Pretty Fuckin’ Princess

and you are spoiled. connie makes sure of it. he covers appointments before you even think to ask. he hands you cash folded neat and doesn’t wait for a thank you. when you’re quiet, he knows what to order. when you’re in a mood, he knows when to leave you alone and when to pull you closer.

sometimes you hate how much he knows you because it makes it harder to hide. jealousy never sits easy on you. you tell yourself it shouldn’t matter, that he can talk to other girls if he wants to because you’re not together. still, the thought gnaws.

connie feels it before you say a word. the weight in your silence is different. he feels it in the way your leg twitches against his, in the way you lock your phone too fast. his eyes lower, then meet yours. he knows.

“you mad at me again,” he says. it isn’t a question.

you shift against him, trying to look unbothered. “you can do what you want.”

he exhales like he knows exactly what you’re pouting about. his head tilting as his gaze lingers on your face. “don’t do that, baby.” he smooths a hand up your thigh, steady and grounding. “you know i don’t care about them girls. i care about you.”

the words sink heavy because you know it’s true. connie could talk to anyone but he doesn’t. not after the last time. he tried once, just to prove to himself that he could. it ended with you ignoring his calls for days, your attitude cutting sharper than you meant it to. he hated it. hated how empty the space between you felt, hated how restless he got not hearing your voice. that was the first and last time he ever tested the line.

now he watches you pout into his chest, lashes brushing his shirt, hair smelling like coconut. he presses his lips to the top of your head and murmurs against your skin, “you my princesa. nobody else. just you.”

connie never lets your moods scare him off. if anything he almost looks entertained when you sulk in his lap, face tucked into his chest like you’re trying to make him pay for whatever’s bothering you. he strokes your back with slow, steady motions, the kind that make it impossible to stay tense for long.

“you stay mad at me,” he says quietly, his breath brushing over the top of your head. his voice isn’t sharp. it’s soft and teasing, the way he always talks when he knows you’re about to give in.

you hum into his shirt, refusing to lift your face. “because you give me reasons.”

“mami,” he murmurs, sliding his hand under your chin to tilt your head up. his eyes catch the light from the tv, steady and warm as they linger on you. “don’t act like i don’t treat you right. i know you.”

you hate how easily he reads you, how your pout doesn’t last more than a second when he looks at you like that. you try to roll your eyes but he catches it, smiling like he’s won.

“lashes tomorrow,” he says simply, pulling his phone out with one hand while you’re still in his lap. “and nails on friday. i’ll text your girl.”

“i was gonna do it myself,” you mutter, even though you weren’t.

“nah.” he kisses your cheek, thumbs tapping across his screen. “you too spoiled for that. i handle it.”

you sink further into him, hiding your smile against his neck. he always does this—takes care of things before you even realize you want them. it’s frustrating in a way because it makes your fake attitude harder to keep up.

“you’re still annoying,” you mumble.

he laughs under his breath, phone already locked again. “yeah, but i’m your annoying. and you love me for it.”

the words hang heavy between you because they’re true. you do love him in your own way, even if neither of you names it.

you don’t have to ask. he already knows what you need.

connie’s phone is facedown on the coffee table now, forgotten the second your weight settles comfortably against him again. he always makes space for you, his arm curled around your waist, his hand rubbing along your side like it’s second nature. his focus is never split when it comes to you.

“when’s the last time you ate?” he asks after a moment, voice low against your temple.

you blink, shrugging like you’re trying to think. “i had coffee this morning.”

he gives you a look that makes you roll your eyes before you even see it fully. “coffee don’t count. you want me to cook or you want me to order something?”

you murmur into his shirt, “you cook.”

that’s all he needs. within minutes he’s shifting you off his lap and into the corner of the couch, tossing you the blanket you like before heading to the kitchen. you watch him move around with the kind of ease that tells you this isn’t new. pots, pans, seasonings—he knows where everything is because he’s used to doing this for you.

while he cooks, he checks in again without turning his head. “you still stressed about that thing with your sister?”

your lips part in surprise, though you shouldn’t be. you never told him directly, just dropped a sigh here and there on the phone a few nights ago. “how you even remember that?”

he glances back over his shoulder, smirking. “’cause i listen, baby. unlike you, i pay attention.”

your laugh slips out even though you try to hold it in. it’s annoying how well he knows you, how easily he can break through your moods.

twenty minutes later, there’s a plate in your lap before you can protest. he makes sure your drink is topped off, makes sure you’re settled under the blanket again, then drops down beside you with his own plate. when you don’t eat right away, he nudges your thigh with his knee until you give in and take the first bite.

