#bratty reader

his fingers still hold the back of your neck firmly, keeping you trapped. the usual sweetness in his eyes has been replaced with a rough intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

he reaches into the nightstand drawer forcefully, grabbing the pink silicone dildo without looking at you.

he grabs a lube, spreading it generously over the toy with impatient strokes. when he turns back to you, the look in his eyes is unrelenting. he pushes your thighs apart with a rough hand, positioning the silicone tip at your entrance without any preamble.

"if you want to act like a brat," he warns, lining the dildo up, "you can get fucked like one."

you blush, “follo.. not fair..”

"fair?" he echoes mockingly, pushing the tip of the dildo inside you without waiting for your response. you gasp at the sudden intrusion, your hands gripping the sheets as he continues to press it deeper. "when did i say anything about being fair?"

“i’m s-sorry..” you stuttered. "sorry doesn't cut it right now," he says, gripping your hip to hold you still as he slides the full length into you with one smooth thrust. his eyes watch yours unfeelingly, not a flicker of the usual warmth in his gaze.

your body arches off the bed as the toy hits your deepest point. your breath hitches, trembling hands grabbing at his arm for support, but he doesn't slow down or offer any comfort. he watches the blush deepening on your face, his grip on your hip tightening just enough to keep you pinned.

"eyes on me," he commands, his voice rough and unyielding.

you meet his gaze, seeing the unreadable expression. the dildo moves in and out of you, making wet, squelching sounds. your body squirms slightly.

his thumb brushes against your cheek, a brief, gentle gesture that betrays a glimpse of his softer side beneath the aggressive and rough exterior. the movement is almost tender, a stark contrast to the relentless pace he's keeping.

"bratty little girl," he murmurs, his voice losing just a fraction of its edge. he slows his hand slightly, allowing you to catch your breath.

you see the flicker of warmth return to his gaze—a soft, almost apologetic look that contradicts his harsh behavior. he strokes your hair with surprising gentleness, thumb brushing over your flushed cheek as he continues moving the dildo inside you.

"you're still my baby," he murmurs, his tone softening.

a soft moan left your mouth which catches his attention immediately, and a faint, satisfied smile touches his lips. his thumb strokes your cheek again, almost tenderly, despite the relentless rhythm he's keeping.

"good girl," he whispers, the words dripping with a familiar warmth. he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead while the dildo continues its steady pace.

“g-gonna cum soon.. hnghhh! f-follo..”

"that's right," he encourages gruffly, picking up the pace slightly as your moans grow louder. "cum on this toy like a good little brat." his thumb presses against your clit, adding stimulation as the dildo hits your deepest spot over and over.

your back arches off the bed, legs shaking as the orgasm crashes over you. he doesn't stop moving the toy, drawing out your pleasure until you're a whimpering, oversensitive mess. only then does he pull the dildo out slowly, watching your body twitch from the intense stimulation.

he tosses the toy aside and climbs onto the bed, settling between your trembling legs. his hands frame your face gently, thumbs wiping away tears you didn't realize had fallen. his expression is a mix of sternness and tenderness as he leans down to kiss you deeply.

maybe you should keep acting up and eventually he’d give you the real thing.

He squinted at you, smirking as if sizing you up for a fight he already knew he’d win. "You’re the brat, then?" he asked, voice dripping with amusement and something rougher underneath it.

You narrowed your eyes, sitting up straighter. "Excuse me?"

"I said," he drawled, throwing his jacket onto a chair like he couldn’t give a shit about the million-dollar decor, "you’re the little princess I’m supposed to babysit."

You scoffed, tossing your phone down. "I'm nineteen, asshole. Not five."

He just chuckled, deep and lazy, like you amused him way more than you should. "Could’ve fooled me," he said, eyes raking over your shorty shorts and tight tank top without shame. "Walkin' around dressed like that... no fuckin' wonder your old man’s losin' sleep."

Your cheeks heated instantly, but you refused to let him see it. "You're disgusting," you hissed.

Toji grinned wider, teeth sharp. "Mmhmm. And you’re spoiled."

You stood up, walking towards him with that signature strut — the one that made the staff scatter when you were in a mood. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

God, he was infuriating.

"You work for me now, y'know," you said sweetly, batting your lashes. "Which means you listen to me."

He raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. "Nah, Princess. I listen to your daddy's orders. Big difference."

You glared at him. "You're gonna regret underestimating me."

"Already doin' that," he said, ruffling your hair roughly like you were a kid.

You shrieked, smacking his hand away. "Don't touch me, you fucker!"

He just laughed, full-bellied and so goddamn smug, crossing his arms over his massive chest. "You’re gonna be a real fuckin' joy, huh?"

**********

The coming days were hell — for you.

Everywhere you went, Toji was there.

Shopping? He leaned against the dressing room wall, arms crossed, making comments every time you tried on something tight. Café date with friends? He sat at the next table, sipping coffee like a bored dad while your friends whispered about his muscles. Spa day? Cinema night? Fucking brunch? He was there. Always.

And no matter how much you whined, stomped, sweet-talked, or snapped, Toji didn’t budge. He wasn't like the staff who melted at your bratty little tantrums. He enjoyed watching you get all worked up.

"You’re like a damn kitten, y'know that?" Toji said one day as you shoved shopping bags into his arms.

"Better than being a brainless meathead!" you shot back instantly.

He just gave you a slow, dangerous smile. "Brainless, huh? You’re real brave talkin' like that... while hidin' behind Daddy’s money."

You gasped, scandalized. "You— you—!"

"You," he mimicked in a high-pitched whine, teasing you like you were five.

You were seething, cheeks hot with fury. But fuck if your heart wasn’t racing for a different reason.

That night, you lay in bed, tossing and turning, the image of Toji's lazy smirk burned behind your eyelids.

God, you hated him. God, you hated how he made your thighs press together under the sheets. God, you hated that he treated you like some bratty kid who needed to be handled.

Handled. The word made you squirm.

You huffed, burying your face into the pillow. "Fucking asshole."

From the other side of the door, you could hear his heavy boots pacing the hallway — guarding you. Always. Watching. Even when you didn't ask for it. Even when you didn’t know you needed it.

**********

The next morning was no better. You burst into the dining room, still in your silk pajamas, finding him at the table, eating "your" breakfast like he lived here.

"Hey!" you snapped. "That's not for you!"

Toji licked jam off his thumb, lazy and unbothered. "Tell your old man to fire me, Princess. Otherwise? Suck it up."

You stomped your foot. "I hate you."

He smirked. "Yeah? You sure bark real pretty for someone so tough."

You blinked. "What?!"

He winked at you and stood, stretching his thick arms overhead, muscles rippling under his black t-shirt. "Keep barkin', baby," he said, walking past you, ruffling your hair again just to piss you off. "One day you’re gonna find out what happens to mouthy little brats who poke the bear."

Your heart stopped. He said it so low. So dark. So full of promise. You hated how it made your stomach flip. You hated how you wanted to find out exactly what he meant.

You were so over it.

So over Toji's shadow dogging your every damn step like you were some helpless little princess in a tower. Because today was supposed to be a chill day — brunch with your friends, a little shopping, maybe a mani-pedi if you felt like it. Not a "let's bring the grumpy, musclehead bodyguard to ruin the mood" kind of day.

You peeked out from your bathroom, watching Toji lean against the front doorway, thumbing lazily through his phone. He didn't even need to look at you to know you were up to something.

"'Bout time you stopped starin'," he muttered without lifting his gaze.

You rolled your eyes so hard they hurt. "You're so full of yourself."

"You’re so fuckin' obvious," he countered, finally glancing up at you, and goddamn, the way his dark green eyes raked over your outfit was criminal. Tight jeans, little cropped top, platform shoes — you looked like trouble, and you knew it.

"Where you think you’re goin' dressed like that, Princess?" he asked, pocketing his phone.

"Out." You tossed your hair dramatically. "You don't need to know where."

"Funny," he said, pushing off the wall, towering over you effortlessly. "Pretty sure that's exactly my fuckin' job."

You jutted your chin out, standing your ground even though your heart raced stupidly. "I’m an adult. I don’t need permission," you sniffed, swiping your bag off the table.

Toji snorted. "Yeah? Tell that to your daddy when he finds out you got yourself snatched up ‘cause you’re too dumb to think straight."

You gasped, genuinely offended. "I am not dumb!"

He leaned down real close, smirking when you instinctively backed into the wall. His voice dropped, rough and low. "Then don’t act like it, sweetheart."

Your skin prickled under his gaze. God, you hated him. God, you hated how he made you feel small without even touching you. God, you hated how you kinda... liked it.

You pushed past him with a huff, heart hammering.

Of course, Toji tailed you and your friends like a looming, silent demon the entire afternoon. You tried ignoring him, giggling with your girlfriends, posing for selfies, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of his heavy stare every second. But the itch under your skin only grew.

So, when your bestie whispered about a new underground bar nearby, very much not somewhere a "good girl" should go, an idea sparked.

You could ditch him. Just for a little while. He couldn't control you forever. Right?

"Bathroom break," you chirped, slinking off from the crowded café.

Toji didn’t even glance up from his black coffee.

"Boys' bathroom's that way, brat."

"Har-har," you mocked under your breath, flipping him off as you walked towards the back hall. Except you didn’t head for the bathrooms. You slipped out the side door, heart pounding, texting your friends to meet you at the bar.

Freedom tasted so sweet.

Or at least, it did for about twenty minutes. You barely had time to order a drink when a heavy hand clamped around your arm, dragging you off your barstool. You yelped, whipping around, only to crash right into Toji's chest. His jaw was clenched so tight you thought it might snap.

"What the fuck do you think you're doin', Princess?" he growled low enough only you could hear.

You squirmed, trying to shake him off. "Let go! I’m not a fuckin kid!"

He dragged you out of the bar effortlessly, like you weighed nothing. You kicked at his shins, punched his arm, huffed and cussed, but he didn’t even flinch. When he finally stopped, slamming you gently but firmly against a shadowed alley wall, you were panting with fury.

"You coulda gotten hurt, y'know that?" he hissed, towering over you, fists clenched.

"Ugh, why do you even care?!" you snapped. "You don't own me!"

He leaned down until your noses nearly brushed, his voice a dangerous rumble. "No. But your old man paid me a shitload to keep you breathin'. And brat, if you keep pullin' stunts like this..." His eyes darkened. "One day I might not fuckin' save you."

You froze. Your chest heaved with emotion, rage, humiliation, something hotter under the surface you didn’t dare name. He stared down at you, breathing hard, muscles tensed like he was barely restraining himself.

You lifted your chin, defiant even with your heart hammering in your throat. "Maybe I don't want to be saved," you whispered.

The look he gave you?

Like a wolf staring down a very stupid little rabbit. A muscle ticked in his jaw. His hand twitched at his side, like he was debating grabbing you again. But instead, Toji backed off slowly, running a hand through his messy dark hair.

"You're a fuckin' menace," he muttered.

You smirked. "Takes one to know one."

He huffed a short, humorless laugh. "Keep runnin' that mouth, Princess. Sooner or later you’re gonna find yourself bent over my knee," he said darkly, voice rough with warning.

You bit your lip, and this time you weren’t sure if it was to hide a smirk or a shiver. Challenge danced in your eyes.

"Promises, promises," you sang, flouncing past him.

You felt his stare burning holes in the back of your head as you sauntered back to the car. And you couldn’t help but grin to yourself. You were so gonna get under his skin.

**********

The next few days became a game. A stupid, dangerous game, but it was too much fun watching Toji's patience chip away, little by little.

It started small. Shorter skirts. Lower tops. Clingier dresses. You'd "accidentally" drop things in front of him, bending way too slow to pick them up. You'd lean over during car rides, pretending to search for something, knowing full well he got a faceful of your cleavage.

Every single time, Toji grumbled under his breath, muttering things like "Little fuckin' tease," or "You're gonna be the death of me, brat," but he never cracked.

He was always professional. Always holding the line....Until you pushed a little harder.

It happened at the mall.

You dragged him into a boutique under the guise of shopping for a "family dinner outfit." Toji slouched outside the fitting room, arms crossed, grumbling while you pranced around inside, trying on every inappropriate thing you could find.

"How's this one?" you asked sweetly, pulling the curtain back.

Toji glanced up, then froze. The dress was... barely a dress. It clung to every curve indecently, the neckline plunging low enough you might as well have been naked.

You twirled innocently. "Too much?"

Toji's jaw flexed. Hard. "Get your ass back in there," he growled.

You blinked, feigning hurt. "But I thought you were supposed to be protecting me, Toji," you pouted. "Shouldn’t you wanna keep me close like this?"

He leveled you with a stare so dark it made your thighs clench. "I ain't protectin' you from the world, brat," he said roughly. "I'm protectin' the world from you."

Your cheeks burned deliciously. God, he made you ache. Still, you weren't done. You stepped closer, the silky hem of your dress riding high.

"You’re no fun," you said, brushing past him to grab another hanger.

His fingers shot out, grabbing your wrist. Your breath hitched. He yanked you closer with no effort at all, his body radiating heat.

"You keep playin'," he muttered low, eyes flickering over your face, your lips, your heaving chest, "one day you ain't gonna like how I end it, sweetheart."

A shiver skated down your spine. For a long, heated moment, neither of you moved. Then Toji let you go with a grunt, stepping back like you burned him.

"Five minutes. Then we’re outta here."

You smirked. Challenge accepted.

Later that night, you pushed even further.

You sat curled up on the couch in the mansion’s sprawling living room, pretending to scroll your phone. Toji leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching you like he always did — impassive, silent. You looked up at him slowly, biting your lip.

"You’re so boring," you sighed dramatically. "Always standing there. Always frowning."

He raised a brow lazily. "You tryin' to hurt my feelings, brat?"

You shrugged. "Just saying. If you're gonna stalk me 24/7, you could at least be entertaining about it."

"You want entertainment?" he drawled, straightening off the wall.

Your heart skipped. He stalked toward you, slow and deliberate, every inch of him screaming danger. You tried to play it cool — tossing your phone aside and crossing your legs neatly. But when he loomed over you, you tilted your head up, your cocky mask slipping just a little.

"Got a lotta nerve talkin' shit to the guy who's keepin' you alive, Princess," he murmured, voice dripping with mockery.

You fluttered your lashes innocently. "Oh, I’m sorry. Am I being mean to my big strong bodyguard?"

He snorted.

"One day you're gonna wish you’d kept that mouth shut."

You beamed. "Not today."

Without warning, Toji dropped down onto the couch beside you, his thigh bumping yours, and you froze. The heat pouring off him was unbearable. His scent — sweat, soap, leather — wrapped around you like a noose. Your stomach twisted deliciously.

