#cheating fic

You looked at him, curious. Your gaze dropped to the small bouquet still clutched in his other hand.

“Nice flowers.”

He held them out before he could overthink it. “U-uh… they’re… uh, housewarming gift.”

Your smile was soft. “Really? Wow, thanks. Most people just brought beer.”

You took them and introduced yourself. Peter took a sip of whatever liquor was in the red cup and nodded.

“I’m uh… Mayn… Maynerd.” He cleared his throat.

Ned bumped in. “Oh. You two don’t know each other?”

“I’m a neighbor,” Peter replied.

“Friendly neighbor,” You said bringing the flowers closer and inhaling.

Peter choked on the next sip. A little cough, eyes watering, muttered “I’m sorry” while the drink threatened to come up his nose.

Ned broke the silence. “So… how was the interview?”

You lifted the bouquet. “I’m gonna go put these in water.” As you stepped away slowly you glanced back. “It was nice to meet you, May… nard?… Maynerd.”

Ned followed you into the kitchen. Peter stayed in the doorway, slowly walking out, watching the way you two moved around.

In the kitchen you filled a vase, trimmed the stems, arranged the flowers while Ned hovered. “Did you go? Please tell me you went.”

“Yeah, I went.”

“And?”

“I got the job.”

Ned’s face lit up, “That’s great!—” You shook your head, adjusting a stem. “And I declined it. I don’t want to work for a soulless corporation.”

“They’re not all soulless…Well…they’re all mostly soulless.”

You kept your eyes on the flowers. “I dunno. It might sound cheesy, but I feel like something’s telling me I’m supposed to be waiting for something…great.”

You looked up. Across the crowded living room, one end to the other, the mysterious guy who had brought the flowers was looking around, red cup halfway to his mouth. You admit to yourself that you found him attractive. He seemed familiar in a way you couldn’t pin down.

Ned lifted his cup. “So uhh… to uh, waiting for something great.”

You raised the vase in a mock toast. “To waiting for something great,” you echoed, smiling.

That was when a really tall guy came in on your left. He moved like it was casual for him to be there, close, proprietary. Ned accepted whatever gift the guy handed him and drifted off somewhere out of Peter’s sight.

Suddenly it was just you and a man talking.

From the far end of the room Peter watched. His spidey-sense stretched across the distance, sharp enough to catch every word now. The guy’s hand came up to your cheek, tilted your face, and kissed you.

“That’s my girl.” The words carried clear.

Peter couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His heart hammered against his ribs. He turned and started pushing through the crowd, needing air, needing distance.

Until the front door swung open as Ned and a cluster of guests hauled a huge cake inside, shouting and laughing, blocking the exit completely. Slight panic flickered through him. No way out. He had no choice but to back up into the apartment again, jaw tight, feeling as if he doesn’t belong here anymore.

You and your boyfriend stopped kissing the moment the cake arrived. You moved away from him to help Ned, but Ned already had it under control, waving you off with a grin. You took a step back and accidentally bumped into Peter.

“Oh—I’m so sorry.” You looked up at him. “You alright?”

Peter nodded too fast, voice rough as he cleared his throat from the lump he felt. “Yeah. Fine. Just…crowded.”

But you were looking at him with that interested curious look. The one he had made himself familiar with after the first year of getting to know you… five years ago.

The party didn’t end all at once. It thinned the way parties do: people drifting toward the door in pairs and small groups, the music turning quieter, the air growing cooler as windows were cracked open. Your boyfriend disappeared somewhere with a group heading downstairs for “one more smoke.” Ned was in the kitchen playfully arguing with someone about Spider Man, sounding half drunk. The living room felt larger by the minute.

Peter found you near the kitchen counter while the last stragglers were still gathering their jackets. He kept his voice casual, almost shy, the red cup long abandoned.

“Hey—uh. Would it be weird if we exchanged numbers? Just so I know when the next party is. I had so much fun.”

You hesitated only a second, then took his phone and typed yours in. “Sure. Don’t be a stranger, Maynerd.” You smiled softly at him.

Peter left with the taste of your name still unsaid on his tongue, the apartment door clicking shut behind him as the final guests filtered out.

That same night, while the city stretched out dark and glittering below, Peter sat upside down at the edge of a construction crane, mask lifted onto his forehead. His phone glowing in his hand. The first message came in just after midnight.

: Hey. It’s me from the party. Thanks again for the flowers. Nobody else brought anything that nice. Housewarming gifts like that don’t happen often. You must be good luck or something

Peter smiled small, almost blushing under the cold night air. He reread the message multiple times before answering.

Glad you liked them. They looked better with you holding them anyway

: Flattery will get you everywhere. Or at least another invitation to the next disaster Ned throws

I’ll bring better flowers next time. Or actual food. Your call.

: Food is dangerous. Ned will make you live here

I’ve survived worse

: Doubt it. You’ve never watched me try to cook pasta

Then I guess I’ll have to see it for myself.

He stayed there longer than he should have, upside down, rereading the short chain of messages like they might disappear if he looked away. For the first time in a long time the city felt a little less empty.

It started slow.

A few days later you texted again

: Ned and I are doing dinner tomorrow if you want to come. Nothing fancy. Just dumplings and whatever’s in the fridge.

Peter asked, carefully, about your boyfriend.

: He’s working late. Overtime. It’ll just be us and Ned

Peter arrived. Everyone sat by the kitchen counter while Ned and Peter talked, the conversations between everyone being so easy and funny.

He watched the way you moved around in the kitchen, offering a hand to wash dishes.

The next invitation came when Ned was at a trip with friends in Boston. The next, Ned had a late shift. Then it was just the two of you, takeout containers open on the coffee table, knees touching as you guys sat on the couch.

One night the conversation accidentally dragged past midnight.

One thing led to another and his hand found your waist by accident when you both were going to reach for the same remote, your laugh turning quieter.

When you guys would eat, he looked at your lips when you licked sauce off your thumb.

The first kiss was tentative.

The second wasn’t.

By the time you pulled him into your bedroom the door was locked and your shirt was already on the floor.

After that it became once a week. Always the same night. Always when your boyfriend was reliably elsewhere. You told him you needed the night for work and deep focus, no interruptions.

And he believed you.

Peter would text, On my way. You’d always meet him at the door. Sometimes you barely made it past the entryway of your room before he had you against the wall, mouth hungry, hands already under your clothes. Other nights it started slower with the two of you talking on the couch until the tension built and you were straddling his lap, grinding down while he moaned into your neck.

One afternoon, a month in, you walked out of the bathroom after a shower wearing his white “I Survived My Trip to NYC” shirt. It hung loose on you, soft from wear, the lettering slightly faded. Ned was in the living room and looked up, confused.

“Since when do you have that shirt?”

You shrugged, tugging the hem down. “Thrifted. Three bucks.”

Peter, who had left it the night before, almost swallowed his own tongue when you texted him the story later with a string of laughing emojis.

It had been a full month of weekly nights when his real name was finally revealed.

You knew he was holding something back by how quiet he’d been the entire night. You were both sitting on the edge of your bed, your knee against his, his hand resting high on your thigh, gently caressing. Before anything more could happen, you both spoke at the same time.

“Maynerd isn’t my real name.”

“We should stop because you’re Spider Man.”

You blinked. “Oh. I thought you were going to say you’re Spider Man…”

He huffed a short, nervous laugh. “No… no, I’m not. Why would I be—You want to stop? We could stop if you feel… uncomfortable.”

“Because every time you text you’re on your way I hear a specific sound that hits my fire escape. Because when you leave, by the time I get into my room, I see the same something of someone swinging past my window. You also show up with bruises you won’t explain.”

“That’s just…parkour. And a coincidence.”

“Well I just figured if you’re Spider Man, I wouldn’t want to keep you away from the city.”

He went quiet. The silence dragged until it broke under its own weight.

“Peter,” he said finally. “My real name is Peter Parker. And yeah… I’m…Spider Man.”

You didn’t inch away. Instead, you leaned in closer. “I already wanted you. Knowing just means I understand why you’re always a little broken.”

That night the sex was slower at first, almost reverent, until it wasn’t, and he was fucking you hard enough that the headboard knocked after every thrust and you had to bite his shoulder to stay quiet.

This time, you’d barely gotten past the heavy make out stage. Peter was still fully clothed. You wore only a thin strapped tank top with no bra underneath paired with black underwear. The thin fabric clung to your chest, nipples already visible through it from the friction. You were straddling his lap on the bed, grinding down against the thick ridge of his cock through his jeans while his hands roamed around your soft skin. His mouth was on your throat, teeth gently scraping against it so he doesn’t leave any evidence. You rolled your hips in slow, filthy circles, the damp heat of your cunt soaking through the thin fabric until it was visible against the denim. Peter groaned against your skin, low and soft and wrecked.

“Fuck—keep doing that. Just like that, baby.”

You listened, rolling your hips and grinding on him, the friction so good it made your thighs tremble. His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard as he guided you. Your moans mixed in with each other, the wet sound of your soaked cunt dragging over the denim filled the quiet room. You tugged his hair. He tugged yours back harder. You were both panting, tongues in one another, when the front door slammed open.

“Hey babe?!—“ your boyfriend’s voice shouted your name from the living room. “The front door was unlocked! I’ve been texting you!”

“Babe?” His shouts were louder.

You quickly moved off of Peter, panicking. “Holy shit, holy shit…” you whispered. You look over right beside you to see him gone, confused but not questioning it for now.

You scrambled back against the pillows, heart slamming so hard you could feel it in your throat. Your lips were slightly swollen. The thin tank top was rucked up slightly, underwear still damp. You were visibly panting, flushed, wearing almost nothing.

Your boyfriend walked in, phone in hand. He’d seen you in underwear a hundred times before, but he still stopped and frowned at the state of how you looked: flushed, breathless, barely dressed.

“You okay? You look…. why are you just sitting there like that?”

You forced your voice steady. “Yea—I’m Fine. Just hot. Ventilations being weird and all. I just finished changing.”

He sat on the edge of the bed like he belonged there. “Look… is everything okay with us? You’ve been distant. I feel like I barely see you anymore.” But you were barely paying attention, even at your own words. “Yeah, no. Everything’s fine. I’ve just been really busy with my new project.” You smiled, heart racing as your eyes moved up subtly and there he was. One second he was under you, the next he was on the ceiling, putting his finger against his lips, stuck silent in the corner upside down, above the doorframe.

Peter watched the way the other man’s hand rested near your knee and something dark and possessive twisted in his chest.

Carefully and silently, he shot a thin web through the cracked open bedroom door. He shot a stack of books that were on the coffee table and it toppled with a loud crash.

Both of you turned toward the sound.

“What the hell was that?” your boyfriend stood.

You stood with him. “Probably the neighbor cat snuck in again through the fire escape. Or the wind. Look—I’m really busy with work right now. I told you not to come over when I’m working. I need focus. Please just… go.” You led him out of the room.

The intensity in your voice made him pause for a moment but he kept walking. He studied your face, then nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay. Text me when you’re done?”

“Yeah.”

“Love you, text me.”

“Yeah, me too.”

You walked him to the front door, forcing a smile as he kissed your cheek, and locked it the second it closed. The second the deadbolt clicked you were already moving back to the bedroom.

Peter dropped soundlessly from the ceiling. The second his feet hit the floor he had walked towards you and cupped your face with both hands, pulling you close until your noses almost touched. His touch was soft, sweet, almost careful.

“Peter,” you whispered, breath still uneven, “we need to stop.” You leaned in.

He searched your eyes. “You wanna stop?”

Your faces were so close you could feel every exhale. You nodded softly. “Yea… we need to stop…”

His voice dropped even softer. “Then let’s stop, okay?”

“Okay…”

But even as the word left his mouth, his other hand was already moving slow and deliberate, sliding down your side, curling under your thigh, and lifting it up to rest against his hip. He pressed in closer, the hard line of his cock grinding against the soaked crotch of your underwear. The thin tank top did nothing to hide the way your nipples had hardened. He kissed you again, deeper this time, and the soft agreement to stop dissolved under the heat of it.

He walked you backwards once again towards the bed without breaking the kiss, then sat against the pillows propped at the headboard and pulled you into his lap so you could straddle him again. Rolling your hips back and forth, he quickly glances down at the mess you were making. “He doesn’t do it like me, does he?” The wet fabric dragged over the thick ridge of him through his jeans, your answer being a soft moan in response to his question. Peter groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your ass, guiding your hips. You tugged at his shirt. He lifted his arms just enough for you to yank it off and toss it aside. Your palms slid down the warm skin of his chest, over the faint bruises and the rapid beat of his heart, then lower. You popped the button of his jeans, dragged the zipper down, and pushed the denim, leaving him in his boxers. You shifted, grinding against him now, the head of him catching on the edge of your underwear with every roll of your hips.

That was when the familiar hard knock came at the front door.

“Babe—! Wait, babe!” Your boyfriend’s voice carried through the apartment, urgent. “I forgot I came for my business suit! I have an interview tomorrow!”

Both of you froze as you heard the locks move, forgetting he has a spare incase of an emergency.

Panic hit both of you in the face. You scrambled off Peter’s lap so fast you nearly fell. He was already getting ready to crawl back up the ceiling, eyes wide, but before he could do so you panicked and quickly shoved him toward the open window of your room he originally entered from, hearing the sound of the key sliding into the second lock.

“Go—go—” you whispered, frantic.

Peter swung one leg over the sill just as the front door unlocked and opened. You gave him one last desperate push. He dropped out of sight, almost falling but using his new organic webs—he recently discovered— to shoot onto the outer ledge and catch himself, body forced to hang, bare body swinging, arms straining.

You spun, heart in your throat, and bolted for the closet. The suit was right where he’d left it. You yanked it free, nearly tripping over your own feet as you hurried back through the living room.

Your boyfriend stood just inside the doorway, eyebrows raised. You shoved the hanger into his hands.

“Here—sorry, I was—closet was a mess. You really need to stop forgetting things.” Your voice came out too high, too breathless. You were still flushed, lips swollen, smiling widely at your boyfriend. “Interview’s early, right? You should go. Get some sleep…” You coughed awkwardly “…babe.”

He chuckled, low and amused, like there was some private joke you weren’t in on. “You’re acting weird tonight.” He leaned in as if to kiss you; you turned just enough that it landed on the corner of your mouth instead. “Text me when you’re done working?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Go. Get your beauty sleep!”

He lingered half a second longer, then finally stepped back into the hallway. The second the door clicked shut you twisted the lock, spun on your heel, and sprinted back to the bedroom.

Peter was still hanging outside, muscles slightly beginning to tremble with the effort of keeping himself up, dark curls sticking to his forehead, the red glow of a distant neon sign cutting across the defined lines of his back and shoulders. He was trying to hoist himself higher, one arm shaking as he reached for a better grip on the fire escape railing.

You leaned out the window, voice a frantic whisper. “I’m so sorry—I’m so, so sorry—are you okay? Peter—”

He looked up at you, flushed and breathless, a strained almost smile tugging at his mouth even as his arms burned.

“I’m fine,” he managed, voice rough. “Just… give me a second.”

You reached for him, still apologizing under your breath, heart slamming against your chest, the cool air cool against your overheated skin.

Peter finally hauled himself back through the window, landing quietly on the floorboards. For a few seconds neither of you moved. You just stared at each other, chests rising and falling hard, the rush sinking into your skin.

Then the absurdity of it hit.

A breathless laugh slipped out of you first. Peter’s followed a second later, low and disbelieving, as he dragged a hand through his damp curls.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, still half smiling. “He has a key. Of course he has a key.”

“I forgot,” you admitted, voice shaky with leftover adrenaline and something warmer. “I completely forgot.”

