perrie

You overhear that his name is Reo, and he brags to you himself that his father is a lieutenant named Zhao in the Fire Navy. He’s been teasing and prodding and making fun of you just because you transferred in midway through the year, which for some reason makes him think you’re lesser than him. 

Initially, you couldn’t care less. Your father is an army general in charge of his own battalion, and your eldest brother is already a captain in the Navy. Besides, you come from a long line of high-ranking military personnel—your great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather was Fire Lord Yorsor’s most trusted admiral and advisor, and your ever-loyal ancestors followed in his place. 

You’re walking through the hallways carrying your books, trying to ignore him and his posse as he continues pushing your buttons—making fun of your clothes, the size of your topknot, even the number of books you’re carrying. 

And then he crosses a line. 

“I don’t even know how someone like you ended up at the academy,” he says casually. “A nobody from a family of nobodies. You know, my father is—” 

You stop in your tracks and he bumps into you. You turn around and glare at him. 

“What did you say?” 

He just laughs. “My father is a lieutenant in the Navy, appointed by Fire Lord Azulon himself.”

“Not that,” you say. “Before that.” 

“Oh, that you’re the newest nobody in a family of nobodies—”

He doesn’t even finish his sentence before you sock him in the jaw as hard as you can, and his friends and half the other students in the hallway gasp as he goes down. You’ve heard your father’s voice in your head the entire day, demanding that you never show weakness—and what happens if you do. You finally decide to listen to him, to make use of all those nights icing your bruises. 

You grab his collar and pull him up from the ground, the fabric sizzling beneath your heated grip. Reo stares at you with wide, panicked eyes.

“What is your problem?” he shouts, voice cracking with fear. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” you question furiously. “You’ve been making fun of me all day! Aren’t you going to back it up?”

“I don’t know who you are!” he complains. “I didn’t know you could bend!”

“Just because you’re too stupid to recognize a name you should respect doesn’t mean you get off easy,” you growl as you say your family name. You ignite a flame in your hand and hold it close to his face. “My father is one of Fire Lord Azulon’s most respected generals. Do you understand that means I outrank you, or are you too stupid to get that too?”

Everyone is paying attention to the spectacle now, packing around you but leaving enough distance between them and the crazy, firebending new girl. 

“I get it, I get it!” he stammers. “I didn’t know who you were, I swear! I never would have bothered you if I did—” 

“Shut up,” you snap. “If you ever disrespect my family like that again, I will make sure you never speak another word. Do you understand?” 

His eyes somehow widen even further, but he doesn’t answer quickly enough. You shake him and bring the flame closer.  

“Swear it!” you demand. 

“I swear! Spirits, you’re insane!”

You extinguish the flame and let him go. He drops to the floor and immediately scrambles away as the crowd parts for him. You cross your arms as you watch him, your eyes as fiery as your bending. Once you’re satisfied, you walk off, and the crowd parts even quicker for you. 

You hear your name and you roll your eyes before you turn around—you don’t have it in you to deal with anyone else. Then you realize who it is and your eyes widen.

“Princess Azula,” you stammer, and you bow as you hold your open palm against your fist. “I— I apologize for such a display in front of Your—” 

Azula holds up her hand and you immediately fall silent. “No need to apologize,” she says, and her smile grows. Listening is a good trait in a friend. “I enjoyed it.” 

“I promise, he did something to deserve it.” 

She shrugs and examines her nails. “I wouldn’t have cared even if he didn’t. You’re a good firebender. It isn’t a crime to show it off.” 

A smile twitches on your lips. You still seem unsure—like you could possibly deserve kindness from Princess Azula. She tilts her head. 

“Your father is one of my father’s generals, is he not?”

You nod just a bit too many times. Another note: Azula clearly makes you nervous. It’s almost difficult to control her smile. 

“He leads a battalion in the 23rd infantry regiment,” you say, and your chin lifts a bit as you talk about him. “He says I will take his place someday. I plan to enlist in the army once I graduate.” 

“Those are big aspirations,” Azula says. 

“All of my siblings have followed in my father’s place,” you say. This smile is your biggest yet. “I’ll be proud to join them and fulfill my duty to my nation.” 

She lifts a single brow. “Are you just saying that because I’m the princess?” 

“Of course not,” you say. “I— I just want to make my father proud. A- and your grandfather. The Fire Lord.” 

You purse your lips as you decide to stop talking. You don’t want to embarrass yourself further in front of such an influential girl—one suggestion to her grandfather, and you bet she could have your future ruined before it’s even started. 

Instead, her smile grows, sharp as the glint in her eye. 

“I can’t wait to find out what else you’re capable of.” 

-

Azula wakes you up the next morning like everything is normal. 

Actually, it’s not like normal—she lets you sleep in for an extra half hour. Maybe that’s why your dreams catch up to you, why you’re trying to remember the reason you’re so loyal to Azula. 

She doesn’t even apologize for last night, for saying that she would abandon you without a second thought if you didn’t get your priorities straight. 

The thought of it makes your stomach churn. You read between the lines well enough—if you put Zuko above her again, she’ll do a whole lot more than yell at you. 

You swallow your doubt and get dressed as quickly as possible. Azula is already holding up the day by letting you rest for a little bit longer; you can’t jeopardize this mission any more than you already have. Not when your next stop is Ba Sing Se. 

While Azula handles princess business before your departure, you walk over to Mai and Ty Lee to eat breakfast with them. 

“There you are, sleepyhead!” Ty Lee always greets you with a smile, and it’s very much infectious. “I thought you died!”

You can’t hide your grimace, and Mai meets your eyes. You shoot her a look—later—as you focus back on Ty Lee. 

“Chasing the Avatar tired me out,” you joke. “What about you two? How did fighting a bison go?”

“I know you think you’re kidding, but it’s true,” Ty Lee says. “We almost had those Water Tribe siblings!”

“Then that stupid bison sent us into the water,” Mai grumbles.

“That’s two times now that thing has bailed the Avatar out,” you sigh as you bite into a rice ball. It’s a little too salty, but you deal with it. 

“And then Ty Lee had the nerve to call the Water Tribe boy cute,” Mai adds.

“What?” she defends. “He is!” Ty Lee leans forward and says your name. “Don’t you think so too? You got a good look at him in Omashu.”

“I wasn’t really paying attention to that,” you say wryly. Ty Lee stares at you and you roll your eyes. “Why don’t you ask Mai?”

“Because she only has eyes for one very moody prince,” Ty Lee teases. Mai’s cheeks flush as she looks away, and Ty Lee gives you an expectant look.

 “Fine,” you admit. “He’s kind of cute.” 

“I knew it!” she exclaims, and she sighs dreamily. “You guys really had a connection when you were fighting to the death.”

“Yeah,” you say wryly, “I’m sure we did.” 

-

After a few days of traveling, you’re less than half a day from Ba Sing Se. You don’t know if it’s because she’s feeling nice or if she actually feels bad for what she said to you on your last excursion, but Azula lets you go to a village marketplace on your own when you ask if you can pick up a few supplies.

Maybe she knows about your treasonous thoughts. Maybe this is a test—that she’s letting you go out on your own to prove that you’ll come back. 

Even if she’s that many steps ahead of you, it doesn’t matter. You know you won’t leave.

You take care to hide your appearance—changing into your training clothes, the only not red outfit you have; taking out your topknot so your hair falls loose down your back; wearing a hood to hide the color of your eyes. You even pull your sleeves up to show the scars from your childhood once you’re far enough from the ship to sell it further.

Firebenders like you shouldn’t have burn scars. A regular Earth Kingdom girl at the market would. 

You make it to town sooner than you expect, and you’re thankful that, while the streets seem populated, there aren’t too many around the market stalls. You take a deep breath in and let it out slowly—everything’s going to be okay. No one here could possibly recognize you. And besides, you asked to do this. You can’t be nervous now. 

That thought has tinges of Azula’s sharpness in it, and for some reason that gives you the remaining strength you need to keep moving. 

You take your time as you go through each stall, weighing produce in your hand or examining meat with a watchful eye. It’s more windy than you’re used to in the Earth Kingdom, so you also spend a quarter of your time making sure your hood stays up. You don’t think anything can beat the fruit you grew up eating in the Fire Nation, but you grab a few mangoes anyway—maybe you’ll be able to make sticky rice for your friends before you resume trying to take over the Earth Kingdom. 

You frown at the thought. Logically, it’s what you’re trying to do, why you’re going to Ba Sing Se in the first place. It’s what your father has been helping with, what you will do when you enlist in the army, but now that you’re actually on a real mission with real consequences for real people, it just feels wrong. 

You shake your head, trying to dispel the doubt that seems to be clouding your mind more than usual these days—and then, a boy fills the space beside you, not bothering to hide the fact that he’s looking at you. 

A boy in Water Tribe clothes, with a wolf tail, an ivory choker, and a boomerang hanging by his side. 

Your eyes widen the second you realize as you focus back on your mangoes with intent. He knows. Oh spirits, he knows who you are. He’s going to reveal you to the guards, you’re going to have to firebend to escape and it’s going to expose your whole plan and Azula is going to send you back home in dishonor— 

“Hey,” he says, a bit of a smile on his lips. 

You blink. Now he’s talking to you? 

He nods at the fruit in your hand. “Is it a good day for mangoes?” 

You have no idea what’s happening, what kind of game he’s trying to play with you. Has he already alerted the guards? Is he trying to soften you up so they can capture you more easily? 

“I… think so,” you say. “They smell perfect.” 

“Then I might have to get one myself.” His smile grows as he takes a step closer, tilting his head as he tries to see your face past your hood. “Which one should I get?” 

You take one out of your bag and hand it over to him. The quicker you can get him off your tail, the sooner you can get back to the ship and pretend like this never happened—like you were almost immediately sniffed out on your first solo trip. 

“Here,” you say. “It’s the best one from the pile, I think.”

“You think a lot of things,” he says, and his fingers brush yours as he takes it. “Are you sure about any of it?” 

What will get you to leave me alone quicker? you think haphazardly. You were sure he already knows who you are, but maybe you’re wrong. Maybe he’s just curious about mangoes. 

“I’m sure that it’s a good mango,” you say, and you manage a weak smile. 

“I trust you, then.” He says, and you nearly laugh. This has to be a trick! You have to get out of here. 

You turn to go, but he moves with you as he holds his arm out. 

“Wait!” he exclaims, and you don’t know why you actually listen and stop. “Do you have to leave so soon?” 

Almost certainly a trick. He might as well just say, I just need a few more minutes for Earth Kingdom soldiers to show up and take you to prison forever! 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I really have to go—” 

“Please,” he says, his expression softening. “I’m having a pretty good time talking with you.” 

You frown at the rows of vegetables. 

“You have really pretty eyes,” he continues, “interesting ones, nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s what drew me over here.”

“And not the mangoes?” you say wryly.

He chuckles, and holds out his hand. “I’m Sokka.” 

You stare at him for a few seconds, and then a strong gust of wind blows your hood off. You immediately grab it and pull it back down, but it’s too late—Sokka gets a clear enough look at your face, and his eyes impossibly large as he stumbles back.

“You’re Fire Nation,” he realizes. 

Agni, why could he not just leave you alone like you wanted? You were so sure he knew even before he walked over. Now, you wonder if he’s playing the long game on being stupid. “Be quiet.” 

“You’re one of Azula’s friends!” he exclaims, and you resist the urge to sock him right in the jaw.  

Instead, you lunge at him and plant your hand over his mouth, ignoring his attempts to wrestle you off as you repeatedly tell him to shut up. A passing couple gives you a strange look, and you smile as casually as you can.

“Just one of those days,” you joke weakly. “You know what it’s like.” 

They look at each other like you’re crazy then speed up the pace to get past you quicker—but they don’t scream to the whole marketplace that you’re Fire Nation, so you take your wins where you can get them. Just when you’re about to let Sokka go, he licks your palm. 

You tear your hand away from his mouth and cry out like you’ve been burned.

“What is wrong with you?” you ask angrily. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he echoes. “You don’t just attack a guy like that!” 

“And you don’t just threaten to expose a girl like that,” you snap. “I wasn’t even bothering you. You were the one who decided to flirt with a stranger.” 

“I wasn’t flirting with you!” Sokka insists. “I— I was curious about the mangoes.” 

“Yeah,” you scoff, “that’s why you said my eyes were really pretty.” 

“I didn’t say they were pretty, I said they were interesting.” Sokka crosses his arms. “Now, I just think they’re evil.” 

“You think I have evil eyes.” 

“You’re evil, and you have eyes. Is that simple enough for you?” 

You can’t believe this is the boy you have to convince not to report you to the authorities. No, you can’t believe this is one of the kids that has been able to best the Fire Nation over and over again. “I don’t want to hurt you, I told you that. I’m just gathering supplies like you—is that a crime?” 

“You’re F—” He looks around at the busy marketplace and takes a few steps closer to you, then whisper-yells right in your face. “You’re Fire Nation! Everything you do is a crime!” 

You groan in frustration and clench your fists so hard that fire shoots out the bottom. You remember that you’ll be arrested on the spot if anyone sees, and you press them into your chest one on top of the other. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you repeat quietly. “Just— just let me leave, and I won’t say a thing to Princess Azula.” 

“Yeah, right,” Sokka scoffs. “Give me one reason not to get you arrested.”

“Because Azula will find out,” you insist. “Gossip travels quickly. If she hears that a Fire Nation girl was arrested right where we are, she will know it’s me, and she will come here and she will find you, and you won’t get away a third time.”

“That sounds an awful lot like a threat.” 

“It’s a promise!” you whisper-yell. “I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to hurt any of you. I’m here because Azula asked me to, not because I have a grudge against the Avatar and his stupid friends.” 

“Hey, we’re not stupid!”

“You got yourself into this mess by flirting with one of your biggest enemies because you didn’t recognize me.” 

“I was not—” 

Sokka stops and takes a deep breath, then lets it out as you cross your arms. 

“Well? Are you going to let me leave, or am I going to have to make this your problem?” 

He glances over at another stall, and your eyes follow—they widen when you see his sister standing with the Avatar himself, haggling over the price of a new bag. Sokka realizes and points his boomerang at you. 

“Don’t.” 

“I wasn’t,” you snap, and you focus back on him. “Do you know how irresponsible it is to be running around like this? The Avatar is literally a giant arrow advertising who you three are.” 

“We know that!” Sokka insists, and he crosses his arms like you in a hurry. “We’re leaving soon.” 

“Good,” you say, “because we’re less than a day from Ba Sing Se. If you’re there when we are, I won’t be this nice.” 

“Then I’ll just tell Azula that you let us go,” he counters. 

You stare at him in disbelief. “Do you have rocks for a brain?” 

“Hey!” 

“I’m leaving, Sokka.” You enunciate each word and his cheeks flush. “I won’t say a word to Azula, and you won’t say a word to anyone here. Got it?” 

“...Can I have another mango?” 

You glare at him, and he holds up his hands. “Fine. I’ll let you go, you let us go.” 

“Thank you,” you say, even though you are the one letting him go. 

“You’re welcome.” 

You stare at him for a moment. You thought he had you pegged from the second he walked up, but really he saw you as just another girl—not someone from the Fire Nation. 

And he thinks you’re pretty. 

You walk off the moment you feel your cheeks heat, and you go about the rest of your business as quickly so you can leave. Even as you walk out of the marketplace, you glance over your shoulder and see Sokka picking up an apple—then his eyes meet yours. You duck your head and run. 

-

“What are you smiling about?”

You make it to the ship without any problems. Sokka kept his end of the deal, and you intend to keep yours. But as you stand in the kitchen cutting thin slices of mango, you find yourself thinking of him without exactly meaning to.

“Sometimes people just smile because they can.” You glance up at Mai. “I know it’s a shocking sight for you.”

“You know what I mean,” she says wryly. 

“The weather was beautiful,” you say. “It was nice being on land instead of a ship, too.” 

“What did you get?” 

“A lot of fresh produce, mostly,” you say. “I also got this huge platypus bear egg—” you carefully set it on the table— “and the farmer said one egg can make five omelets. I also got a whole bunch of mangoes to make mango sticky rice.”

Mai actually cracks a rare smile. “Really?” 

“Really,” you nod. “If Ba Sing Se is a bust, we’re going to be on our own for a while as we keep tracking the Avatar. I figured I would make everyone a treat before we’re living off the land.” 

“Ty Lee will be happy.”

“What will I be happy about?” Ty Lee asks, popping her head in through the doorway. You nearly slice your finger off. 

“Spirits, Ty Lee, what happened to knocking?” 

“The door’s open,” she says, and she walks in. “What will I be happy about?” 

“She’s making your favorite dessert,” Mai says, and Ty Lee perks up. 

“Mango sticky rice?” 

“Bullseye,” you say, and Ty Lee cheers. 

“Yes! I haven’t had that since you made it for us before—” 

She stops, her brows furrowing as her brain catches up to her mouth. 

“It’s okay,” you assure, but Ty Lee shakes her head. 

“I don’t want to think about it,” she says. “But now we’re all together, and we can make a new memory.”

“Exactly,” you say. 

“Except Zuko’s not here,” Mai mutters, and you bite your lip. Thankfully, you don’t have to think of something to say because Azula stops outside the door, eyes immediately meeting yours. 

“Good,” Azula says, “you’re back.” 

“Yeah,” you nod, “do you need anything from the kitchen?” 

“No.”

She stands there, and you raise your eyebrows with a slight smile. “Can I help you with anything then?” 

Azula shakes her head, but she still doesn’t leave. 

“Okay,” you say slowly, “why are you here then?” 

She seems to realize she’s going to actually say whatever she wants to say instead of you guessing, and she sighs. 

“I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” Azula says, and your knife slips as you look up at her in shock. 

“Are you serious?” 

“Of course I am,” she snaps, and then she sighs and tries her best to smile as kindly as possible. “It wasn’t nice of me to take my frustration out on you. I hope you didn’t take it personally.” 

“No,” you say, because what else can you say? Azula is actually apologizing to you. You think this is the second time in your entire friendship—you don’t take that lightly. “Thank you. I forgive you.” 

Azula rolls her eyes—you know she’s thinking that she doesn’t need to be forgiven—but some of the tension in her shoulders is lifted with your words. 

“Good,” she says, and she starts walking towards the door.

“Wait,” you say, “are you leaving already?” 

“I’m turning for the night,” she says. “We have an early morning tomorrow when we finally reach Ba Sing Se. All of you should go to bed soon.” 

“I’m going to make mango sticky rice, though,” you say. “I asked the cook to soak some rice yesterday so I could do this, so it shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes.” You smile at her, and you see her frown relax in real time. “We can eat it and gossip together in your room like we used to. 

Azula pauses, looking thoughtful for a few moments. Even though Azula had the same fiery streak as a kid, you still had a lot of good times together, especially when Mai and Ty Lee would visit. It’s the Azula you remember, the Azula that you know is still there even when she’s fully wired for battle. Finally, she looks back at you. 

“Fine,” Azula says. “As long as we’re done before the sun goes down.” 

“Of course,” you nod, and you smile at her. Azula can’t fully bite back her own before she leaves, and you look between Mai and Ty Lee. 

“Grab some extra pillows from our room,” you say, and Ty Lee immediately jumps up. “I want this to feel like it used to.” 

“I can’t believe you got her to agree!” Ty Lee exclaims, and she runs over to hug you. You laugh as she embraces you, but then she gasps. “You cut yourself!” 

Ty Lee lets you go and you look down at your hand to see you nicked your finger when the knife slipped. Blood drips onto the cutting board, and you push the mango away with your good hand before it can contaminate your hard work.

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

“Fine,” you mutter, and you look at Mai. “Could you get a bandage real quick?” 

She huffs, but she leaves to do it anyway. Ty Lee smiles again. “I’ll get extra pillows since Mai  is busy, then.” 

“That would be great,” you say, and you hand her the slice of mango she’s been eyeing since she came over here. Ty Lee grins as she takes it. 

“You know me so well!” 

She runs off to do what you asked, and you start carefully placing the mango slices on the bowls of sticky rice. You made a fourth before you even asked Azula. You knew she would agree—or, at least, that you could convince her. 

Guilt floods your mind immediately after. 

You felt fine letting Sokka go. You don’t want to hurt them, obviously, but it also felt like a bit of payback for what Azula said to you. You know she never apologizes, so it was what she deserved for making you feel so bad.

But then she did apologize, and she did it in front of Mai and Ty Lee. She clearly values your friendship enough to make you feel better when you need it—and how do you repay her? By foiling the most important task of her life. 

What kind of friend are you? 

Azula was right. You need to get your priorities straight before you ruin this for everyone. 

Mai comes back in with a roll of bandages, but when you smile at her, she doesn’t smile back. 

“What did Azula say to you yesterday?”

“Thank you for getting those.”

You reach for the roll, but Mai pulls it out of your reach. 

“Mai—”

“What happened last night?” she repeats. You stare at each other for a few seconds before you relent with a sigh, and you gesture at the door. Mai closes it, and you sigh again before you set the knife down. 

“We found the Avatar at the end of that path,” you say, “like she told you when we met back at the lake. Well, someone else found him too.” You look at Mai. “Zuko.” 

Her eyes widen. “He’s still after the Avatar?” 

“Of course he is,” you say. “But he looks bad, Mai. Weak.” 

Her brows furrow and she looks away. “What do you mean?” 

“He’s lost so much weight. I was trying to keep him from going after Azula, and I held him down using half of my strength. He’s chopped off his topknot,” Mai’s eyes harden, “and that awful scar—” 

You bite the inside of your cheek the way you had to do when you first saw it. “I mean, how did that happen, Mai? Who could do that to him?”

She stares at the ground for a moment before she answers. 

“His father.”

You’re glad you put the knife down, because her words hit you harder than you could have imagined. “That’s why he was banished.” 

Mai nods and you feel faint. No wonder he refuses to let go of the Avatar. It’s his way back home. 

“Well, I don’t know how, but he was knocked out during the fight. I ran to help him instead of Azula.” You sigh. “Long story short, the Avatar and friends, plus Zuko, cornered us. Azula said she would surrender, then she shot fire right at Iroh. They all threw their elements at us, and we only got out because Azula shielded us. I don’t even know if Iroh made it.” You shake your head and hold onto the side of the table. “Once we got far enough from the town, she yelled at me. Said I needed to get my priorities straight or she would send me back to the Fire Nation. It just got to me after a long day.”

Mai has always been able to see right through you with that hardened gaze. She knows you’re hiding something, but in all her kindness, doesn’t push it. 

“That’s just why I was so surprised that she apologized,” you say quietly. “Because I’d never seen Azula like that, even when her mother left. It scared me. That’s all.” 

You expect Mai to say something, but instead she just wordlessly walks across the room, gestures for your hand, and starts bandaging your cut, which is deeper than you initially thought. 

You watch Mai’s handiwork, and you hold her gaze when her eyes flick up to meet yours. 

“I know you’re Azula’s favorite.” 

You frown. “That’s not true.”

“You know it is,” she says. “All of us do. It’s because you’re a firebender.” 

“That’s not true,” you repeat. 

“When’s the last time you think any of us got an apology from her?” Mai asks wryly. “When’s the last time we were betrothed to her brother?”

“I don’t understand why people keep bringing that up,” you cut in, and Mai gives you a look that shuts you up. 

“You’re Azula’s favorite, so she treats you the best and the worst.” She turns your hand over, having finished wrapping your finger, and looks at the callouses from endless firebending and swordtraining. Mai is a master knife thrower, but the signs are more in the endless fading and fresh cuts from getting that good. “One minute she’s complimenting your bending, and the next she’s insulting you for wanting to use a sword. She’s harsh with all of us sometimes, but you take more than all of us without complaining.” 

“I take it because I love Azula, just like you guys do,” you say. “She doesn’t mean most of it anyways. She just likes someone to spar with.”

“Still,” Mai says. “I know it’s not easy between Azula and your father.” 

You manage a smile. “I appreciate it, Mai, but I’m doing fine.”

Mai doesn’t really look like she believes you, no matter how hard you smile. 

“I just want you to know Ty Lee and I are here for you. No matter what Azula says.” Mai looks at the floor for a few seconds before she walks out. 

You stare at the open door until you feel a tear drop off your chin. You blink, coming back into yourself as you wipe your face off. You start scooping spoonfuls of coconut sticky rice into bowls, then shape mango slices into a flower formation to place on top. It takes a second to fit two bowls in each hand, then you hurry out the door to Azula’s room. 

“I’m the only one on this ship who can bend lightning,” she counters. “Everything I say to you is helping.” 

“Don’t you have to have a calm spirit to even get close to doing it?” Ty Lee speaks up. She’s walking across the ship on her hands as she talks, and you shake your head with a chuckle. “Your aura is stormy. I can feel it.” 

“I don’t think that’s her aura,” Mai says wryly, looking out across the horizon where grey clouds are gathering. 

Azula rolls her eyes. “That’s nonsense. My uncle can bend lightning and he is the most addlebrained fool I’ve ever met.” 

You roll out your shoulders now that you’ve got a few seconds without Azula critiquing your form. “I don’t know. Didn’t he lay siege to Ba Sing Se for 600 days?” 

“What is your point?” she asks, gaze sharp as she looks back at you. “He exhausted his soldiers, he got his son killed, and for all the pain he caused, he never even succeeded. The mark of a true leader is not how many times you can fail over and over again before you get bored.” She shakes her head with a huff. “A true leader knows when to admit defeat.”

“You never admit defeat,” you point out. Her smile is as sharp as her nails. 

“That’s because I’ve never been defeated.”

Thunder claps so loud so suddenly that you nearly jump out of your boots. You half-expect to look over and see Azula about to electrocute you to prove a point, but instead it’s just the impending storm. 

“It better not rain,” Mai grumbles. “I just did my makeup.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I’ll be below deck.”

You start walking, but sharp nails dig into your bicep as Azula grabs your arm, forcing you to stop. 

“You’ll never learn how to bend lightning if you run away from the storm,” she snaps. 

“I don’t want to learn,” you retort. 

“Yes,” she says, “you do.”

She looks past you to Mai and Ty Lee, and they meet your eyes apologetically as they walk off. 

“I’ll save some fruit tarts for you,” Ty Lee promises. 

“No, she won’t,” Mai says.

“I will!”

Mai just shakes her head and looks at you one last time before she closes the door, unsaid words in her eyes. Good luck.

You nod, and Azula finally releases your arm. You know you probably should hide your annoyance, but you can’t. 

“Why don’t Mai and Ty Lee have to train in the rain?” you complain. 

