masterlist series masterlist prev next
summary: For two years, you and Captain John Price have been secretly married. As a medic working with the 141, keeping it quiet was the easiest way to protect your careers and your relationship. But the secret falls apart when Soap accidentally discovers a hidden ring box in Price’s office.
secret marriage, sneaking around, subtle flirting at the base, soap is curious, secret moments, getting caught, top secret husband material, soap becoming a detective, maybe smut, fluff, Price being a domestic husband
A/N: I'm ill, so we ignore mistakes tonight. Have fun.
cw: slightly desperate/clingy (?) John Price and a bit of vocalising his sexual needs
You are not completely sure what caused it, but over the last few days you have been more distant toward John.
It all started with him walking into the med bay. No – not walking. Rushing.
“Doctor, why can’t Sergeant Carter participate in the next mission? You personally forbade it! Wasn’t he fine after the last one? There was only a minor issue - it should’ve been fine, shouldn’t it?”
Okay. That’s unlike John. Something is off. Since when isn’t his priority the safety of his people? And why does he look so annoyed?
“I can assure you, he wouldn’t have a restriction if it wasn’t necessary… Captain.” You accidentally matched his tone but still managed to add his rank.
“But he is necessary for that mission,” John argued.
“That’s unfortunate, but as already mentioned, he is restricted and isn’t allowed in the field.”
“So normally you don’t disagree on people’s restrictions. Why now, Captain?” You lean against the counter.
“Well, he had special training for that certain operation.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Again – medical restriction. You can leave now, Sir.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but he must realize that his arguments are lacking.
You observe him. Lack of sleep, maybe. Disheveled hair.
“Sir, a bit of sleep would probably help you – and your brain – to think properly and realize how poor your arguments are.”
He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it and leaves.
That leads to several rather pitiful moments of avoiding each other whenever you happen to be in the same room.
Passing one another in corridors without stopping. Him opening his mouth like he wants to speak – but he doesn’t. Instead, you adjust your posture and keep walking.
His sleeplessness hasn’t improved either. If anything, he seems more grumpy than usual. Obviously the 141 noticed the distance between you. The near coldness.
Part of them think it’s only about the restriction order. But you might have another idea about what the issue could be.
You are currently checking medical files when Soap steps in and, of course, immediately blurts it out.
“Did you two have a falling out? The captain and you, I mean.” Soap tries to joke.
You roll your eyes at him. Obviously it isn’t good. But does he know something? Your fingers move briefly to the chain around your neck.
“We’re not close enough to fall out.”
“But you’re behaving odd.”
“Well… more stern expressions. Avoiding each other. He doesn’t step in here anymore. And before you try to deny it, I saw it multiple times with my own eyes!”
“Now everyone’s wondering if it all just happened because of the sergeant’s restriction order. I doubt that’s the only reason, by the way,” he adds.
“Okay, it’s not only because of that argument. Even though his reasoning was unfounded. I think he just has a lot of stress to deal with right now, so that might add to it.”
It’s late in the evening.
You’re reviewing equipment and restocking supplies. It’s been a difficult day, too many rookies ignoring instructions during training, which ended with them or someone else getting hurt.
You heard from Gaz that John was fed up with that kind of behavior. Apparently he really was stressed.
You just don’t know if there are factors involving you as well.
A knock sounds at the door.
It’s the captain himself.
“What is the reason you are honoring me with your presence?”
He sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “I… it’s just a lot. And I’m not sure why, but I’m taking this deployment harder than usual. Normally I could handle us being medic and captain. But since our argument… it just got worse.”
Rule number one: no touching in public
“Can’t doesn’t mean we don’t want to.” He pauses. “I miss you running your fingers through my hair in our bed. Miss the lazy mornings. Even your comments about me getting domestic – which we both know you don’t mind. You adore it.”
He steps closer. You lean back against the counter.
“Miss having you wrapped in my arms. Miss you in bed. Miss having you sprawled across it – all for me.” His voice lowers. “I miss worshipping you. Kissing your legs, your thighs… moving up to your cunt. God, I miss her. She misses me too, doesn’t she? Miss filling her with my fingers. Or my cock.”
“I dream about you. But I miss the real thing. Miss your gasps. Miss the way you clench around me. Miss us.”
