#bhc

Dom’s house isn’t a house; it’s an insult to architecture.

Tucked behind a pretentious gated lane in North London, it sits like it doesn't give a fuck who’s watching.

Three stories of black steel and stark brick. Massive glass expanses that let the outside bleed in. You can see the sky through the ceiling in the living room—literally. A skylight the size of your car stretches above the couch like it was built for stargazing and songwriting at 3 a.m., which, knowing Dom, it probably was.

The air in here is a constant blend between stale smoke, and the faint, expensive scent of a cologne you can never quite place. The floors are polished concrete that echo your footsteps, but somehow, it still feels warm, lived-in.

Not in the "socks on the floor" way—though yeah, there’s that too—but in the way that every room holds a piece of him. A pile of vinyl near the speakers. A mug with lipstick marks that definitely aren’t yours. A guitar left sideways on the stairs.

And yet, when you’re here, it never feels like you’re trespassing. It feels like home, sometimes more than your own place does.

He’s somewhere behind you, rustling through drawers, swearing at himself.

“Fuuuck’s sake, where’s my eyeliner?”

You smile, not moving. You’re curled on the corner of his couch—a sunken, cloud-soft thing big enough to seat six but usually just holding the two of you, limbs tangled in whatever way feels natural. Your phone’s in your hand, but you haven’t looked at it in ten minutes. You’ve just been watching him.

He finally emerges—shirtless, damp hair sticking to his temples, his tattoos liquid against the bare skin of his chest and arms. His jeans hang loose on his hips. There’s a small, faint scar on his rib you’ve always meant to ask about.

“I told you it was in the bathroom,” you say, the observation soft.

Dom freezes in the doorway, holding the missing eyeliner like it personally betrayed him. Then he grins, wide and crooked.

“You’re such a fuckin’ angel. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You shrug, but your cheeks warm anyway. It’s always like this—compliments tossed off like confetti. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.

He comes closer, holding a tiny palette and a brush like implements for surgery in front of the blacked-out TV. He catches his reflection, clicks his tongue, and sighs.

“Nah, fuck this. Babe, you gotta do it. I can’t get the bloody angle.”

You raise an eyebrow, challenging him. He tilts his head.

“Come on. You’re better at it anyway. Got those steady hands. And you’re nice to look at while you do it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already getting up.

As you move closer, Dom plops down onto the couch, legs spread carelessly, grinning up at you like this is all just a game.

“I need to get close,” you say, holding out your hand for the brush.

“Please do.”

You straddle him.

It’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s also the most volcanic. Almost dangerous.

Your knees sink into the couch on either side of him, denim pressing against his thighs. You settle in slow, the way you always do—cautious, careful not to show how much it gets to you, how your chest tightens when he exhales close to your skin.

His hands don’t hesitate. They slide up your sides, settling on your waist, thumbs immediately starting that slow, idle trace against your skin. Like they belong there.

You unscrew the cap of his eyeliner like your life depends on it.

“You know,” he says softly, his voice vibrating through your core, “You’re gorgeous. Like… really fuckin’ gorgeous. I hope you know that.”

You look at him.

He says it like it’s a fact. Like the weather. Like gravity.

You swallow.

“Don’t blink,” you say, voice low and utterly steady.

He obeys, but he keeps watching you—his eyes following your face as you work, lashes fluttering when your fingers graze his cheekbones, his jaw. You are too aware of every breath, every shift of his hands, every heartbeat. Yours.

When you finish, you lean back slightly, admiring your work.

“You look amazing.”

“I am pretty,” he smirks. “Thanks to you.”

You start to move off, but he tugs you back down, a firm possessive grip.

“Wait,” he murmurs. “Just… gimme a sec.”

His arms wrap around you, full-body. His face is pressed into your shoulder, sighing like he’s finally anchored after a long, tedious day.

You breathe in—cologne, a bit of sweat, that faint trace of weed he probably lit in the bath.

“I like it when you sit on me,” he mumbles into your collarbone.

“Shut up,” you laugh, breathless.

But your heart’s not laughing. It’s pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear the sheer, reckless audacity of the moment.

You stay like that too long. Maybe just long enough.

When he finally shifts, it’s slow. He slumps down, head sliding into your lap like it’s instinct. You brush his hair with your fingers, barely thinking.

“Put on a movie,” he says. “Can’t be arsed to go yet.”

He finds your hand, starts playing with your fingers. Twisting rings. Tracing the lines of your tattoos.

“These match mine,” he says, eyes half-lidded.

“I had them first.”

“Liar.”

He kisses your knuckle absentmindedly. Like it doesn't mean anything.

Like it means everything.

You’ve known Dom for years now. Long enough that your memory of life before he filled it with noise and chaos is faint, almost forgotten.

It started simply. A studio meet. A friend of Victor, though you can’t even remember who made the introduction—just that he stuck, like gum on the bottom of your best shoe. Loud. Impossible. But bright. Alive.

Now, he's just... there. Present into every corner of your life.

He texts you before shows, FaceTimes you from hotel rooms in Tokyo at 3 a.m. because he “misses your silly face.” You’ve spent entire weekends at his black-brick statement of a house doing absolutely nothing—just watching movies, ordering atrocious amounts of food, and staying in your pajamas until 4 p.m.

It’s not dating. You’ve drilled that fact into your own skull. It’s not a thing. It’s just... Dom.

But it is physical. It always has been.

He is always touching you. Draping himself across your lap like a giant, tattooed cat. Throwing his heavy arm around your shoulders when you walk down the street, pulling you into his side like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You’ve shared beds a hundred times. Too many afterparties that ended with both of you too tired or too drunk to Uber home. He’ll curl up behind you, arm flung across your waist, murmuring stupid, sleepy things into the back of your neck like, “You smell like strawberry gum. That’s cute as fuck.”

You always tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That he'd do it to anyone.

And then he does something like this—lying across your lap, half-lidded, his thumb tracing the sharp curve of your collarbone as he plays with your fingers.

His touch is constant. Seems innocent. Thoughtless.

But it never feels thoughtless to you.

“Remember that time in Manchester,” he says suddenly, eyes still closed, “when that drunk bloke thought we were married?”

You smile at the memory. “He tried to buy us a round of celebratory champagne.”

“And then you kissed my cheek,” Dom grins, opening his eyes just enough to catch yours, “to sell the lie.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice catching. “Had to commit to the bit.”

He glances up, studying your face. You lean in and kiss his cheek, your lips full and soft. He kisses your cheek back. Like a back and forth game between siblings.

You roll your eyes and pretend you’re not blushing now. You remember that night in excruciating detail.

“Whatever,” you say, brushing his fringe back from his eyes.

But he catches your wrist and holds it. His grip is surprisingly firm.

“Hey,” he says, voice dropping lower now.

You meet his gaze, waiting.

“You’re really special to me, yeah?”

You nod. Because you are. Because he is. Because you’ve built this precarious, illogical thing together, and you’re absolutely terrified that naming it would shatter it completely.

“I mean it,” he adds, his voice gentler, heavier with meaning. “You’re like… my person.”

You smile. But it’s tight. Fragile. It’s all the air you can manage to let out. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

You’re his, but not really.

He’s yours, but not enough.

And right now, he’s lying in your lap, staring up at you like he can’t imagine a life without you.

But he’ll still flirt with someone else tonight. He always does.

The movie is some old cult horror flick he loves—too much blood, not enough plot. But you aren't really watching.

You’re too aware of everything else.

Dom’s lying across the couch, his head heavy in your lap again, his long body stretched out with his feet propped high on the opposite armrest. He is a warm, heavy weight against you, and one hand rests flat on your bare thigh, his thumb drawing slow, casual circles over your skin.