“Because they aren’t benders,” Azula says. “There is no reason for you to spend time swinging that stupid sword when you’ve never once generated lightning.”

“I told you, I don’t want—”

“You need to!” Azula shouts, and you flinch. “Do you think your father will take you seriously if he can beat you in a battle? Do you think any of his soldiers will take you seriously no matter what you do?”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek so hard you draw blood. You can’t cry in front of Azula when she’s trying to help you. She knows what’s best for you—she always has. Otherwise, her words wouldn’t ring so true. The only reason you were able to defeat so many of your father’s soldiers in a row was because not a single one of them believed in your skill. 

“You have this dream of taking your father’s place as general, but you will never earn the respect of his peers if you don’t claw it out of them yourself.” 

“I know,” you say. 

“Do you?” Azula tilts her head in that condescending way. “Because you should know by now that a Fire Nation soldier fights to the death,” she meets your eyes, “and she never gives up.”

“You just said that a true leader knows when to give up!” 

“You’re not fit to be a leader yet,” Azula says simply. 

Dark, angry clouds hang over your ship like a threat as you stare at your best friend. She either doesn’t notice how it stings or she doesn’t care. You’re pretty sure which one it is. 

She raises her eyebrows in expectation. “Well? Get into your stance.”

The falling raindrops immediately sizzle into steam when they hit you as you spread your arms like you did before, even without armor.

Azula smiles at the sight. You feel feverish. 

-

By the time you arrive at your destination, your muscles are aching, you’re drenched to the bone, and you still can’t bend lightning. You’re almost surprised Azula doesn’t throw you off the ship in frustration. 

Mai and Ty Lee come back to the surface when you dock, and Mai looks at you with thinly veiled sympathy.

“What happened to you?”

Azula, you want to say, but instead you just huff and push your way past them so you can change. In all her graciousness, Azula gives you five extra minutes. 

You decide to ditch your armor on this expedition. You’re used to firebending in loose cotton clothes—now that you’re chasing the Avatar, it’s crucial that you’re at your most powerful. 

You go from town to town, from dawn to dusk, demanding any clues that could help on your hunt. Azula is restless and ruthless when it comes to getting what she wants, but as good as she is at intimidation and threats, you have the softer touch necessary to avoid salting the earth.

Eventually, you charm some rich Gaoling boy into giving up the fact that he saw an air nomad and two Water Tribe kids asking around about a powerful earthbender. 

As a reward for your weaponized flirting, you get to sleep until it’s your turn to keep watch. Unfortunately, you work in pairs—and Ty Lee won’t stop talking. You feel her poking your back just when you manage to fall asleep, and you groan.

“Ty Lee,” you rasp, “just let me sleep for ten minutes.”

You hear a hard thump in the metal floor, and you crack open your eyes to see she’s sitting beside you. 

“I thought you would want to talk,” she frowns. “We haven’t seen each other in so long. What have you been up to anyway?”

“Is there any chance you’ll leave me alone?” 

“I mean, I can if you want!” she says cheerfully, but she makes no effort to move. You sigh and sit up, rubbing your eyes for a good minute. 

“I’ve been in the Earth Kingdom for the past few years training with my father’s regiment,” you say, then you frown. “Didn’t you get any of my letters?” 

Ty Lee shakes her head, and you look away. You always wondered why you didn’t hear anything from your friends while you were at the garrison—only when you sent letters from the palace. Maybe royal messenger hawks are better than the ones the regiment’s falconer trains. 

“But I’d love to hear about it!” she exclaims, gently grabbing your arm to bring your attention back to her. “What’s it like being a soldier?” 

“Well, I’m not a soldier yet,” you say dryly, as your father loves to remind you. “But there’s only a few more months left until I can officially enlist in the army, and I’ll get put in a battalion that isn’t so close to my father.”

She frowns. “I thought you said you wanted to take your father’s place.” 

“I do,” you say, tilting your head. “But besides Zuko and Azula, almost everyone I’ve fought against is from the battalions in his regiment. Not to mention my father has to comment on every single thing I do.”

Ty Lee purses her lips. “I understand. I joined the circus so I could get away from my family too—so I could finally feel I was my own person.” 

You smile and pat her hand, still on your arm. “I bet this mission will be over soon and you can get right back to the circus.” 

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Ty Lee says, mirroring your smile. It wavers a bit as she looks towards the door that opens to the main room, where Azula and Mai are keeping watch for the Avatar, before her eyes cut back to you. “But Azula seems more determined than usual.”

You noticed. You’d already fallen victim to it in the short time you’d been traveling together, you think idly. 

“At least we’re all together again,” you say. “That’s one plus, no matter how long it takes.”

Ty Lee brightens up like that, grinning as she pulls you into a hug. 

“I missed you too.” 

-

You and Ty Lee talk with each other, recounting what you’ve missed in the other’s life until Azula opens the door. You don’t think she’s knocked before entering a single time in her life, but you suppose that’s what happens when you’re a princess. 

Your words die in your throat when she meets your eyes immediately. 

“Good,” she says, “you’re awake.” 

“What is it?” you ask. 

“We found the Avatar.” 

Azula doesn’t wait for you before she walks off, and you and Ty Lee share a look before you get up with a sigh. But when you walk into the loading dock, you scream. 

“What are those things?” 

Azula rolls her eyes as she gets on top of the… thing. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a mongoose lizard before.” 

“We don’t really get those in the Earth Kingdom,” you breathe. 

“It’s okay,” Ty Lee says as she walks up to one and pets its head. “They’re friendly!” 

“They’re relentless trackers,” Mai explains. “They only need to sleep for a few hours every week. It’s impressive.” 

“And you are wasting time,” Azula snaps. You take that as your sign to fall in line. 

You shiver as the four of you lead your rides down the ramp. You stare up at the Avatar and his friends as they stare back at you. Even from far away, you can tell they’re all exhausted by the way they slump—and you can also tell that there’s a new, green girl in their ranks. 

“I guess they found that earthbending teacher,” you whisper to Mai. You would question her skill at her age, but you doubt she’s that much younger than Azula, the most powerful person you know. 

She shoots you a wary look as your mongoose lizards start running towards their prey. When rocks erupt in your path courtesy of the girl in green, you brace to get a mouthful of dirt—but the lizard hybrids race over the jagged boulders like it’s nothing. 

The Avatar and his Water Tribe companions run back to their flying bison while the earthbender raises a wall of stone across the entire pathway—but Azula is already prepared. She shoots a bolt of lightning and the center of the wall crumbles to pieces in front of you. She does it so well—you don’t know why you need to be able to do it when you’ll never be as good as her. 

You’re close enough now to see their shocked faces at Azula’s skill, and Mai takes advantage of the lull in their movement to throw knives at them. The earthbender is quick enough to shoot herself up into the air on a piece of the cliff to block the blades, and she lands more gracefully than you ever have in the saddle of their air bison. 

Azula shoots one last jet of blue fire at them, but the bison is too quick. She stares up at them with narrowed eyes, like a predator watching its prey escape. 

“They can’t run forever,” she mutters, and then she leads her mongoose lizard back to the tank train. Ty Lee sighs quietly enough that Azula can’t hear as you all follow. 

You don’t envy those kids. You think you would rather lay down and die than be on Azula’s bad side.

-

“Wads of wet fur,” Mai says, unenthused as Azula pulls some out of the river. “How delightful.” 

“They’re not wads,” Ty Lee said as she crossed her arms. “They’re more like bundles. Or bunches? It’s got an ‘uh’ sound.” 

Azula gets up and walks away from the river, ignoring their conversation. You hurry to follow her as she turns in a slow circle, trying to take in the entire scene. She looks up at the trees, then back to the line of fur leading off into the distance. 

“The trail is this way,” Mai says, pointing at the fur line. You pick up a clump and spread it out in your hands—it smells cleaner than the fur of a bison who’s been flying across the nations long enough to shed should smell. 

Azula must notice the inquisitive look in your eye, because she stops beside you. “What do you think?” 

“I think that they’re trying to throw us off,” you say. “They wouldn’t leave a trail this easy to follow when they know we’re tracking them. Besides, this fur is too clean after the journey they’ve been on.”

Azula smiles approvingly, and you feel your cheeks heat as you smile back. 

“I think you’re right,” she says. “The Avatar is trying to give us the slip.”

You follow her gaze from the trail of fur leading in one direction to the pine forest, where a few trees have chunks taken out of them, like something big went through them—like maybe a flying bison. 

“Two trails,” you say, and you huff a small laugh. “I guess so.”

“You two head in that direction and keep an eye out for the bison,” Azula commands, pointing towards the forest, then meets your eyes. “We’ll follow this trail.” 

You say your goodbyes to Mai and Ty Lee and make them promise to be safe before you get on your mongoose lizards and set off in your opposing directions. 

You and Azula ride in silence for the most part, as it takes you far too long to muster the courage to ask the question that’s been bugging you since Omashu. 

“What are you going to do when we find the Avatar?” 

Azula doesn’t look back at you. “What needs to be done.”

You try not to show how much that bothers you, but you fail. 

“What does that mean?” 

“I didn’t ask you to come with me so you could waste time asking questions,” Azula snaps. She kicks her mongoose lizard in the side to speed up, leaving you hurrying to catch up to her as you sigh. 

You didn’t sign up to chase after the Avatar—you signed up to bring Zuko and Iroh back home, and you haven’t even seen them once. 

Maybe that’s a good thing, though. You have no idea what you would say to him. 

And now, you’re chasing after this boy even younger than you, the one meant to bring peace to the world. You know it’s an act of treason to even think this way, but you don’t know what harm this boy could possibly bring to your nation. 

You keep your eyes on the road ahead, unable to even look at Azula because of the sort of thoughts tormenting you. Maybe you’ll just be able to talk to the Avatar and sort all this out without a fight. 

A deserted town looms in your vision, and before you know it you and Azula are dismounting your mongoose lizards to stare down the number one enemy of your nation. 

It’s the first time you’ve gotten a good look at him, and your expression softens. He’s a short boy with kind, wide eyes. He doesn’t even look at you and Azula with any sort of anger—just exhaustion. 

“Alright. You’ve caught up with me. Now, who are you, and what do you want?”

“You mean you haven’t guessed? You don’t see the family resemblance? Here’s a hint.” She covers one eye and lowers her voice. “I must find the Avatar to restore my honor!” 

You frown as you glance at her. If she’s imitating Zuko, why would she cover an eye? What does Azula know that you don’t? 

While you’re silently losing it, the boy doesn’t react at all, just keeps staring at you. 

“It’s okay,” Azula reassures. “You can laugh. It’s funny.”

You focus on the Avatar so you don’t say something you’ll regret. 

“So, what now? he asks. 

“Now?” Azula repeats. “Now, it’s over. You’re tired, and you have no place to go.”

“You can run,” you say softly, “but we’ll catch you.” 

He plants his staff in the ground and stands up. “I’m not running.” 

Azula smiles. “Do you really want to fight me?” 

Suddenly, a cloud of dust is thrown up in an alleyway near you—your whole body tenses as a boy jumps off his ostrich horse. 

“Yes,” he growls, “I really do.” 

Then he takes off his hat, and your eyes widen impossibly. 

“Zuko?” you breathe. 

The image you have of him in your head, of his bright eyes and long ponytail and cheerful disposition, burns to cinders. His skin is discolored, his cheeks sunken in. His ponytail is gone, his hair now closely cropped to his head. It’s in stark contrast to your and Azula’s topknots—especially when Zuko was the one who gave you the pin you’ve worn every day since. 

Worst of all, though, was the angry red burn scar that covered nearly half of his face, his entire left eye that could barely open and wrapped around to his ear—even close to parts of his hairline where nothing could grow. 

What in Agni’s name happened to him during his banishment? Who could’ve done this to him?

Zuko is clearly just as shocked to see you as his eyes dart between you and his sister, but it disappears quickly as he gets into a fighting stance. From the moment you stepped foot in the palace, it was a fight between the two siblings over who got your attention—you can almost hear him yelling at you for choosing Azula over him in the most literal sense. 

Azula, however, is unaffected by your inner turmoil. “I was wondering when you’d show up, Zuzu.” 

The Avatar laughs, then covers his mouth to stop it. “Zuzu?” 

“Back off, both of you!” Zuko shouts. “He’s mine!” 

Azula eases into her own battle stance. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Spirits, why does she have to include you in that statement? You don’t want to fight Zuko—you don’t want to fight this boy. What kind of honor is there in fighting someone who doesn’t want to fight back? 

But Azula would sooner kill you than have you embarrass her, so you point your hands towards Zuko and the Avatar and hope to any spirit who will listen that no one gets hurt. 

The four of you stand at odds, each a millisecond away from starting an awful battle but no one quite wanting to make the first move. You meet Zuko’s eyes almost desperately—please don’t make me fight you. He looks away. 

You almost don’t even notice when Azula suddenly shoots blue fire at Zuko. He yells as he shifts to block it with fire of his own, and the battle begins. 

The Avatar tries to fly off, but Azula brings him down with a rope of fire, and you take that as your sign to hold off Zuko. 

He’s still struggling to get back to his feet from the strength of Azula’s blast. You stand above him, ready to strike but really, really not wanting to. 

“Zuko,” you say, “we don’t have to do this.” 

“Of course we do!” he shouts. “You’re with Azula! You’re trying to steal the Avatar from me!” 

“I don’t want anything to do with the Avatar!” you whisper-yell. If Azula hears you saying this, she’ll shoot you down where you stand. “I— I just thought we were coming to bring you home—” 

Zuko sends a fireball at you before you can finish, and when you throw yourself to the side to avoid it, he takes his chance to run back towards the battle. You curse under your breath. When did he become so slippery?

Just before he gets a shot off, you tackle him with all your might. He yells your name as you both fall to the ground. 

“What is wrong with you?” he shouts. 

“Azula will kill you if you get in her way!” you insist. “I’m trying to help you!”

“You’re just as crazy as her!” he yells.

Zuko tries to wrestle you off of him, but he’s grown weak in his years away from home, and you’ve only gotten stronger. You easily pin his wrists to the ground, keeping him from firebending. 

It feels like you’re back at the palace sparring with Zuko in the early days of your firebending. When did you end up on different sides of the same fight?

“I don’t want to hurt you!” you exclaim, voice nearly shrill with emotion. You hold back your tears through sheer willpower. 

Zuko stares at you with unbridled anger—then he looks at the Avatar and Azula battling, and his eyes widen. 

“Azula, no!” he yells. 

You whip your head over to make sure she’s okay, but Azula is leading a relentless attack against the Avatar just fine as she chases him into a building. You realize a second too late that Zuko tricked you. 

He rips his dominant arm out of your loosened grip and blasts fire right at your face. You have no choice but to let him go to dodge it, and Zuko is on his feet and running faster than you can blink. You growl and chase after him, but your feet are suddenly pulled out from under you and you hit the ground hard. 

The air is completely knocked out of you for a good ten seconds, but you still twist to see a stream of water receding into a girl’s waterskin—the same girl who foiled your plans in Omashu. 

“You again?” you wheeze. 

“Me again,” she says. As you struggle to your feet, she forms the water into six impossibly sharp icicles that float around her like a threat. 

“Don’t take another step,” she warns. 

You scoff, but your attention is drawn elsewhere as the Avatar lands just a few feet from you, then blue fire blasts through a hole in the wall, quickly followed by Azula—and an unconscious Zuko. 

You watch anxiously between Azula slicing off parts of the buildings the Avatar is jumping on and Zuko, defenseless on the ground. You need to help Azula—but you can’t leave Zuko to fend for himself again. 

Making your decision before you can doubt yourself, you slash through the air with two fingers on each hand to throw arcs of fire, then run. 

Through your peripherals, you see each arc lines up perfectly to melt the ice in an instant, and the waterbender prepares to attack you again—but her hands drop when you fall to your knees beside Zuko. 

You press your fingers to his carotid immediately and your shoulders slump in relief when you feel his pulse. Azula didn’t kill him before you even got to have a cup of tea together. 

Someone says your name, and you recognize the cadence immediately. You turn to see Iroh standing behind you, eyes slightly wide. 

“H- he’s okay,” you stammer. “He’s alive.”

“You’re with Azula?” he questions instead.

You duck your head in a single hesitant nod, and something shifts in his eyes. Before he can speak, Azula yells your name and you shoot to your feet. 

Oh spirits, you think. She’s going to kill you for helping Zuko while she’s in the heat of battle. 

She’s fighting the Avatar and his friends three on one and she still has time to shoot you a murderous look. You intercept the girl’s water whip with a blast of fire before it can reach Azula, allowing you to join the action as you fight back to back. 

You hold your ground as the trio pushes you back near an alleyway, attempting to bottleneck you. Your flames mix with Azula’s blue fire into a powerful blast that pushes them back, but then the earth shifts underneath your feet and you both topple to the ground. 

“I thought you guys could use a little help,” a voice says, and without looking you know it’s that damned earthbender. 

Azula is back on her feet before you’ve even gathered your bearings. She shoots fire back to cover your escape, then grabs your hand and starts running before you’re even fully upright—until Iroh blocks your way and knocks you both back down. 

This time, you pull Azula up. Her hands are burning hot from all her firebending, but you barely feel it through your adrenaline as your eyes dart from person to person in the loose arc as they back you and Azula into a literal corner. You’re shocked to find the Water Tribe boy already staring at you. Even when you move to the Avatar, you still feel the weight of his gaze—Zuko refuses to even look at you. 

“Well, look at this,” Azula says wryly. “Enemies and traitors working together.” You see her smile out of your peripherals, and you clench your jaw to hide your emotions. You only realize you’re still holding hands when she lets go to raise her own in surrender. “I’m done. I know when I'm beaten. You got me.” She looks at you, that dangerous glint in her eye you know so well. “It’s like I always tell you—a soldier surrenders with honor.” 

You immediately understand what she means, and your heart jumps into your throat. You make fearful eye contact with Zuko without fully intending to, and he frowns. 

Then, Azula steps forward and fires a blast at Iroh before you can even blink. He screams as he goes down, and Zuko yells in horror. You can’t move, even as Zuko and the others shoot their elements at you in unison—even when that Water Tribe boy’s boomerang nearly knocks you out cold before Azula deflects it.

You just stare at Azula with wide eyes, because she just tried to murder her uncle as a distraction. She extends her arms to shield you both in blue flames, then she grabs you by the wrist and hauls you out as the combined elements cause an explosion that masks your exit. 

“Azula,” you hear yourself saying, but her nails dig into your skin.

“Shut up,” she snarls. 

“Azula—” 

“I don’t want to hear a single word!” she cuts in, pinning you with a truly burning glare. You know the only reason she’s not yelling is because she can’t risk revealing your position. “This is your fault.” 

“You killed your uncle!” you whisper-yell, finally tearing your arm out of her grasp as you reach your mongoose lizards. “How is it my fault?” 

“That dull brute will be fine,” Azula bites. “You chose to go after Zuko instead of the Avatar—you chose to help Zuko instead of me! Have you forgotten why you’re here?” 

“How can you say that about your brother?” You feel like you’re begging, pleading for Azula to take mercy—not just on Zuko, but on you. “We haven’t seen him in years, Azula. I was worried about him. Weren’t you?” 

Her glare goes from burning to withering, and you shrink in on yourself. She chose you for this mission, she chose you to go with her, she has chosen you every single chance she gets—and this is how you repay her?

“Zuko isn’t your betrothed anymore,” Azula snaps, “and you’re on a mission for me. If you can’t get your priorities straight, I will be perfectly fine sending you back to the Fire Nation to die a nameless soldier.” 

She mounts her mongoose lizard without another word, and you watch her go as your eyes grow watery. It’s the first time in a while you’ve been able to cry without worrying about someone seeing. Then, a truly treasonous thought pops into your head.

You could leave. 

It almost shocks you, how much of a lighthouse it is in the fog of the entire day—how loud it is. 

Azula wouldn’t know. She probably wouldn’t care the way she just yelled at you. The Earth Kingdom was so big, you bet you could be halfway to Ba Sing Se by the time the sun rises. You could trade your Fire Nation clothes for an Earth Kingdom dress, finally feel like a girl instead of a weapon. 

Azula would know. 

The thought is louder than your lighthouse because you know it’s true. Azula has every resource of the Fire Nation at her fingertips. If you tried to run, she would know. If you tried to hide, she would find you. 

She just wants what’s best for you. She always has, because she knows better than you do, even if it hurts. Even if it makes you cry.

You can’t leave. You don’t think you even want to. You’re just exhausted after a long day. You’ll feel better after you get some sleep—and Azula is always nicer in the morning. 

“What the fuck is this,” he demands. Your chest aches, heart about to explode and lungs tight on air. The fork is thrown against the stainless-steel counter, and it bounces onto the spotless floor with a pathetic clatter. “Bullshit. Wasting my time.” 

Loose in his careless hand, he shoves the dish into your chest. You scramble to grasp it—you do, thank god, because a broken plate would have the entire kitchen bracing—and he only sneers when the sauce smears on your white coat. 

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen!” 

Shit. 

There’s no point in protesting. Face burning, you stalk to your locker. You tear your backpack out so hard that the force slams the door shut by itself—one of the commis jumps—and stomp toward the exit with a scathing remark on your tongue, but. 

The CDC just stands there, contempt glimmering in his narrow, beady eyes as he watches you try to edge around his frame with a sick, shit-eating smirk that tells you he’s getting off on bullying you. 

“I quit,” you blurt instead. 

You shouldn’t mean it, and your stomach roils with shame after you phonetically cross the ‘t.’ 

God, you desperately need to keep a stable living, and the sous market is already so saturated that the only job you could get quickly is at some chain or fast-food restaurant where you’d have to follow a boring, corporate-developed recipe. 

You’re going back to cooking to live. 

“Good,” he spits, but the faint lift of his brows rages at your defiance. “There’s a million other people who’d want your job.” 

Your exhale hisses, jaw wired shut and molars aching with how hard you’re biting down.  

Because no one wants to catch or press charges, you grit your teeth and go out of your way to avoid checking his side with your elbows as you cross from the harsh, sterile LEDs of the kitchen to the gentle night. 

Your face tingles in the cool air, kissing away the irritation scorching your skin. The metal doorframe shudders after a bang, followed by a slew of furious commands and pots being thrown to the floor. 

Parking lot gravel and cigarette stubs crunch beneath your sneakers, followed by smooth concrete accompanied by the slow trickle of Pittsburgh nighttime traffic.  

There’s a bench right along the restaurant wall; the side is eclipsed in shadows and invisible to your CDC’s scrutiny, who probably expects you to come crawling back like a desperate ex. 

But you’re committed. If you quit, so be it. He’s the one who said a million people could take your job, anyway.  

The plate is still clutched to your chest, duck breast now frigid and sliding from the original composition, yet thankfully intact.  

So, you sit on that hard bench, and shiver, and stare at the smudged swirls of mulberry reduction until you can’t tell the colors from the dusty pinks and purples fading from the sky. 

Should have stuck to cherry, you lament, setting the plate to the side and burying your numb face into your colder fingers.  

Shoes scrape on gravel. 

A voice you don’t recognize says your name as a question, set to sharp wit and gravel tones. “That is you, right? Unless Santos used LinkedIn to trick me.” 

You part your fingers and glare up at the unfamiliar man standing over you. 

He’s…handsome. In a way you can’t exactly describe with one word. Fairly tall, cropped greying curls that must have been dark brown at some point, silvery stubble, and lines that tell you he might be kind. 

His face is somewhat round yet defined where it counts. Looks like he lifts, out of necessity rather than to reach an aesthetic. 

Navy-blue bootcuts hug his thighs and fold up over a pair of hiking shoes, one more worn-out than the other. A black tee blends into the quickly settling night, hinting at a solid torso. 

Freckles. All over, from the splash right around his hazel, crow-footed eyes, down his tan and wiry neck, to his defined arms that are propped on his hips in a manner you would place between ‘stern’ and ‘adorable.’ 

“What?” is all the astuteness you can muster. 

“I’m looking for a sous, name of—” 

“That’s me.” 

He claps his palms together with a dry grin. “Great. I’m Abbot.” 

You drag your hands to your chin as an inkling of recognition flickers to life. “As in Everblue Abbot and Robinavitch?” 

Abbot clicks his tongue, tipping his head to the side in faint humor. “Got it.” 

Dumbfounded, you only stare at him and slowly work your jaw back and forth. Everblue was still on your list when it closed. You even tried to replicate their dishes from blurry Instagram photos ten years ago. 

“That’s mulberry, isn’t it? Stain’s more vibrant than blackberry.” Abbot nods at the dried gastrique on your chef’s coat, then gestures to the ruined plate beside you. “Do you mind?” 

“Take it.” You turn your face, dejected. If your ex-CDC despised it, you don’t want to be around when Abbot from fucking Everblue tastes it. “I was planning to toss it, but that’d be a waste of duck. Just don’t eat it ‘round me.” 

Too late. 

Whipping your head back up—there's Abbot, licking grease and mulberry sauce off his thumb with a light hum, no doubt chewing on a slice of duck with a look of intrigue that makes your gut lurch. 

“Interesting,” he says after he swallows. Abbot sits on the opposite end of the bench, stretching out his right leg with contemplation (and relief?) swirling between his scrunched eyebrows. 

Oh god, he’s going to obliterate you in the politest way possible— 

“Shahtoot mulberry,” is what he decides on. He chuckles, almost derisively at himself. “Never thought of that.” 

You frown. “How’d you know?” 

“I’ve worked on a mulberry gastrique for years. You’re only—what, still in culinary?” 

With indignation: “Thirty-two—” 

“—and already perfected it.” 

Stunned silence settles. Your breaths come shallow, blinks quicker because this has to be a fever dream. The owner of fucking Everblue just complimented you. 

You scoff, trying to deflect. “That’s subjective.” 

He holds up his index finger, “Objection: objective. How did you know?” 

You consider him—the relaxed posture, the outstretched leg. Plate balanced on his knee, hazel eyes flickering between the sauce and your troubled face. 

“Used to have them growing up,” you admit, reluctant. “Local mechanic’s Vietnamese wife had a courtyard in the back with all these fruits.” 

Pink-skinned dragon fruit hanging from thick vines of cacti, and brown-shelled pitted things with translucent, sweet flesh. Mulberry tree in the corner, dark leaves and long berries dangling from the boughs. 

The memory brings a small smile to your lips. “After school, I’d go with my friends, and we’d compete to see how many stems we had after ten minutes.” 