He presses closer, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Miss worshipping you. Miss aftercare. Miss your moans, your gasps – your hands pulling my hair.” His voice is rough. “It’s driving me insane because all I have are memories repeating themselves.”
“Do you feel how much I need you? Every time I wake up like this… missing you. Wanting you. Just a bit of touch. A bit of release.”
You feel the bulge through his trousers.
“All for you and I can’t do anything about it. Just lying there, missing you, muffling my moans when your name slips out.”
You want to give in. He isn’t the only one who has missed the intimacy.
Your fingers move to his trousers, feeling him there, so prominent.
“You know we can’t,” you murmur with a sigh. It’s frustrating.
“No one’s here. We don’t even have to take our clothes off… even though you’re already undressing me with your eyes.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Just want to feel you. Want to touch you.”
“John, someone could walk in,” you whisper, your fingers running through his hair instead.
“Don’t care,” he murmurs.
“You do. You just act like you don’t.”
“True,” he admits quietly, sighing. “I should probably go. I don’t want to. I want to feel you.”
“Soon. This might help you sleep.” You press a quick kiss to his lips.
He has to stop himself from chasing your mouth and groans in annoyance.
“Not sure if that’s going to help… or do the complete opposite.”
You chuckle softly. “Hopefully it helps you.”
His fingers brush yours before he leaves and closes the door.
The door clicks shut behind him with a soft, final sound and somehow it echoes.
For a long moment, you don’t move.
You’re still braced against the counter like he might come back and you’ll need the support. The edge digs into your lower back, grounding, unyielding. Your pulse refuses to settle, it flutters high in your throat, erratic, like it’s forgotten its rhythm. The ghost of his touch lingers on your fingers – warm, electric, infuriatingly vivid and you curl them into your palm as if you can trap the sensation there. Preserve it. Or crush it.
“This might help you sleep,” you had said.
The words had sounded practical. Clinical, almost. As if you were offering a sedative instead of pressing your mouth to his.
You’re not entirely sure the kiss was for him.
The room feels different now. Smaller. Thicker. The air heavy in your lungs, as if it remembers the way he pressed you back against the counter, the careful restraint in his hands, the way his voice dipped – roughened – when he admitted he wasn’t handling things as well as he pretended.
That’s what’s clinging to you. Not just the touch.
You let out a slow breath you didn’t realize you were holding and push yourself upright. The world tilts for half a second, then steadies. Back to routine. Inventory. You reach for the clipboard with hands that are only slightly unsteady.
Bandages. Gauze. Saline. Sutures.
You line them up with deliberate precision, straight edges, labels facing forward, corners squared. You adjust one roll of gauze by a fraction of an inch, then another. You tell yourself this matters. That order matters. That if the shelves are neat, if the trays are symmetrical, if everything is exactly where it should be, then the disorder inside your chest will quiet down in sympathy.
The thought arrives sharp and clean, like a scalpel slicing through gauze.
Rule number one had always been simple: no touching in public spaces. Someone could see it.
You’d believed in that rule. You still do.
And yet somewhere between late night paperwork and quiet glances across briefing tables somewhere between teasing remarks tossed under your breath and stolen mornings in his quarters, sunlight slipping through half drawn blinds while the base carried on without you that line blurred.
It smudged. Gradually. Soft at the edges until you couldn’t tell where professionalism ended and something far more dangerous began.
The admission unfurls slowly, reluctant but undeniable. It sits heavy in your lungs. You miss the way he’d steal your coffee and pretend he preferred it black. The quiet weight of his arm thrown over your waist in the early hours before the alarm. The rare, unguarded smile he only let slip when he thought no one else was looking.
You force your eyes open and finish the inventory, ticking boxes with mechanical precision. Each checkmark feels like a small act of defiance against your own weakness. When you’re done, you wipe down the counter again – though it doesn’t need it – and flick off the overhead light.
The corridor outside is dim, the hum of the base settling into its nighttime rhythm. Boots scuff faintly in the distance. A murmur of voices fades behind a closing door. Somewhere, a radio crackles and goes silent.
You walk back to your quarters on autopilot.
Inside, the room is sparse and familiar. Bunk neatly made. Locker closed. A single photograph tucked half visible behind a stack of reports – you and the team, sunburned and grinning after a mission that could have gone very differently.
You sit on the edge of the bed and exhale.
It’s quieter here. Too quiet.