"Scared, brat?" he teased, voice a low rumble.

You forced yourself to scoff. "As if."

But when he smirked, like he could smell your arousal your cheeks burned hotter. "Could'a fooled me," he murmured, leaning back, arms spread lazily across the couch behind you.

Your heart pounded. You knew you should stop. You knew this was playing with fire. But you couldn’t help it. Slowly, teasingly, you shifted closer, letting your thigh brush his, pretending it was "accidental." You didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched.

Good. You wanted to break him. You wanted to see what would happen when Toji finally stopped holding back. And judging by the dark look in his eyes?

You were getting closer.

**********

The afternoon was dragging lazily.

You lounged on the couch in the living room, one leg draped over the armrest, flipping through your phone, bored out of your mind. Your earbuds were in, but no music played, you were too lazy to press play again. Mostly, you were stewing in your own annoyance.

Toji sat nearby, polishing a knife like the walking danger sign he was. His muscle shirt clung to his broad chest, veins visible as he slid the blade across the cloth in slow, measured movements. He glanced up every so often, like he was checking to make sure you hadn’t started setting the house on fire out of boredom. Typical.

The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made you feel like a guest instead of someone who lived here. The maids moved like ghosts, the guards outside paced like machines, and every tick of the antique clock on the wall grated on your nerves.

“This place is a goddamn prison,” you muttered, not expecting a response.

“Could be worse,” Toji said lazily without looking up. “Could be a real prison.”

You scoffed, shooting him a glare. “Wow. Inspirational. Thanks.”

He smirked slightly but didn’t respond. That was also typical. Tease you just enough to get under your skin, then retreat like it didn’t matter. You went back to scrolling your phone, about to text your friend about sneaking out later, when the front doors slammed open.

The heavy thud of expensive shoes echoed down the marble floors like thunder. You sat upright, startled, frown deepening as your father stormed in, his assistant trailing behind, already looking stressed.

He looked furious. Sharp. All business. A storm in an expensive suit.

“The hell?” you whispered.

Your dad never came home during the day. Not unless something was wrong. And definitely not looking like that, tired, tense, irritated in that cold, dangerous way that usually made grown men flinch.

He didn’t even glance at you. Just marched to the armchair opposite you and dropped into it like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His assistant shut the doors behind him quietly

"Everyone out," your father barked.

The staff scrambled. Only four of you remained. You. Your dad. His assistant. And Toji, who looked completely unfazed, still spinning his knife like he was in the middle of a Sunday hobby. Your father looked at Toji first.

“There’s been movement,” he said grimly. “They’re getting bolder. We had a firefight two nights ago. The docks. They got close.”

Toji nodded once, all business. “Casualties?”

“Two on our side. Five on theirs. But they got a message through.”

You watched the exchange with a mix of confusion and disinterest. “Message? What, like handwritten or one of those dramatic riddles?”

Both men ignored you.

“Intel says they’re probing weak spots. If they can’t get me …” His eyes cut to you like a blade.

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“That’s why,” your dad said, “from now on, no more going out at night. Even with Toji.”

You sat up. “Excuse me?!”

“No parties. No late dinners. No stupid midnight drives.”

“Stupid?!” you exploded, launching off the couch. “So now I’m just a stupid little kid who can’t leave the house without permission?”

“Don’t twist my words—”

“Oh, sorry, Dad, I must’ve misheard between all the dictatorship!”

Toji made a low sound like a chuckle, earning a death glare from your father.

“You’ll stay in,” he repeated. “No discussion.”

“No discussion?!” you yelled, fists clenched. “You’re not even here half the time, and now you suddenly care? Just ‘cause you got problems at work doesn’t mean I have to suffer!”

Your dad’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t suffering—”

“Yes, it is! I’ve done nothing! I’ve been good! I stayed out of your business, kept to myself, didn’t even sneak anyone in—”

“Jesus,” Toji muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re making it worse.”

You whipped your head toward him. “You shut up! You’re supposed to be on my side! You're the damn bodyguard!”

He raised his brows. “Bodyguard, yeah. Babysitter? No.”

You glared at him. “I am not a baby!”

“No, you're an ungrateful brat,” your father snapped. That did it. Your breath caught in your throat.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

Silence fell like a thunderclap. Your dad’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. He leaned forward, voice low but razor sharp.

“Do you think I enjoy this?” he hissed. “You think I want to lock you up like some goddamn bird in a cage?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he cut you off.

“I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing it because you’re my daughter, and people would kill to get to me through you. They’ll drag you away in the dark and send me your fingers.”

You flinched.

“I’ve spent my life building walls so nothing touches you. I hired Toji because he’s the only man I trust with your life. And you think this is me being cruel?” His voice cracked, just slightly.

You stared, throat dry, anger faltering as guilt bubbled up. But your pride was louder. “Still doesn’t mean you get to control every second of my life,” you whispered stubbornly.

That’s when the slap of his palm hitting the table made you jump. “Enough!”

You flinched again, arms curling around yourself.

“I don’t want to hear another word,” he snapped. “You’re staying in. Toji’s in charge. You argue again, I’ll remove your damn phone and laptop.”

You stared, stunned, eyes burning. He’d never yelled like that. Never threatened consequences. You didn’t know how to react.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “There’s gifts upstairs. Go look.” Then, he turned to Toji. “Keep her in line.”

Toji nodded silently. And just like that, your father walked out, leaving behind silence and a bitter taste in your mouth.

You didn’t speak. You sat there, arms limp, staring at the space he’d occupied. Toji didn’t say anything at first either. Just leaned back, stretching like a cat, knife finally gone from his hands.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Didn’t know the old man had that in him.”

You said nothing.

“Hey,” he added after a beat. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer.

“...Brat?”

Still silent.

His smirk slowly faded as he studied your expression. You weren’t fuming or scheming like usual. You looked… wounded.

“Shit,” he muttered. “He really hit a nerve, huh?”

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, still not looking at him. He stood up slowly. “Alright. Gonna give you space, princess.” And then he left.

The weight of the house settled around you, silent and cold. You swallowed thickly, blinking fast to stop the burn in your eyes. Without much thought, you dragged yourself upstairs to your room.

The moment you pushed open the door, you froze. Piles of gifts boxes were stacked everywhere, luxury brands, glittering jewelry boxes, clothes and designer bags. All gifts from your father. Guilt twisted deep in your gut.

He wasn't trying to hurt you. He was trying to keep you safe. You bit your lip hard, sinking onto the edge of your bed, surrounded by the ridiculous, expensive proof of how much he loved you.

Still... It didn't stop the ache in your chest.

**********

It was dark by the time you stirred. You hadn’t moved from the bed, cheek mashed into a silk pillow, limbs limp. You didn’t cry. Not really. But your throat felt raw like you wanted to. Then the door creaked.

And in came Toji, holding a tray of your favorite food. He walked in like it was no big deal, but his eyes flicked over your form like he was checking for cracks.

"...Eat, brat."

You blinked up at him, stunned. “You brought me food?”

He grunted. “Chef wouldn’t shut up, so I kicked him out and made this.”

You stared at the grilled cheese, the fries, the soda. Your favorite comfort food. You sat up slowly.

“You didn't have to,” you murmured.

Toji sat on the edge of your bed with a grunt. “Didn’t wanna hear you sobbing through the walls.”

You snorted despite yourself.

“There she is,” he muttered, smirking faintly.

You picked at a fry. “Thanks.”

He leaned back, arms stretched behind him. “You know he didn’t mean to hurt you, right?”

You shrugged.

“He’s scared,” Toji added. “Doesn’t know how to say it. So he yells. Gives orders. Buys shit.”

Your chest ached. “I just hate feeling... trapped.”

“Yeah,” Toji said quietly. “But being trapped and being protected ain't the same thing. Sometimes they just... look similar.”

You were quiet for a long moment. Then: “You’re good at this.”

Toji looked at you.

You clarified, “The talking thing. I thought you’d be worse.”

He chuckled. “Don’t get used to it.”

You smiled faintly. “You’re still an asshole.”

He grinned. “And you’re still a brat.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. Just sat there beside you, solid and warm, quiet in the way that said he wasn’t going anywhere.

“…Wanna watch something dumb later?” you asked.

He tilted his head. “What kind of dumb?”

“Reality TV dumb.”

Toji groaned. “God. Fine. But I’m picking the snacks.”

You smiled into his arm. For now, the ache in your chest faded just a little. For a moment, you didn’t feel trapped.

You just felt... warm. Safe. Wanted.

Toji stood up then, ruffling your hair roughly like you were some scrappy little kid.

"Get some sleep, brat," he muttered. Then he paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "‘Cause tomorrow," he said with a wicked glint in his eye, "I’m dragging your spoiled ass to training."

You groaned dramatically. "Nooo— Tojiiiiii—!"

"Sorry, daddy's orders." He just laughed, a deep, rich sound, and disappeared down the hall, leaving you grinning like an idiot into your pillow.

Maybe being stuck here... Maybe being stuck with him... Wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

to be continued in the next chapter

"Sevika," you slur, your hands palming her shoulders as she drags a tipsy you up the stairs of your house towards your room.

You slump forward, your vision spinning sideways.

Sevika scowls under her breath, easily catching you.

You always stank of alcohol, smoke, and whatever drug you managed to get your hands on. It's a miracle you were still alive with the amount of poison you put in your body. "Ugh, you're heavy." Try to stand up straight or something. "Don't need you vomiting on my jacket."

You narrow your eyes as best as you can and swivel your head to stare at Sevika. "Are you calling me fat?" You slur angrily.

"Jesus," Sevika muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes at you. The last thing she needed was your over-dramatic ass throwing a fit. Sevika hoists you up against her side, practically dragging you up to your room.

"I called you heavy, dumbass. Now stop talking before you make yourself dizzy."

"You're so strong," you slur, already onto the next topic as you palm Sevika's biceps.

Sevika gritted her teeth, ignoring the way your hand rubbed her arm. You were so damn irritating that she didn't even bother replying to your words. Why were you like this?

The two of you finally made it up to your room, and she pushed you through the door. You flail forward, your body heading straight towards the floor.

Sevika curses under her breath and at the last minute grabs the back of your shirt collar and yanks you upright before you could eat shit on the floor.

"Damn it, kid, sit down properly." She drags you the last few steps to the mattress and lets you go, crossing her arms. "You're lucky Silco pays me extra for this bullshit."

You turn around to face her, swaying slightly. "Wait, waiiitt," you slur, trying to be as serious as possible. "Look at me."

Sevika lets out a heavy sigh and looks at you with an unamused expression. She was definitely not getting sleep anytime soon. She hated dealing with you, and you being too intoxicated to even walk didn't make it any better. She rolled her eyes and placed her hands on her hips. "What? What do you want now?"

You look up at her with a big goofy grin on your face.

Sevika couldn't tell if the smile was endearing or irritating—probably both if she was being honest with herself. She scoffs to hide a tiny grin tugging at her lips. You were so irritatingly cute when you smiled like that, it wasn't fair. She's supposed to hate you, not find herself wanting to ruffle your hair and squeeze you to her chest. “Are you going to say something or just stare at me like a creep?"

You stare at her and blink slowly before responding, "Too bad you're my dad's employee, or I would've fucked you a long time ago," you slur before swaying side to side again.

Sevika snorts, raising an eyebrow. You really didn't have a filter when under the influence of whatever the hell you were on She steps forward and catches you from falling over. "You don't know what you're talking about, kid. Sit on the bed before you crack your skull open."

"Carry me to bed with your beautiful muscles," you slur.

Sevika rolls her eyes at your slurred demand, but she can't keep the amused smirk off her face.

She stepped closer and let out an exaggerated sigh. "You're lucky you're so cute." With a single smooth motion, she effortlessly lifted you into her arms and tossed you onto the bed. It was easy considering how scrawny you were, probably due to all the drugs and god knows what else.

"There, you're in bed now."

"Don't leave," you whimper at her.

Sevika hesitates, looking down at you. Eyeing her like she was the only stable thing in your life, she sighs through her nose and rubs her forehead. "Damn it." She sits on the edge of the bed, resigned.

"Fine, I'll stay for a bit."

She keeps an arm draped loosely over your shoulder in case you try to roll off. "...go to sleep."

You tug on her arm, trying to pull her body down against the bed next to you. She resists your tugging for a few moments, trying not to give in to your needy behavior, but eventually she lets out an exasperated sigh and allows you to pull her down next to you.

"You're such a pain in the ass, you know that." She grumbles, shifting to make herself more comfortable with you wrapped around her like a goddamn vine, she was practically trapped next to you.

You curl against her tighter and bury your face into her chest.

Sevika briefly stiffens slightly, unused to affection, especially from you, but after a few seconds, she relaxes, exhaling through her nose. You were warm against her, and she couldn't bring herself to push you away. Her metal arm rested awkwardly at her side while her other hand hesitated before gently settling on your back. "You better not drool on me." Her voice was gruff, but there was no real bite to it.

After a few moments, you pass out, but right as you drift off between consciousness and unconsciousness, you quietly mumble a soft "mine" and snuggle closer to her.

Sevika's eyes widen when her ears pick up what you said.

Did you just—

Never mind, you're too wasted to even know what you're saying. She lets out a low scoff, trying not to let the warm feeling in her chest show. She closes her eyes and forces herself to relax. "Possessive brat."

The bright light of the sun shining through the blinds forces Sevika to wake up. She groans, her eyes fluttering open for a moment. She's confused, and then the memories from the previous night come flooding back. Right, she stayed the night in your room to watch your drunk ass and make sure you didn't do anything stupid. She glances down, finding you still curled up against her side. Surprisingly, you were actually asleep for once. She sighs, still somewhat groggy from sleep.

She takes another moment to watch you, taking in the peaceful expression on your face. It was nice to see you without the usual scowl or playful smirk you gave her. You looked cute, almost, damn it. She quickly shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the thought, but the warm feeling in her chest only grows more prominent the longer she looks at you. She clears her throat and gives your shoulder a light shake. "Wake up."

Instead of waking up, you curl against Sevika's side tighter, snuggling your nose into her bicep.

Sevika huffs quietly, resisting the urge to laugh at your clinginess. Even in sleep, you were like a barnacle refusing to let go. She rolled her eyes and lifted her hand, gently flicking the top of your head. "Come on, sleeping beauty, time to get your lazy ass up."

You groan, and your eyes flutter open, blinking drowsily up at Sevika.

She smirks when you finally seem to realize how close you were, your sleepy confusion turning into sudden panic. "That's right, princess. You spent all night cuddled up to me. Enjoy your morning humiliation."

She stretches, her prosthetic arm whirring softly. "Now get up before I drag you out of bed myself."