“see?” he says, satisfied when you hum at the taste. “i know what i’m doin’.”

you roll your eyes but lean into him anyway, chewing slow, comfort filling more than just your stomach.

the rest of the night moves the same way it always does. he cleans up the kitchen without asking. he reminds you to plug in your phone because he noticed the battery was low. when you wander to the bathroom, you come back to see he’s already pulled up your lash girl’s number and your nail tech’s page, both appointments penciled in with your name.

it isn’t flashy. it isn’t loud. it’s just connie taking care of you in every way he knows how.

and when you stretch out on him again, belly full and mood softer, his arm wraps around you without hesitation. “that’s better,” he murmurs against your hair. “my princesa don’t gotta lift a finger for nothin’.”

and the truth is, you don’t. not with him.

the city moves slow outside the windows, neon bleeding into the night sky while connie steers one handed. you’re tucked against him, head resting on his shoulder, your cheek pillowed on his forearm where he’s angled it just for you. his thumb strokes lazy circles against your skin while the speakers hum with whatever playlist he threw on.

at every stoplight he leans in, kissing the top of your head or your temple, sometimes even the corner of your mouth when you tilt your face just right. it’s casual and natural. like breathing.

you hum when you see a gas station up ahead, eyes barely open. “i want a slushie.”

he glances down at you, amused. “princesa, you don’t even finish ’em.”

“don’t matter,” you mumble, tightening your hold on his arm. “i want one.”

he laughs, the sound low and fond, already signaling to pull in. “alright. what flavor?”

“blue. with a little red at the bottom.”

“complicated ass,” he mutters, but there’s no heat. just that quiet tone he always has when he’s about to spoil you anyway.

he parks and kisses your forehead before sliding out. you watch him disappear inside, shoulders loose, moving with that easy confidence you love. when he comes back, he’s got not just the slushie but your favorite chips and candy too, the kind he knows you’ll want later when you’re curled up in his bed.

“i didn’t ask for all that,” you tease, taking the cup from him.

“don’t gotta ask.” he leans in, kisses your cheek, then gets back behind the wheel like it’s nothing.

the drive continues like that. you sip your slushie while he rubs your leg, music soft in the background. he takes the long way just so you don’t have to move from your spot too soon. when you mention offhand that you need to grab lashes from the beauty supply, he’s already pulling up directions. when you sigh about forgetting lip gloss, he’s turning toward the beauty store before you can protest.

and through it all he keeps his arm under your chin, hand stroking your face whenever he’s not shifting gears, kissing you at every red light. it’s routine for him—spoiling you, catering to you, making sure you never go without.

you look up at him while he drives, the glow of passing streetlights painting his face in gold. he notices, of course he does, and meets your gaze for just a second before leaning down at the next stop, pressing his lips against yours like he couldn’t wait.

“what?” he asks when he pulls back, smiling at your dazed look.

“nothing,” you say softly, leaning against him again. “just love my driver.”

he chuckles, his arm tightening around you as the light turns green. “nah, baby. you love your connie.”

and you do. more than you ever let yourself admit out loud.

you’re still sipping the last of your slushie when connie pulls into his driveway. it’s quiet, the street lit dimly, the hum of his car fading when he cuts the engine. he leans over before you can move, stealing one last kiss just because he can.

“come on, princesa,” he murmurs, pulling your straw from the cup and tossing it aside. “let’s get you inside.”

you follow him, already anticipating the way his house always smells like fresh laundry and his cologne. it’s comfort at this point. his home feels like your own space too, even if neither of you ever called it that out loud.

you’re halfway to the door when headlights sweep across the driveway. another car pulls up too close, music rattling cheap speakers, and before you can ask, a girl stumbles out. heels clacking, voice pitched too high, the smell of alcohol spilling out with her laugh.

“constance!” she calls, dragging his full name like she owns it. “damn, you ain’t answer your phone, boy.”

your chest tightens, though you try to school your face. you’ve never seen her before but the way she walks up, familiar, half drunk and confident, tells you everything you need to know.

before you, there were girls like her. maybe girls he spoiled the same way he spoils you. maybe girls who sat in his passenger seat, who leaned their heads on his shoulder, who thought the same things you do now.

the thought stings, even if you don’t want it to.

connie’s jaw ticks, his arm subtly sliding in front of you like a barrier. “nah, you wildin’,” he mutters at the girl. “what you even doin’ here?”