He stepped in close, forehead briefly resting against yours while you both tried to steady your breathing. The laughter faded into softer, quieter smiles. His hands found your waist again, thumbs brushing over the thin fabric of your tank top like he needed to make sure you were still real.

“This is insane,” he murmured.

“Completely.”

But neither of you stepped away.

“Finish what we started?” Your eyes met his, and he just smiled and nodded in response.

Steve didn't want to get involved with the fertility clinic, adamant that you would both get through your dry patch and conceive, but the heavy guilt of letting him down wouldn't stop eating away at you, so one afternoon when the kids we're enjoying their leftovers in their lunchboxes, and Steve enjoying whatever the canteen had to offer, you forced yourself to see your doctor to try and capture a glimmer of hope. 

Dr James yawned and typed away on his computer, asking you the regular "name, date of birth, any health conditions, do you smoke or drink, do any drugs?" with a flat tone, robotically typing in your responses before he finally swivelled in his chair and looked you in the eyes. 

"So what's the issue, Mrs Harrington?"

"My husband and I," you cleared your throat, your eyes wandering across the room full of medical equipment and scary informational posters "we've got five children and well, we're trying for our last one, but we've not been getting anywhere, it's been a year and... it's just not happening."

"Well, you're almost forty," he sighed, gesturing for you to hold your arm out as he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around your bicep, "did it not occur to you that you're... too old to have any more? that perhaps this is nature's way of saying it's too late?"

The blood drained from your face, and you dropped your arm slowly as the cuff began to inflate, the machine groaning as the fabric grazed into your skin, pulsing until it finally hissed and released its tight grip, your arm riddled with pins and needles. "I didn't really consider that, doctor. I just thought that maybe I wasn't trying at the right times, or maybe another lifestyle factor was delaying conception." 

Your doctor set your arm free, pulling apart the Velcro and quickly scribbling down the measurement. "You've been very lucky to have five children already, Mrs Harrington. I see young couples flooding in here every week in tears because they can't have kids. Why don't you take the message and be thankful for the ones you've got?" 

Your mouth opened to challenge him, to remind him that this was your body and your decision, but most importantly your husbands biggest dream, but you couldn't speak, you were hurt and enraged at his lack of compassion, yet part of yourself agreed with him; you were lucky to have five healthy and happy kids already, and maybe having another baby just wasn't meant to be.

-

"Steve, I went to see Dr. James earlier," you sighed, reaching out and snaking your arms around his waist, pressing your forehead against the broad, and familiar warmth of his back. "we've been really lucky to have the five children we've got, we're not getting any younger, and pregnancy will look a lot different for me now with my age, it's more risky."

"So that's it?" He snapped defensively, examining himself in the mirror and glaring at the reflection of your hands around him, "You're giving up?"

You could feel Steve tensing up as you tried to lay him down softly, "I'm not giving up," you slowly pulled back, setting him free, "I just think that maybe it's time I got my body back to myself again; even get back into work so I can contribute to our mortgage and the bills."

"You promised. You promised we'd have another!" He hissed, wanting to raise his voice but remembering not to wake the kids.

"I don't want to argue," you whispered softly, "I'm just exhausted of being let down every month, the disappointment I see every day in your face is killing me, I can't try any harder."

Steve ignored you and picked up his duffel bag from the bed. "I’ll be back Sunday night," he muttered, checking his watch and refusing to meet your eyes, abandoning any last effort to resolve your little squabble.

You didn't follow him or see him off with a kiss or a wave from the door like you always did, fixing the collar of his shirt or rubbing your lipstick print from his cheek; Steve needed space, and all you could do was welcome him back on Sunday night with drawings from the kids and something good to eat.

Listening to the heavy thud of his boots on the stairs and the roar of the engine in the driveway, you slowly forced yourself downstairs to tidy up the children's scattered toy cars, baby dolls, and action figures before finishing the washing up.

-

Steve's hands trembled for the entire drive, his hands vibrating against the steering wheel, his mind unable to shut off. He was exhausted from working his ass off doing overtime and being unable to relax on his days off started to get to him: up bright and early with the twins who wanted their daddy to play with them and their action figures, then finding the time to dote on his younger children, and eldest daughter, who was hormonal and always slammed a door when she didn't get what she wanted.

Isn't this what you always wanted?  His brain ate away at him. 

You're a nobody, you're nothing, you're a failure.

Steve had the option to slam his foot down and circle, and drive back to Hawkins, to crawl into bed beside you, and cover you in kisses and apologise for being so harsh for trying to take away your personal choice. He had the option to choose his wife and kids, who loved him unconditionally, but he didn't. Steve kept driving further and further away until the large, tall neon sign stung his eyes through the windshield. 

Steve climbed out of the car, pulling out his duffel bag full of random clothes from the backseat and walked towards the large oak entrance doors, leaving behind the version of himself you fell in love with all those years ago. 

-

The bar at the hotel was dim, full of expensive drinks, and private from the faithful. This was the place where men frequently checked in to cheat on their wives with their secret girlfriends, their clingy exs, and sex workers. Steve overheard the dads at his eldest son's football game talking about it. At the time, Steve felt enraged and sick to his stomach, and now he was one of them: a shameful liar and a cheat. 

The sex worker Steve arranged to spend the night with was elegant, dressed like a woman who dominated the boardroom, with well-looked-after hair and makeup; Steve couldn't remember the last time you wore a nice dress, or kept your hair down, or even had colour in your cheeks.  Her eyes finally landed on Steve and the expensive watch glinting on his wrist that you bought him for your tenth wedding anniversary.

"You're too handsome to be here all alone," She slid onto the stool beside him, her voice like velvet.

Steve cleared his throat, his fingers trembling as he gripped his glass. "It's all I feel these days," raising the glass to his lips, he nervously took a sip. 

She turned her body toward him, her knee brushing his leg, sending a jolt of electricity through him. Steve told himself that this one night of blowing off steam would be easy: just one night he could be something different to someone different, he wasn't a husband, or a father, or a man overworked and worried about his mortgage. Tonight, he could go back to just being Steve.

"You look like a man who has spent a very long time taking care of everyone else." She reached out, her perfectly manicured fingers grazed the back of his large, rough hand, lingering over his gold wedding band. "Would you like to stop being that man for a few hours?"

Steve looked at her, unable to look away from her eyes that didn't yet know the exhaustion of energetic kids. She was a beautiful stranger who knew nothing of his failure to produce another child, who didn't know or care about his credit score and credit card debt. 

"More than anything," Steve replied, getting up from his seat.

-

The guilt hit him before he even left the hotel room the next morning. The young woman woke up with a yawn, rubbing her eyes before sitting up and eventually getting out of the cosy, comfortable bed, then grabbing a large, soft towel. Steve studied her face,  her beauty from the night before no longer there; he searched her eyes for a glimmer of you but found nothing.

"I'm going to take a shower," she hummed, breaking Steve out of his spiral "Leave the money you owe me on the side, I've stayed overnight, so that's an extra two hundred."

Steve already showered in the night whilst she slept, the rush of the running water hiding the sound of his sobs as he drowned in his immediate regret. He scrubbed his skin until it was raw and red, trying to wash away the touch of another woman, the woman who mounted and pleasured him with confidence and frantic energy, but it was no use.

The physical weight and sickening feeling in his gut were just the beginning, and it kept him awake all night. Every time he closed his eyes, he was haunted by your tired, smiling face and messy hair with your hands covered in water-based paint and glitter, with the echoing of his children laughing, and the pattering of their feet whilst they chased each other around the house, ringing loudly in his ears. 

The drive back to Hawkins felt longer than any drive Steve had taken in his entire life, including the summer roadtrips with the kids in the back, arguing amongst themselves over who gets the next sip of Pepsi or handful of M&Ms. 

What have you done? He asked himself each time he caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror, was it really worth it? 

Steve thought that he'd have no guilt, that it would be a night blowing off steam and returning to normal the next day, but it was the opposite. The moment he spilt himself inside of her, he felt the crushing weight of what he'd done on his chest and shoulders, clawing at his heart. You were together from the moment you met, inseparable, now with a beautiful home and five incredible children; he threw it all away for nothing. 

He couldn't listen to the radio, he didn't stop for a rest, his eyes were glued on the road that would lead him back to you. 

Steve pulled into the driveway, his hands squeezing the steering wheel, his rehearsed confession sitting like broken glass in his throat. He walked through the front door and was met with the smell of fabric softener and cupcakes, the older kids at their friends' homes.

"Steve? Is that you? You're home early," your voice called from the kitchen, wiping down the countertops.

The tone of your excited and soft voice pained Steve as he inched closer to the kitchen, "We need to talk, I-I did something..." 

You turned around, and the confession on the tip of his tongue died in his mouth, recognising your beaming smile, the very specific one reserved for a very special milestone. Hurrying over to him, and wrapping your arms around him, with your ear resting against his chest, listening to the rapid pounding of his heart. 

"I was going to wait until the first scan," you whispered, "but after what happened between us on Friday night, I couldn't."

Pulling away from Steve, you reached into your pocket and slowly pulled out the plastic stick. With tears of pure joy spilling from your eyes, you pushed the stick into Steve's hand, the two pink lines burning into him through the little window.

"I took the test this morning, and something just felt different. We did it, Steve. Number six! Just like you always wanted."

If Steve confessed, he'd destroy you and the family you worked so hard to build. He needed to tell you, but how could he? You were so happy, so proud. Steve had no choice but to pull you into his arms and swear to himself that you would never find out.

"What did you need to tell me?" You asked softly, "You said you did something?" 

Steve swallowed hard, "Oh, yeah, the uh work trip was cut short... too many people didn't show up." Squeezing his eyes shut, a single hot tear escaped from his eye and ran down his face.

If Steve confessed, he'd destroy you and the family you worked so hard to build. He needed to tell you, but how could he? You were so happy, so proud. Steve had no choice but to pull you into his arms and swear to himself that you would never find out.

"What did you need to tell me?" You asked softly, "You said you did something?" 

Nicholas had kept his word—he didn’t act weird like he did after the kiss. He was as composed as ever, stealing long kisses when no one was looking, his hands sometimes wandering to your ass and boobs, groping you like he couldn’t get enough, leaving breathless before pulling away like nothing happened. But he hadn’t gone further than that, and you knew why.

Victoria had been pissed lately. At first, it was the time he spent with you, but even when he tried to fuck her—unfortunately or even spend time with her, she accused him of thinking about you. She wasn’t wrong, though.

You weren’t mad that you hadn’t gone all the way yet. If anything, you enjoyed dragging things out, watching Nicholas struggle to keep his composure. You teased him relentlessly, brushing up against him when you passed, wearing skirts that made his gaze linger too long on your ass, pressing a finger to his lips when he looked like he might lose control.

You had him wrapped around your finger, and you both knew it.

One afternoon, you were in the kitchen making a bottle for Madison and grabbing juice for Alexander. You hummed to yourself, swaying slightly as you reached for the top shelf. You didn’t hear Nicholas step in until his hands were on your waist, pulling you back against him.

“You like torturing me, don’t you, sweetheart?” he murmured against your ear, his lips grazing your skin.

You let out a breathy laugh, arching to feel how hard he was behind you. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you said sweetly, though the way you pushed against him said otherwise.

Nicholas exhaled sharply, his grip tightening, his lips dragging down your neck. “You drive me insane,” he muttered.

Before you could answer, small footsteps echoed down the hall. You barely had time to push him away before Alexander ran into the kitchen, his little hands reaching for his juice. Nicholas took a step back, adjusting his shirt as if nothing had happened, while you handed Alexander his drink with an innocent smile.

Close call. Again. Kids always talked and you didn’t need to scar him or have him blabber to his mother about what he saw.

Later that evening, when Victoria was out for one of her shoots—or whatever she did when she wasn’t home, you and Nicholas found yourselves alone in the living room. The kids were distracted in their playroom, giving you a rare moment of privacy. You stretched lazily on the couch, your skirt slipping up just enough to show the soft curve of your thigh and peeking to show your thong barely covering your pussy. Nicholas sat across from you, gripping the armrest so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“Something wrong?” you asked, your voice filled with false innocence.

Nicholas exhaled, shaking his head. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Do I?” you giggled.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking like he was one second away from crossing the room and ruining you. But before he could even try, Madison’s cries echoed from upstairs.

You smirked, slipping off the couch and brushing past him on your way to the playroom. As you passed, you leaned in just enough to whisper, “Better luck next time, Mr. Chavez.”

You didn’t have to turn around to know he was watching you walk away, frustration rolling off him.

God, you loved this game.

The house was quieter than usual today, with Nicholas and the kids out. You had a moment to relax when you heard the sound of Victoria’s heels clicking against the floor. You didn’t even need to turn around to know she was heading your way. When she spoke, her voice was laced with irritation.

“You think you can keep up this little act?” she said, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. Her eyes narrowed in your direction. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

You took a breath, turning around slowly with a small, innocent smile. “What do you mean?” you asked, genuinely curious but with a subtle hint of challenge in your tone.

Her gaze flickered over you, clearly looking for any sign of weakness. “Don’t think I don’t see what’s going on between you and Nicholas. The way you act, the way you look at him, its obvious you want my husband.”

You laughed lightly, a little too sweetly for her liking. “Look, Victoria, I’m just here to do my job. If you’ve got a problem with it, I suggest we talk to Nicholas about it. I’m sure he doesn’t mind the extra help.”

She scoffed, clearly not buying it. “You think he doesn’t notice? I know you’ve got some kind of charm working on him. But don’t think you can fool me. I see right through you.”

You crossed your arms, stepping closer. “Oh, I don’t need to fool anyone. And I’m not dumb, just because I like to have—fun.” You let the words hang in the air for a moment before adding, “I graduated university early with a degree that you don’t have, not that it’s any of your business. And with honors, might I add.”

Victoria’s lips pressed together as she looked at you, clearly stunned. For a moment, she was silent, her eyes searching yours, but you were already a step ahead.

“You may think you know everything, but I’ve got a lot more going on than you realize,” you said with a sly grin. “I’m not just the dumb, pretty face you think you can dismiss.”

Before she could say anything else, you turned away, walking past her and leaving the tension hanging in the air. You weren’t about to waste any more of your time on her. What you would use your time to do though, was fuck her husband and get a one up over her. She’d see who really ran things.

As you moved to the kitchen, you thought about how she was probably stewing over the conversation but there wasn’t anything she could do. Nicholas was your boss, she couldn’t fire you. But then, just as you grabbed a glass of water, you heard the door open, and Nicholas stepped in, looking a little worn out from the time with the kids.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted you with a smile that made your heart skip a beat. You returned the smile, and for a moment, the air felt electric between you two.

He stepped closer, placing a hand gently on your ass as he passed you. You caught a hint of his aftershave, the familiar scent that always seemed to draw you in. Your pulse quickened as he leaned in, his lips brushing the side of your ear. “You look gorgeous today,” he murmured, his voice low, sending a shiver down your spine.

You bit your lip, trying to keep your composure, but the closeness was intoxicating. You could feel the heat between you two intensifying. “You're just saying that to distract me,” you teased softly.

Nicholas chuckled, and for a brief moment, his hands lingered at your ass, his hands caressing the plump flesh. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt of warmth straight to your core. “Maybe I am,” he said his eyes locking onto yours. “But does it work?”

Just as you were about to speak, you heard the sound of footsteps, and in that instant, you both quickly pulled apart, trying to act casual as the kids walked into the room. But the energy between you and Nicholas hadn't dissipated, it lingered in the air and all you wanted to do was pounce on him.