Blunt teeth scraping the bulbs off the stem, until the green tapered to white, speckled with vibrant burgundy juice. Sticky fingers with big, toothless smiles, and the warm sun reminding you that there was a place where worries didn’t matter. 

“That’s good,” he remarks, nodding slowly. “Can I ask you a question?” 

You make a dull sound in the back of your throat, “You just did.” 

“What’s your dream job?” 

The answer should be easy, but you find yourself hesitant. “...Eleven Madison?” 

A quiet snort, the slight shake of a head. An expected, basic answer. “What makes a dish popular?” 

Gnawing on the lining of your cheek, “It’ll taste good and look pretty.” 

“Now, what makes a dish excellent.” His tone, now gravel and earnest, suggests that this is less a question than it is a demand. A test. 

“The...” You blink at the plate sitting in his lap and think about the childhood friends you don’t talk to anymore but still hold close. No one has friends later on like the ones you have at twelve. 

A good chef masters technique and flavors, your mentor once said. A genius elevates those. A genius takes their life experiences and conveys it via... 

Wistfully: “An excellent dish communicates with nourishment.” 

Abbot makes a soft, almost pleased sound through his nose, setting the plate back onto the bench. You hear denim shifting, then he’s standing up with a light grunt.  

“Care to teach an old dog some new tricks?” 

You train your attention on the smooth concrete beneath your shoes instead, heart stammering in your chest. “Is this a poach?” 

“Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to know why you roasted that duck instead of searing it.” 

You’re starting to get him; you realize with a stuffed-down chuckle—Abbot is one avoidant bastard. Never meet your heroes. 

“Crispy skin, tender meat,” you say, glancing up to meet his eyes. He peers at you with all the sincerity in the world, and that knocks your breath loose. “Who doesn’t love that?” 

“Ha,” he scoffs, enjoying the cat-and-mouse. “You’re good.” 

“When do I start?” 

“Tour is at ten tomorrow. We’re a block south of Allegheny Hospital—you can’t miss it.” 

— 

The Pitt. 

You can’t miss the closest restaurant to the hospital. It’s a small thing—from the front, a painted window sign set into charming raw brick. From the interior (lock code: 1221), the simple yet cluttered dining area runs deep, and the kitchen runs deeper. 

You learn a lot during orientation. 

The house is split into two rotations. The day shift gets three quarters of the hotline during the sun’s course across the sky for sandwich service. It’s...unorthodox, doing prep and sharing a kitchen with a whirlwind of beef trimmings and clashing characters. 

The night shift, meanwhile, sticks to garde manger for mise en place and daily testing in preparation for the dinner service. Later, the tables and chairs are rearranged by the front-of-house staff, shifting and grinding from the charming crookedness of free-for-all seating to the sophisticated fashion of an elevated restaurant. The remaining stoves are reserved for stocks, sauces, and other components in need of heat, so the chefs can taste for consistency. 

For now, they’re doing the day shift’s commis work to keep themselves busy. 

“So far, dinner service hasn’t opened,” Abbot says. “We’re keeping the place afloat with the sandwich business, which Robby loves because he hates mise—” 

A man on the hotline drops a skillet on his foot with a high-pitched whine of pain (you later learn that his name is Dennis) and a woman swears like she’s the one with a bruised toe (Trinity). 

Abbot winces, and in the distraction, a man’s voice calls from garde manger: “Hey, Jack, is that our new CDC?” 

He hovers his hand over your lower back, guiding you away. “C’mon, Shen, I haven’t broken the news...” 

“Oh, shit.” 

You learn a lot that day. 

A) The day shift sounds like being stuck in the fiery pits of hell with your worst uncle and cousins. B) Michael Robinavitch now makes sandwiches for a living. C) You are not the sous chef because Jack Abbot promoted himself to co-executive chef and night-shift-expo, and there’s a vacancy for the job he was supposed to take. 

And D) he had filled the CDC box with your name after one bite of Peking duck drizzled in mulberry gastrique. 

— 

“I met your old boss once,” he tells you that Sunday. 

You’re standing in the otherwise quiet and empty kitchen—peace is a rare commodity in The Pitt, only occurring naturally on weekends—and you’re surrounded by stationary, Pantone color cards, journal entries, and a budget sheet. 

The atmosphere should feel sterile and awkward. The kitchen’s fairly new, the tile beneath you still pristine, and the countertops aren’t dented yet. You haven’t been here for a full month yet. 

But it isn’t, because Abbot is here. It’s your first time doing R&D-ing a menu, and he’s someone willing to listen and provide sincere feedback. 

He’s beside you in an Army green shirt with the collar stretched and laundry-loved, strong and freckled arms occasionally brushing yours as he shifts on his feet. 

You’ve noticed he favors the left. 

What’s strange is how easy you feel with him. Abbot has this natural, almost magnetic charisma, one that makes you susceptible but still willing to push. Comfortable, with room to test the limits. 

You pencil a wide arc on your sketch paper, following the silhouette of a dish you’ve memorized from your dreams. “Hmm?” 

He shoots you a sidelong eye, stubble gone sterling under the fluorescent lights. “Total asshole. It was at a convention and—Jesus, the ego of this guy...” 

Your laugh comes out stumbling and shy and all too real. You use a colored pencil to shade in the details of roe sitting in an oyster shell. 

“You’d think he was a surgeon with how stuck-up he was,” Abbot grins, the side of his mouth crooking just a little, and it lands into your quickly growing file of things you find fascinating. 

“Sounds about right.” 

“You’re tough,” he says, scanning the budget sheet like he’d rather do nothing else. “I knew you’d fit right in with the night crawlers.” 

“With the wild and the weird?” You stop drawing, trailing your fingers over the crude crags of the shell, looping along the spine of salmon sashimi curling around a bed of urchin meat, circling the smooth pearls of ikura. 

“Says the weirdest and the wildest.” He leans over and studies the sketch. He wears no cologne, but the faint scent of clean sheets and soap and natural musk is enough to make you notice the weirdly endearing flat spot of curls on his head. Side sleeper. 

“Brine’s coming on strong, isn’t it?” 

“Salmon’s brushed with a tangerine glaze,” you mumble, jotting down the scent and taste notes on the side. “Hopefully, it’ll layer with the uni nicely.”  

“Deepen but not cheapen,” he quips, nodding as a shadow of dry amusement passes his face.  

“Do we...have the money for this?” you ask, distracting yourself to sidestep the sudden thought of him cracking a quick joke to make you laugh. 

Crunching numbers usually does the job. 

“Yeah,” Abbot says. Clearing his throat, he pins the sheet onto the counter with a hand splayed at the corner. He runs his index finger down the paper until he reaches the dollar figure at the bottom—his nails are trimmed down and clean, digits long...and thick... 

“Uh, that’s what we’re working with, after the lease and utilities and tax and Robby’s insane demand for bougie Choice-grade beef—” 

You stop him before he can lose himself to the laundry list of expenses. A grin of sheer disbelief manifests on your face. “Still, Robby’s the goddamn patron saint of profit.” 

“Low prices and a baker better than Primanti's.” Abbot’s throaty hum is caught between a suppressed laugh and the same surprise you’re feeling. “Capitalism, baby.” 

— 

Fire courses one, three, five. Assemble two and four in garde manger. Leave dessert to the chef de pastries, who are twiddling their thumbs because your brain has bleached itself of ideas. 

Developing a tasting menu is grueling. Two months in, you still haven’t translated your tangerine glaze from paper to plate, and Robby—despite hating prep work—is clearly miffed that his cooks are starting to get comfortable with offloading onto the night shift. 

“Cooking’s not my problem,” Dana, the head of FoH, had said as she leaned against the back wall with a cig clutched between her fingers. “But these guys gotta do this shit themselves. I know for a fact that Ellis won’t stand slicing hoagies for much longer.” 

Course one starts delicately: steamed, silken eggs in a ramekin. As a commis, you made this after long shifts, when your fingers cramped out of exhaustion from peeling and picking greens. 

You fold in the foie gras Parker had seared for you earlier; the buttery scent bleeds into the air, which already smells like tender beef and caramelized onion. From the cooktop, Robby cranes his head to catch a glimpse. 

Then comes the fresh enoki mushrooms you diced this morning, minuscule white squares that release a subtle, sweet aroma. 

The fat of the duck's liver will melt with the smooth custard of the egg for subtle richness, and the mushrooms gently illuminate both the sweet and earthy undertones to round out the mouthfeel. 

You think about the flickering light in your old Hanoi flat, back your mentor pulled a favor so you could stage at a Michelin-star. Orange rays spilled over the worn tiles of the countertop and made the beaten eggs in your bowl glow like the sunset. You used to throw in whatever protein you had on hand, whether it be leftover chicken or even sardines.  

Steam it for eight exact minutes. Beside you on the hotline, Dennis scrambles another order of onion and Portobello mushroom in his pan, then adds a dash of red wine to reduce and caramelize, releasing another wave of umami into the kitchen. Did Robby teach him that? 

A toss of chives and fried shallots, then a splash of low-sodium soy. The sauce doesn't ripple when you tweeze a final spindly garnish atop the custard. 

"That's beautiful, chef," Abbot remarks once you set the dish on the table. His right hand is curled around a blue ballpoint pen and resting on a closed, leather-bound notebook. 

You survey the front of the house—tables set at odd angles, empty chairs pulled out, scraps of sandwich paper on the hardwood floors. 

Abbot looks both right at home and slightly out of place, sitting just outside of the double doors at the only table still aligned to the dinner floorplan. His dark tee is just casual enough to still exude seriousness, but the playful little grin on his scruffy face scrambles your signals. 

The light from outside is bright for a Pittsburgh autumn, and it feels like the sun itself is eating in this simple sandwich diner and blessing Abbot with a diffused, sterling halo around his handsome salt-and-pepper hair. 

“Thank you, chef.” 

He flashes you a warm, encouraging wiggle of his brows, and just thinking about it nearly makes your hands slip in the kitchen. 

Course two: translucent, longitudinal slices of geoduck siphon, rolled so tight that the final shape resembles a cruffin. Julienned cucumber and red pepper burst from the center like stamen, and you painstakingly pipette a dotted ring of Balsamic vinegar where the flower meets the plate.  

It smells clean, slightly floral. The aroma isn’t so overpowering like the foie gras, or the duck you currently have warming up the roaster, but you know that the refreshing temperature and smooth texture will hold its own. 

“Sick,” comes a low croak from Trinity, who flicks her eyes over your knife in a manner too nonchalant to be uninterested. “Is that Japanese?” 

“Nabbed it from a flea market,” you say, using a small quenelle spoon to shape and place a dollop of puréed fermented black bean, pungent enough to clear the sinuses. Then, you smear it downwards, tangent to the geoduck roll. “I liked the grip, then I checked the blade.” 

“Smooth.” She leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Would you say that was fate or luck—?” 

“Where is my au jus?” Langdon’s frustration is hurtled halfway across the kitchen.  

She grimaces. “Shit.” 

Delivery goes without a hitch. Abbot hardly spares a glance when you set the plate down, too fixated on his notes, but something in your chest swells so rapidly at the sight of the empty ramekin—practically licked clean and sparkling—beside him. 

Still, that makes your breaths tremble with anxious vibrations. The way he’s sticking his tongue out in concentration also doesn’t help. 

Course three. Your blade breaks down the Peking-roasted duck easily. The hot, crispy skin separates to reveal fat dribbling from the dark meat and greasing your fingers until the vents are full of savory, smoky spice and star anise.  

You clench your jaw, a reminder to not get lost in the heavenly smell. Butcher the wings and other bony parts for stock, shred the unused meat for Shen to use in his family meal, which won’t be served until you’ve run through the five courses for Abbot. 

The duck settles as you pull a steamer basket off the stove. The stack of flour pancakes inside is hot enough to make your experienced fingers wince—you swear you had burned away all the nerves by now. 

You separate each papery layer and fan them out a half-moon plate, then dip a basting brush into another pan, which is simmering with tart mulberry gastrique. Glaze each piece of duck with two layers of reduced sauce, then pair one slice to one pancake. Blue microgreens and a wafer-like garnish for presentation. 

Out the double doors, and before Abbot. 

He glances up from his notes like he’s been expecting you, grin cocked in a way you’re starting to know so well—he's already got a quip locked and loaded. 

“Masterful knife skills, chef,” he says, pointing at the blank slab of ceramic that used to present your geoduck flower. “I think the OR is calling you.” 

You chuckle, equal parts bashful and entertaining his joke. “Unfortunately, Doctor, the only thing calling is the hotline, because Dennis is watching my tangerine glaze.” 

Abbot flicks his eyes to the ceiling, all playful. “Oh, shame. And that poor kid...” 

“He can keep a lid on it, chef.” 

You push through the double doors again, and the heat presses all around you like a pressure cooker. Trinity has thankfully kept a sliver of the plating counter clear for you, and she’s flitting between wrapping sandwiches and maintaining Langdon’s cursed au jus while Dennis sautés another heap of onions and Portobello. 

Robby shouts out orders of two French dip, four Italian, six cheesesteaks—all day and Samira is...wafting your tangerine glaze with a contemplative furrow to her brow instead of kneading the salt bread she’s been assigned to. 

“Shit, is it burning—” 

“A splash of ginger syrup,” she blurts, already darting back to her station to re-dust the counter with flour. “Maybe a teaspoon!” 

You fan the scent of the glaze toward your nose—she’s right. The tangerine has the zest and the rind’s slightly bitter bite, but it’s been missing the same sweetness and tang Samira identified.  

Ginger syrup. 

You twist the knob until the blue flames in the burner leap and exchange your saucepan for a small pot. While you bring a cup of water to a boil, you peel a stalk of ginger with the edge of a spoon, then divide it into centimeter-wide slices.  

The water roils; you bring it down to a simmer, when the bubbling calms, and the flames hover just below the grate. An equal part of sugar is spooned and stirred until the graininess dissolves. Simmer ginger for twenty minutes… 

No, he would be irked, wouldn’t he? You’ve been taking your sweet time with the menu, but everyone knows that Robby can’t keep The Pitt afloat forever. 

Even though Abbot’s been telling you to take it easy, you know that he’s itching to open. Slow service is no service.  

So, you improvise. Course 3.5, as you’ll call it. 

A loaf of ciabatta fresh out of the oven, radiating with steaming warmth and Samira’s love. The golden crust crackles beneath the serrated knife you grab from the magnetic strip. 

White truffle oil—savory, delicate, a thread of sweetness—brushed over the soft, white insides. Toast it against a sizzling skillet with the crust side facing the smoky ventilation hood. Arrange on a dark, stone slab of a plate. Sprinkle the seared side with freshly minced basil leaves and dried, crumpled thyme. 

Then there are the frozen, shell-less escargots you know are hidden behind the slabs of beef shoulder in the walk-in. Robby microwaves them to eat during his breaks like a fucking weirdo. 

(Seriously, he’s a Michelin-starred chef! Are the fumes of red wine reduction and Langdon’s au jus getting to his brain and convincing him that eating reheated escargot meat atop untoasted sourdough is okay? Unclear.) 

You steal a few caps of Portobello, halved, and sauté them with the icy chunks of escargot in Dennis’ quick fashion. Steam hisses and curls from the pan, flames stretching from cobalt to orange. 

A genius elevates. A genius sees their life and conveys it through nourishment. 

You think of Samira’s kind hands speckled with flour, the way she always helps with the patience of a saint and a gentle smile. Dennis’ nervous grins, the bags under his eyes, the way he carries himself with a burgeoning sense of confidence. Even Robby, with his sharp commands and imposing figure in the culinary world, despite his strange eating habits (sure, he’s a genius, but untoasted sourdough is just not cool). 

Then there’s Abbot. 

Playful smirk, calloused fingers Abbot. Thick arms crossed and neck corded, five o’clock moonlight clinging to his jaw. A dark quip perpetually loaded on his tongue. Abbot, who—last week—pored over your sketches and scrubbed his mouth with those steady, calm hands and quietly guided you through timing for each course. 

This is for him to taste the soul of the day shift cooks, condensed into Samira’s ciabatta, Robby’s escargot, Dennis’ Portobello. Victoria and Mel live in the mellow, earthy tones of the white truffle oil, Trinity in the seared flat of the bread. 

(And Langdon...well, he’s just come back, so you suppose he could be the herbs. There as a humble, grounding reminder that life comes from the earth, like how he obsessively nags Trinity to keep an eye on the au jus.) 

Your hands don’t shake when you painstakingly spread the Portobello and escargot to form a circle around the toast. There’s no embellishing garnish or ceremony to this—there isn’t supposed to be. 

It’s just raw truth and grueling heat. 

You look up to see Dana leaning over the opposite side of the plating counter. She offers a dry little smile and scoops the stone slab into her hands.   

Two breaths are all you’ll afford. Onto course four. 

Your heart is kicking your sternum as you grab the pot of tangerine reduction you set aside. Pour the ginger syrup into it, stir gently as the white wisps dance above the metal lip. 

Slightly dilute the sauce with water, but only when you notice that the edges are beginning to darken. 

You pull it off the heat. By heavenly smell alone, you know that Samira has sent you a gift of a ginger-tangerine glaze, but you still dip a tasting spoon into the still-bubbling pot. 

First contact scorches, then almost makes your eyes roll back into your head. Ripe mandarins bloom sweetly in your mouth, each fruit pierced by a sharp needle of ginger and wrapped in a thin crepe of tartness. 

Jack will love it, you think as you call out a string of behind and corner to the walk-in. 

You bought a two-pound block of sashimi-grade salmon from the local sushi marketplace to save money—you still don’t know if this’ll work, and despite Abbot’s countless reassurances about the budget, you can’t shake off that deeply-ingrained conscience about money.  

“I’ll pay for it,” was the gravelly mumble, fingers landing gently on your shoulder as you weighed the fillets by hand. 

You did not shiver and certainly didn’t flush. At least, that’s what you recall from the past weekend; you mainly focused on the warmth he radiated and freckles dappling his neck. You’ve been…a little spacey as of late.  

You ended up splitting the bill, which wasn’t balanced. Abbot had acquiesced to pay for the salmon with a strangely characteristic frown that brought a fluttering to your chest, and you lightened your wallet considerably for a single tray of gonads and ikura.  

The three are sitting innocently beside each other on the metal shelf. You try not to think about how Abbot’s hands could easily engulf the trays, how the flesh would give so readily beneath his steady, competent hands. 

Your cheeks burn as soon as the door to the walk-in cracks open, letting a sliver of white light into the backlit-blue space. Back into the fray, this time with the ghost of your executive chef’s rough fingers trailing down your spine. 

(Fuck. You tell yourself that it’s because you haven’t been laid in a while. Which is true because your hours run late, and you don’t exactly have the energy for romancing in a sea of petulant manchildren.  

But Jack stirs your stomach in ways unfamiliar to you. It’s how he’s so earnest. Broad and brimming with unspoken guilt and the need to carry on. Gently leaves his mark on you and everyone around him.) 

Just uni is plain. Any other high-end restaurant can slap a gonad onto a plate, splash some coulis, and attach an exorbitant price tag.  

This is The Pitt. You have to keep up and be inventive and match the pace of a house that serves sandwiches by the day and polished plates by the night. 

You pivot to garde manger. Its three counters are pushed together to form a U-shaped space, and two are crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with teary chefs and their piles of onions. 

“Behind,” you say, tapping Shen on the shoulder so you can reach for a deli quart. He sniffles, brows pinched as he fights the burn in his eyes. 

You scrape the pliant, golden urchin roe into the plastic container with a grimace for your poor wallet, then pick up the handheld blender with reluctance. Here goes nothing. 

Within seconds, the gonads dissolve into a cream, and all your money has gone down, down, down into the churning whirlpool. The consistency quickly becomes sufficient—smooth enough to not need straining, yet still thick to maintain substance—so you funnel the puree into the espuma siphon and scrape every inch of your tools so nothing’s wasted. 

You hadn’t practiced your aim that much during your tenure as 10 Blade’s sous, but hopefully you have enough experience from your culinary mentee days to perform this like second nature. 

You load the cold metal cartridge of nitrous oxide into the holder, then twist the cap until you feel the tension release with a quiet hiss. You shake the siphon vigorously, so the gas and puree become a uniform, homogenous solution. 

‘Cooking is art, baking is science’ is bullshit. Have you ever seen a complex molecule? —is what your mentor would say, leaning back against the stainless-steel counter with her arms crossed and hawk-like glint in her sharp eyes— Chemistry is art disguised as science, and cooking requires both, all the same. Maillard, protein denaturation, pH...oh, make sure the reduction doesn’t become too diluted, because it too is a solution with a molarity value. 

This seafood dish is scientific. Exact. Innovative. Surgical, but not sterile. No, this has character, just like how the works of Da Vinci married science and art.  

You grab a shallow bowl and pipe the uni espuma into the center, letting the dollop build upon itself till the circumference can comfortably notch within the shell size you’ve eyeballed in your mind, which should (in theory) be approximately the size of your palm.  

Really, everything about this course is theory, just like how Einstein theorized about the relativity of time and how medieval healers mythicized the existence of the vena amoris in the ring finger. 

Which proved to be anatomically wrong. But you won’t be wrong. 

Parker keeps a spare set of knives beneath the counter—you flick the clasp, and the leather unfurls with a satisfying snap. You smooth your fingers around the understated, wooden hilt of the sheathed yanagi-ba, which is a long and thin blade for cutting boneless fish. 

The salmon block is cold beneath your fingers, and the blade’s edge slices the flesh in one fell stroke. That’s all you need. 

You grab a pair of tweezers, which every chef should have hung from the fabric of their apron pockets, and hold your breath as you arrange the sashimi around the golden bed of thick foam.  

It stays. Thank goodness. 

Dip your basting brush into the glaze, coat the sunset-pink meat with it. Crack open the plastic tray of cured salmon eggs, spoon out the brine-rich, vibrant pearls of orange. They make their nest in the espuma dollop without a hitch, closing out the dish you’ve dreaded making for a long time.  

Hopefully, Abbot will agree that a little improvisation never hurts, lest he pretends to be a guest with texture sensitivity or an allergy. If so, you suppose you’ll just have to find a rock to die under. 

“Hands—” Princess swoops in with a breeze of jasmine eau de toilette and swiftly marches through the double doors with the bowl clutched in her hands “—please. Uh, okay.” 

Final course. 

Tacky sweat now pools at your nape, slowly dripping into the collar of your shirt and making your apron rub against the juncture of your neck in an odd way. You’re in and out of the walk-in, hauling the pot of stock you asked Shen to prepare yesterday to the hotline. 

Lotus roots knock against the sides of the pot, along with knobs of pale ginger and crimson goji berries. You flick the burner on high, the familiar series of clicking and gas combusting reassuring your mind. 

This must be what the flow state is like. 

The Pitt renders into background noise like fat dripping out of the creases of an animal. It’s just your hands flying as they dispatch slippery shrimp heads and shells, pulling out the dark veins, mincing the cold, crisp meat.  

Far-away, you hear yourself calling out for ground lamb—it’s on the second shelf, next to the beef—while dicing chives, and blinking to find it already before you.  

Mash the lamb and shrimp together, toss in an approximation of white pepper and garlic salt. Corner, need the—yeah, thanks. 

Rinse a shiitake in the cold, drumming sink. Behind, sorry Cassie! Tear out the stipe with a utility knife, because it doesn’t have to be pretty. 

It has to be humble. 

It has to let the mundane, expected chaos of life seep in. You pack the mixture of lamb and shrimp into the concave underside of the mushroom cap, each press reminding you of the way your flatmate in Hanoi would fold wontons like it was easier than breathing. 

Stick it in a steamer basket, fit it over the lotus-root stock roiling in the pot. Three minutes on the magnetized timer stuck to the ventilation hood. 

You spend it brewing jasmine tea with the water heated to an exact 170 degrees, in a pot you didn’t know was here with leaves you stuck into your backpack this morning. 

You rinse the dish with the tea—ritual purification. The warmed bowl fits between your two palms like a compliment. You only swipe a towel along the exterior, which squeaks with how good the dish crew has scrubbed them.  

The delicate floral notes of the jasmine will lash onto the rich, full mouthfeel of the lamb and shrimp-stuffed shiitake cap, which you’re now lowering into the bowl. You then ladle the stock over it and use a pair of chopsticks to place a final slice of lotus root over the round mouth of the bowl. 

No garnish. The simplicity speaks for itself. 

One metal soup spoon, the edges thin and sharp enough to cut the gummy texture of the mushroom. Place the bowl on a saucer, arrange the spoon to lay tangentially. 

Step out of the double doors with the whirlwind of a month clutched in your fingers, into the light and the cool, air-conditioned front of the house. Pivot on your heels to find Jack Abbot already watching you with a strange look on his face—half pensive and all mysterious—and a quiet smile. 

The dishes have been cleared from the table. It’s just him, honest and grounding, and his little black notebook.  

“What’s your dream job?” he asks as you set down the plate, and you’re reminded of a yellow streetlight and a cold bench outside a scorned kitchen. 

“The Pitt.” No hesitation now. 

You’ve found your place in a galley kitchen, one where the scent of rich, expensive sauces kisses the practical tang of a stovetop griddle and lingers in the grout. No amount of baking soda paste on a toothbrush can scrape you out now. 

He takes a single sip from the broth, pauses with his head cocked just to the left, and sets the spoon face-down on the saucer. With this odd, pensive curl playing on his lips, Jack clicks his pen—the quiet sound deafens the thundering of your heart—and scribbles a couple of words. 

Then he shuts the notebook, places it on the table, slides toward you, letting his touch linger on the leather cover until you reach for it. “Good, chef.” 

— 

Course 1 – steamed eggs. Clever use of foie gras & enoki. Pleasant silky texture, good balance of salt & umami & subtle sweet/earthiness. Notes of “home,” “routine,” “comfort.” Coming home bone-tired & need reassurance that she’s hanging on. 

Course 2 – geoduck. Cucumber & red pepper lend freshness, Balsamic & black bean amazing Sheer beauty, delicate presentation. Like waking up in summer with the fan still on & sun on arms, cold spring water.  

Course 3 – roast duck. Exceptional mulberry gastrique. Honey-sweet, delicate tartness, salty, fatty enough to melt w/ enough substance to fill. Refined & elevated. Prodigious. Nostalgic, berry juice sticky on fingers, stained teeth, heart waiting at home. 

Course 4 – ciabatta, escargot, Portobello. Welcome surprise. Rich, soft, buttery, crunchy symphony (?) all at once. Very Pitt-esque, chaos tamed. White truffle oil masterful reminder of night shift. Must keep in menu. 