Once what she says registers in your head, you quickly scoot away from her, almost falling off the bed, but Sevika catches your wrist before you fall, effortlessly pulling you back onto the mattress with a deep chuckle. "Damn, didn't think I was that scary." She lets go, stretching her arms above her head again. "You good? Or do I have to carry you to breakfast too?"

You stare at her, blinking a few times.

"What cat got your tongue now?" Sevika leans forward, smirking at your bewildered silence. She reaches out and flicks your forehead slightly. "Still drunk or just realizing you might actually like having me around?" She stands up, stretching her prosthetic arm with a soft whir before glancing back at you. "Either way, hurry up. I ain't spoon-feeding you."

You glare at her from the bed. "Grow up, old lady," you grumble, annoyed.

"Old lady?" Sevika stops mid-stretch and slowly turns to glare at you, a dangerous smirk tugging at her lips.

"You really want to test me today, huh?" She leans down, bracing her hands on either side of your legs, boxing you in. "Careful, princess, I bite."

You scoff, "I have another party to get to today, move it." You scoot backwards and away, then off the bed.

Sevika's eye twitches in annoyance. Of course you did. You were relentless when it came to partying despite it being a damn Wednesday. She crosses her arms and leans against your desk, watching you move around. "How nice. Can't have a day without filling yourself with booze and other bullshit, huh?"

You turn and peer over your shoulder at her. "And do tell, would you like to remind the world of your young adult years?" you snark at her.

Sevika grits her teeth at your sassy response. You really knew how to get under her skin, didn't you? She let out an exasperated sigh. "I'll have you know that I at least knew how to have a good time without waking up in a stranger's bed," she scoffed, shaking her head. "Unlike your reckless ass, I had limits."

"Maybe I like waking up in random beds," you snap back at her as you shuffle to the closet and start flinging random clothes around.

Sevika rolls her eyes, watching you rifle through your closet. You really could be such an insufferable brat. "Yeah, I'm sure you do, but it's also going to land your ass dead in the ditch one of these days. You're a mess, you know that." She leans casually against the wall and the desk, irritation clear in her expression. "Have you ever considered slowing down?"

"And what, read books like you?" you scoff and tear your shirt up and over your head, not caring that she's watching.

Even Sevika couldn't help the way her eyes roamed over your bare shoulders and torso. Damn, you looked so goddamn good, but she quickly snaps out of her trance, scowling to hide the unexpected reaction. "Tch, at least reading would be a safer hobby than the path you're on." She crosses her arms, staring you down as you continue rummaging through your closet.

You pull out another shirt and tug it on.

Sevika's eyes flicker over your frame, watching as the new shirt slides over your arms. She can't help but notice how the fabric hugs your curves.

"You never change, do you? Party. Drink. repeat."

You ignore her and shimmy out of your pants, revealing your lacy underwear.

If Sevika's cheeks weren't already flushed from irritation and exhaustion, they certainly would be now. Why did you have to wear those damn lacey things? She averts her eyes, clearing her throat awkwardly. "For God's sake, cover yourself up for once. You're like a walking billboard for bad decisions."

You laugh out loud as you shove your ass into a skirt.

Sevika's jaw clenches as you continue prancing around in practically nothing, her eyes linger on the way the skirt hugs your hips before she quickly snaps her head away. "You are so damn shameless," she mumbles under her breath. Why did you have to be so goddamn tempting? It felt like you were trying to drive her insane on purpose.

You ignore her and shove your feet into heels.

Sevika's eye twitches uncontrollably as you slip on those ridiculous heels. It was getting more and more difficult not to look at your long legs. She takes a deep breath, willing herself to keep her composure. "You always dress like this when you go out." She attempts to sound nonchalant, but her voice comes out more strained than intended.

"Keep looking, babe, maybe one day you'll have a chance," you mock, sauntering towards the door.

Sevika's nostrils flare, her grip tightening on the wall before she suddenly blocks your path. A sharp, wolfish grin spreads across her face. "Oh, I don't need a chance, sweetheart, if I wanted you." She leans in, voice dropping low. "I'd already have you." Then she flicks your nose and steps aside.

You ignore her comment and saunter out the door and towards the bathroom, swaying your hips purposely.

Sevika watches your exaggerated saunter with a mix of irritation and, much to her annoyance, appreciation. She rubs her temples, muttering curses under her breath. "You're such a brat." She follows after you, leaning against the bathroom doorway. "You’d better hurry up, or I'm telling Silco you've been stealing from his workers again."

You fake gasp at her, "You dare lie on my name?"

Sevika smirks, crossing her arms. "Who said anything about lying? Pretty sure I saw you digging through Vandar's stash last week." She tilts her head, raising a brow. "Tick-tock, princess."

You flush your face with cold water, then apply makeup as slowly as you can.

Sevika watches your deliberate stalling with growing impatience, her mechanical fingers tapping rhythmically against her forearm. "Oh, come on, you're doing this on purpose." She grabs a towel and flicks it at the back of your head. "Speed it up before I start smudging your eyeliner myself."

Your eyes flicker over to her face and then back towards the mirror, and you begrudgingly pick up your pace.

Sevika lets out an approving hum, a small smirk playing on her lips as you finally start to pick up the pace.

She leans against the doorframe, her eyes roaming over your form with a hint of subtle admiration, her gaze pausing momentarily on the way your skirt clings to your curves before she quickly snaps back to your face. "There you go. Was that so hard?"

"Wait," you say suddenly, and pick up a lipstick and apply it slowly and smoothly, and then you pop your lips.

Sevika rolls her eyes at your dramatic lipstick application, but can't help the way her gaze lingers on your lips as you pop them. She clears her throat and looks away. "Are you done yet, princess, or do you need to twirl around a few more times before we leave?" Her tone is mocking, but there's an undeniable hint of amusement in her voice.

"What do you want, a change to ogle more at my ass?" you mock.

Sevika snorts, stepping forward until she's right behind you, close enough that her breath ghosts over your ear when she speaks low and deliberate, "Please, if I wanted to ogle, I wouldn't wait for your permission." She flicks your earlobe with her metal finger before stalking past you toward the door. "Move your feet or lose 'em."

You pick up a rag off the counter and aim the rag at the back of her head, but it falls mid-throw and lands on the floor.

Sevika turns her head just in time to watch the rag fall harmlessly to the floor, an amused smirk spreading across her face. "Can't even aim a goddamn rag, you're a mess." She reaches down and picks it up, chucking it into the laundry basket before holding the door open and gesturing for you to exit. "After you, princess."

You grumble and saunter towards her, stopping to bump your hip into hers, and then you continue walking.

Sevika rolls her eyes as you saunter past her. She lets out an exasperated huff and follows after you, trying to ignore the slight thrill that courses through her at the brief contact. She falls into step beside you, her hands stuffed casually into her pockets. "You're enjoying this too much, you brat."

"You know you don't have to baby me in the mornings."

Sevika snorts, shaking her head. "I'm not babying you, I'm doing my job, which is making sure your dumb ass stays out of trouble." She glances at you out of the corner of her eyes, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Besides, you're a walking disaster, without me, you'd probably get mugged or something before sunrise."

"Joke's on you, I've been mugged with you right around the corner."

Sevika's smirk morphs into a full-blown eye roll at your comment, her expression a mix of irritation and disbelief. "Yeah, and who had to save your ass because you decided to start a fight with four grown men?" She takes a moment to look you over as if still astonished that you're standing and not lying in an alleyway somewhere.

"Tch, you've got zero sense of self-preservation, you know that."

You scoff, "hmph," and carefully make your way down the stairs.

Sevika watches as you descend the stairs slowly, thankfully, before following behind, her prosthetic hand hovers near the small of your back just in case you lose your balance. She mutters underneath her breath, "God, you're exhausting," but there's no real bite to it.

"Are you going to be with me all day?" you ask her, peering over your shoulder.

Sevika's eye twitches, her irritation flaring to life at your question. She takes a deep breath to keep her temper in check and replies through clenched teeth, "Did your brain not comprehend what babysitting meant when Silco assigned me to you? Yes, I'll be with you all damn day."

"Mk, well, I need coffee, so chop chop to the car."

Sevika grumbles under her breath as the two of you make your way outside and to the parked car. She opens the passenger door and gestures impatiently for you to get in. "Hurry up, princess. I ain't got all day to feed your caffeine addiction."  

"Is my purse in here?" You mumble, frantically looking around.

Sevika raises a brow at your frantic searching before letting out an exasperated sigh. She rummages through the back seat and fishes out said purse, chucking it at you. "There, found your damn purse. Can we go now?"

"Hey! This is a one-of-a-kind purse, you can't just toss it around like one of your henchmen," you scowl at her.

Sevika scoffs at your offended tone, rolling her eyes as she settles into the driver's seat. "Oh, cry me a river, it's a purse, not a newborn." She starts the engine, throwing you a smirk. "Besides, if it was that special, maybe you'd remember where you left it."

You scoff in disbelief and settle into the passenger seat, tucking your purse into your side.

Sevika snorts at your offended expression, her amusement growing when she sees your precious purse tucked into your side like a lifeline. "Oh, don't give me that look. You've left your possessions in worse places than a damn car." She shifts gears and pulls out into the street, her eyes flickering to you momentarily before returning to the road. "Now, are you actually going to tell me where you want coffee, or are we playing guessing games this morning?"

"Surprise me, but don't make it shabby," you mumble the last part.

Sevika rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like "damn princess." Before taking a sharp turn down a different street, after a few more minutes of driving, she finally pulls up in front of a small but well-kept cafe. "Here, it's not top-notch, but it's not some dump either. Try not to complain this time." She parks and exits, holding the door open for you.

You step out of the passenger seat. "Thanks, Grandma," you mumble to her, giving her cheek a quick pat before you saunter towards the cafe entrance, leaving her behind.

Sevika's eye twitches at the sound of the grandma jab, her patience already thin enough. As you pass her, she has to restrain herself from grabbing you by the collar and knocking some sense into you. She grumbles to herself, muttering a few choice words before following you into the cafe with an irritated expression.

You walk up to the counter and flash a smile at the barista.

Sevika stands behind you, her eyes flickering between you and the barista, a low grumble rumbling in her throat. She's not sure why, but something about your easy smile and the way the barista immediately smiles back irritates her more than it should. She crosses her arms and watches as you proceed to order, her eyes narrowing when she catches the barista checking you out.

"Hi, can I get a venti iced half-calf, quarter-decaf, triple-shot ristretto oat milk latte, but make the oat milk extra light foam at 148 degrees exactly, and can you steam it twice, add two pumps of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of caramel, and one pump of hazelnut, but only half pumps? I need three stevia, but dissolve them first, and one raw sugar on the side, just in case. Oh, and can you shake it, not stir it? Pour it over light ice, then strain half the ice out in a grande cup, but fill it to the top with a dome lid, wait a flat one, actually."

Sevika's eyes widen at your coffee order, her irritation is momentarily overshadowed by disbelief. She can't believe the amount of specifics you just rattled off, and she has to try hard not to laugh at the barista's dumbfounded expression. She suppresses a snort as she glances at your oblivious form.

The barista seems to be at a loss for words, eyes darting from you to Sevika in a silent plea for help.

You stare at the barista, completely oblivious to the way their eyes dart between yours and Sevikas. You clap your hands together. "Chop chop, sweetie," you say, waving around a 50-dollar bill.

Sevika finally loses her composure and lets out a sharp bark of laughter, shaking her head in disbelief. "Jesus Christ, are you trying to give this poor barista a migraine?" She leans against the counter, watching the barista scramble to write down your order. "And here I thought I was high maintenance."

You whip your head over towards her and glare at her. “You are unbelievable," you mumble.

Sevika chuckles wryly in response, completely unfazed by your glare. She leans on one arm, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips as she crosses her legs at the ankles. "Oh, I'm unbelievable. You just gave the man a damn thesis for a coffee order. I bet that poor barista is wishing he called in sick today."

You scoff and shake your head. "It's not my fault he doesn't understand the language of coffee."

Sevika scoffs back, rolling her eyes at your response. She crosses her arms, a bemused expression on her face. "Oh, you mean the language of pretentiousness?" She glances over at the barista, who's frantically scrambling and struggling to make your order. "I think he just doesn't understand the language of a spoiled princess."

"I'd like to see you make the order then."

Sevika smirks, straightening up before turning to the barista. "Yeah, give me whatever black coffee is cheapest." She shrugs, glancing back at you with a smirk. "See, not hard." The barista looks relieved at her simplicity.

"I meant to make my order." You glare before rolling your eyes. "I swear you're slow in the head."

Sevika fights the urge to throttle you, it’s becoming increasingly harder to resist. She clenched her fists, taking a deep breath. God, you really knew how to push her buttons, “I swear you're an insufferable know-it-all. Why would I spend time making a cup of overpriced, overcomplicated nonsense?"

"Whatever," you simply dismiss her and turn back toward the barista, who is still scrambling to make your order.

Sevika shakes her head. Her irritation steadily rising as you continue to disregard her opinion, she glances at the barista, who still looks utterly baffled, before letting out another sigh. "You're just as stubborn as hell, aren't you? You know that order could easily be simplified, right? Or is that too much of a foreign concept for someone like you?"

"You don't understand, I need a venti iced half-calf quarter-decaf triple-shot ristretto oat milk latte, with the oat milk extra light foam at 148 degrees exactly, steamed twice with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla, one pump caramel, one pump hazelnut, but only half pumps.  Three stevia, but dissolved first, with one raw sugar on the side just in case. Shaken, not stirred, Poured over light ice, then the ice half strained out in a grande cup, but filled to the top with a flat lid," you snap at Sevika.

Sevika stares at you, her eyes wide with irritation at your relentless demands. She grits her teeth, doing her best to keep her composure. Gods. You were beyond infuriating. "Christ, the barista is going to spit in your damn cup at this rate. Why the hell does it have to be so damn complicated? You do realize it's just coffee, or is your high-maintenance ass allergic to simplicity?"

"I'm giving him a $50 tip. Is that not enough?" you scoff, waving around the bill.

Sevika rolls her eyes, letting out an exasperated chuckle. "You could give him triple that, and it wouldn't make a damn difference. Your coffee order is borderline psychotic, you have more specific demands for coffee than most restaurants do for food. It's a miracle he even agreed to take it in the first place, I sure as hell wouldn't have."

The barista coughs awkwardly, clearing his throat and presenting the coffee.

Sevika leans forward, watching as the barista hands you the coffee, looking slightly exhausted. "Oh great, he actually did it. I was half expecting a cup of mud and spit in retaliation."

You flash a smile and a wink at the barista. "Unlike you, Sevika people have class." You slide over the $50 bill.