Later, with the kids busy playing, you found yourself alone with him again. You could feel him near, you could feel the heat radiating off him, and it was hard not to let your guard slip. You leaned in, your lips grazing his ear, your breath hot against his skin. “We’ll have to be more careful next time,” you whispered, knowing the game was far from over.

Nicholas seemed to hesitate for a second, his breath hitching slightly as he met your gaze. “I can't promise I'll be able to stay away,” he murmured. “I need you so fucking bad, sweetheart.”

Just as you both leaned in, about to lose yourselves in another heated kiss, the sound of a door opening caused you to pull away quickly, your heart racing as Victoria’s voice echoed down the hallway.

“The kids are looking for their snacks,” she said, her tone laced with something that you couldn’t quite place—annoyance? Maybe. She glanced over at you and Nicholas, her eyes narrowing.

You smiled sweetly, trying to act innocent. “I’ll be right there,” you said, offering her a wave as you stood up. You glanced back at Nicholas one more time before heading towards the kitchen, your mind already thinking about the next close call. But that next close call thought was shattered.

Something was off, and Nicholas could feel it. It wasn’t anything obvious—just small shifts in your usual demeanor. No lingering glances, no soft smiles, no lighthearted giggles whenever he teased you. You were polite but distant, your usual bubbly energy dulled to something restrained.

And it had everything to do with this morning.

Victoria had always been affectionate with him in front of you—little touches here and there, arms wrapped around his waist, fingers tracing over his jaw, but today had been different. This time, she had kissed him, pressing her lips to his with a kind of ease that came with being his wife. She had pushed herself against him, fingers lacing in his hair, and she had looked right at you as she did it.

Like she was reminding you exactly where you stood.

It shouldn’t have bothered you. Nicholas wasn’t yours. No matter how much he said he wanted you, no matter how many times he found an excuse to keep you close, he still went into bed with her at the end of the day.

But it stung.

And now, hours later, you were still in your own head about it, stirring the sauce on the stove without really paying attention. You didn’t even hear Nicholas come in until you felt his presence behind you, his hand going over your hip before stopping himself.

“Are you mad at me, sweetheart?” His voice was low.

You shook your head, keeping your eyes on the pot. “No.”

He sighed, stepping closer. “You’ve been acting weird all day. Did I do something?”

“No,” you repeated, softer this time.

He didn’t buy it. You felt him reach for you, his fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. And then, before you could step away, he leaned in, lips parting, about to kiss you. But you turned your head at the last second, letting his lips land against your cheek instead.

He froze. You felt the way his breath hitched, the way his hand lingered against your jaw like he was trying to figure out what just happened. Slowly, he pulled back, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“Okay, what’s going on?” he asked, his voice more urgent now.

“It’s nothing, really. I should finish dinner before the kids get home,” you said as you exhaled sharply.

“No,” he said immediately, stepping in front of you. “Talk to me, honey.”

You hesitated. It wasn’t like you to tell him how you felt, not when you assumed this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious. But the way he was looking at you now, searching your face like he genuinely cared, made it impossible to brush him off.

You sighed. “This morning. With her.”

His expression flickered, realization dawning. He pressed his lips together, nodding like he understood exactly what you meant. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “I should’ve—” He exhaled. “I didn’t think. I didn’t want to make you feel like, like you don’t matter to me.”

Your chest tightened. “I know I don’t have a right to be upset. She’s your wife.”

“But you mean something to me, too,” he said quickly, reaching for you again, his hands cupping your cheeks. “You mean so much to me.”

Your resolve cracked. The way he was looking at you, the warmth in his touch, the sincerity in his voice, it was too much.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll make it up to you.”

You melted against him, letting him wrap his arms around you, inhaling the familiar scent of him.

“How?” you mumbled against his chest, your voice small.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. “This weekend.”

“What?”

“Victoria’s flying out with the kids for that wedding,” he reminded you. “You’re supposed to go, but she made it very clear she’d rather struggle alone than have you there.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh at that. “She really hates me.”

“She’s jealous,” he corrected, smirking. “Not that I blame her.”

Your cheeks warmed, but before you could respond, he continued.

“I have the Golden Globes Friday, but tomorrow, I’m taking you shopping,” he said, smoothing his hands down your hips. “Whatever you want. All weekend, you’re mine.”

“Really?” you asked, a slow, giddy smile spread across your face.

He nodded. “Really.”

You bit your lip, your usual bubbly energy returning as you swayed on your heels. “I do love shopping.”

“I know you do.”

And just like that, the jealousy and frustration from earlier faded into something warm and sweet. Because maybe, for just a little while, you could pretend that you were his. And maybe, for just a little while, he could pretend too.

The next morning, Nicholas kept his promise. You had expected something simple, maybe a quick stop at a store before he had to rush off to film. But no, he was serious about spoiling you. He had a car pick you up, a sleek black one with tinted windows, and when you slid inside, he was already waiting, his arm stretched across the back of the seat like he had all the time in the world for you.

“You ready?” he asked, smirking as his eyes dragged over your outfit. “You look pretty.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach fluttered at the compliment. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere nice,” he said simply, nodding to the driver.

You tried not to overthink what somewhere nice meant. You tried not to wonder if he had done this before, taken Victoria shopping, picked out things for her, spoiled her the way he was about to spoil you.

But as soon as you arrived, stepping into the first high end designer store where the sales associates practically tripped over themselves to greet Nicholas, all those thoughts faded.

Because this? This was for you.

And he made that clear.

“What about this?” you asked, holding up a red dress, expecting the usual nod of approval.

But Nicholas shook his head. “Not you.”

You blinked. “Not me?”

He took the dress from your hands, replacing it with another—softer, sexier, something that hugged you in all the right places.

“This,” he murmured, running his thumb over the fabric. “This is you.”

Your breath caught.

And it continued like that—him choosing things for you, watching you try them on, leaning back in his seat as he took you in. It was intoxicating, the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel.

But it was dangerous too.

Because at the end of the day, he still wasn’t yours.

And as much as he wanted you to feel special, this wasn’t real.

Or at least, it wasn’t supposed to be.

Nicholas had certainly followed through on every word, after, he made sure to take you from one designer store to another, never once flinching at the price tags. Gucci, Chanel, Cartier—if you wanted it, it was yours. He helped you pick out the perfect dress for the ceremony, something elegant but undeniably you, pairing it with Louboutin heels that made your legs look even longer. You had even restocked your makeup with Charlotte Tilbury, layering yourself in luxury.

But the best part? He let you indulge in your favorites. Juicy Couture, where you picked out sets in every color. Victoria’s Secret, where you didn’t hold back, tossing lace and silk into your shopping bags without a second thought.

Nicholas didn’t complain once. He only watched, entertained and amused, as you treated yourself like the princess he claimed you were. It wasn’t until you were in the dressing room, slipping into a plush pink robe, that things took a turn.

You were adjusting the belt in front of the mirror when the lock clicked behind you.

Your breath caught.

Nicholas.

He had slipped inside, shutting the door behind him, his presence instantly making the small space feel even smaller. His gaze dragged over you like he had all the time in the world to admire you.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured.

“Mr. Chavez, you’re not supposed to be in here.”

His lips twitched. “You’re right.” He stepped closer, pressing a hand to the curve of your waist, his breath ghosting against your ear. “Because, being in here makes me wanna fuck you right here, right now.”

A shiver ran down your spine. You turned to face him, eyes wide. “Mr. Cha—”

“I know,” he cut in, his fingers tracing the belt of your robe, his voice soft but insistent. “I can’t. But I can do something else.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he dropped to his knees. Your stomach flipped. “Nicholas—”

“Shh,” he murmured, smoothing his hands over your thighs. His eyes lifted to yours, dark. “Let me make you feel good.”

Your breath hitched.

Outside, the store was filled with people—other shoppers, sales associates, people who had no idea what was happening behind the locked door.

You shouldn’t. But when Nicholas pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, looking up at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, your resolve crumbled.

And as his hands slowly spread your pussy open, as he whispered soft praises against you, you realized something dangerous.

For the first time all day, it wasn’t the diamonds or designer labels that made you feel spoiled.

It was him.

You pressed a hand to the wall, the other gripping the belt of your robe like an anchor, your knees threatening to give out as Nicholas ravished your pussy with his mouth.

He had always been good with words, but now? Now he spoke in a way that made your head spin—soft groans and whispered praises against your core, each one sinking into you.

“You taste so sweet,” he murmured. “So perfect, baby.”

You whimpered, biting down on your lip to stay quiet, but the pleasure was overwhelming. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady as you trembled against him, your body betraying you, giving in to everything he was pulling from you.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. “We—we can’t—”

His lips curved against you, amusement in his next words. “Then be quiet.”

But how could you? How could you when he was so relentless, when every stroke of his tongue made your breath hitch, made heat coil in your stomach until you were seconds away from breaking apart?

And then—a knock.

Your heart jumped into your throat. “Everything okay in there?” A voice—feminine and concerned. An employee.

Nicholas didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down, dragging his hands up your legs, pulling you closer, deeper into his mouth like he wanted to see you panic, like he loved the idea of you barely holding it together.

You slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle a whimper as you forced out a breathy, “Y-yeah! Everything’s totally fine!”

The pause outside the door felt endless.

Then, finally—“Alright, just let me know if you need anything.”

Footsteps faded, and you sighed in relief, only to gasp as Nicholas gave you one last, devastating pass of his tongue.

That was it. That was all it took.

Your whole body tensed, shaking as the pleasure crashed over you, silent but all consuming. Nicholas held you through it, his hands steady, his mouth working you through the aftershocks until you were barely standing.

Only then did he finally pull away, his breath heavy, his lips slick and shining as he looked up at you with that signature smirk. His chin was soaked. And the worst part? He knew exactly what he had done to you.

“You should see yourself right now,” he murmured, dragging his thumb over his lips. “Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your legs still felt weak, your head foggy, but couldn’t speak.

Nicholas carried your bags, all of them like it was nothing, his arms stacked high with luxury shopping bags as you both stepped outside. The flash of cameras caught your attention, a few paparazzi managing to snap some photos before security ushered them back.

You didn’t think much of it. You were too dazed, still floating from earlier, your legs still wobbly in your heels.

Nicholas opened the black car door for you, helping you in before tossing the bags into the trunk. Once he slid in beside you, he didn’t stop looking at you.

That smug, self satisfied look. “Stop it,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

“Stop what?” he smirked.

“Staring at me like that,” you pouted, crossing your arms. “It’s weird.”

His grin widened. “But I made you cum, didn’t I?”

Your whole body burned. “Mr. Chavez!” You smacked his arm before burying your face in his chest, muffling your groan of embarrassment.

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around you. “You’re too cute.”

You huffed, refusing to look at him. But the way he was holding you, stroking circles against your hip, made it impossible to be truly mad.

By the time you reached the mansion, you had regained some of your composure. Nicholas let you breathe, retreating to his own space while you packed away your new things.

You still couldn’t believe it. A rich, married man. Your rich, married man. It was wrong. And yet, here you were.

You were admiring a new diamond bracelet in the mirror when he appeared in your doorway, leaning against the frame with that same smirk.

“Pretty,” he murmured. “But not as pretty as you.”

“You’re such a flirt,” you said as you turned, rolling your eyes but unable to hide your smile.

He stepped closer, his hands finding your waist. “Only for you, baby.”

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, tilting your chin up before pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was slow and deep, his tongue exploring your mouth.

You melted into it, hands sliding up his muscular chest, fingers curling into his shirt. He kissed you harder, guiding you back toward the bed, his hands slipping under your crop top, pushing it aside. You gasped as his lips trailed down your neck, his touch igniting a fire that burned hotter by the second.

Clothes came off, piece by piece, heat building until you were naked beneath him, your body arching against his. And then—he stopped.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Nicholas?”

He sighed, pressing his forehead to yours. “Not like this,” he murmured.

You pouted. “But—”

He kissed you again, soft but firm. “I want your first time to be special,” he said, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Not rushed.”

Your heart was aching at how genuine he sounded. “But,” he smirked, “I can still make you feel good.”

Before you could respond, his hand slipped between your thighs, drawing out a gasp as he touched your pussy that was already dripping wet for him.

He took his time, watching every reaction, whispering sweet praises, coaxing you to the edge.

His finger thrusted inside your pussy, curling and finding your g spot as you moaned freely beneath him. Finally you didn’t have to worry about being caught.

He look at you, his eyes moving from your lips to your pussy gushing for him. “Those sweet moans. God, I can’t get enough of you.”

You pressed your forehead against his, grinding against his hand so his palm calm in contact with your clit.

“Good girl, now it’s time to cum for me,” he said, voice low and rough.

Your pussy clenched around him and you cried out, a release so intense it made you squirt all over his fingers. He held you close as you trembled, pressing kisses to your forehead.

By the time you came down, trembling and breathless, he was holding you close, stroking your back.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured, kissing the top of your head.

You sighed, melting into him, eyes fluttering shut as you fell into slumber.

The next morning came quicker than expected. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a golden glow across the room. You stirred slightly, still tangled in the sheets with the events of the previous night in your mind. Nicholas had slept in your bed and it was a wonder how he managed to keep his dick in his pants.

The Golden Globes was that night, and he was up early, making sure everything was in place. You, however, took your time getting ready, ensuring every detail of how you looked was perfect.

Just as you were slipping into your dress, a soft knock sounded at the door.

“Are you ready?” Nicholas called.

You took one last glance in the mirror before stepping forward and opening the door. Nicholas stopped breathing.

His eyes roamed over you, taking in every inch, the dress hugging your figure perfectly, the way your makeup highlighted your best features, your hair perfectly curled, the effortless way you carried yourself.

“Sweetheart,” he exhaled. “You look—” He trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief.

You gave him a twirl, the fabric of your dress catching the light just right. “You like it?”

“Like it?” He scoffed, stepping closer, his hand grazing your waist before he caught himself. “Sweetheart, I love it. You look absolutely breathtaking.”

His words made your body warm, but before you could reply, he held out his arm. “Shall we?”

With a small smile, you looped your arm through his, and together, you stepped out, ready for the night.

The moment you arrived at the Golden Globes, all eyes were on you. The flashes of cameras were overwhelming and reporters and photographers called out Nicholas’ name. But then, to your surprise, they started calling you too.

You instinctively held onto Nicholas’ arm, nerves creeping in. He felt it immediately, his hand covering yours, reassuringly.

“You’re doing great,” he murmured. “Just give them that beautiful smile.”

You did.

Together, you posed for pictures, his hand resting securely at your waist. But then, a few photographers started asking for solo shots. You hesitated, glancing at Nicholas.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he encouraged softly.

Taking a breath, you stepped forward. The photographers gushed over you, snapping pictures from every angle. Compliments came from all angles, how elegant you looked, how cute you and Nicholas were together. It was overwhelming, but Nicholas never took his eyes off you, standing just a step away.

Meanwhile, he was pulled into an interview, and of course, the questions about you came. “And who is this stunning young woman with you tonight?"

He laughed, his gaze flickering to you as you clutched his arm, still smiling.

“A very special woman,” he said vaguely. “She’s been my biggest supporter.”

Before they could press further, the ceremony began.

The night went on but nothing compared to the moment Nicholas’ name was announced as the winner for Best Actor in a Motion Picture – Drama.

The second it echoed through the hall, you both shot to your feet. His first instinct was to turn to you, his hands finding your waist, his face so close, his lips brushed yours before he remembered. His wife was watching.

He stopped himself just in time, but you didn’t care. You threw your arms around him instead, jumping up and down, screaming in excitement.

“You did it!” you squealed. “Mr. Chavez, you won!”

He hugged you tightly, holding onto you for a minute longer before he finally made his way to the stage. The applause was loud as he accepted his Golden Globe, his expression a mix of awe and gratitude.