“i just wanted to see you,” she slurs, smiling too wide. “you used to—”

“used to,” he cuts in, sharp this time. “key word. that’s dead.”

you stay quiet, standing half a step behind him, your throat tight with a pout you don’t want him to see. it shouldn’t matter. he’s not your boyfriend. technically, he can’t cheat. but watching her wobble in his driveway, calling his name like that, is enough to make your stomach twist.

the girl stares at you then, finally noticing. her expression flickers. maybe recognition. maybe jealousy. whatever it is, it’s quick before she scoffs and turns back to connie. “so this why you been actin’ brand new?”

“yeah,” he says flat, no hesitation. “this is why. so take your ass home.”

she mutters something under her breath but heads back to her car, tires screeching as she pulls off. the silence after is heavy.

connie turns to you, reaching for your chin. you try to move back but he catches you anyway, thumb brushing your cheek. “baby, don’t even start with that attitude. you know i don’t want none of that.”

you bite your lip, eyes low. “yeah, but you did once.”

his hand tilts your face up until you meet his stare. steady, unblinking. “and now i got you. i don’t recycle, princesa. when i’m done, i’m done. you the only one i’m takin’ care of.”

the words hit deeper than you expect, grounding and dangerous all at once. because in your heart, connie is yours. even if the world says he’s not.

you don’t say anything as he unlocks the door, just slip inside with your bag on your shoulder. connie follows, but he can feel the shift in your silence. it’s not the soft quiet you give him when you’re tired. this one is sharp, sulking, the kind that hangs off you like a storm.

he sets his keys down, glances at you standing in the middle of his living room with your arms crossed, lashes low over your eyes.

“you mad,” he says simply like it’s a routine for him everytime he notices your quietness.

“i’m not mad,” you reply too fast. your voice is clipped, heavy with the exact thing you’re denying.

he smirks a little but it doesn’t last. he walks over, slow and steady, until he’s standing close enough for his cologne to wrap around you. “princesa. don’t lie to me.”

you roll your eyes and shift away but he catches your wrist, thumb brushing the inside of it like he always does when he wants you to relax. “she just pulled up, drunk and stupid. that’s not on me.”

“but she felt comfortable enough to do it,” you snap back, pulling your hand free. “like… she knew she could. like you let her think that was okay once.”

connie sighs, dragging his hand down his face. “you really gon do this right now?”

your voice wobbles even though you try to keep it sharp. “maybe i don’t wanna be somebody else on your list of girls who think they matter until you move on.”

his head snaps up at that, eyes narrowing. “nah. don’t play with me like that.” his voice is firmer now, the easy tone gone. “you think i treat everybody how i treat you?” he steps closer, chest brushing yours. “you think i book appointments, run errands, hold you when you sleep, kiss you at every red light—for everybody?”

you swallow hard, but the jealous sting in your chest won’t die. “how am i supposed to know? she looked at me like i was just another one.”

he exhales, long and heavy, before cupping your face in both hands. his palms are warm, steady, pulling your gaze to his no matter how much you want to look away. “listen to me. i don’t care how she looked at you. i don’t care what she thought she had. she don’t got me. you do.”

your lip trembles, just a little, and his thumb catches it. “don’t you get it, baby? i can’t even stand the idea of you upset with me. if you left, i’d feel that. nobody else ever had me like that.”

the tension breaks a little, the weight in your chest loosening under his stare. it doesn’t erase the jealousy, but it makes it harder to hold onto.

“say you believe me,” he murmurs, leaning his forehead to yours. “say it so i don’t gotta keep explaining what you already know.”

you breathe out shaky, caught between stubborn and soft. “…i believe you.”

his lips tug up, satisfied and he kisses you before you can take it back. the kind of kiss that leaves no room for doubt. it steals the last bit of fight in your chest, and when he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are steady and soft in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“good,” he says, low like a promise. “’cause you know i don’t do all this for anybody else. you’re my princesa, even if you don’t wanna admit it right now.”

you want to argue, to tell him he doesn’t get to decide what you are to him, but the truth sits heavy in your chest. his hand drops to your lower back, guiding you inside toward his bedroom and he doesn’t let go until you’re curled up against him in his sheets with your cheek pressed to his shirt.

the rest of the night hums quiet. he doesn’t push for more words, just strokes his hand over your hair, letting you settle into the warmth of him. the earlier sharpness fades, leaving only the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear.

it’s not a label. it’s not a promise. but it’s enough for now and the way he holds you makes it feel like it might be more.