Sevika's eye twitches as you throw a condescending smirk and wink towards the barista. She can practically feel her irritation bubbling over. "Oh, right, because ordering an over-sweet, overly precise monstrosity of a coffee is the epitome of class, and I'm sure your charming smile has nothing to do with him putting up with your bullshit."

You give her a quick glare, sauntering away toward the exit, hips swaying, coffee in hand, and purse on your shoulder.

Sevika follows closely behind her, her irritation growing with each step. "You're impossible, you know that? Not only do you have the worst taste in coffee, but you also manage to cause a headache wherever you go. It's a goddamn miracle you haven't annoyed someone to the point of throttling you yet."

"Oh, please, I'm sure you'd be the first one on the list, babe," you say before sipping the coffee and walking toward the car.

Sevika's face twists in annoyance at the pet name. She steps in front of you, effectively halting your steps. "Careful, princess. Keep calling me that, and you might find yourself bent over my knee," she snaps without thinking, her tone harsher than intended.

You stumble backwards in disbelief, your heel slipping underneath you.

Sevika's eyes widen as you lose your balance. She instinctively steps forward and grabs your elbow, preventing you from falling flat on your ass. "Careful, idiot. Don't need you spilling that damn coffee all over yourself."

Your face is red, but you don't reply, instead, you quietly sip your coffee and get into the passenger seat.

Sevika lets out a quiet sigh, shaking her head at your flustered state before climbing into the driver's seat and starting the car. She glances over at you, noticing the pink tinge to your cheeks. "Hmph, at least you're being quiet for once. You look like a tomato, by the way," she comments as she pulls out of the parking lot.

You quickly look out the window, trying to avoid her gaze.

Sevika lets out a soft chuckle at your attempt to hide your flustered expression. "Aw, embarrassed, are we? You're even quieter than usual, it's a damn miracle I can finally hear myself think."

"I'm going to tell Silco you threatened to bend me over your knee and do god knows what," you snap.

Sevika snorts in response, her smirk widening at your flustered words. She shakes her head, amused by your childish threats. "Oh, please, go ahead. I'm sure Silco will find it amusing, and as for what I'd do," she teases, taking a moment to give you a sly, almost predatory glance, "let's just say I know ways to make you scream much better than I know how to make coffee."

You dismiss her statement, "Can you just drop me off at this address?" You mumble listing off the address.

Sevika glances at you with a raised brow but quickly relents and nods. "Fine," she types the address into her phone's GPS, glancing at you curiously out of the corner of her eye. "This doesn't look like your usual hangout spot. Where the hell are you planning to go?"

"It's just a party," you mumble.

Sevika rolls her eyes at your vague response. A party could mean anything, it could be tame, it could be a disaster, and knowing you, it's probably the latter. "A party, huh? "Mind enlightening me on who's throwing the rager, or is it some secret exclusive party for spoiled rich kids?"

"I don't remember the person's name, my friend just gave me the addy."

Sevika exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "You don't even know who's throwing it? "What happened to your self-preservation instincts? Did you lose them somewhere between your third and fourth drink last night?" She grips the steering wheel tighter, her irritation mounting. "You're going to get yourself killed one of these days, and Silcos is going to blame me for it."

"You'll be around, I'll be fine."

Sevika scoffs at your nonchalance, her expression darkening. She shakes her head, her annoyance growing. "Oh, so I'm supposed to keep playing bodyguard whenever you decide to walk into some unknown party like a damn idiot? Don't you have any common sense?" She grumbles, her grip on the wheel tightening even further.

"Do you ever let loose?" You snap at her.

Sevika's eye twitches for the thousandth time because of you, her irritation growing into full-on anger. "Let loose? I would, except I'm too damn busy having to watch your ass every day to make sure you don't get into trouble. You act like a damn child rushing into trouble and expecting me to clean up your mess every goddamn time, so excuse me for not having a life because I have to play babysitter for a goddamn brat like you."

Hurt flashes across your face, but instead of keeping quiet, you smart off, "Maybe you should find yourself a pretty girl at this party."

Sevika's jaw tightens even further at your words, she shoots you a glare, her eyes narrowing. "And maybe you should find yourself a brain, princess. I'm not interested in finding some damn mindless girl at a party. I've got better things to do, like babysit your spoiled ass while you play around making a mess of yourself.

Sevika exhales sharply through her nose as you stay quiet, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel once more. She shoots you another irritated glance before focusing back on the road. The silence is thick between you two, tense and heavy with unsaid words. Sevika's mood doesn't improve as she drives, her jaw clenched tight. Eventually, she pulls up to the address you gave her, parking roughly and killing the engine. "We're here," she mutters tersely, not looking at you.

You don't say anything to her as you open the car door before letting her get the chance to do it. She watches you storm off toward the party without another word. Her irritation simmering low in her gut, she huffs, shaking her head before climbing out of the car and following after you at a distance. "God, you're a pain in my ass," she mutters under her breath, keeping an eye on you despite her anger.

You walk up towards the expensive, large house.

Sevika lingers a few paces behind, her arms crossed as she watches you confidently strut towards the massive house. The sight of it, lavish and clearly expensive, makes her scowl deepen. "Figures you'd drag me to some topsider's mansion," she mutters under her breath, scanning the area warily. Something about this whole situation feels off. "Are you sure this is where you're supposed to be?" She calls out, skeptically eyeing the overly polished decor.

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You were used to having the world at your feet—everything you desired arrived wrapped in silk and served with a silver spoon. Your every whim was indulged, your every pout answered. The world, as you saw it, was yours to command.

Your father’s holiday villa in West Sussex was your kingdom for three months every summer. A grand estate nestled amid rolling green hills, where the scent of blooming wildflowers mingled with the sharp tang of the sea air. For years, your summers followed a predictable rhythm: arrival, leisure, and then the ritual of getting rid of the villa’s staff.

Some had resigned in desperation, others were dismissed with barely concealed irritation when they failed to meet your impossible standards. You wielded your privilege like a weapon, trained at the University to be charming and cunning, yet at home, your sharp tongue and impatience were legendary.

This year, though, was different.

When you arrived after your last university exams, flushed with the freedom of summer and the pride of victory over another academic year, your father had replaced part of the staff of the last summer.

Among them, Oliver Mellors was the new gamekeeper — your father’s latest hire after a string of failures. Unlike his predecessors, he was quiet, weathered by the earth, with a rough handsomeness that made you bristle with an unfamiliar kind of curiosity.

Of course, that curiosity didn’t stop you from going all in to get rid of him before the big party in mid-July. Your father may have been the one signing the paychecks, but over the years, you’d skillfully earned the loyalty of most of the staff. A few had simply learned to follow your lead—gently warned off the idea of crossing you, especially after what had happened to their predecessors. Others had been won over with little gifts, whispered favors, or the subtle promise of protection. But the gamekeepers? They were always the most difficult. Too proud, too isolated, too rooted in rules and quiet dignity. And Oliver Mellors, with his unreadable eyes and maddening calm, was proving to be the hardest of them all.

Your heel sank slightly into the fine gravel as you stepped out of the car, the sun catching the gold rim of your sunglasses as you slid them up to your nose. The scent of sun-warmed stone, lavender, and old roses hit you all at once—familiar, indulgent, and unmistakably home.

The villa stood before you in all its storied glory—not a mere country house, but a true manor, sprawling and dignified, its honeyed stone façade framed by centuries-old yews and creeping wisteria. Mullioned windows glinted in the sunlight, set into thick limestone walls that had weathered war, storm, and scandal. At its center, the great hall rose tall and proud with an ornate gable and chimney stacks like carved crowns, flanked by ivy-covered wings that reached into the grounds like open arms. The scent of cut grass mingled with the distant bray of peacocks. A gravel path split the manicured lawn with military precision, leading up to a great oak door ringed with iron studs—stubbornly original, like most of the estate.

The whole place exhaled heritage and authority. And despite everything, despite the heat, the long drive, and the end-of-term exhaustion still clinging to your shoulders—you smiled.

The estate was yours again and until the end of the summer.

Just as you bent to retrieve your weekender bag from where it rested on the leather armrest, the side door to the west wing creaked open—discreetly, as always—and out stepped Fletcher, the villa’s long-serving butler and, in truth, its quiet commander. Not merely a servant, but the estate’s unofficial steward, Fletcher had been managing the inner workings of the house since before you were old enough to know the difference between Bordeaux and Burgundy. Impeccably dressed in a tailored waistcoat despite the heat, he approached with calm efficiency, gliding over the gravel as though it never dared cling to his shoes.

“Miss,” he greeted with a faint bow of the head, his voice smooth as aged scotch. “Welcome back.”

You adjusted your sunglasses atop your head and gave Fletcher a small, knowing smile as you straightened up, bag in hand.

“Still haven’t retired, I see,” you teased, shifting your weight to one hip, voice laced with that practiced charm you wore like perfume. “Or do you secretly enjoy watching me ruin my father’s estate each summer?”

Fletcher didn’t so much as blink. “Retirement would be far too quiet, Miss. And your father insists I stay until he’s buried beneath the orchard.”

You arched a brow. “He’s been saying that since I was twelve.”

“And he means it more each year.”

He stepped forward and took the bag from your hand, tucking it under his arm with effortless grace. No protest. No fuss. Fletcher never asked permission to perform his duties. He simply did them, and you’d learned early on that trying to stop him was a waste of everyone’s time.

You made your way toward the entrance of the mansion, your heels clicking loudly against the dark marble steps.

“Your journey was comfortable, I trust?”

You shrugged lightly. “The usual. Two hours of bad radio and worse motorway drivers. I suppose the countryside makes it worth it, though.”

“Quite.”

There was a brief pause. Then he added, “Your cousins arrived yesterday afternoon. I’ve assigned them to the guest wing, as you requested.”

You nodded once, satisfied. “And the weather?”

He tilted his head slightly toward the horizon. “Hot. Possibly a storm by the weekend. Ideal for summer tennis, less so for evening gowns.”

You smiled again. “Nothing a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé and the right music can’t fix.”

Fletcher allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “I’ll have something chilled for dinner.”

You took a slow breath, eyes drifting toward the distant tree line where the woods began to thicken—the edge of the estate, where the old gamekeeper’s cottage lay. The light breeze carried the faint scent of rosemary and peat, freshly turned soil.

As if sensing your train of thought, Fletcher followed your gaze. A contrite and worried expression appeared on his face.

“There’s one other thing,” he said, clearing his throat. “Your father has hired a new gamekeeper.”

You turned your head slightly, lips curving with interest.

“Oh?”

“Yes, Mr. Oliver Mellors. Former military, I believe. Came with excellent references.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “They always do.”

You met Fletcher’s eyes, a glint of something almost wicked sparking behind yours. The butler paused ever so slightly—just long enough for you to notice—but nothing disturbed the calm, measured expression on his face. Of course, you didn’t expect him to flinch. Fletcher was nothing if not unflappable.

Still, you could tell he knew exactly what your interest in the gamekeeper meant.

He clasped his hands neatly behind his back. “He’s a quiet type. Keeps to himself, prefers the grounds to the company. Very thorough in his work. Prunes, manages, repairs—all with minimal supervision.”

You gave a noncommittal hum, watching a pair of doves disappear behind a high chimney.

“He’s done an excellent job these past months,” Fletcher continued with just a touch more emphasis, as if that might somehow dissuade you. “Competent. Discreet. I don’t believe he’ll cause any trouble.”

You turned your head slowly, arching a perfectly groomed brow.

“We will see.” you said sweetly, lips curving into the faintest smirk. “I suppose it’s time for me to introduce myself.”

There was a beat of silence before he gave a shallow nod of resignation, the ghost of a sigh buried in formality.

“Shall I arrange for him to meet you this evening?” he asked.

You turned back toward the house, the stone underfoot warm from the sun, your voice trailing behind you like perfume.

“No need. I prefer spontaneity.”

And with those words, you turned from the gravel drive and stepped down onto the wide stretch of lawn that rolled gently away from the manor like a perfectly manicured sea. The grass was still damp from the morning dew, the coolness seeping through the thin soles of your designer flats almost instantly. You didn’t care. The sun was already high enough to gild the landscape in amber light, and the soft breeze carried with it the scent of earth, wild mint, and something faintly smokey—burnt wood, perhaps, or peat.

You moved quickly, deliberately, not bothering to look back at the front steps or at Fletcher, who—no doubt—was watching your retreat in silence. If you had let him handle it, Mellors would have been warned. He would have tidied up, put on whatever mask he wore for your father, and steeled himself for a polite, forgettable conversation.

You weren’t going to give him that chance.

The grounds passed in a blur of familiarity—topiary hedges trimmed into strict lines, gravel paths fanning off toward the rose gardens and tennis courts, the centuries-old sundial in the courtyard that hadn’t worked properly in years but looked far too charming to replace. You passed the orchard’s edge, where the trees had just begun to fruit—too early for apples, but the bees already buzzed lazily between the branches.

You followed the curve of the southern path, down past the herb garden and into the older part of the estate where the grounds dipped, where trees thickened into a proper wood. It was quieter here—cooler, too, the sun filtered by canopy. A pair of doves cooed somewhere overhead.

And there it was.

Tucked into a clearing at the edge of the woods, surrounded by low mossy walls and half-wild hedges, stood the old keeper’s cottage.

Your father had overseen the renovation of the gamekeeper’s cottage some four years ago, insisting—almost obsessively—that even the estate’s more remote corners reflect a certain standard. The interior had been modernized discreetly, fitted with proper comforts: a spacious bathroom with brass fixtures, a sleek, contemporary kitchen tucked behind rustic cabinetry, and new flooring laid beneath the old timber beams to preserve the charm without sacrificing function. The stone walls, once flaking and damp, had been carefully repointed, the roof re-slated. Though it still wore the unassuming silhouette of a traditional Sussex outbuilding, the cottage now resembled a modest yet thoughtfully appointed home—just shy of a hundred square meters, compact but complete

Your pace slowed as you approached.

There was no movement outside—no visible sign of Mellors yet—but a set of muddy boots sat neatly by the front step, and a faded linen shirt hung on a nearby hook, drying in the sun. The, somewhere behind the cottage, you heard the creak of wood and the faint metallic ring of a spade being struck into earth.

Someone was there. Working.

With a smile, you rounded the side of the cottage with measured steps, careful not to disturb the gravel too loudly underfoot. The garden stretched out ahead of you in a narrow strip of sunlit soil, lined with low brick beds and half-grown vegetables—courgettes, tomatoes, trailing beans, all neat but unpretentious.

And there he was.

Oliver Mellors stood with his back to you, stripped to the waist, driving the head of a spade into the earth with quiet, practiced ease. His muscles shifted with the movement—shoulders broad, tanned and dusted with the fine sheen of sweat, back strong beneath the sun. He wore plain work trousers, the waistband slung low on his hips, and his hair—thicker and light brown—was tousled like he’d run his fingers through it instead of bothering with a comb.