“Wow,” he exhaled into the mic. “This—this means everything.”

He thanked his team, the cast, his family, his kids. And then—

“I want to thank a special woman,” he said, his voice steady. His eyes flickered to you.

You stilled.

“Yeah, you know who you are,” he continued, lips twitching into the smallest smile. “You were the one who pushed me to audition for this film. You told me the role was mine before I even believed it myself. Without you, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. You’re my biggest supporter.”

Your heart clenched.

Tears burned at the corner of your eyes, but you held them back, shaking your head in disbelief, hands clasped over your mouth.

The moment he stepped off stage, you were in his arms again, holding on tight.

As the ceremony wrapped up, you leaned into Nicholas, your hand slipping into his. “We should totally celebrate,” you whispered.

He smirked, holding up his award. “The best celebration?” he murmured, leaning closer, “would be with you in my arms.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

The car ride home was quiet and very intimate. Nicholas held his award in one hand, his other resting over yours. At one point, he lifted the Golden Globe, pressing a kiss to it before turning to you, brushing his lips against yours. You melted into the kiss, reaching to straddle him, fingers threading through his hair, but the car stopped. You had arrived home.

He exhaled a laugh, his hands slipping to your waist as you both pulled away, breathless. “Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Hand in hand, you stepped into the mansion like you were his wife. He had been gushing over you all night, and now was no different. He stopped you in the grand hallway, taking a moment just to admire you. “You have no idea how perfect you are, how perfect you look,” he murmured.

Then, he smirked. “I have a surprise for you.”

Curious, you followed him up the stairs, only to freeze at the sight. The entire staircase was lined with rose petals and pink flowers, leading up to his bedroom.

“Nicholas,” you gasped.

He pushed the door open, revealing the room filled with candlelight. Roses were scattered everywhere, the soft scent filling the air.

You turned to him, stunned. “Is this for me?”

His expression softened. “Of course, sweetheart,” he murmured, his hands finding your waist. “You deserve it.”

Before you could say another word, he lifted you effortlessly, carrying you toward the bed.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered against your skin. “So beautiful. Flawless.”

His lips brushed your forehead, your cheek, your jaw and then finally, your lips.

And in that moment, you knew—he was in love.

Nicholas backed you toward the bed, his gaze dark. His hands were gentle as they trailed down your arms, fingertips going over your skin as if you were something precious.

“You have me at your mercy,” he murmured, voice low.

Your breath hitched as the backs of your knees met the edge of the mattress, and before you could fully process it, he was kneeling before you, his large hands smoothing over your thighs. His touch was savoring every inch of you, his lips pressing kisses along the path his fingers traced.

His hands found the hem of your dress, gathering it slowly, sliding it up your legs as his lips followed. A kiss at your knee, another at the inside of your thigh, each one sending a shiver through you. He held you firmly, his breath warm against your skin as he murmured, “You’re perfect. So beautiful, so sweet, my perfect girl.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, a desperate attempt to hold onto something as his lips and touch gave you overwhelming pleasure. He hummed in approval, his hands spreading your legs, squeezing gently, savoring the feeling of you beneath him. His kisses against your pussy turned hungrier, his voice a quiet worship between them.

“So goddamn wet for me, you taste so good.”

You arched under his devotion as his tongue explored you and he took his time, as if memorizing you, drawing out every moan with precision that came with being with an older man. Every brush of his lips, every press of his thumb against your clit built, heightening the pleasure until you were trembling, breathless, gasping his name.

He didn’t stop. He soothed you through it, whispering how good you were, how proud he was, how no one else could ever make him feel the way you did. His hands caressed you, his touch never leaving you, even as you came down from the high he had so effortlessly brought you to.

When he finally pulled back, his lips and chin were soaked with your juices. He tilted his head up, watching you with satisfaction, his lips ghosting over your inner thigh before pressing a lingering kiss to your clit. Then, rising slowly, he brushed his lips against your temple, then your cheek, before finally pressing a deep, slow kiss to your lips.

“Did that feel good, sweetheart?” he murmured against your mouth.

You could only nod, still lost in his touch.

He smiled, brushing his knuckles over your cheek. “Good. Because I’d do it again and again if it meant seeing you like this.”

Nicholas held your gaze, his fingers replacing his mouth in your pussy, working slow thrusts as he pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“Have to get this tight pussy ready for me, sweetheart,” he murmured.

His free hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking gently as his lips trailed over your chest. His finger curled inside your wetness as his thumb rubbed rough, but gentle circles on your throbbing clit, “You’re so good for me,” he praised, watching every reaction, every tremble. “My pretty girl.”

Your fingers dug into his arms, breath hitching as warmth built deep inside you. “Nicholas—” you whimpered, your body arching into his touch.

“That’s it, my love,” he coaxed, kissing you deeply, his hand never faltering. “Cum for me, I’ve got you.”

You could barely hold back, gripping his shoulders as your body responded to the deep strokes of his fingers, finally reaching an orgasm that had you gasping as you squirted all over his fingers. He knew exactly how to make you feel good.

“Taste yourself,” he murmured. You held on to his hand, sucking your juices off his fingers before you took them in deeper.

“So obedient,” he praising, rubbing his thumb on your lip. “What a fucking mouth.”

“And I know how to use it,” you said, finally speaking.

“Are you sure you want to, sweetheart? Tonight’s about you,” he retorted.

“Tonight’s about you too, we’re also celebrating, remember,” you pouted and that did it for him.

His gaze was fixed on you, as he shrugged his pants and the rest of his suit off. Your fingers brushed over him in all his glory, and his breath caught when you made contact. He was hard, long and full of girth, feeling weighty in your hand. The tip was pretty, pink and leaking, pre cum oozing and slowly dripping down his shaft. As you looked up at him through your lashes, you could tell by the look in his eyes how badly he wanted this, and that only made you want him more.

God, you were almost jealous. Victoria used to get that dick every night. But then your jealousy turned into pride—it was yours now. She was stupid to be neglecting him.

His hands wrapped in your hair, creating a makeshift ponytail. “Take your time, sweetheart.”

As you took him into your mouth, each motion drew out quiet sounds from him. You took him deeper and deeper, swirling your tongue as you did and using your hands to rub his bare thighs then to caress his balls.

“You look so beautiful,” he murmured. “Everything about you is perfect.”

His praises made your pussy throb and you started deep throating him, using as much tongue as you could to make it sloppy just the way you knew older men liked it.

“Sweetheart, if you keep taking me like that—fuck, I’m gonna cum, you’re so good at this.”

You moaned around his cock, then took it out of your mouth to spit on it. Sticking your tongue out, you looked up at him as you slapped his cock against it and he moaned in response, his head tipping back.

He gently placed a hand on your cheek, caressing as your movements caused salvia and his pre cum to drip down your chin. You were a sight for sore eyes and he was ready to see you swallow his cum.

“H-holy fucking shit baby, I’m gonna cum down that throat,” he moaned, his voice breaking.

You took him as deep as you could, then gliding your mouth and your tongue across his shaft as you felt his warm cum shoot down your throat. You swallowed every drop and smiled up at him.

“Good girl,” he cooed, pulling you up to him, “I’m so proud of you.”

Nicholas stood in front of you, his hands gentle but firm as he carefully took off your dress, his gaze never straying from you. His eyes were filled with admiration, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t want to take off the beautiful dress you’d been wearing all night but you somehow looked even more beautiful underneath.

“You're absolutely stunning,” he whispered, his voice low and sincere. “I can’t even begin to explain how gorgeous you are.”

You felt your cheeks heat at his words, but his tone was so comforting and warm that any nervousness quickly faded. His hands were tender as they glided over your skin, slowly removing your undergarments from your body, piece by piece.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his eyes locking onto yours for a moment, checking if you were still comfortable.

You nodded, feeling a sense of trust as he continued. “Yes, I'm okay.”

Nicholas took a deep breath, visibly trying to steady himself. He reached out and held your hand, squeezing it gently as he spoke again.

“I want you to know that this is all about you,” he said softly. “And I’m here with you every step of the way, okay? If you need a moment, we can stop. Just tell me.”

You nodded again, your heart fluttering, feeling a mix of excitement and comfort with his reassurances.

“This might be a bit uncomfortable at first and once again, if you want me to stop, let me know.”

He lined his raw, hard cock with your entrance, his movements slow and thoughtful, making sure everything was gentle. He kept his promise, holding your hand tightly and keeping his focus entirely on you.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. “You feel like Heaven.”

His thrusts stilled when he felt your barrier, and he slowly leaned down, your hand remaining in his as he kissed you softly. He pushed against the barrier and you bit down on your lip, the discomfort unmistakable but soon fading into immense pleasure. Your hot married boss was taking your virginity.

He rubbed your clit as he moved inside you, his thick cock only managing to go half way in, yet it felt so good. His muscles flexed as he was above you, his abs glistening under the candlelight.

He continued to check in with you, asking if you were okay, his affection unwavering. You felt safe, cherished, and respected as he made sure to only move forward when you gave him the go ahead each time he checked if you were fine.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You're taking me so well,” he murmured. “I knew you would.” His words and steady thrusts built you up and you felt the coil in your stomach tighten. Your pussy clenched around his cock even tighter, your moans growing louder.

“I know baby, I know. Cum for me, cum on my cock,” he encouraged.

He pressed his forehead against yours, and your fingers dug deep into his back, leaving a trail of fire as an intense orgasm washed over you. Your legs shook and you cried out as you came, his touch comforting and grounding you through it all.

He caressed your cheek, moaning as a rush of liquid soaked his cock. “That’s it. Good girl.”

When your breathing slowed, he gently flipped you onto your stomach, his touch delicate as he continued thrusting slowly, tracing kisses along your shoulders and down your back. “You’re so beautiful, from this angle.”

His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements on his cock as the sensitivity made you feel the tension build again, his whispered words filling you with warmth and reassurance.

“Rub your clit for me, sweetheart” he panted, cock pulsing inside you.

Doing as you were told, you rubbed your clit, jolts of pleasure shooting through you. His thrusts increased but still gentle and each time he pulled out leaving only the tip in, his cock was covered in your cream and juices.

“Cum again for me, baby. Cum with me while I cum inside this perfect pussy,” he breathed. “Best fucking pussy I’ve ever had.”

With one final thrust, he groaned, a low and guttural sound—almost primal spilling inside you as you clenched down on his cock and squirted. You milked him of all he had, ropes of his hot cum lodged deep inside you. He stilled, tracing his fingers along your spine. “You have the most perfect ass,” he teased, making you smile as you both caught your breath.

The warmth of Nicholas’ embrace putting you on your back made reality slowly settle around. He held you close, his lips pressing against your forehead. His breath was still a little uneven, but his focus was entirely on you.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, tilting your chin so he could meet your gaze. His eyes were full of concern. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, a shy smile on your lips. “No,” you whispered. “That was amazing.”

Something in his expression softened even more and he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb on your cheek. “You were perfect,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m honored you trusted me with this.”

The exhaustion was beginning to settle deep in your bones and Nicholas noticed immediately, shifting to sit up, his arms still wrapped securely around you. “Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” he said gently. “You’re tired, I’ll take care of you.”

Before you could protest, he had already lifted you into his arms, carrying you through the candlelit room and into the bathroom. The scent of roses was still in the air, mixing with the faint cherry aroma of the bath bomb he poured into the warm water. Steam came around you both as he stepped into the tub, settling in first before guiding you between his legs, your back resting against his chest.

His arms circled around your waist, holding you securely as the warmth of the water enveloped you. His lips brushed against your shoulder, trailing soft kisses up to your neck. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice full of awe. “And you did so good for me. I hope you know how much you mean to me.”

A deep warmth spread through your chest and you leaned into him, allowing your eyes to flutter shut as he ran a washcloth over your skin with delicate care.

By the time he had you wrapped in a plush towel and carried you back to bed, sleep was already pulling at you. He slipped in beside you, tucking the covers over both of you before pulling you into his arms once more. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, his fingers tracing light patterns along your spine.

“You mean the world to me,” he whispered, pressing one last kiss to your hair.

As sleep began to take you under, you barely registered his next words, soft, almost like a breath against your skin.

“I love you.”

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿

The request came late on a Sunday evening. Washington D.C. prosecutors had reached out to the BAU about a trial finally going to court. An unsub they had helped catch over a year ago, a man named Daniel Sykes. Sykes had been methodical in his violence: a series of abductions across Virginia and Maryland, women held for days before being released beaten but alive. He’d staged elaborate “games” of control in his basement, and it was one of those survivors who had finally identified him.

Hotch remembered the case well. It had been messy— jurisdictional disputes, a slippery suspect, and evidence that was largely circumstantial until Garcia had dug out Sykes’ online footprint. They had arrested him in his home, but the defense had fought every piece of the Bureau’s evidence since. Now, it had come to trial, and the prosecutor’s office wanted the BAU on the stand to solidify the narrative of how he’d been profiled and ultimately caught.

Hotch had testified before. He knew the rhythms of the courtroom, the ways a defense lawyer would try to twist words, turn confidence into arrogance, professionalism into supposed bias. He’d been a prosecutor once, before joining the FBI. He knew the game.

Still, as he adjusted his tie and filed into the courtroom with his team. Gideon at his side, with Reid, Prentiss, and Morgan behind them. Hotch felt the familiar tightness of anticipation.

The room was crowded: the jury attentive, reporters lining the back rows, the unsub himself sitting stone-faced at the defense table. Sykes didn’t look at Hotch, but Hotch didn’t need him to. He’d already spent weeks studying that man’s pathology. He could conjure it in an instant.

The bailiff called for order, and the judge asked for the prosecution to begin. They announced their first witness.

“Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner,” the prosecutor said.

Hotch rose, buttoned his jacket, and strode toward the stand with measured steps. The oath was perfunctory—he raised his right hand, swore to tell the truth, then took his seat, his posture straight, calm.

The prosecutor began with background: his credentials, his position as Unit Chief of the BAU, his role in the arrest of Daniel Sykes. Hotch answered each question in his clipped, even tone, careful to keep his voice steady and his words precise.

Then the prosecutor nodded, satisfied, and said, “Defense may cross-examine.”

The defense lawyer rose.

And Hotch’s breath caught.

You.

Hair pinned up in a professional but imperfect bun, dark strands slipping loose against your cheek. Glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of your nose. White blouse, fitted pencil skirt, black heels that clicked softly as you stepped toward the stand. For a moment, you didn’t look at him, your eyes on your notes, flipping through papers.

Then you lifted your head.

Recognition hit like a punch.

You blinked, startled, then schooled your expression into a professional mask. A small, restrained smile tugged at your lips, the kind lawyers gave witnesses before they tore them apart.

“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” you said smoothly, acknowledging him for the jury.

Hotch swallowed, fighting the flicker of memory. He knew you. Not just from the case file, not from the present moment—but from years ago. When he’d still been in the D.C. prosecutor’s office, before Quantico, before the BAU. You’d been fresh out of law school then. Young, determined, burning with ambition. He’d taken you under his wing—mentored you through your first hearings, late nights drafting motions, explaining trial strategy over bad courthouse coffee.

Now here you were. Opposite him.

He shifted minutely in his seat, adjusting his posture. “Counselor,” he replied, voice level.

Inside, though, the profiling had already begun. Your attire: polished, deliberately sharp. Your eyes: unwavering, confident. And the ring—plain, gold, glinting on your left hand as you adjusted your notes. Married. He didn’t know why his gaze lingered there. He was married too. Always had been. Hailey, his high school sweetheart. His wife. His anchor.

Still—thinking back to those mentoring sessions with you always stirred something. A what if he had never allowed himself to dwell on.

