He existed naturally in the way he had become a part of the house itself like the way the kitchen light flickered above the stove your mother always nagged at your father to fix or that one warped floorboard outside your bedroom that always creaked.

Steve was just there. Mostly because of his emotionally negligent home life. He would always be draped over the couch with your brother with his stupid spiderman printed socked feet he'd get embarrassed about, kicked onto the coffee table. He would rummage through the cabinets for snacks he didn't ask for permission to eat or laugh way too loudly at midnight while your mother had yelled from upstairs for the boys to keep it down.

You grew up around the sound of his voice and the smell of his cologne that trailed through hallways after basketball games. Around the low rumble of his prized BMW pulling into the driveway to pick up your brother. His stupidly bright smile and the way he effortlessly moved through rooms had always irked you the most.

When you were little, Steve treated you in that affectionately dismissive way most young boys do with their best friend's siblings.

"Move, airhead," "Quit following us," "Tell your brother he still owes me five bucks!"

There had never been cruelty in his voice or irritation enough to hurt you. Sometimes when your brother got irritated with you or ignored you, Steve didn’t and instead gave you a sense of understanding.

At ten years old, you were sitting cross legged in the living room, watching the two of them play video games on your brother's Atari for hours. When Steve handed you a third controller after your brother complained you were annoying, you pretended your heart didn't skip a beat. Despite being terrible at every game, Steve let you play anyway.

At twelve years old, you had scraped your knee badly against asphalt when trying to skateboard down the Harrington's driveway after overhearing Steve mention he thought girls who skate were 'cool.' You remember sitting on the pavement blinking back tears while your brother had cackled and Steve crouched down in front of you with a sigh.

"Why are you always getting yourself hurt." He'd said, his hands gently pushing your sock down to your ankle. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"

You had only shrugged out of embarrassment.

Even then, he had disappeared into his house before coming back with bandages and peroxide. The smell had been medicinal in the hot summer air and he'd sat cleaning the blood from your knee.

At fifteen years old, your crush had become something incurable. The year Steve had started driving. The year he started showing up on the driveway in his burgundy BMW with one hand lazily hooked over the steering wheel and his sunglasses hiding half his face while girls from school had prayed to get his attention. It'd also been the age silly jealousy had warped your heart.

You knew Steve Harrington was someone you'd never get close to touching. He belonged to everybody and that was the problem.

At sixteen years old, every girl in town had a story about him, but also forgave him too easily when he had reached that stage in his life where he'd been known as the charming, wealthy, party boy who knew his way around. Eventually, he'd calmed down despite having the certain cockiness to him you'd always known.

But there were fragile moments where the performance would slip.

Late nights when your brother had gone upstairs to watch TV, Steve would sink further into the couch with an exhausted look on his face. Sometimes your mother would hand him leftovers wrapped in foiled. He would just smile with gratitude and pull her in for a hug.

The nights he stayed over were your favorite.

One time you woke up at two in the morning for water. When you walked downstairs, you would find him knocked out on the couch with one arm thrown his face. He'd always been such a restless sleeper.

Looking back, maybe you had started loving him in those moments, not just a silly crush.

Deep down, you knew it was because you knew a version of him nobody else knew, a version that was just him and not King Steve.

You knew the way he got quieter when something bothered him, the way he tapped his fingers when anxious, and the way he hated going home more than he would ever admit out loud.

By your junior year of college, at twenty years old, you had gotten good at convincing yourself you were over Steve Harrington. Distance helped, especially when Purdue University was four hours from Hawkins.

Classes, new friends, late night walks across campus with music playing in your headphones, and boys who flirted with you had given you experiences that you almost forgot about a version of yourself that doodled in her notebook over a boy with big brown eyes.

Steve had become someone easier to manage when he had only existed mostly through rushed stories from your brother on phone calls.

Steve got promoted. Steve got into some fight at a bar and lost. Steve was seeing some girl. Steve bought a new car.

He couldn't touch your life anymore.

Until May.

Finals week had exhausted everyone by the time summer break finally arrived. Outside your dorm window, students drag bags down sidewalks, the sky gray and threatening rain. You can only hope the weather doesn't worsen.

The telephone begins to ring on your nightstand. Walking over and removing it from the hook, you wedge it between your shoulder.

"Hello?" You answer distracted, struggling to zip your duffel bag.

"Your brother's an asshole."

You freeze, stomach fluttering. His voice was still able to do that to you. "Well, hello to you to. You sound so surprised." You managed.

"I am," Steve replied. "He told me he forgot he promised to pick you up and he already made plans, which is now my problem somehow."

"Sooo, you're coming instead?"

"Yeah, unfortunately."

"You're such a gentleman," You croon, tossing your duffel bag aside. "Will you help me with my bags too?'

"You know I will." "I'm calling from this diners telephone box, had to take a bathroom break because the drive is so damn long."

"Tell me about it. Why do you think I wanted someone else to do the driving for me in the first place?"

"You sneaky little witch. Just using people aren’t you?" He comments, making you laugh. "Anyways, I'm like twenty minutes away. Try not to bring your whole dorm with you."

The line clicks dead before you can answer and place the phone back into it's rightful place.

Immediately, you hate yourself for checking your reflection in the mirror to check your hair. On instinct, you reach for your lip gloss and swipe it against your lips.

This was so ridiculous. You were twenty, not fourteen anymore, yet you were hyperaware of everything about you all because Steve Harrington was about to drive four hours alone with you.

By the time you have your bags ready and make your way outside after checking out your dorm, you spot the BMW parked against the pavement. Girls passing turned to look as Steve stepped out from the driver's seat as rain began to fall. Some things never changed did they?

Your stomach drops at the sight of him. He looked different, less boyishly pretty and now more manly. His shoulders broader beneath his dark blue crewneck and fitting his arms just right.

Steve uses one hand to push back his damp hair from his forehead and his eyes land on you, making you freeze. He smirks, calling out, "Hey! You coming?"

You roll your eyes, walking over. "You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago."

"Sorry, traffic backed up from the rain." He frowns and takes a quick glance at his watch. "If we go now we should be fine though."

He takes the largest bag from you, tossing it over his shoulder, before you can argue. Steve opens the trunk, tucking in the bag and reaching a hand out in gesture for you to hand him the rest.

"Your roommates going to miss you at all?" He asks, shutting the trunk and locking it with the keys.

"Mmm, yeah I think so. One of them cried."

He lets out a low whistle, "Damn. You breaking hearts at Purdue now? I thought you were sweet?"

"Shut up." You snort. "I doubt she'll send a postcard anyways. She only used me for homework answers in statistics."

"No worries, we'll have a better summer without people like that. Like old times." He grins in the familiar way you knew.

Steve opens the passenger door and flashes you a wink. "After you."

You just smile, sitting down and adjusting the seat to your height as he shuts the door behind you, jogging around the hood of the car before the rain could get you both anymore wet.

Steve slides into the driver's seat, starting the heater to warm up. He inserts the keys into the ignition, giving it a couple turns, and sighs. "You hungry?"

"Ummm, a little." You confess.

"There's leftover fries in the bag from the diner if you want some" He turns over the seat as he backs the car out of is spot, managing to grab the paper bag sitting behind. "They got kinda wet though."

You eye the soaking wet paper bag and scrunch your nose, "What the hell, Steven. You're disgusting."

"What! They're still good!"

"Soggy fries are good? Would you eat those?" You deadpan, raising a brow.

There's a pause of silence until, "...Nah. Maybe you're right." He coughs and clears his throat. "We'll grab some dinner in a couple hours in the next town. Promise."

You laugh despite yourself and turn your head to look outside the window, watching as the campus begins to empty out, students hugging goodbye and loading up cars.

Steve glances at your direction briefly as you begins to make a turn out of the campus, "You going to miss it?"

"Huh? Purdue?"

"Mhm."

You hum, pondering for a moment. Sure, you'd been homesick when you'd started, but overtime you'd found another place and friends to call home. Out the window, you watch the buildings blur past as you drive farther. Finally, you admit, "Yeah, more than I thought I would. I'll probably try and make plans for my friend Beth to come down to Hawkins."

"Do you like being away?" He asks, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while the other tapped against his thigh. "From Hawkins, I mean."

Truthfully, no. You liked being able to ignore your feelings, but you didn't like not being able to communicate with loved ones mostly through mail and telephone.

"I like..." You stop to carefully consider your words. "being somewhere where nobody knows every single thing about me. So, no and yes."

"Yeah, that sounds nice. I don't blame you." Steve gives a faint smile.

The roads begin to stretch longer as buildings become fields then empty highways, Steve cautiously keeping distance from other cars.

You blow a puff of air, bored, reaching into the dashboard to search through Steve's collection of cassette tapes. Steve catches you from the corner of his eyes. He clicks his tongue, "Hey, you thief. What do you think you're doing?"

"Playing music?" You snip as if it's obvious. "It's too quiet in here that it's going to drive me insane."

"Is my own voice not enough for you?" He mockingly pouts but snatches the cassette of your choice out of your hand, inserting it into the player of the radio.

"You'll never be Bruce Springsteen, sorry to tell you."

"Are you still seeing that girl?" You ask, trying to sound casual.

Steve looked confused, "What girl?"

"The one Anthony mentioned. Blonde, brown eyes, in STEM..." You explain, listing of the traits your older brother had mentioned over the phone last Winter. You remember hooking up with some guy afterwards.

He huffs a laugh, "Oh. No."

"What do you mean no?" You press.

"That lasted like two months. It's been long done." He says casually as if it had been nothing. You truly thought he'd liked her, even if she'd been one of many girlfriends that wouldn't work out.

"What happened? I thought you liked her?"

He pursed his lips, "I mean, yeah she was nice."

Steve seemed almost reluctant, like there was more to the story than he wanted to give.

"Anddd?"

"And that's it." He sighs. "Look, I could give a thousand of excuses of why it didn't work but I can't besides saying I just wasn't feeling anything. Nice isn't enough and I didn't want to waste her time."

"Oh..." You say.

You'd be lying if you said you were disappointed at the fact his love life had once again failed. You're a horrible and selfish person, you think.

"Plus, I think I've made too much mistakes doing that in the past. It wouldn't be fair, y'know?"

"Growing up, Harrington?"

"Watch it," He scolds.

You stick your tongue out playfully before resuming your session of staring out the window in distraction of your nerve wracking thoughts and the fact Steve was sitting a foot away.

Shivering, the feel goosebumps rise on your arms and you rub your hands against them in hope to ease.

Steve seems notice and frowns, glimpsing at you before turning back to the road. "Are you still cold?"

"Nope."

"Liar," He chuckles. Turning the heater on with the dial, he reaches his arm behind his seat afterwards, grabbing hold of a folded up blanket and tosses it to you.

"Oh, no, no, Steve. You don't have--" You reassure, holding your hands up.

"I know, it's okay." He cuts you off. "Just give it back when you're done. We both know you're a thief."

"Yeah, yeah."

The droplets of ran pounds against the windshield, the dark clouds swirling in the sky as thunder erupts threateningly. It stirs fear in your chest, heart picking up its pace.

"Shit, it's getting bad." Steve points out. Trying to ease the mood, he jokes. "Think some force of nature is trying to kill us?"

"I don't know about me, but maybe just you. I hope the lightning picks you over me once we get out." You sass.

His mouth is gaped in shock. Finally, he says under his breath, "Psycho."

You try to focus on the music the next couple of minutes, but you can’t stand the silence between the two of you.

After years, you always want to know every single detail about him, to hear him talk about the special things his life and what he has going for him.

Every time you hope it’s something good. It’s all he’s ever deserved.

"How's work? Aren't you doing this whole coaching gig?"

"Don't forget sex ed teacher on the side. But, yeah, it's great so far." He seems to light up, happy you asked. "Really great."

He switches lanes before he continued, "For so long I was so confused and didn't know what I wanted, but now? I don't think I've been happier. Sure, my dad thinks the pay is shit, but at least I'm doing something with my life now."

“I think it’s good, Steve. You’re starting somewhere and I think it fits you perfectly.”

He’s shy then and goes quiet. You think the conversation is done with until:

"I- I really want to try college again. Get a degree in physical education. I know, it probably sounds stupid. I slacked so much in High School. I cared too much about the wrong things, now I'm paying for it."

Your heart breaks at his self deprecation. He’s always struggled with his self esteem underneath all that confidence he paraded around with. Deep down, he just wanted to be worth something in anothers eyes.

"It's not silly, not at all." You study him, staring at the slope of his nose down to the shadow of stubble along his jaw. "A lot of people lose their way too like you did, and you found your way back. You're trying and I think that's enough to be proud of, Stevie."

Steve gives you a quick look of shock, blood rushing to his cheeks.

"Thanks." He coughs before the corner of his mouth quirks up. "You're still holding on to that nickname? Jeez, you don't change."

"It reminds me of Fleetwood, it's cute!" You protest.

"Okay, then." He simply laughs.

"The more you hate it, the more I'm going to keep using it."

"Uh huh,"

Rain slammed against the windshield so violently that Steve had to lean forward, squinting his eyes to get a good look at the road. The wipers moved back and forth as the highway stretched ahead, the only thing visible being the headlights illuminating the road and the flashes of lightning in the sky.

Suddenly, the car swerves slightly, making you gasp. Before your brain can process, Steve's arm is bracing against your chest and pushing you back against the seat.

"Fucking hell," He curses, glaring daggers at the truck that zooms past. Steve removes his arm and asks, "You okay?"

Placing a hand over your chest, you nod. "Shit, yeah. It happened so quick, I wasn't expecting it."

Steve hums in agreement and directs his attention back to the road where water pools and the wind starts push hard enough against the BMW that your stomach hurts.

"Damn it," He mutters, directing the car to pull off to the next exit that definitely wasn't part of your plans. "We're not going to be able to make it back tonight. I'm not trying to have us soaring off a cliff when there's idiots who can't drive."

You sit up straighter, frowning, "What're we doing then if not going home?"

Steve rubs a hand across his jaw tiredly, "There should be a motel like ten minutes off this exit. We can grab food before we get a room. We'll just leave in the morning when this calms down."

Calm down, you think. Sharing a room with Steve Harrington sounds terrifying in theory, but what other choice did you have? This was the practical choice, you'd be stupid if you let your feelings get in the way of your safety.

"Unless you'd rather we soar off the cliff to our deaths?" Steve jokes in attempt to lighten the mood.

You'll be fine.

You wave a hand in dismissal and laugh, "Whatever. Yeah, the motel should be fine."

"And if we get murdered? We'll just haunt Anthony and tell him this was mostly his fault."

That was not comforting.

The motel, when you arrived after thirty minutes of driving in pouring rain and a quick fast food pick up, was old but comfortable looking enough that you were able to feel relieved.

The sign buzzed as streams of water poured off the roof. The parking lot was nearly empty except for Steve's BMW and an old truck. Inside, the lobby air smelled faintly like burnt coffee and mildew.

"I'm scared Steve," You whisper, eyeing your surroundings as Steve signed the check in receipt. "What if we get murdered like you said--"

"Okay, first of all, I was joking." Steve says, taking the room key from the old woman behind the desk, who didn't bother to look up from her crossword puzzle. "Second, you watch way too much movies. I think they're starting to rot your brain."

"Have you seen 'Psycho?' That could--"

"Relax!" Steve gives you an incredulous look as if he's unsure whether to laugh. He grabs the greasy paper bag from you. "Let's go to our room, eat, shower, and before you know it you'll feel fine. C'mon."

When you and Steve walk outside and up the rickety stairs to unlock your room, you’re met with the sight of a muted floral bedspread and a television sitting on the dresser. One bed.

"Shit, I asked for a two bed." Steve scoffs and tosses your duffel on the bed along with his overnight bag. Thankfully he came prepared based on weather before he left. "You want me to go ask for a new room?"

Not wanting to complain, you shake your head nervously, "No, this is fine."

Steve just nods, seating himself down at the edge of the bed with a long exhale. You stand still, unable to move from your spot. Maybe it was because there was no brother nearby, no parents, and no friends, but just the two of you in such a vulnerable space.

Steve yawns with a stretch, "You can go ahead and shower first."

You nod, practically running to the shower. The bathroom fills with steam as you turn the faucet, undressing and stepping inside.

You find yourself standing beneath the hot water longer necessary, letting the heat unknot the stiffness aching in your shoulders. Your thoughts felt loud. This is ridiculous, nothing is happening and is going to happen. Steve is Steve, your brother's best friend who you've spent majority of your life trying not to embarrass yourself around. You're going to go back in there and act normal. You'll be back on the road before you know it.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, the sound of the microwave beeps and you smell the delicious scent of fries and burgers. Steve turns his head, pulling both yours and his food out on to plates.

"You took forever. Were you swimming in there?" He says, handing you your plate before he goes to sit cross legged on the bed against the headboard.

"You're so dramatic, it was only thirty minutes." You join him and take a bite out of your burger.

"Thirty minutes too long," He quips, grabbing the remote and flipping through the television channels. "So, what are we in the mood for, Seinfeld or Beverly Hills? Take your pick."

"Seinfeld. I don't have the attention span for dramatics right now," You reply, stealing one of Steve's fries.

"Seinfeld it is," Steve muses and throws the remote away.

The tv plays on the next twenty minutes as the two of you eat, the episode plot being one of the character's apartments getting robbed, leading to an argument over who gets to move into a new apartment. You weren't paying attention much if you were being honest, more focused on the heat of his body next to you and trying not to seem obviously affected.

"Y'know..." Steve starts and you recognize his familiar tone of mischief. "this episode kind of reminds me of all the arguments you and Anthony have."

You turn to look at him, raising a brow. "Yeah because he's hardheaded."

"Must be a genetic thing." He muses, not turning his gaze away from the screen.

You gasp, smacking his arm. "Don't compare me to him! He's ten times worse than I'll ever be."

"Oh trust me, I believe you." He ponders for a moment before breaking into laughter. "Shit, remember when he jumped off the roof to backflip into my parent's pool?"

In fact, you do. It was one of your favorite embarrassing moments to blackmail your older brother with. He'd been bawling all the way to the emergency room while your mother laid it into him.

"Yes! He's was so stupid. I even told him it probably wasn't a good idea, but no, he insisted he'd look like those superheros from those comics you guys liked so much." You scoffed.

"Man, my mom was so pissed."

"Well, you technically encouraged him on, so I'd be too." He only laughs at your words, giving you a small nudge.

The conversation from there unraveled from one memory to another before you knew it as time passed. From middle school disasters of your brother getting into ridiculous fights, terrible haircuts you cried your eyes out over and threatened to never step outside again, and to Steve accidentally lighting fireworks too close to the garage one Fourth of July, the two of you laugh as you bond over the past.

Steve remembered everything which you couldn't decide was good or bad, especially since he remembered the most embarrassing moments like the time he and Anthony walked in on you kissing your James Spader poster in High School.

"You got so red that you yelled at us to get out," Steve cackled while laying on his side, hand rested under his chin, full attention now only on you.

"I was 15! That was traumatizing! How would you feel if someone walked in on you and found your old magazine collection under your bed."

"Shut up."

"Nope," You say, popping the p.

The both of you watch about three more episodes before trash is discarded in the can next to the bed and somewhere along the way the lamp on the nightstand is turned off, the room lit up only by the blue screen of the television.

"Anyone special in your life?" Steve randomly asks, sounding almost playful if you ignored the weird tone. "Only fair I ask you since you interrogated me earlier."

"Pft, no not really. Robin keeps trying to set me up with this guy though."

"Oh." There's a weird pause. "Are you gonna...see him or anything?"

You scrunch your nose and turn away from the TV. "Uhh I don't know? Why?"

Steve's teeth a clenched, body going rigid. He scoots away to give some space and now you know something is deeply wrong. "No reason just-- I don't know. Maybe you should let her."

"Steve, I don't even know the guy."

"So? If you like him then you like him" He shrugs, resting his weight by laying his palms flat on the bed.

Since when did he dictate what you do or don't do with your life and your romantic life at that.

You stand abruptly and cross your arms over your chest. “Why the hell are you so mad? I never even said I liked him.”

"Whatever." He scoffs.

"Why do you even care?"

"I don't"

"Then why are you acting weird!" You yell, wincing. You don't need the owner marching down here and banging at the door.

He doesn't answer, turning back to the television instead. You know he's just trying to avoid the confrontation of whatever was going on in that head of his. You hated how stubborn he could be.

Fine, he wants to act that way? You'll let him.

"I need air." You announce and start to head towards the door, hand already turning the knob.

The seems to alert him because he snaps his heads, face falling. "Wait- shit- no. I'm sorry."

“Leave me alone.” You snapped.

"I don't know what's up with me, seriously." He pleads. You can tell he's apologetic and not just saying mindless sorrys just to get you to shut up. "Please, I'm sorry. It's raining"

You want to be mad and leave him alone in the dark, probably go to the nearest vending machine and grab a snack, sit somewhere so the rain doesn't soak you.

But you don't have it in you.

"Fine."

"C'mere." Steve said quietly, making your stomach drop.

He gestures with his hand, sitting upright now, facial expression calm and giving you the opportunity to say no. Except, you don't want to.

Your body is moving before you can stop yourself, sitting yourself back on the bed, scooting closer to him and sitting on your knees, brushing against his own. The feeling of his leg against you is enough to stir excitement deep in your belly.

Neither of you speak, the only sound in the room being your breathing, the rain tapping against the window with the occasional crackle of lightning, and your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

Was this actually happening or were you deluded?

“‘M sorry…”

“It’s…it’s okay, Stevie.” You say shakily.

“I just get…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, chewing his lip.

His fingers brush against your jaw, thumb caressing your cheek. You shiver at the contact. "What are you thinking?" He murmurs.

"That--" You swallowed. "that I don't know if I'm dreaming or not."

"I'm right here," He hums, his eyes gazing down at your lips. He nibbles at him bottom lip as if he were fighting temptation. "are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Here with me."

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth and you nod, "Yeah...I am, Steve."

His lips slowly catch your own, molding together as you gasp against his, before slowly letting yourself melt into his warmth. Your hand catches against the front of his shirt as the kiss deepens.

It was warm and dizzying, so different and overwhelming compared to fantasies you'd imagined over the years.

You'd been completely wrong about Steve being a great kisser. He was momentous and no man you'd been with before could compare to the way his hands drifted down to your waist, drawing you closer onto his lap.

Steve rubs a hand up and down your spine, sneaking a hand under your top. His hands are warm against the coolness of your skin, his whole presence inviting.

His hand leaves and he pulls at the hem of your top. "Off." He orders, no questioning in his tone.

Inclined to listen, you throw your tank over your head, the air hitting your naked breasts and torso immediately.

You feel sheepish when Steve's hazel eyes unapologetically stare hard at your breasts, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. A soft sound leaves his swollen lips as he brings his hands up to give an experimental squeeze.

When you let a whimper slip, unable to contain it, Steve smiles. "So fucking pretty. Are they sensitive, hm?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, wanting to play around a bit just to see what he'd do, so, you shake your head. "No."

"Really? Not even if I..." He mused and pinches your nipples, causing you to jolt. "do this?"

"Shit!" You're so wet by anything he does, even a little bit of touching your damn tits had your panties sticking to your pussy. "Want more...please."

"Yeah?" Steve peppers kisses against your jaw and makes his way down to your neck, chest, and ending at your sternum. "Gonna suck these pretty tits then."

You suck in a sharp breath when his lips wrap around your right bud while his hand teases the left, thumb rolling it in between his thumb and index. He gives a couple of suckles and flicks his tongue against your right, moaning. Steve could cum in his pants right here right now by simply doing this, nothing else.

You mewl, your fingers gliding into his brunette strands of hair and tugging them hard. Steve hisses at the pain but makes no move to stop you, giving your nipple a scolding bite before moving to your left one to give it the same treatment.

If you weren't so distracted, you'd be nonstop apologizing.

Steve moves his right hand, exploring down your navel into your pj shorts. They come off and you're left in just your panties. Giving one last harsh suck to your breast, he pulls off to stare you deep in the eyes, his pupils dilated, "You're so beautiful..." Steve traces the outline of your clothed pussy with his fingers, ghosting over your sensitive clit. You shiver and dig your nails into his shoulder. "prettiest girl I've ever seen."

"You're just saying that," You giggle, avoiding eye contact as he takes off your panties, a your wetness clinging to it before snapping.

His thick brows furrow and says sternly, "I'm not. You know why?"

"...Why?"

"Because," He starts, teasing his middle and ring finger against your hole before dipping them inside with an obscene wet sound. Your breath stutters at feeling of them beginning to move in and out of you with practiced skill. "besides you obviously being fucking gorgeous, you're also the same person who has the biggest heart I know."

"Th- that's-- fuh-- ckk-- you." You moan, eyes shutting closed. He spreads his fingers, scissoring your walls and stretching them wide.

"Not at all. You? You look at people with the kindest eyes and care about everybody, you always have. You remember the smallest details people tell you, you sit with them when they're hurting, you're funny without trying," He laughs, finding your sweet spot and prodding at it. "and you make every room warmer when you walk in. I mostly like how you cry over the silliest movies."

"I do all that...?" You slur.

"Mhm. Dunno how you see the beauty in everyone but miss it all in yourself."

His praise hits you like a truck and you can practically feel a heartbeat within your cunt, your walls squeezing tightly around his fingers, not wanting him to leave.

Needing more, you begin to lift your hips up and down, bouncing and steadying your weight by grabbing on to his shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s it. Ride my fingers justtt like that.” He coos, meeting every roll of your hips with a curl of his fingers against your walls.

Your lashes flutter against your cheeks and you let out a low whine. Cunt sucking in his fingers, you lift the weight of your body up and down, up and down, attempting to reach the peak of pleasure you so desperately longed for.

“Steve. Mfmh…feels so good.”

“What does honey? C’mon, tell me.” He hums, pressing wet kisses against the nape of your throat until he elicits a whimper out of you, confirming that he’s found that certain spot that turns you into mush.

“Your fingers,” You pant, grinding harder down on his hand. “so thick and so deep in me."

You let out a ragged whine at the pressure slowly building up deep in your lower belly.”

Steve groans, smacking your ass in response. “Love that you talk so fucking nasty.” He begins to speed up, the pads of his index and middle pressing deep inside you. You arch your back with a cry. “You close? I can feel it with how tight this pretty wet pussy is getting.”

You nod profusely, wrapping your arms around his neck and hiding your face in it with a moan. Your hips and thighs begin to ache, your movements beginning to slow.

“Yeah, mhm- but can’t- ” You said, grabbing Steve’s wrist pleadingly. “Steve…”

“You’re already tired, honey?” He clicks his tongue in faux sympathy, but nonetheless holds you down to force you still, thrusting his fingers up into you. “Well, that can’t do. Can’t leave my pretty girl hanging.”

"'m cumming, m' cumming, oh fuckkkk--" The second his thumb hits your clit, rubbing firm circles, your orgasm crashes over you like a dam and you cum with a broken moan, your words spilling out.

He hasn't even fucked you properly yet and you already feel dumbed out.

Steve’s fingers continue for a minute to help you ride it out before he pulls them out, slipping them into his mouth. "So good."

You lift your head from his shoulder, mouth dropping in shock as he sucks your arousal clean from him. The heat of embarrassment hits you and you feel inclined to look away from the dirty sight yet you can’t pull away.

His fingers leave his mouth with a pop and he moans in satisfaction. A dirty part of you secretly wishes he’d shove them in your mouth.

Steve shifts you off his lap and lays you down on your back oh so gently, kissing you in between words, “Trust me,” kiss. “I wanna get a real taste but,” kiss. “need to feel you around me real fucking bad.”

He pauses, pulling away to look at you, "Only if you want to though. I don't want to pressure you or anything--"

You pull him by the collar of his shirt for another kiss and he instantly smiles into it, tongue sliding against your bottom lip for permission. Parting your lips, his tongue slips inside, the wet muscle flicking against your own as it explores your mouth.

You both pull apart, the two of you breathing heavily. A string of saliva being the only thing connecting the two of you now.

"I want to." You say finally, staring up at the man you've yearned so long for, the man who'd always been so kind to you.

A grin tugs at Steve's lips and he sits back on his knees to pull his shirt off by the hem, revealing patches of hair on his chest leading down to the delicious happy trail down his soft tummy into his pants (he always complained he didn't have abs, but if anything you thought it was the hottest thing).

You note the thick bulge restrained by his jeans and suddenly you feel intimidated.

You'd heard the rumors before, rumors that made you pout in jealousy at one point in your life where you felt you could never know Steve in such a vulnerable way. You wouldn't believe yourself a year ago if you knew you'd be having sex with your older brother's best friend.

The metal of his belt clinks and he yanks the belt out of the loops and pulling down his jeans. After his boxers are off, your eyes widen at the sight of the thick hard cock slapping against his stomach.

Steve grunts, giving it a couple tugs. Like you suspected, the dark patches of hair trail down to the pubic hair tousled around his cock. It's long in length and incredibly girthy, the veins running up until the pink swollen head leaking with precum.

The thought of him fucking your throat and guiding you by your hair while praising you with sweet nothings while you gag, turns you on more than it should and you clench your thighs together.

He takes notice of your nerves and frowns, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" You say too quickly.

He shakes his head, "I wanna make this as comfortable for you as possible, so I need to know what's" He gently taps your forehead. "going on in that head of yours. Okay, honey?"

You're quiet, unsure whether it's such a miniscule thing to point out in the first place. Giving in, you mumble, "You're just...huge."

Steve blinks before he bursts into a fit of laughter, his eyes crinkling. You're absolutely mortified. "Don't laugh at me! You told me to tell you."

He stalls his laughter and is immediately crawling on top of you, brows furrowed in concern. "No, no, I'm not laughing at you, honey. I'm more so with..." His eyes flick down to his obvious erection. "the situation, I guess."

"...Is it even going to fit?"

He huffs a laugh, leaning in to give your forehead a quick kiss, "I'll make it, don't worry."

Shit.

"You trust me, honey?" He asks one more time.

Exhaling, you nod. "Yeah, yeah, I do."

Suddenly, his face drops and he curses, "Fuck, I don't have protection." He drags a hand through his hair. "I'm so sorry--"

"It's okay," You smile. "I have an IUD, should be fine."

He pauses, processing the information before returning your smile. "Alright then, you're full of surprises aren't you?"

"I'd say so," You shrug.

Nudging your legs apart with his knee, he readjusts and rests his left arm beside your head and uses his free hand to wrap around his dick, guiding the swollen tip to your leaking entrance.

He slides it up and down your slit before dragging it up to your clit, slapping it firmly a couple times, sending a jolt of pleasure.

"Put it in!" You complained.

He taunts, "I thought good girls were patient?"

"I am," You pout, bucking your hips up. "But it doesn't mean I don't want you to fuck me sensele--"

You're unable to finish your sentence, words breaking into a high pitched moan at the feeling of his huge cock intruding, the hot skin of him filling you whole as he bottoms out.

"You were saying?"

"Just- just move, please."

Steve starts off slow, moving his hips back and thrusting forward with a couple shallow thrusts before he grinds against you deeper than his fingers had been able to reach.