You cleared your throat, soft but intentional.

He straightened almost immediately.

Didn’t jump.

Didn’t startle.

He turned slowly, deliberately, squinting just a little as his gaze landed on you. One hand still resting on the spade’s handle. The other falling to his side, relaxed.

For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other.

Your summer blouse, your pressed linen shorts, the fine gold chain at your collarbone.

And him: shirtless, sun-bronzed, smelling faintly of turned earth and crushed rosemary, with eyes the color of a stormy sea. Watching you.

He said nothing.

So you offered a slow, disarming smile.

“Mr. Mellors, I presume?”

His gaze flicked briefly over you—assessing, unhurried—and back to your face. His mouth curled, but it wasn’t quite a smile.

“Yes, it's me. And you are?”

Your smile cracked slightly but you straightened it again almost immediately.

“I am the one who owns this place.”

“Oh, you must be Boss's daughter, then. Nice to meet you, Miss.”

The accent was there—Northern, clipped and grounded—but softened by time. Not quite rural. Just… plainspoken.

“Fletcher said you were competent,” you continued, stepping forward, letting your sandals crunch softly over the path. “Quiet. Not one to cause trouble.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Depends on how you define trouble.”

Your smile deepened but you didn't answer him.

You stopped a few feet from him, crossing your arms loosely, watching the way the sun gilded the curve of his jaw, the glint of sweat along his collarbone.

“You’ve been here… how long?”

He shrugged. “Almost a year now.”

“Hm.” Your father had taken cover rather quickly after the last escapee.

He glanced toward the garden behind him, then back at you, probably wondering if the conversation would go on any longer.

“Not very talkative, are you?”

He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, finally resting the pale against the fence. “Not when I've nothing useful to say, i'm sorry.”

That answer caught you off guard.

Just for a second.

You tilted your head and took a slow step closer. Just enough to let him notice the perfume on your skin. Something floral, expensive, unmistakably deliberate.

“I’d like to get to know the staff this summer,” you said, letting the words fall easily from your mouth, as though they weren’t loaded. “Build a bit more… unity.”

He didn’t blink. “Unity?”

“Trust. Familiarity.”

He wiped his hands on a nearby rag, then folded it once, neatly.

“Funny,” he said, still not looking away, “most people don’t start with the gamekeeper.”

“No,” you said, voice low, stepping right into that final sliver of space between you, “but I’m not most people.”

This time, his eyes narrowed. Not aggressively—just enough to show that he saw exactly what you were doing. Every word, every movement, every calculated breath.

“I know what this is,” he said, calmly.

You smiled, lashes low. “Do you?”

“I know how and why the last lads left,” he said, matter-of-fact. “They weren’t all incompetent.”

You arched a brow, letting the air between you thicken. “You believe a lot of the things you are told, y'know.”

“I don’t need to,” he replied. “The pattern speaks for itself.”

There was no malice in his tone. No raised voice or accusation. Just plain, unadorned observation. You hated how still he was. How quiet. How unshakeable.

You crossed your arms loosely, fingers trailing along your upper arm. “So?”

He didn’t flinch.

“Will you simply agree,” you asked, voice syrup-smooth, “not to cause me any trouble during my summer holiday?”

He straightened slightly, shoulders broad, voice steady. “With all due respect, Miss—I answer to your father, not to you.”

A beat.

He said it without condescension. Without a trace of defiance. Just truth.

“And your father’s been quite clear,” he added, “about what you are and are not permitted to do while you’re here.”

You laughed—light and practiced—but there was something tight at the edges of it.

“Well,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear with too much grace, “this is… a real shame.”

You weren’t going to give up just because Mellors was polite.

Polite could be cracked.

You had done it before—many times. Men far older, far stricter, far more resistant had folded beneath a steady current of subtle sabotage and well-placed sweetness. And they hadn’t looked half as interesting doing it.

So, you began.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing overt.

Just small things. Tests.

The first one was harmless enough.

At breakfast the next morning, you sent Fletcher a note—written in your softest, most polite handwriting—requesting Mellors accompany your cousins on their outing to the village that afternoon. Your father had made it clear Mellors was not to leave the grounds during working hours. You knew that. So did Fletcher. But the request was phrased as if your father had already approved it.

You waited.

But by mid-afternoon, your cousins returned alone, sweaty from the sun and annoyed.

You were lounging in the drawing room, a book open but unread on your lap, when the door creaked open and footsteps echoed across the parquet floor.

“I thought the keeper was meant to come,” Lisa grumbled.

“He never showed,” said Henry, the older of the cousins, tossing his sunglasses onto the sideboard. “Said he wasn’t leaving the estate without a direct order from your father. As if we were plotting to rob a bank.”

Amelia dropped onto the divan beside you, fanning herself with an abandoned postcard. “Honestly, how dull. You’d think a man who spends all day chasing pheasants would be glad to see the city.”

You looked up from your book with a delicate pout of concern. “Really? That’s so disappointing. I’d hoped he might enjoy a bit of civilization.”

But you were impressed.

He hadn’t taken the bait.

Two days later, you tried again.

The air was heavy with heat that morning, the kind that clung to skin and made linen feel like wool. A haze lingered over the fields, and everything smelled faintly of sun-warmed hay and roses past their prime.

You rose early—earlier than usual, even by Fletcher’s rigid standards—and dressed deliberately down for your morning walk. Not quite the picture of aristocratic perfection: practical shoes, breezy blouse, hair pinned up with just a touch of disarray. Innocent. Unremarkable. Almost helpful.

Fletcher met you at the east steps, as he always did on Tuesdays, clipboard in hand, the faintest sheen of perspiration at his temples betraying the heat.

“Are you joining me today, Miss?” he asked, his tone neutral but attentive.

You nodded with a faint smile, slipping on your sunglasses. “Let’s begin with the fencing. I want the grounds spotless before the guests arrive for the party.”

Fletcher fell into step beside you without comment.

You made idle conversation as you walked—about the weather, the state of the kitchen garden, and a passing note about a wasps’ nest near the old dovecote. Fletcher, for his part, responded with the usual dry professionalism, taking notes with his pencil, never indulging in your little provocations unless he had to.

And then, as you neared the wooded edge of the deer enclosure—the western fence, quiet and shaded and far from the house—you slowed your pace.

You didn’t even need to check the gate again. You had done it already, just after sunrise, fingers working at the old brass hinge until it sagged just slightly, giving the illusion of wear. Just enough slack to suggest oversight. Not sabotage. Just… carelessness.

You let your gaze fall on it now, brow knitting in practiced concern.

“Oh,” you said lightly, gesturing toward the latch with your hand. “That doesn’t look quite right, does it?”

Fletcher followed your gaze. His eyes narrowed, just slightly. He stepped forward and crouched to examine the hinge, running one gloved finger along the edge where the pin sat loose.

“That could be dangerous,” you continued, careful not to overplay it. “I suppose the new keeper hasn’t quite gotten the lay of the land yet. If the animals were to slip through…”

You trailed off, letting the sentence hang. Unfinished, but unmistakable.

Fletcher didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he adjusted his glasses and leaned in a little closer.

And then you saw it.

A length of fine wire—taut and expertly knotted—looped discreetly around the hinge bracket, securing the loosened joint with practical precision. It was nearly invisible from a distance. Even up close, it was easy to miss unless you were looking for it.

Fletcher straightened, brushing a speck of dust from his trousers.

“It’s been seen to,” he said calmly. “A temporary repair. Well-executed. I imagine Mr. Mellors noticed it and intended to replace the hinge properly this evening once the animals were brought in.”

You blinked once, then looked again—this time pretending to notice the wire for the first time.

“Well,” you murmured, “how… thorough of him.”

Fletcher glanced at you sidelong. There was no judgment in his eyes. But there was, unmistakably, awareness.

“I believe he takes his position seriously,” he said quietly. “And shows initiative, even in the less obvious details.”

You pressed your lips together, not smiling. Not quite.

Another step ahead of you.

Another failure.

And then came another, and another, and yet another.

By the end of the first week, the staff was whispering again. But not about him. About you. Which wasn’t new—but this time, it grated. Because no matter how subtly you shifted the playing field, Mellors kept finding a way to reset it.

With grace. With restraint.

Without ever accusing you of anything directly.

And that, more than anything, unnerved you.

Because he wasn’t winning with power. He wasn’t beating you with words. He was just… enduring you. Silently. Skillfully.

Meanwhile, mid-July was approaching, and Oliver Mellors was still too loyal a pawn to your father.

The ball veered sharply to the left and slammed against one side of the goal post, violently knocking it out of place before rolling crookedly into the lavender hedge. The harsh clang echoed through the warm summer air.

“Shit!” you snapped, the croquet mallet dropping from your hand with a sharp thud. You raked your fingers through your hair in frustration and then crouched beside the scorched grass, catching your breath.

You could feel the sweat beginning to gather beneath your collarbones, the stick of your linen shirt to your skin. The West Sussex sun wasn’t particularly cruel today, but your temper made everything feel hotter than it was.

Henry whistled low, clearly enjoying himself far too much. He rocked lazily on his heels near the refreshment cart, glass of iced lemonade in one hand, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest like some trust-fund pirate.

“You seem tense, cousin,” he said with maddening amusement. “Relax. It’s a party, not a coup d’état.”

“Relax?” you barked, straightening up and gripping the metal table beside the court with both hands. “It's in two weeks, Henry, and I still haven’t solved the main problem.”

From her perch on the sunlounger, Amelia didn’t even bother to lift her sunglasses.

“The cocaine?” asked Henry dryly, yawning as he prepared to hit the ball with the racket.

“No, idiot,” you snapped, your tone sharp enough to draw the three attention. “Mellors.”

You dropped onto the edge of the table, one leg crossing over the other, the metal still warm from the sun beneath your thighs.

Amelia adjusted her bikini top and propped herself up on her elbows. “Oh, for God’s sake. Just seduce him already.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You heard me.” She reached for a cherry from the bowl on the side table and popped it into her mouth with infuriating elegance. “Fuck him. Then report him. Get him fired the old-fashioned way.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Lisa, who had been on the sidelines until then, buried in her phone, turned sharply toward her, her mouth half-open in disbelief. “Jesus Christ, Amelia. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What?” she shrugged. “It would work.”

“That’s not working—that’s sociopathic,” she said, taking a long sip of her drink like she needed it suddenly more than ever. “And disgusting. You can’t just use someone like that.”

“I’m just saying it’s effective.”

“You’re just saying something fucked-up.”

You sat still, oddly quiet as you watched them bicker, your pulse drumming steadily in your ears. The suggestion hadn’t landed with outrage. It had landed like a seed.

Henry turned to you suddenly, his voice lower, more serious. “You’re not actually thinking about it, are you?”

You met his gaze evenly.

And smiled.

“Of course not,” you lied.

You reached for your sunglasses, sliding them smoothly over your eyes. Then, without another word, you leaned back on your elbows and turned your face to the sun.

That afternoon, when your cousins had retreated to their rooms to relax, you decided to go see the gamekeeper on your own.

You’d watched his routines over the past days, mostly in silence—Mellors never strayed far from the horses after breakfast, especially in the late afternoons when the sun was kind and the stalls were warm and humming with quiet.

He seemed to visit the stable often. Perhaps he liked horses, and perhaps it was the place where he felt most at peace in the entire mansion.

You intended to take advantage of that moment.

If he wouldn’t bend to irritation, perhaps he’d bend to something softer—something that looked like humility but wasn’t. Not entirely.

The stables stood at the edge of the lower fields, tucked behind the stone garden wall and shaded by two old beech trees. You approached with purpose, every step deliberate, your heeled boots silent on the old stone path. You adjusted your cuff once, smoothing the linen of your blouse, and squared your shoulders.

The scent of hay and saddle soap hit before the door even opened. Familiar. Warm. Clean.

You stepped inside.

He was there, of course. Standing beside your father’s black gelding—Nero—methodically brushing down the horse’s flank. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing tanned forearms, his hair slightly damp from exertion or the early wash of evening.

He didn’t look up at first. But you knew he’d heard you.

“Good evening,” you said evenly, pausing just inside the door.

Mellors turned, slow and quiet, like someone who didn’t waste movement. His expression was unreadable.

“Miss,” he said.

Polite. Neutral. He placed the brush down beside a saddle blanket, then stood straighter, hands loosely behind his back. Not military—but close.

There was a pause.

You stepped forward, the wooden floor creaking beneath your boots. Your eyes went briefly to Nero’s coat—gleaming, clearly well cared for.

“I’ve been told he’s looking better than ever.”

Mellors nodded. “He’s a good horse. Just needed regular work.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, then looked back at him. “I came to speak with you.”

His brow lifted just slightly. “Is that so.”

Not surprised. Not intimidated. Just… watchful.

“I realized,” you said calmly, hands loosely clasped behind your back, “that I may have approached things poorly between us.”

He tilted his head slightly, but said nothing.

You continued. “I misjudged your role. And your intentions.”

That was as far as you’d go—for now. You wouldn’t unravel yourself for him. You wouldn’t plead. But you could offer just enough softness to shift the air.

You let a pause stretch between you, then added with quiet precision, “You’ve done your work well, despite… obstacles.”

His mouth twitched—just slightly.

“I try to,” he said.

You took another step closer, stopping just beside the stable door. Dust motes floated in a shaft of sun near his shoulder, gilding the edge of his profile.

“I imagine you don’t trust me.”

Mellors let that hang for a moment. Then: “With respect, Miss… I don’t have the luxury to trust many people in your position.”

Your jaw tightened—briefly. “Because I'm part of the aristocracy.”

“Because you’re in charge when your father is not here.” His voice didn’t rise, didn’t sharpen. “And people in charge don’t usually apologize.”

“I didn’t apologize,” you said coolly.

He looked at you, evenly. “No. You didn’t.”

A beat.

You studied him again. The tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers flexed when they weren’t doing anything. Always ready to move, to act, to defend.

“I might have,” you said finally, “if you’d accepted it.”

Oliver blinked a couple of times, not expecting this turn of events, and looked first at you, then at the horse you had your eye on.

“I could,” he began, unsure whether to risk it. “If you help me.”

You frowned, the shift in tone catching you off guard. “Help?”

He nodded toward Maggie, your horse, standing a few meters away from you.

“I’m not in the right clothes for that,” you said with a faint smirk, glancing down at your crisp blouse, clean boots, the pearl-stud earrings.

Oliver looked at you, patient. Not mocking.

“I don’t think your horse will care,” he said. “The question is: do you?”