You cleared your throat, drawing the jury’s attention back. “Agent Hotchner, you testified that your team arrested my client at his home, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You arrived without a warrant?”

“We had a warrant, Counselor,” he said, his voice clipped, precise. “Signed by a federal judge. It’s included in the evidence packet.”

You nodded slowly, lips pursed as if considering, though Hotch knew that look. You weren’t surprised—you were setting up your next move. “And prior to that arrest, you had interviewed several individuals who lived near Mr. Sykes, isn’t that true?”

“Yes.”

“Neighbors, colleagues, his ex-wife?”

“Yes.”

“And each of those individuals provided statements that were later found to contain inconsistencies?”

Hotch inhaled through his nose. He knew this tactic. Undermine the reliability of witness testimony, then cast doubt on the agents who relied on it. He’d taught you this. Damn it.

“Witness testimony is often inconsistent in traumatic cases,” Hotch replied evenly. “That’s why the Behavioral Analysis Unit focuses on patterns of behavior and corroborating evidence, not just statements.”

You tilted your head, as though weighing the answer. “So you’re admitting those statements weren’t reliable.”

“I’m saying they were consistent with the profile we developed of the unsub.”

A few jurors scribbled notes. You didn’t smile, but there was a spark in your eyes—Hotch caught it, even if no one else did. The same spark he’d seen years ago when you’d cornered him in a moot court exercise, proving him wrong for the first time.

His jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. Outwardly calm. Inside? Impressed. Intrigued. Caught somewhere between admiration for how sharp you’d become and frustration that you were using his own lessons against him.

The cross-examination continued, your questions pointed, professional, circling like a hawk around its prey. Hotch deflected each one with steady precision, refusing to give ground, but he could feel the tension coiling between you. The courtroom wasn’t just a battlefield. It was a reunion.

And for reasons he didn’t care to analyze, the ring on your hand was the only thing he couldn’t stop noticing.

Hotch sat back slightly as the defense lawyer concluded the cross-examination. You were precise, sharp, deliberate with each question, forcing him to thread every word carefully. The jury scribbled notes, the judge tapped a pen thoughtfully, and Hotch felt the old spark of admiration flare inside him—though outwardly, he remained stoic.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” he said, voice calm, controlled, betraying nothing. Inside, however, he was impressed. That little upward tilt of your chin, the measured tone, the way you didn’t flinch even as you pressed him—it was all you. The lawyer he had once mentored, now standing opposite him like an equal… no, like a challenge.

The judge called recess for the day. Hotch rose, gathering his papers and straightening his jacket. His team filed out behind him—Reid already muttering to himself about some forensic detail, Morgan grinning and shaking his head, and Prentiss giving a professional smile that barely hinted at amusement.

As they stepped into the foyer, bustling with court staff and observers, Hotch caught sight of you again. You passed by, carrying a slim folder, hair slightly loose from the professional bun you’d tied that morning. Your eyes flicked briefly to him, and a small, professional nod of recognition brushed across your lips.

Hotch’s gaze followed, unbidden. Subconsciously, his eyes dipped to the curve of your hips under the pencil skirt, tracing a line he knew he shouldn’t. Morgan, walking a few steps behind, noticed.

“Uh… Hotch,” Morgan said, voice low but teasing, “you following someone with your eyes, man?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened. “I—no, I’m observing for procedural reasons.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Right… procedural. Sure. Uh… that’s her, isn’t it? The lawyer from the D.C. office?”

Hotch nodded once, tight. “Yes. I know her from years ago, when I was a prosecutor. That’s all.” He downplayed the recognition carefully, masking the sudden tightness in his chest. Already he felt guilty—his composure had slipped just slightly, and he hated that he even noticed.

Morgan shrugged, unconvinced, and moved on. Meanwhile, Reid, hearing snippets of the exchange, whispered something to Morgan about profiling body language. Hotch didn’t hear it; his focus had already drifted.

Across the room, you had paused near a wall-mounted directory. Hotch moved a few steps toward you, trying to appear natural, though his normally precise control felt slightly shaky. He cleared his throat.

“Counselor,” he said, careful, formal, though the weight behind his eyes betrayed more than words.

You turned, your expression shifting from professional neutrality to the barest flicker of warmth. “SSA Hotchner,” you said, a faint smile curling your lips. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I—” he paused briefly, then exhaled softly, regaining control. “I’m impressed with how you’ve come along. You’ve… sharpened considerably since we last worked together.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes curious. “That means a lot, coming from you. What about you? How’s… the BAU? Must be a different world from D.C. prosecution.”

Hotch allowed a small, rare smile, the one few people ever saw. “Different, yes. Challenging. The work… it’s demanding, but I manage.”

A moment of silence passed, filled only by the murmur of distant court staff. Hotch’s gaze lingered on you longer than he intended. Then he asked, carefully, deliberately, the question that hovered between them like a loaded pause.

“So… you’re married?” His voice was steady, but the underlying curiosity was palpable.

You gave a faint, composed smile. “Yes. Samuel. Been married for a few years now.”

Hotch nodded once, slow, almost reluctantly. He didn’t press further, though part of him wanted to. He caught the faint glint of your wedding ring, a reminder that this moment—this sudden proximity—was dangerous. Yet the pull of old familiarity, of the person you had once been, and the tension of who you were now… it was magnetic.

“Samuel… that’s good,” he said finally, voice low, careful. His eyes studied you, memorizing the way you carried yourself, how your poise had sharpened over the years. Every calculated gesture, every inflection of your voice, spoke of someone who could have rivaled him even back then.

You inclined your head slightly, nodding. “And you… still married?”

Hotch’s chest tightened briefly. “Yes. Hailey,” he said simply, precise, leaving no room for debate.

There was a pause. both of them aware of the subtle tension in the air. The past had collided with the present in the most unexpected way, and for a fleeting second, neither could ignore the pull beneath the layers of professionalism, marriage, and years of unspoken what-ifs.

You’d once seen Aaron Hotchner as untouchable. Brilliant, sharp, endlessly composed. Back when you were green, when your motions were clumsy and your arguments too wordy, he’d sat with you in cramped conference rooms and guided you through every draft. Patient, meticulous, his eyes softening in rare moments of encouragement.

You knew he was married. Everyone knew. Hailey—his high school sweetheart, the kind of woman you could tell he’d worshipped from the very beginning. It never stopped you from developing a crush you buried deep, convincing yourself it was nothing more than admiration. After all the hours you spent together, how could you not?

Nothing had ever happened. You wouldn’t have let it. You weren’t that kind of woman. At least, that’s what you told yourself whenever the thought crept in.

Now, you’re married too. Samuel is… good. Solid. Kind. He provides stability, he cares. He’s everything you should want. Everything you told yourself you needed. He’s great.

Yeah. Great.

Aaron’s voice pulled you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“Would you want to grab a drink to catch up?” His tone was even, almost casual, but you’d worked with him long enough to hear the subtle cracks. A quiet effort to sound detached, when he wasn’t.

You met his eyes, felt that flicker of something burn in your chest, and nodded.

“That sounds nice. Sure.”

The corner of his mouth softened, not quite a smile, but close. Without waiting for further conversation, he walked with you out of the building, keeping an even pace at your side.

The streets of D.C. were familiar, buzzing with late-afternoon foot traffic, the courthouse looming behind you. The two of you didn’t need to ask where to go—you both already knew. There was a bar, only a few blocks away, where you’d spent too many evenings bent over files together, arguing over strategy, sipping whiskey while waiting for the copy clerk to run depositions.

Back then, it had been professional. Mostly. There were moments you’d caught yourself staring too long at the line of his jaw when he loosened his tie. Moments when his sighs about Hailey had stretched too long, heavy with fatigue, and you’d wanted to reach across the table to touch his hand. You never did. But the wanting never quite left.

The short walk to the bar was quiet, filled only with the rhythm of footsteps and the weight of memory pressing between you.

When you stepped inside, the smell of wood polish and whiskey hit you, achingly familiar. It was the same as you remembered—dim lighting, leather booths, dark-stained floors. You could almost see your younger self at the corner table, notebook open, Aaron across from you in a crisp shirt and weary expression.

Without speaking, you both headed to that very booth, sliding into your usual places like no time had passed at all. You sat opposite each other, your bags set aside, your posture deliberately professional, though your body thrummed with awareness.

A waitress approached, smiling politely. Aaron didn’t look at the menu. “Scotch,” he said, his voice firm, low. “Neat.”

You hesitated only a second. “Same.”

When the waitress left, silence stretched between you. Comfortable, and yet not. Heavy. You traced your finger idly along the rim of the glass of water already at the table.

He was the one to break it. “You’ve done well,” he said quietly, his gaze steady on you. “In there today. You had me cornered twice.”

You let out a small laugh, though it came out thinner than you intended. “That’s only because you taught me half my tricks. Honestly, I was just waiting to use them on you someday.”

His brow ticked up a fraction. “And you did.” He lifted his glass when the drinks arrived, fingers long and deliberate against the cut crystal. “You always were persistent.”

You clinked your glass lightly against his, your eyes catching his. “You never made it easy.”

The scotch burned as it went down, sharp and smoky, loosening the tension in your shoulders, though it did nothing to soften the way Aaron’s gaze felt pinned to you. He was studying you—like always—profiling, cataloguing, dissecting.

You tried to match it, even though it made your chest ache. “And you?” you asked. “You left prosecution for the Bureau, then the BAU. That’s… not the path I thought you’d take.”

His lips pressed together before he answered. “It was the right choice. Most days.” A pause. “The job’s… consuming.”

You tilted your head. “And Hailey?” The name came out gently, careful, as if you weren’t supposed to say it.

Aaron’s gaze flickered, just for a moment, to the condensation on his glass. “She’s good,” he said finally, his voice low, firm. “Jack’s two now. She deserves more than I give her, but she’s patient.”

You nodded, unsure how to respond, your chest tightening at the quiet guilt in his tone. He shifted, his eyes returning to you, and the air between you thickened again.

“So,” he said, voice softer now, “you’re married.” He asked again.

Your fingers brushed unconsciously over the band on your hand. “Yes. Samuel.” You smiled faintly, trying to make it sound full. “We’ve been married for a few years.”

Aaron nodded once, measured. “That’s good.”

But you saw it—the way his throat worked, the faint twitch of his jaw. He was trying too hard to keep his face neutral.

And under the table, your leg bounced restlessly, betraying the storm building inside you.

The first drink disappeared too easily, the burn of scotch warming your chest and loosening your tongue. By the second, conversation flowed like it used to—fluid, effortless, the old rhythm between you resurfacing as if no years had passed at all.

You swapped stories—cases you’d handled since you’d parted ways, ridiculous moments from the courthouse, the kind of nostalgia that made the corners of his mouth soften in ways you rarely saw.

Aaron Hotchner smiling was… dangerous. The weight of his usual composure meant that even the faintest curve of his lips hit harder than a belly laugh from anyone else. You watched it unfold slowly, his expression unspooling with each sip of whiskey, until you realized you were staring.

He leaned back in the booth, tie loosened, jacket folded neatly at his side. His shoulders—usually tight with tension—looked broader without that perpetual rigidity, and it hit you how different he seemed in this dim, amber light. Less SSA Hotchner. More Aaron.

You weren’t drunk. Not really. Tipsy, maybe. Just enough to feel bold, to let your guard slip when he asked, “Back then… did you ever resent me? For pushing you so hard?”

You blinked, startled by the question, then laughed lightly. “Resent you? No. If anything, I probably admired you too much.” The words slipped out before you could stop them. “Hell, I had such a crush on you it was embarrassing.”

The air stilled.

You immediately froze, heat rushing to your cheeks, your fingers tightening around your glass. “I—forget I said that. Scotch makes me honest. Too honest.”

But Aaron didn’t frown, didn’t look uncomfortable. He only watched you with that piercing steadiness of his, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Not mocking, not cruel. Understanding. Confirming. Like you’d just proved something he’d always suspected.

Your heart thudded.

He didn’t say the words, but the flicker in his dark eyes said enough: maybe it hadn’t been one-sided.

“You always did underestimate yourself,” he murmured finally, voice low, almost intimate despite the crowded hum of the bar around you. “You were better than you gave yourself credit for.”

You exhaled, trying to ground yourself. The words weren’t overtly suggestive, but with his gaze steady on you, they felt like a caress. You tried to joke it off, swirling the amber liquid in your glass. “You’re deflecting. I just admitted a crush, and you’re giving me a performance review.”

That earned the faintest chuckle, and God help you, it was warm, rich, and nothing like the clipped tones you usually heard in a courtroom.

“I suppose I am,” he said softly. “Old habits.”

The third drink arrived. Neither of you needed it, but neither of you stopped it. The nostalgia had become its own intoxication, pulling you closer to something you’d never dared touch.

By the time you set your glass down again, you realized his hand had drifted closer across the table, fingers tapping idly near yours. Not quite touching, but close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin.

Your chest tightened. You knew you should pull back. You were married. He was married. This was dangerous territory, the kind of blurred line that could unravel everything. And yet—

“Aaron,” you said, his name softer than you meant it to be, slipping past your lips like a secret.

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp, unreadable. He didn’t look away. “You haven’t called me that in years.”

“Felt strange not to,” you admitted.

The pause that followed was thick, weighted with everything unsaid. With every memory of late nights in this very booth, papers scattered between you, shoulders brushing when you leaned too close, laughter spilling out at hours you should’ve been home. With every unspoken thought you’d buried, and every one he might have buried too.

Finally, he leaned in, elbows resting on the table, voice quiet but firm. “If what you felt back then had been… different—if I’d crossed a line—would you have told me?”

The question hit you square in the chest. You swallowed, your throat dry despite the scotch. “Yes. I would’ve. But you didn’t.”

A flicker of something—relief? Or disappointment?—passed over his features. He sat back, but the tension didn’t ease.

Your knees brushed beneath the table, just barely, but the spark of contact made your stomach flip. He didn’t move away. Neither did you.

The lines were blurring.

And in the back of your mind, a single thought repeated, dangerous and insistent: maybe it was never just you.

The air had changed. Not in a bad way. In a dangerous way.

Aaron shifted his weight, lifting his glass and setting it down again before sliding across the booth. He found some excuse—too loud in here, or easier to hear you this way—but you both knew that wasn’t it. He settled beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed the back of the leather seat, close enough that the warmth of him reached your skin. Still a sliver of space between you. Not nearly enough for professionalism.

Your pulse jumped.

His fingers tapped idly against the side of his glass, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the bar. Then, without warning, he said it. Quiet. Measured. Like he’d already weighed every possible outcome.

“I felt the same way,” he admitted. “Back then. Hell—” his jaw flexed as he looked away briefly, “even now.”

Your whole body went still.

Now? Back then too?

The words jammed in your throat. You wanted to demand he explain himself, to rewind and make sure you’d heard correctly, but all you could manage was a strangled laugh. “You’re drunk.”

It came out lighter than you intended, a half-joke, a plea to brush it aside.

But his eyes turned back to you, steady and unflinching, and you realized—no. He wasn’t drunk. Tipsy, maybe, his edges softened. But not careless. Not this.

“I’m serious,” he said, and his voice was low enough that you felt it as much as heard it. “It’s wrong. I know that. I’ve told myself that a hundred times. But being here with you again… it’s brought back every feeling I tried to suppress. All the what ifs.”

The air in your lungs thinned.

Your gaze darted to his hand—the one resting on the table, fingers flexing like he needed to hold something, ground himself. And then, slowly, carefully, he shifted. His hand slid beneath the table, over the edge of the seat, until his palm rested against your thigh.

Not forceful. Testing. Waiting.

Your heart pounded, every nerve alive under his touch. You could’ve moved his hand. Should’ve. But you didn’t.