Course 5 – uni, salmon. Methodical yet artful. Improvised espuma, very thoughtful. Unmistakable ginger in tangerine glaze—Mohan? Undertone of stinging warmth. Top layers of sweetness, rich brine, airy yet custard-like texture. Foil to steamed eggs.  

Course 6 – shiitake, lamb-shrimp paste, lotus root stock. Broke my heart. 

Dessert - TBD 

— 

“I roomed with another commis in Hanoi—Chau,” you tell him, thumb pressed into the inward concave of the spoon, fisted fingers supporting the back. “Her name meant pearl—that's where I got the oyster idea from.” 

In your hand is a small Oliver loquat, droplets beading on the slightly fuzzy skin. Jack mirrors your hands, but his loquat looks so much tinier in his thick, steady fingers. 

He hums in interest, shifting his weight ever-so-slightly so that it rests mostly on his left leg, and that makes the firm, heavy swell of his bicep brush yours, which sets off a whole rack of misfired signals in your mutinous brain and traitorous belly. 

You would tell yourself that it’s just the dark, nearly threadbare cotton of his laundry-loved shirt stretching over his sturdy figure like an open secret, but you’d be lying. You think that you’ve liked him from the very first day. 

The stem has already been picked off, leaving a little ring of protruding skin around the top, which is convenient for peeling. Mother Nature’s plan, and the whole works. You slip the edge of your spoon beneath it, using your thumb to hold the skin so it doesn’t slip, and drag the soft, ochre peel all the way down. 

“You don’t get your nails all dirty like this,” you say, repeating the soothing, familiar motions until the flesh is bare before you. “She always had cute manicures with art and everything. Always wore gloves too—she liked that they made her feel confident.” 

Your flat is dimly lit but still homely; the various lamps you’ve turned on lend a certain je sais ne quoi to the open floor, like the sense of sweet clementines and your partner’s comfortable body heat. 

Abbot listens intently while curls of yellow skin flutter into the sink. You’ve barely started the heaping bowl of them, which you will press when the prep is done to figure out a dessert that will lean on the succulent, slightly tangy flavors. 

You had invited him over to help with R&D. So far, you’ve collectively thought of jam, ice cream, sorbet, panna cotta...and have exchanged a rough total of twenty quick glances, three quiet giggles, and two full-length culinary tales with each other as you washed each individual fruit. 

You turn the fruit so that the calyx points up, then dig the tip of the spoon beneath it. The pale amber mesocarp parts for the metal, and with a small twist, the shriveled remnants of the blossom pop away from the seeds. 

Feeling his gaze turn heavy—you've become rather adept at detecting his moods, whether it be intuition or just a subtle shift in the air—you tilt your head to meet his eyes, which are as you predicted: lowered, soft, an unnamed yet known thing swimming deep inside those hazel pools. 

He sucks in a hushed breath beside you, the rhythm unchanging save for when you blink expectantly at him. It just—sharpens in a way, like he’s suddenly caught himself doing something he shouldn’t.  

(Jack Abbot supposedly doesn’t do favorites. 

“I’m not playing buddy with you,” he told you himself after the run-through. It was hard to believe; his half-cocked grin glowed with satisfaction. “We just have a naturally harmonious relationship because we’re supposed to work well together.” 

“I believe you.” 

“But I will admit that you are an excellent chef, and it is an honor to be the one who formally invited you to the night shift.” A pause, then a half-sardonic, disgruntled mumble of, “God knows Robby would’ve messed you up...” 

“Heard, chef.” 

His grin had widened, but this time the amusement was stark on his face. Your jaw had feathered trying to suppress the urge to match him. You also didn’t know if you were imagining the tinge at the tips of his tan, freckled ears.) 

For a man you know hides himself behind his knife-sharp observational skills and level-headedness, his shell is starting to become awfully soft around you. 

A sudden rush of confidence washes over you. Prickles at your neck, itches that sweet spot in your brain that always feels gratified when things are set in motion.  

The naked loquat, slick and cold in your grip, trembles as you hold it up to his lips. Pink plush gives in so readily, almost helpless to your urging. And you don’t pull back. 

He captures your gaze through his eyelashes, the lines branching from his eyes all mellow, brows furrowed like he can’t decide between forgiving himself for the indulgence or abstaining to punish himself for letting something so tense get so far—between an EC and CDC, no less. 

But he’s made it very clear that there is virtually no power imbalance between your positions. You’re fully in charge of food stock, menu choices, staff. The only thing he really manages is the expo table—only there to maintain an ever-watchful eye. 

Jack is a line cook, through and through, and a co-executive in name only because Robby would supposedly get all up in everybody’s asses if he oversaw night service. 

You stay, steady and grounding—you're allowed to want, is what your silent motions scream—until the end of the pulp slides into the warmth, until his teeth scrape your nails so softly and hesitantly, until those hazel pools lighten with acceptance and the unabashed want you knew was there and were seeking for all this time. 

He doesn’t look away. You suppose he’s always had a staring problem, anyways. 

Sill, you feel like your sternum is cracking wide open and spilling hot viscera all over your skin.  

Your fingers fall softly, like feathers fluttering to the ground. He chews the sweet, tangy pulp off the seeds till they clack together in his mouth. 

Still, he considers them, working his jaw, lean muscles in his neck shifting as he soaks in the flavor. 

“You…you’re supposed to spit them out,” you say, quiet words harsh on the already-tense mood. 

Jack—when did he become Jack, you wonder—fixes you with an unapologetic twitch tugging at the corner of his scruffy mouth, putting you in the kind of headspin that makes you want to fly to the dark side of Jupiter and live out your days alone. 

He turns around to your cabinets, intuitively selects a door to open, and pulls out a bowl to discard the seeds in. Knowing his way around your very unfamiliar kitchen should not be as attractive as it is, but you’re a chef. 

“Are you gonna keep staring, or—?” 

“Right,” you jump, flicking on the water to rinse your fingers, then reaching for another loquat to work on. You slow as your touch grazes the fuzzy skin, spoon trembling in your knuckle-paling grip. “Just use the edge to dig out the seeds too, it doesn’t have to be neat since we’re processing—Jack?” 

He doesn’t move. 

Just…gazes at you with this strange blend of admiration and fondness and soft, unexplained warmth puddling in his hazel irises. They’re flecked with the same shade as microgreens, the kind that would normally drive you crazy if you had three seconds to plate and your old CDC breathing down your neck. 

But this isn’t 10 Blade. This is just Jack Abbot, the man you’ve become familiar with in just a few months, as if you’ve known him your whole life. As if you’ve been looking for him, for all that time.  

“Nothing,” Jack says, but the way his controlled breath stammers a little makes your heart rabbit against your lungs. 

You must look skeptical, because his mouth thins and flattens dramatically, and he dryly admits, “I’m endeared.” 

It should be accompanied by an eye roll, but he’s holding back on the usual avoidant theatrics. The sincerity almost burns at your waterline, and you duck your head down to sharpen your attention to the task in front of you.  

“Really?” Your mouth crinkles in an effort to hide a smug smile. “By me, out of my chef coat, in…” 

You make a pointed, cursory gesture to your very comfortable clothes— “grey sweats and a swap-meet chemistry shirt that says, ‘I wear this periodically.’” 

 “Yes.” Without hesitation. With the slight, enamoring crinkle of his crow’s feet and the faintest play of a smirk on his lips.  

You swallow, stunned. 

You swear his razor-sharp gaze follows the line of your throat as it shifts, then tries to dart back up to your eyes, only to be caught like a rabbit in the brambles of your lips.  

You’re suddenly aware of how close he’s been standing—practically joined at the hip, the defined swells of his arms fitting against the curves of yours—and how hot his skin runs. 

Eyes flicker down to the slight pout of Jack’s bottom lip. You study the softened creases of his smile lines, rough silver stubble around them. The air feels too thick to breathe. 

“I think we should make that our uniform,” Jack murmurs, voice dipping into gravel as he finally lets that roguishly charming smirk out. “What do you think?” 

You suck in a tight breath, now fighting the unreasonable, sharp need sparking, stirring in your core. “I…think you should do what you want to do, chef.” 

You’re about to rip your attention away to inwardly chastise yourself for falling for this ridiculously witty, stupidly competent, magnetic (and every synonym in any language, really) silver fox of your executive chef (an ethical dilemma you’ve long since given up on). 

You’re about to quash down the rising tide of feelings that play your heartstrings like a fiddle. You want to compress them into a tofu block and dice them and maybe stick them in a blender with garlic and durian, so Jack Abbot can’t identify the slush by taste alone. 

Then, you catch it. The quicksilver, dark smudge of desire darting across the enamoring wrinkle in his brow. 

“Then can I kiss you?” 

In any other situation, you’d perhaps clutch your chest at how smooth he slid his approach into the conversation. 

But your flat is dim in the clementine lamplight, and the quiet, crackling air between your lips smells like the sweetness of loquat. Your heart is melting into a pulp. For once, you aren’t afraid of letting someone in. 

You can have him. 

It must be you who moves first. For a man so assured and grounded in the whirlwind of The Pitt, Jack falters for a second too long, worry and self-doubt apparent in the scrunched set of his growing frown. 

The gap closes with a final, shivering breath and a mountain of relief crashing down on both of you. A strained sound from the back of Jack’s throat escapes, then peters into a deep rumble of satisfaction as he sinks into the kiss. 

His lips are soft. Sticky, sweet, with a hint of the loquat’s tang caught in the areas where his skin is just this side of chapped, and god, the realness lands.  

The spoon in your hand falls into the sink with a dull clatter. Negligible compared to how Jack smoothly maneuvers you so that your lower back presses into the cold edge of your counter, corralling you so tightly that you fear your heart will light up in flames. 

Mouths slide together, finding a rhythm between bashful giggles when noses press to cheeks at odd angles and whispered apologies lost to the pounding of your hearts. A broad, callused hand sears along the curve of your waist, and he slips his hot tongue across the line of your bottom lip before breaking for air. 

You miss it immediately, traitorous stomach flipping on its head. You suddenly want the imprint of his hands on your hips, arousal beginning to tug at the crux of your legs. 

“Thought about this so many times,” he groans, palm meeting your side again with a firm squeeze, right knee sliding just below where your cunt begs for friction. “Wanted you from the very first day.” 

You make a sound, low and shuddering and nakedly sweet in a way you didn’t expect from yourself. Jack looks so fucking pleased and high on his own horse when you paw at the dark cotton of his shirt, leaving behind smears of damp fingerprints, and you know then that you’ll stop at nothing. 

He must know—he's becoming attuned to you now, in the way only chefs and co-dependent partners can be. One look, a glint he catches in the glass of your half-mast eyes when you tip your head just so. 

He kisses you again, sweet and longing. Savors the flavor of your lips, draws his thumbs in soothing circles. Inches his thigh closer, until he swallows your shallow gasps and takes that as permission to slip his hands beneath the back of your shirt. 

“You’re so soft,” Jack murmurs with all the admiration and gentle, yet fierce yearning in the world pouring from the faint quiver of his lips. He pecks the corner of your mouth. “Can I lay you down, sweetheart?” 

Your ribs crack wide open; you can only afford to nod in fear of spilling out and driving him away. 

“Words, please?” 

How could you resist? You’re helpless to the call, tilting your head forward to nose at the hollow of his collarbone; he tilts his head back, exposing the column of his throat—patchouli, green tobacco leaves, cozy aftershave—so thoughtlessly. 

You feel intoxicated. Physically, mentally, chemically.  

Fighting back a groan of desperation: “Want you to touch me, please.” 

The world spins. One breath, Jack’s stealing a messy kiss, smearing spit all over your swollen, nipped-at lips. The next, you’re stumbling backwards, sinking into the cool, plush cushions of your couch as his steady hands pull your hips flush to the bulge in his jeans.  

You moan, quietly, for real this time, squirming beneath the close, solid press of his body in search of more friction. The soft gasp leaves you in one fell sigh—Jack… 

I am touching you, he rasps, voice so gruff and delicate that you’re sent into tachycardia. He strokes the tip of his nose along the line of your clavicle, inhaling shakily as deft, experienced fingers begin to drift under your shirt.  

“Not like that” —nudging his hands lower, until the rough palms graze the softness of your sweatpants— “like that.” 

“Fuck, you’re killin’ me,” he groans, thick lashes fluttering against your prickling goosebumps. “Are you sure?” 

You card your fingers through the feather-soft feel of his grey curls, patches of which still hold that dark, wiry copper it used to be. You guide him to raise his head, and he peers down at you with wide, searching eyes, and you realize that he would be satisfied with anything you gave him. 

He could stand in the corner and come with the lingering taste of your mouth if prompted. You could stay here, dry humping like a pair of goddamn teenagers, and he would think he’s the happiest man in the world. 

“Yeah,” you say, though it cracks in the middle, for the admission is so tender that it could be a bruise. “I want you.” 

He’s silent for a single, disbelieving heartbeat. Two throbs, blood rushing from atrium to ventricle, valves fluttering open then snapping shut, then from ventricle to bloodstream. 

By the next cycle, he’s onto you again, crushing his lips to yours like a man parched, starved, trying to quench whatever need that gnaws on his bones. 

“You’ve no idea,” he grunts out between kisses, “what you do to me.” 

You fumble with his belt, years of meticulous training in immaculate knife skills and plating thrown out the window as hot arousal pools in the gusset of your cotton underwear. 

(Shit, you think offhandedly, should’ve worn the cute lace ones.) 

Jack rucks your stupid shirt up, stopping just beneath your breasts, and lays a scorching path of kisses and nips down the length of your belly. You arch toward him—push and pull; he pins you back down. 

Then he rises, lips all pinkened and swollen, flushed from his cheekbones to his fucking neck (good grief). Pulls off that cotton shirt with a mind-numbing stretch of his corded, unbelievable arms.  

“Sorry,” he pants, scruff catching in the orange lamplight and making constellations shine on his skin, “can you give me a second?” 

You manage a dazed yeah, shutting your eyes for a reprieve. Belt buckles clink, leather rasps against denim. Then comes the sound of a stifled, relieved hiss, and a quiet thud on your carpet. 

You crack an eye open to see half a metal calf plus a foot resting against your coffee table. Oh. So that’s why he favors the left.  

“Does that…change anything?” he asks, fingers hovering beside your knee. It’s said with such undisguised intimacy that it kisses the border of inaudibility. 

“No,” you say, certain. You shift your knee so that the cusp fits over his knuckles, which are crosshatched with little scars from mishaps. Your hands match, in a way. “Just wish you’d told me, so you didn’t have to stand on my tile. It’s hell for flat feet.” 

He chuckles, all breathy, wondrous, and endlessly endeared. 

The cords of muscle in his shoulders ripple when he lowers himself back down, divots phasing in and out of his smooth skin as he kisses your tummy once again, eyelids fluttering shut with every press of his wanting mouth. 

Warm, deft fingers slip beneath your waistband. He helps you shimmy out of your sweatpants and underwear, making this little face where the right corner of his mouth twists in mirth at the sight of the plain cotton. 

(Inwardly, you preen. Maybe not wearing lace panties was a good thing then.) 

The clothes form a neat pile of indeterminate shadows on the carpet. You can’t tell where his garments end and where yours begin, but the thought dissolves when Jack rubs his palms over the bare skin of your ass (you can feel the callouses just beneath his index finger from years of cooking). 

You shiver, caught between the air-conditioned atmosphere of your flat and the body heat rolling off his bare chest. 

He takes your right hand. Exhales tremble—both your lips are parted in anticipation as he guides your middle and fourth finger into the cavern of his mouth with a throaty groan. 

You feel it in your bones, vibrations jumping between the IP joints and traveling up your arm as frisson. Stubble scrubs against your palm. Instinctively, you apply pressure to the roughness of his tongue, and the muscle dips suddenly as he sucks on your digits for a singular moment that feels simultaneously too long and short. 

He releases you with a soft, wet pop—a thread of spit, starspun in the warm light, trails between your fingers and his reddened lips. Whispers like a secret he isn’t supposed to tell: Can you touch yourself? 

Oh god. You’ve died and you’ve somehow done enough good in your life to reach the pearly gates. 

A whimper escapes your lips. You’ve found yourself so helpless to the way his dazed eyes gleam and plead with those blown-out pupils, and you’re giving in to his request so readily, thoughtlessly.  

Fuck, you’re beautiful. The praises dive into one ear and nestle in your hazy brain, feeding the fire growing in your too-empty, fluttering cunt. Keep doin’ it just like that, okay? 

You nod, head spinning at the dull sparks elicited from your slick fingers circling your own clit. 

Rough, scorch. Jack’s nose bumps into your languid knuckles, scruff prickling your inner thighs as he licks a long, firm stripe from your pussy to your stammering fingers. 

Head knocking back, hips jumping in surprise. You loose a harsh, startled moan into the otherwise still air, and the bastard has the gall to smirk against your folds before he dips his tongue into your sex with a wanton moan. 

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, ribs rattling with the force of the pleasured synapses firing in your brain. 

He shudders from between your legs, mouth pulling slick, filthy sounds from your cunt as he presses deeper, closer. Salt-and-pepper curls smart over your knuckles. 

Then comes the tentative, gentle stroke of two thick, coarse fingerpads. 

They swipe through the wet. Join his tongue in their ministrations. 

Slide right into the seam of your pussy, making room for himself in the pulsing walls and fitting so snugly, like your body doesn’t want to let him go. 

The groan he lets out vibrates you to the bone, nudging you closer to the ledge. “‘S tight.” 

You roll your clit with the newfound fuel for urgency, gasping when Jack laves over your wet, frantic digits, when his fingers set a quick, efficient pace against a spot that makes your eyes roll back— 

When his free hand, warm and grounding, grasps the curve of your hip and squeezes just so, reminding you to come back to Earth as your senses narrow to the pinpoint of stimulation in anticipation. 

“Jack,” you mewl, almost a prayer as your rhythm stutters, as everything builds too high, as Jack’s damned tongue flicks over your stalling fingers—presses the searing, harsh flat of it flush to your clit, shit— 

That’s it, he coaxes, curling into that spongy, sensitive spot. The gentle motion makes the filthiest squelch as he bullies his fingers deeper into your still-cumming pussy. Such a good girl. 

You whimper, breathless and basking in your orgasm-addled haze—‘m so sensitive.  

Your ears ring. Your limbs are heavy. There’s a distinct notion that you’ve never come harder. The praises spilling from him swim around you: 

Tasted so sweet. Did so well. Looked so pretty, sweet girl.  

“Mm, Jack?” you croak. 

He’s moved his attention from your cunt to your neck and jaw, worshipping your skin with slow, loving kisses. “Yeah?” 

The hand you used to touch yourself tugs at his waistband, and the other combs his curls, which are gradually becoming curlier with the humidity of exertion. 

Pulling him in, you melt into the cushions as he kisses you back. He tastes like you, lips and tongue and teeth and all.  

Despite the bodily urge to let the heaviness take over, you manage to pop the button of his jeans and unzip him. You swallow his gravel-grit moan at the release in pressure, desire once again flickering in your empty core. 

“Again?” he mumbles, lips curving into a teasing smile against yours. 

You smooth your hand over his defined chest, caressing just to the left of his sternum with leisure. “Want to make you feel good, too.” 

“I’m clean,” he says, lifting himself up to peer down at you, concern and curiosity swirling in his face. “But we don’t have a condom.” 

“Me too,” you sigh, eyes tracing the gentle set of his eyes, the crooked line of his mouth. “Can’t exactly predict this.” 

He hums, the barest tilt of amusement dawning on his face again. “Sorry.” 

Not sorry. The stupidly endearing twitch of his short, silver whiskers tells you so.  

“You could always pull out.” 

Jack pauses, eyes frozen, a purse dawning on his lips. The idea clearly appeals to him, because the heartbeat beneath your palm picks up, and his pupils dilate until you can only see a thin sliver of hazel. “Are you sure?” 

“You’re a chef.” A teasing smile plays on your mouth now, and his attention flickers down to it—rapt and automatic, always responding to your needs. Another coil of affection and desire unspools and tangles itself around your stomach. 

You take the opportunity to reach around and shuck off your own shirt, the collar of which is dampening with perspiration. His gaze falls, following how the shadows of your body morph as you stretch back onto the couch, leaving you in just your bra.  

“You’ve got the timing down.” 

“Trust me that much?” he wonders, but his hand is already urging at your side until you roll over, prone beneath him.  

A rustle, a shift of weight on the cushions, and he returns to you by sliding soft, threadbare cotton beneath your hips—his shirt. The thing in your chest writhes at the attentiveness, squeezing around your heart. 

“Yeah, I do,” you respond, sweet and soft and devastatingly true.  

You sense his fussing around behind you pause, and his breath catches, if only for a moment.  

“‘S a pain to clean couches,” he mutters after that lapse, voice thick as if he’s chastising himself. A brief, silent chuckle shakes you. 

It’s kind of adorable. 

“Surprise dish, chef?” you ask, fluttering your lashes over your shoulder. 

He braces himself against the back of the couch as he shimmies out of his jeans, curses under his breath a little with impatience biting the edges of his words. “Mm, you can say that.” 

Broad hands cusp your thighs to press them together. You can feel the mixture of your arousal and previous orgasm dripping from your sex, tacky; Jack clambers over you, biceps bulging in your peripheral as he slowly spreads his weight over your back. 

His bare chest, flush to your spine, is a furnace. You feel the warmth in your bone marrow, the security within the cage of his arms, which are braced on either side of your head. 

An insistent, scorching hardness presses to your ass, precum dribbling onto the curve of your lower back as Jack scrabbles for the self-control to not rut against you then and there.  

“This okay?” he asks. The question rumbles through you, providing the love needed for that safe, sated feeling in your chest to bloom again. 

You nod, inhale shivering, “Yeah.” 

Jack’s register scoops into the gravelly range: “Good.” 

A chaste kiss to your cheek, one imprinted with the faint grin on his face. Another over your mouth—though the angle is awkward and his nose gets smushed into your face, you can’t help the small, giddy laugh that escapes you.  

All the while, he lifts his hips, skates feather-light trails of singeing fingertips down your spine—you prickle, feel your pussy getting impossibly wetter—until his hand is sandwiched between your bodies, until he stuffs a throaty whimper next to your ear as he guides his cock into your fluttering hole.  

First contact is caught between choking on air and whimpering. The head hitches, smooth glans and hot skin meeting home, stretching you open. 

As he slides deeper, the sound he makes hisses between his clenched teeth. Your exhale shudders, petering into a quiet whine. 

He works himself in with shallow, thoughtful little thrusts designed to help you adjust. You feel so full from the pleasant ache throbbing in your cunt and going straight to your brain. 

Then his hips meet the globes of your ass. The hand that guided flies to your thigh, and he releases a strained, heady moan that tangles with your quiet exhale of satisfaction. 

Fuck, he feels so good in you. It’s all slick walls and pulsing veins, the hefty drag of the head as he rocks deep into your cunt like he’s trying to carve a space for himself in your stomach. 

(You wouldn’t mind. With the nature of your job, you’d keep him well-fed and warm.) 

“‘S like she can’t let me go,” Jack mumbles, day-old stubble rasping at your earlobe. That damn half-cocky, rumbling voice makes another cocktail of pure need shoot straight for your swollen, neglected clit. 

Bastard knows he has that effect on you, all too well. Thick fingers wedge themselves between your pelvis and the covered cushion, wriggling until he can touch the heat of your cunt, cupping where your soaked seam spreads for his fat girth with another tight gasp of arousal. 

You’ve been pliant. You’ve been more patient than a saint. But Jack’s savoring the velvet suction around his cock, and despite your typical reservations against devouring too quickly, you need him to move. 

Tipping your hips up, you find a new angle that makes his fingers slip up to your pulsing pearl of nerves and his cock prod so deep that your eyes roll back with a breathy keen falling from your lips. 

He tsks but finally takes the hint and begins to thrust harder while teasing your clit with slow, reverent rolls between his skillful fingers, interspersed with light, sharp swats to just feel the way your walls tense and jump around him. 

You manage shallow sips of breath between every time his cock teases your g-spot. Pulsing veins drag along the ridges inside your cunt and fill you up so good that you fear feeling hollow after this. 

It’s a call and response, one the both of you are helpless to. 

You moan when Jack crowds right up against your cervix, so deep that you feel the throb in your chest, and he reacts. Adjusts. Makes you involuntarily clench around him again, like he’s memorizing the way your pussy sucks him in. 

And he twitches whenever that happens, a mindless flutter of pressure and new heat pouring into you in waves. You arch back, desperate to sate the sharp arousal pinching in your core, desperate to have him plunge so deep that he steals your breath. 

His comforting, heady scent mixed with the faint musk of sweat envelops you as he drives you closer to the brink. Your head spins, nervous system stuffed to the brim with the friction between your legs, your gut quickly winding with each raw gasp falling from your lips. 

Leisurely, softhearted kisses travel from your jaw to your shoulder. Jack mumbles sweet nothings of so pretty and you’re doing so good into your skin, labored breaths splintering for breathy groans. 

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers, hitching your clit between two fingers and rubbing that nub with his calloused touch, “know you got another one for me. Wanna feel you come around me.” 

His name falls from your mouth in wet pants, voice strained beneath the weight of your impending orgasm, head turned to press your forehead to the cushion. “Close, Jack.” 

“That’s it.” Jack rocks into you with newfound urgency, fingers skating flinty over your slippery clit, cock driving the obscenest of squelches from your pussy, which are immediately muffled by the press of his hips against your raw ass. “Eaaasy, I’ve got you, honey—fuck, you’re so pretty like this, so good—” 

Stuffing your pitched moan into the couch, you rut backwards like chasing an orgasm on his cock has been your life’s mission all along. Stubble scrapes your shoulder, soothed by hot, broken breaths. 

You turn your head, fitful, mouth hanging open as you tumble toward the edge, as Jack looks straight into your dazed eyes with his pretty hazels reduced to slim rings, as he sinks his teeth into your fucking shoulder with a possessive shadow flickering over his face. 

Oh— 

You cum again with a loud, choked whine, caught between an exhale and a sob. Ecstasy tremors through your body; your legs quiver, eyelids squeeze shut, ass pressing flush to his pelvis as you contract hard and coast on the waves of pleasure. 

His cock throbs, and in the smudgy haze, you register the faint, yet distinct sensation of his heavy balls tightening where they’re pushed against your thigh before he’s pulling out with a grumbled string of curses and painting your ass with hot, spurting ropes. 