Picking up the pace, he draws his cock out all the way to barely the tip and slamming back in to begin a series of devoted thrusts.

Mewling, you slide your hands to his back, nails scratching against the skin of his shoulder blades. You tilt your head back, exposing your neck to him as you shamelessly moan. (The both of you should be expecting a complaint from the motel owner later...)

He leans down to lick the base of your neck, tongue flat as he drags up to a stop and sucking multiple spots, marks blooming as proof of the passionate night that will soon become a memory.

You feel grief knowing this will be over in just a few minutes, but you won't worry about that now, you'll just make the most of it.

The bed creaks under your weight, the rhythm of him fucking into you relentless with the disgustingly filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin.

"So goddamn tight and wet," He breathes into your neck. "this all for me?"

"Yes, yes," You urge him on, bucking your hips up to meet his thrusts and he moans. "all for you, Steve- mmf fuck."

"Yeahhh?" You can feel him smile against your skin, giving a couple more kisses before pulling back to get a good look at you. "All mine?"

Word coils at your throat, unable to fully get anything out besides broken sobs.

"C'mon baby. Talk to me like the good girl I know you are. Need to hear how good you feel as I fuck this tight pussy."

"Love you," You drawl out with a whine, squeezing your eyes shut. "Love you so much, Steve."

Suddenly, his hips come to a stop and you're left in confusion until it hits you. Oh no.

Eyes snapping wide, your palm slaps against your mouth as you stare up at Steve.

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, eyes wide, hair tousled in a mess, and he’s so still you can’t tell if he’s currently present in the moment or debating on packing and leaving you stranded in the motel.

You need him to say something, anything. Anything to reassures you didn’t destroy everything.

Blinking back tears threatening to spill, you start, “Steve—“

"You love me?" He whispers.

He’s going to curse you out, call you disgusting and a perverted loser who’d been pathetically yearning for someone that knew he wasn’t her own.

Don’t leave. Please.

"I'm so, so, so sorry Steve. Please just forget I said anything, I didn't mean to--"

He shuts you up with his lips crashing against yours and his thrusts resuming, the wet slap of his balls mixed with your arousal against the fat of your ass.

You cry out in surprise, legs immediately wrapping around his waist as his cock drives hard and fast in to you.

His thrusts grow frantic at your words, his free hand sliding under your lower back to lift your hips high as he keeps your grip on your right thigh, driving his swelling cock deeper. He kisses you sloppily, swallowing your whimpers as he whines against your mouth.

His thrusts grow messy and his hips stutter. Breaking away from you, a groan rattles through his chest, "Fuck, baby, fuck, fuck-- I can't hold it--"

With every hit of the bulbous tip against your g-spot, you feel closer and closer to the edge.

"'M gonna cum, Steve!"

"Shh, I know, baby," His jaw is tight, attempting to restrain himself from finishing before you. "I got you, I got you. 'M close too...tell me where you want it, 'kay?"

"Shittt-- inside." You gasp.

He moans loudly at your words, eyes fluttering, that he almost came right there. "Ah, fuckkk. You sure?"

Instead of answering, you press the heels of your feet against the dip of his back, pushing him forward and deeper into you, profusely nodding.

He doesn't have to ask again and jackhammering his hips against you until finally the band deep inside you snaps and you cum around him with a high pitched whine, arching your back.

Ropes of cum fill you as he releases with a groan, stilling his hips deep inside you and grinding deep against you to ride both of your orgasms out.

"Fucking love you so much," He pants, kissing you from your cheeks, forehead, jaw, and finally planting several on your swollen lips. "love you, love you, love you..."

Your heart does a flip. Did he truly mean it? Your mind had barely begun to return back to it's fully conscious state after mind blowing sex.

Trembles coursing through your legs, they weakly fall from Steve's waist.

It takes a minute for Steve to gain enough energy to pull his cock out before breathlessly slumping the weight of his body next to you. He pulls you against his chest without hesitation, so naturally that you don't know how to move forward from here.

"Did you..." You finally say as his free hand rubs up and down your thigh soothingly. "did you mean what you said?"

He stiffens, "What do you mean?" He knows exactly what you mean.

"That..." You gulped.

"That I love you?"

"Mhm."

"Of course I meant it," He smiles when your finger tips graze against his face, dragging against his moles delicately. "meant every single word. You're everything, y'know?"

You stop your movements and blink.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" He laughs awkwardly.

"Umm, like what?"

He groans, dragging a hand up his face. "Like- I don't know! Like you regret it or something."

"No, no, no," You shake your head, internally cursing at your own dumb silence for making him think otherwise. "that's not it, it's just that...it's just I'm having a hard time processing what just happened."

"Besides the obvious?" He raises a brow.

Immediately, you smack his chest and he just chuckles, grabbing your wrist and giving it a brief kiss.

"You know what I mean you big dummy." You roll your eyes before your tone grows serious, almost shy. “Just…did we do it because…?”

Finally understanding where you were going, his brows furrow sternly and he shakes his head, “Stop. Baby, I don’t want you thinking we had sex because of some storm or because we got stuck in a motel.”

Your pulse quickens. “Okay…”

“Like I said, it’s because I love you and have been for months now.”

His words hit you and you stop, thinking you misheard, “Wait. What? Months???”

“Ah…” Steve’s cheeks grow hot with blood and he’s no longer looking at you now, distracted with the ceiling fan spinning.

You’d assumed this was a very recent thing, not something that had been going on for the past year directly under your nose.

"Steve, when?"

"Um," He coughs. "around Christmas."

“Christmas???” You gasp loudly and he cringes. “That was like six months ago!”

“I’m aware…”

You can’t help the stupid smile that grows on your face and you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and snuggling your face into his chest deeper, looking up at him. "Aww, Stevie you had a crush on me? Is that why you got all like that a bit ago?" You then pause, furrowing your eyebrows. "Are you actually being serious? If you're messing with me I'll shave your head while you're asleep."

"You wouldn't."

"Mmm, I dunno."

"Brat." He smacks your ass and you squeal, kicking him in the leg, causing him to grunt. "And duh, I'm serious."

He seems to ponder, sentimental at the memory of snow falling and your family gathered together when he'd been invited to celebrate with like every year. "I realized when you and Anthony were making the stupid gingerbread houses. Man, you're so competitive. You begged me to be the judge of who made the better house and everything. When I said you, you were so happy over something so silly and I just...I don't know, I guess it hit me."

You remember. You'd layered your house in pastel blue and pink frosting with gumdrops sprinkled across. You insisted yours was the epitome of a perfect house compared to Anthony's absolute mess that had no theme nor color coordination. So, you'd look to Steve who'd been wearing that sweater of his he'd looked ridiculously good in, with big eyes and hands clasped together.

"I had no idea." You whisper, running a hand through his messy hair. "I honestly thought you didn't care, that I had some stupid little crush for years."

"Years?" He asks in genuine confusion.

"Don't tell me you didn't know."

"No, swear." He then laughs. "Wow, years?"

Now you feel embarrassed, regretting you even said anything in the first place. "Shut up, Steven."

He gives a half smirk and flicks your forehead, "It's okay, I'm not judging. Just took us some time, that's all."

"...Hmph."

Moments pass and it’s silent but comfortable, easy enough to ease into together as you sigh into his chest, hiding your face into it as he holds you close.

If you could, you’d melt together and become one with him.

“Fuck.” Steve curses. “He’s going to kill me.”

You freeze, realizing what he means. Not wanting to worry about the issue of your brother at hand, you scoff. “So?”

“So?” He says exasperated, hiding his face in your hair, voice miserable. “So, he might actually kill me. Do you realize that?”

“Maybe you deserve it.”

“Hush.”

With confessions and sex, you wonder what’s the next step in the both of yours complicated relationship you were sure wouldn’t be exposed to anyone outside the two of you anytime soon. Privacy seemed the best route, especially if wanting to avoid…potential conflict.

Sure, he confessed his love, but did he want to take this seriously?

“What are we exactly?” You blurt out.

He just stares out, mouth opening and closing and you immediately regret your words. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t have to answer that—“

“I want to be your boyfriend.” He says quickly, flushing afterwards. “Um— if you’ll let me. I meant it when I said I love you. This isn’t just messing around to me. Even if…a certain someone beats my ass.”

You don’t give a response for a couple seconds, leaving him holding his breath. Finally, you smile and lean up to kiss his lips then the tip of his nose in finality. “Is that a good enough answer?”

AUTHORS NOTE: sooo…maybe might write part 2 where anthony finds out and shit hits the fan? you can kinda tell i got lazy towards the end lol.

You don’t even open your eyes when he passes your door.

“Morning,” he says anyway. Always does. Even when you’re half-asleep. Even when you don’t answer.

“Mornin’,” you mumble back, voice rough, face buried in your pillow.

He smiles. You know he does. You can hear it.

By the time you drag yourself out of bed, hair a mess and wearing one of his old Navy hoodies (which is not a big deal, because it’s basically communal at this point), the kitchen smells like coffee and something warm and toasted.

Bob stands at the counter, glasses on, sleeves rolled up, methodically buttering toast like it’s a sacred ritual.

“You’re up early,” he says without turning around.

“You woke me up.”

“I was quiet.”

“You exist loudly.”

That gets a huff of a laugh. He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes soft behind the lenses. “Coffee’s ready.”

You grab a mug from the cabinet you both pretend you don’t have memorized. He already put in the creamer the way you like it. You don’t comment on it. He doesn’t either.

This is how it always is.

You lean against the counter, sipping, watching him move around the kitchen with practiced ease. He’s wearing his squadron tee and gym shorts, hair still damp from the shower. There’s a faint scar along his forearm you’ve traced absentmindedly more than once while sitting on opposite ends of the couch.

You shouldn’t think about that.

“Rooster texted,” Bob says casually. “He’s dragging the squad to the Hard Deck tonight.”

You groan. “On a Tuesday?”

“He says morale is low.”

“Morale is low because Hangman exists.”

Bob snorts, unable to help it. “Fair.”

You tilt your head, watching him. “You going?”

He hesitates. Just a fraction of a second too long.

“I mean,” he says carefully, “only if you want to.”

There it is. That thing he does. Like your opinion weighs more than his own.

You shrug. “I’m in if you are.”

Relief flickers across his face so quickly it almost hurts to notice.

“Cool,” he says. “Yeah. Cool.”

You both sip your coffee in silence, the comfortable kind. The kind that feels earned. The kind that would look suspicious to anyone watching too closely.

-

The thing about being roommates with Bob Floyd is that you fall into patterns.

Domestic ones.

Unavoidable ones.

Like movie nights that start with “we can just watch one episode” and end with you asleep halfway across his chest, his arm automatically adjusting around you without waking either of you up.

Like grocery runs that are supposed to be quick and somehow take forty-five minutes because Bob insists on reading labels.

“This one has more protein,” he says, holding up a box.

“It tastes like drywall.”

He frowns. “It’s… lightly sweetened.”

“You are lying with confidence.”

He sighs, puts it back, and grabs your usual without comment. You notice. You always do.

Like laundry nights where your clothes end up mixed together because separating them feels pointless—and because he once folded one of your shirts without realizing it and apologized like he’d committed a crime.

“You don’t have to ask permission to touch my clothes, Bob.”

“I know,” he said. “Still feels like I should.”

Like the way he always knocks before entering your room, even though you’ve told him a hundred times he doesn’t need to—and the way you still appreciate it every time.

It’s not romantic.

That’s what you tell yourself.

It’s just… Bob.

-

The Squad does not believe this for a second.

You find that out later that afternoon, sprawled on the couches in the ready room while Fanboy scrolls through his phone and Payback argues with Coyote about something deeply stupid.

Bob is next to you, shoulder brushing yours, focused on a Rubik’s cube he’s been trying to solve for twenty minutes.

“You know,” Phoenix says, eyes flicking between you and Bob, “you two have weird energy.”

You blink. “Excuse you?”

“Weird,” she repeats. “Not bad. Just… very married.”

Bob drops the cube.

“What?” you both say at the same time.

Hangman swivels in his chair, immediately interested. “Oh my god, thank you. I’ve been saying this.”

Bob’s ears go red. “We’re not—”

“We’re roommates,” you add quickly.

“Yeah,” Fanboy says, not looking up. “So were my parents for six years before they figured it out.”

You sit up. “Figured what out?”

“That they were in love,” Payback says, smirking. “Duh.”

Bob clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “We’re just… friends.”

Hangman grins like a shark that’s smelled blood. “Friends don’t share hoodies, Robert.”

You glance down at the hoodie you’re wearing.

Bob’s hoodie.

“I have my own clothes,” you protest weakly.

“Name one,” Coyote challenges.

You open your mouth.

Pause.

Bob watches you, expression unreadable.

“…Rude,” you mutter.

Phoenix laughs. “Look, we’re just saying. If it walks like a duck and argues about groceries like a married couple—”

“We do not argue about groceries,” Bob says.

“You bought crunchy peanut butter,” you shoot back instantly. “You know I hate that.”

“That was one time.”

“And it was a betrayal.”

The room goes quiet.

Hangman points between the two of you. “See? That. That right there.”

Bob rubs the back of his neck. “We’re fine.”

You nod, too quickly. “We’re fine.”

No one believes you.

-

That night at the Hard Deck is loud and crowded and smells like spilled beer and bad decisions.

Bob sticks close to you, not in a possessive way—just in a Bob way. Like he’s your anchor in the chaos. You lean toward each other to talk, knees brushing under the table.

Hangman watches with an infuriatingly smug expression.

“So,” he says, leaning back. “You seeing anyone?”

You choke on your drink. “What?”

Bob stiffens beside you.

“No,” you say quickly. “Why?”

Hangman shrugs. “Just curious.”

“Since when are you curious about my love life?”

“Since it started affecting squad morale.”

You glare. “It doesn’t.”

Bob clears his throat. “I don’t think—”

Phoenix kicks Hangman under the table. “Drop it.”

But the question lingers.

You feel it like a weight.

Later, when the music’s too loud and Bob goes to grab another round, Hangman leans in again.

“You ever think,” he says quietly, “that you two are playing chicken?”

“With what?” you ask.

“With your feelings.”

You scoff. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He studies you for a moment, unusually serious. “Yeah. I do.”

Bob comes back then, setting a glass in front of you automatically.

You don’t meet his eyes.

-

At home, the apartment is quiet and dim, the familiar comfort settling around you like a blanket.

Bob kicks off his shoes and pauses. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hesitates, then says softly, “If Hangman said something—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in. Too fast. Too sharp.

He flinches, just a little.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “Night.”

“Night, Bob.”

You both retreat to your rooms, doors clicking shut.

And for the first time since you moved in together, the silence feels… loud.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, heart doing something annoying in your chest.

In the next room, Bob stares at his own ceiling, glasses set carefully on the nightstand, replaying every word, every look, every almost.

Neither of you sleeps well.

And neither of you admits why.

-

The problem with pretending nothing’s wrong is that your body doesn’t get the memo.

You notice it the next morning when Bob is already awake—again—and you walk into the kitchen half-asleep, hair a mess, wearing one of his T-shirts this time. You don’t even clock it until he freezes mid-pour, coffee splashing dangerously close to the rim.

“Sorry,” you say automatically. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” he lies, setting the mug down too carefully. His ears are red. Again.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him from under your lashes. There’s something different in the air. Thicker. Like you’re both aware of the same fragile thing and refusing to name it.

“Sleep okay?” he asks.

You shrug. “You?”

A pause.

“Not really.”

That makes your chest tighten. “Oh.”

Silence stretches. The kettle clicks off with a sharp snap that makes you both flinch.

Bob clears his throat. “I’ve got an early brief. I’ll be late tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.”

You hate how disappointed that sounds.

He hesitates by the door, hand on the knob. For a second, you think he’s going to say something—anything—but then he just nods and leaves.

The door shuts softly.

You stare at it longer than you should.

-

Unfortunately your friends seem to have all the time in the world today

By lunch, you’re cornered in the ready room with Phoenix and Rooster while Bob’s stuck in debrief hell.

“So,” Rooster says, popping open a bag of chips, “how’s domestic bliss?”

You glare. “We’re not married.”

“Yet,” Phoenix adds brightly.

You groan. “You guys are impossible.”

Phoenix leans in, elbows on her knees. “Okay, serious question. When was the last time either of you went on a date that wasn’t accidentally with each other?”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Rooster grins. “That long, huh?”

“We’re busy,” you say defensively. “Work. Life.”

“Bob Floyd schedules his relaxation,” Phoenix says. “You’re telling me he hasn’t penciled in a girlfriend because—what—he forgot?”

Your heart stutters. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” she asks gently.

You don’t have an answer.

-

That night, Bob comes home later than usual. You’re on the couch, pretending to watch something while actually replaying every stupid interaction you’ve had for the past six months.

He stops short when he sees you.

“Oh. Hey,” he says. “Didn’t know you’d be up.”

You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He sits on the opposite end of the couch, careful. Too careful.

The TV drones on. Neither of you is watching.

After a minute, he exhales. “Listen… about last night.”

Your stomach flips. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want things to be weird,” he says quietly. “If they are.”

“They’re not,” you say immediately.

He looks at you then. Really looks. His gaze is steady, searching, like he’s trying to read something written between the lines.

“…Okay,” he says, but it doesn’t sound convinced.

Another pause. This one heavier.

“Bob,” you start, then stop. Your heart’s pounding too loud.

“Yes?”

You swallow. “Nothing. Sorry.”

He nods, disappointment flickering across his face before he masks it. “Right. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

He disappears down the hall, leaving the couch cold beside you.

You don’t move for a long time.

-

Things get worse before they get better.

There’s a charity event on base the following weekend—volunteer sign-ups, mandatory attendance for optics, the usual. You and Bob end up assigned together because of course you do.

It’s harmless. Easy. Until it isn’t.

You’re sorting supplies when Bob brushes past you in the cramped storage room, his hand landing briefly on your waist to steady himself.

The touch is nothing.

It feels like everything.

You both freeze.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but his hand doesn’t move right away.

Your breath catches. You can feel the warmth of him, solid and familiar and suddenly too much.

“It’s—fine,” you manage.

His hand drops like he’s been burned.

The rest of the afternoon is tense, quiet, careful. Phoenix watches from across the room with narrowed eyes.

That night, she corners Bob.

“You’re in love with her,” she says bluntly.

Bob blinks. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’re bad at it.”

He rubs his face, exhausted. “It’s complicated.”

“No,” she says. “It’s scary. There’s a difference.”

Across the room, Rooster is saying the same thing to you.

“You like him,” he says gently.

You scoff. “We’re friends.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “And I like my jet. Doesn’t mean I don’t know when I’d crash it for something that matters more.”

You stare at the floor.

-

The breaking point comes quietly.

It’s a Tuesday. Nothing special. You’re both home late, passing each other in the hallway like strangers.

Bob stops. “Hey.”

You turn. “Hey.”

Another pause. You’re sick of pauses.

“Do you ever think,” you ask softly, “that we’re… avoiding something?”

His breath hitches.

“Yes,” he says, just as quietly.

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Why?”

He steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel him.

“Because if we’re wrong,” he says, voice steady but eyes anything but, “we lose what we already have.”

“And if we’re right?” you whisper.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“Then I don’t know how I’ve been living like this,” he admits.

The air between you hums.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t need to.

Not yet.

But when you go to bed that night, you both know—this isn’t something you can keep pretending away.

-

The night it finally breaks isn’t dramatic.

There’s no argument. No raised voices. No grand, cinematic moment where everything explodes at once.

It’s quiet. Ordinary. Almost cruel in how normal it starts.

You’re both in the kitchen, late again, moving around each other with the kind of familiarity that’s been earned over years—muscle memory and shared space and unspoken rules. Bob is rinsing a mug at the sink. You’re leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching him like you’ve been doing too often lately.

The air feels… heavy.

Not awkward. Not tense.

Weighted.

Like something is pulling at both of you, insistent and patient, waiting for one of you to stop resisting.

Bob dries his hands slowly. Doesn’t turn around.

“You ever feel like the universe is laughing at us?” he asks.

Your chest tightens. “Define ‘us.’”

He huffs out a soft breath. “That’s fair.”

You straighten. “Bob—”

He turns then, finally, and whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.

He looks tired. Not exhausted—just worn in that quiet way he gets when he’s been carrying something alone for too long. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for impact.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he says.

Your heart stutters. “Doing what?”

“Pretending I don’t feel it every time you walk into a room,” he answers, voice calm but threaded with something dangerously close to breaking. “Pretending I don’t wake up every morning hoping you’ll already be in the kitchen. Pretending I’m not constantly calculating how close is too close and whether I’m allowed to miss you when you’re literally down the hall.”

You swallow hard. “Bob…”

“I know the risks,” he continues quickly, like if he slows down he’ll lose his nerve. “I know we’re roommates. I know this could screw everything up. I know we could lose what we have.”

He takes a step closer.

“But I also know I’m already losing it,” he says quietly. “Because I’m in love with you, and pretending otherwise is killing me.”

The words land softly.

They devastate you anyway.

You don’t speak right away. You can’t. Your throat is tight, eyes burning, heart pounding so hard it’s almost embarrassing.

Bob notices. Of course he does.

“Hey,” he says gently, instantly worried. “You don’t have to—”

You close the distance between you before he can finish the sentence.

You don’t kiss him yet. You just press your forehead to his chest, breathing him in, hands fisting in the fabric of his T-shirt like you need the anchor.

“I was wondering how long it would take you,” you murmur.

He freezes. “What?”

You laugh softly, the sound shaky but real. “To say it out loud.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You… knew?”

“I’ve been in love with you since somewhere between you fixing my sink at two in the morning and you memorizing how I take my coffee,” you admit. “I just thought… if you wanted it, you’d say something.”

“I thought the same thing,” he says helplessly.

You shake your head. “We’re idiots.”

A breath leaves him—half laugh, half relief.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We really are.”

The silence that follows is different this time. Softer. Safer. Like the ground has finally stopped shifting beneath your feet.

Bob lifts a hand, hesitates—then cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw like he’s checking if this is real.

“Can I?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod.

That’s all the permission he needs.

The kiss is nothing like you imagined—and somehow exactly right.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. It’s careful and reverent and deeply emotional, like he’s been holding this moment in his chest for years and doesn’t want to break it. His lips are warm, steady, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your knees go weak.

You melt into him.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling like fools.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” you echo.

He rests his forehead against yours again, breathing you in. “So… what does this mean for us?”

You smile, heart full. “It means we’re still roommates.”

He groans. “Tragic.”

“And,” you add, “we’re still best friends.”

He relaxes. “Good.”

“And,” you finish, fingers curling into his shirt, “we’re figuring this out together.”

His smile is slow and sure. “I’d like that.”

-

The Squad finds out within twenty-four hours.

You don’t even tell them. Phoenix does.

She takes one look at the way Bob’s hand rests at your lower back in the ready room and makes a sound of deep, vindicated satisfaction.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Finally.”

Rooster blinks between the two of you. “Wait. You’re—like—official?”

Bob clears his throat. “We’re… yes.”

Hangman squints. “So all that tension was for free?”

You glare at him. “Die mad.”

Coyote grins. “I give it three weeks before they start arguing about thermostat settings.”

Bob doesn’t miss a beat. “We already do.”

Bob doesn’t let go of your hand once.

Later that night, back home, you sit together on the couch—closer than before, but not rushed. Comfortable. Easy. Earned.

Bob kisses your temple.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I don’t regret waiting.”

You tilt your head to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling softly. “It made this… right.”

You lean into him, heart steady for the first time in a long while.

And for once, the future doesn’t feel scary.

It feels like home.

-

Six months later, the apartment still looks the same.

Same couch with the crooked cushion. Same coffee table with the wobble you keep forgetting to fix. Same kitchen light that flickers if you don’t smack the switch just right.

The difference is Bob.

And you.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen, standing on a chair because you’re stubborn and refuse to admit the top shelf is too high. Bob is behind you, hands hovering at your waist like he’s waiting for gravity to betray you.

“I can grab it,” he says patiently.

“I’m fine,” you insist, stretching higher.

“You said that last time and I caught you with one arm and a bag of flour with the other.”

“That was one time.”

“That was three days ago.”

You finally snag the box you were reaching for and pump your fist in victory. “See? Independent.”

Bob sighs, but he’s smiling when you climb down and immediately lean back into his chest like you didn’t just prove his point.

“Admit it,” you say. “You like catching me.”

He wraps his arms around you without hesitation. “I like not letting you get hurt.”

You tilt your head back to look at him. “That’s basically the same thing.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Not even close.”

The domesticity of it still hits you sometimes—hard and out of nowhere. How easy this feels. How natural. Like your life quietly rearranged itself while you weren’t looking.

You make dinner together. You argue about seasoning. You steal bites off his plate. He lets you, even though he pretends not to.

Later, you’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled, his arm heavy and warm around your shoulders. The TV is on, but neither of you is paying attention.

Bob’s thumb traces slow, absentminded circles against your arm.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

You hum. “You always do.”

He hesitates. Just a beat. “Do you ever think about… what would’ve happened if we’d said something sooner?”

You think about it honestly.

“All the time,” you admit. “But I don’t wish we had.”

He looks down at you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “We needed to be us first. The dumb jokes. The shared groceries. The unspoken trust. If we’d rushed it, I think we would’ve been scared.”

Bob exhales, relief softening his shoulders. “I’m really glad it was you.”

The room was a time capsule of academia–walls lined with sagging bookshelves crammed with faded spines of statistics tomes and dog-eared journals, the faint aroma of stale coffee mingling with the earthy, almost astringent scent of old paper and the subtle cling of chalk dust that seemed to envelop every surface. A brass desk lamp–rusted from years of use–casted a warm, amber light over the chaos of his desk: stacks of red-inked exams, a half-forgotten mug of coffee that had been sitting there long enough for it to look like a science experiment, and a calendar marked with impending deadlines that seemed to have been crossed off and rewritten. Outside the narrow, rain-spattered window, the university quad blurred into a grey haze, autumn leaves swirling in the wind like confetti from a failed celebration, their wet slap against the glass punctuating the tension that was rising inside.

Todd froze mid-pace, his polished oxfords grinding to a halt on the threadbare Persian rug that muffled his steps but couldn’t dampen the storm raging within him. His light brown hair–that was typically swept back and neat–now hung in disarray over his forehead, strands clinging slightly from the dampness of the drizzle he had braved to get here. His blue eyes–sharp, almost crystalline, like shards of sky reflected in a frozen lake–flashed with a potent mix of disbelief and indignation as he pivoted to face the professor. His angular jaw clenched, highlighting the stubble that shadowed his cheeks, a rare sign of neglect in his otherwise impeccable routine. Dressed in his signature blend of fraternity poise and business-major ambition–a well-fitted blue dress shirt splattered with raindrops, a dark red tie with a dotted white pattern that was now slightly askew from his agitated gestures, and a pair of black tailored dress pants that showed off his long legs–the ensemble screamed of someone who strived for perfection in every facet of life. But perfection had eluded him this time, and the sting of it burned like acid in his veins, which only drove him even further to be here instead of being at the fraternity meeting he was due to show up to.

He had sacrificed everything for this midterm–his fall break evaporated in a haze of isolation at the KNA house, where the thump of bass from downstairs parties had been his only companion while he hunched over his desk, eyes bleary from the glare of his laptop screen. Pot after pot of scalding black coffee had scorched his throat, fueling marathon sessions where he went over practice questions, online tests, and YouTube tutorials on the sections he was struggling with until the formulas were dancing mockingly in his dreams. He wasn’t used to failure; he was the golden boy, the KNA president who led by example, acing classes, talking himself and his fellow brothers out of any issues staff threw at them, and of course keeping up the GPA that kept him in this powerful position. Excellence wasn’t optional–it was part of his identity, woven into every late-night study grind and every calculated social move.

And now, that glaring 42% on his exam paper, crumpled in his fist like a betrayal from his own mind, threatened to unravel it all. The red ink seemed to pulse under his grip, a vivid reminder that even his best efforts could crumble and destroy him. Begging here, in this dim den of defeat, made his skin crawl even more and only made him feel worse than the failure, but he needed to fight, he needed to get what he needed to improve or else he felt like his chest was going to cave in on itself.

“I understand, sir,” Todd replied, his voice steady but threaded with an unyielding edge, like he was trying to convey that he wasn’t going to give up so easily. He planted his feet wider, broadening his shoulders as if to physically assert himself, “But there has to be something you can do to help me out. I need this mark up before the end of the semester, and because you took two weeks to give these results back, I’m now in a time crunch to try and find someone who can help me…I know this may come off as entitled, but I think you should empathize with the frustration I’m feeling at the moment.” Professor Davis snorted softly, adjusting his glasses with a flick of his finger, the lenses catching the lamplight and flashing like a warning signal. The deep bags under his eyes–purplish shadows etched from years of midnight grading and the relentless grind of tenure–crinkled as he narrowed his gaze.

”Empathize? Mr.Stevens, empathy won’t rewrite your answers or magically boost your understanding of variance. You’re not the first overachiever to crash and burn on my exams, and you won’t be the last. I’ve got a line out the door of students just like you–fraternity hotshots, dean’s listers, all convinced they’re special cases, and that they deserve my guidance. I am not one to allow people to cruise through my course without earning it…So figure it out on your own; that’s what adulthood is about.” Todd’s eyes darkened from the comment, like the anger was pooling and evaporating the shimmering colour, he was tempted to slam his hands on the desk in front of him, to snap and argue and yell, but he knew it wouldn’t help his case. He could feel his heart thumping in his head, the pulse almost blurring his vision from the pace, as he drew his bottom lip between his teeth, biting the dry skin, taking a deep breath. It was obvious that this was what Professor Davis wanted, to push and frustrate until his opponent snapped and he would have an excuse to kick them out, but Todd didn’t relent, he couldn’t, and he wasn’t going to even if it would’ve been the easiest option.

”With all due respect, Professor, this isn’t about being special; it’s about fairness. I didn’t just wing this–I studied, attended class, took notes, sacrificed my break, and pushed myself to the limit because I don’t settle for mediocrity. My GPA isn’t just numbers to me, it’s what I need to keep all my doors open, and now it’s dropped and you’re not even going to acknowledge that you couldn’t even get the grades back in a normal time frame to give your students a chance to recover. You have to have something to get this grade up–extra credit, a retake…Anyting. You owe us that much for designing an exam that literally half the class bombed.” Professor Davis leaned back, the chair groaning in protest, his thin lips twisting into a wry smile that didn’t reach his tired eyes. He steepled his fingers, nails tapping rhythmically against each other, the sound sharp in the confined space.

”Son, I owe you an education, not a bailout. Need I remind you that the other half of the class passed…And extra credit is for participation, not for damage control. Do you want to make a mockery of the educational process? Every student in here today has claimed the same–hours poured in, egos bruised…Boo hoo…Go to the tutoring center; join a study group…” Todd ran a hand through his hair again, the strands soft yet tangled under his fingers. Heat flushed his cheeks, and the tie around his neck felt tighter, constricting like the walls that were closing in around him.