It’s nothing. He’s always like this. He’s always touching you. But tonight, for some reason, your body is refusing to play along. It’s reacting like he’s doing it on purpose.

Your skin prickles under his light contact. Your diaphragm is locked tight. Worse, the thin fabric of your shirt does nothing to hide the sudden, sharp awareness of your nipples hardening. It’s not the room; the air is warm. It’s just him. It’s always been him.

You shift slightly, trying to angle your body away, but his head only sinks deeper into your lap, a sigh escaping him like he belongs there.

“Comfy?” you ask, your voice thinner and higher than you intended.

“Mmm,” he hums, the sound vibrating against your stomach. “You make the best pillow.”

He nudges his head into your side a little more, settling deeper, and a small, involuntary sound catches in your throat. You freeze, praying he mistook it for a sigh. His fingers tap out a familiar rhythm on your thigh. Your pulse is running wild beneath your ribs.

You glance down. He has that soft, completely relaxed look on his face. His eyes are half-shut, lashes fanned against his cheek. That lazy, untouchable smirk plays on his lips like the world couldn’t possibly bother him.

He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing.

“Oi,” he murmurs, eyes finally flicking up to meet yours. “Y’alright?”

You nod quickly, forcing a casual ease.

“Yeah. Just… tired.”

You’re not tired. You’re a liar. You’re hyper-alert, every nerve ending alive with the knowledge of his heat and the impossible, frustrating proximity. You think, How easily his hand could drift just a few inches higher.

But he doesn’t. He never does. Because he doesn’t see you that way—and that fact is a physical ache.

You hate the way your body betrays you, making you feel like a breathless schoolgirl with a hopeless crush. But you are hopeless. Hopeless and head over heels for your best friend, the idiot who just curled into your lap and sighed like you’re his favorite pillow, and is now watching a movie like this is just any other night.

You try to focus on the screen. On the terrible acting. On anything but the heavy, warm weight pressed against you.

Then you feel his fingers squeeze your thigh gently, a small, sleepy movement, and he mumbles,

“You’re warm. S’nice.”

Your eyes sting with unspent emotion. Your body aches with wanting. And you smile, letting the expression settle like a heavy mask, pretending nothing is wrong.

You don't know how long you lie there—him stretched across you, half-watching the violence on screen, half-idly playing with the hem of your shorts like it’s just another Tuesday. But your body refuses to let you sink back into the comfort you used to find in his proximity.

The relentless heat inside you is a fever. You feel the blush creep down your throat and flush your collarbone, the insistent ache in your thighs, the sharp, undeniable pressure of your hardened nipples against the soft fabric of your shirt.

You try to ignore it. Try to pretend this agonizing physical reaction isn't happening. That your heart isn't thudding a warning rhythm every time his casual breath grazes your skin.

But then, his gaze shifts.

He tilts his head up lazily, his attention drifting from the screen to your face. His eyes are hazy with relaxation, but as they sweep down—they stop.

Just for a breathless fucking second.

You see it: the stillness. The slight, animal flicker of attention. The way his eyes land on your chest, an involuntary drop of focus, before he blinks once, hard, and looks back up to your face, suddenly very awake.

He doesn't say a single thing. He doesn't have to.

You feel the heat intensify, the awareness between you thickening. His lips part just a fraction. His grip on your thigh tightens. Bit too much to be the casual drum of his fingers from before.

Your body screams at you to stay, to lean down, to finally, finally see where this impossible moment leads.

But your heart stumbles. You panic.

You lurch upward, a sudden, sharp movement, and his head slips from your lap with a surprised grunt. You stand over him like you’ve been scalded.

“Right,” you blurt out quickly, fussing with the waistband of your jeans. “We should get ready. Party. We don’t want to be late, Dom.”

Dom blinks up at you from the couch, a little disoriented by the abrupt motion. “You good?”

“Yeah. Fine. Totally fine.”

You are absolutely not fine.

But you don’t give him a chance to ask again, to examine your flushed face or the desperate speed of your retreat. You're already halfway to your purse, grabbing your leather jacket, pretending your hands aren't shaking.

Behind you, he sits up slowly, the cushions sighing with his movement. You don't dare look back to see the confusion settle on his face—the slight crease in his brow, the way his eyes, now wide open, follow your frantic retreat for a second too long.

He hasn't spoken the realization aloud, but for the first time, you both know that whatever this is, it’s not casual anymore.

· · ─── ꒰ঌ໒꒱ ─── · ·

The bar’s already packed by the time you get there.

It’s not a normal night out. It never is with Dom. Someone he knows is throwing it, someone with a rooftop space in Shoreditch that’s more photo op than venue.

There are neon signs in the bathroom mirrors, paintings taped to the walls, and a signature cocktail named after Dom.

Also, people clock him the second he walks in.

Phones come out. Heads turn. You watch it happen like you always do — like a switch flips inside him. Off goes soft Dom, the one who melts into your lap and kisses your knuckles. On comes the show man.

He slips behind the bar without being asked, all grins and inked-up arms and shameless flirting. Of course he does. He thrives in this chaos — lights flashing, music pounding, people crowding in like gravity’s pulling them toward him.

You find a corner of the bar, watching as he whips up drinks like he’s been doing it for years. Tequila gets poured like water. He’s got a towel slung over his shoulder, sleeves pushed up, a cigarette tucked behind one ear.

Girls lean over the bar, shamelessly giggling. One says something that makes him laugh loud, head thrown back. Another points to her cheek — he kisses it without missing a beat.

Then you see it.

A girl — tall, glittery eyeshadow, crop top and mini skirt— asks for something “filthy.”

Dom smirks, leans in close. He mixes the drink like it’s an art form, slow. Then he brings the straw to his lips, takes a slow sip, swishes it around thoughtfully, and spits it back into the glass.

Everyone around the bar howls with delight.

The girl drinks it.

You freeze.

Your stomach flips.

Your mouth is dry.

You know it’s a joke — a Dom kind of joke, the gross-hot kind his fans love — but still, something in your chest caves in.

You want to be the one he spits in drinks for.

Hell, you want to taste him, in every fucking way he doesn’t seem to realize you crave.

You press your thighs together and force a smile. Someone passes you a shot. You throw it back without asking what it is.

Dom catches your eye across the bar.

He winks.

You look away.

Because if you look too long, he might see it — the jealousy, the ache, the fact that you’re dying a little every time he gives away a part of himself to someone else.

You wish you could walk up to that bar, lean over, and say “spit in mine”. You wish he’d lean in close and really look at you — not like his best friend, but like someone he wants.

But instead, you just watch like a stupid bystander. And wish.

Another hour bleeds by, a relentless loop of basslines and muffled conversations.

You’re still tucked against the edge of the bar, your smile stiff and barely functioning, the drink untouched in your hand. Your eyes keep snapping back to him like they’re tied with a leash—short, tight, and impossible to sever.

Dom is still behind the counter, all sweaty, intoxicating charm and dirty, casual banter. He is radiant. He’s drinking deep from the attention, and feeding it back tenfold. People slip cash into the waistband of his jeans — sloppy, drunk, adoring — and he doesn’t stop them. Doesn’t even flinch. Just throws his head back and laughs, letting it happen.

His pants ride lower with every bill, until the sharp V of his hips is on full display. Until the dark, damp line of his pubes peeks up over the denim, like he doesn’t care who sees.

You’ve almost managed to mentally check out—until you notice another girl getting close. The groupie. You know the type: sharp angles, designer outfit, a look of proprietorship that makes your teeth ache. She doesn’t just walk up to the bar; she slides up to it, claiming the space in front of him like she already owns it. Like she owns him.