You held his gaze. You weren’t used to people turning your own words back on you. Or your logic. You weren’t used to being challenged without a trace of defiance.

And that’s what made him dangerous.

You approached the mare with determination—because you refused to look unsure—one hand steady on her powerful neck to calm her nerves and let her feel your closeness and presence.

Maggie stood calmly between you, a soft shimmer in her silver-grey coat beneath the bright light slanting through the open door. You reached up, taking the brush from Mellors’s outstretched hand, the bristles worn smooth with use. Your fingers met the warmth of his for only a breath, but the touch sparked something—fleeting, charged, unacknowledged.

Then, you turned your attention to Maggie.

You ran the brush along her flank, firm and even, mimicking the motion you’d seen him use moments before with Nero. Dust rose in small, shimmering clouds, catching in the sunlight like gold powder. Maggie released a long breath through her nostrils, relaxed and half-lidded, then gave you a gentle nudge with her muzzle—nothing insistent, just recognition.

“Good girl,” you murmured under your breath. “I forgot you’d like the brush more than me.”

Your voice held the faintest trace of something different—something softer, like a long-lost memory.

The rhythm of brushing settled into you unexpectedly. It was strange how quickly your shoulders loosened, how the world narrowed to just the sounds of her breathing, the creak of the wood beneath you, the soft thump of the brush. You focused, as you always did, on getting it right—on doing it well.

“I used to do this, you know,” you said after a time, eyes still on the rise and fall of Maggie’s side. “When I was younger.”

He said nothing at first, while he continued his work on the other animal. The silence wasn’t judgmental—it felt like he was waiting.

“I’d wake up early just to beat the stable hands,” you added, brushing gently along Maggie’s shoulder. “I thought it made me indispensable.”

“How long’s it been since you did that?” he asked. His voice was low. Not challenging. Just steady.

You stopped brushing for a moment. Your hand stilled on Maggie’s coat.

“Too long,” you answered. You didn’t mean to sound like you regretted it—but you did.

He nodded, and his gaze drifted toward the mare, who was blinking sleepily.

“They notice,” he said.

Your eyes flicked to his, cautious.

He didn’t look at you when he added, “Not in the way people do. Not disappointment. But they remember who you were—what it was like to be cared for.”

You looked away, back to the brush in your hand. The weight of it. The quiet repetition of its motion.

“When you used to lead them out at dawn,” he said, voice softer now, “water them yourself. Tuck the stalls before breakfast. They remember that version of you.”

The heat in your throat came quick, unexpected. You swallowed hard, blinking once.

“I know,” you said quietly.

You weren’t enjoying the feeling at all.

It had crept up on you, soft as dust and twice as irritating — the sensation of comfort. Of something dangerously close to connection.

Mellors was quiet, as he always was. Watching your mare with that maddening attentiveness of his. You couldn’t tell if it was a habit of the trade or if he simply cared — about her, about the moment, about what had just passed between the two of you.

But whatever it was, you didn’t want to be in the middle of it anymore.

You straightened up, the brush still in your hand. Your movements had become a little too slow. Your tone had lost its usual sharpness. You’d let the silence stretch too long, as if inviting it to grow roots.

And that wasn’t you.

So, you did what you did best.

You stood a little taller, cleared your throat softly — nothing dramatic — and said, with perfect, practiced poise, “I think I should go now.”

You didn’t look at him as you spoke. Instead, you placed the brush — not roughly, but not tenderly either — on the wooden shelf near Maggie’s stall.

“I have to stop in town,” you added, voice light. “Some errands.”

Mellors shifted slightly, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw the slight movement of his arm as it lowered to his side again. Perhaps it was an offering. His hand was reaching for the brush. To take it directly from you.

But you ignored it.

You didn’t hand him the brush. You didn’t offer a look, or a nod, or even acknowledgment.

Instead, you left it behind. Just as you left behind the warmth, the softness, the unguarded thing that had threatened to open up inside you.

Your boots clicked softly on the stable floor as you turned.

“Have a good day, Mr. Mellors,” you said crisply, already halfway to the doors.

There was a pause. Then his voice followed you — low, even, with a strange trace of gentleness that only made the tightness in your chest worse.

“Have a good day too, Miss.”

The words chased you to the threshold — quiet enough not to echo, strong enough to stay.

At first, spending time with Oliver Mellors had been part of the plan. You approached it like a slow, calculated game—each shared morning, each accidental conversation, each task you offered to help with, was a move designed to lower his guard. You were patient, methodical. You knew charm, you knew strategy. You’d done this before.

But with Mellors, nothing worked quite the way it should have. Not even that.

He didn’t flirt. He didn’t flatter. He didn’t bend to provocation or melt beneath silences. He was respectful, distant, frustratingly unreadable. And yet—he never dismissed you. He never turned you away.

Days passed. Then a week.

You found reasons to seek him out. Small ones, at first. Questions about the horses. About the fields. About his life and the choices he had made. You learned that he had been married, once, and that he had indeed been a soldier who retired after a harrowing mission.

He always answered—briefly, plainly, but without condescension. You walked with him across the estate under morning clouds, sometimes silent, sometimes throwing barbed remarks that he always parried with cool indifference or quiet wit.

You bickered often—lightly, half-serious, like verbal fencing. You accused him of being too stiff. He accused you of trying too hard to impress the world. You called him arrogant. He called you spoiled. Neither of you backed down.

But beneath the arguments, something else formed.

You began to notice the way he paused before speaking—as if he was deciding to really open up to you. You noticed how he remembered things you said, even in passing. How he adjusted when you were tired. How he didn’t treat you like someone delicate or dangerous, but like someone real.

And slowly, without realizing it, your sharpness dulled around him. Your questions stopped being performances. Your silences stopped being tactics. You laughed with him once—really laughed—and didn’t catch yourself until it was too late. You let yourself stand closer than you meant to. You let him see you hesitate.

You were still proud. Still guarded. But there were moments—small, quiet ones—when your walls thinned. When you stopped trying to manipulate, and just were.

And, suddenly, Mr. Mellors became Oliver.

A couple of days before the fateful party you reached him at the usual place.

He was already there, leaning against the ancient oak, arms crossed, watching you approach with that unreadable calm in his eyes. His brown hair caught the pale light, strands catching fire in gold.

“You are late,” he remarked dryly, as you walked closer, hands tucked deep in your pockets.

“Be perfect takes time, sweetheart” you said instead, matching his measured tone.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, brief and almost amused, like the hint of a sunrise. “Right. That’s what you tell yourself.”

The two of you set off together, footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path leading deeper into the wild gardens beyond the formal estate grounds. You traded barbs—light, clipped, the way you always did—circling each other like wary dancers, words like sparring weapons.

“You don’t seem the type to appreciate art,” you said, nodding toward a twisted, ancient yew. “Nature’s sculptures, or whatever.”

“I prefer things that last,” he answered, voice steady, “not fleeting decorations.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. It was easier not to.

Minutes passed, and the forest thickened—oak and ash giving way to wildflower meadows stretching under the early sun. Then, almost without warning, he stopped. Pulled you off the path.

There was a clearing.

And what lay before you stole your breath away.

A small pond, mirror-still, reflecting the sky in perfect clarity. Around it, wildflowers nodded in a gentle breeze—bluebells, foxgloves, and delicate white lilies. Dragonflies skimmed the water’s surface, their wings shimmering like stained glass. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming life, mingling with the soft buzz of morning insects.

Oliver didn’t speak right away. Instead, he sat down on the expanse of grass by the water’s edge and pointed without looking up.

“See that?” he said quietly. “The way the light hits the lilies just before the sun fully rises? It only lasts for a few minutes.”

You crouched beside him, knees brushing soft moss. You studied the scene—too perfect, too alive, as if the world was holding its breath just for this moment.

“I've been coming here for years and I never thought to stop and watch,” you admitted, voice low.

“Most don’t,” he said. “Too busy chasing things that don’t matter.”

You frowned, a flicker of something unspoken threading through your chest.

“Maybe I’m too used to always moving forward,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “Always needing the next thing, the next win, the next distraction.”

He glanced at you then, sharp and direct, but his voice stayed soft. “And does it get tiring?”

You hesitated, then nodded once, sharply.

“I could stay here forever,” you said after a long pause, surprising yourself. “Just like this. Watching the light shift on water. Nothing else to do but be.”

You leaned down beside him, letting your weight rest on the hands pressed gently into the soft grass. The earth was still cool beneath your palms, the scent of dew and crushed clover rising up between your fingers. Oliver didn't move much, just shifted slightly to make room, his forearm brushing against yours as he leaned back on his elbows.

It was quiet—almost reverent—the way the air held still around the pond, the water glinting with shifting light. Dragonflies skimmed the surface. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a blackbird was singing.

Your hands touched.

Not entirely—just barely. The sides of your palms, a brief kiss of warmth and skin. You could have moved. Should have moved. But neither of you did.

The contact was subtle, delicate, the kind of thing you could pretend hadn’t happened—if it weren’t for how present it suddenly felt. You stared at the water for a moment, pulse steady but audible in your ears.

Then you felt it.

The gentle brush of his little finger against yours. Once. Then again.

Not confident, not planned. It was instinct, or something close to it—an unconscious act of softness. A barely-there movement that felt louder than anything either of you could have said.

Your breath caught, but you didn’t pull away.

Instead, you turned your head and looked at him.

Oliver was still watching the pond, jaw relaxed, in peace. You saw the way the light carved along the sharp line of his cheekbone, the slope of his nose, the soft curve where his mouth settled in thought. His lashes were dark and full, casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. His jaw, rough with the faintest trace of stubble, moved slightly as he swallowed, and for some reason, that small, quiet motion made your breath slow in your chest.

You caught yourself wondering how good your hands would look around his neck.

You imagined the feel of his skin, warm and alive beneath your hands. Imagined the shift of his breath beneath your touch. Imagined him looking up at you—excited and needy—without moving away.

It was ridiculous.

It was intimate.

It was dangerous.

You looked away and you moved from his touch—too quickly—and told yourself it was just the sunlight making you restless. The quiet playing tricks.

What the hell was your head even trying to do?

You stared at the mirrored surface of the pond, its reflection trembling slightly in the breeze, just like your thoughts. That flicker of warmth in your chest, that strange ache in your hands to touch him—to touch Oliver Mellors—wasn’t just confusing.

It was offensive.

To your sense of control. To your perfectly arranged world. To your pride.

Your gaze slipped to him again—still beside you, forearm brushing faintly against yours, his profile turned toward the water. He looked like part of the landscape. Not ornamental. Rooted. He wasn’t supposed to affect you like this, and yet…

You cleared your throat, suddenly needing to speak, afraid of what would rise between you if you let silence linger too long.

“So,” you began, your voice carefully neutral. “The day after tomorrow is the party.”

He didn’t turn, but you felt his attention shift toward you. Just the weight of his awareness made your breath feel shorter.

You continued, trying for casual but overcorrecting. “You already know, of course. It’ll be loud. People coming and going. I assume the usual number of minor infractions.”

There was a beat of pause.

Then Oliver looked at you—just out of the corner of his eye. A subtle glance, but enough to carry weight. He didn’t look curious. He looked… disturbed. Or maybe skeptical.

You hated how warm your cheeks felt under that look.

Still, you pushed through. “What I’m saying is… will you let me go through with it? Without running to my father about the details?”

His brow ticked up, faintly. “Is that what you think I’d do?”

You met his gaze, chin tilted. “It’s what your contract says you should do. That you report any… ubnormal things, let’s say.”

There was a pause.

Then—he snorted. Not loudly. Not mockingly. Just a brief exhale, almost like a laugh trying not to exist.

“Will you cause any damage?” he asked, deadpan.

You considered it. “If it were to happen, I’d take the blame. Or replace everything faster than the next sunrise.”

He tilted his head toward you then, finally giving you a full glance. “Will someone die?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Death,” he repeated plainly. “Overdose. Stabbings. Poison in the punch.”

You rolled your eyes. “Where do you think we are, The Riot Club?”

He didn’t answer, just kept looking at you with that unreadable calm of his. The silence pushed you to add, more softly, “Everything will be fine.”

Another pause.

Then, a single word: “…Fine.”

But that word held weight. Not just reluctant agreement, but something else—acknowledgment. Trust. The kind of trust he didn’t give easily. The kind that had to be earned through battles and silences and arguments that weren’t really about what they seemed.

You looked back at the water, trying not to show the flicker of relief that rose in your chest.

He was letting you do it.

Not because he had to.

But because he was choosing to.

The party was running like a well-oiled, impossibly expensive machine.

From the second guests arrived—some in towncars, others in blacked-out SUVs—it had moved with rhythm. The kind of rhythm that made everything look easy but cost weeks of planning, quiet bribes, and iron-clad control.

Drinks flowed effortlessly: custom-mixed cocktails passed on silver trays alongside cold-pressed citrus shots and perfectly measured pours of rare champagne. The music shifted seamlessly between curated house sets and low, pulsing mixes—just loud enough to blur private conversations if they wanted to move away across the meadows.

Cigarettes were smoked, joints passed carefully under string lights in the garden. Someone’s sister danced barefoot by the edge of the pool while her boyfriend filmed her on something that cost more than most people’s rent. Neon bracelets glowed faintly under the dim outdoor lighting, and laughter echoed in the air like wind chimes.

And you—of course—you were in the center of it all.

Wearing something minimal and effortlessly expensive, drink in hand. You smiled, laughed, had fun playing stupid games.

But beneath all of it, you were on edge.

Because you hadn’t completely trusted Oliver Mellors.

Every time the laughter peaked a little too high, every time someone dropped a glass or a flash from someone’s phone hit your peripheral vision, you half-expected it: the door opening, one of your father’s men stepping in, starting to make the guests spend.

But it never happened.

The night stretched on, as humid and heavy as summer silk, and no one came to stop it.

Oliver kept his word.

You didn’t see him—not once—but you knew he was out there. Probably in his house, waiting for someone from the staff to run to him with news of some problem. You doubted he had gone to bed already.

That thought should’ve brought you comfort. Or relief. Or satisfaction.

Instead, it curled in your stomach like heat.

Because your mind kept returning to him. Uninvited. Unchecked. Like a song stuck in the background of a playlist.

Between compliments and casual smirks, between dances and sidelong glances from boys you could twist around your finger in seconds—you still found yourself glancing toward the darkness outside the villa’s windows, wondering what he was doing alone.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted it—a still-sealed bottle, glinting under the dim garden lights, abandoned on the service table like an afterthought.

You smirked.

Without bothering with glasses, you plucked it up, cradling the neck between two fingers with effortless ease. You didn’t even check the label—you already knew it would be good. Everything tonight had been. But this wasn’t about the bottle.

It was about the person you were bringing it to.