”Study groups are chaotic. I need targeted, efficient help. I’m not asking for handouts; I’m asking for a fighting chance. You know my record–I’m not some slacker.” The professor rubbed his temples, the skin papery under his touch, exhaling a long, defeated breath that fogged his glasses slightly. The rain outside intensified, a relentless panting against the window that mirrored the back-and-forth barrage between student and educator. His shoulders sagged, the weight of the day–and perhaps a grudging respect for Todd’s tenacity–wearing him down.

”Fine…There’s one student who might help–she’s a peer tutor sometimes, depending on where we are in the semester, she holds the highest average in the class…Name’s Y/N L/N. But that’s all you’re going to get from me; you’re on your own finding her. Consider it a lesson in resourcefulness.” Todd’s posture eased slightly, a flicker of triumph cutting through the tension, though his eyes remained vigilant. He nodded sharply, pocketing the mental note like a hard-won trophy, the name etching itself into his mind.

”Y/N L/N. Got it. Thank you, sir–I’ll make it count.” He stated, straightening his tie with a precise tug, the silk smooth against the heated, clammy skin of his hands, before grabbing his jacket off the chair he had thrown it on and strode out, the door clicking shut behind him loudly, like a seal on one of the most frustration conversations he had experienced in a while.

——————

Finding you proved to be far more arduous than Todd had anticipated, a vexing puzzle that gnawed at his already frayed nerves like an insistent itch he couldn’t scratch. The moment he stepped out of Professor Davis’s office and left the building completely, he yanked his phone from his jacket pocket with a swift, almost desperate motion. The cool, slick glass of the screen met his thumb, still slightly warm from the hour of usage while he was waiting for office hours to commence, and he tapped your name into the google search bar, his fingers flying across the virtual keys with the precision of someone who might’ve typed your name multiple times.

Rain continued to drizzle from the overcast sky, fat droplets splattering against his shoulders and beading the scratchy fabric of his jacket, soaking it with a subtle chill that seeped through to his shirt, mirroring the frustration in his chest. The campus paths were slick underfoot, puddles reflecting the grey gloom overhead, and the air carried the earthy petrichor of wet leaves and damp, dying grass, mixed with soil, a scent that usually invigorated him but now only amplified his impatience.

The search yielded nothing substantial–no profiles, no traces of a digital footprint that most people his age left scattered across the web like breadcrumbs. You were a ghost in the machine, absent from Instagram, Twitter, and even the relics of MySpace or an outdated Facebook page from your high school days. It was as if you had meticulously erased yourself from every online database, a deliberate act of invisibility that struck him as both archaic and infuriating. Todd let out a frustrated sigh, the sound escaping his lips in a visible puff of breath against the chilly autumn air, his eyes narrowing at the screen as he paused under the shelter of a towering oak tree, its branches heavy with rain-soaked leaves that dripped sporadically onto the top of his head.

Of course, he thought bitterly, the one person who could salvage his crumbling grade had to be a recluse, some hermetic scholar buried in books rather than the vibrant chaos of campus life. Fleeting thoughts swirled in his mind like the leaves at his feet: how could anyone in this hyper-connected era shun social media entirely? No selfies, no status updates, no networked connections to leverage or friendships? And worse, he was about to entangle himself with someone who likely possessed zero social awareness, a wallflower who’d probably stammer through explanations and avoid eye contact, making their sessions an exercise in awkward endurance rather than one of efficient learning.

But surrendering to these answers wasn’t in his vocabulary; he clicked over to the images tab, his thumb scrolling downward with determined flicks, the screen’s glow casting a pale blue hue on his rain-dampened face. He was hunting for any crumb, any visual clue that would confirm your existence at Sumpter University and point him toward your whereabouts.

Rows of thumbnails blurred past–irrelevant faces, unrelated articles–until he spotted mentions of your name on the university’s Dean’s List posting, semester after semester, a testament to your academic prowess. There were even a few award-winning essays linked to scholarly sites, dense with citations and analytical depth, showcasing a mind sharp enough to dissect complex theories with surgical precision–it was evident you were no business major. You were undeniably successful, a high-achiever whose accolades gleamed like polished trophies in the digital ether. If you were a guy, Todd would be recruiting you for KNA in a heartbeat–someone with that drive would thrive in the fraternity’s competitive ecosystem, networking their way to power. Yet here you were, a woman whose potential seemed squandered by your invisibility…Even the absence of a LinkedIn profile baffled him, especially in a job market where presenting achievements in one centralized hub could mean the difference between landing a coveted interview and languishing in obscurity. From his own experience–polishing his profile with internships, endorsements from professors, and a meticulously curated feed of professional milestones–he knew how vital that visibility was.

The fruitless hunt drained him, and as he trudged back to the KNA house, with the rain pattering against him, he moved in a faze, his mind looping through dead ends. The house looked like a grand Victorian structure with columns and a wraparound porch, its windows aglow with warm light against the darkening sky, the faint thrum of music and laughter spilling out like an invitation he wasn’t in the mood to accept. He greeted his frat brothers with absent nods and clipped small talk–

“Hey, man, how’d the prof meeting go?” One asked, nudging him with a beer-scented breath emitting from his mouth.

”Rough, but handling it,” Todd replied, forcing a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he navigated the crowded living room, the air thick with the mingled scents of pizza grease, spilled alcohol, something undeniably sticky and sweet–like they had dropped a soft drink on the floor–and the underlying musk of too many young men in one space. It felt like a relief when he escaped upstairs, locking his bedroom door with a decisive click that shut out the noise.

He shed his jacket, throwing it down onto his desk chair, before collapsing onto his bed, the expensive cooling memory foam mattress absorbing the impact, molding to the contours of his body like a custom embrace that eased the tension in his shoulders and back. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his phone screen as he shifted up and propped himself against the headboard. Shadows danced on the walls, adorned with framed KNA memorabilia and motivational posters.

Resuming his search, he delved deeper into the images tab, his eyes straining against the bright display in the otherwise darkened space.

Then, amidst the sea of irrelevant visuals, he struck gold: a group photo from what appeared to be some sort of event, everyone clad in matching burnt orange sweaters, the fabric looking soft and slightly faded, emblazoned with “Sumpter Faith Group” in bold white script across the chests. The image captured a cluster of smiling students posed on a grassy lawn under a clear blue sky, perhaps from a spring retreat or charity event, their faces flushed with camaraderie. The caption beneath listed names from left to right, and he scoured through it quickly, until finally there it was–your name, slotted in the middle row.

Todd couldn’t suppress a low, guttural ‘ugh’ that rumbled from his throat, a sound of exasperated resignation that hung in the quiet room like a deflated balloon. In the photo, you offered the camera a closed-mouth smile, modest and reserved, your eyes crinkling slightly at the corners with what seemed like genuine but subdued warmth. Your arms were draped causally over the shoulders of the two guys flanking you–geeky types with awkward postures, earnest grins and toothy smiles, like this was the first time being touched by a woman–they were faces Todd recognized vaguely from past pledge rushes, perhaps washout or peripheral hangers-on he’d dismissed as not quite KNA material. The whole scene screamed wholesome piety, a snapshot of faith-fueled fellowship that made his stomach twist.

”A bible thumper,” He murmured to himself, the words tasting sour on his tongue, laced with a mix of annoyance and reluctant amusement. It shouldn’t have surprised him; Oklahoma was rife with them, a state where church steeples dotted the landscape like exclamation points, and faith was as ingrained as the red dirt soil. Even his own parents fell into that statistic, devout attendees of Sunday services, their home filled with crucifixes and well-thumbed Bibles that had shaped his early years.

Todd harboured no outright disdain for those with religious beliefs–live and let live, as far as he was concerned–but things got prickly when faith was thrusted upon him, an unwelcome echo of his childhood dragged to mass every weekend, the pew hard and unforgiving under his fidgeting young body, the incense tick in his nostrils as he was compelled to kneel and reflect on the week’s “sins,” repenting to wash away the guilt that felt imposed rather than earned.

He’d been a believer once, clinging to the rituals with wide-eyed sincerity, until adolescence brought clarity: there were too many experiences, too many freedoms he was missing out on, stifled by doctrines that no longer fit the current social climates. Now, it felt like some cosmic jest, a higher power wielding a baseball bat of irony, dangling the key to his academic redemption in the form of a faith-group devotee. Was this divine payback for his lapsed ways?

A heavy sigh escaped him, his chest deflating as he locked the phone with a click, the screen fading to black and plunging the room into deeper shadow. He tossed the device onto the mattress beside him, where it landed with a soft bounce, and let his head fall back onto the pillow, the cool fabric cradling his neck as he stared at the ceiling’s textured patterns, which were barely visible in the dark. Fleeting notions flitted through his mind–that perhaps failure was survivable, a dent in his armour he could buff out elsewhere, or that he could scour the class for another tutor, someone who wouldn’t give him flashbacks to when he was younger. But reality hit him: you had the highest average, and if there had been a viable alternative, Davis would have offered it up. You were his only shot.

So, with a resolved exhale that stirred the air around him, he settled on tracking you down in person the next day, his mind already mapping out the campus hotspots–libraries, lecture halls, perhaps even that faith group’s meeting spot–where a reclusive overachiever like you might surface.

——————

Todd awoke the next morning like a man on a mission, the insistent beep of his alarm slicing through the hazy veil of sleep, pulling him upright with a surge of purpose that chased away the lingering fog of exhaustion. The room was bathed in the soft, diffused light of early dawn seeping through the cracks in his blinds, creating a pale glow over the scattered remnants of last night’s frustration–his discarded jacket still draped over the chair, the phone charger twisted up around his phone and nightstand like a little booby trap. The air felt crisp and cool against his bare skin, carrying the faint, residual warmth of his body heat trapped under the sheets, a comforting contrast to the chill that awaited outside. Todd swung his legs over the bed’s edge, the mattress springing back with a subtle rebound, and padded to the bathroom, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight.

His shower was a brisk ritual, steam rising in lazy curls as hot water pounded against his freckled splattered back, loosening his muscles with rhythmic pressure that bordered on therapeutic. Droplets traced fiery paths down his chest and arms, the scent of his cedar-infused body wash filling the enclosed space, invigorating and grounding him in the moment, shaking the sleep off him completely. He shaved with swift, precise strokes, the razor’s edge gliding over his jawline, erasing the shadow of stubble and leaving his skin smooth, tinged with the cool sting of aftershave that burned his nostrils for a few seconds when he applied it.

Combing his hair back, he ensured it laid slick and disciplined, each strand tamed into place with a light pomade that left a slight sheen. Dressing was equally deliberate: a plain white t-shirt that clung softly to his torso, the cotton fresh and crisp against his skin; black jeans that hugged his legs with comfortable restraint, the denim whispering as he moved; and well-worn sneakers that matched perfectly, ideal for a day free of obligations. He shrugged into his jacket, the zippers teeth meshing with a satisfying rasp, the fabric still faintly damp from yesterday but warming quickly against his body heat. Slinging his army green messenger bag over one shoulder–the strap digging slightly into his flesh with the weight of books–he slipped out of the house before the first groans of awakening brothers could detain him, the front door clicking shut with a muffled finality that sealed his solitude for the day.

The weather had devolved into a tempestuous fury overnight, the once-gentle patter of rain now a relentless torrent hammering down from leaden skies, wind whipping through the trees with a low howl that sent sodden leaves skittering across the paths like fleeing shadows. Water cascaded in sheets, soaking the ground into a slick, reflective mire, the air heavy with the raw bite of ozone and saturated earth, each inhale sharp and laced with the metallic tang of an impending thunderstorm. Todd hunched forward, his sneakers splashing through deepening puddles that sent icy sprays up his calves, chilling his skin through the denim. He opted for the nearest covering: one of the campus’s labyrinthine libraries, a mere five-minute slog from the KNA house, its imposing stone facade looming like a bastion against the deluge. It was on his list of options where he would find you so it was a good place to start.

Swinging open the heavy oak doors, he was greeted by a rush of heated air that enveloped him like a welcoming embrace, the sudden shift from cold to warmth pricking his rain-flushed cheeks and drawing a sigh of relief from his lips. He paused in the grand foyer, running his fingers through his sodden hair, squeezing out rivulets of water that trickled down his neck in cool trails, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

His eyes scanned the directory plaque, its brass surface etched with floor plans under the soft glow of pendant lights, confirming the study rooms’ seclusion on the upper echelons–the seventh, eighth, and ninth floors, realms of hushed isolation. Forgoing the elevator’s mechanical hum, he ducked into the stairwell, the enclosed space echoing with the rhythmic thud of his footsteps as he ascended, skipping steps in twos and threes, his breath deepening into a steady cadence that matched the burn building in his thighs. He mentally tallied the floors–six…Five…Four–the metallic tang of the handrail cool under his pal, the air growing slightly mustier with each level, infused with the faint scent of old varnish.

Reaching the seventh floor, he eased the metal door open with a subdued groan of hinges, slipping into a vast expanse that felt like stepping into a sacred vault. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the dimness, laden with archives and volumes bound in leather and cloth, their spines faded to muted hues under layers of dust, the air thick with the rich, nostalgic perfume of aged paper, ink, and the slight undernote of wood polish.

This was uncharted territory for Todd; he’d never gone beyond the fifth floor’s cacophony of conference rooms, where laughter and debates mingled freely. Here, the quietude was absolute, a profound stillness that pressed against his eardrums like a physical weight, broken only by the distant whir of an air vent and the occasional creak of settling shelves–it was as if he’d been thrown into a bizarro world, a parallel dimension where the library’s essence distilled to pure, undiluted scholarship, devoid of the social veneer below.

The floor laid deserted, the early hour deterring even the most ardent academics, the golden light of morning filtering through tall, arched windows in slanted beams that illuminated motes of dust dancing lazily in the air. Undaunted, Todd ventured along the outer perimeter, where study rooms encircled the shelves like glass-walled sanctuaries, enclosures that invited voyeuristic glimpses into private realms–unless the occupants were privy of the people lurking beyond and slid the curtains closed. The first few stood vacant, doors propped slightly ajar like open invitations, tables pristine and chairs aligned with military precision, the faint scent of lemon cleaner lingering from the overnight janitorial rounds that were made. Then, his gaze alighted on you, and a profound wave of relief washed over him, easing the taut coil in his chest–he’d found you astonishingly fast, a stroke of luck amid his string of misfortunes.

Instinctively, he ducked behind a nearby shelf, the cool, slightly gritty edge of the wood pressing into his collarbone as he peered through the gaps, his breath shallow as if he was trying to avoid detection, even though the study rooms themselves were soundproof. You paced the confines of your space with absorbed intensity, a solitary figure in a bubble of focus, murmuring to yourself in fragmented whispers–perhaps rehearsing something or debating your steps–while idly sucking on the end of a large sour key, plucked from a sizable container you’d brought as your personal incentive system.

Your attire spoke of causal seclusion: black track shorts that draped baggy over your hips and thighs, the soft fabric swishing with each pivot and stride, hinting at freedom of movement; paired with a cropped blue half-zip hoodie that billowed loosely, its hem riding up teasingly whenever you extended an arm to the whiteboard, exposing fleeting slivers of the smooth, inviting dip at the small of your back, your skin glowing faintly under the room’s fluorescent hum. Your gaze flicked over to your laptop screen, angled on the cluttered table amid a sprawl of colour-coded notes, highlighter uncapped and at the ready, and a half-empty water bottle that was condensing with dew.

Returning to the whiteboard, you rose onto your tiptoes, your calves tautening in a graceful arch to maintain the alignment of your script. From Todd’s vantage, the markings were enigmatic–a labyrinth of formulas or perhaps a detailed diagram, loops of symbols intertwining with arrows and annotations that bespoke a discipline far afield from statistics, maybe biochemistry or engineering schematics, he didn’t know for sure. You halted abruptly, retreating a step with a tilt of your head, slipping the dampened end of the sour key back between your lips, cheeks concealing as you drew on it contemplatively. Todd imagined he could see the intricate machinery of your mind at work, your eyes glazing slightly as they roved over your handwriting, processing, analyzing, before your extracted the candy from your mouth, and surged forward again, drawing a bold underline beneath the mysterious question and appending fresh insights below, the marker flowing freely against the board.

Seizing this distraction, Todd advanced in a series of fluid, hushed strides, his pulse quickening with a mix of adrenaline and anticipation. He raked his fingers through his hair once more, taming any errant curls born of the rain, ensuring he appeared composed, if not entirely polished. Grasping the handle–astonished to find it yielded without resistance–he thrusted through the threshold, the door swinging inward with a gentle displacement of air that carried the room’s essence outward.

In an instant, Todd’s senses were besieged by a confectionery onslaught: the cloyingly sweet, artificially fruity bouquet of the sour keys, a vibrant fusion of granulated sugar and biting citric acid that danced in the air like an edible fog, seamlessly blending with a deeper, more seductive layer–a juicy, realistic black cherry perfume that saturated the space, clinging to fabrics and surfaces, infiltrating his nostrils and settling on his palate like a forbidden nectar that triumphed the toxic smell of the whiteboard marker you were using.

The metallic snick of the handle and the door’s intrusion propelled you into a startled leap, a soft yelp escaping as you pivoted to confront him, the sour key tumbling slightly in your grasp. Up close, the detailed sharpened: your tongue bowed a delicate crimson tint from the candy’s pigments, a glossy sheen that accentuated their fullness; your eyes flared wide expanding in the shock of interruption, lashes framing a gaze that shifted from alarm to dawning realization. For a suspended moment, words eluded you, but recognition drowned you, etching surprise across your features.

Of course you knew him–the enigmatic president of KNA, the fraternity synonymous with legendary bashes, hazing rituals that seemed made up, and coveted invitations, where earning a pledge slot was mythologized as a rite of passage, or so the campus whispers claimed. You had absorbed the lore reluctantly through your friends’ tangential ties to party-goers, caught fleeting sights of him striding into lectures with an effortless authority, like he owned the place, though you had always departed early from your front-row perch, evading the post-class throng. You had never truly spoken a word to the man. Yet here he was, a legendary apparition in your private domain, his hair damp and coiling into gentle waves as it air-dried, those mesmerizing blue eyes–intense, like polished azure gems capturing the light–pinning you in place with a scrutiny that sent a nauseated feeling through your stomach. Your lips parted involuntarily under the weight of his gaze, a warmth blooming in your cheeks, but you rallied, corralling your scattered thoughts with a fluttering of your lashes.

”I’ve…I’ve got this booked till 11am, there’s other rooms that are available that are first come first served…” You informed, keeping your voice steady, watching as he stepped fully into the room.

”You’re in Professor Davis’s stats class, right?” He asked, ignoring what you had just said to him, while inadvertently inviting himself in without permission. The door sealed shut behind him with a soft, definitive thud that resonated faintly in the soundproofed enclosure, amplifying the sudden intimacy of the small room–a space that had felt like your personal fortress moments ago, now infiltrated by this unexpected presence. Your brows knitted together in confusion, a delicate crease forming between them like a shadow across your forehead, an undercurrent of wariness prickling along your skin, raising the fine hairs on your arms in a sort of primal response to the sudden shift in dynamics.

Nervously, you placed the wet sour key down onto one of the napkins scattered across the table, the candy’s glossy, sticky surface leaving a faint, tacky residue on your fingertips that you could feel clinging like a sweet echo of your disrupted focus. You recapped the marker with a sharp click, the plastic snapping into place quickly, before wringing it in your grip, the motion eliciting a squeaky protest as it twisted under the mounting pressure of your unease, the sound cutting through the quiet like a tiny, discordant note.

His voice was smooth but rough around the edges, carrying the husky timbre of someone who’d just emerged from the haze of sleep, or perhaps someone who hadn’t uttered a syllable until this precise instant–which struck you as profoundly incongruous for a campus luminary like him, a man who was perpetually encircled by chatter and admiration.

“Ye-Yeah I am…Why?” You pressed, hesitation lacing your voice like a fragile thread, weaving through your words with a subtle tremor that betrayed the whirlwind of questions swirling in your mind, your pulse quickening in your throat as you swallowed against the dryness creeping in. Because evidently he already knew the answer if he’d tracked you down like this. There was no other way Todd could possibly know who the hell you were beyond the fleeting overlap of that one lecture hall, and even that was tenuous; you were only enrolled in stats as an elective to bolster your GPA, a strategic cushion amid your biology-heavy curriculum, while he was studying business–which made stats a required course.

“Well, I heard you were top of the class and I thought I'd put a face to the grade so to speak…” He replied, a small smirk curling at the corners of his lips, a subtle, asymmetrical lift that unveiled a glimpse of straight white teeth and tempered the chiseled severity of his jaw, infusing his expression with a disarming charm that sent an unwelcome flutter through your chest. He reached up and ran his hand over his hair to smooth it out, his fingers combing through the damp strands with effortless nonchalance, though the gesture achieved very little–the waves simply recoiled with spirited resilience, catching glints from the overhead lights that danced like tiny sparks across their surface, emphasizing their soft, unruly vitality.

You felt your lashes flutter, as a warm flush crept up your neck like an invisible blanket, almost embarrassed at the mere notion that you had somehow infiltrated discussions in his exalted social sphere. Slowly, you shifted on your feet, the plush carpet yielding softly beneath your weight, crossing your arms over your body in a defensive fold, the hoodie’s fabric bunching against you, its soft texture brushing the tips of your fingers.

”Okay…Uh…Is there something else you wanted? Or did you just come in here to be creepy?” You trailed off, your voice threading with a hint of defensiveness that echoed in the enclosed space, glancing away from him toward the cluttered table where your notes were, because you couldn’t hold his gaze anymore. You picked absently at the grooved edge of the marker cap, the textured ridges digging into your fingertip, providing you with a tactile distraction that drew your focus amid the escalating tension, the faint click of your nail against plastic beating like a metronome in the silence.

Before looking back up at him, and locking onto his captivating eyes once more, he let out a small, almost surprised laugh–a low, resonate chuckle that vibrated through the air, genuine and completely unexpected, easing the knot twisting in your stomach just a fraction while igniting an unanticipated spark of curiosity that tingled along your spine.

”Professor Davis mentioned that you might be able to help me out with getting my grade up and I–“

“I don’t know why he gave you my name when I’m not a tutor…So you’re asking the wrong person for help.” You interrupted, your words carving through his sentence with a resolute edge, as you gripped the marker tighter. Todd could sense the standoffishness radiating from you like a tangible aura, the discomfort weaving through your tone, almost as if his offhand remark about your grades–intended as a lighthearted opener–had struck a discordant chord, stirring a veil of suspicion that made you question his motives. He bit the inside of his cheek pensively, the subtle sting of flesh yielding to his teeth blooming with a faint, coppery tang on his tongue, adjusting the rucksake on his shoulder with a small shift, the canvas strap rasping against his jacket as he recalibrated his approach.

He had to do something that would at least sway you into feeling bad for him, because evidently nothing short of emotional leverage was going to crack your resolute facade, and he knew exactly what he would have to do. It was the subtle art of manipulation he’d perfected over years in the fraternity trenches–deploying that boyish charm with a dash of calculated sweetness, his words laced with just enough vulnerability to make the listener feel like a hero for stepping in, all while steering the conversation like a seasoned captain navigating choppy waters. There was always a quiet thrill in it, the way he could read micro-expressions and adjust on the fly, turning skepticism into sympathy with a well-timed sigh or averted gaze, his voice dropping into that intimate, confiding timbre that made people lean in, eager to be the one who fixed things.

It was his only hope at this point, a finely tuned gambit worth every ounce of feigned humility if it could erode your defenses and pivot your mind toward acquiescence. If it faltered, though, leaving him adrift in outright rejection, he harboured one final, slightly detestable resort–a ploy that churned his stomach with self-disgust but promised ruthless efficacy: pluck at your presumed religious heartstrings, invoke mercy and redemption, framing his request as an opportunity for compassionate aid, making denial feel like a moral lapse, a quiet abandonment of the charitable spirit he had inferred from that faith-group snapshot.

Yes, it reeked of a manipulative sleight-of-hand, a cynical orchestration that left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue like overbrewed coffee, but desperation pulsed through him like a fevered heartbeat, scorching away ethical qualms–he couldn’t, wouldn’t, take no for an answer, not when the failure yawned before him, threatening to swallow up his year like a monster.

“Okay…Maybe we got off on the wrong foot…I just…” He paused, and you could see the moment of feigned introspection play out across his features like a carefully scripted scene–the way his eyes clouded with a manufactured veils of uncertainty, his jaw tightening just enough to suggest inner conflict without overplaying the drama, his mind visibly whirring like the mechanics of a lock aligning under skilled fingers, calibrating each nuance to dismantle your barriers and weave his charisma into a net of persuasion.

The confined study room seemed to contract further, the air growing denser, creating a sensory intimacy that made your pulse throb faintly in your temples, the fluorescent lights above buzzing softly like a distant hive, their steady glow casting ethereal highlights on the damp strands of hair that had fallen around Todd’s face.

He let out a defeated sigh, the exhalation weighted and resonant, his broad shoulders sagging imperceptibly to underscore a momentary yield, tearing his gaze from yours and breaking the magnetic eye contact–a strategic concession that handed you the illusion of control, as if you held the reins to his vulnerability, the shift palpable like the cool undercurrent of a breeze slipping beneath the door, stirring the fine hairs on your arms and making them feel less like armour and more like a perch from which to dispense judgement.

”I just need your help…Alright? I bombed the midterm we just got back, and I need to get my mark back up before the semester ends, and at this point you’re my only hope…I’m literally willing to do anything. I just can’t have this stupid mark on my transcript.” His plea hung in the air, laced with the desperation that could only come from the frustration of failure looming over his head like a storm, the words resonating through the enclosure with a raw, velvety timbre that vibrated against the glass walls.

It caught you off guard for a moment, snapping a fissure in your defenses as the conviction in his tone–whether born of truth or masterful artifice–tugged at your empathy, your fingers loosening their grip on the marker, its plastic surface now slick with the faint sheen of nervous perspiration from your palm.

You weren’t one for sob stories, but there was something so convincingly multifaceted about Todd–charming, almost in a hypnotic way that bordered on magnetic, teetering on personable if not for the subtle veneer of calculation glinting in his averted eyes like concealed facets of a diamond; it skirted the edge of sociopathic finesse, yet the despair carved into the faint furrows of his brow, the way his fingers flexed restlessly, didn’t ring entirely hollow, stirring a reluctant warmth that bloomed in your chest, like a part of you felt empathy for this man who could practically get the world handed to him on a silver platter.

Regardless, you found yourself falling into the trap, a slight surrender creeping through your veins like warm honey, softening the rigid lines of your posture. From the way your face was visibly softening–the faint crease between your brows easing, your lips parting slightly in hesitant contemplation–Todd could tell he had you right where he wanted you, a quiet victory sparking in his chest like the flicker of a match in the dark, though he wrestled back the urge to let a smirk curl onto his mouth to avoid unravelling the delicate web he’d spun. He could see the moment of consideration flashing through your eyes, a fleeting storm of indecision clouding their depths as your gaze drifted away from him for a breath, landing on the cluttered table.

Then you cleared your throat, the sound a soft, raspy interruption that cut through the air, the vibration tickling your vocal cords as you returned your eyes to his.

”There’s only four weeks and two tests left in the semester before the final and I have a very strict study schedule that I adhere to for my other classes…I don’t think…” You trailed off for a moment, noticing the way Todd’s jaw clenched at your words, a faint ripple of muscle beneath his skin, a flicker of restrained impatience, “I don’t think I’ll be able to get you the mark you want in that time frame.” You added quietly, feeling your heart stilling in your chest, a momentary hush in its steady rhythm like the world pausing between breaths, the words escaping your lips in a whisper that carried the weariness of someone who was too naive to know what type of reaction they would get.

There was a bout of silence, as the two of you stood and stared at one another, like there was a standoff of sorts. And you could see his lashes flutter slightly, squinting a little bit, almost like it was a nervous twitch of his, the delicate fringe framing his eyes in a way that humanized him further, drawing an involuntary flicker of curiosity through you. He knew you were just making excuses at the point, and while he understood you had other classes apart from stats there was no way you never studied for it; you must’ve slotted it into that aforementioned schedule of yours, the proof was in the marks.

So he decided to press even more, doubling down as much as possible without being too pushy, his posture relaxing just a fraction to invite reciprocity.

”I’ll work around your schedule…I already did the calculations, and as long as I get over a 75 on those tests and the final I’ll get a decent grade. So, even if you can lend me half an hour of your time, it would truly help…I just need some guidance.” His tone was softer this time, and you could tell he chose his words carefully, strategically, each syllable rolling off his tongue like a gentle caress, laced with a flexibility that painted him as accommodating rather than demanding–especially for someone who didn’t seem like he would have time to spare. It was truly evident that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

A sigh escaped you, tumbling out into the air, completely resigned, your arms uncrossing slightly.

”Fine…We’ll meet here tonight at 8…Bring your old tests and the midterm with you so we can go over them together…” You murmured, and Todd couldn’t help the triumphant smile that appeared on his lips as you gave in, a genuine curve that lit his features up, his eyes sparkling with relief and victorious warmth, the expression transforming his face from calculated charm to something disarmingly boyish.

“Perfect! I’ll see you then!” He exclaimed, and before you could even say anything else he was already leaving the study room–like he thought you were going to change your mind if he mingled around any longer–swinging the door open with a whoosh of displaced air that carried a cool draft from the outer perimeter, stirring the papers on your table with a faint rustle.

———————

You had returned to the library that evening after your last class, the weight of your backpack a familiar burden on your shoulders as you pushed through the heavy doors, the transition from the biting chill outside to the enveloping warmth within sending a shiver across your skin. The air inside was thick with the timeless scent of aged books and polished wood, a comforting constant that wrapped around you like an old blanket. You claimed the same glass-walled study room that you had booked earlier in the week, the door clicking shut behind you to seal out the rest of the chaos that was now buzzing on the seventh floor–it was prime studying time so it was far more packed than that morning, with groups of people scattered around passing notes to one another.

Setting yourself up long before you expected Todd to make his appearance, you unpacked with methodical precision, the zipper of your bag rasping open like a sigh of resignation, spilling forth notebooks, highlighters, and your laptop onto the surface with dull thuds that echoed faintly in the soundproofed space. You decided that you were going to at least put in a little bit of time to study your other classes while you waited, as you flipped through your most recent pile of notes you had accumulated throughout the day.

Trying to get your mind off the fact that you were going to be tutoring a frat president of all people, you immersed yourself in the intricate diagrams you had drawn, the lines blurring slightly under your gaze as the interaction from that morning kept replaying in your mind like a looped reel–how he had switched up so quickly on you, his charm shifting from casual to calculated in the blink of an eye, how easily he had manipulated his way into getting you to say yes, his words coiling around your resolve like invisible vines. Even you were surprised that you had folded so easily for him. It was a testament to how he had a way with words, a silver-tongued finesse that disarmed and redirected, and while you felt frustrated at that–your cheeks warming at the recollection–you were slightly impressed by it, a reluctant admiration bubbling up like unexpected fizz in a flat drink; you wondered how many punishments he had evaded with that approach, how effortlessly he convinced people to align with him, how many times he deployed this strategy to bend situations to his will. It was sickening and fascinating all at the same time, a duality that left you unsettled, and made you trace your fingers absently along the edges of your notebook.