And Dom lights up. His entire demeanor shifts—it’s a different kind of excitement, like she’s the first genuinely interesting challenge he’s encountered all night.

You freeze mid-sip of air.

He leans across the sticky counter to talk to her, so close that her sleek hair brushes his cheek. She laughs—a forced, breathless sound—swats his arm playfully, and leans in further. He whispers something else, and she clutches her chest dramatically, as if he’s just delivered the most indecent secret she’s ever heard.

You can’t hear the words. But you see the look he gives her. It’s hungry, playful, and utterly electric. It’s that stupid, anticipatory grin he gets right before he crosses a public line, knowing perfectly well that he’ll get away with it because he's Dom.

She holds out her tongue, a dare.

And Dom—the man who was just resting in your lap, who felt safe, who made you feel like his person just hours ago—leans in, pours a thin line of salt across the exposed bone of her collarbone, and licks it slow.

You don’t breathe.

He bites the lime slice from her mouth, pulling back with a wicked flash of teeth.

You burn.

Your vision blurs, hot pulse behind your eyes. The chaos of the room—the laughter, the music, the clinking of bottles—all muffles into a distant, dull roar. This isn't a joke. This is a damn deliberate act of intimacy that he refuses to give you in private.

You set your drink down slowly, carefully.

And you walk.

Not fast, not shouting, but with a stiff, measured pace that feels impossibly loud in the dead silence of your own head. You don't allow yourself to look back, because if you did, you would shatter.

But Dom does.

You don’t see him notice the empty corner where you were standing seconds ago. You don't see his brow furrow suddenly, his head turning and scanning the room as if something solid just snapped inside his chest.

His smile fades, just a flicker of confusion crossing now his face.

Something vital shifts in him.

But you’re already gone.

Victor doesn’t ask questions when you find him outside the venue, smoke curling from his lips, leaned against his car as usual.

He just opens the door when you choke out, “Can you take me to Dom’s?” and nods like he’s seen this exact disaster before. Maybe he has.

You slide into the passenger seat, blinking fast, fighting the tremor in your jaw. You’re not going to cry. Not here. Not in front of someone who knows Dom, who’s probably watched him flirt with a hundred girls like that and take some of them home.

But the second the door shuts and the world is silenced behind the tinted glass, your hands start to shake.

Victor drives. Silent. Music low. London blurring outside the windows like it’s underwater, indistinct and rushing away.

You press your forehead to the cold pane of glass, seeking a physical anchor.

And the tears start.

Quiet at first—just hot streaks down your cheeks, soaking into your collar. You wipe them away before they can fall too far, but they keep coming, pulling soft, broken sobs that you try to bury behind your knuckles. It's not just the pain; it’s the sickening contradiction.

He made you feel like you were someone special to him—and then turned around and committed casual profanity with someone else. Yeah, she was pretty, probably prettier than you.

But you hated what she did. The spit. The lime. The sheer, casual filth. It made your stomach twist with revulsion.

But you ached watching it.

You wanted it.

The man. His mouth. His tongue. That raw, unfiltered focus he gives away so easily to strangers but has always held back from you.

And what kills you the most is knowing you would never let anyone do that to you. Not unless it was him.

Your thighs press together involuntarily, the hot, guilty shame blooming in your chest.

You feel disgusting. Humiliated. And so goddamn alone.

Victor clears his throat gently. “You good?”

You manage a shaky nod. A lie. “Just wanna grab my stuff.

He doesn’t push.

Dom’s villa appears out of the dark like a ghost—tall, lit in soft gold from within. One light is still on in the living room. Your stomach churns at the sight of it. You wipe your face, fix your hair in the mirror, attempting to erase the evidence that you’ve just cried your whole soul out.

Victor parks and kills the engine.

“You want me to wait?”

“No,” you whisper, the word thin and brittle. “Thanks though, Victor.”

He held your hand for a moment. He knows you’ re hurting. You don’t say anything — you can’t bring yourself to.

You step out and shut the door behind you.

The walk up the drive feels longer than it ever has.

All you know is that you need to reclaim your things. And maybe—just maybe—by leaving this house, you can finally take back the piece of yourself that still belongs to him.

· · ─── ꒰ঌ໒꒱ ─── · ·

The key’s cold in your hand as you slide it into the lock. You’ve done this a hundred times before, but tonight it feels like trespassing.

The door opens into a low golden light—the kind he always leaves on when he’s out late, the phantom signal that someone might be coming home. The familiar scent rushes out to meet you, thick and immediate: vanilla, the lingering weed that never fully clears the air, and his sharp, citrusy shampoo that always clings to your stolen shirts.

You step inside and shut the door. Your legs go soft before you get past the front hall. Your knees buckle, and you sink straight to the hardwood, back pressed against the cool wall. The sob breaks out of your chest before you can even try to stop it.

It is violently ugly.

You sob like something vital has been ripped out of you, like something inside you has finally, irreversibly died. Tears come hot and fast. You don’t wipe them, burying your hands in your face as your shoulders shake and the shame floods in—wet, crushung snd unforgiving.

You sit in that desolate wreck of yourself until the door opens again behind you.

He’s home.

Dom’s heavy boots hit the threshold and stop dead.

“…What the fuck?”

You don’t look up. You keep your head buried in your arms.

His voice slices through the quiet, sharp with confusion and alarm.

“Are you—are you cryin’? What the hell is this?”

He drops his keys. They hit the console table with a loud, metallic clatter.

He takes a step toward you, then another, and suddenly he’s towering over you all inked skin, rumpled black denim, and the smell of beer on his breath.

“What’s goin’ on?” he says again, voice rumbling lower now. “Why’re you on the fuckin’ floor like that?”

You pull yourself up, knees unsteady, breath still catching in painful hiccups.

“I’m just here for my stuff,” you manage. “I’m leavin’.”

“Like hell you are,” he snaps.

Your head jerks up at the aggression in his tone.

He has his hands on his hips, brows heavily furrowed, jaw locked.

“You show up cryin’ your eyes out and expect me to just let you leave? No chance, love. You’re gonna tell me what’s goin’ on.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The fuck it doesn’t—”

“Dom,” you bite, the sound ragged. “Just let it go.”

“I won’t let it go!” His voice spikes—not deafening, but dangerously sharp. “You’ve been actin’ weird all night, and now you’re standin’ in my hallway lookin’ like your whole world’s caved in. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, I can see you’re bleedin’ out.”

You try to get around him, towards the stairs, towards the bag you left two nights ago, but he steps perfectly in your way.

You try to shove past, and his hand catches your wrist. You tear it away like his skin has burned you.

“Don’t touch me.”

That stops him cold. His face twists like you’ve just physically slapped him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, quieter. “Since when can’t I touch you?”

“Since I realised it doesn’t mean a single fucking thing to you.”

He blinks. You see something flash in his eyes—not just confusion, but a hint of guilt, maybe even fear. You can’t tell through the rage.

You laugh, a broken, bitter sound that shouldn't come from your throat.

“Go on,” you mutter, voice cracking. “Go back to your bar. Go back to those girls. You looked perfectly happy there.”

His mouth opens. “This is about the fuckin’ party? That stunt?”

“No. It’s about every fuckin’ party, Dom. Every time.”

His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching near his temple. “Jesus Christ…”

“You think I like watchin’ you with them? Like it’s a fun little game for me?”

“You’re my mate! What d’you expect me to do—pretend I don’t exist when I’m out with my band?”

“I want you to stop actin’ like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doin’ to me!”

That silences him for half a second.

Then his hand slams down on the edge of the hallway table—hard. The metal dish clatters, a glass tumbles and shatters, and his keys fly onto the floor near your feet.

“Fuck’s sake,” he snarls. “You think this is easy for me? You think I’m just out here fuckin’ around while you cry on my floor and treat me like the bad guy?”