If you’d learned anything about Oliver Mellors over the last few weeks, it was that he didn’t give a damn about polished silver or etched glass. He’d probably drink it out of a chipped mug if that’s what was closest—or not at all if he didn’t see the point. And somehow, instead of irritating you the way it once would have, that thought… amused you. It even warmed you, in the strangest way.

You cut away from the lingering noise of the house and walked toward the edge of the estate, an half-drunk smirk on your lips, where the staff quarters and the old gamekeeper’s cottage sat quietly beneath a soft pool of yellow porch light.

Of course he was still awake.

You could see the faint glow of lamps through the windows. You imagined him sitting at the kitchen table—book open, shirt sleeves rolled up, elbow on the wood.

Maybe you’d barge in, bottle in hand, and mess with him—tell him someone slipped and cracked their head open by the pool. That an ambulance was on the way. Watch the way his eyes narrowed just before he realized you were full of shit.

You were already smiling at the thought when—

A pair of arms wrapped suddenly around your waist.

Tight. Familiar. Unwanted.

You froze, the bottle tipping slightly in your grip but not slipping.

“There you are, babe,” a voice breathed near your ear. Warm. Cocky. Annoyingly recognizable. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”

Your entire body stiffened.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been avoiding me.”

You sighed through your nose, rolling your eyes before he could see it. “Actually, I am.”

Jeff laughed—soft and smug—pressing his chest against your back like nothing had ever changed. “Come on. You’re not still mad about that little slip-up, are you?”

You pulled your arms forward, breaking his grip without a word. Turned around just enough to face him, your expression flat.

“Jeff,” you said, as if the name itself required effort, “I’m not mad.”

He blinked. Smiled, uncertain.

“I just realized,” you continued coolly, “that you’re a complete idiot.”

He winced. Just slightly.

You took a step back, the bottle still casually dangling in your hand.

“Go back to the party, Jeff.” you said, voice flat. “There’s a girl in a mini dress somewhere who’ll listen to you cry about your commitment issues.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he just looked at you—glassy-eyed, slow—like he didn’t quite believe this version of you was real.

“I don’t want to,” he mumbled, stepping closer. “I missed you…”

You resisted the urge to sigh again, to roll your eyes—until you felt the sudden heat of his body pressing against yours. His arms came around you in a clumsy lurch, and then he dropped his head between your neck and shoulder like a dead weight, exhaling cheap vodka and too much cologne across your skin.

The disgust hit instantly.

You stiffened. “Jeff,” you said sharply, “let go.”

But he didn’t. He kept mumbling nonsense—something about the past, about your skin, about how “soft” you were. His grip tightened in a way that was no longer friendly. No longer tolerable.

“Let go,” you said again, louder now, trying to pry yourself from his arms—but then you felt it. His hand, brazen and clumsy, sliding lower, fingers groping your ass like he still had the right.

Rage exploded through your chest—sharp, cold, precise. Your hand clenched around the neck of the bottle like instinct. You didn’t shout. You didn’t scream.

You simply raised your arm, preparing to crack the glass across his skull without hesitation.

But you didn’t have to.

Because before you could swing, his weight shifted—and then it vanished.

Jeff stumbled backward with a grunt, dragged off balance by a fist clenched tightly in the collar of his designer shirt. His feet scraped through the damp grass, heels dragging, until he was yanked two steps away and dropped with an undignified thud.

You blinked.

Oliver stood between you and Jeff, not speaking, not posturing. Just standing there, solid and calm, breathing slow and quiet like he’d only just stepped out of the woods.

Jeff gaped at him, half-drunk and stunned. “Who the fuck—?”

“Get out of here before I kick your arse, boy.”

The words came low. Even. No need to shout.

But something in his tone—that unshakable, ice-wrapped calm—struck harder than any yell could have. It wasn’t a bluff. There was no panic, no adrenaline. Just the cold confidence of someone who knew exactly how far they were willing to go, and how quickly they’d get there if pushed.

The final word—boy—landed like a slap.

Jeff didn’t move. Not right away. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was pride, fragile and pathetic, trying to find footing.

He looked up at Oliver, blinking stupidly like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or challenge him. A mistake.

Oliver took a step forward, aggressive.

That was all it took.

Jeff scrambled back like a kicked dog. His hands sank into the grass behind him, feet sliding as he clumsily tried to reverse course. He tripped over himself, got upright again, and without a word, turned.

He didn’t even look at you.

He disappeared into the dark path back toward the house, slinking away with all the dignity of a coward who finally realized he had nothing left to lean on.

You were silent for a moment, just breathing, chest rising and falling with a tight sort of exhilaration.

Then you laughed.

Low, dry, and sharp enough to sting your own ears. It cracked open the tension still hanging in your shoulders. The sound startled you a little. Maybe it startled him, too.

Oliver turned his head toward you, slowly. He hadn’t moved from where he stood, not since Jeff had retreated. The tension hadn’t left his shoulders yet, but something in his expression was shifting—softening in parts, darkening in others.

His eyes flicked over you, reading, like he wasn’t sure if you were laughing because you were fine… or because you were seconds from breaking.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now. Measured.

His tone wasn’t distant, but it was careful, like he didn’t want to push you too soon. He took a step forward, slow but certain. The crunch of the grass beneath his boot sounded louder than it should have in the hush between you.

There was something unsteady behind his composure now—barely there. A flicker of uncertainty hiding beneath all the steel. You weren’t used to seeing it on him. Oliver Mellors, usually so contained, so unreadable, suddenly looked like a man who was concerned. Genuinely. For you.

You straightened, clearing your throat.

“I’m fine,” you said, casual and clean. You reached down and lifted the champagne bottle like a prize, tilting it toward him with a mock toast. “You just saved your bottle.”

He arched a brow.

“I was going to smash it over his head,” you added, with the shadow of a grin. “Right before he got handsy.”

Oliver dropped his gaze for a moment.

“Is that why you came here?”

You looked away from him for the first time, toward the trees beyond the pond.

And for once, you didn’t lie.

“That,” you said softly, “and to thank you. You kept your word.”

Something in his face shifted. The hardness smoothed at the edges.

Instinctively, you held out the bottle. A peace offering. Gratitude. A way to say more without saying anything.

He reached for it.

But at the last moment, something in you pulled back. Just slightly. Just enough.

The confusion in his eyes lasted only a second—but it was there.

And it delighted you.

“Well?” you teased, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Why don’t you pour a glass? Champagne’s not meant to be drunk alone, y'know.”

He stood still, silent, weighing you again like he always did.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he said, and it would’ve sounded like disapproval if not for the faint smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth.

You raised an eyebrow. “You think too much.”

He didn’t argue. He just watched you.

So you did what you always did when someone wouldn’t play your game—you upped the stakes.

Without a word, you turned on your heel, your boots sinking slightly in the wet grass, and ran lightly toward the pond. Your laughter trailed behind you—taunting, wild. You dropped to the ground beside the water, your dress bunching at your thighs, the dew clinging to your skin like silk.

The champagne bottle thudded softly to the earth beside you.

You leaned back on your elbows and looked at him across the lawn, bathed in moonlight.

“Come on,” you called. “Loosen up.”

You patted the ground beside you, chin tilted in mock invitation.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Just stood there, half in shadow, arms crossed like he was debating something. You expected him to turn and walk away. He didn’t like your games. He never had.

But then—he took a breath. One you heard, even from here.

And he moved.

Slowly, steadily, like a man deciding not to overthink something for once.

He crossed the grass and sat down beside you.

The glass was cool in your hand, beads of condensation forming against your skin. You twisted the foil and wire with practiced ease until the cork gave a soft pop—surprisingly gentle, given the anticipation buzzing in your veins.

The release of pressure echoed quietly across the still pond.

Without waiting, you brought the mouth of the bottle to your lips and tipped it back. The champagne was cold and bright—sweet, but dry, a kind of gold that fizzed behind your teeth. The taste bloomed across your tongue, making your head hum.

When you lowered the bottle, you glanced sideways. Oliver’s gaze met yours, unreadable in the moonlight, and you realized suddenly how close he felt without even touching you. You held the bottle out toward him, an eyebrow raised in offering.

He shook his head once.

“I’m good.”

You tilted your head, playful. “Don't tell me you're disgusted.”

“Not at all.”

You studied him for a moment, watching how his eyes lingered—not on the bottle, but on you. Not quite boldly. Not shyly, either.

The bubbles were making you bolder than usual. That, or the fact he hadn’t left. That he was still here beside you after everything.

You turned toward him more fully, crossing your legs, letting the hem of your dress slide just a little higher without thinking. Then you brought the bottle back up—not to your lips this time, but to his.

He blinked at you as the glass hovered just inches from his mouth.

“Open for me,” you said softly.

It wasn’t meant to come out like that.

Not that tone.

Not that low, velvety edge to your voice—the one you used when you wanted someone to obey.

But it did. It slipped out, intimate. Confident in a way you hadn’t rehearsed.

You felt your face heat instantly and your throat tightened as he turned his face slightly toward you—never breaking eye contact—and parted his lips.

You tipped the bottle carefully, the champagne pouring in a soft, controlled stream into his mouth. He drank without looking away from you, throat working quietly as he swallowed.

The moment felt ridiculous.

You could’ve made a joke. Teased him.

You didn’t.

Instead, you let the bottle drop just slightly and watched the faintest trace of champagne glisten at the corner of his mouth. You reached without thinking.

Slowly, you lifted your hand, brushing your thumb across his lips to catch the tiny rivulet of champagne before it could fall. His skin was warm, his stubble rough beneath your touch. You felt him go completely still.

Without looking away, you brought your thumb to your mouth.

And tasted it.

Your tongue catching the bright, golden trace of champagne. The weight of his eyes watching every move you made.

You looked up at him from beneath your lashes.

And what you saw in Oliver Mellors’ face made the air thicken around you.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t blinking. He looked… lost.

His mouth parted slightly, breath slowing as he leaned forward, drawn toward you like the space between your faces had suddenly turned magnetic. His gaze flicked to your lips—then back to your eyes. He didn’t hide it. He didn’t rush.

And for a single suspended moment, it was like everything else faded—no music, no party, no past.

Just him. And you. And whatever this had become.

But just before his face could touch yours—just before your noses could brush—you stood.

The grass whispered under you, cool and damp as you rose to your feet in one smooth motion, leaving him behind on the ground, caught in the breath you’d both been holding.

You walked toward the pond.

Leisurely, very leisurely.

Like you meant to be watched.

Your fingers found the thin strap of your dress and slid it off your shoulder. Then the other. The silk pooled at your waist, then slipped lower, gravity taking its slow pleasure until the whole thing puddled at your feet.

You stepped out of it, bare under the moonlight.

Not just naked—but untouched. Unafraid.

The water lapped softly at the edges of the pond, catching the moon in mirrored fragments as you waded in without pause. First ankles, then calves. The surface shimmered around your thighs like liquid silver as you moved deeper, until your body vanished beneath the surface and only your shoulders and collarbones caught the light.

Behind you, Oliver had risen to his feet.

“Get out of there,” he said finally, voice low but edged with something firmer now. Not panic. Just tense. “It’s dangerous at night.”

You turned your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. A smile ghosted at your lips.

“If you want me to leave…” you sank slightly deeper into the water, the cool slipping across your skin like a secret. “…you’ll have to come get me.”

You saw it—just for a moment.

That flicker in his jaw. The clench of restraint. The way his hands curled slightly at his sides, like part of him wanted to dive in after you, and another part still warred with what it meant.

“I won’t,” Oliver said quietly, his voice a low line in the dark.

You only smiled.

Then, without another word, you let yourself sink.

Your body slipped beneath the surface like a shadow swallowed by moonlight. Cold kissed your skin. The water curled over your shoulders, your throat, your mouth—until silence pressed in around you like velvet. It was quiet beneath the pond, muffled, still. Time didn’t seem to move there.

Above the surface, Oliver stood still.

His arms hung still at his sides, fists just slightly curled—not in anger, but in anticipation. You had vanished beneath the water with that same irreverent smile you’d always worn when you wanted to test the limits of someone’s patience. He knew that smile. He’d seen it in arguments, in flirtation, in the way you skirted rules like they were clothes you could slip in and out of.

He had expected you to pop up after a few seconds, laughing. Maybe with another quip. Maybe already swimming to the other side like a challenge thrown down just to keep him off balance.

But the water stilled.

The ripples softened and collapsed into glassy silence.

Ten seconds passed.

Then fifteen.

Still nothing.

He shifted, posture stiffening. “Hey—”

His voice cracked across the pond like a stone.

No answer.

He stepped forward, the weight of his boots crunching into the muddy bank. One of them sank, water licking at the leather. He didn’t notice. His eyes were trained on the water’s surface—now darker, deeper, the moon rippling fractured patterns across it.

The hollow ache of dread started to form in the center of his chest.

“All right,” he said, louder now, but his voice had lost its evenness. “That’s not funny.”

Still nothing.

Not even the sound of your breath breaking the surface.

No laughing. No splashing.

Just silence.

The pond, so still only moments ago, suddenly felt too big. Too dark. Too deep.

His stomach twisted.

Something primal clicked in his jaw, locking down tight. Panic threaded into his ribs like wire. He stepped into the water without thinking, the cold rushing around his ankles, up his calves.

“Enough,” he snapped. “Come up.”

Still no answer.

The dread had turned to something else now—terror, raw and silent. He remembered how fast things went wrong in water. How fast someone could disappear. You weren’t just being reckless—you might be…

A blur of movement broke the surface behind him.

And before he could turn—

You crashed into his back, laughing, and shoved him forward with both hands.

He stumbled into the water with a splash that drenched the grass behind him, arms flailing for balance, and landed half-submerged, coughing and furious.

You joined him in the water a second later, laughing breathlessly. Genuinely. The sound bubbled up from your chest as you brushed wet hair from your face.

“Did I scare you?” you grinned, breath hitching.

Oliver turned, shirt soaked, hair plastered against his brow, his eyes wide with the leftover surge of fear and adrenaline.

“No,” he said stiffly.

You swam toward him, lazy strokes cutting through the surface. “Oh, no?”

A grin tugged at your lips as you reached him, now close enough that your breath mingled. You placed your hand firmly on his chest, right over his heart.

It thundered beneath your palm.

You looked up at him through wet lashes. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

Oliver swallowed hard, but didn’t back away. His eyes dropped to your hand, then rose to your face.

And you saw it—again.

The restraint.

The war inside him between letting go and holding the line.

Your body was inches from his now, naked under the water, the skin of your breasts that almost touched his soaked shirt. You leaned in, voice velvet.

“Please, don’t do it,” he whispered.

The change in his tone made you still.

You blinked slowly. “Don’t do what?”