You found yourself totally lost in your thoughts, feeling your stomach twisting up into knots like a rope being pulled taut, because as much as you didn’t like the fact you felt guilty enough to say yes to Todd, you couldn’t help but have this obligation to help him, a compulsion that gnawed at you from within, its roots delving deep into the soil of your past. Maybe it was the residual Catholic generosity that you hadn’t fully purged from your system, a lingering echo of the doctrines that had once defined your every choice, now manifesting as an unwelcome tug on your conscience. And you damned it for existing in your mind still, because it weakened you in a way that was unexplainable, a vulnerability that left a hollow ache in your chest.

Your crisis of faith had crept in slowly over the last year, a quiet unraveling sparked by the people in your faith group–those who professed devotion yet freely broke the rules without a shred of guilt, living vibrantly while you had adhered to the Bible with an odd dedication most people didn’t have, weighing most decisions out on the scale of sin and virtue. They partied, dated without chaperones, indulged in the freedoms of the university experience, their laughter ringing like bells while you restrained yourself, always opting for the safer path, the one paved with caution rather than adventure, missing out on the messy, memorable experiences that carved out a normal life in people your age–late-night conversations that stretched into dawn, spontaneous trips with friends, the electric thrill of first kisses unburdened by dogma. The realization had hit like a cold wave: how much you had sacrificed in the name of piety, how the doctrines that once felt like guides now seemed to chain you up, stifling the curiosity and joy that bubbled just beneath your surface, leaving you with a sensation of emptiness. So you turned away from it all, yet it was still one of your worst inner battles that you faced.

You tried to pry yourself out of your thoughts, drawing your attention back to your notes, as you smoothed a creased corner on one of the sheets. You didn’t know how long you had just sat there, reading over whatever you could, trying to absorb something at least. You didn’t know how long you did this for, until you decided to look at your phone to check the time, the screen’s blue glow illuminating your face.

8:12

He was late, which automatically added another layer of regret over your head–like a cloak settling on your shoulders, its weight pressing down with the chill of disappointment–he was already taking advantage of your kindness, and that realization sent a sharp twinge through your gut, bitter and twisting like a knife's edge.

You sighed, slumping back into your chair, the cushioned seat yielding with a soft creak under your weight, the back of it reclining slightly as you let your head tilt towards the ceiling. Reaching up to the thin gold chain around your neck, you toyed with it absentmindedly, the metal links smooth and warmed by your skin, the dainty infinity cross pendant dangling between your fingers, its edges catching the light. As much as you may have pushed away your faith, you still couldn’t bear to part with the necklace your parents had gotten you as a graduation present, even though it was a symbol of the life you had once embraced so fully. It had turned into a fidget toy, one that you would bite or suck on when you didn’t have anything else around you to do so.

You pulled at the chain, feeling it digging into your skin with a subtle bite, as impatience began to claw at you, a restless itch crawling under your flesh, making your legs bounce beneath the table. The audacity Todd had in asking you for help then proceeding to be late befuddled you–how could someone who sounded so desperate to get their grade up be late for their first tutoring session, especially when the person was already reluctant to do the job in the first place? It was a ridiculous thought, but evidently it was becoming reality right in front of your eyes, as the time on your phone continued to tick forward without any reprieve.

And just as your thoughts were about to spiral down another rabbit hole you didn’t want to venture into, the door behind you swung open with a sudden jolt, displacing the air in a cool gust that brushed against the nape of your neck like an unexpected touch.

”Sorry I’m late. I got caught up in a meeting and I tried to wrap it up as fast as I could.” He explained quickly, as you let go of your chain and turned towards him, seeing how disheveled he was–his hair falling out of place in tousled waves that stuck to his temples, his cheeks reddened by the bitter weather that stung his skin with a rosy flush, and of course the contrasting sheen of sweat that lined his forehead, glistening under the room’s glow–while he closed the door behind him with a firm click and lock. You watched as he slipped his bag off his shoulder, pulling up the chair next to you.

“It’s fine…Just don’t let it happen again, cause next time I’ll lock you out and use the time for my own studies.” You warned, your voice steady but coasting with a quiet undertone of firmness. He gave you a small nod, his eyes roaming over you with a quiet intensity that sent an unexpected warmth to creep up your spine, noticing that you had changed since this morning–instead of the shorts and sweater combo, you were not in a simple white t-shirt that clung softly to your body, paired with a baggy pair of black cargo pants that were cinched at the waist, the fabric whispering softly as you shifted, practical yet unintentionally alluring in its relaxed fit.

He couldn’t help but linger on your form a little longer than intended, his gaze tracing the way the t-shirt’s cotton draped over your shoulder and chest, hinting at the softness beneath without revealing too much–Todd didn’t discriminate when it came to women, appreciating beauty in all its forms, and while you may have not been the most pleasant person in the world, judging by the sharpness from your first interaction, he had to admit, you were quite a sight to see, especially when you were being snippy with him, that fire in your eyes adding a spark of intrigue that made his pulse quicken just a fraction, a sensation like the first sip of strong coffee hitting his system.

He tore his gaze off you with deliberate effort, placing his bag on the table with a dull thud that echoed softly in the soundproofed space, flipping the lip open as he delved into the large storage compartment, rifling through the multiple folders he had meticulously organized for each of his classes–where he stored all his tests and essays, the plastic tabs labelled with precise handwriting that contrasted his chaotic scrawl within–going through them until he found the one for Stats.

“You’ll be well within your right to do that…But just know I would probably be sitting outside the door knocking until you open it.” He said jokingly, in an attempt to lighten the mood, his voice dipping into a teasing baritone that vibrated through the air with a warm hum, as he plucked the folder from his bag and set it down on the table with a soft slap before sitting next to you, the chair creaking under his weight, his presence suddenly closer, the subtle heat from his body radiating toward you like a gentle wave, mingling with the clean sandalwood of his cologne. You rolled your eyes, a reflexive gesture, and moved your chair forward so you were closer to the table, the wheels gliding smoothly over the carpet with a muffled whisper, reaching out to bring the folder into your field of vision, your fingers brushing the cool plastic cover, a slight static tingle dancing across your skin from the contact.

“In theory you may think that would work, but I would just call campus security on your ass and get you kicked out of the library.” You countered, flipping the cover open, revealing the first test from week two–one that he had scraped by with a 60%, the red ink marks stark against the white paper like accusatory scars, the professor’s notes scrawled in the margins, one on top of the other.

”Oh god.” You murmured under your breath, picking the package of papers up with a rustle, turning the cover page over to look at his work, the chicken scratch that he would call his handwriting leaving much to be desired–jagged lines and hurried loops that blurred together like a tangled web–but the little patches of red notes written off to the side were a telltale sign that while Todd may have been on the right track, grasping fragments of concepts with tentative understanding, he just wasn’t getting the content enough to actually earn full marks, missing crucial elements in his responses, the omissions glaring like gaps in a puzzle.

“Hey, come on, it’s not that bad.” He stated, watching as your eyes roamed over the page, wide and judgemental, like you were doing the questions in your head and correcting the work he had done without even picking up a pencil, your focus was so intense it sent a subtle thrill through him, the way your lips pursed slightly in concentration, and your eyes squinted every so often.

“It’s bad to me…And the handwriting doesn’t help either.” You commented under your breath, “I hope the other ones aren’t the same.” He hummed and kissed his teeth, the sound a sharp, playful click that echoed lightly, a mix of amusement and self-deprecation lacing the action.

“Well, unfortunately for you they are, the marks get slightly better though…Until the midterm at least.” He mumbled the last part, scratching the back of his neck with a casual drag of his fingers, his eye catching on the cross that glinted against your white shirt like a tiny beacon, the gold catching the light in a warm sparkle before he looked back up to your face, as you quickly flipped through the next pages with a series of soft whooshes, then sighed, ripping a sheet of paper from your notebook with a clean tear, sliding it in front of him across the tables smooth surface.

“Guess we’ll start with correcting this test then…If you wouldn’t mind, could you at least make your writing a little neater so I can efficiently help you, rather than waste my time trying to dissect what you wrote?” He gave you a nod, and reached into his bag to grab a pencil out from one of the pockets.

”Will do.” He replied, watching as you flipped back to the first page of the test package and placed it in front of him with a gentle push.

”Take into account the notes Professor Davis has left you, and try to do something different with your answer, I’ll check it once you’re done.” He adjusted himself on his seat, the chair creaking faintly under his shifting weight as he settled in, taking his phone out of his jean pocket, unlocking it with a quick swipe and placing it beside the sheet of paper. He looked over the question you had told him to do, his eyes roaming over the printed text once, twice, absorbing the words like a strategist, then he began to write slowly on the spare sheet. He was taking his time, glancing over the original answer after every line he wrote, his gaze flicking back and forth like a pendulum, making sure he wasn’t replicating something similar, using his phone as a calculation because he forgot the one he usually brought with him to class.

You looked away from him, flipping open your own notebook, dicing into some of your own study materials for your other classes, needing a distraction from the magnetic pull of staring at him. Every so often you heard his writing speed picking up, the pencil’s scratches accelerating into hurried cadence before abruptly slowing down, like he was stopping himself from going too quickly, because he was trying to show you that he was a good listener.

You crossed your legs, the soft fabric of your cargo pants brushing against itself with a hushed sound, leaning backwards against your chair as it molded to your spine with a gentle give. As you twiddled with the cross pendant again, you read through your class notes, the words flowing in familiar patterns across the page, knowing that within a few days you had a test that you would need to be prepared for, and any review time was useful even though you’d be interrupted at some point.

Todd couldn’t help but look out of the corner of his eye, his peripheral vision catching the subtle movement, seeing the way you tilted the pendant toward you lips and bit down on the tip of the crucifix, the light tapping of your teeth against the metal echoing faintly through the room like a distant metronome, a sound that sent an unexpected jolt through him. He couldn’t help but pause his writing in those moments, the pencil hovering mid-air as his breath caught slightly, seeing you suck gently with absent focus, the motion innocent yet absolutely captivating, before flipping to the next page of your notes with a soft rustle, adjusting your position so you settled even into your seat. He cleared his throat, the sound a rough rasp that broke the silence, bringing his eyes back to the sheet of paper in front of him, refocusing his mind on the question and not the image of your lips wrapping around the holy relic you wore, resuming his writing.

A few moments later he finally put his pencil down, and sighed, the exhalation heavy with a mix of frustration and slight accomplishment, which gained your attention immediately, pulling you from your notes like a hook tugging at a line.

“Finished?” You asked, letting the cross drop from your mouth, and he nodded–not wanting to speak just in case his voice cracked due to the dryness that plagued his throat, a parched sensation like sandpaper scraping his vocal cords–sliding the sheet over to you with a gentle push. Slowly, you plucked it from the table and stared at his handwriting, at the process he had written out with careful precision, at the formula he had used to derive his response, the lines neat and calculated compared to his original scrawl. He saw the way your cheek thinned slightly, as you nibbled on the inside of it with your teeth, hollowing your features just enough to reveal your concentration, like you were trying to make out what he did.

“You used the wrong formula.” You pointed out, making him turn fully so he was facing you completely, the chair swivelling with a low groan. A look of confusion appeared on his face, and his brows furrowed, drawing faint lines across his forehead.

”I what?” He questioned, and you turned the page to him, tapping on the top part of his response with your fingertip, the nail clicking softly against the paper.

”You used the formula for sample standard deviations…When you’re supposed to be using the population standard one…” You explained, picking up his pencil and writing down the correct formula for him with swift, elegant strokes, “Professor Davis always tries to throw us off with the wording in the question, so you have to pay attention to that.” You warned, circling the formula with a decisive loop and writing a short explanation as to why you would use it, along with keywords to look out for within a question that would signal for him to use that specific one.

”So basically he really does want us to fail.” Todd commented, as a small laugh escaped you, light and unexpected, bubbling up from your chest.

“No…He just wants to weed out the weak students.” You corrected, passing him back the paper, “Try it again, but use the correct formula this time…See if you get it right.” You instructed, before picking your notebook back up again and returning to your previous position, glancing over at him briefly as he grabbed his pencil and began writing again, the scratch resuming with a focused intensity.

He was absolutely hopeless in your eyes. If he couldn’t even understand the difference between why you would use specific formulas for certain questions you would need to start right from the beginning to get him up to speed properly, which only meant that you would need to spend even more time with I’m, far more than thirty minutes a night at least, and he would probably need to sacrifice a weekend for you to truly get him to understand the concepts.

The thought alone filled you with dread, a heavy weight settling in your stomach like lead, and all you wanted to do at that point was back out of the arrangement, the words hovering on the tip of your tongue like unspoken regrets, but then you looked at him, seeing the way he was actually focused on what he was doing, his brow furrowed in genuine concentration, like he was trying to understand and it just wasn’t connecting for him yet, you saw the struggle in his eyes, the way they roamed over his writing repeatedly with a determined glint pausing to erase a line, before adding something else and typing in a calculation on his phone with quick taps.

You reasoned with yourself for a moment, thinking about how much time you truly needed to study for your other classes, the mental calendar unfolding in your mind like a well-organized map, how you could rearrange things so you would be able to work with him properly without sacrificing your own marks, and it was feasible, but knowing Todd, there would be scheduling conflicts. God only knew how many events KNA had within the next couple of weeks–school or non-school related respectively–though you weren’t going to be the one to ask about it. You would offer more time to him but at the end of the day the ball would be in his court when it came to making it work.

——————

A week later, the two of you had settled into a tentative rhythm, the study sessions weaving themselves into the fabric of your evenings like threads pulled tight on a loom, binding your disparate worlds with an unexpected familiarity that neither of you had anticipated.

Todd would arrive at 8:30 every evening, the revised time being a pragmatic olive branch you had extended after the first tardy encounter–a buffer to accommodate the whirlwind of his fraternity obligations, the endless cascade of KNA meetings that bled into plannings for future pledge events, the hurried phone calls coordinating house logistics, all of which left him scrambling to gather his scattered notes and textbooks before trekking across campus to the library’s seventh floor. It made sense, this concession; it spared you the frustration of waiting, and it allowed him a moment to catch his breath, to shed the authoritative skin of frat president and slip into the role of an earnest student.

Little had evolved in the core mechanics of your sessions though; you led with a steady hand and guided him with a pace attuned to his learning curve–taking it slow when concepts tangled in his mind and accelerating when a spark of comprehension lit his features. You had become adept at reading his subtle tells: the faint tightening around his eyes when things eluded him; the way his fingers would drum a restless rhythm against the tables edge, displaying the frustration simmering beneath his composed exterior; or the subtle lean forward when clarity dawned, wafting the scent of his cologne across the narrow space between you.

In return for the time you were giving him, he’d often materialize with a chilled energy drink clutched in his hand, a silent acknowledgement of your shared vice for sweetness–gleaned from the countless times he had watched you eat a multitude of sour keys. Surprisingly, the addiction had rubbed off on him when you introduced them as a reward for correct answers, a Pavlovian cue that gave him positive reinforcements, instead of lavishing him with verbal accolades that might inflate his already formidable ego.

Occasionally, the sessions would drift off-script, the deviations almost invariably ignited by him, coiling around the conversation and pulling it into uncharted waters. Yet, you had come to tolerate–perhaps even subtly relish–these detours, the way they broke the monotony of formulas and data sets, injecting a pulse of human connection into the sterile air of the room. It struck you as peculiar, this role you’d assumed as confidante to the president of KNA, a man whose orbit was typically filled with sycophants and reelers, yet who seemed to crave the friction you provided–a measured challenge that pushed back against his narratives without fully dismantling them. You would do this to an extent, your responses laced with skepticism when he’d spin tales of Greek life that you couldn’t fully fathom. He knew you didn’t grasp the concept, but he would press on undeterred, his eyes on yours with an intent that felt like a bid for some sort of alliance, as if each divulged secret was a pebble tossed into the pond of your goodwill, rippling outward in hopes of drawing you closer.

Your defenses held firm, your standoffishness surfacing only when he ventured too close to your personal life–queries about your weekends beyond the grind of labs and lectures or oddly pinpointed probes that hinted at him knowing a little too much. Those types of questions would hang in the air like baited hooks, fishing for more information to validate his assumptions that he had somehow pieced together, though you had volunteered nothing deeper than superficial trivia. You’d parry his questions with evasive grace, your answers curt and opaque, a wall of polite deflection that left him probing the edges without breaking through, even as a flicker of intrigue–and faint wariness–stirred in your chest, wondering at the source of his intel.

Unbeknownst to you, however, you’d begun to infiltrate Todd’s existence with the subtlety of ivy creeping over stone walls, your essence lingering in his thoughts long after he left the library and he retreated back to the raucous energy of the KNA house. You had captivated him in ways he hadn’t anticipated, your demeanour a tantalizing paradox: the firmness in your corrections, delivered with a crisp edge that commanded respect, yet undercut by a vein of reluctant yielding, as if you were a wayward lamb drawn inexorably to the shepherd’s call, resisting yet following in the end.

He would find his mind wandering to you in unguarded moments–the clamor of a frat meeting fading as he recalled the way you’d fidget in your chair, your thighs pressing together with a soft, frictioned whisper of fabric, a restless adjustment that hinted at deeper unrest; or how you would absentmindedly toy with that necklace, the chain’s delicate links catching the light as you drew the crucifix to your lips, sucking with a gentle, rhythmic pull that evoked forbidden liturgies, the metal warming against your tongue in an act of unwitting sensuality.

Those images seared into his psyche, innocent vignettes he’d warp in the privacy of his mind into fevered reveries: your lips, glossed and parted from your saliva’s sheen, or chapped and tender after the citric acid from your sour keys burned them, the faint cracks begging for a touch to soothe–or exploit. You embodied forbidden fruit to him, ripe and presumably untouched, a vessel he could shatter with a single, calculated advance. The temptation clawed at him in fleeting surges, a primal urge to discard the mask of affable pupil and unveil the dominant undercurrent you had only heard rumours of–the control, the intensity that simmered beneath. But he restrained it with a tight leash, recognizing that your untarnished view of him–as the redeemable striver–served his ambitions far better, even though holding back left him with unspent energy, like a shepherd savouring the power of guiding his lamb without devouring it whole.

He sensed your pliability beneath the protests, and he knew you would yield if he prodded just so–your concessions in the face of his favours or questions, the way you’d huff and debate before capitulating, your voice softening like wax under heat, giving in to him just because. He attributed it to the vestiges of your faith, that doctrinal imprint of obedience to higher authority, casting you as the submissive, his presence exuding a subtle dominion that you instinctively deferred to, even if unconsciously. It infused him with a heady blend of unease and exhilaration, the power dynamic a double-edged blade that pricked at his conscience yet thrilled his core, affirming that in this fragile pact, he perpetually held the reins, the upper hand a quiet assurance.

Tonight, under the study room’s unwavering fluorescent hum, he found himself ensnared once more, his gaze drifting to you as you meticulously reviewed the practice set you had assigned him earlier, your pen dancing across the page in fluid arcs, inscribing small little corrections and annotations in the margins with the precision of an illuminator gilding a sacred text–notes that would serve as his compass for the upcoming chapter, their ink blooming like revelations against the paper’s pale expanse. The crucifix was nestled between your lips, cradled but not actively nursed, its gold form a talisman against your teeth, the faint metallic tang you must’ve tasted grounding you amid the task.

Your legs jittered beneath the table, a ceaseless bob that sent micro-vibrations through the floor, your restlessness a stark anomaly against your usual poised serenity, as if an internal tempest churned just below the surface, manifesting in the subtle quiver of your calves and the faint rustle of your sweatpants’ fabric. As you marked, your phone erupted in a symphony of buzzes, notifications cascading like insistent rain against a windowpane–one after another in rapid succession, the screen flaring with ephemeral light that casted fleeting shadows across your features, a barrage so prolific at 11:05 PM that it piqued his surprise; even his own device, perpetually besieged by the group chat he had for the frat house and social pings, rarely matched this frenzy.

Curiosity gnawed at him, a temptation to inquire bubbling up like steam from a kettle, but he quashed it, knowing your barriers would rise like fortified gates; instead, he lingered in patient vigil, waiting for you to conclude his review.

You leaned back and sighed, the breath escaping in a soft, cathartic rush that eased the tension from your shoulders, the necklace tumbling free to nestle against your chest, the pendant adhering to the warm, dewy expanse of your exposed skin that your tank top bared. A small smile bloomed on your lips, tentative yet authentic, curving like the gentle arc of a crescent moon as you perused the page once more, your eyes tracing his progress with a quiet nod of approval before extending the papers back to him.

“Much better…I just put some reminders on the side for you to add to your own notes.” You explained, watching him take the papers from your hands with a deliberate gentleness, his fingertips grazing yours in a contact that sent a warmth blooming through your skin. He set the stack back down on the table with a soft patter, the sheets aligning neatly beside his own notebook, the fresh ink of your additions glistening faintly under the lights, small arrows and starred phrases standing out like guiding stars. You dragged his textbook toward you, the heavy binding sliding across with a muted scrape, as you flipped to the next practice chapter. Your pencil descended with precise intent, circling three problems in looping strokes, the graphite leaving silvery trails in the process.

“These ones will probably be a little more difficult,” You warned, pushing the book back to him with a firm yet careful nudge, the volume gliding smoothly until it rested before him. You held the pencil out for him to take, feeling the heat of his fingers slide along yours in the exchange–a lingering brush that ignited a shiver up your arm like a cascade of cool sparks, making the fine hairs stand on end in a prickling symphony that danced along your nerves, your skin tingling as if brushed by an invisible feather.

Once he was settled, and his posture shifted with a subtle creak of the chair, completely immersing himself in the task, you immediately reached for your phone, and leaned back, returning your necklace to your mouth. Todd glanced down at the questions briefly, his eyes tracing the intricate webs of variables and conditions with a measured scrutiny. But then he peeked over at you, his gaze drawn magnetically to the fluid motion of your thumb scrolling along the screen in rhythmic sweeps, the device’s glow painting your features in soft, ethereal blues and silvers–until you suddenly stopped, a visible cringe etching across your expression, your lips twisting in a fleeting wince that pulled at the corners of your mouth, your brows furrowing in a delicate knot of distaste.

“What’s with the face? Did you get 100% instead of 101 or something?” He joked, his voice dipping into a playful cadence that sliced through the quiet like a warm current through still water, laced with that effortless charisma that always seemed to disarm, the sound making you flinch slightly, a subtle jolt that rippled through your shoulders, surprised that he wasn’t absorbed in the questions you had just laid before him, his attention instead pivoting to you with an intensity that felt both probing and oddly intimate.

You felt a wave of heat overtaking your from your chest, a flush that surged like molten lava bubbling up from deep within, racing up your neck in a tingling rush that prickled like tiny embers against your skin and crowding the apples of your cheeks with a warmth that burned beneath the surface, as if your body were betraying the composure you held. Hastily, you locked your phone with a swift press, the screen fading to black with a faint electronic click, and placed it face down on the table, the cool glass meeting the surface with a muffled thud that echoed your reluctance.

“No…Just stupid guys,” You murmured, the honesty slipping out in a hushed tone that carried a blend of exasperation and reluctant candor, your voice barely threading through the air, the admission hanging between you like an unintended revelation. The reply caught Todd off guard for a moment, his posture straightening slightly with a tension that evaded his muscles, a flicker of surprise widening his eyes as he raised his brows, the arch a silent question mark etched on his features.

You hadn’t mentioned anything about talking to other guys before, not that it was territory he had claim over, of course, but the mere whisper of you dipping into the turbulent seas of the dating scene made his stomach stir with an unwelcomed churn, a knot twisting low and insistent in his belly. Was it jealousy or fear for you, he didn’t know, but he held himself in check, reining in the surge of feelings with a measured breath, his expression smoothing into one of feigned nonchalance.

“What’re they doing?” He pressed, keeping his tone even, masking the edge he swallowed back like a bitter fraught. He put the pencil down slowly, the wood clatter softly against the table with a delicate tap, turning himself toward you fully, the chair pivoting with a groan that filled the space, giving you his undivided attention–a focused beam that enveloped you like a spotlight, which only made you tear your eyes away from his, your gaze darting to the notes on the table.

”Being stupid,” You said simply, the words clipped and evasive, a verbal barrier erected with quiet finality, your fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the table, the faint taps a tactile distraction amid the mounting pressure. He shook his head, a subtle motion that sent a stray piece of hair tumbling across his forehead, holding his hand out to you, palm up in an open gesture that invited compliance, motioning for you to surrender the phone, his fingers curling slightly in encouragement.

“Let me be the judge of that,” He commented, his voice dipping into a coaxing timbre, smooth and persuasive, laced with a hint of challenge that danced on playfulness, his eyes locking onto yours with a spark of mischief that belied the deeper currents swirling beneath. You felt your eyebrows immediately raise at his words, arching in a reflexive curve of incredulity, a disbelieving laugh escaping you before you could contain it–a light incredulous trill that bubbled from your throat like effervescent springs, easing the knot of warmth just a fraction as you shook your head, moving the phone further away from him with a small slide.

”I’m not letting you go through my conversations Todd, that’s a ridiculous request and you know it,” You shot back, the words standing as a resolute boundary, unyielding, as you crossed your arms over your chest, the fabric of your tank top and hoodie shifting with a soft rustle, “And anyways, I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to solve the issue, when you probably do the same thing as these bozos,” You added under your breath, the murmur carrying a wry sting, a jab that lingered in the air like a faint echo of a distant bell–those were definitely fighting words. Todd scoffed, a short exhale that vibrated with a mix of feigned offense and genuine intrigue.

”Now I really need to know what they’re doing if you have the gull to group me in with them,” He countered, his words laced with a mock indignation that masked the curiosity that bit into his senses, his posture leaning forward just a touch more, closing the gap incrementally. You let out a frustrated sigh, the breath escaping in a drawn-out whoosh, shaking your head.

”Can’t we just drop it?” You asked, your voice softening into a plea, “You should be studying anyways, not wasting your time pressing me about my Tinder messages and the idiots I matched with.” Todd let out a laugh, rich and resonant, the sound cascading from him, as he moved closer to you with a fluid grace that narrowed the space between your chairs even further, his presence now a tangible warmth that enveloped you, his knee brushing against yours under the table before settling there completely.

”You brought it up, I think it’s only fair if you elaborate…” Todd’s voice trailed off with a teasing edge, low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine despite the room’s overwhelming heat. He leaned in closer, his chair creaking softly under his weight, making you catch the scent of his sweet, minty aftershave, that clouded your senses in an almost intoxicating haze that made each breath feel heavier in your chest.

“I didn’t really bring it up,” You retorted, your voice emerging steadier than you felt, as you leaned back from him slightly, creating a scant inch of distance that did little to dull the tension, “You asked about my face, and I gave you a vague answer. That’s not an invitation to pry.” He shook his head slowly, the motion unhurried, a low hum vibrating from his throat–a resonant sound, warm and teasing.

”No, no…See, you ended up dragging me into this by saying I’m just like the guys who are messaging you, which is the key reason why I’m prying,” He corrected, each word rolling out like he was building a case against you, holding your gaze with an intensity that pinned you in place, his blue eyes unwavering, reflecting the room’s fluorescents. “I think I have a right to know who the hell I’m being compared to,” He added, his knee pressing more insistently against yours now, the contact firm through the layers of fabric, the heat from his skin seeping into yours.

You took in a deep breath, the air filling your lungs with a cool rush that did little to steady the flutter in your chest, and rolled your eyes. Grabbing your phone off the table with a swift motion, you unlocked it with a quick glance and tossed it over to him, watching as he caught it with effortless reflexes, his fingers closing around it quickly. A part of you marveled at how easily you had capitulated, the surrender feeling both liberating and treacherous, like stepping off a ledge into unknown depths.

“Fine, be my guest,” You said, crossing your arms over your chest with a firm fold, the soft cotton of your tank top bunching slightly against your skin, accidentally granting him a peek of your white lace bra, as you leaned back in your chair. You avoided looking at him directly, your gaze drifting to the table, while he brought your phone up to his leering eyes, the screen’s light casting ethereal shadows across the sharp planes of his face.

You heard his thumb tap on the screen, a series of soft, rhythmic noises that echoed in the quiet, punctuating the moment with an almost hypnotic cadence, and there was a suspended silence that stretched taut between you, heavy with anticipation–before he let out a little laugh, a short, amused burst that bubbled from his chest, easing the tension just a fraction while igniting a spark of defensiveness in your stomach.

”Okay…So you got a few dick pics…You’re on Tinder, what did you expect to get out of this? A husband?” He asked, looking over at you with a raised brow, his tone laced with a teasing lilt that danced on the edge of mockery, seeing the way your brows furrowed in response, drawing faint lines across your forehead, your lips pressing into a thin line of irritation.

”Husband? No! I’m just trying to get myself back into the dating scene for Christ’s sake,” You exclaimed, the words bursting forth with a mix of frustration and earnestness, your voice rising slightly in pitch as you reached over to snatch the phone out of his hands, your arm extending in a swift arc–only for him to pull it away with a playful dodge, the motion drawing you forward unexpectedly, making you lean over him, your hand bracing on his thigh for balance. The softness of his dress pants registered beneath your fingertips, the fabric smooth like finely woven silk, shifting under your touch as the muscle tensed and relaxed, sending an unbidden warmth spreading up your arm like ink bleeding through paper.

”You’re looking in the wrong places…I’m pretty sure if you went out to one of the bars on campus or even joined clubs other than something that could resemble a discount Christian Mingle, you’d get somewhere,” He pointed out, looking down at you with a smirk draped on his lips, the curve of his mouth both infuriating and magnetic, his thigh flexing again deliberately like he was acknowledging your precarious positioning without verbalizing it.

You felt your jaw drop open for a moment, the hinge loosening in stunned disbelief as a rush of cool air brushed your parted lips, the revelation hitting you like a sudden gust, before you pushed off of him to sit upright, the abrupt motion sending a faint hint of dizziness spinning through your vision, a swirling haze that blurred the edges of the room for a heartbeat, your hand lingering with the phantom warmth of his thigh even as you withdrew.

”…Are you talking about Faith Group?” You asked, confused, the words tumbling out in a breathy rush, caught off guard by how effortless he’d unearthed a fragment of your past you’d never once alluded to in your conversations–and how causally he had wielded it, like a card pulled from a hidden deck.

“What else would I be talking about?” He shot back, letting out a small laugh that resonated with a mix of amusement and something sharper, seeing the way you tensed up a bit, your shoulder drawing inward slightly as if bracing against an invisible chill.

”I don’t know but…I never mentioned that I was part of that…I also haven’t even attended a meeting in a year, so I have no clue how you would know about it in general,” You replied, noticing him adjust in his seat with a subtle shift, as he transferred your phone from one hand to the other, his palm enveloping the device with casual possession, taking in the newfound information that hinted at a fracture in your once-unwavering devotion–perhaps a crisis of faith or the dawning realization of how confining strict adherence to scripture could feel.

He let out a little, awkward laugh, the sound tinged with a conscious edge that softened his features momentarily, before returning his knee to yours again, the steady pressure a silent insistence on maintaining that thread of physical connection.