“I never said you were the bad guy!”

“You’re lookin’ at me like I am.”

He’s pacing now. Hands in his hair. Breathing ragged.

You step back, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself.

“I’m not tryna make you feel like shit.”

“Too late.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe now you know how it feels.”

He stops. Just stands there, staring at you.

Your whole body is vibrating with leftover adrenaline. Your chest is too tight. Your eyes are too hot. The words are right there—climbing up your throat, clawing at your tongue.

He sees it. He sees you capable to say something that will shatter everything.

“What?” he breathes, a challenge and a plea mixed together. “Go on. Say it.”

You open your mouth.

You’re actually gonna…

He’s still standing there, breathing heavy, fists clenched, like he’s holding back something vital—a scream, maybe. Or tears.

You’re trembling, completely exposed. Neither of you moves.

“I don’t get you,” he spits, his voice low and burning with frustration. “I’m stood here tryin’ to fuckin’ understand, and you won’t give me fuck-all. Nothin’.”

You stare at him, jaw tight, your heart breaking louder with every word that proves he doesn't see.

“I’m not a mind reader, alright?” he snaps, pacing again, his movements agitated. “You show up like this—cryin’, then shoutin’, then actin’ like I’ve gutted you—and I don’t even know why. What the fuck did I do?”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” you mutter, the statement hanging, heavy and cryptic.

He spins on you.

“Don’t gimme that cryptic shite. I’m not in the fuckin’ mood for riddles tonight.”

“You just don’t fuckin’ get it, Dom!”

“Then make me fuckin’ get it!” he yells, his eyes glassy now, the sheer effort of his control failing. “I can’t do this—watch you fall apart and not know what’s goin’ on inside yer head!”

He closes the distance between you before you can react.

“Let me hold you,” he says, his voice gentler now, but still ragged, still begging. “Just for a second. Please.”

You want to say no. Every rational part of your mind screams that you should say no.

But your body moves before your mouth does.

His arms wrap around you—solid, warm, and shaking just like yours. You fold into him purely on instinct, your forehead pressing into the familiar curve of his shoulder. The second you feel his chest under your cheek, the deep, wracking sob rips out of you, like the feeling has been caged all night, waiting only for this contact to escape.

He holds you tighter, crushing you to him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he whispers, his hand cradling the back of your head, pressing your face to his skin. “You’re breakin’ my fuckin’ heart, love.”

You cry harder, soaking his shirt, pouring your pain into the space between you that’s always been too close and yet never close enough.

“I’ve got you,” he says, over and over, a desperate mantra that he seems to need to believe more than you do. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby.”

And for a moment—just one blinding, deceptive moment—you let yourself believe it.

You bury yourself in his chest, your fists gripping his shirt, crying like the world is truly ending. Because for your world, this feeling is the finale.

But then your breath catches, caught by a brutal realization.

He’s holding you like a best mate in crisis.

And you want him to hold you like you’re his. Like you are everything he just risked losing.

You shove him away, your hands hard on his chest.

“Don’t.”

He stumbles back, stunned, his expression a wreckage of confusion and hurt. His eyes frantically search your face, trying to locate the new injury he’s caused.

“Don’t fuckin’ hold me like that unless you mean it.”

Dom’s jaw tenses, his earlier rage flickering back to life, challenged by fresh heartbreak.

“I do mean it,” he says, his voice hoarse.

But it’s not enough.

You’re still crying, but now the tears are sharper, colder. It’s a cry laced with years of being almost his.

He watches you, his throat bobbing, and he knows something’s coming now—the final, devastating truth.

You’re sobbing now—not like before. This is different. This is the truth. This is the breakdown that’s been living in your throat for months, finally ripping free and tearing your control to shreds.

Dom’s face is pale, his mouth slightly parted, his eyes flicking between yours like he’s trying to solve a complex equation in real time. But he can’t. He’s lost. Painfully, completely lost.

He reaches for you again—hesitant, almost pleading—and you shove his hand away with a violent flinch.

“Don’t touch me.” Your voice is shredded by the force of the words. “You don’t get to touch me like that,” you snap, trembling from head to toe, "and then look at me like you don’t fucking know what this is.”

“Know what?” he says, stunned, retreating. “I don’t—what are you even saying right now?”

You let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, utterly broken.

“You don’t see it?” you spit. “You don’t see the way I burn for you? You don’t feel how every time you so much as breathe near me, I can’t think straight? You don’t notice how I fucking fall apart when you kiss and fuck other girls and come home to me like I’m safe and I’m yours, but I’m not?”

His eyes go wide, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths. He’s listening, really listening, for the first time.

“I’m in love with you, Dom,” you cry, your voice gasping for air. “And it hurts. It hurts every second I have to watch you hand yourself out in pieces to strangers while I sit back and swallow it. Every joke. Every kiss. Every night you leave me on the couch to go fuck someone who doesn’t even know you like I do.”

He sways on the spot, his body reacting as though you’ve just hit him hard in the chest.

You keep going. You can’t stop. The need to purge the shame is overwhelming.

“I lie awake in your bed and I touch myself to the sound of your fucking voice when you’re getting off in the next room.”

He stares at you, a statue of shock. Dead silence.

“I press my ear to the fucking door,” you say, your voice dropping to a cracked whisper of pure humiliation, “and I listen to you moan. Like a fucking freak. Like someone who’s never going to be enough to make you sound like that. And then I lie there, trying not to come too loud so you don’t hear what you’re doing to me without even touching me.”

Dom’s breath catches visibly in his throat. He’s seen. He knows.

“I’m disgusting,” you say, the tears streaming freely now. “I’m pathetic. I know that.”

“No—” he tries, finally moving, reaching out.

You step back sharply, putting distance between you like he’s a live wire.

“I said don’t,” you cry. “Don’t try to fix this with that soft voice. Don’t stand there and look at me like you’re sorry when you don’t even fucking know what I’ve done to myself because of you.”

You wipe your face with both hands, smearing the mess of tears and mascara across your skin.

“I ruined this friendship. I know I did. And I knew it the second I opened my mouth. But I can’t un-feel it, Dom. I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you in ways that make me ashamed to fucking exist.”

You finally stop.

The silence is thick, crushing.

Dom’s staring at you like the air has been completely sucked out of his lungs. He’s not crying, but he looks devastated. His eyes are glassy, his jaw trembles, and his hands are slack at his sides as if he doesn't trust them not to shake.

He tries to speak. Nothing comes out.

You feel your heartbeat in your teeth, in your throat, in the tips of your fingers.

Dom doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He just stands there, like someone’s rewinding every moment you’ve ever shared in his head, searching desperately for the clues he missed.

Then, finally, barely above a whisper

“Is this real?”

You blink, breath hitching painfully.

“What?”

His voice is hoarse. Fragile.

“You’re really—fuckin’ hell—you’re in love with me?”

You don’t answer. You just stare at him, arms tight around your ribs, willing yourself not to collapse again.

He runs both hands through his hair, pacing once, twice, a caged animal.

“For how long?”

You shake your head, laughing bitterly at the absurdity of the question.

“You really wanna know?”

“Yes.”

“Too long.”

His face screws up, the words visibly causing him pain.

He looks at you again—truly looks—and for the first time, he’s seeing it all. The crushing weight you’ve been carrying, the years you’ve burned under the surface.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I was scared you’d look at me exactly like you’re looking at me right now.”

He flinches, a quick, involuntary jerk of his head.

You swallow hard.

“Because I thought maybe… if I just stayed close, if I kept being the one who always stayed, maybe that’d be enough. Maybe it’d change something.”

He’s breathing heavy now, like the walls of the apartment are closing in on him.