And that was answer enough.

You didn’t look down. You looked at him. His face was a storm—brows furrowed, lips pressed in a hard line, like he was wrestling himself even as his thumb brushed, feather-light, against your leg.

“You shouldn’t let me do this,” he murmured, the words more confession than command.

“I know,” you whispered. Your voice cracked, and you hated how much you meant it. “But you’re doing it anyway.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, eyes darting to your lips for the briefest second before he forced himself back to meet your gaze. “You’re married. I’m married. If this goes too far—” He stopped, shook his head, the muscles in his jaw straining. “We’ll hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

His hand didn’t move. Neither did yours.

The silence stretched, full of every rational reason to stop and every irrational reason not to.

“Aaron…” You said his name softly, tasting it like it was forbidden.

He closed his eyes for a moment, like the sound alone was enough to undo him. When they opened again, the restraint was still there, but fraying at the edges.

“I should get us out of here,” he muttered, voice rougher than before. “Before I forget myself.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet. His hand stayed firm on your thigh, thumb tracing the barest circle, every pass more dangerous than the last.

The line was so thin now, you could barely see it.

And for the first time all night, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. You didn’t even realize your own eyes had flicked to his until the air between you tightened, pulling you forward before either of you could think better of it.

“This is a bad idea,” you whispered, a final protest, weak and already crumbling.

“I know,” he breathed back—then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was instant, searing, like it had been waiting years to happen. His lips pressed hard, parting yours, and the taste of him, scotch, heat, and something unmistakably Aaron—filled your senses. You pushed a hand against his chest, palm meeting the firm plane beneath his white shirt, not to hold him away but to steady yourself. His own hand clamped on your thigh, tight, anchoring himself to you, like he needed the contact just to stay grounded.

The kiss deepened quickly. Your mouths moving together like you’d done this a thousand times, like your bodies had always known the rhythm even if you’d denied it. His tongue swept against yours, coaxing, claiming. When his teeth caught your bottom lip, the sharp sting made you gasp, and his tongue soothed over it immediately, deliberate, possessive.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, muttering against each other’s mouths.

“This is a mistake,” you murmured.

“Terrible mistake,” he agreed, his breath ragged. His voice dropped, rough and low. “But it feels too good.”

And you hated how much you agreed. “It does.”

That was all it took for him to kiss you again—rougher, hungrier. The kind of kiss that made your stomach drop and your thighs tense. His hand shifted higher, sliding along the inside of your thigh, and you parted your legs without meaning to, a silent invitation that had his grip tightening.

His fingers grazed over your panties, right at the damp spot you didn’t have the strength to hide. The sound he made was guttural, breaking into the kiss as he pressed his mouth harder to yours.

Then he pulled back, lips trailing against your jaw until he found the slope of your neck. He kissed once, then again, slower, open-mouthed, his breath hot against your skin.

“So wet,” he whispered against your pulse, the words making you melt into him. “And I haven’t even done anything.”

Your laugh came out broken, trembling. “This is nothing?”

His reply was a groan, low and dangerous. He slid his hand beneath the lace, fingers slipping against you, and the heat of his skin against yours made your hips jerk.

“God,” he hissed, his restraint fraying audibly. “You’re soaked.” His voice dropped to a warning growl. “Tell me to stop right now… or I’ll show you exactly what I can do.”

Every rational part of your brain screamed to pull back. But your body, your heart, every reckless part of you—the part that had waited years for this—burned hotter than reason.

You didn’t say stop.

Instead, your hand fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer, your voice hoarse with want. “Don’t stop.”

For a moment, his whole body went taut. His mouth pressed hard against your neck, like he was punishing himself for what he was about to do, then his lips ghosted up to your ear.

“You have no idea what you’ve just agreed to,” he whispered.

His fingers slid deeper, teasing, testing, and you were already trembling beneath his touch.

His fingers grazed against the lace again, lingering, teasing. The pressure was just enough to make your breath catch, your thighs clenching before you forced yourself to relax.

He lifted his head from your neck, eyes dark, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register you’d heard countless times in a courtroom and briefing room—but never like this.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

God. He was so good. Even now, in this dim corner booth of the bar, his control was absolute. He didn’t move until you nodded, until you gave him permission.

“Yes,” you whispered, barely audible.

That wasn’t enough for him. His hand stilled completely, his stare burning into yours. “I need to hear you say it.”

Your pulse was racing, heat coiling tight in your stomach. “I want you to touch me.”

The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—satisfaction, victory, restraint all tangled together. “Good girl.”

The words nearly undid you.

He slipped his hand back under the hem of your skirt, slower this time, deliberate, like he was savoring every inch of skin he uncovered. When he reached your panties again, his fingers slid beneath, and then—finally—inside.

You gasped, gripping the edge of the seat.

“Try to stay quiet,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, hot breath making you shiver. “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded frantically, opening your legs wider, giving him the access you’d ached for.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice low and husky. Two fingers eased into you, stretching you just enough to make your body jolt forward against his hand. “So fucking tight.”

A whimper escaped your throat, and his other hand was suddenly on your jaw, tilting your face toward him, his eyes sharp even as his fingers worked you. “Shh. Eyes on me. Don’t give us away.”

The demand made your pulse throb harder between your legs. You tried to bite your lip, but it only seemed to please him.

“Already soaking my hand,” he muttered, curling his fingers inside you, finding a spot that made your hips jerk. “You came in here looking so put together, and here you are—falling apart on my fingers.”

“Hotch—” You choked on his name, muffling it against your hand.

“Say it again.” His tone wasn’t a request. His pace quickened, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit now, building pressure so fast it left you dizzy.

“Aaron—” The word broke out of you, sharper this time, and his eyes flashed dark.

“That’s better.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing your temple, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “Let me feel you come. Right here. Right now. For me.”

Your head tipped back against the booth, legs trembling, every nerve set on fire as his fingers moved faster, deeper, ruthless but precise. The sound of your breath came ragged, barely contained, and you felt yourself tightening around him, right on the edge of giving him exactly what he wanted—

You dug your nails into the fabric of his sleeve with one hand and the edge of the table with the other. His fingers curled just right inside you, stroking with deliberate precision that made your entire body tremble against the booth.

“God—” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Quiet,” Hotch breathed against your ear, his lips grazing your skin, his tone equal parts warning and coaxing. The smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed how much he was enjoying your struggle to keep still, to keep silent. His pace didn’t falter, his fingers pumping, curling, pressing until your legs shook.

He angled his head closer, so close that his words seemed to settle inside your head instead of your ears.

“I used to think about this,” he said, low, filthy, confessional. “Back then… late nights in the office. You leaning over my desk, giving me that look. I wanted to bend you over it and fuck you until you couldn’t speak.”

Your whole body seized at his words, a wave of heat crashing through you so fast you almost lost it right then. You bit down on your lip hard enough to taste blood, muffling the moan clawing up your throat.

“That’s it,” he praised, curling his fingers harder, dragging the pads over that spot inside you that made your thighs clench around his wrist. “Good girl. Taking me so well. So damn wet for me already.”

Your head fell against his shoulder, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to breathe through it. “Aaron…” you whispered, desperate.

“Say my name again,” he demanded, his voice darker, filthier now. His thumb pressed against your clit, circling, rubbing in ruthless rhythm to the stroke of his fingers. “Let everyone else sit here drinking while you come apart on my hand. No one has to know.”

You whimpered, your nails digging into his arm. “Please—”

“Please what?” he pressed, almost taunting, though his hand never slowed. “Please don’t stop? Please make you come? Tell me what you want.”

“Please don’t stop,” you finally gasped, the words strangled between clenched teeth.

He groaned softly at that, his lips brushing down your jaw, kissing your neck like he’d been starved for the taste of you. “I knew you’d sound like this when you begged. Knew you’d be this tight around me.”

The coil in your stomach snapped tight, unbearable, and you felt your climax rushing up too fast, threatening to spill over right there in the corner of the bar.

He felt it—of course he did. His smirk deepened against your throat, and his fingers drove harder, faster, mercilessly precise. “Come for me,” he ordered, voice ragged but steady. “Now. Let me feel it.”

That was all it took.

You bit down on his shoulder, muffling the sharp cry that tore out of you as your body convulsed, your walls clenching around his fingers, pulsing, soaking his hand. He held you through it, arm steady around your waist, keeping you from falling apart completely in public as he worked you through wave after wave.

“Fuck—” you gasped against him, shuddering, your thighs trembling violently under the table.

“That’s it,” he soothed, pulling his fingers out slowly, obscenely slick. His voice dropped again, that mix of dominance and tenderness. “You did so well. Came so hard for me.”

When your eyes finally fluttered open, his gaze was locked on you—dark, hungry, and still not satisfied. He brought his glistening fingers to his mouth, tongue sliding over them slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring every drop.

“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he murmured, low enough for only you to hear.

Your whole body burned, the bar around you suddenly spinning. Because this was only the beginning.

His voice was low, steady, but his eyes betrayed him—dark, unguarded.

“We should get out of here,” he said, not a question but a quiet command. His hand squeezed your thigh once before slipping away. “Together. My hotel room.”

The weight of the words settled heavy in your chest, dangerous and thrilling. You nodded, breathless. “Okay.”

You shifted in the booth, smoothing down your skirt, making sure you didn’t look like someone who’d just been finger-fucked into silence in a bar corner. Hotch slid out first, his hand brushing yours in a fleeting touch, and then you both slipped outside into the night.

A taxi waited by the curb as if it had been conjured for you. He raised a hand, flagged it down, and opened the door, letting you slip in first. He followed immediately, his thigh pressed to yours as the cab pulled away from the curb.

The ride was a cage of tension. The hum of the engine, the city lights streaking past, the driver oblivious—none of it mattered compared to the heat between you. His hand found yours again, his thumb flexing over your knuckles like he couldn’t let go. The other hand rested on your thigh, deceptively casual, though the strength in his grip betrayed his restraint.

Neither of you spoke. Every word unsaid filled the silence, charged the air. You tried to steady your breathing, but the pulse in your throat gave you away. He felt it too—his jaw tight, his gaze fixed on the city outside like he was forcing himself not to look at you.

Luckily, the hotel wasn’t far.

When the cab stopped, he paid quickly, the bill folded and shoved toward the driver with barely a glance. Then his hand slid into yours again, this time more deliberate. He didn’t just hold it—he claimed it, tugging you out of the cab, up the steps of the hotel, through the lobby.

It was late, and the desk clerks barely looked up, but even if they had, there would’ve been no mistaking it: the purposeful stride of a man on a mission.

In the elevator, the silence became unbearable. His hand stayed locked around yours, his palm warm, his grip firm, flexing every so often like he was testing his own restraint. The hum of the elevator was the only sound, but the tension was deafening.

You finally broke it with a whisper. “Aaron…”

His head turned, his eyes sharp, unreadable. “If you tell me to stop now, I will.”

Your breath caught. You searched his face for hesitation, but there was none. Only hunger and restraint, at war inside him. “I don’t want you to stop.”

His hand squeezed yours, hard. “Good.”

The doors opened with a ding, and then it was a blur: his key card, the click of the lock, the push of the door. He barely got it shut before his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t tentative like in the bar—it was hungry, commanding. His hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head to deepen it, while the other flattened against your back, dragging you into him. You gasped into his mouth, your fingers scrambling against his chest, the crisp white shirt already wrinkling under your grip.

He pressed you to the door, his body caging yours in, the sharp line of his arousal already hard against your hip. His kiss was consuming, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’d been starving for this.

You broke the kiss for a breath, panting. “Aaron—”

“Do you have any idea,” he cut you off, voice low, rough, “how many nights I imagined this? How many times I thought about pulling you into my office, locking the door, and having you like this?”

Your knees buckled, but his grip held you up, his hand sliding down your body to clutch your ass, pulling you against the hard length straining against his trousers.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his lips grazing your jaw, hot against your skin. “Tell me you thought about it too.”

Your head fell back as his mouth traced down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “I did,” you whispered, breath hitching. “I thought about it all the time.”

A low groan rumbled in his chest, vibrating against your throat. His hand slipped under your skirt, fingers gripping your thigh possessively. “Then tonight,” he growled, “you’re mine.”

He kissed you again, rougher this time, tongue and teeth and desperation. His hands roamed like he couldn’t decide where to touch first—your hips, your waist, your breasts—like he wanted all of you at once.

And you let him. You wanted nothing else.

You were both desperate. The air between you was thick with need, the scent of him—the crisp, sharp tang of his cologne, the warmth of his body pressed against yours—driving your senses wild.

“God, you’ve wanted this as much as I have,” he growled, fingers gripping your hips tightly, dragging you closer. “Look at me… tell me you’ve wanted me.”

“I’ve wanted you,” you gasped, arching into him. “Every single day.”

A low, guttural noise rumbled from his chest, vibrating against you. His lips crashed down on yours again, teeth grazing yours in a rough, possessive kiss. You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled, and it only seemed to fuel him.

“You feel so good,” he whispered against your neck, lips nipping and sucking along the sensitive skin. “So wet, so tight… God, I’ve thought about this for years. About bending you over my desk, about making you mine when no one else is watching.”

Your hands went under his shirt, gripping the firm planes of his chest, nails digging in as you pressed yourself fully against him. He groaned, a deep, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine, and tugged at your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your body trembling with need. “Please…”

He smirked against your skin, and the hand that had been on your hip slid down, rough and demanding, slipping under your panties, fingers teasing and pressing against your core. The friction alone made your back arch off the bed.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he murmured, thrusting one finger inside, curling it expertly to make you moan into his mouth. “All this time… and you were thinking about me too. Every night. Huh?”

“Yeah,” you choked out. “Always… you.”

His mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue flicking over the spot that made you gasp. “Tell me how much you need me,” he demanded, hand working faster, curling and pressing with a rhythm that had your knees threatening to buckle.

“I… need… you,” you whispered, trembling, voice breaking, fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he growled, thrusting two fingers in deeper, curling them expertly, making your hips lift off the bed. “So tight. So perfect for me. You feel so fucking good. God, I want to bury myself inside you.”

The desperation in his voice, the way his eyes darkened with hunger, made your body shiver uncontrollably. You were his. And he was yours in every sense.

He pulled back for a breath, his mouth inches from yours, eyes blazing. “Do you want me inside you? Tell me—say it. Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please. I want you. I’m yours.”

A sharp grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Good girl,” he murmured, thrusting two fingers in harder, curling inside you, thumb circling your clit with merciless precision. “God… you’re going to come for me, aren’t you? You’re going to let me make you come like this?”

“Yes,” you moaned, body arching, walls tightening around him as your climax threatened to take you.

He groaned, brushing his lips across your jaw, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Then come for me,” he whispered, voice low and filthy. “Come all over my fingers. Let me see how good you are for me.”

Your body shuddered, back arching, legs trembling as you teetered on the edge. He watched you, smirk dark and possessive, as he drove you harder, faster, expertly teasing you closer to release.

You felt the heat of his gaze as he withdrew his fingers, licking them clean with that low, guttural sound that sent shivers down your spine. The moment he freed himself, you saw him fully—thick, hard, heavy, straining with need. Your breath hitched, your chest rising and falling as your body prepared itself for him.

Without a word, he positioned himself between your legs, and the first inch of him pressed against you. You tried to suppress a moan at the delicious stretch, the overwhelming sensation of him finally inside you, but his hand on your hip kept you pinned.

“Don’t hold it in,” he growled, voice low, dark, commanding. “I want to hear you. I want to know how much you want me.”