“How do you think I found you or knew who you were? I just looked up your name and scrolled, and found a photo of you in your faith group sweater. I assumed you were still in it since you’re always wearing that cross of yours,” He stated, motioning to the chain with a casual flick of his chin, the gesture drawing your eye to the subtle play of light on his jawline, watching as you automatically raised your hand to touch the pendant, your fingers closing around the warm metal in a reflexive grasp, bewildered by what he had just said and how he delivered it–like stalking someone’s digital footprint was as mundane as checking the weather, the nonchalance sending a ripple of unease through you, mingling with a curious thrill at being so thoroughly observed.

”Well I’m not…But now I feel like I need to find a way to wipe that information off the internet too,” You commented quietly, squeezing the cross in your palm with a firm pressure, feeling its sharp edges digging into your flesh like tiny barbs, the faint sting a grounding reminder amid the whirlwind of exposure, the metal warming further against your skin as if absorbing your agitation.

”Why? Are you ashamed of your beliefs?” He asked, pressing you with a tilt of his head, his tone almost teasing, yet layered with a deeper probe, something challenging that hung in the air like an unspoken dare, his eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity, searching your face for cracks in your composure.

“I wouldn’t be wearing the necklace if I was ashamed, I’m just not a devout follower anymore, that’s it,” You said sternly, the words emerging with a point that brooked no further debate, hoping the firmness would steer him away from the tender territory, but Todd was far too intrigued now, the revelation sparking a hunger for more, to peel back the layers you were guarding, unwilling to let the subject dissolve into the ether so swiftly.

”What caused that?” He questioned, keeping the pressure on you with unwavering persistence, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register that wrapped around you like a confessional veil, seeing the way your eyes glanced away from him momentarily, a fleeting evasion before returning, your jaw clenching in a subtle flex of muscle that betrayed the internal storm brewing beneath your calm facade.

”Why do you want to know?” You countered, looking back at him with a direct stare that held a spark of defiance, watching the tip of his tongue run over his bottom lip in a slow sweep, wetting the flesh there with a subtle sheen of saliva that caught the light, the gesture both absent and intention, drawing your gaze for a heartbeat longer than intended.

For a moment, Todd considered telling you the truth, the raw, unfiltered confession bubbling just beneath the surface–admitting that hearing about your crisis of faith, or at least your deliberate turning away from it, ignited a fiercer desire within him, transforming you from untouchable sanctity to something tantalizingly attainable. You were no longer forbidden fruit, shrouded in divine prohibition; you were just fruit, lush and ripened under the sun, begging to be plucked, and the absence of celestial repercussions meant he could indulge without the phantom weight of judgement looming overhead, no thunderbolt from an angry deity to strike him down for corrupting one of His dearly devoted lambs.

But he wasn’t going to voice that aloud, not yet–not when you teetered on the precipice of opening up. Honesty like that would shatter all the progress, so instead, he offered a half-truth, a veiled deflection wrapped in casual intrigue.

”Because I’m curious…” He stated, his voice a low murmur that resonated through the air, leaning in a bit more. You could feel the warmth of his breath fanning lightly over your face, a gentle caress that carried the artificial tang of fruit from the energy drink he had been sipping on earlier–sweet and synthetic, like overripe berries preserved in syrup–mingling with the crispness of mint that lingered from his gum, invading your nostrils in a heady wave that made your head swim slightly, each inhale pulling you deeper into his proximity.

His eyes roamed over you unabashedly, tracing the rise and fall of your chest beneath the thin fabric of your tank top, and the way your fingers absently ran over the crucifix in your grasp. You dragged your teeth along your bottom lip in a nervous graze, the pressure catching a flake of dry skin and tearing it free with a sting–a tiny rupture that drew a bead of blood to the surface, the metallic, coppery flavour blooming instantly on the tip of your tongue, overpowering the mingled scents of his breath in a rush that grounded you amid the swirling intensity of the moment, the faint warmth of the droplet trickling just before you licked it away.

As much as you wanted to evade the topic entirely, to redirect the conversation back to the safety of the work that was sprawled out across the table, you still found yourself yielding once more to Todd’s persistent line of questioning, the words spilling out like a reluctant confession, your voice softening.

”Well…Let’s just say I realized there was no point in believing in something that had so many restrictions…” You replied, the simplicity of the statement belying everything that was racing inside your head, a quiet unravelling that echoed the faint ache in your lip from the bite. The revelation trudged up yet another cascade of inquiries in Todd’s mind, his thoughts racing–there must’ve been a catalyst, a pivotal spark that ignited that epiphany, shutting the facade of a faith you had likely clung to for your entire life, and now the hunger for those details clawed at him, craving the full mosaic of your disillusionment.

Before he could formulate the next probe, however, you seized the reins, steering the dialogue away from the vulnerable underbelly of your past with a swift pivot that cut through the tension like a cool breeze dispersing fog.

”Now can you give me my phone back please?” You asked, motioning to his hand where the device was clutched firmly, looking almost comically small enveloped by his thick, long fingers–pale and elegant, the nails impeccably manicured with a sheen that spoke of meticulous care, as if he visited the salon weekly to maintain that balance of rugged playfulness and polished sophistication that defined his aesthetic. You shouldn’t have been surprised; it aligned seamlessly with his groom persona, but it drew your gaze nonetheless, your eyes tracing the prominent veins that mapped the back of his hand. They winded gracefully up his forearm, bursting out into different pathways that went all the way up to the ditch of his elbow and disappeared beneath the rolled sleeves of his light blue dress shirt, pulsing beneath the translucent paleness of his skin with each flex of his grip. The sight stirred you, a fleeting warmth blooming low in your belly before you wrenched your focus away, lifting your eyes back to his face as he nodded, extending the phone toward you with a casual grace.

“Thank you,” You muttered, taking the device from him with a quick grasp, your fingers brushing his in the exchange, before unlocking it once more, the screen’s glow illuminating your features in a soft halo. You cringed again at the unsolicited nude that greeted you, the image stark and intrusive, the man’s brazen display evoking a twist of disgust in your gut like milk curdling, and with a swift tap, you unmatched him, the action a small but satisfying purge that cleared the digital slate.

“Y’know…With the context of your faith I’m kind of understanding why you cringed at that photo…” Todd was bolder now, his tone laced with a teasing undercurrent that flowed like silk, as if the one-sided heart-to-heart you’d just navigated had unlocked a new level of familiarity, granting him license to prod at the edges of your discomfort with a playful jab that carried an edge of provocation.

The comment made you snap your head toward him, your neck pivoting with a subtle crack that echoed faintly in the quiet room, your eyebrows raising in a sharp arch of surprise, the insinuation landing like a punch to your chest.

”I’ve seen a dick before, Todd…I’m not that prudish,” You admitted quietly, the words slipping out in a hushed murmur that barely disturbed the heavy air between you, your voice laced with a defensiveness that felt brittle, like thin ice cracking under the pressure of a foot.

The confession hung there, vulnerable and exposed, sending a fresh wave of heat crawling up your neck, prickling your skin as if invisible fingers were tracing fiery paths along it, the room’s fluorescent glow suddenly feeling too harsh, and too revealing. The sudden shyness enveloping the subject matter painted your features in a soft haze, your eyes darting away to the scattered notes strewn about the table, and Todd couldn’t help but notice it, as a smug smile curled onto his face. You brought your eyes back to his, seeing the hint of mischief playing up behind his irises, eager to fan the flames as he leaned into your clamoring hesitation.

”Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but I’m pretty sure only seeing one dick in your life makes you at least a little prudish…” The nickname rolled off his tongue like a caress, smooth and far too intimate for the relationship the two of you had, landing in your stomach with a lurch that felt like a jar of moths had been shattered open, their wings flapping wildly against your insides, stirring every nerve into a frenzy of chaos the trudges up a nauseous swirl in their wake, your pulse quickening in your throat as if it was trying to escape the confines of your body.

Your lashes fluttered at the comment, a reflexive veil against the intensity of his gaze, and you could feel your cheeks heating up even more, the temperature rising like sunlight focused through a magnifying glass, burning beneath the surface in a way that made you hope desperately that he didn’t notice the mosaic of embarrassment blooming across your face, your fingers twitching slightly as if seeking something to anchor them.

“Alright…This conversation is done, it’s time to get back to studying,” You concluded, your voice firm but edged with a tremor you couldn’t quiet suppress, trying to sever the thread of the topic before it unravelled your further, the words a desperate pivot back to the main reason why the both of you were in this study room in the first place.

You didn’t want to delve into this with Todd, you didn’t want to unearth the buried truths of your inexperience, forged in the fires of a devout past that had left you adrift in a sea of people who navigated intimacy with effortless grace–your single encounter was something that barely qualified, a fumbling exploration that left more questions than fulfillment, making you feel out of sync, like a clock ticking in a different rhythm. The mere thought sent a restless itch crawling under your skin, a sensation like fine sand shifting beneath your clothes, uncomfortable, insistent and everywhere, urging you to move in your spot, the chair cushion squeaking.

“Oh c’mon, you can’t ruin my fun now…” He teased, his knee bumping against yours with a deliberate nudge that sent a jolt of warmth radiating up your thigh, the contact lingering like an unspoken claim, firm through the barriers of fabric. He shifted closer, his body now invading your personal space in a way that felt both calculated and intoxicating, like he was weaving an invisible net to keep you within arm’s reach, relishing the proximity.

You could sense his enjoyment in it–the way his eyes sparkled with an unfamiliar gleam that bordered on predatory, delighting in how it made you squirm subtly, like a restless energy was coiling in your muscles that needed release. He glanced down at the cross momentarily, his gaze tracing the gold pendant that shimmered with the slightly shaky breaths you were taking when you turned your body to face him more squarely, the metal catching the light in fleeting glints that danced like tiny stars against your skin and over the mounds of your breasts, before he lifted his eyes back to yours, locking on with an intensity that pinned you in place.

”I can and I will,” You retorted, the words slicing through the space with a steely resolve, though the edge was blunted by the undercurrent of unease, your voice carrying a faint quiver like a leaf trembling in a storm. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” You tried to infuse your tone with stern authority, but the nervousness encircling the mere whisper of sexual experience made it waver, a crack in the facade that you were trying to put up. It beamed from you in micro-expressions: the faint furrow deepening between your brows like a shadow, the way your lips pressed together tightly, and the restless tap of your foot beneath the table.

”Why? Because you’re embarrassed that you’re a virgin?” He pressed, his voice dropping to a provocative whisper that slivered through the air, baiting you to fracture the composed mask you’d hastily reconstructed, his words hanging heavy with a challenge that dared you to unravel. At the mere mention of virginity, a deeper heat flowed through your body, a wildfire through dry brush, melting your resolve into a liquid warmth that pooled in your veins, turning your insides to a churning mush of embarrassment.

The fact that you were even skirting the edges of such a conversation–and succumbing to his taunt–boggled your mind, a dizzying whirl of confusion that made your thoughts spin, but it only intensified because it was with Todd Stevens of all people, the campus enigma, yet here you were compelled to counter his assumption, to shatter the image he held, as if proving yourself to him carried an inexplicable weight, a desire to impress that bloomed unbidden, warm and insistent against your better judgement.

“I'm not a virgin!” You exclaimed, the declaration erupting from your chest with a force that surprised even you, your voice rising in a crescendo that cut through the room instantly, carrying a blend of indignation and raw truth that left your lips tingling with the aftershock. Your breath came in shallow bursts as if the words had stolen the air from your lungs, the admission echoing in your ears like a confession said into an empty confessional booth, feeling the way your heart was hammering through your ribs in a frantic rhythm that shook your frame.

The look in Todd’s eyes was unreadable to you, a mysterious veil that masked whether he was genuinely shocked by your sharp snap or surprised that you had divulged something so intimate with such minimal prodding, his gaze holding a depth that made your pulse quicken, like peering into a still pond only to sense unseen currents swirling beneath.

Regardless, it cracked open a door for him to press further, and though he could see your growing shyness–the way your posture was slowly tensing up, and how your fingers twisted in your lap–he refused to release you from the hook he caught you on, not when he held the reins of the conversation firmly, the possibilities unfurling in his mind like silken threads waiting to ensnare, each one promising to draw you deeper into his web.

“You know fantasies don’t count, right?” He asked mockingly, the words laced with a playful scorn that swiped at the air like a challenge, taking in the way your eyes widened in a flicker of annoyance, the surprise blooming across your features, your breath catching in your throat with a soft hitch amid the sting of the accusation.

“I’m being serious…” You insisted, your voice steady, a plea woven into the syllables as you watched him lean back in his chair nonchalantly, spreading his legs slightly, pressing into your knee even more, while he crossed his arms over his chest in a slow motion that pulled the striped tie taut against the crisp collar of his shirt, the fabric bunching. His button-up strained over his biceps, the seams whispering a protest as the muscles flexed beneath, and for a brief unbidden second, your gaze lingered on the way they shifted, the play of strength that sent an unexpected warmth fluttering low in your abdomen, like embers stirring in a dying fire, before you forced your eyes away.

“Alright…Spill the details then,” He countered, holding out his hand with a casual sweep, palm up as if he was offering you a stage to speak, his fingers extended in invitation, the faint callouses on his skin catching the light.

”Excuse me?” The shock infused your voice, echoing softly in the confirmed space, feeling your heart catching before kickstarting again and picking up speed–so much so that you could hear it in your ears, thumping over and over again, pulsing through your temples. The demand left you momentarily breathless, feeling another wave of heat creeping beneath your skin, the blood rushing to your chest, and neck, travelling all the way up to your face. It felt like the sun was inside you, burning your nerves and overtaking your mind in a blazing haze.

”You say you’re not a virgin…So…Tell me about your first time, I want to know about it,” He doubled down, explaining it with a matter-of-fact simplicity that bordered on audacious, like probing for such intimate details was as ordinary as asking for the time. The words twisted in your gut, and you couldn’t help but think that he wanted to hear the details so that he could pick apart the story, to catch you in what he assumed was a lie, though his poker face gave little away for you to really know his motives.

”I’m not doing that…” You said quietly, the refusal a soft murmur laced with finality, giving your head a small shake which made the crucifix on your chest shift slightly against your sticky skin, while you rubbed your hand along your thigh in a restless glide, the friction warming your palm as you noticed it was wet with nervous sweat, leaving a damp trail on the black cotton, the clammy sensation clinging to your skin like an unwelcome second layer.

”Then I’ll just ask you questions about it, how does that sound?” He asked teasingly, his eyes gleaming with a frisky malice as he leaned in towards you, watching the way your mouth parted just enough to expose the edges of your teeth as you inhaled softly, attempting to fill your lungs with air, trying bypass how your throat was beginning to close, but it was futile, because all it did was drown you in the essence of him–the aftershave he wore, his sandalwood cologne, the natural muskiness of his skin. It all surrounded you, and pushed you under his spell even further.

“I don–“ Before you could even muster a full rebuttal, the syllables stumbling on your tongue like hesitant footsteps on uneven ground, he interjected with a sultry timbre that enveloped the room, his voice breathy and coaxing, each word dripping like hot wax over bare skin, drawing you in despite the frantic drumming of your heart.

“Was it at one of your little church retreats? Did you…Sneak out to meet him? Was it in your bed, or his? Did he know what he was doing?” He murmured, the questions unfurling in a slow, hypnotic cadence, his breath hitching faintly between them as if he was savouring the forbidden imagery that danced through his mind. His head tilted to chase your evasive gaze, ensuring his piercing blue eyes remained locked on yours even as you tried to avoid them, the intensity making you feel like you were choking on nothing, like someone had wrapped a velvet noose around your throat and began tightening it.

With a fluid motion, he reached out and grasped the arm of your chair, swiveling it toward him with a low, resonant creak that vibrated through the floor, his knee slipping seamlessly between yours to pin you in place, the firm pressure of his thigh against the insides of yours sending a cascade of heat blooming upward, a tingling spark that raced along your nerves like electricity, preventing any easy retread as his presence loomed closer. He leaned forward from his seat, angling his body so he had to look up at you through the thick fringe of his lashes, the position casting features in a shadowed allure that made your breath catch, your skin prickling with goosebumps as if brushed by phantom fingers.

You could feel your brain scrambling for a semblance of steadiness, synapses firing in chaotic bursts like fireworks in a storm, but your mind drew a blank canvas, void of coherent thought, because there was no conceivable way you could have anticipated this turn–the way his proximity was crowding you, the unexplainable pulsing surging through your body, your core, your muscles, not from the sharp bite of nerves or the cold grip of anxiety, but from something deeper, more primal, a budding lust that coiled low like a serpent stirring from its slumber.

It didn’t make sense, this magnetic pull, especially towards Todd of all people, yet it held you in the moment, your senses heightening to every nuance: the scent of his cologne, the shift of his hot breath against your skin.

His tongue dated out to lick his bottom lip slowly, a sweep that left a glistening sheen that caught the light like freshly fallen rain on blades of grass, drawing your eyes down to the motion. The plush curve of his mouth was mesmerizing in its causal sensuality, it looked soft, it looked like it was begging to be touched, and for a moment he bit the flesh, before reaching out with his free hand–while the other secured the chair in place, fingers gripping the armrest with a firmness that couldn’t be broken even if your tried–and ghosting his fingertips over the chain around your neck, the touch featherlight yet scorching.

The metal, warmed by your skin, conducted the heat from his fingers like a conduit, leading down to the cross where his pointer lingered, running along its edges with a slow, exploratory drag, feeling the sticky dew of perspiration on your chest beneath it. The sheen clung to his skin as he relished the way he had you ensnared, exactly where he desired, your body responding with a quiver that betrayed your composure.

”Did you have the cross between your teeth when he was inside you? Were you sucking on it as you pushed down all those little things you learned about purity, about how you should save yourself for someone who deserved it?” He whispered, his touch lingering for a suspended moment on your chest, the pad of his finger absorbing the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat, a palpable thrum that vibrated against his skin like a secret Morse code, before trailing upward to caress the side of your cheek. The warm of his palm cupping your face with a gentleness that contrasted the intensity of his words made you lean into his touch slightly, it was a barely noticeable movement, as his thumb rested on your bottom lip, pressing it against the plush, slightly chapped skin that quivered beneath his touch, slipping the tip of it inside to gather the slickness of your saliva, then dragging it down slowly to smear the wetness along the cracks. The sensation of the air cooling the dampness, sent a jolt through your core, and you could feel the liquid fire in your belly pooling low.

Your lashes fluttered closed at the feeling, the ache that pulsed through your most intimate place, it was familiar to you, yet at the same time…It felt new, like a reflexive surrender to the overwhelming intimacy of the moment, and it only made you squirm in your spot, your hands wringing the fabric of your sweatpants in tight twists, the material bunching under your grip.

“Did he make you cum?” He asked, the question hanging like a temptation–like the apple in the Garden of Eden–feeling his breath ghosting over your lips, carrying the faint minty freshness that made your mouth water. Instantly, as if Todd had shot a truth serum through your veins, you shook your head no, the motion small and hesitant, your eyes opening to peer up at him through your lashes, gauging his reaction–the way his expression paused, and his eyes widened slightly, like he was surprised you finally cracked. His knee bumped the insides of yours with a nudge that spread your legs just a fraction wider.

It was like he was expecting you to elaborate, his silence a vacuum pulling at your words, coaxing them out of you just by looking at your face, and you could feel yourself slowly succumbing to the unspoken demand, a sigh escaping your lips in a soft exhale that brushed against the tip of his thumb, the warmth of your breath mingling with the saliva.

“It happened at a party a while ago…It was quick, and brief, there wasn’t any…Build up, I just kind of did it. We didn’t really know each other, we just met and I decided to take him up on the offer of sleeping with him thinking that if I was turning away from my faith I might as well take the opportunity now and start the journey with a band…I thought it would be different, but it…Sucked to be honest.” You explained, the admission tumbling out in a quiet rush–like you were grasping at the will to form words–following it with a self-deprecating laugh that bubbled up from you like a release valve, light and brittle, your fingers loosening their grip on the fabric of your pants, leaving wrinkled imprints behind.

He kept his eyes on you, unblinking and intense, his irises tracing every shift in your posture–the way your shoulders curved inward every so slightly, as if you were curling around a secret wound. It was like watching a delicate flower wilting under the weight of its own petals, your gaze dropping to the floor in a quiet retreat, lashes casting long shadows over your cheeks as regret etched faint lines across your forehead. He could almost hear the echo of your internal monologue, the self-recrimination bubbling up like bitter bile: how impulsive that night had been, a reckless plunge into unfamiliar waters without a lifeline, driven by the raw ache of rebellion against the rigid doctrines that had once defined you. Speaking it aloud seemed to amplify the folly, turning a hazy memory into a stark, unflattering portrait of haste and disappointment, and Todd savoured the vulnerability it exposed.

Yet, far from deterring him, your confession only stoked the inferno raging within Todd’s chest, a wildfire that leaped from ember to blaze in an instant, consuming his thoughts in a torrent of fevered possibilities. His mind raced ahead like a runaway train hurtling off its tracks, derailing into visions so vivid they bordered on hallucination: you, pliant and eager beneath his guiding hands, your body a blank canvas awaiting his masterful strokes. He imagined molding you with exquisite patience, unravelling the threads of your inexperience one silken strand at a time–teaching you the symphony of sensations that a skilled lover like him could orchestrate, the way a single touch could ignite nerves you didn’t know existed, sending ripples of ecstasy cascading through your limbs.

That pure, untainted mind of yours, still shadowed by echoes of sermons and vows, would yield to him like fresh clay under a sculptor’s fingers; he could be the one to shatter the illusions of your past encounter, to rewrite the narrative of pleasure in bold, permanent ink. No more fumbling in the dark with a stranger who saw you as a fleeting conquest–he would be your revelation, the shepherd leading his lamb not to salvation, but to sublime ruin. All it would take was your surrender, a whispered yes that granted him access to the sacred temple of your desires, allowing him to show you the heights you had been denied, the quivering bliss that should have marked your first foray into intimacy, not the hollow echo of regret.

He yearned to infiltrate every corner of your being, to reduce you to a trembling, writhing mosaic of need beneath him–your breaths coming in ragged gasps, your skin hot and glistening with a sheen of sweat that begged for his tongue to trace salty paths along it, your voice fracturing into pleas and whimpers until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the torment of anticipation. Todd had always been a man of calculated indulgence; he could thrive on sporadic, heated liaisons that left his partners breathless and yearning, but with you, he envisioned something lavish, an endless feast where he’d offer himself up plate after plate–slow, teasing explorations that built to shattering ends, only to begin anew. You’d crave him like an addiction, your body growing attended to his rhythms, and he’d relish the power of granting or withholding, turning you into his most devoted acolyte in this new, carnal faith.

“You had other experiences after that though…Right?” He asked, his voice a low, velvet rumble that came out far more drier than expected, slicing through the silence. He tried to pivot to mask the storm brewing inside him–to distract from the distinct throb awakening in his core, where his arousal stirred, pressing against the confines of his dress pants with a growing insistence that made the fabric feel suddenly constricting, heat pooling low in his abdomen.

You raised your eyebrows at him, the arch a fragile bridge of surprise over your wide eyes, and shook your head again, the motion sending a faint shiver through you, the crucifix swaying gently against the damp valley between your breasts.

“One dick…Remember?” You commented quietly, your words were a hushed reminder, “I was being serious about that,” You added, your voice trailing off into a whisper that carried the weight of unspoken hesitations, your fingers now tracing absent patterns on your thigh, the soft scrape of nails against cotton a tactile anchor amid the swirling thoughts in your mind.

He felt the tie around his neck tightening like a noose woven from his own desires, not literally but in the suffocating rush of blood thundering through his veins, diverting southward and leaving his thoughts hazy at the edges, as if the revelation had hammered the final nail into the coffin of his restraint. It was the tipping point, the irrevocable push that propelled him forward, riding on a surge of hope that you’d yield to the inevitable pull, that the spark he’d ignited wouldn’t fizzle out but blaze into something consuming.

His hand slid off your cheek with a lingering reluctance, the warmth of your skin clinging to his palm like a phantom caress, and he reached toward the knot at his throat, fingers deftly loosening the silk with a slow tug that eased the pressure but did little to quell the fire within. He stood up quickly from his chair, the abrupt motion sending a faint creak through the frame of it, and the sudden absence of his body’s radiating heat hit you like a chill draft sweeping through an open window, leaving your skin prickling with goosebumps and an inexplicable sense of loss that echoed deep in your bones, making you sit up straighter instinctively, your spine slinging with a subtle snap as if you were bracing for the unknown.

Todd moved toward the door with short, purposeful strides, each step measured and charged with urgency, the friction of his erection rubbing against the soft weave of his boxer briefs and the unyielding barrier of his zipper sending jolts of electric tension up his spine, the fabric whispering promises of release against his straining length.

He reached out and twisted the lock on the doorknob with a decisive click that resonated through the room like a key turning in a forbidden lock, sealing you both in this cocoon of privacy, before his hand moved to the chain dangling beside the windows, his fingers curling around the cool metal links with a grip that betrayed the tremor of anticipation thrumming through him.

“What’re you doing?” You pressed, your voice wavering in its steadiness, a fragile thread pulled taut, laced with a mix of curiosity and dawning apprehension that made your pulse visible at the base of your throat, fluttering like a trapped bird as you watched him pull at the chain, the thick, dark curtains descending in a slow cascade, their heavy fabric whispering against the glass with each incremental drop, muffling the outside world until the room was enveloped in a dimmer, more intimate glow.

“Teaching you something for once,” he replied, still turned with his back to you, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the now-obscured windows, waiting until the blinds met the floor with a final, soft thud, ensuring absolute seclusion–that no prying eyes could pierce this veil, no interruptions could shatter the moment. The words hit you immediately, a visceral impact that sent your heart into a frenzied gallop, pounding against your ribcage with such force it bordered on painful, a thunderous rhythm that drowned out everything around you and made your breath catch in your throat, wondering if this was a prelude to a heart attack or something far more transformative.

When he turned back to you, the room seemed to contract around the both of you, the air thickening with a palpable charge that hummed in your ears. Todd could see it immediately–the way you were practically hanging on every unspoken word, your body poised on the edge of the chair as if tethered by an invisible string he held in his grasp, your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths that displayed how he’d already woven his control into you. Your wide eyes locked onto his, reflecting a mix of trepidation and raw curiosity, like a doe frozen in the headlights, waiting for the confirmation that would shatter the fragile barrier between the both of you.

Your gaze roamed over him hungrily as he slowly made his way back to you, each step unhurried, the polished leather of his shoes whispering against the carpet in a soft hush. Your eyes traced the sharp lines of his silhouette first–the broad expanse of his shoulders straining against the light blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing the corded muscles of his forearms that were dusted with faint brown hairs that reflected the light, with his veins standing out like rivers etched into marble. Then, lower, they snagged on the unmistakable bulge pressing insistently against the front of his dress pants, the fabric taut and unforgiving, creating a prominent mound that he couldn’t–and didn’t seem inclined to–explain away with casual dismissal. It was irrefutable confirmation of the path this night was veering toward, a visual promise that sent an overwhelming jolt surging through every inch of your body, like lightning forking through strom clouds.

Shivers cascaded up your spine in rippling waves, prickling your skin from the base of your neck to the tips of your fingers, while a sudden slickness bloomed between your thighs, dampening the cotton of your underwear with a rush that made you fully aware of your own arousal building. Instinctively, you shifted on the chair, your thighs pressing together in desperate movements, the soft friction of fabric against fabric providing fleeting sparks of relief that only heightened the ache awakening from its long hibernation deep in your core–a throbbing need that coiled tighter with each passing second, demanding more.

Once he came to stand directly in front of you, towering yet intimate, your eye level aligned perfectly with the gleam of his belt buckle, the silver catching the muted light like a winking secret. You tilted your head up slowly to meet his gaze, the motion exposing the vulnerable curve of your throat, where your pulse fluttered visibly beneath the skin like a captive butterfly. He was already looking down at you, his blue eyes darkened to stormy depths, holding yours with an intensity that made the air between you feel charged, almost combustible.

He brought his hand back to your cheek, the warmth of his palm cupping it with a tenderness that contrasted the feral hunger simmering beneath, his thumb tracing a gentle path just below your eye, brushing over the delicate skin there as if mapping every blemish. He took you in fully then, drinking in the details like a connoisseur savoring a rare vintage–the way your eyes were glazed over and glistening with unspoken want, lashes heavy and half-lowered; the subtle lean of your body into his touch, chasing the heat of his skin; the small, dizzying smile that tugged at the corners of your lips, tentative yet blooming; and the lust that burned just beneath the surface, flushing your cheeks and warming the flesh under his fingers to a feverish glow. In those suspended moments, he knew without doubt that you were acutely aware his intentions, and the way you nuzzled deeper into his palm, your breath ghosting warm against his wrist, was a silent, unequivocal sign of surrender, a willingness to hand over every guarded inch of yourself, no matter what depraved delights he might demand.

“Sit on the table for me,” He instructed, his voice a low command, authoritative yet laced with an undercurrent of invitation that made your stomach flip. He stepped back just enough to grant you space, his presence lingering like a magnetic field you could still feel pulling at you even in retreat. You blinked up at him for a heartbeat, processing the request through the haze clouding your mind, before compliance took over, your body moving almost of its own accord.

Rising from the chair with a soft creak of the frame, you swept the scattered notes and textbook aside in a hurried cascade of papers, the edges fluttering like startled birds, clearing a space on the wooden surface that felt suddenly vast and exposed. With a small hop, you perched on the edge, shifting your weight to settle comfortably, the cool wood pressing through your sweatpants against the backs of your thighs, grounding you amid the swirling heat. Instinctively, you parted your legs just enough to create an inviting gap, a silent beckoning that he filled without hesitation, stepping forward with predatory grace until the insides of your thighs brushed against the outsides of his, the contact sending fresh sparks racing up your legs like embers scattering from a fire. He burrowed deeper between them, his hips aligning with yours until you were chest to chest, the heat of his body enveloping you completely, so close that his breath mingled with yours, the faint mint lingering like a promise, and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat echoing against your own frantic one–intimate enough that it felt like he was already inside you, claiming a space that no one else had occupied properly.

“What’re you going to teach me, Todd?” You asked, your voice emerging breathy and laced with a subtle eagerness that surprised even you, as his hand came to rest against your hip, his pinky grazing the sliver of bare flesh where your tank top had ridden up from the movements. A smirk curved his lips, slow and wicked, deepening the dimples in his cheeks as he let out a small, exhaled breath that fanned warm across your face, carrying the subtle sweetness of the energy drink he’d sipped earlier.

“Everything…And then some,” He replied simply, the words a tantalizing vow that hung in the air like smoke, his hand slipping further beneath the hem of your tank top to envelop the soft flesh of your hip fully, his fingers splaying possessively as he gave it a gentle squeeze, the pressure firm yet exploratory, kneading the curve there.