You toe off your boots and lie back, staring at the ceiling. The paint above you is cracked near the vent.
Your thoughts shift back to him.
The way he looked standing in the doorway tonight. Tired. Frustrated. Stripped of the armor he wears so effortlessly in front of everyone else.
John Price is steady. Controlled. Unshakeable.
That’s the version the world knows. The captain who walks into a room and commands it without raising his voice. The man who absorbs pressure like it’s nothing, who makes impossible decisions and carries them without complaint.
You replay the moment in the med bay. His voice sharp. Your own temper rising in response.
Not because he’d challenged you, that happens. It’s part of the job. But because you knew why he was pushing. Because his frustration had nothing to do with protocol and everything to do with the distance you’d been carefully, deliberately placing between you.
The mattress creaks softly. The sheets are cool against your skin.
You’d started pulling back after the last mission. After the close call that had left his shoulder grazed and your hands slick with his blood as you stitched him up. He’d joked through it, of course. Called it a scratch. Teased you for frowning.
But later, when the room had emptied and the adrenaline had worn off, you’d felt the tremor in your own hands. You’d imagined – just for a second – what it would be like if he didn’t come back next time.
That thought had lodged itself deep, stubborn and immovable.
So you’d done what you always do when something threatens to spiral beyond your control: you tightened the reins. Shorter conversations. Fewer private moments. Professional distance in public and in private alike.
You told yourself it was strategic.
You didn’t anticipate how much it would hurt.
Or how quickly he would notice.
A dull ache spreads across your chest now, steady and persistent. You press your palm there, as if you can physically hold your heart in place.
The phrase repeats, softer this time. Less command, more plea.
But the truth presses in from all sides.
You think about the way his hands had hovered at your waist tonight, restrained but wanting. The careful way he’d looked at you, like you were something fragile and formidable all at once. The crack in his voice when he admitted he couldn’t keep walking past you like nothing had changed.
He hadn’t asked for promises.
He hadn’t demanded clarity.
You shift onto your back again and drag a hand over your face. The room smells faintly of detergent and metal, sterile and impersonal. It’s supposed to be enough. The structure. The mission. The clear lines.
But human hearts aren’t built for neat compartments.
You wonder what he’s doing right now. Whether he’s pacing his office, jaw tight, replaying your kiss in a slow, relentless loop. Whether he’s lying awake staring at his own ceiling, wrestling with responsibility and restraint.
You imagine him alone in the dim light, hands braced on his desk, shoulders heavy with the weight of command.
You imagine him softer, too. The version only you get. The one who steals blankets and complains about your taste in music. The one who exhales against your neck like he’s found something solid to anchor to.
You don’t want to be his weakness.
You don’t want to be the thing that makes him hesitate.
But you don’t want to be nothing, either.
The ceiling above you blurs slightly as your eyes sting. You blink hard and swallow it down. There’s no room for tears here. No time for indulgence.
Just the terrifying realization that someone has slipped past your defenses. That you care enough for it to matter. That his absence feels like a physical subtraction.
In the darkness behind your lids, you see the moment just before the kiss. The hesitation. The choice.
You could have stepped back.
You let your breathing slow, counting each inhale and exhale like you’re stabilizing a patient. In for four. Hold. Out for six. Again. Again.
Gradually, the tightness in your chest loosens by degrees.
You don’t know what tomorrow will look like. You don’t know how you’ll navigate this – the mission, the team, the fragile thing between you.
The admission no longer feels like weakness. It feels like truth.
And truth, however inconvenient, is something you’ve always respected.
The base settles deeper into silence around you. A distant door shuts. Footsteps fade. The world narrows to the steady hum of ventilation and your own breathing.
You shift beneath the blanket and pull it up to your chin. The sheets are still cool, but they warm slowly around you.
You picture him sleeping somewhere down the hall, the hard lines of his face softened by rest. You picture the tension easing from his shoulders, if only for a few hours.
As a promise to yourself.
Soon, you’ll stop running from this.
Soon, you’ll find a way to hold both the mission and the man without dropping either.
Your breathing evens out. The ache doesn’t disappear, but it dulls, settling into something quieter. Manageable.
And as sleep finally begins to tug at you, the last thought that drifts through your mind isn’t fear.
You wake up from a knock at your door.
The sound hangs in the air, fragile and deliberate.