Your body betrayed you, shuddering as a soft, needy moan escaped. “Aaron… please…”

“Good,” he whispered, pressing deeper, inch by inch until he was fully seated inside you. “Feels so fucking good. You’re so tight, so perfect for me.”

You trembled beneath him, hips tilting, trying to adjust to the stretch, and he leaned closer, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands gripped your hips with unrelenting strength, fingers digging into your skin as he started to move.

“God, look at you,” he growled, thrusting in slow, punishing strokes. “So wet, so ready. All these years, I thought about this… about having you like this, and now—you’re mine.”

You gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging in as he slammed into you with a rhythm that left you breathless. His pace was rough, relentless, and filthy, but every movement was calculated to make you feel stretched, claimed, and utterly his.

“You like that, don’t you?” he demanded, his voice rough, a low growl vibrating against your ear. “You like me fucking you like this?”

“Yes… yes, Aaron,” you moaned, hips meeting his with every hard stroke. “Feels… so good…”

“That’s it,” he hissed, thrusting faster, deeper, his hands roaming your body with control and dominance. One palm gripped your jaw, tilting your head so he could kiss you roughly, teeth grazing, tongue sliding, marking you in every way he could. “Look at me when you come… I want to see it. I want to hear it.”

Your body shuddered as the coil in your stomach tightened, the sensations building into something unbearable. He leaned even closer, voice low, harsh, filthy.

“You’re mine,” he growled, each thrust deeper than the last. “All mine. I’ve wanted this for so long. Take it—take me like you’ve always wanted.”

“I… I want… you,” you moaned, voice trembling as he slammed into you, his hips punishingly hard, dragging groans from deep in your chest. “Please… don’t stop.”

He smirked against your lips, thrusting one last time before slowing slightly, letting you feel every inch of him as he whispered, rough and dirty, “You’re driving me insane… so wet, so ready. God, I’m going to make you scream my name.”

Your thighs shook around him, every nerve screaming, and he leaned down, teeth grazing your shoulder, lips sucking, marking, whispering filthy promises. His hands gripped you like he couldn’t let you go, and each controlled, punishing thrust pushed you closer to that edge you couldn’t resist.

His hands gripped your hips and then, with a controlled push, he flipped you over, pressing you against the bed and positioning himself behind you. The moment he nudged inside, your body jolted at the stretch, the fullness, the relentless thrusting that followed.

“God, you’re so tight,” he growled, slapping your ass hard, making you gasp and see stars. “You feel so good. So fucking good, and all mine.”

You couldn’t stop the moan that tore from your throat, louder than anything you’d ever uttered, and it only seemed to fuel him. His hands roamed over your body, one palm gripping your waist, the other slapping, kneading, marking.

“Take it,” he hissed, voice low and commanding. “Take all of me. Don’t hold anything back.”

“Yes… Aaron,” you gasped, arching into him, desperate for more. Every thrust sent fire through your body, the bed squeaking beneath your movements, your nails digging into the sheets.

He drove into you harder, faster, each stroke deep and punishing. “So wet… so fucking tight. You’ve wanted this too long. You’ve wanted me like this,” he growled, his voice rough, every word dragging a shiver down your spine.

“I… I’ve wanted you… forever,” you moaned, unable to stop the words from spilling out. “Please… don’t stop.”

He smirked, gripping your waist, fingers pressing into the sensitive flesh of your ass. “Oh, I’m not stopping,” he muttered, each thrust grinding into you deep enough to make your toes curl. “I’m going to make you come all over me. Every inch of you belongs to me right now.”

You trembled, your body teetering on the edge, every nerve screaming for release. The force of him, the roughness, the filthy heat of his words, the way he controlled and dominated—it pushed you closer than you’d ever been.

“You’re going to feel me fill you,” he said, voice dropping lower, filthy, dark. “Feel me breeding you, taking everything you’ve been holding back. You feel that? You’re mine, and I’m not letting go.”

“Yes…” you whimpered, your walls tightening around him, hips pushing back to meet every punishing stroke. “Yes, Aaron… I’m yours… please—”

“Good girl,” he hissed, slapping your ass again. “You take me so well. God, look at you, moaning my name, taking all of me. You’re going to come with me.”

The sensation built faster, every thrust driving you higher, the intensity of him behind you, his hands gripping you with ownership, slapping and marking, while his words kept you grounded in the filth of the moment.

“I’m so close… Aaron—please,” you gasped, voice trembling, body shaking as the heat in your core coiled tighter and tighter.

“You feel that?” he growled, teeth grazing your neck, whispering filthy promises. “That’s me filling you… mine. Come with me. Come with me now.”

And then the world shattered.

Your walls clamped down, a shudder ripping through you, pulling him with you as your climax hit—hard, relentless, a tide of heat and trembling that left you breathless and trembling. He groaned deep in your ear, chest raking against yours, his own release following seconds after, thrusts deep, hard, breeding into you as he let out a guttural roar of need and dominance.

The two of you shuddered together, bodies entwined, sweaty, gasping, the bed shaking beneath the force of your shared climax. His hands stayed on your hips, chest pressed to your back, voice low and rough as he murmured, “You’re mine… all mine. God, you feel so fucking good.”

The room was silent except for your ragged breaths and the wet, heavy proof of everything that had just happened. Even after the release, his hands didn’t leave you—anchoring, claiming, Dom and protective in that way only Aaron Hotchner could be.

The heat of him inside you had barely faded when he pulled out, leaving you both trembling and slick, your bodies humming from the intensity. Instead of moving away, he immediately shifted, curling around you, pressing your back into his chest.

“Shh…” he murmured, one arm slung possessively across your waist, the other brushing your hair back from your face. His lips pressed to your forehead, soft, deliberate, grounding. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You melted into him, the tension leaving your body in waves as his chest rose and fell against yours. You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and strong, the solid anchor you’d always known him to be.

“You’re… so gentle,” you whispered, breath still uneven. “After… that.”

His lips curved in a faint smile against your temple. “Gentle where it counts,” he murmured, voice low, warm. “I need to make sure you’re okay. That’s… important.”

You tilted your head back to meet his gaze. Even with his Dom, commanding side earlier, there was this… tenderness now. This care. It made your chest tighten in a different way than desire had. “Aaron… shouldn’t we… feel guilty?” you asked, voice small.

He pressed another kiss to your temple before letting it linger on your forehead. “We’re… married,” he said quietly, and there was a pause, a sigh that rumbled in his chest. “We should. But right now… I’m only worried about you. About how you feel. About making sure you’re safe. That you’re… okay.”

You nuzzled into his chest, inhaling the scent of him—the familiar, grounding cologne that had always reminded you of long office nights, mentoring sessions, late coffee-fueled talks—and shook your head. “I don’t feel guilty,” you admitted, the confession soft, almost ashamed. “Not even a little.”

He hummed, pressing his forehead to the back of yours. “I don’t either,” he admitted. “I… I wanted this too long. And I can’t pretend otherwise.”

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining with his as you rested against him. His hand on your hip flexed lightly, thumb brushing over your skin in absent-minded reassurance. “You’re mine,” he murmured, voice low, controlled, but still warm. “Even now, after… everything.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered back, breath shaky, heart pounding. “Even though we… shouldn’t be.”

He tightened his arm around you, holding you like you were fragile glass, like he could keep you from breaking apart if he just held you long enough. “Then we’ll just… enjoy this moment,” he murmured, voice almost reverent. “Because… right now, nothing else matters. Not the world outside, not the rules… just us.”

The room was quiet except for your breathing, the rhythm of his heartbeat, and the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. Your hands roamed over his chest, feeling the firmness, the tension still lingering in his muscles, evidence of the rough heat moments ago.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, voice thick, his lips brushing along your temple again. “God… you’re amazing.”

You let yourself smile against him, feeling safe, cherished, and completely consumed at once. “You too,” you murmured. “You’re… everything.”

He kissed the top of your head, soft, grounding, and for the first time since the night began, there was nothing filthy, nothing commanding. Only warmth, care, and the shared understanding of everything you’d just done—and everything you both still felt.

“You’re okay,” he repeated, as if saying it would make it real. “And I’ll keep you okay. Always.”

And in that moment, lying tangled in his arms, both of you still caught in the aftermath of lust, desire, and secret longing, there was no guilt. Only the quiet, undeniable truth that sometimes what was forbidden could feel… exactly like home.

Jungkook takes a deep breath, then presses in the code Siri gave him—the same one she uses for everything, since she never really hides anything. Not from him, at least (except her painful past about Phoenix).

The door unlocks and as soon as Jungkook closes the door, there Siri is, running towards him.

"Woah!" He's stunned and stumbles back a little when she throws herself at him. She jumps up where her arms wrap around his neck, legs around his waist, and her lips crash into his.

Jungkook catches her, making the bag drop from his hand, causing the snacks to hit the floor. His hands grip her ass and her back, pulling her tighter against him as the kiss deepens. Her mouth is desperate as if it isn't just horniness doing this, it's something else. Something deeper.

Jungkook pulls back just enough to catch his breath. "Damn," he chuckles, eyes so soft and warm on her, "that was a great surprise. You must've really missed me, huh?"

I did, she thinks, but she doesn't say anything. She just gives that teasing smile she always does before her nose brushes against his and she kisses him again, softer this time. Sweeter. She holds onto him like she's holding onto that silly little bit of hope. She kisses him, giving him everything she has and all the love she's too afraid to admit she has for him.

She doesn't ask if Jimin spoke to him. Doesn't ask if he'll stay after. She doesn't say anything at all. She just holds Jungkook and kisses him. 

And just like that, everything Jungkook planned to say vanishes. Every word, every intention. Gone.

He's not ready to say the words that will ruin this. He thinks having Siri one more time is what he needs, so he kisses her back with everything he has too. To him, it feels like her mouth and her arms are the only places his heart feels steady and safe, and her body in his arms feels like home, even though it shouldn't.

He carries her to her bedroom, knowing the place like the back of his hand. He places her softly in the middle of her bed like she's his treasured little secret—which she is.

They slip each other's clothes off, piece by piece, with minimal breaks between their kisses. When they're finally naked, Jungkook hovers over Siri's frame where he settles between her legs, all while he places warm open mouthed kisses down her neck and across her chest. 

He wants to taste all parts of her, worship her with his mouth since this will be the last time. 

Siri can feel his hard cock pressed against her core, and so she wraps her legs around his ass, digging her heels into the back of his thighs to pull him closer.

"Want you, Jungkook," she murmurs, brushing his hair back from his face. "Please."

It was almost like she was begging for him—for all of him. Jungkook could see it in her blue eyes and feel it in her tender touch how much she wants him, and god, it broke his heart a little 'cause if he could give his whole self to her, he would. 

He knew, in that moment, that whatever Jimin tried to tell him about Siri wanting just sex and the thrill, it was wrong. 

"You have me, baby," he tells her. You have me for tonight... For the last time...

He guides his cock to her entrance, sliding the tip up and down between her folds before he slowly pushes inside her, all while keeping his gaze locked on her. When he's all the way in with no more room to go, Siri lets out a soft whimper.

"Fuck," Jungkook breathes out while his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the feeling of being sheathed by her walls. She was all warm, tight, wet, and perfect in every way that makes letting her go feel impossible.

He rests his forearms on either side of Siri's head, caging her in as if he can somehow shield her from what's to come; their end.

He starts to move, slow and gentle at first as he wants her to feel everything. Every veiny inch of him. Every achy stretch of her walls. And he wants to feel her too, all her velvety ridges and the way she clenches around him when he hits the deepest part of her.

His hips roll in a way like he's doing body rolls on her, and every time his cock pulls out, he goes back into her a little harder. Each time, Siri lets out a sound that Jungkook loves to hear.

They kiss each other between moans and gasps, they nibble one another's lips occasionally, and their tongues entwine. Jungkook's thrusts become stronger and more intense, filled with a purpose like he wants Siri to feel him for days after he's gone.

"Shit," she rasps out while shutting her eyes from the intensity as she could feel that knot in her core growing. "Fuck—Kook..."

He grunts, moving a little deeper. A little faster. A little rougher. "I know, baby. You're taking me so good," he murmurs, kissing her jaw, her cheek, her forehead. "My favourite girl, you are."

Favourite girl? More flutters of hope come in, sending butterflies into Siri's stomach. Maybe Jimin didn't get to him... Maybe we can still keep this going... 

She wraps her arms around Jungkook's back, rocking her hips up to meet every roll of his. She grinds against him, needing that friction on her clit. Needing the feel of his body pressed to hers 'cause she loves his warmth. Loves it when there's hardly any space between their bodies. They can't get much closer than this really and that's how she wants it. 

She gets wetter, clenching around him tighter, and it makes Jungkook moan in pleasure. "Shit, your pussy's hugging my cock so good. So fuckin' perfect for me. Don't ever wanna leave."

"Then don't."

Jungkook stops thrusting as he stares at her, searching for the meaning behind her words. It’s all there in her eyes though, and it’s there in her parted lips looking like she wants to say more but doesn’t. It’s also in her hands as they move from his back to cradle his jaw so gently.

It was such an easy reply. Just two simple words that slipped right off Siri's tongue, but they carried everything she's too scared to say aloud.

Stay. Choose me. I love you. I'm scared, but can you love me too? Please don't abandon me...

Jungkook's heart is in his throat and guilt aches it's way into his soul when he sees the look in her eyes. He didn't need to hear her say anything else when her expression said everything. 

Siri's offering him her heart and it fucking destroys Jungkook because he knows he can't keep it. He's already made the choice to end things; to try and fix his marriage, to be the father Mingyu deserves, and be the husband Sohee is missing. No matter how much Jungkook wants to stay with Siri, he can't. Not without losing everything else.

That's when Siri sees it.

His doe eyes are soft, loving, even. But they're also undeniably sad. 

Somehow, Siri's always been able to read Jungkook and understand him. And she realises now, ever since he walked in her door, he's just been delaying the inevitable. 

She sees his pretty doe eyes go watery, telling her, I'm sorry. I wish I could stay. Wish I could love you. I wish things were different.

And just like that, her hope dies once again.

Her throat tightens, and her chest starts to ache. It feels like her heart's caving in on itself, and she has to close her eyes tight to stop the tears from coming. 

So this is it... This is the last time. This is goodbye...

Siri should've known better—well, she did know better. It's just that for the first time in seven years, she wanted to let herself believe in love and hope again. But as usual, hope brings nothing but disappointment and heartbreak for her.

Siri keeps her eyes closed while she forces her lips to curl into a smile, just enough to show Jungkook she understands. That it's okay. That she won't make this harder for him than it already is.

He sees the way she's pretending it doesn't hurt, and sees the way she's trying to protect him from her heartbreak, and it kills him inside.

Jungkook presses his forehead to hers, closing his eyes as he exhales a shaky breath against her lips.

Neither of them say anything as they both try to not let any tears through. They just hold onto each other, bodies still joined while their hearts ache. 

Siri then leans in and kisses Jungkook to take the pain away. He kisses back to deepen their kiss, slowly rocking hips against her again because he understands her, too. Both just want to forget about the ache. 

She tangles her hands through his hair, and her legs stay wrapped around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him hers—for now.

While Jungkook's length strokes her walls, Siri's lips brush against his jaw where she presses little kisses to his cheek, his temple, under his ear, and his neck—all the spots she knows that makes his heart flutter and his dick throb. She's so soft and affectionate about it all, her actions clearly tell Jungkook she loves him.

He hates that he can't do anything about her feelings except to try and ignore them and pretend they don't exist.

But then, Siri doesn't want it to be slow anymore. She doesn't want tender. It's too kind and too close to goodbye. It's too much for her already damaged and broken heart. 

"Harder, Kookie," she husks against his ear. "Fuck me harder. Make my pussy ache and only remember you."

