller box, the last one before leading the way to your apartment. “Thanks for your help,” you said over your shoulder as you could hear him following you. 

“Jesus! I can see why you didn't want to lift this, the hell is in here?” His voice sounded a little gruff.  

You waited until the two of you got up the stairs, not wanting to make him lose his footing. “It's textiles – I'm an interior designer, so I need samples,” you replied as you got closer to your apartment door.  

Looking over your shoulder you saw the man only struggled with the awkward sized box somewhat. “Interior designer, huh?” He paused for a moment before continuing, “You know I might be in need of one of those.”  

Your apartment door was now in front of you, so you dropped the box to the ground as you fished out your keys. Without looking at him you responded, “You need an interior designer?” It took a little finessing, but you got the door unlocked. You looked up at him then, he'd somehow managed to put the box over one of his shoulders. Impressive. He also managed to procure another lit cigarette. Even more impressive. Having opened the door you grabbed your box and walked inside, setting the box on the kitchen benchtop.  

He followed in after you, doing the same with the box on his shoulders. With a huff he let the box thunk loudly as he set it down, “Uh, yeah. I'm rebuilding my house.” Despite now being inside he was still wearing his aviators.  

You fished inside your handbag for your wallet. “Well, if you need some inspiration give me a call,” you said earnestly as you handed him a business card. Remembering the stack of boxes surrounding you, you absentmindedly said, “Oh, uh, I need to unpack my phone first, sure it's in here somewhere.”  

With two fingers he plucked the card from your hard, momentarily looking it over before he pocketed it. “Let's do a card exchange,” he said as he pulled his wallet out from his pocket. He procured his own business card – it had a crude drawing of what appeared to be himself and some other man. He really was a private investigator.  

“No offence but I hope I'll never have a need for a PI,” you said as you accepted his card.  

Cigarette still in his mouth he gave you a half smile, “I hope not either Miss L/N. But you can't be too careful, lots of looneys in this city.”  

You gave him a half smile in return, “Thank you Mr. March for your assistance. I've yet to go grocery shopping, otherwise I'd offer you a beer for your troubles.”  

He waved a hand dismissively, “Don't mention it.” Giving you a wink he then turned sharply on one heel to make his way back out the door, hovering outside for a moment. “Next time don't let any random man into your apartment, they're not all as well-intentioned as me,” he said sarcastically before he headed down the hall. Did he just give you the finger guns?  

Los Angeles was weird. Hopefully you didn't just invite a serial killer into your house. Deciding not to dwell on it any further you closed the front door and began opening your boxes. The last thing you wanted to do was actually unpack and organise the contents of the boxes, but you quite literally had no clothes or furniture. It had to be done, which meant you had a long night ahead of yourself. Where was that damn lava lamp? This living room needed some ambience!  

You unpacked about four boxes before giving up and ordering Chinese takeout using your neighbour's phone.  

✿✿✿✿ 

It was four days since you saw a one Holland March, you'd managed to unpack the majority of your belongings. Though you really hoped you found a condo or something in a nicer part of town, like the suburb you were currently in. Mr. March had called you (you found your phone on the second day of unpacking) and given you this address. It was an empty lot, not an ounce of construction anywhere to be seen. Odd that he'd ask for your help so soon, you kind of need, oh you know, walls and floors to work with.  

He also said he would meet you at 1pm, looking at your watch you saw that it was now 2:07pm. Luckily you managed to get a park under a nicely shaded tree so the dry Californian air wasn't as oppressive as it could have been. Not long after, and right before you were contemplating whether or not you should leave, a car pulled up. Convertible with the roof down, looked like March was in the passenger seat with a teenage girl driving. Upon getting out of your car with your portfolio you guessed the teenager must have been around the age of fifteen or so, almost driving age. Maybe she was just one of those kids who looked younger than they were.  

March quickly got out of the car, cigarette in his mouth. He was looking stylish again in light-coloured flared trousers, a colourful top which was unbuttoned showing a white singlet underneath and over course the same necklace and aviators as before. As he approached you his smile grew wider, you couldn't help but notice how handsome he was.  