Three measured taps. Not urgent. Not forceful.
Your heart slams hard enough that you feel it in your fingertips.
A late night medical request. A soldier who twisted an ankle.
You sit up slowly, every movement deliberate. The mattress creaks under your weight, louder than it should be in the silence.
There’s a pause on the other side of the door. Not impatient. Waiting.
Your voice is steadier than you feel.
The handle turns slowly. The latch clicks – quieter than the one earlier, but just as final.
The door opens a few inches first, cautious. Then wider.
He stands there in the dim hallway light.
Not in full uniform. Just a dark shirt and fatigue trousers. Sleeves pushed up. Hair slightly mussed like he’s run a hand through it one too many times.
He looks less like a captain now.
More like the man who used to steal half your blanket and pretend he didn’t.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
The corridor light frames him from behind, casting his face partly in shadow. You can still see the tension in his jaw. The fatigue in his eyes.
But there’s something else there too.
Your heart pounds against your ribs, loud enough you’re certain he can hear it.
He hesitates on the threshold, as if giving you one last chance to change your mind.
The silence stretches between you – not awkward, not empty. Charged.
For a second, neither of you moves.
His voice is low. Rougher than it was earlier.
You don’t ask what he means. You don’t make him spell it out.
You nod toward the chair near your bunk. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He steps inside and closes the door carefully behind him. The latch clicks – softer than before, but it still feels significant. Final in a different way.
“No.” He drags a hand over the back of his neck, tension obvious in the movement. “Every time I close my eyes, my head doesn’t shut up.”
There’s no edge now. No frustration sharpening his tone. Just bone deep exhaustion. The kind that settles into the spine and refuses to leave.
You swing your legs off the bed and stand. The mattress sighs beneath the shift of weight. The space between you is smaller here than it was in the med bay. Smaller than it should be. Your room isn’t large, and suddenly it feels even tighter – charged.
The overhead light is off, only the small lamp near your desk glows, casting everything in amber. It softens the hard angles of his face, the stern lines that usually define him. In this light, he looks… human. Tired. Almost vulnerable.
“You’re burning yourself out,” you tell him quietly.
He exhales through his nose, a breath that could almost pass for a laugh if it carried any humor. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“That’s not something to be proud of.”
The words leave you gentler than you expect. Not reprimanding. Concerned.
There it is again – that rawness. Unfiltered. No rank. No armor.
Silence settles between you. Not awkward. Not hostile. Just heavy with everything unsaid.
You study him. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. The tight set of his jaw that hasn’t quite released since earlier. He looks like a man who’s been holding something in for too long and doesn’t quite know how to set it down.
“You could’ve come earlier,” you say after a moment. “Before it got this loud in your head.”
His gaze shifts briefly to the floor, then back to you. “Didn’t know if I should.”
The admission hangs there.
Your chest tightens, just a little.
“This isn’t insubordination,” you say softly. “You’re allowed to not be fine.”
A corner of his mouth twitches – not quite a smile. “Careful. You keep talking like that, I might start believing it.”
He holds your gaze then, steady and searching, like he’s trying to decide whether you mean more than just the words.
And the air between you grows warmer.
Silence settles between you, but it isn’t cold.
It’s dense. Almost physical. Like the air has weight now, pressing gently against your ribs, reminding you that neither of you can sidestep this conversation.
You step closer, slow enough that he can track the movement. Careful, like approaching something skittish. “The deployment isn’t what’s eating at you,” you say gently again. “It’s us.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. That alone tells you everything.
His jaw tightens once, then releases. “I can handle missions,” he murmurs. “I can handle stress.” A faint, self deprecating breath escapes him. “What I can’t handle is walking past you like I don’t–”
The words snag somewhere behind his teeth. His jaw flexes again, muscle jumping under skin, like physically holding them back hurts.
“Like you don’t what?” you press, quieter now.
His gaze lifts and locks onto yours. There’s no shield in it. No rank.
It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. It’s such a simple word. Soft. Uncomplicated. But the way he says it – like it costs him something – makes it land heavy in your chest.
It feels bigger than want. Bigger than missing each other in the dark.
“You think I don’t care?” you ask, voice steady but low.
“No.” He shakes his head immediately, almost sharp. “That’s the problem. I know you do.”