“I need to… fuck, I don’t know.”

He turns away from you, putting his hand on the back of his neck, his whole body tense with feeling he can’t sort out.

“I need to think,” he says quietly, his voice hollow. “I need to—process this.”

You nod once, a tiny movement that feels like a blade twisting in your chest.

He doesn’t look at you again. Doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t try to comfort you.

He just sits down heavily on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.

You haven’t moved.

You’re still standing by the door, your arms wrapped around yourself, shaking from the inside out.

Then—

“Fucking hell,” he breathes into his palms, the sound muffled and thick.

“I’m such a fucking idiot.”

He stands suddenly, a burst of restless energy. He paces—fast and jagged—like his own skin doesn't fit him anymore.

“Of course you’re in love with me,” he mutters, the disbelief turning to agonizing realization. “Of fucking course you are. And I just—Jesus Christ, I was blind.”

He grabs the stack of vinyl records near the speaker, the ones you used to listen to on repeat, and throws them across the room.

Vinyl cracks and shatters, sleeves splitting open like wounds. The violent crash makes you flinch and pull further into yourself.

Dom’s breathing is ragged, his chest heaving. His eyes are raw.

“I flirted with girls in front of you,” he says, a sound halfway between a choke and a bitter, desperate laugh. “I fucking flirted while you were—while you were in love with me. I fucked them while you were in love with me”

He looks around the room, which suddenly feels too small, like it’s caving in on him.

“How didn’t I see it? What the fuck is wrong with me?”

He kicks the edge of the coffee table with a vicious thud. The lamp tumbles off the side and its base shatters against the hardwood.

You take one involuntary step back, away from the chaos.

Dom turns and looks at you. Just for a split second. And there’s something on his face—devastation, self-hatred, pure panic—that almost makes you drop your guard and reach for him.

Almost.

But you don’t.

Instead, you walk toward the stairs, your feet moving silently across the broken floor. You grab your bag, turn, and head for the door.

“Where are you going?” he says from the center of the living room, his voice strained and quiet.

You don’t answer.

You pull the door open and step into the cool night air.

“Oi,” he says again, his voice cracking now. “Where are you going?!”

Still, you offer nothing.

You step out completely into the hallway.

“Say something!” he shouts, the sound desperate, frantic.

You stop, turning your head just enough so he catches the full, smeared mess of your face in the doorway.

“I already did.”

And then you pull the door shut behind you, the dead silence of the click the loudest sound in the world.

· · ─── ꒰ঌ໒꒱ ─── · ·

You’re not expecting the knock.

Not after three weeks of silence.

Three weeks of you learning how to sleep without the echo of his voice in your bones, of you trying to scrape the last residue of his scent off your clothes.

Three weeks of telling yourself he was gone for good.

But when you open the door—

He’s there.

Dom.

He looks like a ghost: hood shadowing his face, jacket rumpled, hair messed up, his eyes wide and burning with a desperate, breathless energy, like he ran the whole way across the city.

He looks wrecked. Completely and utterly undone, as if someone’s been pulling him apart thread by thread.

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out. You are frozen in the frame of the doorway.

And then he speaks.

“I fucked it.”

One sentence. One brutal, aching heartbeat. And your knees go soft beneath you.

“What—”

“I fucked it,” he says again, his voice raw, his eyes never leaving yours. “I left when I should’ve run to you. I said nothing when I should’ve said everything. I’ve been in the fucking Rotten Apple trying to forget the way you looked when you told me the truth, and I can’t.”

You blink, stunned, unable to process the velocity of his return.

He takes a deliberate step closer, crowding your space.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” he breathes, leaning down. “You think I wasn’t burning too? I was. I just didn’t know what it was until the silence started. Until I lost it.”

“Dom—”

“I’m in love with you.”

The words punch through the air like a physical blow, heavy and undeniable.

“I’ve been in love with you,” he insists. “Longer than I knew. Long before you said it. I just—” He lets out a single, broken laugh, furious at his own stupidity. “I was blind. Fucking reckless. I was so used to havin’ you, I didn’t realise I was in love with you.”

Your throat tightens, the tears threatening to return.

You shake your head slowly, a desperate attempt to protect yourself from this sudden, dangerous hope.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t do this. Don’t come here now. You had weeks”

“I know,” he says, the single word laced with self-contempt. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He closes the final space between you in three steps.

“Then let me show you.”

And he kisses you. Not soft. Not gentle. It’s a total reclamation.

He takes your mouth like it’s the only way he knows how to speak the apology. Like everything he left unsaid is buried in the way his lips crash into yours, in the desperate pressure of his hands framing your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor you to him.

You gasp into him, your body arching and finally giving in. He presses you back into the wall just inside the flat, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot without ever breaking the contact.

His hands move urgently to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss deepens—hot, hungry, all breath and teeth and the ignition of years of wanting.

He breaks just long enough to breathe the words against your mouth.

“I was stupid.”

Another kiss—rough, desperate, demanding everything.

“I was so fuckin’ stupid.”

His lips trail down to your jaw, your throat. You’re dizzy from the heat of him, from the overwhelming weight of being wanted like this.

“I let you believe you were disgusting,” he groans, pressing his forehead against yours. “When all I’ve ever wanted was you.”

You let out a broken sound—half-sob, half-moan—and he kisses it right off your lips.

“I’m here now,” he murmurs, his voice shaking against your skin. “I’m here. And I’m not leaving again.”

You’re both breathless.

His mouth is still on yours, his chest is still rising fast against you, like he can’t quite believe you’re solid, real, and finally there.

But it’s not the heat that undoes you—

It’s the look on his face when he pulls back just far enough to see you clearly.

You’re crying.

Not the way you cried weeks ago—not sobbing or shaking—but quiet, raw tears sliding down your cheeks, your lip trembling as your fingers dig into his shoulders like you’re terrified he might dissolve or disappear again.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice cracking from the shock of joy and relief. “No, love, don’t cry!”

You let out a choked laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Dom wraps his arms around you so tight your breath hitches in your throat.

“I’m here,” he whispers into your hair, the words a rough promise. “I’m here now. I swear to Christ.”

And then—his voice cracks completely.

You feel it in his chest. The deep, broken tremble of it.

He’s crying too.

And he’s smiling.

Smiling, even as his lashes go wet and his nose brushes yours and he breathes you in like you’re the only source of air he’s ever needed.

You feel his body burning under your hands. Everything about him is warm and solid and alive—no longer a ghost you couldn’t touch. You dig your nails into his back, afraid that if you let go he’ll vanish.

He lifts you without warning—arms locked under your thighs, pulling you against him like it’s instinct, like he needs to feel your full weight to believe this is real.

Your legs wrap around his waist. He holds you like he’s never letting go.

And then he starts talking—soft, fast, like the words are coming loose all at once.

“I used to count how many rings you wore on your fingers, every time you’d leave ‘em on the counter. That’s how gone I was. You’d take ‘em off and I’d know where you left ‘em.”

You bury your face in his neck, the confession making you sob harder now, the shame finally washing away in a wave of shared pain.

He goes on, his voice shaking with the weight of years. “I used to fake fall asleep on yer shoulder just so I didn’t have to move. You always smelled like oranges and clean shampoo and I used to think about that smell when I was on fuckin’ tour.”

You kiss the space just beneath his jaw, and he groans, a deep, wounded sound.

“I’ve been in love with you for ages,” he says, pressing you tighter to him. “I just didn’t have the fuckin’ guts to call it what it was.”

You lean back, hands cupping his face, and he’s smiling again through the tears—eyes red, glowing with something that looks like relief and ache and joy all at once.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I missed everything about you,” he replies, brushing your tears with his thumb. “Even the way you’re such a mess sometimes.”