Before you could respond, he leaned forward, closing the scant distance to capture your lips in a kiss that started tentative but quickly deepened. At first, you were stiff against him, your mouth pressing back with an earnest but unpracticed firmness–you were not a bad kisser by any means, but the lack of experience showed in the way your lips moved rigidly, mirroring his initial pressure without the fluid grace of familiarity, like a dancer learning steps for the first time. You tried to match his rhythm, your tongue tentatively brushing his as you parted your lips slightly, but the hesitation lingered, a subtle tension in your jaw that spoke of uncertainty.

Sensing it, he reached up with his free hand–the one not anchored at your hip–and gently grasped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, his touch guiding rather than forceful, tilting your head just so with a subtle nudge that encouraged you to loosen, to melt into him. Wordlessly, he coaxed you with the pressure of his fingers, easing the rigidity from your posture as his lips softened against yours, inviting rather than demanding, until you felt the knot of nerves unravel, your body relaxing into the kiss like sinking into warm water. You opened your mouth wider to him then, a soft sigh escaping as he slipped his tongue inside, exploring with a languid sweep that tangled with yours in a dance of heat and discovery. He tasted the sweet, tangy remnants of the sour key you’d nibbled on before his arrival, a citrusy burst that mingled with the underlying freshness of mint on his breath, but what overwhelmed everything was the raw sensation of your tongue gliding against his–velvet-soft and eager, the wet slide sending shivers cascading through both of you.

The kiss turned feral and messy in an instant, a whirlwind of urgency that devoured restraint; saliva mingled and spilled at the corners of your mouths, his teeth grazing your lower lip in a playful nip that drew a gasp from you, the sound swallowed by his deepening claim. Your hands found their way to his belt loops, fingers hooking into the sturdy fabric with a desperate tug that pulled him flush against you, the hard ridge of his erection pressing insistently into your core through the layers of clothing, a throbbing heat that made you arch instinctively, the friction igniting fresh waves of need that pulsed low and insistent. He groaned softly into your mouth, the vibration rumbling through your chest, as your tongues battled in slick, heated strokes, the kiss devolving into a primal exchange of breaths and bites, messy strands of saliva connecting you even as he finally pulled back, both of you panting, lips swollen and glistening.

“Help me take your pants off,” He murmured, his voice roughened to a gravelly edge, eyes dark with unrestrained desire as his hand slipped from your hip to the drawstrings of your sweatpants, fingers deftly untying the knot with a quick pull that loosened the waistband. You nodded breathlessly, kicking off your shoes with hurried flicks that sent them clattering to the floor in muffled thuds, the cool air kissing your bare feet as you shifted on the table to aid him. Both his hands descended then, hooking into the waistband and tugging downward with firm, deliberate motions, the fabric sliding over your hips with a soft rasp against your skin, revealing inch by inch the smooth expanse of your thighs until the sweatpants pooled at your ankles and fell to the ground in a discarded heap, leaving you in nothing but your simple white underwear–cotton panties that were utterly unadorned, with nothing innately sexy about their plain design or modest cut.

Yet, because they clung to you, hugging the curves of your hips and the subtle swell between your legs, they might as well have been the most provocative lace, rendering you feel exposed as if you’d bared everything to him at once. His pupils dilated as they fixed on the damp spot blooming at the center, the wetness from your arousal making the fabric translucent just enough to hint at the delicate outline of your folds beneath, a teasing shadow that made his mouth water. Todd was delighted at the sight, because removing the last barrier was just one step closer to utterly ruining you for any man who might follow–if you even chose to pursue another.

He knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he’d imprint himself into your very essence, that your walls would memorize the ridges and veins of his cock like it was a sacred text, and that every subsequent lover would pale in comparison, offering mere satisfaction where he would forever embody perfection, woven into the fabric of your desires like an indelible stain.

You could see the way he was looking at you now, the raw hunger etching lines of tension across his features, lust scorching through his irises like blue flames, devouring you whole without a touch. His fingers returned to the waistband of your underwear soon after, tugging gently but insistently, a silent signal for you to lift your hips again so he could strip away this final barrier, the anticipation coiling tighter in the air between you like a spring about to snap.

Quickly, you shifted again from side to side, lifting your hips in subtle, alternating rolls that allowed the cotton to slide down inch by inch, the fabric clinging stubbornly to your damp skin before yielding with a soft, whispering drag. The cool air of the room kissed your newly exposed flesh immediately, a stark contrast to the feverish heat building within you, sending fresh goosebumps rippling across your thighs like a breeze. Todd pulled the fabric down slowly, with a controlled tension that made the process feel like an unveiling, a ritual of exposure that heightened every sensation–the faint stickiness of your arousal trailing along your inner thighs in thin, glistening threads, cooling rapidly and leaving behind a prickling awareness that made your core clench involuntarily.

His eyes devoured the sight of you half-naked before him, the dim fluorescent light casting a soft, ethereal glow over your lower body. There, laid bare, was the evidence of your need: your clit already swollen and flushed, throbbing subtly with each erratic beat of your heart; your folds glistening with a slick sheen of arousal that caught the light in tiny, iridescent sparkles, the wetness pooling at your entrance and trickling downward in lazy rivulets that spoke of how thoroughly he’d unraveled you without even a direct touch; and the tight, fluttering entrance itself, a delicate ring that clenched around nothing, quivering with anticipation as if already imagining the stretch and fill he promised. He could feel his cock twitching in his pants at the sight, a sharp, insistent pulse that strained against the zipper, demanding release–but he needed to control himself, to resist the primal urge to rush forward and claim you in one swift thrust, savoring instead the slow burn of building your desperation to match his own.

Bringing the discarded panties up to his nose, he pressed the damp fabric against his face and inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as the scent enveloped him–a heady, natural musk laced with a subtle sweetness, like ripe summer fruit warmed by the sun and mingled with the faint, earthy tang of your skin. It made his mouth water instantly, saliva pooling under his tongue as if he’d bitten into something forbidden and divine, the aroma so intoxicating it sent a fresh wave of dizziness through him, his eyelids fluttering half-closed in momentary bliss. He exhaled with a low, rumbling groan that vibrated through his chest, then placed the panties on the table beside you with careful precision, the fabric landing with a soft crumple that seemed to echo the crumbling of your last defenses.

”Fuck you smell amazing.” He whispered, leaning in once more to capture your lips in another kiss. This one was softer at first, a gentle reclaiming that built quickly into shared urgency, his mouth slanting over yours with a possessiveness that made your head spin. Your hands rose instinctively to rest on the sides of his torso, fingers splaying over the firm ridges of muscle beneath his dress shirt, the fabric warm and slightly damp from the heat radiating off his body; you pawed at him there, squeezing gently, feeling the solid planes of his obliques flex and shift under your touch, a tactile exploration that grounded you amid the whirlwind of sensation. He reached up then, his hands sliding over your shoulders to push your hoodie off with firm, sweeping motions, the heavy fabric pooling down your arms like shedding a second skin; you pulled back just enough to shrug it free, letting it drop to the floor in a muffled thud, the sudden exposure to the room’s air pebbling your skin further.

Without breaking eye contact, his fingers hooked under the hem of your tank top next, lifting it upward in a slow peel that revealed the expanse of your stomach inch by inch, the cool rush of air teasing your newly bared midriff before he tugged it over your head completely, leaving you in only your white lace bra–a delicate confection of sheer fabric that hugged your breasts like a whisper, the intricate patterns doing little to conceal the shadowed peaks of your nipples pressing insistently against it, hardened into tight buds from the combination of arousal and the room’s chill.

He kissed you deeper this time, his lips claiming yours with a fervor that made stars burst behind your closed eyelids, and as your mouths moved in heated sync, his thumbs traced upward to brush over those swollen nipples through the lace, the friction of the fabric adding a layer of exquisite torment that sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He pinched them gently at first, rolling the sensitive peaks between his fingers with a deliberate twist that earned a sharp gasp from you, the sound vibrating against his lips like a shared secret, your body arching involuntarily into his touch. He continued, pinching and twisting with varying pressure–sometimes light and teasing, sometimes firmer, bordering on a sting that blurred the line between pain and ecstasy–while his palms kneaded the soft fullness of your breasts, the lace rasping against your skin in a way that amplified every sensation, your fingers digging into his sides in response, nails pressing through his shirt to leave faint crescents on his skin as the slight burn settled through you, a delicious ache that only fueled the liquid heat pooling between your thighs.

Then, with a sudden but purposeful motion, he captured one of your hands in his, guiding it downward with a firm yet gentle insistence, pressing your fingers against the throbbing heat of your clit, the contact sending a shockwave through you like touching a live wire, your own touch feeling foreign and electrified under his direction. He pulled away from the kiss just enough to speak, his breath hot and ragged against your lips.

“I want to watch you touch yourself…” He instructed, seeing the way your lashes fluttered at him, a veil of shyness mingling with the haze of desire, your voice emerging soft and hesitant.

“I’ve never done that in front of someone before,”

He gave you a gentle peck, a reassuring brush of lips that lingered just long enough to soothe, his words a velvet murmur. “Just do it for me baby…I want to see…I want to know how you get off…”

You could’ve sworn you felt yourself grow wetter just from the tone in his voice, that sultry sweetness laced with commanding undertones, wrapping around you like silk bonds, coaxing a short, shaky breath from your lungs as you whispered, “Okay…”

He backed away then, grabbing one of the chairs and positioning it directly in front of you with a decisive scrape against the floor. He sat down slowly, spreading his legs wide in a posture of unapologetic dominance, his thighs straining against the fabric of his pants as he settled his hands on his belt, fingers resting there like a promise, his gaze locked on you with an intensity that made your skin flush anew.

He looked down at your hand, mesmerized by the way you gently trailed your fingertips along your clit, the light pressure sending tremors through your body, your breath hitching as you explored the swollen nub with tentative circles. Then, gliding lower, you dipped into the slick warmth of your folds, gathering your arousal onto your fingers–a glistening coat that caught the light like dew on petals–before bringing it back up to the bundle of nerves, rubbing in slow, deliberate spirals that built a rhythm of mounting pleasure. The interaction was intense, erotic, a silent dialogue of exposure and observation; you leaned back against your free hand for support, the wood of the table cool and steady beneath your palm, spreading your legs a little wider to expose more of yourself to his voracious gaze–the way your dripping entrance fluttered around nothing, clenching in rhythmic pulses that begged for fulfillment, the slick pooling beneath you on the table’s surface in a small puddle.

“Fuck, baby…You look so fucking good like that…Keep going,” He urged, his voice rough with restraint, as his hands began to undo his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle echoing through the room like a tolling bell, drawing your eyes downward immediately. He unzipped his pants, the rasp of the zipper a tantalizing prelude, before pushing the fabric down along with his boxers to mid-thigh, exposing his erection in all its imposing glory–far larger than the fleeting encounter you’d known before, thick and veined with a girth that promised a stretch bordering on overwhelming, the length curving slightly upward toward his abdomen. Pre-cum dripped from the reddened, swollen tip, a thin strand connecting to his thigh before breaking as he shifted; from where you perched, you could see the prominent veins mapping the underside like rivers pulsing with life, branching out in intricate patterns that throbbed subtly with each heartbeat, and the neatly trimmed pubic hair at the base, a dark, manicured patch that accentuated his groomed precision, framing him like a work of art. He kept himself impeccably maintained, every detail screaming control and allure, and it only made your core clench harder around nothing, a fresh gush of wetness escaping you as the image of him pushing into you–stretching, filling, claiming–played on a relentless loop in your mind, your fingers faltering for a moment in their rhythm from the sheer intensity of the fantasy.

He wrapped his hand around his cock then, the grip firm as he began stroking slowly, the motion deliberate and unhurried, his thumb swiping over the tip to spread the pre-cum down the shaft in slick, glistening trails that eased the glide, his breath deepening into low, controlled exhales that matched the building tension in the room.

“I want you to finger yourself…” He instructed, motioning to your hand that was still rubbing against your clit, his eyes hooded and fixed on the way your fingers glistened with your own essence.

You obeyed immediately, letting your digits slide through the slick warmth of your folds once more, circling your entrance with two fingers in teasing loops that gathered more arousal, the sensation like silk against silk, before slipping them inside with a slow, deliberate push–the tight heat enveloping them in a velvet grip that made you gasp, your walls fluttering around the intrusion as you began to pump them in and out.

Todd watched on in awe as he continued to fist his cock with measured restraint, the slick sound of his hand gliding over his veined length filling the room like a rhythmic undertone to your breathless symphony. He bit down on his lower lip, jaw clenching to suppress the urge to speed up, to chase the building pressure coiling in his groin–because he didn’t want to cum yet, not without burying himself deep inside you, feeling your walls milk him in ways your fingers could only hint at. But god, the sight of you was testing every ounce of his control: your slender digits plunging in and out of your soaked core with increasing urgency, the wet, obscene squelch echoing like a siren’s call, your arousal coating your fingers in a glossy sheen that dripped down your knuckles and pooled on the table’s edge. Little noises escaped you–soft, involuntary whimpers that started as hushed breaths but grew into keening mewls, each one piercing the air like a delicate arrow, making Todd perk up instantly, his cock twitching in his grip as if responding to your pleas, his free hand gripping the armrest tighter to anchor himself.

“Tell me what you’re feeling, baby…” His voice was a gravelly rasp, thick with the effort of holding back, barely registering in your haze of pleasure; your mind was a swirling fog of sensation, every nerve alight with the building tension, but you summoned the willpower to drag yourself from the brink, your words tumbling out in fragmented whispers.

“Feeling so fucking good…So fucking wet, I…I’m so close…” You whispered, your voice fracturing on the edge of a moan, your core clenching around your fingers in rapid, fluttering spasms that sent electric sparks radiating outward, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping them spread.

“What are you imagining?” He pressed, squeezing the swollen tip of his cock between his thumb and forefinger, a bead of pre-cum welling up anew before he slid his hand back down the shaft in a slow, torturous stroke, the veins pulsing under his palm like live wires.

“Your fingers…Your cock inside of me…I…I want you inside of me so badly.” You were babbling now, the words spilling out in a delirious rush, your free hand clutching the table’s edge for leverage as your hips bucked subtly into your own touch, chasing the elusive peak that hovered just out of reach.

The admission resonated through him like a thunderclap, shattering the last threads of his rhythm; he broke his steady strokes abruptly, rising from the chair with a predatory grace that made the wood creak in protest. In one fluid motion, he closed the distance, his hand shooting out to encircle your wrist–the one buried between your thighs–his grip firm but not bruising, the slick warmth of his pre-cum transferring to your skin in a sticky glide that mingled with your own arousal, sending a forbidden thrill up your arm like liquid fire. He pulled your hand away slowly, deliberately, your fingers emerging with a wet pop that echoed lewdly, strands of your essence stretching and snapping between them like silken threads, leaving your core clenching desperately around the sudden emptiness, a whine of protest bubbling from your throat.

He brought his hand up to your mouth then, cupping it just beneath your chin with his slicked fingers splayed, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pinned you in place.

“Spit,” He commanded, his voice a low, authoritative rumble that brooked no argument, vibrating through you like a bass note that settled low in your belly.

You tilted your head down obediently, parting your lips to let a glistening string of saliva fall from your tongue onto his waiting fingers, the warm droplet pooling in his palm before he withdrew, bringing them back down to your aching core with purposeful intent. He rubbed his saliva-soaked hand against you first, the mixture of your combined essences creating a slippery, heated friction that made your hips jerk involuntarily, his palm grinding against your clit in broad circles that sent shivers up your spine.

“This is what you want, hmm? You want my thick fingers to fuck this pretty little pussy?” He asked, his tone dripping with lust, and you nodded eagerly, desperately, your breath coming in ragged pants as the tips of his pointer and middle fingers pressed against your entrance, teasing the fluttering rim before slipping both in with a slow, inexorable push.

They filled you far more than your own slender digits ever could, the stretch a delicious burn that bordered on overwhelming–his fingers thicker, longer, calloused in ways that added textured ridges to every inch they claimed, nestling deep into your fluttering walls until his knuckles brushed your outer lips. He curled them immediately, the pads rubbing insistently against that rigid, spongy spot inside you that swelled with each precise pass, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating outward. He gave you a gentle peck then, a soft contrast to the intensity below, his lips brushing yours like a whisper before he nipped at your bottom lip, the sharp sting blooming into a throb that mirrored the one between your legs.

“Fuck, Todd, oh god…” You cursed, your voice fracturing into a moan as you squirmed against him, every thrust of his fingers igniting fresh fire along your nerves, your body a live wire arcing under his command.He used his free arm to wrap around the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer, his hold unyielding like iron bands that prevented any escape, trapping you in the maelstrom of sensation as your whines grew louder, more desperate–high-pitched keens that filled the room like music, each one punctuated by the wet, rhythmic slap of his fingers driving into you. Your walls clenched around him in erratic pulses, soaking his hand completely, the slick dripping down his wrist in warm rivulets that cooled on his skin, a messy testament to your unravelling.

“God, you’re going to feel so fucking good around my cock, sweetheart… I’m gonna fucking ruin you…You’re never going to remember your first time after I’m done with you…Cause I’ll be the one that’s ingrained in your mind after this… How would you like that?” He asked, his words a heated growl against your ear, his breath fanning hot across your neck as he leaned in to nibble at the nape, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there in sharp, teasing bites that sent shudders cascading down your spine.

“I…Oh fuck…Todd…I would love it…Erase all of it…Take it from me, replace it all.” You moaned, your voice a fractured plea as his fingers sped up, the pace relentless now, each curl and thrust hitting that swollen spot with unerring accuracy, building the pressure in your core to a fever pitch. Your body writhed against his, the top of your thigh grazing just beneath his cock in accidental brushes that earned low, guttural groans from him, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours. Your walls clenched tighter, a rapid flutter that signaled the edge, soaking his fingers in a fresh gush as you whined and moaned and gasped, your body shaking against him like a leaf in a gale, clutching at his arm with desperate fingers, nails digging into the taut muscle there to leave red crescents in their wake.

He kept thrusting through your climax, drawing out every tremor until the rapid fluttering of your walls eased into languid pulses, only then pulling them out slowly, the withdrawal accompanied by a final, obscene squelch that made your cheeks burn even hotter. He looked down at the mess coating his hand–your release glistening like dew on his skin, strands connecting his fingers as he spread them slightly–before murmuring, “Fucking beautiful…”

Bringing his fingers up to his mouth, he sucked them clean with deliberate slowness, his tongue swirling around each digit to savor the tangy-sweet essence of your release, moaning low in his throat as the flavor burst across his taste buds like nectar. You were panting, chest heaving as you caught your breath, the aftershocks still tingling through your limbs like fading echoes, watching him pull his fingers free with a wet pop before settling them gently against your cheek, the residual warmth and dampness an intimate reminder of what he’d just wrought.

“Open your mouth… I want you to taste yourself off my tongue.” He instructed, and you complied without hesitation, parting your lips as he tilted your head back slightly with his other hand.

He leaned forward, letting his saliva–mingled with traces of you–fall from his mouth in a slow, deliberate string, the warm wetness pooling on your tongue like forbidden ambrosia; you swallowed every drop he gave, the salty-sweet fusion sliding down your throat in a heady rush that made your core twitch anew, before pulling back with a dazed smile, your lips still tingling from the exchange.

“You’re so fucking obedient…You love taking commands, don’t you?” He teased, rubbing his thumb over your lips in lazy circles, tracing the plush curve as if memorizing it, and you nodded, the admission pulling from you like a confession.

“I would only take them…And tolerate them when they’re coming from your mouth.” You replied, your voice husky and breathless, earning a slow, approving smile from him that lit his features.

“That’s what I like to hear…” He praised, leaning in to give you a small kiss, a soft seal of approval that lingered with promise, before pulling back to meet your gaze. “Now, are you ready for my cock?” He asked, searching your face for any flicker of doubt, but finding only unreadable anticipation in your flushed features.

“Yes…Please…Please take me…Use me…Don’t hold back,” You begged, your words a fervent plea, your hands reaching out to clutch at his shirt, your fingers twisting in the fabric.

“I don’t think you know what you’re asking for, baby… You haven’t even experienced a real man before… And you think you’ll be able to handle me when I’m not holding myself back?” He questioned, the tease lacing his voice like velvet over steel, a challenge issued through the haze of your post-orgasmic glow, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

“I want you to do it…I want to feel you at your roughest…I want to know what it’s like…I want you to defile me until I can’t remember my own name…Until you ruin me for everyone else but you…” He smiled at that, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction at how utterly desperate you were for him–so eager, so willing to be taken and reshaped into whatever twisted vision he held, it was almost endearing in its raw vulnerability, a lamb offering itself to the wolf without realizing the depth of the devouring to come. But beneath that flicker of affection, it fed straight into the corruption kink simmering in his core, a thrilling rush at the thought of tarnishing your innocence further, layer by fragile layer, until you were irrevocably his. He leaned in again, capturing your lips in a kiss that started with deceptive gentleness, his mouth brushing yours like a promise of tenderness before deepening into something possessive and consuming, his tongue sweeping in to claim the space, tasting the lingering salt of your earlier surrender mixed with the faint metallic tang from your bitten lip.

As the kiss intensified, your hands slid from his sides to the front of his shirt, fingers trembling with a mix of post-orgasmic haze and burgeoning need, fumbling at the buttons with urgent, clumsy tugs that popped them free one by one. The fabric parted gradually under your touch, revealing the freckled and pale expanse of his chest and stomach–a canvas of smooth, taut skin dotted with constellations of faint brown spots, rising and falling with each controlled breath, the subtle play of muscles beneath, warm and inviting like sun-kissed marble begging for exploration. You traced your fingertips along the newly bared skin, feeling the heat radiating from him, the faint prickle of goosebumps rising in response to your touch, a silent affirmation of how your proximity affected him too.

He mirrored your urgency, his hands sliding up your arms to hook under the delicate straps of your bra, pulling them down with deliberate slowness that made the lace rasp against your shoulders like a whisper of silk on silk, sending shivers cascading down your spine. With a deft flick of his fingers at the clasp behind your back, the band gave way, the garment loosening before he let it slip free entirely, tumbling to the floor in a soft heap of white lace, leaving your breasts exposed to the cool air of the room–a sudden rush that pebbled your nipples tighter, the sensitive peaks aching with the dual torment of chill and arousal. He leaned down immediately, his breath hot against your skin as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to the soft mounds, his lips trailing fire along the curves, tongue flicking out to tease the hardened buds in lazy swirls that drew breathless gasps from you, each one vibrating through his mouth like a reward.

Straightening slightly, he shoved his pants and boxers down in one fluid motion, the fabric pooling at his ankles. He stepped out of them gracefully, kicking the discarded clothing aside with a careless flick that sent it skidding across the floor, his erection springing free once more, heavy and insistent, the tip glistening anew with fresh pre-cum that beaded and threatened to drip. He grabbed your thighs then, his large hands encircling them with possessive firmness, fingers digging into the soft flesh just enough to leave faint imprints as he pulled you abruptly to the edge of the table, the wood scraping slightly against your bare skin with a muted rasp that sent a thrill up your spine.

Positioning himself firmly between your spread legs, the heat of his body enveloping you like a living flame, he guided his thick erection toward you with one hand, the other steadying your hip. He rubbed the swollen tip against your folds first, the velvety head gliding through the slick warmth in teasing strokes that gathered your arousal like nectar, coating him in a glistening sheen that made every nerve in your core ignite with fresh urgency; then, he dragged it upward to circle your clit, smearing his pre-cum along the sensitive nub in deliberate swirls, the combined slickness creating a slippery friction that had you arching toward him, a whimper escaping your lips as electric sparks danced through your veins.

Finally, he lined himself up with your entrance, the broad head nudging against the fluttering rim, and pushed in slowly, inch by torturous inch, the stretch an exquisite burn that filled you utterly–his girth parting your walls with unyielding pressure, every ridge and vein dragging along your inner textures in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids, the sensation like being claimed from the inside out, a delicious invasion that bordered on too much yet promised everything. You whimpered, the sound raw and unfiltered, your eyes squeezing shut tightly against the overwhelming fullness, a mix of sharp sting and profound pleasure that left you breathless, your core clenching instinctively around the intrusion as if to both resist and welcome it.

“You okay?” He asked, his voice a husky murmur laced with genuine concern, pausing midway to let you adjust, his hands soothing along your thighs in gentle strokes that contrasted the intensity below.

You nodded, drawing in a slow, shuddering breath to steady yourself, the air filling your lungs with a cool rush that did little to temper the fire raging within. “Yeah…Just really, really full.”

He let out a little laugh, low and rumbling, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours as he leaned down to kiss along your jaw, his lips tracing the sharp line with featherlight brushes that sent tingles racing across your skin.

“That’s a good thing…I hope you can feel every fucking vein…Every ridge,” He whispered against your ear, his breath hot and teasing, before sinking in fully with one final, slow thrust that buried him to the hilt.

The sudden completeness drew a sharp gasp from you, your body tensing as he filled you entirely, the pressure bordering on overwhelming, every inch of him pressing against spots that ignited fresh waves of sensation. He leaned down further, his mouth finding your neck, kissing the sensitive column with open-mouthed fervor before nipping at the skin there–sharp, deliberate bites that bloomed into stinging warmth, marks that would purple into bruises by morning, a possessive branding that made your pulse race.

Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back to pull him impossibly deeper, the shift angling him just right to brush that swollen ridge inside you with every subtle movement. Your hands slid from his stomach to round his back, your fingers splaying wide to clutch at the broad planes, nails grazing the skin in tentative trails that left faint pink lines in their wake.

He stayed still for a few suspended moments, buried deep, letting the heat of your body envelop him fully, his own breaths coming in controlled pants as he savored the vice-like grip of your walls, the way they fluttered around him like a living pulse. But you couldn’t wait, the fullness too exquisite to bear motionless; you shifted against him, hips rocking in subtle circles that ground your clit against his pubic bone, the friction sending sparks up your spine.

“Todd…Please move…” You begged, your voice a fractured whisper, laced with raw need that made his cock twitch inside you.

He obliged immediately, drawing back slowly at first–the drag of him retreating inch by inch a torturous tease that left you aching for more–before thrusting forward with deliberate control, each push a measured claim that built a rhythm of building intensity. He watched your facial expressions intently, his gaze locked on the way your eyes fluttered with each glide, lashes casting shadows over your cheeks as pleasure washed over you in waves, your lips parting on soft sighs that grew into breathy moans.

The sensation was all-consuming: the slick slide of him filling you anew with every thrust, the heat of his skin against yours, the faint burn where your thighs strained around his waist. Overwhelmed, you leaned forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the heady mix of his cologne and sweat–musky and intoxicating–as you moaned and whimpered into his skin, the sounds muffled but vibrating through him like a secret language.

He continued thrusting, his pace steady and deep, hands roaming your body with possessive sweeps–gripping your hips to angle you just so, fingers digging into the soft flesh to hold you steady as he drove into you, the table creaking faintly under the force. But he didn’t like the way you hid from him, the denial of seeing your unraveling up close; with a low growl, he murmured against your skin, “Sweetheart, be a good girl and look at me while I’m fucking you… Look at me while I take you.”

He punctuated the words with a sharp bite to the crook of your neck, teeth sinking in just enough to sting without breaking skin, the pain blooming into a throbbing heat that made you gasp, your body jolting against him. His hand fisted in your hair at the roots, the pull firm and commanding, tilting your head back to grant him more space; he explored the exposed column with his mouth, trailing sloppy kisses and licks up the sensitive skin, his tongue flicking along the chain of your necklace, breathing heavily to inhale the faint cherry scent imprinted on your body like a signature he couldn’t get enough of.

Pulling back slightly, he looked at you, noting how your eyes remained closed, lost in the haze; he tightened his grip in your hair, the tug sending a fresh zing from your scalp down your spine, and leaned forward, whispering hot against your lips, “I’m going to stop fucking you if you don’t open your eyes, baby…I want to see you…”

Immediately, you let out a small, desperate whine, the threat cutting through the fog, and forced your eyes open to meet his–your gaze hazy and unfocused at first, but locking onto the stormy blue of his irises, the intensity there mirroring the storm raging within you.

“That’s it…Now tell me…Who’s making you feel this good?” He instructed, thrusting harder now, the force jolting through you like a shockwave, his hips snapping forward with a precision that hit deep and unrelenting. You gasped, the air punched from your lungs, your walls clenching around him in reflexive spasms.

“You…Fuck, Todd…You’re making me feel this good.”

He smiled then, a grin of triumph that lit his features with wicked satisfaction, his thrusts maintaining that punishing rhythm as you scratched at his back–nails raking down the smooth planes in urgent trails, leaving raised red lines that burned pleasantly under his skin, a mark of your claim that only spurred him on. One hand slid down between you, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with firm, insistent pressure, the calloused pad rubbing in tight spirals that made you arch into him sharply, your breasts pressing flush against his chest, the friction of skin on skin amplifying every sensation–the pebbled hardness of your nipples dragging against his freckled torso like sparks on kindling.

“And who does this pussy belong to? Who owns it now?” He asked, his voice a ragged growl as he thrust harder, faster, his breaths coming in short, heated pants that fanned across your collarbone, the sound of skin slapping against skin–a wet, rhythmic percussion–mingling with the symphony of your shared moans and the creak of the table beneath you.

“You. It belongs to you… Oh fuck. You feel so fucking good, Todd…” You whined, the words dissolving into a loud moan as your walls clenched around him again, the pressure coiling tighter, a live wire ready to snap. He could feel you teetering on the edge, the way you fluttered around him in erratic pulses, gripping him like velvet vice; he sped up his thrusts, pounding into you relentlessly now, each drive a claim that shook your body, the table groaning under the force as he chased his own release, the heat building in his abdomen like a gathering storm.

“I need you to come all over my cock, baby…I need you to soak it…Claim it as your own.” He commanded, his thumb pressing harder against your clit, the circles frantic now, pushing you over the precipice.

That was all it took–the coil snapping with violent intensity, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, vision blurring at the edges as ecstasy ripped through you, your walls shattering around him in convulsive waves that milked his length, cries of his name spilling from your lips in broken sobs. Your nails dug deeper into his back, scratching down in desperate furrows that broke skin in places, the sting a distant pleasure amid his own unraveling; he shuddered against you, burying his face into your neck as the tightness, the gushing wetness enveloping him, sent him spiraling over the edge soon after.

He spilled inside you with hot, thick ropes of cum that seemed endless, each pulse twitching through his cock as he groaned your name low and guttural, the sound muffled against your skin, his hips stuttering through the final thrusts until he was spent, holding you close so you felt every minute of it–the warmth flooding you, the subtle throb as he softened slightly but remained buried deep.

The two of you stayed wrapped up in each other for a few suspended minutes, bodies slick with sweat and trembling with aftershocks, panting in perfect sync as the room’s hum faded back into awareness. Todd let out a long sigh and shifted first, gently pulling himself from your embrace to look at you, his eyes searching yours with a softness that contrasted the ferocity of moments ago, taking in the dick-drunk haze glazing your eyes as you peered up at him, utterly satiated and vulnerable.

“Is it always supposed to feel that good?” You asked, your voice a whisper laced with wonder, still catching your breath.