The teenager, who you assumed must be his daughter, was trailing behind him, she had blonde hair and wore a stripey shirt with a knee length denim skirt and boots.  

As he got within talking distance to you he extended a hand out, “Apologies Miss L/N, the last job ran over time.”  

You readily shook his hand, about to answer. 

The teenager interjected, “He actually didn't mess up the crime scene this time!” Her sarcasm was all but apparent.  

“Thank you Holly,” he said gruffly as he put his hands on his hips. “Teenagers,” he remarked sardonically. You raised an eyebrow at that, which made him look frantically from you back to his daughter and back to you again. “Oh, she's my daughter by the way.” He took a drag of his cigarette, waving his hand dismissively as he had the cigarette between two fingers.  

“Nice to meet you Holly,” you said as you faced her. “I was almost about to leave, so that was good timing from you both.”  

“You too. Well, I'm not sure why dad wants to hire an interior designer, we're just going to rebuild the house just the same as it was,” she replied, only with a hint of acerbic tone as she crossed her arms. 

“Alright, knock it off sweetheart, besides a lot of the original materials may not be available – we'll need help to get a close match.” March said quietly – his answer seemed placate his daughter – before turning to you. “And yeah well, as you can see... Well, there's nothing there right now.” He gestured behind you to the empty lot with his cigarette still pinched between two fingers. 

You turned around to look at it, “I can see that.” The lot must give out to a nice view being on an incline like this. You turned back to look at March, “Well, Mr. March do you have the building plans or did you want to wait until construction began?”  

He flicked his ashes to the ground after taking a short drag. “Call me Holland, please. And I'm not sure, I don't even have a builder or architect lined up.”  

That made you raise an eyebrow, “Okay Holland - doesn't it seem like we're jumping the gun?” 

“I need to get the ball rolling, maybe if you inspire me I'll finally have motivation to get this place built,” he shrugged. You noticed he gestured with his hands quite a lot, wonder if it was a nervous tic.  

Holly didn't say anything but she was chewing her bottom lip. 

With that you stepped closer to Holland and opened your portfolio showcasing some of your favourite homes you had worked on. “Unfortunately since I'm new to the area I haven't established any relationships with the local architects like I had back home, so I can't make any recommendations in that regard. But, I'm sure something in here will pique your interest,” you said as you flicked through the pages – now standing side by side to Holland. 

“Not unless it looks like our old house,” Holly mumbled.  

In the corner of your eye you noticed Holland frowning at his daughter as he stamped out his spent cigarette. “Can I?” He asked as he gestured his hands out to hold the folio.  

“Certainly, you can actually borrow it to mull it over, I've got more,” you replied, not mentioning all the others were at the bottom of a box somewhere in your new home office. The sooner you could get your own commercial space the better.  

One of his eyebrows quicky shot up over his aviators before he gave you a sly smile. “Alright thanks–”  

“–You can just call me by my first name,” you interjected as you reiterated what your name was in case he couldn't recall off of your business card. 

He repeated your name back to you and you had to supress your blush – the guy was very handsome, all right?! “C'mon Holly we'll have to take a proper look through this,” he said to his daughter who quite frankly didn't look impressed. “Thanks for meeting us out here, sorry again for being tardy.”  

“I hope to do business with you Holland,” you said earnestly before making it over towards your car. The father daughter duo made their way to cross the road and it looked as if Holly was going to drive again. “Is she old enough to drive?” You called across the street loudly, unable to help yourself. 

Holly was already getting into the driver's seat as Holland called over his shoulder to answer you, “She's fifteen and a half – she's got her learners permit, no fret!” The bastard winked at you again as he opened his door.  

“Huh...” you muttered to yourself as you got into your own car, the two of them quickly drove passed as you turned the ignition, Holland of course waving at you. You raised up two fingers from your steering wheel in response, hoping he saw it.