“Shit, fuck,” he snarls, hands jumping to your waist with a mind-numbing grip. You’ve never heard music like the sound of your name escaping Jack Abbot’s kiss-bitten lips with a gritted moan. “God…” 

Fingers loosen from the newly-made dimples in your flesh, smoothing down the twitch in your thighs—the insides are sticky with your slick and cum, and his spit and pre—and stopping at your knees. 

“Thank you, baby,” comes the unsteady, gentle murmur. Jack assuages the ache beginning to burn in your muscles, slowly lowering you back down until your mound has met the shirt-covered cushion. 

Jack brushes kisses along your temple. “You were so beautiful.” 

A long, slow meet of your lips, all languid movements and casual, heatless swipes of tongue. His lips curl up in a way that makes your racing heart skip more beats than it should. “So good.” 

Pulls away, caressing your flushed cheek with fondness shining in his eyes. Continues blazing a path down, devoting himself to your sweaty, still-heaving body. 

Shoulder, “The greatest chef I could ask for—” 

Mid-back. He dips his tongue into the divot of a line running down your spine, whispering,  “—and the sweetest girl—” 

The crest of your hip, “—with the most heavenly sounds—” 

The flat of his tongue glides searing over the curve of your ass, right through the mess of cum still warm on your tacky skin.  

He groans at the taste of it mixed with the salt of your sweat, laps and scoops and swallows until your core tingles with arousal once more, until you can’t feel the splatter of his seed on your ass—only his tongue and teeth.  

Your breathing picks up again, pulse rushing as he reaches his fill of cleaning you up and blazes another path of kisses to your fluttering, wet core. 

You squirm as his exhales hit the slick still shining on your folds. Jack can’t have that, not when he’s still developing your flavor profile.  

Familiar, steady hands plant on either one of your thighs. Thumbs spread your cheeks open, your empty pussy and swollen clit eager for more stimulation, even if tears will swell in your eyes. 

You’re not ready to let go of him just yet. This isn’t a matter of how much you can bear taking. This is about how much he can give. 

“Please…” you whisper, words pitched and so quiet that you fear they’ll be inaudible. His name has become a comforting prayer, a syllabic synonym for reliability. 

Jump, and he’ll catch.  

“I’ve got you, baby,” he rumbles, scruff scratching your sensitive inner thighs as he pecks your seam. “I’ll always have you.” 

Love is at the tip of your tongue as he drinks from your needy cunt once again. 

— 

“Here.” Bubblegum pink flashes in the air, and you catch it out of sheer instinct. Pepto-Bismol—man’s best friend. 

Most, if not all, chefs that partake in service have stomach issues because of high-octane moments like your old CDC blowing a full gasket if someone shucked two lentils below his quota. Multiply that by one and a half turns per six days a week, and antacid producers are forever guaranteed a profit margin. 

You shoot a tight grin of gratitude to Jack, who only dips his thumb and index finger into his mouth to moisten so he can flip through today’s guest list. 

Opening night. You smear your hands down the front of your white coat for the fifth time this hour.  

You’re pacing around the front of the house, which has been closed during the day shift so you could fortify yourself for tonight. Jack’s been parked at his usual table by the double doors to mentally rehearse timing for the turn-and-a-half.  

The late noon light is awfully poetic on his solemn, concentrated expression. The illuminated windows stretch across the swept floor until the rays slant over his face, highlighting the structure of his jaw, the plush shape of his lips. 

His stubble glows half-golden, and you think back—with a quick burst of heat in your cheeks—to how it felt scraping between your sensitive legs.  

“Just drink it now so you don’t shit mid-service,” Jack says, droll and unaware of your sudden turn of thought. His attention flits from the pages to your uneasy face, indecision clear in the lines by his mouth. 

You haven’t…talked about the other night. Not in depth, anyway. 

It’s apparent that you find each other attractive. Obviously, he licked his own cum off your ass and then licked you, but further conversation has been stunted by restaurant prep. 

You still spend your working hours in close, comfortable contact, and he squeezes your waist instead of calling corner, and you cheekily peck his lips if you walk into the freezer at the same time.  

So things aren’t awkward, per se, but things have certainly been left unsaid that you both are trying to say now.  

He puts the packet down, tucks his highlighter behind his ear, which makes your stomach settle for a split moment to feel how endearing that habit has become.  

“C’mon, chef, don’t give yourself an ulcer,” comes the quip, straddling the line between lighthearted and serious. “God knows the Pitt doesn’t need another Robby.” 

You huff out a light laugh, twisting off the cap. “One swig or two?” 

“How confident do you feel?” Slowly, Jack rises and slinks toward where you’re wearing a path into the floor. 

You meet him with your other hand squeezing the firm muscles behind his elbow, fingers slotting perfectly into the divot of the joint, eyes trained on the bottle in your grip. “Like…three and a half?” 

“Alright, that’s a little too much,” he chuckles dryly, shifting so he can fondly snake an arm around your shoulders. “One is fine, because you’re gonna kill it.” 

“Ye of little faith,” you murmur in fake offense. You still raise the lip to your mouth and take a swig, wincing at the thick goop of wintergreen and chalk sliding into your troublesome system.  

“Oh, the lady doth protest,” he fires back, that teasing grin lighting his face. 

Rolling your eyes, exasperated amusement pulls at the corners of your lips. You twist the cap back onto the PB bottle and set it on a nearby table, the plastic soundless against the sun-warmed wood. 

You’re about to turn back to the cold bath of LEDs in the kitchen, shrugging away Jack’s arm, when he hooks two fingers into the pocket of your chef’s coat and tugs you back to him. 

You must be magnetic. When returning to him (like the tide), the edges of his expression tilt upward; fondness softens and glimmers in his eyes, which dart down to your lips, and a faint tinge of a blush colors his freckled cheeks. 

A swallow works through your throat. 

“Need something?” you ask, keeping your voice level, though it’s too casual to mean nothing. 

“Hm” —he studies the far wall, mouth pursing as if he’s hiding a laugh— “maybe a good luck kiss?” 

Of course. 

Craning, you press your lips to his scruffy jaw, the action quick and clean. His skin thrums beneath your touch with heat and excitement, and when you pull away, he’s got this look on his face—all dazed smiles and unfocused eyes. 

You cough lightly, which makes his broad shoulders twitch like he’s just caught himself falling asleep on the job. 

Jack’s faint smile grows until a full-blown smirk sits on his face, and he crosses his arms in the way he knows drives you crazy. “You’re gonna kill it here.” 

— 

Zero turns runs smoothly. 

Under the heavy, watchful observance of Jack, the night shift neatly hits the efficiency and teamwork goals you’ve set for yourselves during the pre-service meeting.  

Garde manger’s geoduck petals are thinner than yours, which allows the crisp flesh to absorb the surrounding flavors easily. They’re doing most of the plating, like rolling up the buds of translucent slices and painstakingly decorating the ceramics with sauce, but you’re stationed at the central counter to oversee presentation. 

That was your biggest mistake. 

Somewhere in the midst of the first-and-a-half turns, you’re craving a menu change and a second swig of Pepto. The hot dishes have suddenly piled up. The colds are following close behind, and now you’re certain that you’ll spend this weekend simplifying the aesthetics. 

And Jack—ridiculously competent, brutally experienced Jack—keeps the energy high, to the point where you dread the next ‘yes, chef.’ 

Ten plates are waiting for your approval, the nearest one emitting the faintest curls of white when the guest should be taking a steaming, scorching first bite. You hate re-firing; you finger the edge of the counter as irritation simmers in your gut at the sudden pile-up of dishes. 

You took it too easy, and now you have so much to do with so little time to do it. Fuck. 

Glancing at Jack, cool and composed and level from his perch at the expo station, you worry your cheek between your molars. Maybe you aren’t cut out for this. Maybe… 

Maybe he made a mistake. 

“Duck for table five, fired!” Parker calls, bent over her own dish and lining up the pieces with the pancakes. 

When she finishes, she slides the plate to join the procession line already waiting for presentation. Your pulse ticks up again, spiraling thoughts slamming the pedal to the metal. 

Nazely chirps, “Need help with plating for pastry.” 

Your breaths feel like they drag against your throat, but your hands and forceps hold fast to steadiness, even as you become aware of the droplets of sweat racing down your nape.  

“Four uni, two geoduck all day,” Shen says, setting glazed porcelain onto the stainless steel counter with a dull thunk.  

You grip your tweezers tighter—the dull hilt digs into your palm, hard enough to bruise— 

You glance back to the expo table. Jack’s already watching you with those characteristic 11s between his brows. 

You should feel guilty for being caught red-handed in your slapstick act of incompetency. But the hazel doesn’t have any fire behind it—just concern, breath-halting and real.  

He scans the chart one last time. Steps off the platform. Your stomach turns with something fierce and sour.  

“Ellis, fire two egg, two duck, four escargot toast—all day,” he commands, his firm voice carrying through the controlled chaos of the kitchen. “You’re doing great.” 

Fingers make quick work of his coat sleeves, which are folded with brutal, practiced efficiency to his elbows. He strides to take his place beside you, still surveying but reaching for the tweezers hanging out of his pocket. 

“Nazely, just a quenelle of yuzu sorbet will do. Three loquat brûlée egg tarts, please.” 

Yes, chef. 

“Shen, keep that pace.” 

Thank you, chef. 

“Chef,” he murmurs, leaning into your side. “I’ll do hot, alright?” 

“Who’s calling expo?” You keep your tone level, but slight tremors still shine through. 

You drop a final microgreen onto your current plate and push it to the side. “Hands, please.” 

“That’s for twenty,” Jack adds, not looking up from his task. Earnesty bleeds into his voice, just this side of intimate. “I’m here for you, chef.” 

God, it lands. 

You push out a shuddering exhale, one that peters into a smooth stream of air by the end. The discomfort and doubt wriggling in your gut ebbs away at the gradual diffusion of his cologne and body heat beside you. 

Somehow, he remembers. Somehow, he’s here to be your guiding light. 

You work in partial silence, hands flying between deli quarts of plucked greens and miscellaneous decorations, tweezers making indistinct clipping sounds with every move. Warm hands brush yours when you both reach for the same container of meticulously chopped cilantro. 

If that immediately bathes you head-to-toe with boiling heat, he doesn’t comment. Or maybe he noticed that you’ve been a little distracted by how commanding he is in the kitchen, and he’s choosing not to say anything. 

(Perhaps the downward turn of tonight’s service is really the work of Jack Abbot. Really, the sight of his arms clad in that white coat is obscene.) 

Between reminders of ‘every second counts’ and ‘hands for table four, fire two escargot and the last uni,’ you can feel the pass of his gaze over your countenance of concentration. And when you glance up, the faint weight disappears as soon as it comes, but you never miss the feathering in his scruffy jaw, nor the miniscule, upward twitch of the lips you kissed hours ago. 

Jack breaks the silence first, voice low and smooth. “Three more tables left, chef.” 

The relief unspools in your stomach. Without thought, your frown splinters into a soft smile. 

You’re both out of the woods. 

— 

“Chef.” 

A startled shiver possesses your body, and you leap off the back wall of the restaurant. The night is freezing compared to the scorching tempers still lingering in the empty kitchen, but Jack looks at home in the dimness with his black tee melting into the darkness. 

He stands to your side, facing you with his hands behind his back. There’s a faint line running down between the muscles of his half-hidden forearms, the one that—anatomically—appears when the fingers are flexed. 

“Shit,” you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut to still your heart and ignoring the sharp pang lancing through your stomach. “Maybe let the door squeak so I don’t have a heart attack.” 

“Sorry,” he says, though it hardly sounds like remorse. Jack holds out one of his hands, and you almost chuckle. Almost. “Just thought you’d want this after…that.” 

The bottle of Pepto-Bismol, just a swing shy of full, is glaringly bright. Still, you wrap your fingers around it—grazing his skin in the process, and you don’t fight the way your heart skips—and tilt your head toward the steps by the back door. 

Chalk coats your tongue, followed by the strange, warm-cool burn of artificial wintergreen flavoring. As you twist the cap back on, you plop beside him, exhaustion catching up to your body and knocking half the air out of your lungs. 

“Some first service,” you murmur, shutting your eyes and listening to the crickets, the rustle of a nearby tree, the faint rush of nighttime Pittsburgh traffic. 

“You did good,” he says, just as quiet, but not half as uncertain as you are. You feel soft, warm lips pressing to your temple, then the weight of his arm around your shoulders, driving away some of the chill beginning to bleed into the air. “Here.” 

Smooth plastic nudges at your aching hands. 

You look down—it's a tupperware container, one of those rectangular ones you’d often find at Chinese restaurants so you can take the stir-fried noodles to-go. The clear lid is translucent with thick steam, and the body of it is comfortingly warm. 

“Leftovers?” Blearily, you blink again at the tupperware, then to Jack. 

Jack shakes his head, peering at you with pure sincerity pooling in his hazel eyes. “Made it before service. I was waiting because I knew you’d be tired or hungry after.” 

Though the weight is foreign in your palms, the heat is oddly familiar. “Did you...use Robby’s escargot microwave?” 

He snickers, oddly pleased with himself. “Maybe.” 

“You’re terrible,” you say wryly. There’s no bite behind it; instead, you find your voice rather affectionate and tender. 

The lid separates with a crack, and wisps of steam curl from a generous helping of rice, water spinach, and—fuck, that’s the scent prime aged wagyu. The rich, plump slices of meat polarize the image of a humble meal in a takeout box. 

Despite the sudden alarm, your mouth can’t help but to salivate. 

“That’s the same wagyu we used to make at Everblue, just ten days more aged,” he says, producing a fork out of thin air and sticking it into the pile of warm rice. “I remember you telling Santos that you wanted to try it.” 

(Is it possible for a heart to break in a moment of joy?) 

You swallow the flood of saliva and the burning in your eyes, picking up the fork and shoveling a heap of rice onto your fork. “It looks good.” 

A firm thumb circles your arm, tracing the curve of your shoulder and then arcing over the dip where your humerus begins. His chest swells with a sharp intake of air, but pauses for a heartbeat. 

“I actually” —Jack cuts himself off when you swivel your head up to look at him, fork halfway lifted to your open mouth. “I wanted to know if we could see each other,” he finishes quickly, words blurring together. 

“Like—huh, wow,” you start, panting at the absurd temperature of the rice, as if he grabbed it straight out of the pot, “I mean, I’d tell you to buy me dinner first, but...” 

Gracelessly, you stab a piece of wagyu as your stomach reacts to the first taste of nourishment and reminds you that post-service always leaves you ravenous. The aged meat melts on your tongue in smoke and fat and salted butter, and you groan at the pure euphoria exploding in your mouth. 

“I s’pose I’ve already done that,” comes his wry mutter, nose crinkling at the realization before an amused smile breaks on his face. 

You go warm behind your ribs at the endearing sight, at the way he knocks his head back a little boyishly. Your cheeks warm too, stinging in the chilly air, and you’re reminded of that night—months ago—outside 10 Blade. 

“Thank you, Jack,” you blurt, devoting all your attention to the rectangular block of a balanced meal in your lap. “For giving me a chance.” 

“Don’t,” he responds, the shadow of a frown passing over his handsome features. You want to kiss the wrinkle between his brow and trace his crow’s feet. “That was all you.” 

“Convince me,” you quip, a teasing grin dawning on your face. 

“Mm, I have some ideas. Candlelight dinner, maybe at your old restaurant so your boss can see you thriving...” 

Giggling, you bump your shoulder into his, but it only makes the arm around you snake tighter, until you’re snug against his side. 

“Maybe we’ll go back to my place this time, and talk some shit,” he continues. Jack’s voice deepens conspiratorially, scooping into the gravelly range, “And because we skipped dessert at 10 Blade, we’ll have it on my countertop.” 

The innuendo isn’t lost on you. Warmth curls in your belly like the low flicker of a burner’s blue flame.

He meets your eyes, bright and curious and heart-stoppingly eager, and you think you’d make anything for this man. “How’s that sound?” 

You laugh, sweet and flattered. “It sounds like three Michelin stars, chef.” 

You bite your tongue. You should question your father why he has such arrogant soldiers—and if he knows they can’t back up a single word they say. 

Maybe that’s why he looks surprised when you duck under his arms, kick him in the knee, and ignite a flame inches from his face when he falls to the ground.

“Is that all you’ve got?” you ask, tilting your head like you’re asking a genuine question. “You said you were better than the rest of your regiment, but you’ve gone down just as easily as they have. Did you hit your head or something?”  

The man scowls. You don’t even know if you can call him a man, though—he looks like he’s only just enlisted, just a few years older than you—and the war has already etched itself into his young features. On another day, maybe you would find him handsome.

Instead, he’s a real sore loser of a soldier, and you don’t find him that handsome when you figure that out. 

“You just got lucky,” he spits. “Your father told us all to go easy on you.” 

Of all the things that would never happen. “Keep telling yourself that. I’ll just tell my father that his soldiers disrespected me. He values my opinion far more than yours.” 

He laughs. He shouldn’t laugh like that when you can melt his face off if he sneezes too hard. 

“Does he? Is that why he chose me as his second-hand for his upcoming mission for the Fire Lord, and not you?” 

Your eyes widen before you can control yourself. 

“You’re lying.” 

This time, he tilts his head and sighs, not one bit of it genuine. “I heard you were the one who helped him plan that mission. Bummer.” 

That can’t be true. Your father asked for your advice multiple times over the course of planning the takeover of an Earth Kingdom town with a high concentration of earthbenders. Desperate to prove your skill to him, you figured out everything he asked of you—and now you didn’t even get a part in the mission you planned?

You clench your jaw to stop tears you know will gather if you let them. You grab his collar to bring him closer to your fire, but it doesn’t do well to block your emotions as he laughs. You never got over the habit of crying with your anger, no matter how many attempts there were to beat it out of you. 

You try to figure out what to say, until a commanding voice says your name and bursts through your slight haze—you turn to see who it is, and the haze disappears completely. 

“I never thought you were the clingy type,” Azula says dryly. Your spine straightens as it always does in her presence.

“Azula!” you exclaim, eyes widening as you immediately shoot to your feet and bow. The soldier grunts as you drop him on his face in the process. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Her perfect lips twitch into the smallest smile. “Did your father not tell you I was coming?”

You shake your head. “No. Did he know?”

“I sent a messenger hawk. I suppose he didn’t give it to you.” 

You roll your eyes as you look past her at the tent your father is probably sitting in, discussing his next steps with his fellow officers. It already irks you to no end that he refuses to let you join in—now he’s sabotaging you by one; not letting you in on the action of your own plans, and two; not letting you know Azula of all people would be paying a visit? 

You respect your father because he’s a brilliant general, who has a role that you believe you will thrive in some day. Yes, your older brothers are the logical choice, but you doubt Kezu will want to abandon his ship—and you seriously doubt Lee will leave the Yuyan archers any time soon. Logically, you are the best child to carry on the family name. You don’t understand how your father doesn’t see it. 

“Of course, I’m happy you’re here,” you say, “but what brings you to this random forest in the middle of the Earth Kingdom?” 

“It’s not just a random forest,” she says. “I came here because you’re here.” 

You blush despite yourself. Azula’s attention has always done that to you, from the day she saved you in school—and you always hope she doesn’t see it. 

Her eyes cut over to the soldier, still on the ground. “Leave.”

“Princess Azula—” 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

He nods too many times as he scrambles to his feet and practically runs back to camp. You huff a laugh as you shake your hands out. 

“That’s uncharacteristically nice.” 

“Did he seriously make you cry?”

You let out a final, slightly shaky breath. “There it is.”

Azula frowns. “I’m plenty nice to you.”

“I’m joking,” you say lightly, and it’s only half true. You’ve known Azula since you were children, and she’s always had a temper that you try not to set off. 

“Of course you are,” she says. “ He made you cry, so I scared him off. And I’m doing another nice thing for you right now.” 

That’s Azula, your rose. She can only ever say something nice if it’s covering something just as sharp. It makes her kindness all the sweeter.

“Interrupting my training?” 

“Giving you the biggest opportunity of your life,” Azula says instead. 

-

You’ve felt Azula’s eyes on you almost every single second since she revealed the real reason for her visit. You don’t know why some level of disappointment settles in your chest, like Azula would actually just come out here to the middle of nowhere to visit you. 

“I want you to come with me to capture some traitors.” 

Prince Zuko and General Iroh, the infamous Dragon of the West. You don’t know why the names feel so unfamiliar to you, like you didn’t grow up at the palace. Like you and Zuko weren’t almost… 

You shake your head to rid yourself of those thoughts. It wasn’t like you wanted it in the first place, but once he was banished from the Fire Nation, any chance of it happening disappeared in an instant. 

You haven’t seen Zuko in almost four years now, since you were sent out here to train with your father’s regiment and he was stripped of his honor and sent out to capture the Avatar for a reason nobody knew—something you only heard through gossip. 

One of your best friends banished from the Fire Nation, and you didn’t even know about it until a month after it happened. 

You don’t have time to feel any sort of emotion before Azula’s eyes hit you, just a few moments before she says your name. 

“Did you hear that?” 

You blink and shake your head, partly to clear your head of those thoughts and partly to answer as casually as possible. How can you be thinking about Zuko when you’re with Azula? That’s the easiest pathway to treason, as far as you’re concerned. 

Azula gives you that burning look for a split second before she’s back to normal. You take it in the stride necessary to be one of her friends. 

“Your father is allowing you to travel with me for as long as the Fire Lord deems necessary.” 

You blink and look at your father. He meets your gaze evenly. 

“Seriously?” 

“You are hunting traitors to the Fire Nation,” he says. “I can think of no better task for you in preparation to be part of this regiment.” Your father smiles, but it’s sharper than usual as his stare drills into you clearly enough to understand what it would mean for you to refuse—what it would mean for your family.

You let out a short sigh. Traveling with Azula is the kind of mission you have dreamed of. She pulls rank on your father, sure. If you complete a successful mission with Princess Azula, then there is no doubt that she would be willing to pull some strings for you to force your father to listen to you.

But she’s also one of your best friends, since the day she chose you to be her friend on your first day at the academy. She played games with you. She cared about you with the sort of prickly love that she reserved for the few people she liked. And besides—you might’ve learned firebending from the best teachers the Fire Nation had to offer, but Azula taught you all your tricks. 

You look back at Azula with a burning ambition. She smiles before you say a single word—she knew the second you decided. You never could hide anything from her. 

“When do we leave?” 

- 

“Why are you using that sword?”

After so many years around Azula, you don’t have to look at her to tell when she’s frowning at you—you can just feel it. You slice it through the air a few times, attempting to fast-track your sea legs. 

“I’ve been trying to get better at things other than my bending.” 

“Why in Agni’s name would you do that?” 

The ship hits a wave just a bit too hard and you stumble across the metal floor for a few too many steps. Azula’s gaze sharpens. 

“We are going after my brother and my uncle,” she continues. “They’ll melt your sword before you even get a chance to prick them.” 

Now, you frown. You shift from foot to foot, trying to regain your bearings. You’re not seasick yet, at least. 

“Piandao helped me get a sword that could withstand firebenders. Besides,” you squint as the metal reflects the sun right into your eyes and tilt it away, “I’ll never be a great general if I can’t defend myself without my bending.” 

Azula scoffs. “Are you still on about taking your father’s place?” 

Your frown deepens. You sheath your sword and adjust the strap across your back as you focus on her. 

“Of course I am. Don’t you think I deserve it over my brothers?” 

Azula rolls her eyes and ignites her palm, focusing on the blue flames instead of you. You know exactly what she’s doing, so you think it’s a little unfair that you still feel your cheeks heat. 

“You’d be a better general than even your father,” Azula says. “But you deserve much better than commanding some measly foot soldiers.” 

“What are you saying?” you question. “That I should stop trying to honor my family name by carrying it on myself?” 

“I’m saying that you belong by my side.” Azula says it with so much finality, like there’s no room for questioning. You suppose that’s how she means everything to sound, though. “I have a mission to complete, and I want you to do it with me. Do you not understand what an honor that is?” 

You feel your face heat again. Azula always has a way of twisting your words to make things go her way. It’s a lot different now than when she would do it to get you to play hide and blast with her instead of practicing your bending with Zuko. 

“Of course I understand,” you say. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, Azula.” 

Azula smiles. It feels far more genuine than you expect. 

“I feel the same,” she says. “Now, put that sword away. We’re sparring until we get to the circus.” 

You sigh and very gently set your sword in a safe corner. Money may be no object to the rest of your family, but you insisted on earning your sword the right way. You’re just standing up when blue fire is already at the edges of your vision—it takes everything in you to throw your arms out fast enough to block the flames, but you still wince as it licks the edge of your fingertips. 

Azula hums.

“Too slow.”

-

The entire ship smells distinctly of ozone by the time you arrive at the docks. As you and Azula walk through the circus grounds, you feel her brush your armor. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“You picked up some ashes.”

“I wonder whose fault that is,” you say wryly, and Azula smiles just enough for you to know she appreciates it. 

She elbows you when she spots Ty Lee, and you look over to see her balancing upside down on two fingers. You smile as Azula rolls her eyes and drags you over. 

“Ty Lee, could that possibly be you?” 

She exclaims both of your names in excitement as she gets rightside up with a twirl then bows immediately. This time, Azula smiles, though she hides it when Ty Lee tackles her into a hug. She moves onto you, and you end up stumbling back a few steps due to the sheer force.

“It is so good to see you two!” she grins, looking back and forth between you and Azula. 

“Please, don’t let us interrupt your… whatever it is you were doing,” she says, and Ty Lee immediately jumps back into her stretches. 

“What are you doing all the way out here?” you question. “Our captain got the route wrong twice and I thought Azula was going to electrocute him.” 

“That is not true. I would have simply thrown him overboard and let the tides do all the work.” Azula tilts her head, looking back at Ty Lee. “But I also wonder what the daughter of a nobleman is doing here. Our parents didn’t send us to the Royal Fire Academy for Girls to end up some place like this.” 

You meet her eyes, begging her to at least not immediately shut Ty Lee down. You have no idea whether she takes it to heart or not as she focuses on Ty Lee again. 

“I’m hunting a traitor,” she says. “That’s why we’re here together. You remember my old fuddy-duddy uncle, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah! He was so funny!”

“Well, I would be honored if you would join me on my mission.” She wraps an arm around you and you wonder if she’s been possessed. “We would be honored.” 

You smile at Ty Lee and she smiles back, but then she gets back on her feet and lowers her head. 

“I— I would love to, Azula. But the truth is, I’m really happy here!” She spreads her arms out and grins. “I mean, my aura has never been pinker!” 