You laugh, wet and breathless. He kisses the corner of your mouth.

Then your cheek.

Then your neck.

Then your lips again—slow this time, deep and full, like he’s showing you what every touch has always meant.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth, the words like a physical presence. “I love you, I love you—fuck, I’m never gonna stop sayin’ it.”

And you believe him.

“I love you too, Dom”

He carries you through the flat like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms tight around his neck, mouths colliding again and again—hot, open-mouthed. He’s stumbling a little, bumping into a wall, laughing into your kiss like he’s never felt joy like this.

He pushes the bedroom door open with his shoulder and lays you down like you are fragile and holy.

He hovers above you for just a second—eyes wide, lips parted, hands braced on either side of your head like he’s terrified this isn’t real.

You cup his face, pulling him down gently.

“I’m here,” you whisper, the final confirmation.

He leans down and kisses you like he’s starving. You moan into it, fingers diving into his hair, pulling him closer until there’s nothing left between you but heat.

His hands find the hem of your shirt and pause.

“Can I—?”

You nod, closing your eyes on the overwhelming rush of emotion.

He pulls it over your head, slow, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His eyes scan every inch of your exposed skin like he’s finally memorizing the map.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes.

You pull his own shirt up and off in return, fingers brushing his stomach, his ribs—all warm skin and muscle and ink. He shudders violently under your touch.

“I used to think about this,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, his hands sliding over your sides. “So many fuckin’ nights. I’d be in bed thinkin’ about what it’d be like to touch you, to kiss you here—”

He presses his lips to the curve of your shoulder, your collarbone, your chest.

You gasp. Arch.

His voice is a plea, a single, soft stroke of your name

“Dom…I —“But your head shakes, a small, fierce denial. “I won’t say it,” you whisper, the air catching in your throat. “You’ll hate me if I say it.”

“I won’t,” he instantly cuts in, his voice raw. “I could never fuckin’ hate you. Tell me.”

You hide your face for a heartbeat, stealing a breath. Then you look up—eyes glazed, throat convulsing with the effort.

“That night at the bar,” you choke out. “When you were working. Flirting. Spitting in her drink like it was nothing —”

His brow instantly knits, jaw seizing tight.

“I—what?”

“You don’t get it,” you snap, the fragile sound cracking. “You were just… doing your thing. All that charm. Making them laugh. That spit, like it was a sexy trick. And all I could think was—”

You stop. Your eyelids press shut, sealing the image in.

He waits, utterly still.

“—all I could think was God, I wish that was me.”

The silence is thick, suffocating.

Your eyes tear open. They’re burning hot.

“I’d never let anyone do that to me. Ever. But you… I wanted it. I wanted it so bad it was a physical sickness. I felt like a fucking freak.”

Your voice is a frantic tremor now, the shame a hot, metallic coil around your ribs.

“I watched you give that to someone else and I—I ached. I wanted to taste it. Taste. You.”

Dom simply stares, his expression unreadable, a slow burn.

And then he moves.

One long, deliberate stride. Slow. Steady.

He cups your jaw—a touch that is both demanding and impossibly gentle—and tilts your face up to his.

“Baby,” he whispers, the sound a low vibration against your skin, “don’t you dare be shy.”

You blink, a tiny, involuntary gasp parting your lips.

“You really wanted that?” he asks, his gaze stripping you bare. “You wanted me like that?”

You manage a single, broken nod.

“I wanted everything,” you whisper, the confession tearing free. “Even the things that made me hate myself for wanting you.”

He lets out a shuddering exhale, the kind of breath a man holds for a lifetime.

“You never have to be ashamed of how you want me. Do you hear me? Never.”

His thumb strokes your jawline, a tiny, mesmerizing friction.

“You’re the only girl I’d ever wanna spit in the mouth of,” he adds, a predator’s smirk playing at the edge of something much deeper, much darker. “And the only one I’d let spit in mine.”

The sudden relief is a sob, a laugh, a shattering sound. You crash into him, your arms locking tight around his chest like he’s the only structure left in the world.

Because in that moment, maybe he is.

“I’d get off,” he says against your skin, "with your name in my mouth.Like a fuckin’ secret I didn’t deserve to say out loud.”

You whimper at that—and it breaks something loose inside you, making you feel desperately reckless.

“I used to imagine your hands,” you confess, voice cracking. “All over me. The way you’d pull your rings off when you got home—I used to wonder what they’d feel like against my bare skin.”

He groans like the truth is physically killing him.

You reach for his hand, taking it without a word. His fingers—calloused and inked, still warm from the recent press against your skin—are a familiar comfort. Slowly, deliberately, you lift it to your mouth. Your lips brush his knuckles first, a touch so light it's less a kiss and more a gentle breath.

Then, parting your mouth, you draw his index finger in. You kiss each fingertip, one after the next, as if each holds a secret or a promise. When you reach the middle finger, marked with the tiny heart, you pause. Your tongue flicks softly over the ink, a fleeting caress, before you close your mouth around the digit, sucking just enough to feel the immediate, sharp twitch in his body. He remains perfectly still, silent, only watching you with a heavy, ragged breath.

You kiss him hard, pulling him back to you, your legs wrapping around him again.

“Every time I touched you like a mate, all I could think about was how much I wanted you like this. Wanted to make you come just from sayin’ your name the right way.”

You whine at the sound of his voice—dark and rough and full of desperate hunger.

“Say it now,” you beg.

“Darlin’.” His voice goes soft. “Love.” Then rough again: “Mine.”

He strips the rest of your clothes like he’s never undressed anyone before—careful, but shaking, too, like it’s all too much.

You return the favour, your hands fumbling at his jeans, your lips brushing every new inch of skin you reveal.

And when you’re both bare, there’s a pause.

Not awkward. Not nervous.

Just still.

Just real.

You’re looking at each other for the first time without anything between you—no fear, no shame, no clothes, no silence.

He leans in, kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“I’m gonna love you right,” he says, barely a whisper. “Not just tonight. Always.”

Dom slowed, not from hesitation, but because this moment demanded reverence. Rushing would dishonor the sheer, electric gravity of it.

You were lying back against the pillows, flushed, breath coming shallow and quick. He stayed kneeling between your legs, staring at you with an incredulous heat.

He leaned in close to your skin, his hands cradling you with a shattering gentleness that made your eyes sting. His hands moved up, slow like he was giving you time to stop him. But you didn’t.

When his palms cupped your breasts, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Full, soft, warm against his hands, he held them like he was learning their shape, his thumbs brushing lazy circles over your nipples until they peaked under his touch.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, lips brushing one nipple. “They’re so fuckin’ full.”

Your breath hitched and you let out a moan.

He looked up, his lips grazing your skin as he spoke beneath his lashes.

“Been thinkin’ about these for so long. The way they bounce when you walk. How they’d feel in my hands… in my fuckin’ mouth.”

Then he sucked—slow, deep, tongue circling—and you arched, crying out. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating deep in his own chest, sharing your pleasure.

One hand kneaded the softness of your other breast while his mouth worked the first, kissing, tasting, worshipping, utterly lost in you.

You were already squirming, breathless, whimpering.

He moved up, capturing your mouth in a quick, bruising kiss, then pulled back an inch, his eyes hot and fierce, locked on yours.

“You meant it?” he rasped, voice low and wrecked. “What you said… about my spit?”

You bit your lip and nodded once, sharply.

He grinned—slow, wicked, tender.

“Then open your mouth for me, my love.”

You immediately did. He leaned in close, so close you could feel the shuddering of his breath.

“You’re so hot for me,” he murmured, his voice catching. “I fuckin’ love you.”