after that night in the driveway, the one where the drunk girl from connie’s past tried to stumble her way back into his life, something in you shifted. the way he’d shut her down, sharp and final, then turned to you like you were the only one that mattered, it stuck in your chest. it made it harder to keep your distance, harder to remind yourself this wasn’t official. so you stopped trying.

at first, it was small things. you started reaching for his hand more when you two were out, tucking your fingers between his as you walked through parking lots or leaned against him waiting for food. you pressed kisses to his jaw when he was driving, tracing the line of his tattoos with your lips just because you could. you climbed into his lap while he played his game, nudging his controller out of the way until his arms wrapped around you without complaint. every time, he let you.

connie noticed, of course. he noticed everything about you. noticed when your lashes were lifting and you needed a refill, when you were quiet in a way that wasn’t your usual, when your gloss had worn off and you were digging in your bag for another. now, he noticed the way your touches lingered longer, the way you left little pieces of yourself in his space. lashes on his sink, your bonnet looped around his headboard, lip gloss rolling under the passenger seat. your perfume sunk into his pillows, his hoodies started disappearing into your closet.

he never said a word. never reminded you this wasn’t that kind of thing. instead, he leaned into it. let it happen.

sex changed too. before, it was already good—better than good—but now you were bolder. you tested him, pushed him, whispered filth in his ear that made him pause mid thrust just to laugh low against your neck.

like the night you climbed on top of him, slow grind in the glow of his bedside lamp, your skirt pushed up around your waist. his hands spread over your thighs while you rolled your hips, your nails dragging over his chest.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned, head tipping back against the pillow. “you ridin’ like you tryna kill me.”

“maybe,” you teased, but your voice hitched when he pinched your nipple through your tank. “you love it pa?”

his smirk stretched wide, that drowsy look he always got when he knew he had you. “fuck—yeah, i love it. love watchin’ my princesa take what she want.”

you leaned forward, lips brushing his ear as you whispered something filthy about where you wanted his cum. his grip on your waist tightened instantly, dragging you down harder, his breath stuttering against your shoulder.

“goddamn,” he muttered, thrusting up into you now, snapping his hips so the slap of skin echoed in the room. “you get freakier every time, huh? nasty ass.”

you only smiled, clenching around him in response, dragging his name from his throat in a way that left him cursing, holding you down on his cock like he’d never let you go.

it became a pattern. more sex, more intensity, more ways you tested what he’d do if you pushed. and every time, he matched you. spoiled you in bed the same way he spoiled you outside of it—focused and attentive, like your body was the only thing that existed.

but it wasn’t just behind closed doors. pda slipped into the routine too.

at the mall one afternoon, he walked with his hand in the back pocket of your jeans, thumb brushing the curve of your ass like it was second nature. you leaned into him, grinning when he kissed the side of your head like it didn’t matter who saw.

later, outside his car, you leaned back against the door while he bent down to kiss you, deep and unhurried. people walked by, some glancing, some staring, but neither of you cared. you pulled at his shirt just to keep him close, lips swollen when you finally let him go.

“you gon make me late,” he murmured against your mouth, though his hand still rested on your hip, not moving.

“so?” you teased, tilting your head up for another kiss. “you like it.”

he chuckled, kissing you again just to prove you right.

sometimes it bled onto social media too. not full couple posts but little glimpses. a video of your manicured hand holding his chin while he drove, captionless. a mirror selfie in his bathroom with his chain glinting at your throat. a picture of him on his couch with your legs stretched across his lap, your anklet in frame.

most of the time it was you posting but every once in a while he’d slip something onto his story. nothing obvious but enough. the side of your face in the passenger seat, the curve of your nails around a bottle he bought, your voice laughing off camera. sneaky link coded, but too consistent, too soft around the edges, like something more.

and the people in his circle noticed. comments, dms, little jokes from his boys. none of it made him pull back. if anything, it made him double down.

one night after a long day, you were sprawled on his bed in one of his tshirts, phone in your hand as you scrolled. he came in fresh from the shower, towel slung low and leaned over to kiss your forehead.

“you settlin’ in like you live here,” he teased, but there was no edge in his voice.

“maybe i do,” you shot back, grinning up at him.

he just shook his head but his smile gave him away. he didn’t correct you. he never did.

and that was the thing—you both knew what this was supposed to be, what it wasn’t. but the way he held you in public, the way he let you take space in his life, the way you let yourself believe it all—made it feel like you’d already crossed the line.

like maybe there wasn’t one anymore.