Azula’s expression doesn’t betray any disappointment, but you’re shocked that Ty Lee was brave enough to say no—even if she has to hide it behind some babbling about auras. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Azula says lightly, then she sighs. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to give up the life you love just to please me.” 

You frown at the ground. She just gave you a speech where she encouraged you to do the exact same thing. Sure, you weren’t as happy beating on your father’s soldiers as you were on the hunt with Azula, but she could’ve at least been nicer when she tore you away. 

Ty Lee grins as she pulls her leg up over her head and turns around. You follow Azula’s lead when she walks away, the shock muted on your face. Is she really going to let Ty Lee go? 

“Of course,” Azula adds, “we’re going to stay to catch your show.”

Your body tenses as Ty Lee’s form falters. Of course she isn’t. 

“Yeah,” she says loud enough for you to hear the uncertainty, “sure. Of course.”

You know Azula well enough to know that she has some tricks up her sleeve—and you know yourself well enough to be sure you won’t do a single thing about it. 

Azula starts walking, and you follow her without question. 

-

Azula tried to kill Ty Lee. That’s all you can think about as you follow Azula’s palanquin in silence, newly a trio. 

Or at least, she threatened her. Ty Lee is too good to ever fall, and Azula knows that—but she also knows how to get to each and every one of you. In the process of becoming best friends, Azula finds all of your weaknesses. In return, you become her weaknesses. 

You wonder what Azula would have done to force your hand had you denied. Thankfully, you arrive at the palace before you get the chance to think about it for too long.

Mai stands by the stairs, looking gloomy as ever in her red robes as Azula steps down from her palanquin, you and Ty Lee coming up behind her. 

“Please tell me you’re here to kill me,” Mai deadpans, but she smiles as she and Azula share a laugh. 

“It’s great to see you, Mai,” she says, sounding genuinely happy as they hug. 

Ty Lee practically throws herself into Mai’s arms with a grin. 

“I thought you ran off and joined the circus,” Mai says. “You said it was your calling.” 

“Well, Azula called a little louder,” Ty Lee says.

Mai looks at you and you nod, answering her unsaid question. She controls her emotions much better than when you were kids. 

“How’s the coup against your father going?” she asks. 

“It’s not a coup, I’m just trying to prove myself,” you frown. “And it’s on a temporary pause while I’m out here.” 

Azula steps in and looks between all of you. “I have a mission, and I need you all.” 

“Count me in,” Mai says immediately. “Anything to get me out of this place.” 

-

You rock from one foot to the other as you wait for the kidnappers to show up. You almost consider passing the time with your firebending, but Azula shoots you a look.

“Will you stand still?” she snaps. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. You don’t tell her that you’re nervous to do this—nervous to be by her side on a mission this important to her. You doubt she would care.

“Just consider yourself lucky she’s not pacing all over the place,” Mai says wryly. You huff and cross your arms, finally managing to stop. 

At that moment, three kids come into your line of view and stop a decent distance from you. The Water Tribe boy is holding a baby in his arms, and your eyes narrow.

This must be a pathetic resistance if they’re sending children to kidnap babies, you think bitterly. You glance over at Mai to make sure she’s okay, but her eyes are locked on her brother.

She steps forward as the metal box holding the King of Omashu is lowered and you exhale slowly, feeling heat at your palms. When they attack, you’ll be ready.

“You brought my brother?” she asks. Her voice carries across the silent construction site. You feel like the unfinished statue of the Fire Lord is staring right at you. 

“He’s here,” the boy in yellow and orange clothing calls. His voice is calm but it doesn’t waver, even as he looks up at the imprisoned king. “We’re ready to trade.”

Mai opens her mouth, but then Azula steps forward. You shoot Ty Lee a panicked look—you recognize the gleam in your princess’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry, but a thought just occurred to me.” Azula crosses her arms and looks at Mai. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not, Princess Azula.” You’ve always envied how easy it is for Mai to hide her true feelings. 

“We’re trading a two year old for a king,” she says, glancing up at their royal captive. “A powerful, earthbending king.” Azula looks back at Mai, zero question in her eyes. “It just doesn’t seem like a fair trade, does it?”

Now, your eyes widen. Azula is treating Mai’s infant brother as a chess piece, and she’s not going to do anything about it. 

You should say something. 

“You’re right,” Mai says, and she looks across the construction site to the trio staring you down. “The deal’s off.”

You watch the king get pulled back up into the air and you feel short of breath. What is Azula doing? What is she thinking?

The boy yells something you’re too far to hear, but then he starts racing towards you with incredible speed, kicking up dust in his wake. Azula shoots blue fire right in his path, but he jumps into the air, pushes himself off the scaffolding, then flicks open his staff and starts flying. 

You gasp as his hat falls off from the wind, revealing the blue arrow on his forehead. “It can’t be,” you whisper.

“The Avatar.” Azula’s eyes widen, then narrow with murderous intent as she smiles. “My lucky day.”

She races to the scaffolding to chase her prize, leaving the three of you to face off with the Water Tribe kids. 

Mai is already running at them with knives tucked between her knuckles, Ty Lee as her chi-blocking backup. You keep your vantage point and help them where you can with blasts of fire, but it quickly becomes clear that it’s going to take both of them to beat this waterbender. 

Your frustrated exhale is more like hot steam as you turn your focus to the nonbender holding Tom-Tom. He’s blowing so hard on a whistle that his copper skin flushes a light shade of pink, but it still makes no noise. 

He gives up almost immediately and starts running, but you throw a fire punch and the wooden planks erupt in flames in front of him, forcing him back. He turns just in time to see you blocking his path, holding fireballs in both hands. 

“Give us the baby back!” You try to keep your voice even, but in the heat of battle, it’s more of a crazed yell. “None of us want to hurt you!”

“Maybe I would believe you if you weren’t about to blast me!” he shouts back. His blue eyes reflect the flames as he stares at you with wide eyes. 

Just before you’re about to threaten him further, a wave of water crashes into you, extinguishing your firebending as you’re tossed to the ground. 

You cough and sputter and cough some more as you try to clear your lungs. You push your hair out of your eyes just in time to see the boy slide down a ladder off the scaffolding. 

You scowl and force yourself to your feet, ignoring the burning in your lungs as you hurry after him. As much as you’d love to teach that waterbender a lesson, you can’t let this boy run off. Your waterlogged armor doesn’t exactly help, but you manage. The boy hears you coming and pulls out a blue, angular boomerang, holding it out in front of him and the baby.

“Don’t come any closer,” he warns. 

“And what are you gonna do?” you ask wryly. “Hit me with your boomerang?”

“Don’t underestimate the power of a boomerang!” he insists. You can’t help your small smile, and it just makes him angrier. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” you say. “I just want the baby back. For all I care, you can leave.”

“Like that’s true,” he scoffs. “You’re Fire Nation. You won’t stop until the whole world is dead.”

You frown. “That’s not true.”

“You and your friends are trying to kill us right now!” he exclaims. 

You open your mouth, but then you hear a loud groaning. You whip around to see a flying bison much, much too close, and rapidly gaining.

You throw yourself out of the way with all your might, just barely making it. You push yourself up on your elbows, still trying to piece together what in the world is going on, when the bison slams its tail down into the ground and sends you flying back into the scaffolding. 

You hit a metal pole hard enough to see stars, and you feel the boy’s eyes on you as he flies away. The second you meet them, he looks away. 

You groan as you rub the back of your head. You’re soaking wet and you feel a headache coming on—and then you see Mai and Ty Lee fly off the side of the construction zone, then hit the ground with the same grace as you. 

That’s not true. Ty Lee somehow lands on both feet—Mai has a crash landing like you.

“Please don’t tell me they got away,” you mutter. 

“Okay,” Ty Lee nods. “We won’t tell you then.” 

You yell in frustration as you screw your eyes shut, trying to ignore the blooming headache. “What did Azula rope us into this time?”

“Something a lot more dangerous than the circus,” Mai says, cutting her eyes over to Ty Lee. 

She frowns. “Well, why didn’t you take the deal? Why did you listen to Azula?”

“Didn’t you just find out what happens when you don’t?” you ask, and Ty Lee lowers her head. 

“I just thought this time might be different.”

It’s never different, you think as you watch the water dripping from your armor. It’s going to take forever to dry at this rate. 

Mai offers a hand and you grimace as she helps you to your feet. 

“What do broken ribs feel like?”

-

By the time you meet up with Azula again, you expect her to be steaming with anger after losing the Avatar. Instead, she cocks her head as she looks you up and down. 

“What happened to you?”

“That waterbender is stronger than she looks,” you say bitterly as you tear the pin out of your topknot. Your hair falls loose down your back and you rake your fingers through the tangles. 

“And that bison is just as strong as he looks,” Ty Lee says, and she glances at you before looking back at Azula. “Do you know what broken ribs feel like, by any chance?”

By decree of Azula, your ribs are fine. You don’t know if she’s right or not, but you do feel a lot better after she dries you off with her firebending and ties your hair back up into a clean topknot. 

She claims it’s because she will not accept less than perfection, but Azula doesn’t even accidentally scratch you with her nails when she combs your hair. It’s moments like these that remind you why you’re still friends with Azula.

Soon enough, the three of you are walking alongside Azula’s palanquin once again. She’s surprisingly even-tempered despite losing the Avatar.

“So we’re tracking down your brother and Uncle, huh?”

Ty Lee grinned. “It’ll be interesting seeing Zuko again, won’t it, Mai?”

It’s enough to put a smile on your face every time Mai lightens up—but it does make you think about Zuko. Azula hasn’t given you any other details about his journey other than that the Fire Lord requested his return home. It’s not like Zuko’s returned any of your letters. 

“It’s not just Zuko and Iroh anymore,” Azula says. “We have a third target now.”

The knowledge sits heavy in your chest. Before, this was a simple retrieval mission. Zuko and Iroh had been gone for so long, it made sense for the Fire Lord to want to see them again. 

But the Avatar is just a child. How can that boy be the person your whole nation is chasing? How can he be the person to defeat your whole nation?

How can you help Azula capture a child?

You feel Azula’s eyes on you just as you start thinking about her, and she smiles when you meet her gaze. 

You swallow thick in your throat and look away before she can inevitably read your mind. 

She chose you for this mission, just like she chose you all those years ago. 

you push your fingers into his hair, scratching softly as his scalp. “you’re sweaty,” you say, amusement colouring the edges of your voice. “wanna take a shower?”

mark whines into your shirt. “jus’ wanna stay here with you. need you, pretty girl.”

you laugh, sounding both shocked and pleased, and bring your hand to his forehead, pushing your fingers into his hairline. you tug on his hair, using the leverage to lift his head. mark looks up at you, his chin pressed to your stomach.

“take a shower,” you say, soft as ever. “then you can come back here and we’ll do whatever you want.”

mark likes the sound of that. he allows himself one kiss to your pretty lips and then takes off to shower at lightning speed.

when he gets back, his hair still damp and his skin still warm from the hot water, he crawls into bed with you, ignoring his aching muscles.

“come here,” he murmurs, reaching for you. you shuffle closer as mark takes your hips in his hands, tugging you close.

you end up half in his lap, one knee slotting between his thighs. mark watches as you get comfortable — you’re so pretty it almost hurts. he leans in and kisses you deeply, unable to stop himself. you inhale sharply like you weren’t expecting it, but you kiss him back, your lips impossibly soft, your scent engulfing him. you smell like heaven to him, everything he’s ever wanted right here in his hands.

“missed you so much,” mark mumbles into your mouth.

you hum in response. mark kisses you again, slower this time, his tongue sliding against yours languidly, his thumb creeping under the hem of your shirt to push slow circles into the soft skin of your hip.

you sigh into the kiss and curl your fingers into the collar of mark’s shirt. his heart thumps in his chest, wanting more of you.

“come closer,” he murmurs, pulling away an inch to carefully adjust your body so you’re fully in his lap and straddling him. mark watches your shirt ride up your thighs, revealing your bare skin and the hem of your underwear.

it’s enough to make his breath stutter, and he leans in to kiss you again, hungrier this time, his hands sliding to your thighs to squeeze at the plump there. his mouth works away at yours diligently, slow and deliberate, savouring the taste of you, swallowing the little sighs you let out, loving the way you shudder when his tongue laps at yours lazily.

and the thing about mark is that it takes very little to turn him on. so after a few minutes of kissing you like this (and given the fact he’s been wanting you all day), he’s already hard.

you feel it, too, because you pull away, your lips shiny and kiss bitten. you’re breathless as your eyes flicker down to his lap and back up again, and then you ask, “what d’you want to do?”

mark loves you for wanting to give him whatever he wants. but he shakes his head. “jus’ wanna stay like this, baby. wanna make you feel good.”

your hand climbs to his shoulder, curving around the base of his neck. “okay.”

mark leans in to kiss your neck. he presses his mouth to your warm skin, feeling you shiver as he works his way up your neck and back down again. he finds your pulse point, kisses you there, feels your rapid heartbeat under his mouth. he starts to suck at your skin gently and you tilt your head, baring your neck for him.

“mark…” you sigh.

mark groans softly into your neck, spurred on, loving the way his name sounds on your tongue, needy and desperate. his hands grip at your hips almost desperately, tugging you closer, closer.

your clothed core rubs against his length and you let out a helpless little sound that mark loves, your breath catching in your throat. you pause, let out a breath, and then you roll your hips over his again, a deliberately slow, circular motion. mark feels the pleasure all over, his limbs growing suddenly heavy with it.

you do it again, and mark groans into your neck. “feels so good, angel,” he breathes out.

you continue to drag your hips over his, again and again, bracing your hands on his shoulders while mark pulls his face away from your neck. he’s electric with pleasure, loving the way you get a little bit more desperate with each roll of your hips, your sighs getting louder every time. mark drinks in the sight of you, your cheeks flushed and your neck red where he’s been bullying your skin.

mark takes your hips in his hands and helps you, guiding them over him so you don’t have to do all the work on your own. the friction between you builds and builds like a wave about to crash.

everything turns into a cloudy haze of pleasure, lazy but heavy all the same. soon, your underwear is soaked through and mark is aching for you, wanting more of this, more of you.

mark keeps you steady as you continue to grind against him. he kisses your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, the space underneath your eye.

after a while of you grinding down on him, your breathing turns urgent, and you grip his shoulders harder, fingers digging into his flesh.

“mark,” you breathe out, half moan half sigh.

“i’ve got you,” mark murmurs back.

a pretty whine falls from your lips and mark bucks up into you involuntarily, spurred by the sound of you. you whine again at the contact. it’s all sparks and white hot pleasure. you bury your face in mark’s neck, the bridge of your nose pressing to his pulse point.

“keep going,” mark encourages softly, his hands on your hips, guiding as he pushes up into you. “i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good.”

you breathe hard into his neck, urgent, desperate, your breath hot on his skin. mark holds you steady and helps you ride out your high, revelling in the pretty sounds you make, the way your breath stutters and you sigh out his name as your thighs clench around him.

His bloody face creases, and he sighs. “C’mon, we can share the sink,” you gesture. “This bathroom’s disgusting anyways.”

He smiles faintly, wiping his hand down his face. It leaves a streak of skin from his right temple to chin. There’s a bit of a lull as he comes to the bathroom counter, the door shutting behind him.

“Blood makes your eyes pop,” you quip, shuffling over so he can have some of the sink.

He laughs. “Yeah, thanks. I love what the red does to your hair.”

His eyes flick over you briefly, and you can’t help but smile back. A year ago you’d have wrung your own neck if you knew you’d be cleaning blood off your face in a shitty basement bathroom with a bunch of criminals, but now it’s an almost welcome break from all the running and fighting and other fuckshit. Besides, don’t all women dream about wiping blood off the guy they’re into?

You should’ve known this was inevitable. Your crush on Hughie had started slow, almost unnoticeably, but now you have to stop your skin from short-circuiting whenever you touch him. You’d hit it off the second you met. You were both out of your element, and he was the only one who responded to your awkward sense of humour. The only way either of you could cope with absurdity was by cracking up in the midst of a mission until Butcher threatened to sew your toes on backwards if you didn’t cut it out. You’re pretty sure the feeling goes both ways, but at this point your life is so fucked up that everything could be a figment of your imagination.

You both wash your faces in relative silence. It’s hard, watching someone else’s blood run down the drain. It’s also hard for you not to say something incredibly stupid. (In retrospect one of them is definitely easier than the other.)

“You holding up okay?” Hughie asks after a while. “You’ve been, uh … been pretty quiet.”

Crimson water drips from your wrists. There’s such unbridled concern in his voice that your hands stop scrubbing. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” you say a little too forcefully. “I’m just … I still don’t think I’m used to this.”

There’s a certain gravity that always catches up to you, when the adrenaline has left your system and you’re scrubbing away the consequences. Usually it comes when you’re alone, but right now all the blood left on you weighs twice as much as your own and you don’t think you’ll ever get rid of it.

You’re still hunched over the sink when Hughie says quietly, “Yeah.”

He turns the tap off, grabs a towel and passes it to you. “At least it’s not just me this time, though. You ever notice everyone else gets to leave with a bunch of sick scars but I’m the one that gets blasted with some guy’s insides?”

A laugh rings out of you, and you keel over even more into the sink. “Could you word that any worse, Jesus!”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re being blasted by some guy’s insides?”

“That is not—not like that!”

“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if it was like that, Hughie.”

He swats you on the shoulder through bouts of laughter. “That’s besides the point!”

This moment feels infinitely better than anything else the world could offer you. You lean on each other like drunks until the mood is sobered, but there’s a flutter in your sternum that won’t go away.

You’re running the towel over your face for the umpteenth time when Hughie lets out a hum. “Hold on, you have some on the back of your neck.”

“Hm?” Your vision blurs when you rub the cloth off of your face.

“Want me to—just—I got it.” Hughie fumbles for the cloth in your hand and you fumble back and it becomes a sort of fumble-off until you realize what’s happening.

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble into a laugh. The fog in your head has just thickened tenfold. Your palms press into your eyeballs. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

Hughie chuckles too. “I think we’re tired. And psychologically damaged.” He runs the cloth under some warm water. “C’mere, I’ll help.”

The fuzziness is much more pleasant now, at the very least numbing your idiotic nerves. You shuffle around until you’re directly in front of Hughie, trying not to stare at yourself in the mirror looking rougher than you’ve ever been. He sweeps the hair on the back of your neck and it tingles. “Thank you,” you murmur.

“No problem.”

You’re eternally lucky that Hughie’s as easy to talk to as he is to not talk to. The silence unfurls like a blanket, easy and warm. You almost want to live in it, this sleepy in-between. It’s nice not to think.

Hughie laughs almost imperceptibly behind you, and you feel it against your back. “Shit, sorry,” you mutter. At some point you’d shifted your weight onto him and hadn’t bothered to notice.

“No, it’s okay!” Hughie says earnestly, and your stomach twists again.

You can’t help yourself; you let your head loll back until it hits his chest. You notice the cloth has been abandoned on the counter. “How long have you been done?” You ask stupidly.

His lopsided smile peeks out. “A while. You kinda zoned out there.”

“Sorry,” you mumble again, your cheek smushed into his chest.

“Don’t worry,” he says gently. You think you’re dreaming, the way he smooths out your hair with his fingertips. “Want me to get the rest on your face so you can shower?”

“There’s still some on my face?”

“Just like, a little. Not that much. None at all, really, if you squint.”

You crane your head to give him a funny look. His cheeks seem pink, but that might just be the blood. “Mmkay, I can’t tell if you’re lying.”

“As long as you don’t look in the mirror right now, you never will.”

You squint at him, but he’s smiling so you know you’re smiling too, and the space between you is infinite and buzzing. You feel like a teenage girl. You feel like an average person. You feel like you’re not hiding out in a porn shop basement doused with someone else’s blood.

After you turn around, you lean back on the counter, the edge cutting into your hips. You don’t mind much, not when you’re already hurting everywhere else and not when Hughie is paying this much attention to you. Unprompted flurries of laughter pass between you two, a bewildered sort of communication coined for each other.

“Wanna get up?” He asks.

You nod, adjusting before hoisting yourself onto the counter with your palms. Hughie’s hands skim at your waist, like a last-resort effort to help. You hope so, so badly that’s not all it is.

Warmth crawls up your neck and peaks in your cheeks. You’re so used to being perpetually nervous now— both with high-risk situations and your schoolgirl crush. You keep waiting to feel the jitters now, with Hughie so close, the cloth sweeping over your pulse point like it’s daring you. But it feels different. Maybe it’s because you’re sleepy. Hughie’s company is the greatest luxury you have in this life, so you’re just going to enjoy it. It feels easier than anything else you’ve done the past few weeks.

You’d be lying if you pretended like this doesn’t feel like the closest you’ve ever been to another person. Hughie is one of the gentlest people you’ve ever met—and all his goodness goes to waste on you. You, and this life that tries to snuff it out of him. The tang of blood still wafts over you, but on Hughie it smells warmer, almost sweet, and it’s kind of fucked-up you’re thinking that, right?

“You smell good,” you say anyway, mostly because you want to see what he says back.

“Thanks,” he grins, “I should try adding blood into my cologne, I guess.”

You snort. His smile ticks wider, and you think he’s rosier under the scruff of his beard. He holds your gaze a second longer than acceptable, and soon it’s a second more, and another one, until there’s no point in looking away.

He rests the cloth against your jaw. The stillness in the room snaps you awake. You watch him raptly, admiring the notch between his brows when they furrow. “I want to do something stupid,” he admits quietly. “And probably weird.”

Your spine tingles. “What?” You ask. “Hughie, what?”

“Okay, forget it, it’s seriously weird,” he says, but doesn’t move.

“We’re underneath a porn shop covered in blood,” you deadpan. “Is anything weird anymore?”

He laughs a bit and his head angles down, losing your eye contact. A part of you lurches. You don’t want the spell to break. “Hughie.” He’s already looked back up before you finished his name. “C’mon.”

Tentatively, you touch him, right beneath the collar of his shirt. He leans a little closer. “Sure it’s not weird?”

“I’m sure.” Your smile is easy, infectious, the stubborn kind that reveals itself whenever you’re with him. Your noses brush and it sends a jolt all the way to your toes.

“If you hate this, it’s your fault,” he says pointedly. You want to scold him for his stupid-ass smile that you love so much, or maybe reassure him, but it washes away when he tilts himself down just enough to brush your mouth.

It was a test, a sample to ask This is what you were talking about, right? and you respond by holding his shirt and pulling him in to say Yes. A very earnest yes. Maybe too earnest.

You kiss him properly, just once, just in case this is all you’ll ever get. When Hughie slants down to kiss you better you understand it’s not. He feels it too. The warm, inescapable pull beneath his skin. Hughie Campbell likes you. Like, he likes you likes you. He likes you enough to make out with you when you’re covered in blood and dirt. He likes you enough to sigh when you run your nails along the scruff of his beard. He likes you enough to draw his mouth to the underside of your jaw, like there’s a magnet beneath your skin.

“I’m starting to feel like a vampire,” he admits against your neck, barely silencing your heartbeat in your ears. “All this blood.”

You chuckle, and your body relaxes of its own volition. “Are you into it?”

“Am I a bad person if I say kind of?”

The way he laughs sends ripples through your pulse point, and it’s infectious. The bathroom may be arid and metallic and your clothes may be sticking to your skin, but you’re giggling against Hughie’s warm body and your eyes are closed so is it really that bad?

“Guess what?” You ask, bliss splitting across your face.

His mouth ghosts the crook of your neck. “Mm?”

“I didn’t hate it.” You feel his grin imprint on your skin. “I actually kind of liked it.”

“Yeah?”

“A lot.”

Hughie pulls back. His face is a spectrum of colour, cheeks beet red, eyes an endless swim. “Think I could kiss you again when you’re clean?” He asks, nose wrinkled in a smile.

You can’t help but take his face in your hands and run your thumb over his stubble. His smile softens at the edges and you accept, unbelievably, that this is real. That you feel tender and giggly and satisfied. It was hard to think you’d ever find this kind of innocence again. But the feeling, so gladdening and complete, has overwhelmed you. Even though the blood on your skin will probably never go away.

“What do you think?” You ask, feeling coy.

You can taste his lips again when he says, “Well, I’m really hoping it’s yes, but I’ve got pretty bad luck.”

“You may be right,” you hum, vaguely to a tune of a Billy Joel song he played for you once, and he chuckles. “But not this time.”

“Oh, thank God.”

He cups the back of your head and kisses you again like it’s sacred. You want to live in this warmth forever. It might have made everything worth it. The fear, the exhaustion, the gore. It’s a horrible thought, but maybe kind of true?

“I’m glad you’re real,” you whisper.

and normally, he’d be focusing on you, praising you, telling you how beautiful you look, how good you feel, talking you through the pleasure, but tonight is different. he’s spent all day wound up like a coil ready to snap at any moment. from the second he woke up he’s been thinking about you, wanting you, needing you, but you were up early and already out of bed by the time he woke, and he had to wait ‘cause you both had a multitude of things to get done today. it was torture. seeing you in passing while you both did your seperate jobs around the village, and feeling like he could explode from the desire.

he spent all day tense and waiting for a release, for you. but now that he’s finally getting what he wanted, him inside of you, you on top of him, it’s almost too much. he finds he can barely breathe, let alone speak.

blood rushes in his ears, his heartbeat slams so hard in his chest he’s convinced it’s about to rip him open, his breath keeps getting caught in his throat. he’s gripping your hips so hard his thumbs are digging into your skin, he’s worried he’ll bruise you but he can’t seem to let go. his body is electric with pleasure but his mouth ceases to work.

that is, apart from the sounds he’s making. they’re completely unintelligible, almost embarrassing, nothing more than groans of pleasure, and moans of wanting more, more. sokka can’t think long enough to form his mouth around a word. all he can do is let his body do the talking for him.

and you? you’re so into it. normally, you’d be the one lost in the pleasure, overwhelmed by it even, but now that the positions are switched you take it in your stride to see just how far sokka can be stretched before he snaps.

you roll your hips over his in a painfully slow, deliberate circle, and it feels so good. sokka lets out a particularly pathetic moan.

breathless, panting, your hands planted on his abdomen, you murmur, “yeah? s’that feel good?”

sokka short circuits, but manages to groan out what he hopes sounds like a yes.

you chuckle softly, not harsh or cruel, but soft, understanding, which is somehow worse for sokka.

you push your hands up his abdomen, planting them on his bare, sweat-slicked chest.