There’s no accusation in it. Just frustration. And something else – fear, maybe. The kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly but hums beneath everything.
It’s no longer jagged and defensive. No longer sharp enough to cut. Now it’s thick, intimate. Two people standing far too close in a room that was never designed to hold something this personal.
“You blindsided me,” you admit after a moment. The memory flickers vivid and uncomfortable. “In the med bay. With Carter.”
His shoulders dip, not dramatically – just enough. “I know.”
“You questioned my judgement.”
The words are measured. You’re not lashing out. But they matter.
“And I shouldn’t have.” He drags a hand over his face, slow, tired. “It wasn’t about Carter. Not entirely.”
You fold your arms loosely, not as a barrier but to hold yourself steady. “Then what was it about?”
His silence stretches a second too long. He exhales through his nose.
“You pulling away,” he says finally. “After the last mission. I felt it.” His eyes search your face, not accusing – trying to understand. “You were distant. Careful. Like you were already bracing for something. And I didn’t know why.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
You hadn’t realized how visible it was. How transparent you’d become.
“I was trying to protect us,” you confess.
The words come out quieter than you intend.
“The closer we get,” you continue, forcing yourself not to look away, “the harder it becomes to separate work from… this.”
You don’t define this. You don’t need to.
It hangs between you – every stolen morning, every look held too long, every moment your hands lingered when they didn’t need to.
He studies you carefully. Not as a captain assessing a situation. As a man trying to understand the woman standing in front of him.
“And is that what you want?” he asks. “Separation?”
The answer surges up immediately, instinctive and fierce.
You don’t want distance. You don’t want cold professionalism in place of warmth. You don’t want to pass him in corridors and pretend the air doesn’t shift.
But wanting something and choosing it are not the same.
“I want you,” you say instead.
Simple. Clean. Undeniable.
The words settle in the room like something solid.
His breath catches – subtle, but you hear it. See it in the slight lift of his chest.
For a second, he just looks at you. As if recalibrating.
“You make that sound easy,” he says quietly.
You let your arms fall to your sides. “Wanting you is the easy part. It’s everything that comes with it that isn’t.”
His expression shifts, something softer threading through the fatigue. “You think I haven’t thought about that?”
You step closer, until there’s barely a foot between you. Close enough that you can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tired crease between his brows.
“But you carry responsibility differently than I do,” you continue. “You carry all of it. The team. The mission. The fallout. If something happens because we weren’t focused–”
“I am focused,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. Just quiet insistence.
“You walked into my med bay ready to argue protocol because you were distracted.”
He doesn’t look away this time. Doesn’t deflect. He absorbs it, jaw tightening once more before slowly relaxing.
“You’re right,” he says after a moment.
The admission is steady. No reluctance. Just truth.
“I hate that you’re right,” he adds, softer.
A faint, reluctant smile touches your mouth. “I know.”
The tension shifts again – not vanishing, but reshaping. Less defensive. More honest.
“You think I don’t know the risks?” he says quietly. “You think I don’t run through every worst case scenario in my head already?”
“And none of them include me choosing you and suddenly forgetting how to do my job.”
The words aren’t arrogant. They’re grounded.
“I don’t get reckless with you,” he continues. “If anything, I get more careful.”
You search his face, trying to measure that claim against the memory of earlier.
“In the med bay,” you remind him.
“That was frustration,” he admits. “Not recklessness. And it wasn’t about the patient. It was about feeling like you’d already decided I was the liability.”
“I never thought that,” you say immediately.
“Then what was it?” His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.
You hesitate, but only for a second.
“It was fear,” you say finally.
The word is fragile in your mouth.
His expression shifts – surprise first. Then something softer.
“Of losing you.” The admission scrapes on its way out. “Of stitching you up one day and realizing it’s not enough. Of standing in a room like that and knowing I let something personal cloud my judgment.”
You step even closer without realizing it, until there’s barely space for air between you.
“I can handle treating a captain,” you whisper. “I don’t know if I can handle losing someone I–”
The word you almost said hums in the space between you.
His hand lifts slightly, as if he’s fighting the instinct to reach for you. “Someone you what?”
“Care about, love,” you finish, softer.
He studies you for a long, quiet moment.
Then, carefully – deliberately – he closes the remaining distance.
Not enough to trap you. Not enough to overwhelm. Just enough that you can feel the heat of him.