Jungkook moans at her words. Not only was it hot, but he understood what she was trying to say. It was a plea; make this unforgettable for me coz I know you won't be back.

He stills inside her where he can feel her heart pounding so hard against his chest. It makes him already yearn for her even though she's right here with him. 

But she won't be soon...

With a heavy heart, Jungkook presses his lips to Siri's temple, giving her a soft kiss before he whispers, "Turn around for me, baby." 

He pulls out gently, allowing Siri to flip over and get on all fours. She arches her back and sticks her ass out for him, and Jungkook couldn't help but bite his bottom lip while he strokes his cock at the sight of her. 

He caresses her ass before he glides his hand down her spine, causing goosebumps to appear on her skin. He leans in, placing soft kisses on her ass cheeks before he reaches her wet pussy. His tongue dives into her hole, needing to taste her one last time.

Siri squirms from Jungkook's tongue fucking her, licking her as deep as he can go. She then feels his fingers reaching around her waist to rub her clit. He vibrates his digits in the way he knows she likes it, and it makes her mewl into her pillow while she grips her bed sheets. 

Then suddenly, the loss of his tongue makes Siri whine. "Kooook, I was close to getting there."

"I know, baby, but I want you to cum on my cock."

He doesn't give her the chance to whine more or say anything else. One hand grips her hips while the other aligns his cock to her pussy where he shoves himself inside her, deep and hard, just like she asked. 

Siri gasps as her body jolts forward, and Jungkook groans at the feeling of her walls wrapped around him again.

"Goddayum, you feel like heaven."

He watches himself pull out just enough so his tip stays in, then he slams back into her, making her yelp. He repeats this action slowly, wanting to ensure there's a loud, satisfying smack every time his hips meet her ass, and he wants to see his cock glisten with her creamy slick. 

And then he gets faster. Rougher. He spanks her ass hard, making her moan out, and then he squeezes both her cheeks in his hands, watching the red handprints bloom across her skin.

"God, your ass looks so fuckin' good," he huffs, breath ragged. "Love this tight pussy... love the way you take me."

The pleasurable stinging feeling of Jungkook's cock hitting her deeply makes Siri forget about the ache in her chest for the time being. 

But then he suddenly slows and leans over her back. One arm wraps tight around her torso as he pulls her up, bringing her body flush against his so her back is against his chest. Their bodies align perfectly, skin pressed to skin, chest to chest, and heart to heart once again.

"Look," Jungkook murmurs against her ear. "Look in your mirror, baby."

Siri furrows her brows in slight confusion, and turns her head to the side where she sees her mirror opposite the bed.

"Watch us," Jungkook whispers, his voice hoarse from the sex. "Remember this." Remember us.

Siri's breath hitches as she watches their bodies move in the reflection. Not only were they both totally sexy together, but she sees the way his tattooed arm is locked tightly around her torso, keeping her close, like he doesn't want to let her go.

She sees his other hand is on her left breast, fondling and massaging it within his grasp, while his hot mouth is on her shoulder, placing tender kisses on her skin. 

She sees the strain in his muscly thighs underneath hers, spread slightly to keep her legs open for him, holding her steady so he can fuck into her at just the right angle. Every thrust rocks her forward slightly and her body automatically goes back against him again where her ass ripples each time their skin meets with a loud clap. 

And then Siri notices something else.

The way Jungkook's holding her... it doesn't look like dominance and it doesn't look like possession. It looks like protection.

His strong arms are wrapped around her like a shield, his broad chest flush against her back, his solid frame envelopes hers as if his body is trying to keep the pain away. 

In the reflection, she doesn't just see a man fucking her. She sees the man who makes her feel safe in the world, even if he's about to leave it.

Siri lets out a shaky breath as she watches them move. She makes her right hand reach back to tangle her fingers in Jungkook's hair, keeping his face close to hers, while her left hand goes over his hand that's on her breast, moving it so it's on her heart.

Feel my heart. Feel me.  Feel the way you make me feel.

And then, she pulls Jungkook's left hand to her lips where she kisses the inside of his wrist, her action practically telling him; I love you, before she places it back on her breast (and heart) again.

Jungkook's heart skips and aches at the same time. His arms tighten around her as he lets out a whimper—a whimper he tries to hide by pressing his face into the crook of Siri's neck. He can't let her see his eyes, not right now. Not when they're burning and prickling with tears again.

But Siri sees enough.

Her eyes go glossy too, but she doesn't look away. Even though her heart is breaking, this is the final time, and this is hers. This is their moment, and she wants to remember them exactly like this.

Jungkook’s eyes are still squeezed shut against Siri’s neck, breathing her in, trying to memorise the way she smells, the way her body fits in his arms, and the way she holds his hand against her heart as if he holds it.

He's never felt such intimacy like this and it breaks him. God, he thinks bitterly, how fucking cruel is the universe?

Cruel for making someone like her exist. Cruel for bringing her into his life when he already promised himself to someone else. Cruel for giving him everything he never knew he wanted in someone he can't keep.

Suddenly, Jungkook shifts from being sweet and tender to something a little more rougher again. Just like Siri needed it harder to take the pain away, Jungkook also needs that too. 

His arm tightens around her as his hips start to move faster, pounding into her from behind while still holding her against his chest. His left hand slides down her stomach until his fingers find her clit. He rubs fast circles on her nub, going at the same rhythm as his hips. 

He hears her moan and mewl loudly into her apartment and it makes him want more. 

"Come on, baby," he breathes raggedly against her ear. "Wanna feel you cum for me. Let me have it. Give it all to me."

Siri's body starts to tremble as her walls clench tightly around his cock, making Jungkook hiss through his teeth. 

"Fuck, just like that," he groans. 

With his fingers vibrating harshly on her clit, that aching heat in Siri's core becomes too much and her orgasm hits. She cries out as her thighs shake and her pussy contracts around him. 

The way her walls pulse around his cock makes Jungkook's head spin and he can't hold back anymore. With a guttural growl, he leans back slightly, grabs her waist with both hands, and hammers into her over and over, each thrust rougher, deeper, angrier.

He's angry at himself. Angry at the timing of meeting Siri. And angry that he has to walk away from the only place he's ever truly felt at home.

His cock throbs inside her, hitting that sweet spot where he hears Siri's moan again, but louder and higher this time. 

"Fuck, Kook!" she gasps, her voice cracking as another orgasm makes its way from the intensity of his pounding. 

He's slamming his cock harshly against her wet pussy, creating sounds of thunderous sex, and Siri has to hold both her bouncing breasts in place. She quickly side-eyes her mirror, seeing that sexy determined look on Jungkook's face, seeing how his toned body fits with hers perfectly. Fuck, they looked good. Too good. Too sexy. 

If only this could last forever.

With a few rough thrusts more, they're both cumming together. His body jerks as he spills deep inside her, painting her walls white with his strings of hot cum, while her walls contract around him once again.

Jungkook's fingers dig into Siri's hips as he rides out their highs, and slowly, a lump forms in his throat as he empties the last of himself inside the only woman he's ever truly lost himself in.

When it's done, they both collapse forward onto the bed, all puffed out. Siri's cheek and chest rests against the sheets while Jungkook's chest presses against her back. Both of them are sticky with sweat but they didn't care. 

After some time, with a soft exhale, Jungkook gently rolls off her. Siri stays still, her body too tired to move. They lay there in silence for a long moment, side by side, too close for two people who are no longer allowed to belong to each other.

Then suddenly, Jungkook sits up, swinging his legs over the bed. Siri's heart races with worry as she watches him reach for his Calvin Klein underwear on the floor and pulls them on.

Dread creeps up her throat as she asks, "You leaving already?"

Jungkook glances over his shoulder and gives a soft shake of his head. "No. Just... hang on," he murmurs.

He disappears into the hallway, and Siri closes her eyes, trying not to overthink. Trying to not panic. She tells herself she won't cry—not yet, anyway.

A minute later, Jungkook returns holding a warm damp washcloth in his hand. He climbs back onto the bed and nudges her to roll over and to part her legs.

The cloth is soft and warm against her skin. Soothing, even. Jungkook moves carefully, wiping around her inner thighs, then between them. He's tender and delicate as if he's afraid of hurting her. As if this act of care is the only way he knows how to say I'm sorry.

It makes Siri's chest ache, but it also makes her smile.

She looks at him and the way his brows knit slightly in concentration, the way his tattooed arm tenses as he cleans her up, and the way he's still so gentle even after all the roughness.

"You always do this," she says softly. "Take care of me before we have a smoke to chill with afterwards."

Jungkook glances up, and the corner of his lips curve too. They share a quiet smile together, but then their smiles falter and drop when they both realise this is it. This was the last time.

Silence takes over for a moment, until Siri decides to break it. Even though she knows the answer, even though her heart is already broken in her chest, she still needs to hear it.

"This is it, isn't it?" she asks quietly. "We're done?"

Jungkook swallows thickly, his gaze falling to the cloth in his hand as he continues to wipe the mess from Siri's thighs. He gives a small hesitant nod. "It has to be," he says, his voice hoarse from the lump in his throat.

Another moment of silence before she asks, "Jimin talk to you?"

Jungkook nods again. "Yeah."

Siri closes her eyes, letting the ache take root properly now that it's real.

"Well..." she sighs in defeat, letting out a sad chuckle. "It was fun while it lasted."

Jungkook freezes for half a second on her thigh, but before he can say anything, Siri gives him a small smile. 

"Not bad for a mechanic," she says playfully, nudging his thigh with hers. "You really outdid yourself, Kookie. Might be hard to top that."

Of course Siri's trying to put on that unbothered mask she's learnt to use to protect herself. She needs it right now because she doesn't want to break in front of Jungkook. 

He lets out a similar sad chuckle, playing along with her facade because he doesn't want to fall apart either.

"Yeah? That your way of saying I was unforgettable?" he gives a smirk and it makes Siri genuinely smile. 

She shrugs, pretending to play it cool by rolling her eyes. "Maaaybe. But don't go getting a big head now. No one likes a cocky asshole."

Jungkook chuckles under his breath, eyes crinkling just slightly. "I won't. Promise."

They share a soft smile again where it lingers between them. It's like it was their last attempt to hold on to something light. 

But then their smiles begin to fade once again and silence creeps back in, but it was heavier this time. 

That was until a small thud on the mattress interrupts the tension, followed by the bouncing of four little paws. 

Smokey, the grey kitty-cat, hops up onto the bed as if he knew it was the right time to come. He lets out a single chirpy meow as he plops himself near the two humans, nosing Jungkook's arm for attention.

Jungkook lets out a real laugh this time. "There he is." His expression softens instantly as he reaches to give Smokey his well earned cuddles. 

He scratches behind the cat's ears and leans in slightly, his voice going into a playful, affectionate tone. "You always wait till we're done, huh?" Jungkook coos. "Such a good boy. Always so respectful of us."

Siri laughs lightly, even with an ache in her chest. "Honestly, I still don't know how he knows. It's kinda creepy."

Jungkook snorts. "He knows everything. Don'tcha little guy?"

The cat purrs, settling comfortably between them. In that moment, everything feels soft again. The humans both smile as they look at Smokey and at each other, but it's a smile that's trying to cover their aching hearts and shared sadness. It's their one last gentle thing before the goodbye comes.

Then, awkwardly, Siri looks away first.

Her fingers stroke her cat’s fur as she stares at the ceiling, blinking up at it repeatedly to stop any tears as she tries to find the strength and courage to say what needs to be said.

"You should probably go," she says softly.

Jungkook doesn’t argue since he does have to go. He just nods, but he doesn’t move right away. Instead, he takes some time to scan Siri's face; memorising her cute button nose, her sparkly blue eyes, her plump, luscious lips—every detail of her since he won't see her again. 

He leans forward one more time to pat Smokey gently between the ears. "Be good to your mummy," he murmurs.

Siri's heart flutters at that whilst tears brim her eyes, but she tries to keep herself together. 

With a deep breath, Jungkook slides off the bed, picking up his clothes from the floor and putting them on. Siri lets Smokey go so she can do the same. And then... she follows Jungkook to her door.

"Oh, uh..." he starts to say, reaching for the bag of chips and cat treats on the floor near the front door. "I got these for you and Smokey."

Siri takes the bag gently from him, smiling with thanks. “You know the way to a woman’s heart, don’tcha mechanic?” She wasn’t just copying what Jungkook said to her a couple weeks ago when she brought him banana milk to his work, she’s also pretending to be teasing, but there’s some hidden truth to her words. Because Jungkook does know the way to her heart somehow. 

He just smiles sadly in return and turns to open the door. Then, the two stand just there, staring at each other. Looking at each other with their eyes saying, I wish this wasn't the end. 

Automatically, like two magnets, they couldn't help but lean in at the same time for one last kiss.  

He holds her waist tightly while she reaches for his face, holding him there. Their mouths press together deeply, tongues entwining, tasting and holding onto the last spark of something beautiful before the dark takes it all.

When they finally part, all breathless, Siri gazes up at Jungkook, looking into his soft chocolaty doe eyes. "I hope you'll be happy," she says quietly and sincerely.

Jungkook swallows thickly. His heart aches so hard he wants to cry. The last thing he wants to do is let her go, but he has to.

He cups her face one last time and places a kiss on her forehead. "You too," he says. "You deserve to be happy, too."

Then, Jungkook turns and walks out without looking back. He's afraid if he does, he might not leave her. 

The door closes behind him with a soft click and Siri lets out a breath she didn't realise she had been holding. Her breathing is heavy as she stands there for a moment, staring at the door, willing herself not to fall apart.

Don't cry. You knew things had to be this way. 

She swallows the lump in her throat as she turns and walks to the kitchen. She drops the bag of snacks on the counter then grabs her purse. With shaky hands, she fishes out her cigarettes and a lighter.

Lighting one, she walks over to the window where she pulls it open, just enough to let the smoke drift out, then she sits down on the small bench beside it. She looks out at the night sky and the city lights, feeling the sadness that fills her apartment. 

Her eyes sting as tears start to prickle behind them. She exhales smoke towards the window, feeling like she's grieving again. 

She knew this wasn't forever. She knew things were doomed from the start. Because she's not the wife. Not the mother of his child. And... she's not the one who has his heart 'cause if she was, he would've stayed. 

Siri takes another drag and exhales again to try calm her aching heart. She blinks hard while her eyes feel like they're burning—but still, no tears yet.

But then, a soft meow breaks the silence.

Siri glances down to see Smokey hopping up onto the window bench beside her. He stares at her with those big, concerned eyes only animals can give. Eyes that say 'I know something's wrong,' even if he can't understand what.

Siri stubs out the cigarette against her window and flicks it outside before she lifts the grey cat onto her lap. He immediately nuzzles into her chest, curling against her with another meow before he purrs.

Just from that, Siri bawls. Tears slip down her cheeks as she holds him tight, burying her face in his fur. Her shoulders shake as her body curls around the little grey cat, desperate to hold onto something that won’t leave her.

"He's gone, baby," she mumbles through the tears. "Daddy's not coming back..." Her voice cracks.

"He has another family to love and look after. A real one. With a wife. A son. His true home..." She swallows the lump in her throat, trying to keep the sob within her from escaping. 

"And I—no, we—are not part of that. We never were... But we'll be okay, right?" she says with a weak, broken smile towards her furry friend. "We've got each other, right baby? And Yoongi too."

Smokey doesn't understand, but he stays in her arms and meows as if he does.

Siri closes her eyes as more tears slip out, soaking into Smokey's fur. She lets out a shaky breath, rocking her little furry king as she clutches him tighter.

It's okay. We'll be okay. 

Jungkook had to leave, and I had to let him go. 

After all... if you love something, you let it go, right?