“you really needed this, didn’t you?” you ask.

sokka swallows hard, nods, forces his lips to move, “y-yeah….be-…been needing you all day.”

you smile, head tilted to the side, “aw,” you croon, your voice soft, sultry, like you know exactly what you’re doing to him. “been so patient for me.”

sokka almost goes blind. pleasure sparks like electricity all over his body. he grips you harder, his fingers sinking into your warm, doughy flesh like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you roll your hips again. sokka’s breath stutters. you lean over him so your bare chest is pressed to his and fit your mouth to his jaw, your lips hot as starlight as you kiss him. you mouth along the line of his jaw, teeth scraping and tongue licking.

“you’re doing so good, handsome,” you murmur into his skin.

sokka goes hot all over and actually whines. like, really loud. he doesn’t think he’s ever heard himself make a noise like that before. and you must like it, because he feels you smile against his hot skin.

“such nice sounds for me,” you croon.

sokka swears he sees stars.

“y/n,” he breathes out, “I’m…ahh….I’m close.”

you hum, “yeah? you want me to go faster?”

sokka groans, “please,” he whispers, barely there, his voice hoarse, his throat tight.

you straighten up and sokka grips you like his lifeline while you ride out both your highs, you breathless and sighing, sokka a moaning mess underneath you.

when it’s over, and his heartbeat has finally slowed to a somewhat normal pace, sokka scoops you into his arms. you collapse like a ragdoll onto his chest, your leg hooking over his, breathless.

“love you,” you mumble into his shoulder, your voice soft, exhausted.

sokka strokes your hair. “love you, too. so much.”

“how much?” you tease softly, your eyelids fluttering shut, sleep tugging you in.

She thinks it’s ridiculous, why is there rain in the middle of summer? It was never like this in California, they had some bouts of rain in December and April but never the summer. Even when it did rain it never lasted long or was bad enough that her mother invested in proper rain attire.

Which is how she finds herself walking down the street, her jeans and converse completely soaked. The crappy poncho her mom bought at Melvald’s was in the clearance section for a reason because her hair is soaked through and she can feel water soaking her shirt.

She wants to go home. Not that dump on Cherry Lane but San Diego.

She feels hot tears welling up in her eyes when her shadow starts to elongate in the puddles and she hears the rev of a car engine behind her. Great, some asshole is gonna splash water all over her. Instead the car slows to a gentle stop next to her and when she turns her head she sees a familiar red BMW, Steve’s already rolling down the window to talk to her.

“What are you doing?” he frowns, and she can see you in the passenger seat craning your head to look at her. “It’s pouring out here.”

Max’s mouth goes dry, what is she doing out here?

“Walk,” she finally says, hoping the lump in her throat isn’t obvious.

“C’mon get in,” Steve replies without missing a beat, nudging his head toward the passenger side. “You’re gonna get yourself sick.”

“I’m fine,” Max insists, because she really is about to start crying and she doesn’t want to be in his car when that happens.

“Max get in,” your voice cuts in, frowning at her and exchanging a glance with Steve, like you two can communicate without speaking.

She does, only because you’ve been the coolest person ever to her since you stabbed Billy with a tranquilizer syringe and threatened him with a baseball bat.

She gets in the backseat, probably ruining Steve’s fancy leather seats with how soaked she is, and immediately notes the grocery bags. Not junk food but actual ingredients, great Steve was gonna cook you dinner and now she’s crashing your date night.

Steve is already slipping off his knit sweater and cranking up the heater. He sets the car in park in the middle of the road before turning around so he can hand her the sweater.

“You wanna actually tell us why you were walking around in the rain?” He has a disapproving frown on his face but for some reason Max doesn’t feel like it’s directed at her.

She wants to refuse the sweater but she’s shivering in the backseat and it feels warm in her hands. So she takes her crappy poncho off and slips it on, hoping the two of you mistake the few tears escaping her eyes for rain.

“Hey we’re not gonna tell your parents,” you say gently, reaching out to smooth down her soaked hair. “We just wanna know, I promise.”

“My parents are out for the night,” her voice cracks when she talks and she really hopes you two just think she’s cold. “So Billy invited a girl over.”

She’s looking down at her soaked shoes because looking at either one of you feels scary right now. Even then she knows you two are exchanging glances, communicating without speaking again. She remembers her mom and dad doing that, when she was younger and they still loved each other.

“Okay,” Steve says after a beat, his voice softer and reaching out to fix the sweater so it sits evenly on her. “You’re gonna come back to my place with us, and then you can use my phone to leave a message for your mom that you’re sleeping at a friend’s house. Sounds good?”

Max nods, trying to rub her hands and warm them up. Steve takes the car out of park and starts driving back to his place. The two of you are quiet throughout the drive and she doesn’t feel like starting a conversation. Every so often her eyes dart back to the grocery bag, the thought of Billy making a girl dinner is so laughable it feels absurd.

After a few minutes the BMW rolls into the driveway and you come over to her door with an umbrella while Steve grabs the grocery bags from the other side. It’s ridiculous for you to walk her twenty feet over to the door with the umbrella but she humors you anyway.

She follows suit when you and Steve slip off your shoes by the front door before walking in. The two of you actually own proper rainboots and Steve gives a glance at her thoroughly soaked converse.

“Alright I’m gonna start cooking dinner,” Steve tells her, gesturing to the grocery bag. “Why don’t you go take a shower?”

“I don’t need–”

You both give her a look.

“...Fine,” she relents after a moment, because it does feel like her bones are rattling inside her body.

“Perfect,” you take her hand, leading her over to the staircase. “I’ll show you where it is and get you some clothes.”

You take her upstairs, stopping by one of the cabinets in the hallway to grab some towels before leading her into Steve’s room. It’s mostly what she’d expect from a teenage boy, some movie posters, a basketball laying around, and a desk that obviously has seen very minimal studying.

She does catch the fact that there are multiple pillows on the bed and the sheets are a nice cream color instead of bachelor navy blue. There’s some books and a candle on the nightstand, along with two mugs holding the remnants of last night’s tea in them.

“Here we go,” you say, finally looking up after having rummaged through the top dresser drawer. Based on the clothes Max can see in, it’s your designated space in Steve’s room.

You hand her the towels along with some fluffy pajama pants, they have little teddy bears on them, along with an oversized t-shirt.

“Bathroom’s down the hall on the left, just yell if you need anything.”

She mumbles acknowledgment and you turn to leave, then Max calls out your name before she realizes it.

“What’s up?” you turn around. Her chest feels tight, everything feels wrong and right at the same time. This is how things should be for her, but they’re not and she’s terrified this brief moment will be stolen from her in seconds.

“You’re not gonna call my parents… right? You or Steve?”

Your face softens and you walk over to her. Wrapping her in a hug and pressing your lips to the top of her head.

“No we’re not,” you murmur and rub her back. “You just have to promise me one thing, okay?”

Max’s shoulders are shaking as she cries into you. Quiet sniffles like the girls who sit on the curb outside of their house after Billy decides he’s done with them. “What is it?”

“Next time something like this happens,” you whisper, still rubbing her back. “Call us, we’ll come get you.”

She nods against you and you hold her for a few minutes until the crying subsides. When she pulls away you press a kiss to her forehead before leaving.

She follows your instructions, going down the hall and to the left to find the bathroom. There’s two of everything. Tooth brushes, towels, body washes, and shampoo and conditioner sets. She can’t resist being nosy and taking a peek in the bathroom drawer. She finds a makeup bag and inside all the products look minimally used.

Steve must have bought it so you wouldn’t need to bring yours back and forth.

The idea of him standing in your bathroom carefully writing down the products and their shade names to buy them is so silly and sweet enough to make her giggle quietly.

Max takes her time in the shower, letting the steaming hot water warm her body. She also wants to make sure she’s fully composed because it’d be way too embarrassing if she started crying again.

She steals your body wash and washes her hair with Steve’s shampoo and conditioner because she thinks it’s funny. The boys make fun of him for preening with how much he invests in his hair products. It’s stupid considering how nosy they got when Dustin revealed he knew Steve’s hair routine. He never actually told any of them.

She dries herself off thoroughly after the shower and examines the skincare products on the counter. Not the cheap soaps she convinced her mom to buy after her face started breaking out. Fancy expensive ones that you need adult money to buy. Two of everything again, things Steve bought to make you more comfortable in his space.

She uses your facewash and dabs on a little moisturizer out of curiosity, it smells like clay and she likes it a bit. After wrapping her hair in a towel she heads out of the bathroom and walks over to the stairs. 

The smell of garlic hits her nose and just as she’s about to head down she clears the click of the front door. Then your feet padding on the floor as you walk into the kitchen and tell Steve: “She’s a size six.”

“Hmm you think red rainboots are a little too on the nose?”

“She likes the color so it’ll probably be fine. Just maybe make the pants and coat a different color?”

“How about all yellow? She can look like the Morton Salt girl.”

“Well she would look adorable, but she’d also probably kick you.”

“Red boots it is. I’ll get a small for the pants and a medium for the coat.”

“Steve, that jacket is stupidly expensive.”

“Which is why I’m getting a medium so she can grow into it.”

writers note :: me when i go absent for 20 days. IM SORRYYY. uni is kicking my ass rn and i went on this huge hike and blablabla, anyways i am currently writing the next chapter of love like it’s ending, but while that’s cooking have this one! must i add, there’s NOTHING WRONG with being a virgin, girl im a virgin i highkey just wanted to lean into the insecurities of the reader, anywho. This is my first time writing smut so be kind🫶🏽 as always ty for reading

i do not allow my content to be stolen, copied or reposted anywhere else. do not put my work through any ai tools or generators (stop using ai for gods sake.)

── . ⊹

“That guy’s cute!”

Amy shouts over the music, pointing toward some man leaning on the bar like he might collapse at any second. 

He has a moustache that makes him look like a mix between a corrupt southern sheriff and an off-brand Benson Boone, and what’s even worse: he’s wearing skinny jeans tucked into cowboy boots.

You can’t help but laugh.

“Are you serious? Look at his outfit!” 

You shout back, gesturing so hard you nearly slosh your drink.

 “He looks like he got lost on the way to a Halloween party. And it’s September.”

“Look, babe—”

Amy grabs your shoulders, spinning you around so you’re face-to-face. Her eyes are glassy from the vodka shots, but the seriousness is there.

“I’m not gonna lie to you. I think you’re just gonna have to go for anyone. Not that you shouldn’t have standards. But if you really want to get the ol’ boinking done before you’re thirty, you might need to take the path of least resistance.”

Her words hit you harder than you want them to. It isn’t even the advice— God knows you’ve thought the same thing thousands of times while lying in bed at night.

It’s the pity in her voice. The way she says it like she’s giving you charity, like she’s lowering herself to explain the harsh truth of your sad, sexless life.

You force a smile, because what else can you do? Amy’s been your best friend since high school. She knows everything about you. She had sex when she was fifteen, which now looking back is insane and borderline illegal, but at the time you thought it was something like a medal of honor. She has stories, experiences, scars she can laugh about over cheap drinks. You have none.

“Thanks, coach,” 

You mutter, draining the rest of your drink just to give your hands something to do. Amy rolls her eyes.

“I’m just saying. You’re hot, you’re funny, you’re— you. But you overthink it until it’s gone. Just, next guy who looks at you, smile. That’s all.”

She presses her fingers against your cheeks, then turns back to the bar to wave at the bartender. You sit there, with the smoke from someone’s cigarette curling into your face, stinging your eyes, and you think:

Great. Perfect. Invisible and pitied. Exactly how I wanted to spend my Saturday night.

Amy’s still talking, still gesturing with her hands, her bracelets clinking against her wrist as she flags the bartender down. She gets her refill in record time and then leans close to your ear, shouting over the music.

“I’m gonna go check on Becca. She looks like she’s about to start a fight with that guy who bumped into her. Back in a sec!”

And just like that, she’s gone. She slips into the crowd, sliding effortlessly between bodies, her hair catching the neon lights as she makes her way toward your other friends.

You don’t follow. You never do. The thought of trying to keep up with their chaos— Becca yelling, Lily climbing onto barstools to dance, Amy refereeing like it’s some sport makes you tired just thinking about it. You’ve been through it all before: the drama, the bathroom crying, the “let’s all share a cab at three a.m.” nights.

You stay put. Nursing your empty glass. Staring at the condensation ring it leaves on the table.

And that’s when you feel it. A shift. A weight. Someone’s gaze sticking to you, not just drifting past like usual.

You hear him before you see him. A heavy, slurred voice cutting through the music like it’s meant for you alone.

“Wh’s a pretty thing like you sittin’ all by yourself?”

You look up and instantly regret it. The man swaying in front of you is older. Late forties, maybe fifties, his face sagging with booze. His eyes are bloodshot, unfocused, but locked on you in a way that makes your stomach twist. He grins, teeth yellowed, breath so sour with whiskey it burns your nose.

“I’m not—” 

You say quickly, forcing a polite smile. 

“-I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

That should be the end of it. But he leans closer, bracing his hands on either side of your chair, boxing you in. His knuckles are red and swollen, as if he’s was in a fight earlier. The thought makes your chest tighten.

“Don’t see him anywhere,” 

He slurs.

“Bet he’s not treatin’ you right, huh? Bet he doesn’t know what he’s got.”

His laugh is wet and ugly, spittle catching on his moustache.

Your heart picks up speed. You push your chair back an inch, but he follows, stumbling closer until his hip hits the table and nearly sends your empty glass toppling.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” 

He says, lowering his voice to what he must think is charming but comes out like a growl. His hand lands on your knee, heavy, hot, and wrong. 

“You don’t gotta be lonely tonight.”

Panic shoots through you. You shove at his hand, muttering,

 “No seriously, I’m not—”

But he just laughs again, louder this time, like it’s a game. People around you are too busy with their own drinks, their own nights, to notice.

What the hell am I supposed to do? 

You think, a panicked flush reaching your face, which the man just takes as more reasoning to continue.

His hand shifts to your thigh now. Heavy, sweaty, creeping higher. Your breath stutters, panic clawing up your throat. Nobody’s looking, nobody’s helping, and you have no idea what the hell you’re supposed to do

── . ⊹

“There you are, babe.”

The voice cuts through the noise, steady, clear, loud enough to make the drunk man pause.

A figure slides into the chair beside you like he’s been there the whole time. His arm drapes across the back of your seat, his fingers brushing your shoulder. Not tight, not pushy. Just enough to say you’re not alone.

You glance sideways, startled. He’s around your age, maybe a little older. Dark hair, thick and mussed like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times tonight. A constellation of moles scattered across his skin tinted neon in the light. His eyes, a honey color, warm and sharp all at once, flicking from you to the drunk without hesitation.

“I was wondering where you wandered off to” 

He says easily, but there’s an edge under it.

The drunk blinks, confused, still swaying. 

“Who the hell are you?”

“Her boyfriend” 

The stranger shoots back, voice steady, certain. His gaze never wavers.

The man sneers, his grip on your chair tightening.

 “Her boyfriend? Since when? She didn’t say shit about you.”

The stranger leans forward, meeting his eyes head-on, the casual act dropping into something colder.

“Since always. You didn’t hear her because you were too busy not listening.” 

His jaw flexes.

 “So how about you take your hands off her and walk away before you embarrass yourself even more.”

For a beat, the drunk doesn’t move. His face twists, teeth bared in something more animal than smile.

“You got a big mouth, kid.”

“And you’ve had enough to drink” 

The stranger counters, his tone flat, final. 

“Last warning.”

The drunk wavers, his balance tipping with his anger, but eventually his lip curls, and he spits something unintelligible before stumbling back into the crowd.

The stranger’s arm stays where it is, steady behind you, until he’s sure the man is gone. Only then do his eyes soften, flicking back to you.

“You okay?” 

He asks quietly.

“Uh yeah-” 

You say, though your voice comes out slightly shaky. You rub your palms against your thighs, trying to shake the lingering adrenaline.

 “I think so.”

He doesn’t shift his arm, just stays close enough that you can feel his steadiness without him crowding you.

“Are you sure?” 

He asks, leaning in slightly, eyes sharp but concerned. You can’t help but smile.

“Yes, I’m sure. He was just… creepy as hell.”

“Tell me about it,” 

He says, shaking his head. 

“I had goosebumps just watching him from across the room.”

You laugh, leaning slightly into the warmth of his arm by your side. 

“By the way,” 

He adds, a teasing grin tugging at his lips, 

“What did you think of my ‘fake boyfriend’ persona? I’ve been working on that character for a while. Fully nailed it— Oscar-worthy, if I do say so myself.”

“Oh really?” 

You say, amusement spilling into your voice. 

“Oscar-worthy? What, you practice your lines often?”

“Every night, in the mirror.”

You lean forward, mimicking him in a deep, over-the-top voice. 

“‘Hey baby; sorry I couldn’t charm you all night but I’m here now.’”

He blinks, then smirks.

 “I don’t think you’d want me charming you all night. Would get boring after, give or take, forty minutes.”

“I don’t think it would,” 

You say, your smile lingering at the edges of your mouth.

He laughs quietly, mostly to himself, exhaling through his nose with a small shake of his head, as if conceding a point he secretly likes losing.

“Alright, alright, maybe I overdid it a little. But a job well done, I think. I mean— that creep isn’t bothering you anymore, is he?”

You raise an eyebrow. 

“A job well done, huh? That’s your official review?”

“Pretty much,” 

He says, leaning back just enough to give you space, his fingers still brushing lightly against the top of your chair.

 “Before I can officially submit my application as your fake boyfriend, I probably should know the name of the girl I’m going to mention in my award-winning speech.”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between flustered and amused. Your stomach does that weird flip-flop thing that you’ve never trusted but you secretly like.

“Are you being serious, or are you just adding to the bit?”

“Dead serious” 

He says, smiling faintly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“So I can fill out my paperwork. I mean, it’s all very professional. Very official.”

You laugh, shaking your head. 

“Official, huh?”

“Absolutely,” 

He says. His eyes hold yours for a beat, warm and steady.

 “So… your name?”

You tell him, and his eyes widen with what seems like genuine delight. He returns the gesture.

“Steve” 

He says, offering his hand like you’re in some awkwardly formal ceremony. You can’t help but laugh, and neither can he. His hand wavers slightly as his breath hitches unevenly from the adrenaline or the laughter. You’re not sure which.

“Are you— so this is official, huh?”

you ask, smiling.

“As official and professional as it gets,” 

He says, drawing the word out, grinning right back at you. 

“I take my work very seriously.”

He’s dragging it out, but honestly, you’re not mad. You don’t want to stop talking to this… Steve.

“So what brings you to this bar anyway? I mean you don’t look like the type of girl that would go to places like this.”

When he sees the way your brows furrow, his smile drops.

“No— no it’s not to offend you or nothing. It’s just…” 

He runs a hand through his messy hair, eyes flicking away for a second like he isn’t sure he should say it.

 “You’re… uh… not really what I expected to see here. I mean—”

He pauses, swallows, then leans back a little.

 “You’re… well, you look… too… pretty, I guess. For a place like this.”

You blink, caught somewhere between flustered and amused. 

“Too pretty?”

He shrugs, running a hand over the back of his neck, clearly self conscious.

 “Yeah… I don’t know. It’s weird, I know. Don’t take it the wrong way. I just…”

He trails off, finally letting his gaze meet yours. 

“It surprises me, I guess, that’s all.”

You smile, trying to hide the way your stomach flutters. 

“I guess I clean up alright for a dive bar then?”

“Exactly,” 

He says, grinning, more relaxed now.

 “And lucky me, I happen to be in the right place at the right time to witness it and well— rescue you, obviously.”

You laugh, shaking your head. 

“Right, the hero of the night. I think you’ve officially earned your ‘fake boyfriend’ badge.”

He leans a little closer, careful not to crowd you, his eyes flicking to yours. 

“Are you alone or with people?”

“I came with my friends.”

Your gaze drifts around the bar, scanning for your friends; Becca, Amy, Lily, anyone. But they’re nowhere to be seen. Like they bar-hopped and forgot to tell you. Honestly, with the state they’re in, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“My friends… who apparently left without me,” 

You mutter, a little amused, a little exasperated.

“Oh… that sucks,” 

Steve says, scratching the back of his neck, clearly caught in thought.

He hesitates, then finally speaks, his voice low but casual. 

“Uh… tell me if I’m being too forward, but… do you want to get out of here? I know some places that are definitely better than this bar.”

You blink, caught off guard by his forwardness. For a moment, your mind scrambles. Part of you is still recovering from the earlier panic, part of you is amused, part… intrigued.

“I— uh… yeah. That sounds… good,” 

You say, a little hesitant, trying to sound as nonchalant and unbothered as you can, but your voice betrays you, showing your nervous excitement. burning.

── . ⊹

When you step out onto the street, that’s when the nerves really kick in. Your chest feels like it’s on the verge of exploding, and somewhere in the mix, your stomach threatened to follow suit. Giddy, jittery, like the first time you had a crush in middle school— the one who never even noticed you but made every day feel electric just thinking about him.

The late New York air hit sharp and cold, cutting through your tiny dress. You shivered, and without a word, Steve slipped his jacket around your shoulders, his warm fingers brushing against your shoulders in the process.

“So… where are you taking me, Mr. Fake-Boyfriend?” 

You ask, the words teasing but your voice soft, almost breathless from the cold and nerves.

“I know this place,” 

The corners of his mouth twitch upwards. 

“It’s, uh… pottery or clay-making? Or something like that. They’re open all night, and— they offer you shots while you make… questionable sculptures. Honestly, it’s a blast. Just wait.”

“You’re big into art, then?” 

You ask, tilting your head, curious.

“Not really,” 

He admits, shrugging. 

“I can appreciate it, but an ex—” 

He stops abruptly, catching himself.

“An old friend showed me this place and honestly… it’s kind of awesome,” 

He says instead, a little sheepish, a little proud. 

You laugh quietly, feeling the tension in your chest ease a fraction. 

“I like that. Sounds messy— my kind of place.”

Steve’s grin widens, he shifts closer to you, falling into step. You can feel the heat from him, hot and sharp. Contrast to the cold night air that surrounds you.

“Exactly. And hey… maybe we can see who makes the worst sculpture in the city .”

You can’t help but laugh again, the nervous adrenaline giving way to 

something lighter, more playful. 

“Deal. But fair warning I’m competitive as hell.”

“Good. Me too,” 

He says, his tone easy, teasing, and just close enough that his arm brushes against yours, neither of you pull back. And your stomach does a very familiar flip.

── . ⊹

By the time you reach the studio, the smell of wet clay and faint alcohol hits you heavy. The place inside is dimly lit, abstract paintings adorning the walls, tables scattered with tools, mounds of clay, and a few other late-night visitors already laughing at their own disastrous creations.

“Welcome welcome.”

Steve says, grinning. 

“Shots first, then clay. You’ll need all your courage before we get to the pottery part.”

You blink nervously at him, chuckling while  looking up to meet his eyes, to where he was already watching you. 

“Trust me,” 

He says, smirking, 

“You’ll thank me later.”

The two of you found a spot near the corner, tucked away from most of the other people in the room. Two stools, two turntables, and a mound of clay each ready for the ultimate showdown of who could make the worst sculpture.

A bartender greets you, laying out a wooden tray in front of you and Steve. Ominously leaving without word or confirmation of what’s in the glasses. Three neon-colored shots each, glowing like tiny warning lights.

“Oh god— what is this stuff?” 

You ask, leaning forward, eyes wide.

Steves mouth twitches upward, his hands already reaching and picking up the first glass. 

“Honestly? I have no idea. But it’s strong enough to make you think you’re an expert sculptor in three sips. Cheers.”

You clink glasses and down the first shot. The fiery bolt hits you, burning your throat and immediately warming your chest. You make a face, coughing slightly. 

“Oh wow… yeah. That’s… strong.”

Steve laughs, picking up his second. 

“Told you it’s not for amateurs. Only the real artists survive this part.”

By the second shot, your cheeks were flushed, laughter spilling more easily. Steve leans in under the guise of steadying your glass, and your fingers brush lightly. Sparks.

“This is dangerous— you’re… dangerous,” 

Your words slur a little the alcohol hitting you quicker than usual.

“And you’re… bold,” 

He shoots back, eyebrows dancing.

 “I like it.”

The third shot hits harder than expected, a jolt of warmth and light-headed giddiness. Your hair felt like it had a static charge, your limbs lighter than usual. Steve leaned back slightly, grinning like a kid who’d just pulled off a prank.

“Alright,” 

He holds and waves his hands theatrically, 

“Officially tipsy. Time to ruin some clay.”

You groan, grabbing your lump of clay. 

“This is going to be a disaster. I can feel it already.”

“Exactly,” 

He said, smirking, his fingers brushing yours as you both kneaded your clay. 

“But it’ll be our disaster. Hands-on chaos, as promised.”

Our, you repeat in your head as you knead the clay together. 

── . ⊹

All you could focus on was the way Steve looked all flushed, hands dipping in and out of the clay, streaks of it smearing over his fingers and wrists. God, you’d never felt this turned on in your life; the heat pooled low in your core, distracting you completely.

But you forced yourself to ignore it… until, of course, your clay had other plans. The lump on your turntable split in half, flying off in a perfect lump and landing squarely on your dress— a stain you knew would never come out.

“Oh— Jeez,” 

you mutter, staring at the mess, half-laughing, half upset that you’ve ruined a $70 piece.

Steve laughs, reaching over to turn off his own turntable. 

“Wow… that’s… impressive,” 

He said, eyes sparkling with amusement. 

“I didn’t think it was possible to destroy clay and a dress at the same time.”

You groan dramatically, brushing at the sticky mess with a clay-covered hand. 

“Oh, ha ha. Very funny. You’re lucky I’m tipsy, or I’d—”

“You’d what?” 

He teases, turning his head so that your noses are practically brushing. 

 “Clay-smash revenge? I can handle it.”

You blink at him, cheeks burning slightly.

“I… might just do that.”

Steve grins at your comment, brushing a stray smear of clay off your shoulder, his fingers lingering way longer than necessary. 

“Don’t worry. I’m very good at surviving disasters. Especially ones that involve you.”

You laugh nervously, shifting on your stool as your stomach flips. 

“Surviving disasters, huh? That’s your official skill set now?”

“Officially,” 

Steve glances at your struggling hands trying to force the clay back to the shape it once was in. He smirks at your effort, the effort that is making no difference to the lump that sits on the turntable 

“Here… let me show you a trick.”

Before you can protest, he moves behind you, close enough that the heat of his body is pressed against yours. You could feel the steady warmth of him even through his jacket, his chest brushing your back.