His jaw clenched. You could feel it beneath your fingertips now, where they ghosted up to his throat, to the sharp edge of his beard.

“Don’t play me.”

The words were almost a breath. Fragile.

A plea.

You looked at him for a long moment—really looked.

Not at the strong jaw, not the shoulders beneath the fabric. But the man underneath.

You lifted your hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb along his jawline, wet from the pond, warm beneath the cold.

“Do you think I’m playing?” you whispered.

His eyes didn’t waver.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said. “But I know what I want it not to be.”

Your hand stilled.

Then, without warning, you leaned in—and kissed him.

And...wow.

You’d kissed men before.

Plenty of them.

Some were too eager, others too practiced—mouths that pressed with confidence but not care, all tongues and urgency, as if kissing was a game they’d already assumed they’d won. Their lips were often rough, cracked at the edges, tasting of cigarettes, cocktails, and impatience. Hands would grab too fast, pulling you close like a trophy, like they were owed something just for being there. You’d let them.

But this—

This wasn’t like any of that.

When Oliver Mellors kissed you back, it didn’t feel like possession.

It felt like freedom.

His lips moved against yours with a kind of reverence. Soft—not only in touch, but in intent. There was no rush in the way he pressed into you, no hunger masked as affection.

And it shook you.

The gentleness of it.

You’d expected him to be hard, restrained, cold even—someone who’d kiss like he was bracing for it to end.

But he didn’t.

His lips were warmer than the water around you, his mouth parting with deliberate slowness, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he didn’t want to miss a single second.

You felt his hands under the water, settling at your waist—steady. Just there. A silent grounding in a world that felt like it was suddenly turning upside down.

You kissed him back, deeper now, and his breath hitched faintly through his nose.

That sound…

It made your stomach twist in a way that wasn’t power, wasn’t control—it was need. The quiet kind. The kind that curled inward. You wanted more of that sound. Of him. Not because he was hard to reach, not because he’d resisted for so long—but because this felt real in a way that nothing else had in a long time.

When you pulled back just slightly, your foreheads nearly touched, breaths mingling.

“So…” you murmured, your voice a low curl of breath between his lips, “shall we continue somewhere more private?”

Your legs had wrapped around his hips without thought—your bare skin slick against his soaked shirt, the waterweight of it clinging between your bodies. You felt the tension in his muscles, not just from the exertion of treading water but from the nearness.

Your arms circled loosely around his shoulders, fingers threading through the damp strands at the nape of his neck. His breath hitched against your mouth, then steadied.

Oliver didn’t answer with words.

He kissed you again—just once, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that left your lips tingling long after he pulled away.

Your gaze drifted over his shoulder toward the nearby cottage, its warm light glowing faintly behind rain-dampened windows.

Oliver followed your line of sight and smiled faintly against your cheek.

He adjusted his grip beneath your thighs, firming his hold, and began walking slowly through the shallows, each step deliberate. The water cascaded down your bodies in rivulets, moonlight catching on every curve of your skin. You tucked your face into the warm slope of his neck, hiding the sudden, unexpected flush that rose to your cheeks.

But then you remembered—“Wait—”

He stopped just at the edge of the pond.

“The dress,” you said, laughing under your breath. “Take the dress. And the shoes. Before someone finds them and tells my father I’m skinny-dipping with the staff.”

Oliver huffed a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“I’m more than staff,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Still, he shifted his weight, carefully balancing you against his chest with one arm. You tightened your grip instinctively—legs around his waist, arms over his shoulders—as he bent slightly at the knees and reached down with his free hand.

You watched his hand skim the dew-damp grass, collecting your slumped dress and the delicate slingback heels you’d kicked off moments ago. He held them loosely, and once they were secured, he rose back to full height and started walking again, slow and unhurried, the soles of his boots squishing softly with each step.

You tilted your head, watching the way his jaw tightened with the effort of carrying you like that, the way the muscles in his arms flexed beneath the wet shirt.

You bit his neck lightly, unable to resist the urge, making him grunt slightly.

Oliver crossed the threshold of the cottage with you still held close, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality that sent a shiver down your spine. The air inside was warm, heavy with the scent of pinewood, old leather, and something that was unmistakably him—earth and smoke and quiet restraint.

Without a word, he let your wet dress and shoes fall from his hand, forgotten in a heap near the door. His boots thudded softly on the wooden floor, echoing in the stillness as he carried you down the short hall.

The room was small, dimly lit by a light near the bed. The sheets were rumpled, the window cracked slightly open to let in the sound of wind in the trees. Everything was simple—clean, lived-in—but it felt safe. It felt like him.

He lowered you gently onto the bed, the mattress giving under your weight. His shirt clung to him like second skin, soaked from the pond, the fabric translucent in places. You propped yourself on your elbows, watching him as he stood over you, jaw tense, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

Still, he didn’t move too quickly.

He was watching you, too—measuring this moment like it mattered more than he could admit.

Your hand reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt. “You’re dripping all over your floor.”

“So are you.”

The edge of your mouth curved. “I’m not the one wearing half a lake. But I'm feeling terribly kind today, so I'll help you get rid of it.”

He gave a soft, short laugh and knelt down, leaning forward until his face was close to yours neck again. His fingers trailed from your arm to your collarbone, featherlight, barely there.

Your fingers found his buttons easily. Each one came undone with steady purpose, your touch confident and unshaking, even as his mouth trailed along the curve of your neck.

His lips were hard, teeth grazing the delicate skin just below your jaw, tongue sweeping the hollow of your throat. It wasn’t hunger—not entirely. It was something more layered. Like he was trying to read you in the dark. Learn you, not take you.

You slid his soaked shirt off his shoulders, and it peeled away from his skin with a satisfying sound. Your palms followed its path, exploring newly revealed skin.

He didn’t stop kissing you, didn’t pause—not until your hands reached the waistband of his trousers.

Your fingers worked quickly, unfastening what remained between you, but not without noticing the way his breath stilled. The way his chest rose slightly beneath your palms.

But before you could slip your hand inside his boxers, he pulled back slightly with his hips, sliding his mouth over your chest. His hands never stopped, groping and massaging your thighs and hips until one reached and cupped one of your breasts.

His mouth was warm when it closed around your nipple—soft at first, lips brushing over sensitive skin before his tongue flicked out in a slow, deliberate stroke. He circled it once, twice, then drew it fully into his mouth, sucking just enough to make your back arch.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, and a shaky breath escaped you as the pull of his mouth sparked fire deep in your belly.

Then he pulled back, lips glossy, breath warm against your skin. His gaze lifted to meet yours, hooded but clear.

“Is this good?” he asked, voice low and teasing, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.

You groaned, head dropping back against the pillow, frustration curling in your gut like a second heat.

“Fuck… you know it’s good,” you growled, voice rough, need sharpening your tone. Your hands pushed at his shoulders, trying to guide him upward. “Fuck me already.”

But he didn’t budge.

He stayed where he was, steady and unshaken, the weight of his body holding you down in more ways than one. His hands moved to your hips, grounding you. His mouth ghosted over the swell of your breast again, just enough to make you shiver.

“Patience,” he murmured, his voice like silk wrapping around a blade. “I’m not rushing anything.”

He kissed the valley between your breasts, then looked up at you with something deeper in his eyes—something that made your breath catch.

“We have the whole night,” he said. “And I’m going to take all of it.”

His fingers found your folds with unerring precision, gliding through the heat of you like he’d been memorizing this moment. Every stroke was maddeningly slow, relentlessly gentle—more worship than touch—as he dragged his fingertips along the soft swell of your labia, coaxing shivers from deep within you.

The burn inside you had shifted. No longer fury—no longer frustration. That fire now bloomed into something darker, sweeter. Need.

Oliver’s gaze dragged down the length of your body, eyes hooded and hungry, watching every twitch, every breath you couldn’t control. His fingers slipped lower, parting you with deliberate care—two fingers teasing at your entrance without crossing the threshold, just hovering, spreading your wetness like he was painting with it.

“So wet for me,” he murmured.

He circled the tip of one finger just at your opening—taunting, barely there—collecting the slick that had gathered from minutes of slow torture, of careful, patient teasing that left you trembling for more.

You bucked your hips, wordless and he didn't make you wait.

He finally pushed his fingers in.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Two of them, thick and unhurried, sinking into your heat like he had all the time in the world. The stretch was just enough to make your breath catch — not from pain, but from the delicious, maddening pressure of it.

Then he began to move.

In and out.

Measured. Teasing.

A steady rhythm that was somehow more torturous than if he’d gone rough — because he was enjoying this. Drawing it out. Humming low in his throat, clearly satisfied with the soft, broken sound he’d just stolen from you.

You couldn’t take it.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, sharp and sudden, dragging his face up to yours. You kissed him hard, biting his lower lip, hips grinding into his hand, trying to make him move faster—to give you what you knew he was holding back.

“You’re a fucking tease,” you whispered, breath hot against his mouth.

He smiled against your lips — slow, smug, infuriating.

“And you’re so hasty, love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just beside your mouth. “Good things come to those who know how to wait.”

Then—

He tilted his fingers just so.

And found it.

That spot inside you that made your hips jerk, your head fall back, and your breath catch in your throat like he’d pulled the air right out of your lungs.

“There it is…” he whispered, voice almost reverent.

His fingers didn’t falter.

He kept the pressure steady, slow at first, coaxing every response from your body with a kind of focused devotion that made you ache in more than one way. His forehead rested lightly against yours now, breath mingling with your own, the heat between you impossible to escape.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his voice a soft rasp. “That’s you. Opening up for me.”

Your legs were shaking now, thighs trembling around his hand, and your grip in his hair tightened — not to pull him, but to anchor yourself. You were spiraling fast, and the way he looked at you — grey eyes fixed, drinking in every twitch of your body, every sound you made — pushed you closer still.

“You’re doing so good, love,” he said, barely louder than a breath. His thumb stroked gently over your clit now in slow, circling motions, syncing perfectly with the curl of his fingers inside you. “Just let me take you there.”

Your breath caught, chest heaving.

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your mouth — featherlight, like you might break apart if he kissed you too hard.

“Oliver...fuck, Oliver, I—”

The pleasure crested hard and fast — a rush of heat and light that took your breath and your words and left you open, trembling, undone.

You came around his fingers with a soft cry, your body clenching and pulsing as he held you through it, murmuring sweet nothings against your ear.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Good girl.”

He slowed his movements, coaxing every last wave from you with such unbearable tenderness it nearly brought tears to your eyes.

Oliver pulled his fingers from you gently and brought them to his lips, tasting you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then he kissed you again — soft, slow, reverent — as if thanking you for letting him see you like this.

As soon as you've recovered enough, you pushed yourself up on shaking arms, wrapping trembling fingers around the waistband of his boxers and tugging him back to you.

His breath caught.

You palmed him through the fabric, and he squirmed—his body curling into yours, lips dragging along the column of your neck with a whimper that sounded needy and desperate.

Unlike you, he had no pride left to guard.

“Love, please,” he gasped, voice frayed at the edges. “I need you—just let me—”

He started to move again, fumbling to slide away, likely to reach for the condom.

But you didn’t let him.

Your legs wrapped tight around his hips, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him flush against you with a strength born from sheer, aching need.

“I’m clean,” you breathed. “And I take the pill. Don’t make me repeat myself. I’m getting angry. Do you truly need it?”

He blinked down at you—blown pupils, flushed face—caught somewhere between awe and pure, horny panic.

“No, I...Okay—Jesus,” he laughed breathlessly, pressing a kiss to your temple like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And then Oliver Mellors gave in.

He dipped his hips, slow and careful, dragging the length of his cock along your soaked folds—groaning low as you coated him in your slick. He lifted his head, eyes locked to yours, and kissed you as if he was already inside you, as if the seal of your mouths could make it deeper.

Your breath caught as the flushed, weeping head of his cock finally pressed past your entrance—tight and hot, your body parting for him in a stretch that made you shiver.

The sound he made was filthy, pure relief laced with reverence.

“So fuckin’ tight and wet for me, Miss,” he whispered against your lips.

“Oliver,” you whimpered, thighs trembling as your hips tilted forward, trying to pull more of him in.

He stared at you—right into your watery eyes—and something shifted in him. His fingers clamped around your hip, grounding himself in your softness as he began to press in deeper, inch by inch.

You gasped when he bottomed out.

The fullness stole your breath—the stretch just at the edge of too much—but he didn’t move yet. He just watched you.

Watched the way your lips parted, the way your brow creased in pleasure that bordered on pain. He felt you flutter around him, your body clutching him tightly like it never wanted to let him go.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

He wasn’t prepared for how good you’d feel. How warm, how real, how much it felt like something deeper than sex was happening—like something was being claimed.

And as you clenched around him again, lips parted in a broken moan, he growled low in his throat.

And began to move.

Oliver moved inside you with slow, steady strokes — not hard, not fast — just deep. Deliberate. Kind.

His mouth never strayed far from yours, brushing your cheek, your lips, your neck like each inch of your skin deserved attention, like he had all night just to love you properly.

And he did.

He fucked you like no one ever had.

Not just with skill, but with intent — like he wasn’t trying to get off, but trying to show you something. That you could be worshipped. That this didn’t have to hurt. That someone could touch you like this — gentle, focused, breathless — and not take, but give.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, and he leaned into your touch like it anchored him. His thrusts stayed slow, precise, dragging out the heat between your hips until your thighs trembled around him.

“God, you feel so good,” he breathed against your shoulder, voice warm and cracking. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He shifted, angling his hips just right, and you gasped as he brushed a spot that made your body sing. He caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you again, one hand sliding between your bodies to press soft circles over your clit — patient, tender, until your breath hitched.

“C'mon,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your cheek. “Let go for me.”

And when you did — when your body shivered and clenched again and you cried out his name with your arms around his back — he followed you seconds later.

His rhythm faltered, and his whole body tensed.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m—” His words dissolved into moans as he pressed deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt. You felt the warmth of his release spill inside you as his mouth found your ear.

Beautiful little whimpers slipped from his throat — broken, sweet, undone.

And when it was over, he didn’t leave you.

He stayed pressed close, catching his breath in the quiet space between your bodies, before slowly pulling out and murmuring, “Don’t move.”

He returned with a warm towel — gentle as ever — carefully cleaning between your thighs, kissing your knee, your hip.

You curled into him as he joined you under the sheets, warm and clean, his arm draped over your waist.

“Wake me up before seven tomorrow,” you mumbled sleepily into the pillow. “I have to vacate the villa before my mother’s visit.”

He chuckled softly, pulling you closer, his hand brushing over your side beneath the blanket.

“All right, Miss,” he whispered with a lazy grin. “Now rest.”

And then, with the softest care, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.