“I don’t need you to protect me from the job,” he says quietly. “That’s mine. What I need is to know you’re not already halfway out the door because you’re scared.”
“I’m not halfway out,” you breathe.
“Then don’t act like it.”
There’s no accusation now. Just a plea buried under command.
Your heart pounds against your ribs, but it’s not frantic. It’s steady. Certain.
“I don’t want separation,” you say again, firmer this time. “I want balance.”
He exhales slowly, as if that word means something.
“Not pretending this doesn’t exist,” you continue. “But not letting it override everything else either.”
“I can do that,” he says.
It’s not bravado. It’s not a promise made lightly.
His hand finally settles at your waist – tentative at first, like he’s still giving you room to step back.
“I want you,” you repeat, softer now. Not as a declaration. As truth.
His forehead dips slightly, almost touching yours.
“And I want you,” he says, the words low and certain.
“But I also want you alive,” you continue, the words steady even if your pulse isn’t. “Focused. Clear headed. If we get reckless–”
“I’m not reckless with you,” he says softly.
There’s no defensiveness in it. Just quiet conviction.
“You walked into my med bay ready to argue medical protocol because you were distracted.” you reminded him.
That one lands. Solid. You see it settle in his expression, the flicker of recognition, the tightening at the corners of his mouth.
Most people would. Most would deflect, shift blame, minimize. He just stands there and takes it.
“You’re right,” he says after a moment.
“I hate that you’re right,” he adds, quieter, almost to himself.
A reluctant smile curves your mouth before you can stop it. “There he is,” you murmur. “The captain I know.”
Something eases in his shoulders at that. Not all of it. Just enough.
Slow enough that you could stop him. Slow enough that the choice stays yours.
The air between you shifts – warmer, thinner. His hand lifts, hovering near your waist, close but not touching. Like he’s waiting for permission he’s not sure he deserves.
“I miss you,” he says again.
Not heated. Not desperate.
The words settle somewhere deep in your chest, anchoring instead of unsettling.
You close the remaining distance and rest your forehead against his chest.
The contact is simple. Solid. His heartbeat thuds steady beneath your skin, slower than yours but just as certain.
“I miss you too,” you admit.
There’s no strategy in it. No calculation.
His arms come around you carefully, like you might vanish if he holds too tight. The embrace is firm but measured – protective without being possessive. His hand settles at the middle of your back, warm and steady. The other rests at your waist, fingers splayed as if grounding himself.
You exhale against him, tension you didn’t realize you were carrying slowly draining away.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
There’s no rush now. No urgency snapping at the edges.
The silence feels different.
Not because the risks are gone. Not because the mission has disappeared. But because you’re not pretending right now. Not bracing. Not retreating.
His chin brushes lightly against the top of your head. You feel the small, almost unconscious shift of his weight as he settles more comfortably around you, like this is something familiar. Something remembered.
You let your hands slide around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
This, the quiet, steady warmth of him feels less dangerous than distance ever did.
And for the first time tonight, your breathing evens out.
“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you murmur against his shirt. “The pressure. The stress.”
His chest rises slowly beneath your cheek. “That’s my job.”
“And I’m part of your team.”
There’s a pause. Then his chin brushes the top of your head, the contact gentle, almost thoughtful. “You’re more than that.”
The words settle warm and steady between you.
You tilt your face up to his. Whatever sharpness lingered earlier is gone now, replaced by something calmer. Grounded. His expression has softened; the lines of command have eased into something unmistakably personal.
His thumb traces along your jaw, slow and deliberate, as if reacquainting himself with the shape of you. The touch isn’t urgent. It doesn’t rush. It simply is.
“Tell me to leave,” he says quietly. “If this makes it harder.”
Instead, you rise onto your toes and kiss him again.
He responds immediately, one hand settling at your waist, firm and anchoring. The other cradles the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. The kiss deepens gradually, unhurried, controlled, less a spark and more a slow burn. A promise instead of a demand.
When you finally pull back, it’s only by inches. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours in the dim light.
He presses one last lingering kiss to your lips – softer now, almost reverent and steps back.
Tag list: @chud-chud @tocool4you @13sharks @onceuponanightmareisawme @seikamuzu @heretoreadanddrinktea @ellzbballz-69 @stillinraccooncity @perpetually-curiouss3