“Just… let your arms follow mine,” 

He murmurs, wrapping his hands around yours and guiding the clay slowly. His movements deliberate, teasingly slow, giving you every chance to feel the contact.

You shiver lightly, part from the warmth, part from the absurd thrill of being this close, tipsy and laughing. The clay squished between your fingers, sticking to both your hands, his hands, even sliding onto your arms.

“Oh my god!…” 

You laugh, slightly flustered, trying to squirm but finding it impossible with his body pressed against yours.

“Relax,” 

He says, voice low, almost a whisper and immensely hot in your ear. 

“Just… follow me.”

And so you did. Your hands moved with his, clay smeared across both of you, covering arms, shoulders, even streaks on your dress from earlier. Every accidental brush, every little shift sent jolts straight to your core, making your stomach twist and your heart race.

“Okay… this is ridiculous,”

You gasp, though the laugh in your voice hinted at how much you were enjoying it.

“Ridiculous?” 

He teases, leaning just slightly closer so your cheek is pressed against his.

 “This… is fun.”

Fun, yes. But also distracting. Electric. Your bodies pressed together, fingers tangled, clay everywhere. Messy, chaotic, hot. Every laugh and press of his chest against yours sends your pulse skyrocketing.

“Stop smirking,” 

You whisper breathlessly, head turned to face his 

 “Or I’m going to lose it.”

“I’m not smirking,” 

He says innocently… but the teasing glint in his eyes tells you otherwise. 

“I’m just… helping you.”

“Helping,” 

You repeat, the word heavy with double meaning as his hands guide yours in that same slow, intimate rhythm.

The clay spun, twisted, and split in ways neither of you could predict, just like the way your heart was spinning in your chest. And for the first time all night, the chaos, the mess, the laughter, the alcohol, the heat— felt perfect.

“And what if I wanted you to lose it?” 

Steve asks, his voice low, leaning in so that his head also tilted toward yours, noses nearly brushing.

“Then I’d tell you to come back to my apartment…” 

You began, the words bold even to yourself before you realising. The thought of your roommates passed out in drunken hazes instantly makes you laugh. 

“…But I have roommates”

Steve’s smirk widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

 “Oh yeah? That’s… inconvenient. Or maybe just makes it more exciting?”

You laugh lightly, feeling the heat pool low in your stomach, the tipsy buzz of the shots making you bold.

 “Exciting… huh? Maybe. Depends on what you mean by exciting.”

You say, trying to focus on the clay in front of you and not the musky scent of Steve’s cologne. 

His hand snaked upwards coming up to lightly clasp over your mouth, trying his hardest not to cover your face in clay.

“I mean this-”

He says, pressing his chest further into your back, his warmth so close it made your heart thud.

“You and me. Quiet. No one will hear.”

The image hit you like a lightning bolt. The thought alone made your thighs clench on instinct. Steve, towering behind you, hand pressed against your mouth to keep you silent, roughly sliding in and out of you as your moans melt against his hand… —Okay, that wasn’t happening yet, but the mental picture was enough to make your pulse spike.

And then the doubt crept in what if you said something wrong? What if he found out you’d never done this before, that you were a virgin in your twenties? Maybe he’d pull back immediately. Maybe you’d ruin it all in a single word. The thought made your stomach twist, and instinctively, you shut him out.

The fear made you tense. You shut down, withdrawing slightly, guard rising instantly.

Steve immediately noticed. His hand dropped in a flash.

“Sorry- did I- read that wrong? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just thought… that’s what you were hinting at with the ‘me coming to your apartment’ thing.”

You took a shaky breath. 

“Steve… it’s just—”

“-It’s nothing,” 

You cut yourself off, forcing your voice even, even though your heart was still hammering.

He studied you for a moment, expression softening, clearly trying to read you without pushing further. The messiness, the alcohol, the flirtation all of it had built to this split second of vulnerability, and now the air between you felt suddenly heavier, charged, but tentative.

── . ⊹

The two of you finished your pottery, leaving the building in an awkward position, you talked a little- but not as much before. Not as cozy and close as before. And you were right. You had fucked this up yourself. You’re the reason why you’re never gonna speak to this guy again. Because you can’t get over your childish fear of having sex.

The sharp night air hit, but it didn’t cut the tension. It seemed to almost thicken it. The city noises swirled around you, but all you could feel was him, and the memory of how close he’d been moments ago.

“I’m sorry,” 

Steve quietly mutters, head tilted down, his hand brushing against yours as if testing the waters. 

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You let out a shaky laugh, still feeling heat in your chest and a flutter in your stomach. 

“Do you… do you think I’m the type of girl to have sex after one night?”

The words come out sharper than intended, tinged with defiance and something else, something you don’t fully want to admit.

Steve’s eyebrow raises, a little amused but careful.

“No. Definitely not.”

You laugh nervously, tugging slightly at your jacket, trying to shove away the warmth that still pools low in your stomach.

“You didn’t exactly… back off until I freaked out.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, eyes softening.

“I know. I just—look, I like being honest with you. And I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

You look away, kicking at the sidewalk, your cheeks burning from both embarrassment and irritation.

“Well, you should’ve asked first, genius.”

“I did!” 

He protests, voice low and calm.

 “I thought—”

“Thought?!”

You shot back, gesturing vaguely to the air between you, half-laughing, half-angry. 

“Thought? You thought because we… because I’m here with you, drunk and… whatever, that I’d just—just go along with it?”

He held up his hands in surrender. 

“No! I didn’t mean it like that! I just—”

You swallowed slowly, your voice dropping, trembling with something you couldn’t quite control

“I mean I’m not… I don’t… I’ve never… and I don’t know and what if it’s weird and awkward and what if I ruin it and I just-”

Steve blinks, silent for a beat, letting you get it out, his expression softening, patient, not pushing, just waiting as you word-vomited the truth tangled with nerves, alcohol, and longing.

“I mean- I don’t know. I’ve never gotten to this stage with a boy before. I’ve gotten close- but never this close. Never close enough that they whisper suggestive words into your ear.”

“-Not close to that at all actually- I don’t know why whenever I get close I just shut down. I freeze and then ruin it like always- and I’m sorry It’s just i’ve never- I’ve never-“

Finally, quieter, almost a whisper, you admit, 

“It’s because… I’ve never done it before.”

Steve looks puzzled, but still incredibly attentive in a way you hate to be obsessed with. The two of you have stopped in an unfamiliar street . And so you’ll shout it to the seven seas if need be just to get him to understand.

“You’ve never done what..? Like had a boyfriend?”

You chuckle at that.

“No Steve. I’ve never had sex before.”

“-And if that freaks you out because I’m in my twenties and sorely inexperienced and that I might grow an attachment or whatever if your my first then that’s fine and I’m giving you the gateway now to leave.”

Steve looks at you, smirk fading slightly, replaced by something softer, more careful. 

“Why do you think I would care?”

You shrug, looking down at your hands, fidgeting with the jackets zipper. 

“I don’t know… maybe because I’ve always been… a little… insecure. I mean, I’m not, like, a complete mess or anything, but… I don’t know, I guess I’ve always thought people would… I don’t know, judge me for being inexperienced.”

Steve’s eyes soften, and then he smirks, that teasing edge returning. 

“Inexperienced” 

He repeats, incredulous, but not mocking. 

“You have no idea how ridiculous that all sounds.”

You shrug, beginning to walk again blindly as he follows.

“I just..people expect you at this age to know stuff but I’ve never gotten close to getting to know stuff and it’s weird.”

Steve scoffs at that.

“What?”

You turn your head.

“I’m just surprised, I mean- you’re drop dead gorgeous, and funny. I don’t know how-“

He stops himself changing the subject, hands in his pockets now.

“I like this side of you, getting to know things. I like that your real with me. It’s refreshing.”

You glance at him, heart fluttering. 

“You make it sound easy.”

Steve shrugs, smirk returning. 

“I don’t know about easy. But I do know… you don’t need to stress. Not about this, not about me, not… any of it.”

You chew your lip, hesitating.

 “So… you’re saying you wouldn’t… like freak out if I… I dunno… don’t know what I’m doing?”

“Honestly?” 

He says, meeting your eyes, patient and teasing at the same time.

 “I wouldn’t. Not a chance.“

You exhale, a little of the tension finally easing, though the heat and flutter in your chest hasn’t gone anywhere. 

“Okay… good to know.”

Steve stops behind you which causes you to spin

“This is— Uh I didn’t realise we walked straight to my apartment.”

“Are you serious?”

You laugh out, sad that this might be the end of your night.

“Yeah, I can order you an uber back to your place and wait out here with you if you want?”

“Could I maybe…”

You sharply inhale, giving yourself courage as the alcohol has begun to wear off

“Come up?”

“Yeah? You sure?”

“Positive.”

You walk over, eyes locked with his.

For a heartbeat, the world falls silent. The city hum fades, the tension thick between you. Then, without thinking, you lean in for a kiss.

Steve’s lips part instinctively. The kiss starts messy and uncertain—your inexperience showing, his hands hesitant—but somehow it falls into an easy rhythm, deepening, growing hungrier with every second.

He fumbles with his keys, muttering under his breath as the door refuses to cooperate.

“Here, let me—” 

You murmur against his lips, but he pulls you back in harder, grounding you against him.

“Steve!” 

You laugh into the kiss, he finally twists the key properly. The door clicks open, and before you can react, he lifts you up, legs winding around his waist, faces pressed together.

You gasp softly, heart racing, impressed by his balance and coordination as he maneuvers through the apartment, careful yet confident, until he reaches the bedroom. Your nerves spike, a mix of exhilaration and anticipation, but underneath it all, there’s a deep comfort. You’re ready. Especially since it’s him.

He slowly kneels, setting you down on the bed so he’s hovering above you. His eyes meet yours, searching, teasing, patient, letting the anticipation stretch just a little longer before anything else happens.

They grow hesitant as he looks at you below

“Is this- okay? Anything truly anything gets too much just say the word okay? I’ll stop.”

You nod, your eyes widening as you look up at him— almost doe like. He lets out a groan, Steve swears he could fold in half just by looking at you. 

The heavy silence in the air is only making your nerves worse, you pull him back in, lips colliding. Your hands grasp his shirt, sliding under to press your fingers against his chest before shrugging to pull it off. You were acting confident even though you had no idea what you were doing. 

He reached for the zip of your tight dress, eyes quickly opening to get your permission, when you nod he immediately pulls it down, the fabric left deserted on the floor.

He groans at the sight of you, you opted for no bra with the dress because it was already tight enough. Which led to this very moment of your bare chest on display for Steve. He’s already knows he’s far gone. Mouth opening slightly as he stares at you in awe.

“What?”

You chuckle, slightly folding into yourself because of your nervousness, the insecurity slowly rising in your chest. You don’t really know how to look or act in this situation, when you’re so vulnerable in front of someone.

“You are so hot.”

Steve says reaching your collarbone with his lips, pulling on your skin and slowly going down, lacing your chest with lovebites and light nips. Every touch is hot, flooded with tension.

When he reaches your breast, he again looks up, and you can’t help but be slightly frustrated just wanting to get it all over with. He catches onto the look in your eyes and immediately wraps his mouth around your nipple, sucking and toying with it. You quietly moan at the new sensation, back arching. His hand reaches to the breast currently not in his mouth, and he caresses it, his fingers squeezing before his rosy lips kiss the valley between your tits, stretching over before he meets your other breast with his lips.

“Steve-“

You mutter out, breathless.

“Everything okay?”

Steve says, his voice warm against your bare skin. Even in this moment, he’s still so weary, attentive. Willing to stop whenever you need him to.

“I need you”

You say, your eyes meeting his. You continue filling the silence

“I want you in me- please.”

Steve let out a noise that was borderline a moan at your forwardness, quickly standing up to undo his belt buckle, his underwear coming off with the jeans.

The sight knocks the wind out of you, his cock is hard hitting against his toned stomach, the tip flushed with a pretty shade of pink. And he’s huge. Like huge in a way you know is going to hurt, especially since it’s your first time.

You swear if you grabbed a mirror you would look mortified, Steve chuckles.

“I’ll go slow, I promise.”

He says, coming back to lean over you, his fingers reach down to your heat, lightly grazing over the wet patch that sits on the front of your panties. 

As if he couldn’t wait, he pulled the fabric off. Dragging his middle and pointer finger through the wet folds, you moan at the feeling of his hands, your hips jerking in search of more pressure.

“You ready?”

He says, his lips moving against your neck

You hum in response, eyes shutting closed as if your bracing for impact

“Jus’ relax yeah? I won’t go fully in.”

The feeling of his tip against your pussy sends a jolt through your body, that reaches your lips in a whimper as your arms reach out to lightly tug on the hair at the nape of his neck, he groans at that.

“I promise, slow.”

And when he pushes in, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, you felt the light pleasure begin to erupt into something more. As he went further in you that’s when the pain begun to dance around your core, but it wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as the bliss. You honestly thought it would hurt more. 

He pulled out in a soft stroke before slowly pressing back in, Steve’s hand lifted up caressing your breast again.

“Is that okay?”

He let out a breath of air as he pulled in and out of you, still only a quarter of his cock was filling you up, and you wanted needed more.

“Steve—“

Your voice was cut off by a moan

“-I can take it, all of it please”

“Are you sure baby? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m sure.”

You shifted your hips down to push more of him into you, 

“Okay— fuck— okay”

Steve mutters, slowly but steadily fully shoving into you until your legs were slightly trembling and wrapped around his waist.

You immediately moan at the feeling of being so full , your head fuzzy with the mix of alcohol, pleasure and slight pain.

“Is that fine?”

Steve said, still weary

“Yes— it— it feels so good Steve— fuck”

He began thrusting in and out of you, his lips pressed against your neck before he moved to kiss you. The kiss was heavy and full of hunger.

“You feel so good—“

Steve groaned as he pushed in harder. The more that he moved, the more you wanted, it still felt like he was holding back, even though him ‘holding back’ still felt unreal.

“Steve you can go faster, i’m okay— I’m great actually”

And your confirmation was all he needed before he started quickly thrusting into you. The vulgar noise of slapping skin and your moans filled the room. Everything felt a bit too hot, a bit too good. 

“Fuck— oh my god.

You moaned out, the coil in your stomach winding tighter, nearing release. 

”Steve I think i’m gonna—“

“Let it all go baby,”

Steve tucked his head into your neck, muttering praises against your skin;

“Your taking it so well”

“Such a pretty girl, so good for me.”

“Your pussy feels so good, you’re so tight”

And then he reached down to rub your clit. That’s what sent you over the edge, your eyes rolling back and vision turning blurry as you came, your walls clenched and tightened over Steve’s thick cock. Which is what pushed him over too. 

When he was sure your orgasm was nearing its end, he quickly pulled out, painting your stomach and tits with his thick, white ropes as he groaned. 

── . ⊹

“That was maybe the best sex I’ve ever had in my life”

Steve said, his voice still rough as he dropped down beside you, chest heaving with the last of his breath. His hand slid over your trembling skin, fingers tracing slow, soothing circles as though he could calm every aftershock pulsing through you.

“You’re just saying that,” 

You murmured, finally turning your head toward him. The faintest touch of your noses sparking something new. Steve leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips— soft, lingering, before pulling back.

“I’ll get you a towel so you can clean up,” 

He promised, already pushing himself up before you could argue. He vanished into the adjoining bathroom, leaving you alone with the sound of your own heartbeat.

You sank deeper into the sheets, letting yourself look around. It was the first time you’d ever been in a boy’s room and you let yourself soak in the details: the faint cologne clinging to the air, the clothes tossed carelessly over a chair, the little pieces of him that felt suddenly intimate just by being here.

Steve returned moments later, towel in one hand and a hoodie in the other. He brushed the towel gently over your chest before passing you the hoodie, waiting until you were fully cleaned before tugging you into his space again.

“I don’t want this to be a one time thing,” 

He breathed once the two of you were nestled beneath his covers. The words carried a weight, but the warmth in his voice made the room feel impossibly comfortable.

“You just read my mind Stevie.” 

── . ⊹ ── . ⊹ ── . ⊹ ── . ⊹ ── . ⊹ ── . ⊹

first time writing smut and it DEFINITELY won’t be my last holy lord.

thank you for reading

love like it’s ending stuff coming soon 🫣

“Oh, sweetheart,” the older woman says gently. “Try not to worry about that right now.”

You shake your head, breath hitching. “No, you don’t understand. He’s—fuck—he’s going to lose it.”

Because not even twenty minutes ago, you’d been driving just fine. Careful and hyper-aware, even, because it was Steve’s car. His stupid, perfect red BMW that he loved more than most people, the one he washed by hand and showed off whenever he got the chance to.

The road had been clear, that’s until a cat darted into your headlights, and your body reacted before your mind could, wrenching the wheel to avoid it—sending the car headfirst into the tree instead.

If it weren’t for the passing car that saw the whole thing, for the woman and her daughter pulling over without hesitation, you don’t know what you would’ve done.

Steve’s car, though, was completely fucked. And that thought keeps looping in your head, loud and relentless, drowning out everything else around you.

The woman —who’s name you learned to be Mrs. Dunne—sighs and gives your shoulder a careful squeeze before stepping away. “I’m going to call for help, all right? My daughter’s a nurse. She’ll look at you.”

She hurries across the road toward the phone box, sensible shoes crunching against gravel.

You’re still trying to slow your breathing when the car door opens again.

“I need a number,” she says gently, already leaning across the seat. “Who owns the car?”

Steve’s name sticks in your throat, except you can’t even pull the words out. You point instead. “Glove compartment.”

She finds it quickly — a worn little address book, containing numbers and details— and flips until she nods. “Got him.”

“Hey,” a voice says nearby. “I’m Vickie.”

You look up to find a girl. She can’t be much older than you, short hair pulled back, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

“Can I take a look at you?”

“I’m fine,” you say immediately, the lie automatic. Then your mouth trembles. “I mean—I’m not fine. But I don’t think I’m that injured.”

Vickie gives a small, understanding huff of a smile. “Okay,” she says gently. “Still gonna check you.”

She guides you toward the back seat of the car—which is much less damaged than the front, one hand hovering near your elbow like she’s afraid to startle you. The air smells like antiseptic and gasoline, sharp and overwhelming your senses.

“I swear I wasn’t speeding,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “The road was clear, and then there was a cat, it just ran out in front of me and I didn’t even think, I just—”

“Hey,” Vickie says softly, crouching in front of you. “Pause. Breathe first. Then talk, alright?”

You try. The breath stutters anyway.

“That’s okay,” she murmurs, already pulling gloves on. “We’ll take it slow.”

She tilts your chin carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’ve got a split lip and a cut on your temple.” Her voice stays calm. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I feel sick,” you admit. “But I think that’s just because of… everything.”

“That makes sense.” She presses gauze gently to your forehead.

You hiss despite yourself, tears spilling hot and fast. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says quickly. “Glass scratches bleed a lot. It always looks worse than it is.”

“It is worse,” you choke. “Steve’s going to see this and he’s going to lose it. Oh, God—the car—”

She stills, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Steve’s your boyfriend?”

You nod, but it only makes the lump in your throat worse. The words spill out before you can stop them. “It’s his car. His brand new BMW—which he, by the way, saved up forever for it. He literally paid an insane amount of money for it and shows it off every chance he gets.”

A laugh slips out despite the fear and guilt coursing through you, and you hate it. “I’m dead. I’m actually so dead.”

Vickie gives a small, incredulous smile. “I don’t know your boyfriend, hon,” she says, smoothing the tape down with careful fingers, “but cars can be fixed. People can’t. I really don’t think he’s going to care about the car when he sees you like this.”

“He will,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “He’s gonna take one look at it and just—God. I shouldn’t have borrowed it. I shouldn’t have touched it at all. I should’ve just walked, I—fuck.”

“Well, my mom already called him,” Vickie says softly, not stopping her work. “And she called your friends too. He’s already on his way.”

Your chest tightens at that, panic blooming fresh and hot. “No. Oh my God.” You drag a hand under your nose, trying to breathe around the pressure. “You should go, both of you. You’ve done more than enough, and I really don’t want you here when he—when he sees it.”

The image won’t leave you alone: Steve’s face hardening, his furious rage leading him to probably— rightfully so— break up with you. Your stomach twists at the thought, nausea rolling up hard enough to make you swallow.

Vickie shakes her head before you’ve even finished. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

From across the road, her mom’s voice carries over, firm and unmistakable. “None of that, honey!”

Mrs. Dunne walks back toward you, arms folding like she means business. “We are not leaving you stranded and scared on the side of the road. Not for a second.” She softens just a touch as she looks at you. “We’ll stay right here until your boyfriend or one of your friends gets here. That’s that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunne.” you smile warmly at her despite the worry churning in your guts.

Time stretches thin and horrible. Every passing car makes your heart jump. Your thoughts spiral tighter and tighter, replaying Steve handing you the keys earlier, the grin on his face, the way he’d said, Be careful, okay? like it was a joke, like nothing bad could ever happen to you—

A sharp screech of tires cuts through the air.

You flinch hard, breath catching painfully in your throat as a truck skids to a stop on the side of the road, door flying open before it’s even fully parked. Steve steps out, and the look on his face steals the air from your lungs completely.

You’ve never seen him look like that. Not angry, smug, or teasing.

Terrified.

His eyes scan the wrecked car, the tree, the road, wild and frantic, until they land on you. His face goes slack with shock and then he’s moving fast, running like the ground is on fire beneath his feet.

Vickie and her mom both straighten. “Well,” Mrs. Dunne says softly, already reaching for you. “That’ll be him.”

They each pull you into quick, careful hugs, murmuring reassurances you barely register.

Then they step back, giving you space, watching until Steve reaches the door and drops to his knees in front of you like his legs have given out.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Hey. Hey—look at me. Fuck—are you okay?”

The Dunnes’ car pulls away slowly, tires crunching over gravel, taillights glowing red before disappearing down the road. The quiet that follows is almost worse as you try to register Steve’s frantic words.

He keeps saying your name, softly at first, then a little louder, but it barely reaches you through the ringing in your ears.

“Hey. Hey—look at me, okay? Baby, c’mon.”

You can’t.

Your eyes stay glued to your shaking hands, to the dark flecks of blood dried beneath your nails. Your chest heaves in sharp, ugly bursts as the sobs finally tear loose, choking and uncontrollable.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, words tripping over each other. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to, I swear, it just happened so fast and I tried to stop and—and I know how much you love it and I shouldn’t have taken it and—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through, “Hey. Stop.”

Your voice cracks completely. You hiccup on a breath as the words choke out, panic spiraling tighter.

“I know it was stupid,” you ramble, tears blurring everything. “I know it’s your car and it’s new and you worked so hard for it and I ruined it and I didn’t mean to, Steve, I swear it was an accident—”

“—look at me,” he says, low and steady.

Steve’s hands come up suddenly, firm and warm, cupping your face on both sides. His thumbs press just under your cheekbones, forcing your head up despite your instinct to pull away.

Your eyes flicker up at last, red and glassy, breath stuttering.

“Breathe, baby,” he says immediately, softer now. “Just breathe with me. In and out. Come on.”

You suck in a shaky breath.

“Good. Out. Yeah, that’s it. Again.”

You follow him, lungs burning as you inhale and exhale in uneven pulls, his thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes, grounding you.

“That’s it, good job,,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

Your body trembles again as he studies your face, eyes moving fast, cataloging every mark and every scrape.

“Now,” he says, voice firmer, sharper, like he’s trying to anchor you to reality. “Are you hurt?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight, and the words come out all wrong, tripping over themselves. “No—but your car, it’s—”

Steve’s jaw snaps tight, his hands gripping your face just tight enough to make your skin tingle.

“Did I ask about the goddamn car?” His voice cuts through the trembling air, sharp enough to make your heart drop.

You freeze, the panic climbing higher, and he leans closer, pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to pin you in place—but it’s not dominance, it’s urgency.

“I asked if you’re hurt,” he says again, softer but no less intense. “not the car.”

You look up at him, and it hits you as your stomach drops. The expression on his face, the tension coiled in his body, the raw, frantic light in his eyes—it isn’t anger. It’s terror. Pure, unfiltered, all-consuming fear of losing you. 

His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tracks of your tears, and for a second, you see the world mirrored in his eyes—a world where nothing matters but you, and every fierce, frantic care he holds is yours alone.

You shake your head slowly, trembling. “No,” you whisper, voice barely audible over your racing heartbeat. “M’not.”

He exhales hard through his nose, “Does your head hurt? Your temple?” he says gently now.

You sniff, shaking your head again. “No. It stings, but—there was an old woman and her daughter. They saw the accident. The daughter’s a nurse. She helped me.”

Steve nods. “I know. She called me.”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into his chest suddenly. His arms wrap around you in a bone-crushing hug, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you so tight to his chest it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes into your hair. You cling to him, fingers twisting into his jacket as the last of the sobs shake out of you.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You hear me? Don’t scare me like that. I thought something much worse happened to you.”

In truth, the moment he’d gotten that phone call, his heart had dropped straight through the floor. He hadn’t thought about the car. Not even for a second. He’d pictured you bleeding, broken, or worse; not breathing.

He’d borrowed a truck, hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the key, every worst-case scenario slamming into him one after another.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, forehead pressing briefly to yours. Then he kisses you, quick and desperate, like he needs to feel you over and over again.

You blink up at him, voice small. “So… you’re not mad about your car?”

His expression softens instantly, the tension melting out of his features. “Mad?” he echoes. “No. God, no.”

He shakes his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “I don’t give a damn about the car. I can replace it, sweetheart—hell, I can buy another one tomorrow if I wanted.”

You laugh against his chest, still sniffling. “I don’t think you’re that rich, Steve.”

He snorts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Oh, come on. I might not have a Scrooge McDuck vault full of coins, but I can definitely scrape together a replacement BMW. You? Not so lucky.”

You pull back a little, squinting at him through your tears. “Are you seriously laughing right now? I just totaled your baby!”

“I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of you panicking like this,” he says, voice shaking with relief and amusement. “You looked like someone had just told you the world was ending.” His hand slides to your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. “Besides. You’re my baby. Not that damn thing.”

Your throat tightens all over again, heart warming up at his sweet words.

“Now, come on,” he murmurs, shifting closer, careful as he helps you to your feet. “Let’s get you checked out at the hospital.”

You hesitate, glancing down at the gauze. “But Vickie already wrapped me up—”

“I know,” he says softly, squeezing your hand like he needs the contact as much as you do. “I just need to hear it from a doctor, alright? Humor me.”

You nod, letting him guide you toward the truck, his arm never leaving your back, like if he does you might disappear.

steve harrington masterlist