He let out a small laugh, warm and affectionate, reaching up to hold the crucifix between his fingers, twirling the warm metal absently as he replied, “We can go another round in a few minutes and I can show you…”

You nodded eagerly, the prospect igniting a fresh spark despite your exhaustion. “That would be perfect.” You murmured, reaching up to push a few stray hairs from his face.

A few months earlier...

"Ma, yes, I'm still coming," Bob spoke into the phone pressed against his cheek and shoulder. His hands were folding his fresh laundry as it lay out on his bed.

"And your older brother needs to know if you're bringing someone with you, honey. There's no shame in coming home alone again..." his mother said in a sweet voice, but Bob knew what the underlying tone meant. All his life, he never had anyone to bring home. It was like an ongoing joke inside his family at this point. No high school or college girlfriends seemed acceptable at the time, but now he was a Navy pilot and couldn't get a girl? Well couldn't get the girl he really wanted.

Before he even thought about what he was saying, he blurted out a response, "I'm bringing someone."

What.

"What?! Robert Floyd, you better not be messing with me!" his mother squealed over the phone. "Jim!" Bob had to pull the phone away from his ear with a grimace as his mother shouted for his father. "He's bringing someone!"

"About time," he could hear his father's gruff voice on the other end of the call. "Was gettin' worried about him out there in California. That boy's not built for the beach."

"Oh, you hush! Honey, I'll go ahead and let Mark know. I love you!" his mother's excitement could be felt through the phone, her voice all high and pitchy.

"Bye Ma, I love you," Bob huffed out. What did he just do?

"How's she doing?" Bob jumped at the sound of your voice, quickly turning to you. You lounged against the door frame of his bedroom, wearing nothing but a sports bra and some running shorts. He hadn't expected you to be home from your run with Phoenix so soon.

"Ma? Oh, uh, yeah, she's good. She's good, nothing new, y'know," he fumbled through a response, trying to not to look at the way the beads of sweat ran down your neck.

You hummed at him, "That's good. Are you still up for Thai food tonight? The new place on 4th?"

Of course, he was. When you first mentioned it last weekend, he had almost jumped at the opportunity. Sure, he liked Thai food, but sitting across from you and sharing a meal was what Bob really cherished. "Yep! Yeah, that sounds good. Ready in an hour?"

"You read my mind, Bobby," you said with a grin as you backed into your room across from his.

Present time…

“What’s wrong?” you saw the scowl on Bob’s face as he stirred the pasta like he had a personal vendetta against it.

“Huh? Oh, um, just thinking about my brother’s wedding,” he said like even the thought made him sick.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you said as you prepped the various vegetables on the countertop around you. “I love weddings. The outfits, the candles, the flowers! I can’t wait to get married. And I don’t want to have a big wedding, y’know? But like more of a backyard, summer barbecue type of vibe. Oh! And I want all my bridesmaids in different color dresses!”

Bob watched you as you described your perfect wedding, mentally taking notes. The way you had set down the knife to wave your hands around was adorable. You were always so animated, unafraid to show your emotions.

“But Bobby, the best part about weddings is…” you left the ending open for him, ushering him to fill in the blank.

“The cake?” he questioned. To be honest, he was trying to appeal to your sweet tooth.

“I mean, yeah, that’s pretty high up there. But no, it’s the look right before the first kiss. So many people say it’s the first look or the actual kiss, but for me it’s that moment where everyone knows what’s coming next and the purest emotions are on the bride and groom's faces,” you explained in pure joy and awe, like you had experienced this feeling yourself. It was sweet to watch. Your wonder and love for the simple things were something Bob loved about you.

“But, why is that moment better than the first look?” he asked innocently.

You sighed wistfully. "Just that moment when you can see the excitement on the groom's face, and he can barely contain himself. And the bride is usually so bashful, but always so excited. It's just so sweet, Bobby."

It did sound sweet. If Bob and you were getting married, he doubts he'd be able to contain his eagerness before the first kiss. No, he'd be way too focused on you to even listen to the officiant of the ceremony. Surely, he'd forget what to say, and he'd be a mess through his vows.

Bob was quiet for a minute or two, and you wondered what was going on in his head. You saw the way he had a small smile on his face, like it was hidden and just for him at this moment. And the way his shoulders relaxed, going more and more slack as time passed.

"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" you asked him with a teasing smile.

"Yeah, maybe," he chuckled and went back to stirring the pasta. Bob wanted to stay in this moment forever with you. It was so domestic. Cooking together in the kitchen you shared, laughing and throwing each other playful looks, talking about weddings. Maybe one day you'll talk about your wedding. Anything you wanted for the big day, Bob was sure to agree.

Living with you had been both the best and worst thing for Bob. A few months into the program, your lease was about to let up, and you were scrambling to find a new place. Bob hadn't known you prior to the mission that brought you all down to San Diego, but you had become close very quickly. Being two of only a few backseaters in the squad, you and Bob had spent a lot of time together in training and going over mission briefs. He had met a handful of WSOs in his time in the Navy, but knowing you was like a breath of fresh air. You never diminished your position or your knowledge, even when other pilots would question your place in the military. It was a learning curve for him to be around at first; seeing you go toe-to-toe with cocky pilots was daunting. He learned that's where your call sign came from, Bee. You were sweet, but could sting when you wanted. Soon, he got used to it, becoming more confident in himself in turn.

When you joked about bumming it on Phoenix's couch until you found a new place, Bob chimed in, "You can stay at mine. I have a spare bedroom, never really got around to using it."

"Wait, really?" you asked, fully turning your body towards him. You always did that, too, gave your full attention to whoever you were talking to. It was a bit intimidating. Bob was only now getting used to it, but still felt his heart beat pick up.

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind having a roommate," he said with a soft smile.

"Oh, Bobby, I could kiss you right now!" you said with a big grin, squeezing his forearm. He wished you had.

It wasn't until you had fully moved in that Bob realized the full consequences of his actions. You were horrible to live with.

Not in the way that you left dishes in the sink to "soak" all week, or you forgot to switch your laundry out for hours on end, or even in the way that you would blast music loudly at 2 in the morning. No, you didn't do any of those things. In fact, you always cleaned up after yourself, and Bob too, taking his plate right from his lap before he could protest. You cleaned the whole apartment, top to bottom, on Sundays. Your music carried throughout the hallways as you moved from room to room. Best of all, you baked! Every week! Trying a new recipe and being a little messy was your favorite way to unwind from a hectic work week, and lucky for Bob, he was your taste tester. Sure, you brought in your treats for the entire squad on Mondays, but Bob got to sit at the counter and watch you work. You would always gravitate towards him during this time, either letting him try the new brownie batter before you added more sugar or asking him how many chocolate chips are too many.

You were a great roommate. Always so courteous and kind. Anyone would be lucky to share a space like this with you. But it was torture actually living with you.

Too many times, Bob has caught a glimpse of you walking around in nothing but a shirt and some panties. To be fair, it was almost always after you had showered and were walking to your room. But as Bob watched you track down the hallway, he cursed himself for offering up the room in the first place.

And since moving in and getting closer, you had become even more touchy than usual with him. You were quick to give out hugs and other normal affectionate gestures to everyone on the squad, Bob included, even when he had only known you for a few weeks. But now, it was like Bob's personal space was your personal space. You always pressed into him when maneuvering around the small kitchen. Bob always held his breath, feeling you up against him, reaching for the oregano or paprika. Recently, too, your hand would work its way into his windswept hair after long days at the beach. The way your nails would drag against his scalp made him want to groan every time.

But worst of all were busy nights at the Hard Deck. On multiple occasions, barstools would fill up quick, only leaving the squad with two or three seats. It was fine for most of the night, with everyone so invested in the latest match of pool between Bradley and Jake. But after a few hours, you needed a break and always found your way into Bob's lap.

"I can get up, so you can sit," Bob stammered out the first time you sat on his lap. The rest of the squad shared amused looks, careful to hide them from both of you.

"It's okay, Bobby, I know you wanna sit too. Plus, you're comfy," you said, wiggling around trying to find the best position like he actively wasn't about to combust.

A bump of your hip snapped the man back into your kitchen. "Everything okay over there, space cadet?" you asked, tilting your head to look at him better.

"Mhm, yeah. I'm okay," he said in a small voice, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes.

Furrowing your brows, you wondered what was making Bob so distant tonight. "You know you can always talk to me, right?" you offered with a small smile. People say that but rarely mean it. But you meant it, and you wanted him to know that. He just nodded his head and continued stirring the boiling pasta. "Okay, Bobby. I'm here when you want to talk," you said as you rubbed up and down his back. You swore you saw a chill run up his spine.

You watched the way his face continued to fall as you worked on dinner. Bob was always quieter than you, so gentle and sweet. But you hoped whatever was bothering him would go away, or that he would talk to you about it at least. As the night continued, he gave you those small smiles, and your worry just grew.

જ⁀➴

"Why don't you just ask Bee?" Phoenix questioned as she grabbed the drink Penny put on the bar top. The Hard Deck was busy with patrons in all corners of the joint.

"I can't just ask her!" Bob squeaked out; he felt his cheeks flush at the thought of it.

"Why not? Because you have a crush on her? Come on, Bob," she teased him with a shit-eating grin on her face. She watched him slump against the bar as if she had just punched him in the gut. "If you won't take me, then why not Bee?"

Bob sighed, given that they had this conversation almost every day. Before training, after training, and even during training. Even the clear blue skies weren't safe from Natasha's questions. "It's not like I don't want to take you. But my parents know you. They're expecting me to bring someone home, y'know."

"Someone to give them grandchildren," Phoenix cackled as Bob groaned loudly. Penny placed his fizzy soda on the bar with a smile, knowing all about the man's debacle. Natasha thanked her, and they made their way back to the squad.

"Don't say that! I don't even, I can't even think- Oh jeez, Phoenix. No more talking about this. I've decided." The pilot swore she had never heard his voice that pitchy before. Bob shook his head as he wove through the crowd of people.

Once they had settled back into the fray of the squad, Natasha finally took to giving actual advice, not just teasing her back-seater. "I think you should just be honest, tell her. It's Bee."

"Oh yeah, let me just tell her I've been in love with her for months on end now. She's gonna think I'm a creep! Luring her into my apartment, making her live with me," he half shouted, half whispered at her. "And I also said, I didn't want to talk about this. Especially with her right there." Bob glanced at you laughing freely with Bradley, head thrown back. Your energy was contagious to the people around you, as he saw Bradley and Mickey spotting matching smiles. Bob found himself smiling to himself, too.

"She wanted to live with you, idiot. And I'm not saying confess your love. Just ask for this favor. You don't have to give anything away if you don't want to," she said matter-of-factly. If only it were that easy. Within minutes of you being in his childhood home, Bob would surely fold and show all the feelings he's been trying so hard to hide. One conversation and approving nod from his mother, and he'd propose on the spot.

The pair were too entrenched in their conversation to see you making your way over. You didn't mean to snoop, but you couldn't help overhearing snips of their chatter.

"I just don't know what I'm going to do. I have to tell Ma I'm not bringing anyone," Bob muttered, dragging a hand down his jaw.

"To the wedding?" You whipped around and saw Bob's eyes almost pop out from behind his glasses. Phoenix, however, let a mischievous glint dance on her face as she watched the two of you. Directing your attention back to Bob, you continued, "Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But if you need someone, I'll go."

Natasha let out the biggest cackle you had heard; it even caught a few of the other aviators' attention. She looked to Bob, who seemed to be frozen in time, and decided she would do her best friend a solid.

"His family is expecting a girlfriend. That's why Bob is having such a hard time," she explained. But you just furrowed your brows further at this.

"I'll be your girlfriend," you said. At this, Bob nearly fell off his barstool. "I mean, I can be your pretend girlfriend for a week. I'm really good with parents and family and stuff. And we know each other well, too! I'm sure we'd be a convincing couple. So, yeah. If you need someone." Suddenly, you felt awkward under his gaze. You definitely gave it away. Who just proclaims they'd be someones fake girlfriend?

You met Jake's gaze from across the pool table and saw him biting down on his bottom lip, trying to suppress the grin on his face. Flashing a 'Help me!' face in his direction, the blonde man made his way over to you.

"Offering your fake girlfriend services again, Bee?" he asked with a raised brow. Both Phoenix and Bob shot him quizzical looks. "Bee came out to dinner with my folks when they were in town a few weeks ago. They were on me about not settling down, but she quelled those fears. Swear I've never seen my mom fall in love faster."

"Really?" Bob asked, looking between both of you. "You met his parents?" A flash of hurt crossed his face. You had missed it completely, but both Hangman and Phoenix caught the distress on his face.

"That's perfect! Right, Bob? Bee would be great," she hit his arm, trying to snap him out of what Jake had just said. The three of you looked at Bob, waiting for his response.

He nodded slowly before responding, "Yeah, I mean, if you're okay with missing the full week. I'd love to take you." Natasha grinned at his recovery, mentally noting to pat him on the back about it later.

"I can talk to Maverick about it tomorrow. I'd love to come," you said bashfully. Jake smiled knowingly at your response. He locked eyes with Natasha and winked. The woman just rolled her eyes but got the signal.

"When was the last time I beat you in pool Hangman? I think my trophy needs a little dusting off," she challenged, gaining the attention of the squad and taking it off Bob and you.

"Looking for a rematch? I'm happy to oblige," Jake said in a sickeningly sweet tone. He stepped closer so only she could hear the next part of his sentence, "I'll win this game, just like I'll win our bet."

"In your dreams, Seresin," she scoffed. "Rack 'em!"

જ⁀➴

Jake's couch had become a second home to you at this point. Its cushions surely remembered the way you would slump into them every weekend. Being Jake's back-seater was a challenge at first; you were never one to back down, and neither was Jake. It wasn't until you both had figured out that instead of going up against each other, you could turn your focus on the pilots around you. So as time went on, you bonded over your love for college football, dad rock, and surprisingly, the Great British Bake Off.

"Oh come on, Tom! No one is going to win with a ganache like that," Jake exclaimed from the end of the couch. There was no quippy response from you, and Jake raised an eyebrow in your direction. You had been like this all week. Mopey and weird. Your usual trash talk to other pilots or Maverick was replaced with a stone-cold face. It was just as intimidating, but Jake knew something was up.

Clutching the throw pillow in your arms, you couldn't even focus on the monstrosity that was Tom's cake on your screen. No, all that ran through your head was how you were going to contain yourself around Bob and his family. In just two days.

With a whack, fabric came flying on top of your head.

"Ow! Jake!" you exclaimed, immediately putting your arms up to protect yourself from further attacks.

"Jake! Don't Jake, me," he sassed you, only making the pout in your lips grow deeper. "What is going on with you? Is this still about Baby on Board?"

"Don't call him that," you grumbled, taking your pillow and whacking him across the chest.

He just rolled his eyes and continued, "Seriously, you need to get it together. Baby on Board and his family are expecting a perfect girlfriend, and right now, you're this."

You scowled at him as he chastised you. "Jake, that's mean. I just," you sighed before continuing. "I just don't know how I'm going to do this. A whole week? He'll know!"

Your dramatics were nothing new to Jake, but when it came to Bob, it seemed like you dialed it up tenfold. "This opportunity has been placed in your lap. I think you should take advantage of it, embrace it," he suggested.

"That's easier said than done," you mumbled.

This upcoming week made you queasy just thinking about it. It wasn't that you didn't want to go to meet Bob's family. No, you wanted all of it. But not like this. From the first day you met Bob, you knew you were in for it. His cute glasses and sweet smile almost had you confessing by the end of the first week.

When he asked you to move in with him, you had happily agreed. But as the arrangement unfolded, you realized what kind of agony would be in store for the near future. The way he always carried in all the groceries, not letting you lift a finger. How he always drove you, never letting you sit behind the wheel, no matter what kind of day he had. And he was so handy around the apartment, too. One day, the garbage disposal in your kitchen stopped working, and just as you were about to call someone, Bob brought over his tool kit and got down on his knees. It was way more attractive than it needed to be.

But these little daily pains were nothing compared to what you had walked in on about a month ago. You were about to go on your daily run with Phoenix when she called you from the car to cancel. Turning your keys and walking back into the house, you slipped off your sneakers and began padding down the hallway towards your room.

Just as you were about to head into your room, there was an odd sound. At first, you thought it was the apartment, settling, or something that people always say when a building makes noise. But as you paused, clutching your shoes and phone close to you, you knew it was something else. It was him.

His moans were unmistakable, so vocal and loud. And you froze. For a few seconds, you just stood there, listening. Listening to Bob falling apart. The schlepping of his hand against himself was unmistakable. The rocking of the bed, too. You had to peel yourself away from this. Away from his noise. So that's what you did.

You tried to forget it. But a part of you wanted to remember, as horrible as that sounds. You hadn't been able to look Bob in the eye for a few days after, and when you did, the heat in your tummy would start again.

The thought of sharing this week with Bob was more daunting than any mission you had ever faced.

"Hey! Are we going to watch this episode, or are you just going to sit and stew the whole night?" Jake's voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

"Sorry, just a little worried still," you said quietly. Jake had never seen you like this before, so in your own head.

He slid down the couch and placed an arm around your shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. Everything will be okay, I promise. Your biggest worries right now should be if Tom can figure out his presentation for the judges."

You giggled at his teasing. "Fucking, Tom," you murmured under your breath.

"Yes, fucking, Tom! God, he's selling it!" Jake boomed next to you, throwing you into another fit of laughter. "Seriously, Bee. Don't worry too much about this week."

"I will be texting you live updates every hour, I hope you know," you said with a grin.

"Wow, only hour updates. I was expecting every 5 minutes," Jake teased, poking into your sides. You just swatted his hands away, fighting off a smile.

જ⁀➴

Stepping onto the packed dirt and smelling the fresh Montana air was a relief to Bob. The picturesque mountain ranges were illuminated by the strong moonlight, and the sky was lit up by thousands of twinkling stars. It was something to get lost in, and that's exactly what Bob found as he turned to look at you. "It's so beautiful," you said, eye going a little wide, and your voice was quiet. Bob figured it was from your hours of traveling, maybe partly from the awe of the view.

Without looking away from you, he responded, "Very beautiful."

Bob's moment of peace with you was interrupted by a swift closing of the front door and a cheery voice. "Bob! Oh, honey, you made it safe!" an older, but spry woman ran up to Bob. You looked at the pair as they embraced and caught a look at them, side by side. Bob was much larger than the woman, towering over her. His arms stood out against her frame as your eyes trailed across his large muscles and hands without even realizing what you were doing. And his nose, it was the same as the woman who stood next to him. The cute button was something you always caught yourself looking at when tracing the map of his face.

A squeal snapped you out of your daze, and you were quickly met with a tight hug and a rushed introduction of Bob's mother's name, Pam. "Oh wow! You must be Bee! You are so gorgeous. I don't know why Bob kept you hidden from us for so long." She leaned back a bit and took you in, dragging her hands across your frame and face. You giggled at her ministrations.

"Thank you for having me this week. I'm so excited to get to know you all," you said with a sweet smile.

"Oh, we are so happy to have you, Bee! Such a cute little nickname, you don't mind?" she asked, but continued on anyway. "We were a little worried about Bob for a while there. Honestly, never thought he would-"

Bob's eyes widened, knowing the long list of stories his mother could tell you. "Alright! Alright, let's not talk about all that just yet," he cut her off with a blush that dusted his cheeks.

"Honestly," you started, gaining the attention of both Bob and his mother. "Bob is the best thing that's ever happened to me. You raised such a kind and thoughtful man. I'm so thankful for him." Your eyes met his as you spoke, sharing a look of genuine care. Pam caught the way you looked at her son and smiled knowingly.

"Well, you two had better head on up to bed. Your Pa is sleeping, but he'll be up bright and early. And everyone will be over tomorrow night to meet you, Bee," Pam said, finally letting you out of her grasp. Instead, she placed a hand on your lower back to guide you inside.

You turned to grab some of your bags to take inside, but instead saw Bob balancing all of your luggage in his hold, just the same as when you left the apartment and at the airport. He shot you a look, telling you to head inside. You rolled your eyes, but mouthed 'thank you' as you kept walking with his mother.

She led you to a small bedroom upstairs in the rustic-looking house. It was cosy, a queen bed with golden colored quilt, a small adjoining bathroom, and a small window with lace curtains. She gave you another quick hug and whispered 'goodnight' before heading back down the stairs to bed.

Bob set down your bags and let out a deep breath.

"You okay? Wanna shower first? You had a long day," you said, a hand coming to his shoulder and rubbing it sweetly. He melted into your touch, unconsciously leaning into you.

"No, no. You go first, I'll be okay," Bob said softly, trailing off a bit towards the end. You had been traveling since that morning, and you could tell how tired the man in front of you was. Your flight was a few hours long, and since his family didn't live in Bozeman or Billings, Bob had to rent a car and drive 3 more hours out to the small town.

"Bobby, go shower and get ready for bed. I'll unpack and lay out the clothes for tomorrow." You took your hands and placed them on both sides of his shoulder, pushing him into the bathroom as he chuckled lowly.

Bob gave you a tired, but grateful look before he closed the bathroom door carefully. Today had been long, but seeing the way you interacted with his mother made it all worth it.

Stepping under the warm stream of water, Bob felt his muscles relax instantly. He didn't want to take long in the shower, knowing you were waiting for him, but he also needed a few moments to himself. Reflecting on your day together, Bob felt himself getting half hard at the thought of you.

On the plane ride over, you had fallen asleep against his shoulder, your body angling into his. With your odd positioning, your tits were pressed right up against him for the majority of the flight. It took everything in him to keep his gaze straight ahead on the action movie playing on the little screen in front of him and not your soft, full chest.

His right hand drifted down, gripping himself firmly.

And your hair. You had been tucked right under his chin, and the scent of your shampoo was overwhelming. Sometimes, Bob would catch a whiff of it floating down the hallway after your showers, but now it was coming at him in waves. He felt like such a creep, but what was he supposed to do? Push you away from him? Bob didn't know the next time you would get so close to him.

Now, his cock stood proud under the stream.

In the car ride over, you had made it a point to keep him company since it was so late at night. Finding a radio station that played old country music, you began to sing along to almost every song that played. After the fourth song, Bob knew it wasn't a fluke that you knew all the lyrics so well. You explained that your college roommate was from Wyoming and was constantly playing her music in the dorms.

Bob knew he needed to keep his eyes on the road, but he couldn't help the way he looked over to your figure sitting beside him. Your lips moving along to whatever song was playing, your thighs pressed up against the leather seat of the truck, and the way your hand would occasionally find its way to his upper back, rubbing soft, smooth circles into it, all drove him to glance over at your sweet face.

His pace was steady now.

Bob felt so dirty, touching himself like this with you, only a thin wall away. But he knew if he didn't do it now, he wasn't sure when he would get a chance this week. So he hunched over the corner of the shower, trying to focus on anything but you. But like every time before this one, Bob's mind only wandered to thoughts of you.

What would you look like with water cascading down your tits? Or how your back would arch into the tile of the shower as he fucked you from behind. Best of all, how your face would twist with pleasure as he drilled into you, making you cum all over his thick cock.

That's what always got him to finish. Thinking about you, your pleasure. He caught the groan in his throat before it sounded, instead biting down on his free fist, whining lowly.

After cleaning up fully, Bob looked around the bathroom and realized he hadn't brought any clean clothes in with his. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped out sheepishly.

At the creak of the bathroom door, you looked up from your place on the ground. You were met with Bob's nearly bare form. Water droplets from his hair were dripping down his shoulders, finding their way down his chest and waist. As you tracked one of the droplets, your eyes stopped when they met his waist. Bob's v-line was even better than you had imagined, and you had thought about it a lot.

He had an aversion to taking his shirt off around others, and that was reasonable. Especially in front of a bunch of macho, testosterone-fueled Navy men. But you had always wondered what he looked like under the kaki uniform he wore so often. Seeing it up close almost had you drooling.

"Forgot a change of clothes," he explained in a quiet voice. You just hummed, not trusting your voice. Pushing up off the ground and padding over to the dresser, you opened a drawer, and Bob found all of his clothes folded and set perfectly. His heart warmed at the thought of your delicate fingers working across all the clothing he had packed for the week. You had obviously taken care of his stuff first, as your luggage was still open on the floor.

Bob grabbed a change of clothes and kept his voice at the same quiet tone, "Thank you, Bee." You smiled up at him, staring a bit too long. But quickly, you fumbled to grab your nightwear from your bag and made your way into the bathroom.

Bob dropped the towel from his waist and began to dress. He didn't miss the way your eyes trailed down his body, and honestly, it made his stomach flip. Just as he was about to lie down and call it a night, he realized you hadn't discussed the bed situation. Bob would never want to make you uncomfortable, so he shuffled down the hall and found his way into the spare linen closet, grabbing a fluffy comforter and some blankets to lie down on the floor beside the bed.

Not too long after, you emerged from the bathroom and furrowed your brows at the sight of the empty bedroom, expecting to see Bob knocked out on the bed from such a long day.

"Down here," Bob's voice startled you as his hand shot up in a lazy wave from the other side of the bed.

"Bob? What are you doing?" you asked the man, walking over to see him laying down on the makeshift bed he had set up on the hardwood floor.

He rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. "Didn't want to make you feel like we needed to share the bed or anything like that."

"We've literally fallen asleep on the couch together," you said, narrowing your eyes as a teasing smile made its way to your face at his chivalry. "I don't mind sharing the bed at all, Bobby. And that can't be comfortable."

"No, no. Ma's got the best blankets. Feels like a cloud," Bob explained with a soft smile.

You narrowed your eyes at the man before speaking, "With you back? Do you remember earlier today when we got off the plane?"

Bob recalled the moment of weakness. He had stretched out a bit too far after sitting for hours on end and felt a tug throughout his body, wincing a little. You had fused over him for the next 30 minutes, almost refusing to get in the car if you couldn't drive. But Bob, of course, got his way.

He looked as if he was about to argue with you. Bob was hardheaded sometimes, but you knew just the right thing to say to knock him out of it.

"Plus, if your mom comes to wake us up and she sees you sleeping on the floor, everything would be ruined," you offered. Seeing a look of recognition flash across his face, he nodded slowly, like he was considering your words. "Come on, Bobby. I'll help you fold everything and put it back."

You giggled as he sprang up from the floor, a hand already coming down to his lower back.

"I knew your back was going to hurt! Comfy my ass," you said, smacking him lightly across the chest. He just smiled at you, joining in with some soft chuckles that warmed your heart.

Curling into bed, you felt sleep hit you almost immediately. Letting your eyelids droop, part of you wanted to stay up and think about tomorrow. To pick Bob's brain about who might show up. Worry about what they would think of you. But the sound of Bob's voice made your heart slow and breathing even out.

"G'night, Bee. Thank you again for coming with me," Bob told you, not even sure if you were lucid enough to hear him.

"Anything for you, Bobby. Goodnight," you said in the softest voice he thinks he's ever heard from you. Your words slurred a little and were definitely muffled by the pillow, but he still heard you. He saw your eyelashes flutter across your cheeks as you settled into sleep. The way your mouth opened slightly, lips parting so delicately. How your body seemed to curl into itself, making you look so small and fragile.

Wishing to hold you close to his chest like earlier today on the plane or to grasp your hand to hold in his sleep, Bob just stayed up for a few minutes longer to watch your sleeping form. Soon enough, his thoughts of you became muddy and distant as sleep took over, claiming you both now.

જ⁀➴

Bob had awoken to soft beams of sunlight streaming through the lace curtains. Everything was quiet, and Bob let himself lie for a moment, taking in the peace. Just as he was about to stretch and get up, he looked to his side and saw you.

Your cheek was still flushed up against the pillow, and your hair was in a bit of a mess as it rubbed on the fabric. It wasn't rare that Bob got to see you relax, but it was rare to see you completely void of all concerns. Usually, you were still holding some type of resistance in your shoulders or furrowing your brows slightly, even when lying across the couch at the end of the day. But now, you looked completely free. He smiled a bit at this.

Like you had sensed him mentally tracing the outline of your nose or the apples of your cheeks, suddenly your eyelashes fluttered, and you opened your eyes.

"G'morning, Bobby," you half mumbled-half whispered into your pillow. You weren't sure he understood you until hearing his telltale chuckle that was seemingly reserved for you.

"Morning, Bee," he said softly, voice a little deeper than usual. You chalked it up to the morning hours, but it still made your tummy flip. "Did you sleep well?"

"Mhm," you hummed. Bob saw that you made no effort to move from your comfortable position and chuckled again.

He often teased you for being so out of it in the mornings, but Bob had never seen you so unguarded. On the weekends you had off from training, you would usually pad into the kitchen, eyes still a little puffy and your movement still a little soft. There was one time Bob had to quickly intervene before you poured your coffee into your cereal bowl instead of your mug. But right now was different.

"Don't laugh," you grumbled. "Need like five more minutes. Or maybe ten."

Just as Bob was about to say okay and lie back under the covers with you, he heard a familiar pattern of steps making their way up the hallway.

"I'm afraid you're not going to get that, Bee," he spoke, seeing your brows fold in on themselves at his words. But soon, the bedroom door opened, and Pam was rushing to hug you good morning.

"I can see Bob has been soft on you, letting you sleep in," she joked as you shot up in the bed to meet her embrace. "We Floyds are early risers! Better start building the habit now."

"Oh, I know. Bob's up every morning at the crack of dawn, it feels like. Always hear him trying to be so quiet around the apartment," you said with a yawn as she drew away from you. Bob's cheeks heated at the thought of you being so in tune with his morning routine.

"Well, I won't rush you this morning, but breakfast will be ready in 20 minutes. Then we'll head into town afterwards, alright, Bee?" she said with a fond smile on her face. You nodded your head, saying a quick thank you as she closed the door and left.

The room was silent for a few seconds as you and Bob shared a small smile and knowing look at what had happened. "I'm only getting up early for her this week, Floyd. Don't expect any new habits when we're back home," you joked, a teasing smile on your face.

"Oh, I know. Wouldn't want to disrupt your morning routine of inside-out jeans and backwards shirts," Bob said with full seriousness as he pushed the covers off his body.

"Whatever that happened like one time," you said, pursing your lips. Hearing his laughter fill the air made your face flush with embarrassment. "One time! It was one time!"

Your protests at his teasing had no effect. Instead, Bob's laughter seemed to increase ten-fold as he doubled over in the bed.

"Bob, stop! It was one time!" you whined now. "You said it wasn't that bad."

His laughter subsided as he began to speak, "I know, I know." There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds until he spoke again, "But it was so funny, Bee." With that, Bob burst out laughing again as you half groaned, half laughed loudly.

From the kitchen, Pam smiled to herself, hearing her son's laughter carry throughout the house.

જ⁀➴

That night, like Pam had promised, Bob's extended family was over. Honestly, Bob was a little worried for you. His family could be a lot, and given that this was the first time he had brought anyone home, he expected everyone to poke and prod at you. But as his family filed into the house, your bright smile had never faltered.

Sometime after dinner but before dessert, Bob had lost you in the crowd of Floyds. He had walked through the house about ten different times at this point, looking for you, but you were nowhere to be found. Seeing the worried look on his face, his father gently grasped his son's shoulder to gain his attention.