Then he spat—hot, slow, right into your waiting mouth—and let out a strangled groan when you swallowed it with a soft, broken moan.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You kissed him hard—teeth and tongue and heat.

“I’m gonna take my time with you,” he promised. “Gonna make you come so many fuckin’ times you forget what it felt like to ache for me.”

He hovered over you, both of you breathless, your lips still swollen from the bruising kiss he just left.

“I need more.”

He growled softly, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip.

“You still want it?”

You nodded, wordless, ruined.

“Say it,” he murmured, his thumb pressing gently against your jaw.

“I want it,” you whispered, voice ragged. “I want you to spit in my mouth again. Dom. Please.”

His breath caught—as though your words had punched the air from his lungs.

He smirked, but it was worshipful now. His eyes were dark, but his hands remained gentle.

“God, you’re perfect.”

He leaned in—so close his lips almost brushed yours—and then spat. You moaned around it, swallowing it down like you were made for nothing else.

His hand curled into your hair, and he let out a full-bodied, helpless moan. And then, he did something you weren’t ready for.

“Your turn,” he whispered. “Spit in mine.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“I want it,” he rasped. “Give it to me. I want your spit in my mouth.”

You stared at him, stunned, until something deep inside you cracked open. He was asking for it. Begging.

You reached for his face, cupping his jaw, eyes locked on his.

“Open, baby” you whispered.

He obeyed instantly—mouth open, tongue out, eyes hungry. You leaned in, heart pounding, and let your spit fall into his mouth, slow, intimate, trembling.

He groaned the moment it hit his tongue, his jaw flexing as he swallowed it down.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted. That’s what I’ve been fuckin’ dying for.”

You kissed him hard—the shared spit still on both your tongues—and he kissed you back like you were oxygen.

He pressed his forehead to yours, laughing softly—breathless, overwhelmed, happy in a way that felt dangerous.

“I’m not just gonna fuck you,” he promised. “I’m gonna love you with every filthy, fuckin’ inch of me.”

His body was heavy over yours now—hot, wanting. Your skin was burning, flushed and damp, every inch of you begging to be touched, and he could feel it. He felt everything.

“Jesus Christ,” Dom murmured against your jaw, dragging his lips down to your throat. “You’re so fuckin’ hot. You’re burnin’ up for me.”

His hands glided down your ribs, then your waist steady, before gripping your hips like anchors.

He was holding himself back.

When your thighs shifted open beneath him, and his fingers brushed down between your legs…

He froze.

He groaned, jaw dropping against your neck.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re soaked,” he gasped. “You’re so wet I can feel it on my fuckin’ hand before I’ve even touched you proper.”

You whimpered, grinding up into his palm, and he cursed again, deeper this time.

“Look at what I do to you,” he breathed. “Look how much you need me.”

You reached down, sliding your hand between your bodies, feeling him: his cock, hard and thick, straining against you.

The sound you made was filthy—half-gasp, half-moan. He let you feel him, hips rocking, letting his weight grind into you, and your body arched in response, desperate to be filled.

But then he stopped. Just enough to make you ache.

“Not yet,” he said softly. “Not like that.”

You blinked up at him, dazed.

His eyes were dark and wrecked, but focused entirely on you. One hand brushed hair from your face. The other stayed warm on your thigh.

“I want this to be perfect for you,” he said. “You deserve that. Deserve to be kissed slow, touched soft. Not just fucked like a need but fucking loved.”

Tears pricked at your eyes even as your body pulsed. He leaned in, kissing your cheek. Your jaw. Your collarbone. Down to your stomach, your hips laying a trail of open-mouthed kisses.

He looked up from between your thighs, his voice low, reverent:

“You’re so beautiful, it hurts.”

And then—slowly, worshipfully—he kissed you there.

His mouth settled between your thighs, his breath hot and shaky as he laid another kiss on the softest part of you and it made your back arch, your fingers twist in the sheets, a sound tumbling from your lips.

He groaned into you like he was starved.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You taste so good, baby.”

He took his time—tongue slow, precise, gentle—like he was trying to learn you by heart.

Your hand flew to his hair, fisting it as your hips bucked, body trembling. But he didn’t stop, didn’t rush. He flattened his tongue and stayed there, licking slow and deep while one hand anchored your thigh and the other stroked calming circles on your belly.

He looked up at you—pupils blown wide, lips glistening—and it was too much.

“Dom—fuck, you’re so good at that,” you choked. “You’re so fucking hot! I can’t even think—”

He groaned deep, like your praise turned him on more than anything.

His tongue dragged slow over your clit, then again, then again, and then he sucked, just enough to make your thighs clamp.

“You like how I’m eatin’ you, baby?”

“I love it—fuck! I love your mouth, I—”

You were babbling now, breathless, too wet to speak without stuttering.

“You sound so fuckin’ pretty like this, you know that? Moanin’ for me while I taste every part of you.”

He kissed your thigh, slow and wet, then licked back up, spitting softly over your pussy just to lick it back up, his body high on your sounds.

You looked down at him and couldn’t take it—his messy mouth, his wild hair, the way his eyes locked on yours like he’d drown in you if you let him.

“You’re so fucking handsome,” you gasped. “You look so good between my legs Dom, I…fuck—please—”

“You beg so sweet,” he breathed, licking slow, almost teasing now. “Makes me wanna fuck you with my tongue ‘til your legs give out.”

Your thighs were trembling around his head—completely open, completely his, and Dom didn’t just bury his mouth between your legs, he devoured you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

Sloppy. Focused. So fucking slow.

His tongue moved in circles, his mouth sucking at your clit just right, but you barely processed it because your eyes dropped lower and

Fuck.

He was stroking himself.

One hand between your thighs, keeping you spread, the other wrapped around his cock. Hard, leaking, the kind of grip that said he was right there with you, falling apart from the taste of you.

“Dom!”

He didn’t stop. He pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny, green eyes full of need.

“Keep makin’ those sounds, baby,” he murmured, pumping his cock slow while his breath fanned over your pussy. “Look what you fuckin’ do to me.”

You looked. You couldn’t not.

He was a mess—shoulders tense, jaw clenched, eyes locked on your pussy like it was the center of the universe.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, licking into you again. “Could come just from this. From how sweet you fuckin’ sound when I’ve got my mouth on you.”

He moaned into you like he was coming from your voice alone.

His tongue didn’t stop. His hand didn’t stop.

“Come for me, baby. Show me how good I make you feel. I’m right here—don’t hold back.”

“Dom—” you gasped. “ I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he said, hoarse. “Let me have it. Let me, baby.”

His hand was still wrapped around the base of his cock— flushed, twitching but he wasn’t jerking off anymore. He was holding it, gritting his jaw like just being inside his own fist was too much, like he was on the edge just from how good you tasted. From how fucking sweet your moans sounded falling apart for him.

Your hips rolled against his mouth and he groaned, and he kept stroking himself slow while he ate you, but never enough to let go.

His arm was shaking. Holding back. For you.

“Taste like fuckin’ honey,” he whispered, lips slick against your clit.

You were so close it hurt.

Tears burned behind your eyes from the pressure, from the way he worshipped you and held himself back at the same time, from how badly he wanted you to fall apart first.

“Please, Dom! Please don’t stop —”

“Never,” he growled. “I’ve got you, baby. Come for me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you did—shaking, sobbing, hand fisted in his hair—he didn’t let go. He didn’t come. Didn’t fucking move.

He just held you there, mouth soft on your thigh, hand still around his cock, waiting for your breathing to come back, like your high was the only thing he needed.

He kissed up your thigh slow—soft now, like his mouth had just learned to worship. By the time he reached your face, you were already pulling him down, hands on his shoulders, mouth searching his like you needed to feel him everywhere at once.