"She's outside," he said lowly. Bob nodded and walked with purpose towards the back porch. His mind racing, thinking of all the possibilities that would've pushed you to escape outside. Were you crying? Was this all too overwhelming? Did someone ask you a rude question? Had you finally gotten sick of him? Sick of this role you were playing?

Right as he was about to push the door open, Bob paused. He saw you outside, but you weren't alone.

Gathered around you in the grassy field was a gaggle of small children, all laughing and smiling. Bob couldn't tell exactly what you were playing with the children, but after one of his younger cousins ran up to you and tapped your hip, he understood immediately. Bob smiled to himself, seeing you take off into a run as all the children screamed joyfully.

"She's sweet. Reminds me of your mother." Bob was snapped out of his trance as his father spoke. "Good job, son," he added, hand coming to clap softly on Bob's back.

Bob felt his heart race watching you. He knew you were perfect, living with you and being best friends had proven it to him. But he had never seen you like this, so carefree and thoughtful. Sure, there were nights when Jake or Bradley would get a bit too carried away at the Hard Deck, and you would be right by their side, taking care of them. But it wasn't even close to this.

Bob saw you chase around the children, never gaining too fast on the younger kids, but still giving the older ones a run for their money. He watched as all the kids gravitated towards you, all of their smiles and laughs being thrown your way. And Bob understood this feeling deeply. He had always felt a pull towards you. It came out in various ways, like always finding your eyes when Coyote would say something outrageous during training. Or bursting out into synchronized laughter whenever Jake would ultimately lose another game of pool to Nat. And his favorite was the way you would find your way over to Bob whenever you were in a large group. You could talk to Jake or joke around with Bradley, but whenever the full Dagger Squad was together on a crowded night at the Hard Deck, you were glued to Bob's side. These moments let him know that you were undeniably in each other's orbit.

Finally, Bob pulled open the door and walked out to you and your new friends.

"Uncle Bob!" one of the children exclaimed. You whipped around, seeing Bob walking up to you with a small smile on his face.

"Thought I lost you in there," he joked. You smiled, not speaking but walking closer to meet him in the middle. He met your kind eyes, but upon looking into them further, he squinted a little at you. Just as he was about to step back, you lunged forward.

"Tag! You're it!" you blurted out, giggling as you sprinted in the opposite direction. The children seemed to follow your example, all shrieking and laughing as Bob took off.

Suddenly, you heard little cries of your name. Turning around, you saw Bob gaining on you. Before you knew it, his hands grasped your waist, picking you up a few inches off the ground, bringing you into his chest.

Tucked close into him now, you felt his breath on the back of your neck. The heaving of his chest against your back had you squirming. "Can't get away that easily," his voice close to your ear. Biting down on your lip, careful to not let the whine out, you felt your tummy flip at the position he had you in.

You had come outside to escape, yes. But not from Bob's never-ending list of uncles or aunts. From him.

During dinner, he had been nothing but kind to you. Caring. Attentive. And it had been like that all day. From when you left the house and went into town with him and his mother, you hadn't as much as blinked before Bob made sure you didn't have to lift a finger. Sure, he had done this to a certain extent back in California, not letting you open the door or always opening glass jars for you when in the kitchen together. But today was a different level.

Pam insisted on getting you a pair of real, genuine cowgirl boots. She marched you into "Jesse's Boots & Shoes" and immediately sat you down on one of the little benches. After gathering what seemed like half the merchandise in the store, she came back to you with stacks of boxes full of different types of boots.

As you began to bend down to untie your shoes, Bob suddenly appeared in front of you. On his knees.

"I got it, don't worry," he said, before delicately unlacing your shoes. His large, warm hand flew up underneath your calf, and the other shimmied off your shoe. Then he looked up with that sweet smile and repeated the whole process on your other foot. You could've sworn you saw Pam snap a picture.

Later in the day, you made it back to the house and were helping Pam fix up some lunch. She handed you a big yellow onion and a kitchen knife, but before you could even take hold of the wooden handle she had outstretched to you, Bob had rushed into your view. Stealing the onion out of your right hand and gently pushing you out of the way of the cutting board, you looked at him incredulously.

"I know how watery your eyes get. I got it, just go sit down," he offered with that same sweet smile.

"I can cut one onion, Bobby," you said, playfully trying to grab the onion from his hand. He just raised his hands above his head, ensuring you wouldn't be able to reach him.

"I got it, Bee. Don't try to argue," he challenged, raising his brows. Huffing, you rolled your eyes, but couldn't help the small smile that was creeping on your face.

Pam once again snapped a picture. This time, giggling to herself a bit like she knew this was going to happen.

The third time was right before everyone had arrived. You were upstairs, checking your hair one last time and making sure your outfit looked okay, when you noticed you had forgotten to put your necklace on this morning.

After retrieving the delicate piece from the bathroom, Bob had seemingly appeared. Seeing the jewelry in your hand, he walked forward with purpose, holding out his palm. You raised an eyebrow at his actions.

"Seen you do it a million times," he started. "Let me."

You nodded, not trusting your voice once again, dropping the piece into his hand. Softly, his free hand came down to your hip, guiding you to turn around.

Then, you felt his arms go around your shoulders, not touching, but there. It was so quiet in that moment. The only noise you could hear was the creaking of the old house and Bob's soft breathing close to your ear. It was distracting. Maddening, after the day you had.

Clasping the necklace around you, his hands dropped. Turning back around, you were met, once again, by the same sweet smile.

"You look beautiful, Bee," he told you before backing out of the room. "I'll be downstairs whenever you're ready."

Driven outside, you had wanted to sit on the porch for a bit. Think about what this weekend really meant for you. For Bob. For your friendship. But your plans were quickly interrupted after feeling a little tug on your leg and hearing a quiet invitation to a game of tag.

"Robert Floyd, you'd better let go of that girl! We've got apple pie coming out the oven!" Pam's voice drew you back into the heart-racing position you were in. Bob was quick to set you down, smoothing his hands over your hips in an effort to fix the creases in your dress that his hold had caused. But you saw the raging blush that crossed his face and burst out into a fit of giggles, and soon, all of his younger cousins were doing the same thing.

"I think this might be your inside-out jean moment," you teased with a smile, seeing the blush turn to a darker shade.

"Not funny," he said sternly, but you could tell he was trying to hold back a laugh.

"Mm, I recall saying something earlier this morning like that." You grinned at him, walking closer to the house, but your body was still fully facing the man in front of you. "But Bobby, it's so funny!" you laughed, throwing your head back. Bob couldn't help but smile, even if it was at the expense of his own actions.

What neither Bob nor you realized was the crowd of onlookers peaking through the windows, watching as Bob Floyd was struck with a look of love.

જ⁀➴

You had been right. The look before the first kiss was the best part of a wedding. Bob doesn't remember the last time he'd seen his older brother so giddy.

You, on the other hand, had missed it completely. Looking at the man who sat next to you instead. You saw the way the corners of Bob's mouth pulled upwards, smiling brightly.

The week had gone smoothly, both of you getting away with touches that were a little more lingering than usual or looks that called for a deeper conversation. To Bob's family, this looked like restraint, manners, and control. To you, this was torture, heartache, and suppression. You didn't know how many more instances of Bob's big hand on the small of your back you had in you before you broke completely. His gentle guidance and care throughout the week had been something that you reveled in. Returning to California, returning to normalcy, it all seemed so distant.

Sipping some champagne, you sat with Bob at the reception. Stringed bulbs lit up the night. Bright colors popped from all of the flowers that seemed to be placed on every table. And sweet music filled the air, inviting everyone to dance.

Bob studied your face under the night sky and limited lighting. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Dread filled his heart, though. The thought of this week just being a glimpse into what life would be like if he got up the courage to ask you to be with him weighed heavily on his heart.

Going to bed with you every night was something Bob didn't even know he was missing, but now he craved it so deeply. Being able to talk to you and share his thoughts with you right before bed. Getting to hear you ramble on, either about your worries or joys, was something he began to love more than anything. The way your voice would begin to taper, become gentle, when you were truly tired and ready for sleep. How you supported your face under your small palm while talking with him in the dark. How your eyes would become glassy and glazed over as you finally hit the pillow. These moments became precious to him.

"All couples! Head to the dance floor now! Tell your partner how much you care about them, and let's dance!" The DJ's voice broke Bob's train of thought. Without thinking, he rose out of his seat and offered you a hand.

Sheepishly, you took it, letting him guide you.

A soft, slow melody filled the air as you began to take your place with Bob. His hands brushed your hips, stiff, like he was in middle school, and it was his first time slow dancing. You chuckled a little under your breath.

"What's got you laughing now?" he asked, soft and sweet. Eyes searching yours with intensity you had only seen from him this week.

You looked at him for a moment and just grinned, like you knew something he didn't.

"Just so stiff, Bobby. Relax," you told him, pushing into his space a little more. Your hands found their way around his shoulders, palms settling on the broad plain of his back. Now, your face met his chest, and you melted into him.

Bob felt the sway of your hips and the light movement of your feet. If it wasn't for you, he would've stood still, not knowing what to do with you like this. Sure, he had danced like this before. But it was never this intimate. This deep. This connected.

At any moment, Bob felt like he was going to let the words spill out of him. Tell you how he was really feeling. It seemed so easy.

The way you interacted with his family. Cooking with his Ma, talking about college sports with his Pa. Even the way you talked with his brother and sister-in-law. Though it was brief, you made an immediate connection. You and his sister-in-law, chatting away like you had grown up together. And he didn't miss the way his older brother shot him a look of surprise, but approval.

But it wasn't just about them. It was also about the way you just fit so well into his life. Sure, you weren't an early riser, and Bob had learned this weekend that you weren't the best with large animals, but he didn't mind. If being with you meant slow mornings where you would coax him back to bed, hands grasping for him to come lie with you beneath the sheets, he'd be okay with that. More than okay. And if the biggest animal you owned was a chocolate lab, that would be okay by him, too.

Slowly, his large hands came around your waist, more secure and grounded. And Bob closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath. Taking in this moment with you was the most important thing to him.

You danced under the twinkling lights and stars, no concern for the people around you. No concern that this was fake, that it was all pretend. Because right now, it felt real.

Hearing the thump of Bob's heart calmed you. It was grounding you, just like the gentle guitar in the background. You swayed like that for a while, but eventually the pounding of his heart and the steadiness of his figure became all too much. While the music swelled, so did your chest. Heaving up and down at a much more rapid pace.

Bob, feeling the sudden shift in your energy, pulled back, but just slightly. Still close enough to hear the hitch in your breath, to see the quiver of your bottom lip.

Your eyes blinked rapidly. Looking up at Bob seemed like an impossible task. But with a gentle touch to your chin, you did.

"Bee?" he asked softly. Concern written across his face.

"I'm sorry," you said, even quieter. With slow moments, you pressed your lips to his.

Your lips were softer than he imagined. The way your lips slotted between his was like second nature. And before you could pull back, he learned in deeper. Taking the hand that was under your chin and pressing it into the back of your head. Meeting you in the kiss, he pressed closer to you, and you felt the strong hold he had on your hip.

Bob wanted so badly to lick into your mouth, to mix your spit. But he restrained himself upon feeling the slight jump below his waist.

The solid kiss made your tummy turn in a way you didn't think was possible. Something deeper took hold of you as you melted, once again, into the man in front of you. The heaving of your chest was still present, but now it was fueled by want rather than anxiety.

Pulling away slowly, your breathing was heavy. Your eyes searched his, trying to see what he was thinking. What would his reaction to your impulsivity be?

Before your question could be answered, you were being pulled by one of Bob's cousins, urging you to go line up for the bouquet toss.

Bob watched as you were ripped away from him. His hand came up to grab onto you, but his fingers slipped against the fabric of your dress. Your eyes widen, head whipping around to look at him. But just as quick, you broke your gaze.

જ⁀➴

As soon as the door to the guest bedroom clicked shut, you immediately began apologizing.

"Bobby, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, and I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking," you said, hands coming up to your face in an attempt to hide from him.

"Bee," Bob tried to cut in, but you could barely hear him over the sound of your racing heart and rambling words."

"I didn't mean to ruin this. Ruin this weekend and make you feel uncomfortable. Ruin what we have. Our friendship," you kept going, stomach now turning at the thought of losing Bob from your life.

"Bee," he started again, but still you weren't hearing a thing he said.

Your hands now rubbed nervously down your dress, like you were trying to wipe off what had happened earlier that night. "I'm gonna go take my stuff and sleep in the bathroom or something. You don't have to share a bed with me tonight. And if you want me to move out, I will. I'm sorry, I just, I don't know-"

"Bee!" Bob's voice startled you into silence. He stepped closer to you, reaching for your hands, trying to quell your nervous energy.

Bob's hand closed around your wrists. Your heart was beating out of your chest as you looked at your best friend.

"Tonight," he started, hand rubbing softly against yours. "What did the kiss mean?"

He took a deep breath as you just stared at him.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," you said, feeling tears well up in your eyes.

"I'm not mad, and I'm not uncomfortable. I just," he took another deep breath before continuing. "I just want to know what it meant to you. Why you did it."

A tear slipped down your cheek at his soft-spoken words.

"I love you," you said quietly as more tears fell from your eyes. "I kissed you because I love you. Because I'm in love with you. I'm sorry, Bobby."

You felt your world crumbling around you. Years of friendship, laughter, and good memories all seemed to blur past you. Surely, when you got back to California, Bob would ask you to move out. The thought made you sick to your stomach.

Bob stared at you, silent. He felt like he was dreaming. All week, he had been trying to tell you how he felt. Been trying to get the words out. And here you were, saying everything he was thinking.

His hands quickly came up to your face, wiping the tears away. You couldn't look at him, eyes closed and body closing in on itself.

"Bee, will you open your eyes, please. I just want to talk to you," Bob pleaded. "I need to tell you something. Need you to look at me."

You shook your head, starting to feel like everything was all too much. Of course, he was still being sweet to you. After everything, after all of what you said and did. The thought made more tears come to your eyes.

"Please, please look at me," he asked again, thumbs now stroking your cheeks. Bob could see the internal debate you were having as your lips pushed deeper into a pout.

But after a few seconds, you opened your eyes. Blinking away the last bit of tears, you tried to look at the man in front of you.

As soon as your eyes met his, Bob smiled at you sweetly. "I love you. I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner. And I'm sorry about this week. I should've told you how I was feeling, but I thought everything would go okay. That we could just go back to being normal after all this."

Your shoulders relaxed with his admission, your mouth opening just a bit to look at Bob in awe.

"But we can't," you said, voice still small. It made Bob's heart ache thinking about all that you were feeling this week, knowing he was feeling the same way.

"No, I don't think we can." His eyes dropped to your lips for a split second. If you weren't watching him so closely, you would've missed it.

Something in your stomach turned at the thought of kissing him again. Your chest began to rise and fall much like it had earlier.

Still holding your face in his hands, Bob leaned in slowly. Slow enough to let you pull away if this was something you didn't want. Slow enough that seconds felt like minutes.

Finally, your lips met for the second time that night. Less rushed than before and softer. Your eyes flutter shut at the feeling.

The kiss was sweet. Bob's heart was racing out of his chest, having you like this. He was content letting your lips brush up against each other in a soft manner. But each time you kissed, he got hungrier. It wasn't until you let a soft sound slip past your lips and into his that he pressed into you harder.

Suddenly, Bob was walking you backwards into the bed. You felt one of his hands leave your face and come down to the small of your back, pressing you closer to him.

"This okay?" he asked breathlessly as you nodded, not trusting your voice.

With that, Bob got to work on the zipper at the back of your dress. He felt your hands in his hair, on his arms, pulling him in closer. Finally, the dress dropped and you let it fall to the floor.

Bob's eyes scanned your body. Wearing the prettiest set of black lace underwear and a matching bra, he felt his stomach turn. You were perfect.

Quickly, his hands were all over your body as you fell back with him on the bed. Feeling his hard length grind down on your barely clad heat had you biting down on your lip. Bob worked his mouth against your neck, looking for the spot that would make you moan against him. His licking and biting made your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him even closer if possible.

"Please, Bobby. Need you," you whispered. His head shot up to take you in. Your eyes were blinking quickly, like you were struggling to keep them open. Your mouth parted slightly, like you couldn't take deep enough breaths. Your hair splayed out around you, like you were an angel come down from heaven.

"Want me to touch you?" Bob asked as you whined, head nodding. "Gonna have to be quiet for me, okay? I wanna help you."

"Okay, I'll be good. Promise," you said, eyes searching his. Waiting for his movements to change. Waiting for him to help you feel good.

His hands moved from your hips down to your heat. Only one hand cupping it at first, while the other worked at the back of your bra. Pushing into your underwear, Bob's big hand began to feel you everywhere. His thumb quickly found your clit, and you thought you were seeing stars as he rubbed it softly.

You felt the tightness of your bra loosen, and Bob's other hand quickly moved to take it off you completely. Seconds after, his mouth came down to your pebbled nipple, swirling his tongue around it, sucking it into his mouth.

Your jaw dropped at the feeling. His kisses and ministrations made your hips jump up into his hand. "Need more, wanna feel your fingers," you said softly, trying to keep your promise to him.

Popping his lips from your tits, Bob looked at you with darkened eyes. "Being so good for me. I can feel you, so wet for me," he praised you, but still, his hand made no effort to move further into your heat.

Your brows furrowed at this, and you propped yourself up to look at the man lying above you. "Bobby, please," you whispered, kissing his cheek sweetly.

There was no way he could resist you when you asked so sweetly. His hand made its way towards your opening, stretching your underwear a bit. Bob played with you a bit more, and you whined into the pillow next to you.

"Sorry, honey," he whispered into your ear. "Just love your little pussy so much."

Your jaw dropped at his dirty words and at the feeling of two of his fingers stretching out your heat. They felt so thick, and Bob knew exactly what he was doing, moving them with expert precision. Pushing in slow and deep, reaching your spot almost immediately, your back arched off the bed into his touch.

Bob watched as you crumbled at his touch. It had to be a dream. The way your tits heaved up and down made him dizzy. Your face, now driven into the pillow next to you, silencing your noises, made his cock jump from beneath his trousers. You lying on the bed, almost completely naked, and he still fully dressed, made him bite down on his lip hard.

He was trying to take his time with you. Be gentle. Get to know your body. But every noise that escaped you and every look of longing you shot him made his resolve crumble. He could spend hours like this, with you at his disposal to play with. But sweat beaded down his forehead in restraint. Bob had to know what your tight pussy felt like around his cock.

A hand on his bicep pulled Bob from his thoughts. He felt your pussy clench up at his fingers, and he instantly moved his thumb back up to your clit. The reaction was immediate. Your body curling off the body and into him, Bob leaned into you, taking one of your tits into his mouth again, sucking harshly this time.

"Oh, fuck," you whispered as your orgasm ran through you. You never knew your orgasms could be so intense, but with Bob's constant attention to your body, you had never felt better.

Delicately, he pulled his fingers from your entrance and leaned down to kiss you sweetly.

"You're so beautiful," Bob said breathlessly. Then he brought his fingers up to his mouth, and you felt your pussy throb all over again at the sight of him licking your slick from his fingers. "Taste so good, too," he said, popping his fingers from his mouth. "Can I taste you?"

You nodded, but apparently, this wasn't enough for him anymore.

"Wanna hear you," Bob spoke softly. "Killing me, not being able to hear all your cute noises."

"Sorry," you said bashfully. "Yes, please."

"Don't gotta say sorry. Doing so good for me, my beautiful girl." Bob leaned in to kiss you again, making you feel his want and warmth as he licked into your mouth. His mouth traveled down your body, stopping to suck dark marks into your throat and all over your tits. But you didn't stop him, not really caring about how you would cover them up in the morning. His nips and licks were much more convincing than anything your brain told you.

Finally making his way down to your heat, Bob pushed your underwear to the side. Licking a broad stripe with his flat tongue, he tried to feel all of you. Your thighs worked to close around him, but his strong hands came up to grip them just hard enough to remind you of his strength, but not hard enough to hurt you. Continuing, he kissed all over your heat, much like he had just licked into your mouth. The movements made you dizzy.

Focusing on your clit, you felt one of his hands leave your thigh and dive into your heat again.

"Bobby," you whined. Quickly slapping a hand over your mouth, remembering what you had promised him. He looked up at you, chuckling a bit at your movements. But the vibrations against your heat only made you squirm and cry out more.

Removing his mouth from your heat, he kissed your thighs sweetly.

"Need me to help you, honey?" he asked, voice low and eyes dark as they looked at you.

"Mhm, please," you whispered, still moving your hips against his fingers.

He smiled at your movements. "So needy," he whispered more to himself than anything. "Didn't think you'd be that way."

Your tummy flipped at his admission. Even if he hadn't explicitly said it, just thinking about Bob touching himself to the thought of you made your pulse race like crazy.

Pulling your underwear away from your heat, Bob tossed them across the room. His hands now moved to your waist, picking you up effortlessly, flipping you on your tummy softly.

Your neck craned back, a puzzled look on your face. But he was already meeting you half way, coming up to kiss you again and ask a question.

"This okay, honey?" Bob asked, one hand coming to raise your hips. Another guided a pillow beneath them. Your stomach turned at the thought of what he was about to do.

"Yeah, it's okay," you whispered. He smiled at this, placing a sweet kiss on the crown of your head. But soon, his hand was pushing your head into the pillow, tucking your hair behind your ears, making sure you were comfortable. But still, his hand came down to guide you into the plush surface beneath you.

Not seeing Bob and only feeling him was something you never thought you would love. But the way his hands dragged down your body, fingers toying with your body, and firmly kneading your ass made your breathing sharp and shallow. Bob made his way down to your heat once more, licks more confident and sure now.

Sure enough, you whined into the pillow underneath you, pushing your hips back into Bob as he continued to work at your entrance. His tongue pushed in and out of you, sucking harshly. Hands spreading your ass, allowing him to kiss you better, get deeper.

It was quick for you to feel the familiar tug in your tummy return, ready to snap at any moment. Snaking a hand under your tummy and to your clit, Bob worked diligently to make you feel good, rubbing tight, small circles.

Your hand flew back, trying to grasp at anything you could. Your fingers found his golden locks, and you gripped them tightly as you came for the second time that night.

After a few last licks, Bob kissed up your back, letting his body sink into you a bit. It wasn't until his kisses reached your neck that you felt his hard length straining against your ass.

"So good, honey," he whispered, placing sweet kisses against your hair once more. "Gonna go get a towel to clean you up, okay?"

Soon, he moved to shift off the bed. But you shot up, grabbing his forearm.

"What's wrong?" Bob asked, concern evident on his face as he looked at you. He wondered if it had been too much. He had indulged a little bit, but he thought that you were feeling good. Or maybe he was pulling away too soon, maybe you wanted to cuddle a bit more before he got up. But what you said next made his heart jump.

"Wanna feel you. Do you not want to?" you spoke softly, forehead creasing in on itself.

Bob smiled at your question, coming back into your space, pressing his lips to yours. You smiled into the kiss, too. Something about them was so sweet and gentle, but so deep and longing at the same time.

"Course I do, just didn't want to push anything," he spoke, pulling away a bit. "And, I don't have anything here. I didn't bring any condoms," Bob whispered the last bit, like it was a secret.

"I'm clean and on birth control," you offered with a small smile that Bob swore would be the death of him.

"Me too," he said, immediately backtracking at the sound of your giggles. "I mean clean. No birth control."

Your smile grew wider at his words. Even when Bob didn't mean to, he made you laugh, always making you feel good.

"Can I see you? Think it's a little unfair you're still dressed," you teased him. Even with the faint glow of the moon and the soft bedside lamp, you were able to see the way Bob's ears turned pink.

Without a word, he began to unbutton his shirt. Scooching toward him on the bed, your hands made quick work of his belt, button, and zipper. Bob would've laughed at your eagerness if he weren't feeling the exact same way. Kicking off his pants and underwear and whipping the shirt off over his head, Bob stood before. Your tongue peeked out a bit at the sight of him.

His abs are sculpted and molded to perfection; you were able to gawk at them more openly now than a few nights ago. As your eyes traveled further, you saw his V-line, prominent and defined. And his length stood proud in front of you. Chills ran down your spine at the thought of taking all of him. You leaned down, falling on your elbows before him. Kissing his pink tip, your tongue began to kitten lick at his head.

Bob groaned audibly at the sight in front of him. Your ass up, mouth working against his length, and eyes looking up at him for approval. This wasn't real, surely. Any minute now, he would wake up in bed, spoiled underwear once again. But as you moved to take his length further in your mouth, Bob couldn't deny what he was feeling.

Knowing that if you sucked his length much longer, he wouldn't last, Bob softly grasped your head in his hands, moving you away from his length and instead onto the bed like you once were.

Lying back on the bed, you watched as Bob moved over your body. Settling on top of you, you found yourself face-to-face with him. Smiling at him, your eyes met, and you couldn't help but laugh a bit to yourself.

"What's got you so happy?" Bob asked, leaning down to kiss your neck as you let the giggles flow freely. He smiled at you, the kisses sweet rather than searing like they were before.

"I just love you," you whispered. Bob's head shot up, dopey grin now on his face.

"I love you," he whispered back. Leaning down to kiss you again, you thought about how you would never get used to this. Just a few hours ago, you were anxiety-ridden with thoughts of losing your best friend to a dumb mistake. Now, all your nerves were still on fire, but for a different reason. Bob's lips worked against yours until you felt your tummy flip again, and it seemed he felt the same way; one of his hands moved down to grip his length. Guiding himself to your heat, you felt Bob shudder in your embrace, but his lips never left yours.

Bob groaned against your lips as he pushed into you. Only a few inches at first, seeing the way your body would react to him. Your chest heaved, and your eyes screwed shut at the unfamiliar feeling. But your hands pawed at his chest and back, trying to bring him closer to you.

"Doing okay, honey? Feel good?" Bob asked, watching your face for any signs of discomfort.

You whinnied a little as you answered, "Feels good. So good. You're so big."

"You can take it, can't you, honey?" Bob asked, pushing a bit more into you as your jaw dropped at the feeling. He was now kissing up and down your throat again, unable to keep himself away from your soft, dewy skin for too long.

The man felt you pulsed around him. Your heat seemingly needing more from him. Before Bob could ask, you spoke in a breathless whisper.

"More, please. I can take it."

With that, he pushed into you fully. Balls settling against your ass, pelvis meeting yours. His arms came around under your back, bringing you tight into his embrace. Bob made sure to hold onto you, made sure he was taking care of you.

When he started moving, it was filthy. The sounds couldn't be masked as he moved in and out of your heat at a steady pace, deep enough to be hitting your spot in just the right way. Your bodies began to sweat and shine under the soft bedroom light.

You tried biting down on your lip, tried to not let the sounds escape you, but it was no use. The way that Bob moved above you drew out soft, airy noises. Bob saw that you struggled to control yourself and fully feel pleasure, so he took matters into his own hands.

Placing a large hand over your mouth, Bob met your eyes. They shot wide open at first, maybe a flicker of embarrassment, but soon they became droopy again as you focused more on his thrusts into you.

"It's okay, honey," he leaned down to talk near your ear. "Know it feels good. Just gonna help you a little."

You nodded at his words, clenching around his length again. Your moans were now muffled behind his big hand. The feeling of Bob asserting himself over you made you dizzy. You knew he was confident and could take charge if need be, but this was something else. Bob worked with precision, seemingly adjusting to your every move. It wasn't long until his other hand left its spot on your hip and made its way down to your heat once more, circling your clit in what you now learned was your favorite way. His big thumb moved in tandem with his thrusts, and you opened your eyes to look at the man above you.

Bob, seeing the way your eyes glossed over, kissed your lips, briefly moving his hand before placing it back and speaking, "It's okay, I got you. Wanna feel you cum around me."

With that, the knot in your tummy unraveled. Shaking against Bob, you pushed your body as close to his as possible. Still working into you, Bob felt the way you squeezed his length and couldn't hold back anymore, coming to his high with you.

Slowly, Bob moved his hand from your mouth and instead stroked your hair, placing a kiss on your hairline. You smiled at his actions, despite being exhausted from your rigorous activities.

"I love you," Bob told you. He watched as you relaxed against the bed, shifting slightly to hold you better.

"I love you, Bobby. Thank you for inviting me this week," you said sweetly, sharing another kiss with him as he was still nestled inside you, neither of you moving to get up just yet.

He smiled at your words. Thinking back to this week and all that had happened, Bob was grateful you were by his side. From his rambunctious family to the quietness of rural Montana, you fit in perfectly. Bob couldn't wait to bring you back, properly this time.

જ⁀➴

Like always, you and Bob went along with the squad's outstanding Saturday night plans at the Hard Deck, not caring that you had just gotten back to California a few hours prior. Jake grinned at the sight of you walking into the Hard Deck, hand in hand with Bob. He watched as Bob carefully guided you through the crowd of people, delicately holding onto your waist and shielding you from the rowdy patrons.

"Well, well, well," Jake teased as soon as you had both made your way over to the pool table full of aviators. "Looks like my plan worked."

Bob's brows furrowed at this, immediately looking to you.

"No way, Bagman, you aren't getting the credit for this," Phoenix chimed in, abandoning the game of pool.

Now it was your turn to look at Bob with confusion on your face.

"I was the one who sold Bee about the parents thing," Jake argued. You felt your face flush at his admission of your white lie.

"Well, I was the one hyping Bob up for weeks about getting her to come," Phoenix fought back. Bob closed his eyes, not thinking he could survive the look of amusement on your face.

Suddenly, both of your pilots turned to you.

"So who did it?" Phoenix asked. Both you and Bob looked at each other, puzzled.

"Oh come on," Jake said exasperatedly. "You know what were talking about. Who made the first move?"

The squad was silent, watching both you and Bob under a microscope, it seemed. A slight tilt of Bob's head in your direction made Jake cry out triumphantly, pumping his fists into the air.

"I knew it! I knew it! Suck it, Phoenix," Jake whooped as onlookers watched with amusement at his antics.

"Knew it?" Bob asked, almost scared for the answer.

Jake grinned at the both of you. "Yup!" he said, popping the ending syllable in a way that made Nat's eye roll even farther back into her head. "I knew Bee would make the first move. She's gutsy! No offense, Baby on Board."

"Jake," you chastised, but knew the nickname was all in good fun now.

"Where's my twenty dollars? My wallet seems to be missing something," Jake faux-questioned, turning his attention to Phoenix.

Digging into her back pocket and sifting through her wallet, she slapped a crisp twenty-dollar bill into Jake's outstretched hand with a groan. Jake almost giggled in delight, a sound you had only heard come out of him once or twice.

"I just want to say," he started, raising his glass to the group, "that I, Jake Seresin, best pilot among us, was instrumental in ending our suffering. That is, watching these two dance around each other forever like little lovesick puppies."

The group groaned at his statement, but raised their drinks nonetheless. You giggled into Bob's shoulder, and he smiled widely at the sound. His eyes found yours and saw a playful look on your face. Before he knew it, you leaned into his space, pressing your lips to his.

The group watched as he melted into your touch, half-cheering and half-whistling.