You tasted yourself on his lips. He moaned into it grateful, feral, and when you felt the head of his cock nudged against you, you flinched.

Still sensitive. Still throbbing. But you needed him.

“Fuck, love,” he panted, voice cracking. “You sure?”

You nodded, dazed. “Please.”

He lined himself up, hands framing your face like he couldn’t let go of you even for a second— and then he pushed in.

Slow. So slow. Like every inch was a full-body tremor.

You both groaned—not from pain, not from pressure—but from how much it meant.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he whispered, forehead to yours. “You’re so fuckin’ wet. You feel that? That’s from my mouth, baby. That’s me.”

He rocked his hips forward, a little deeper but not all the way, like he was scared he’d lose it if he bottomed out too fast.

“You’re takin’ me so good,” he murmured. “Like you want all of me. Every fuckin’ inch.”

“I do,” you breathed. “You feel so good, Dom, so deep”

“I’m gonna lose it,” he moaned, mouth brushing yours, thrusting slow but heavier now. “I’ve never felt anyone like this. Never been this close.”

You clenched around him, instinctive, and he groaned low, like he was trying to fight back his orgasm with pure will.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “You let me in like you trust me with your life.”

“I do.”

His thrusts got a little rougher. Still careful. But desperate now. Like your body was calling him somewhere deeper and he couldn’t help it anymore.

“You’re mine like this,” he gasped. “And I’m yours. Fuck—baby—tell me you feel it too.”

“I do—Dom—I do—don’t stop—”

“Never. Never fuckin’ stoppin’. You’re the best thing I’ve ever been inside. You hear me?”

He kissed your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His thrusts didn’t slow just kept hitting the spot, so good it blurred your vision.

And still, his voice in your ear:

“Let me fuck you like it means something.” “Let me come inside you and stay.”

Your body was a continuous ache, every slow, deliberate thrust impossibly full and deep, burning with a pleasure that bordered on pain. Each word he murmured was absorbed into your skin, settling there, undeniable and permanent, as if it were the truth of you.

But as the pace held, something monumental shifted. You looked at him—truly, completely looked—and the familiar façade of Dom-the-rockstar dissolved. What remained was a man: flushed, raw, and fiercely beautiful, visibly shaking from the profound effort it took to temper his desire into gentleness for you.

You cupped his face in both hands, an act of possession and reverence, and kissed him. This was not a soft, shy offering; it was a demanding collision of mouths, a total surrender of every emotion that had built between you.

“Lie back,” you whispered, the breath warm against his lips.

He blinked, confusion warring with arousal, still heavy and deep inside you. “W-what?”

“Let me take care of you now.”

He let out a visceral, choked swear, the words themselves seeming to knock the last vestige of his control loose.

You rolled him over in one fluid motion, keeping him impossibly anchored inside you as you straddled his hips, palms flattening against the hard, rising and falling plane of his chest.

He was wide-eyed, breathless, completely exposed and utterly at your mercy.

You began to move. Slow and profoundly deep, your hips rolling like a slow tide, deliberately trying to memorize the exact shape of him. Your nails dragged lightly over the skin of his stomach, tracing the black lines of ink on his ribs. Leaning low, you kissed the curve of his neck, then the vulnerable hollow of his throat.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you breathed against his skin. “The way you held back for me. The way you worshipped me.”

He let out a devastating moan, his eyes fluttering shut, fingers clutching the sheets like tearing them would be easier than bearing the sensation.

“Baby—fuck—don’t say things like that—”

“Why not?” You straightened, riding him slower still, teasing the edge of his control, watching the powerful heave of his chest under your hands. “Scared I’ll make you feel something real?”

“I already fuckin’ do,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “You’ve got me all the way, you know that?”

You leaned in again—this time pressing your mouth to his ear, simultaneously grinding down, deep, deep, squeezing around him with deliberate, total intent.

“I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you lose it, knowing I love how much you care. Let me feel all of you, Dom. Don’t hold back now.”

He choked on a sudden, shattered breath. His hands flew instinctively to your hips, head tipping back as he issued a ragged, desperate sound.

You were still on top of him, still riding slow, so deep, so full, both of you right on the edge—but neither of you wanted to let it end.

Your thighs were shaking. He was panting beneath you, hands gripping your hips like he needed to hold on to something real—and you were, you were everything.

“Dom!”

Your voice broke, wet and frantic.

“I don’t want to lose you. Not ever. Not my rockstar. Not my best friend. Not the biggest fuckin’ love of my life—”

Tears ran hot down your cheeks.

You were grinding, rolling, every thrust sending sparks up your spine, but the fear rose with the pleasure.

“I’m scared,” you cried. “I’m so scared I’m gonna wake up and you’ll be gone, just another night I made too big in my head.”

His hands flew to your face, holding you still, eyes wild and wet and so full of you it hurt.

“Baby, listen to me. Look at me. I’m not fuckin’ leavin’. Be my girlfriend. Be mine. Say yes. Say it while you’re fuckin’ comin’ on me.”

Your whole body shuddered.

“I love you,” you sobbed, riding harder now, feeling your orgasm crash in.

“I love you so much, Dom—yes—yes, I’m yours—please—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, eyes rolling back, hips slamming up into you, helpless now.

“Come on me, baby—fuckin’ soak me—let me feel you lose it—”

And you did—both of you together, crying, shaking, moaning, saying I love you over and over as you clung to each other, as your bodies locked and your hearts finally said everything they’d been holding back. He spilled into you, mouth open, face pressed to your chest like he needed to stay buried there just to survive it.

“Mine,” he whispered. “You’re fuckin’ mine now. No more leavin’. No more pretendin’.”

You nodded, crying into his hair, still pulsing around him, still trembling.

“Yours. Always.”

You collapsed together. Panting. Clinging. Still locked at the hips.

No one spoke anymore.

There was nothing left to hide. Just love. And everything that came before it, washed clean.

· · ─── ꒰ঌ໒꒱ ─── · ·

The room was quiet now.

The storm of skin and words and confession had settled into a profound stillness.

Now it was just you and him, tangled in the warmth of the sheets that smelled like sweat and sex and something entirely new—belonging.

Dom lay beside you, one arm behind his head, the other tracing lazy shapes along your hip. Your leg was slung over his. His smile was soft, a little crooked, and still stunned by the last hour.

He turned his head toward you, eyes heavy, his lips parted like he was fighting the need to say something important.

“Oi,” he murmured. “Got a mad idea.”

You hummed, not bothering to open your eyes.

“What if…” He paused, tongue in his cheek, trying to suppress a grin. “You came with me? On tour?”

You opened your eyes immediately.

He was already looking at you. Not cocky. Not nervous. Just real and completely earnest.

“I mean—” he shrugged, letting his vulnerability show, “you basically lived on the fuckin’ bus anyway. Might as well do it as my girlfriend now.”

Your breath hitched.

“Hmm your girlfriend?”

He nodded, slow and certain. “Yeah. Mine. Properly.”

You blinked at him, your heart twisting in the best way. He grinned—bright, soft, and a little breathless.

“Say yes anyway. Just so I can hear it. Be my fucking girlfriend!”

You leaned in, kissing him soft.

“Yes,” you whispered against his mouth. “I’ll come with you. I will be your fucking girlfriend.”

His hand slid up your back, pulling you in tighter until there was no space left between you.

“Good,” he said, the word heavy with relief. “Wasn’t gonna survive another fuckin’ city without you.”

You both laughed quiet, warm, like the world outside had finally exhaled.

Outside, the sky began to turn grey-blue with the first hint of morning. Inside, you lay there with him—skin to skin, heart to heart, no more pretending, no more waiting.

And for the first time in years, you didn’t ache.