#enchanted fic

It’s one of those rare mornings when you have the day off and he doesn’t. He has a full schedule of meetings pulling him away for the next few hours, but when he wakes, he finds you in the kitchen—bowl tucked beneath your arm as you whisk the eggs you’ve meticulously cracked.

You’d shown him the trick not long after you started staying over, back when breakfast in bed became a thing for the both of you—one bowl to crack each egg into, and a second to pour it into afterward.

“It’s easier to fish out eggshells from one egg than from a whole mix,” you told him, a little tidbit he’s tucked away and kept using since, especially when you’re not around.

You’re humming as you go—a melody that doesn’t sound familiar but is soft enough to lull him into a sense of peace. He watches the slow sway of your hips, the way you seem dreamlike, lost in your own little world. You look too serene for him to disturb, but when he does, he’s careful—stealthy—as not to catch you off guard. His hands settle at your hips as he steps up behind you, and your hum shifts into one of quiet acknowledgment as you instinctively lean back into him.

He gives your hips a gentle squeeze in greeting, hands sliding around to meet at your front, settling just over your stomach as his head dips. He can’t resist the bare glimpse of your shoulder, where your oversized tee slips off slightly, revealing skin he’s already kissing—nipping gently before trailing his lips up the column of your neck.

“Morning to you too,” you muse, your smile bleeding into your voice. His lips curl into a grin against your warm skin, pressing one final kiss to the nape of your neck as he moves to nuzzle beneath the messy bun you’ve tied up to keep your hair out of your face.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and unused until now. You’d slipped out of bed before he even woke—a small, selfish disappointment in waking to cold sheets after becoming so accustomed to your warmth beside him.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asks, peeking over your shoulder as you pour the egg mixture into the pan, completely unfazed by the way he clings to you, holding close, just breathing you in—a scent and comfort that makes his chest flutter.

“Omelette,” you reply, turning your head just enough to catch his eye and press a light kiss to his jaw. “I figured you’d be hungry and want to eat before you left.”

Ideally, he would eat. Usually, he’s dragging himself out of bed closer to noon than early morning, and while his stomach grumbles, the idea of actually eating something this early doesn’t sit right with him.

Still, he presses his mouth to the side of your head, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you,” before slipping his arms from around you and stepping aside.

“Coffee?” he asks, reaching up into the cupboard for his usual mug.

“In the pot. I made some fresh,” you reply with a nod, folding the omelette in half and flipping it completely to finish cooking through.

It all feels so domestic, watching you move around his kitchen. Not that it’s an unfamiliar sight, he’s seen it before, even in your own home, but something about it stirs something deeper in him today. You usually spend your Sunday mornings wrapped up in bed together, dragging out the time before finally rolling out for a slow, lazy lunch—time you both savour, and yet now, watching you like this, he realises he wants more of it. More of this. More of you.

He’s already managed to convince you to take your first vacation together—something real couples do, and most days, he finds himself seesawing between what might be ‘too fast’ and what simply feels right, because with you, even the things that should feel fast don’t. They feel natural. Safe. He’s never experienced anything like it before. Never allowed himself to let his guard down like this, not with anyone else, other than you—you make it easy. You make it feel safe to be known.

“Noah!”

You calling his name snaps him out of his thoughts, pulling him back from wherever he’d drifted. That’s when he notices the coffee spilling over the counter.

“Ah, shit,” he mutters, grabbing a nearby rag to wipe it up. Just as he finishes, a car horn blares from outside, drawing his attention to the front window.

“That’s Jolly—he said he was gonna swing by and grab me,” Noah explains, tossing the now coffee-soaked rag into the sink.

“But… your breakfast?” you ask, your voice small as you hold up the plate, presenting the omelette to him like it’s an award, and in his mind, it is one. The gesture alone makes him regret having to dip out so early.

“You have it,” he says gently. “I’ll be back after lunch—we can go out for something together, yeah?”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then slips his fingers beneath your chin to tilt your face up, stealing the many kisses he needs to sustain him while you’re apart. More than food or air, he’d argue—this is what he needs.

Another blare of the horn breaks the moment, and he pulls away with a reluctant groan. “Okay, I gotta go.” And just like that, the three words tumble out—soft, uncalculated, and entirely unintentional:

“I love you.”

It doesn’t hit him right away—what he said or the gravity of it. Not until he’s already in the car.

He doesn’t even know he left you standing there, dumbfounded, the words still swirling in your head. Spoken like a reflex. Like they’d always been sitting there, waiting for the right moment to fall into place.

For the entire duration of his meeting, Noah is unable to focus. His eyes keep flickering to his phone, and the lack of a message from you sends him into a quiet spiral.

Did you hate that he said it? Was it too soon? Had he come on too strong? Did you not feel the same way?

He wouldn’t blame you. It’s a lot—he’s a lot. He knows he can be hard to love. Maybe you haven’t reached that point yet. Maybe you weren’t ready.

Except he has.

He’s been falling for a while now, even if he hadn’t said the words out loud until this morning. He’s felt it in his chest—the way being near you makes him feel both peaceful and fluttery, a quiet storm of butterflies beneath the surface, but it’s the calm that stands out most. The sense of normalcy.

You’ve never asked anything of him. Never expected the version of him that exists onstage, the performer, the persona. You’ve never demanded he be some dancing monkey just to earn your affection. You’ve seen through all of that.

You’ve accepted the softer, less put-together parts of him with a grace that catches him off guard, and more than that, you’ve offered yourself in return. You lean on him when your days are heavy, and he carries that with a quiet pride.

He’s your safe place, the same way you’ve become his.

By the end of the meeting, he’s out like a shot, nerves stretched thin with the need to come home. The silence from you feels too loud now, too heavy. He’s convinced he has gone too far.

Noah even tells Jolly he’ll Uber home—he doesn’t want to waste a single second letting the Swede take him on one of his infamous detours.

When he finally arrives home, he steps through the door tentatively, calling out for you, but there’s no response. A part of him aches, worried that maybe you’d left, but then he sees your shoes still neatly placed by the door, and relief settles in his chest. He takes the stairs two at a time, following the muffled sound of the TV coming from his room.

When he gets there, he opens the door to find you tucked back into his bed, wearing one of his shirts, the soft glow of the TV illuminating your form. One of the anime series you’ve both been watching recently is playing quietly in the background.

As Noah steps into the room, you shift, moving toward him. Your eyes are wide as you settle on your knees near the center of the bed, watching him approach. He walks to the edge and reaches out for you.

“I was worried you’d left,” he confesses, voice soft, his gaze flicking away from yours.

But you reach out and take his hands in yours, gently tugging him closer. His hands are larger, easily enveloping yours, but it’s a comfort to you both, how naturally you fit there, like you belong.

Finally, you take a steady breath and ask, “Did you mean it? What you said?”

And without missing a beat, Noah replies, “Every word.”

You played with the apps on your phone in a failed attempt to distract yourself but couldn't help to grimace when you opened the Instagram app and saw your now private profile. You followed some famous people but you only had 10 followers as all the others were deleted by your mother.

''I'm sorry for making you move and leave everything behind. Dad, the company...''

''Honey, no. Stop it!'' your father replied after lowering the volume of the radio while your mother, who was in the passenger seat next to him, turned around with a look of concern. ''We already talked about it, you're not guilty of what happened and we're not angry at you. We should have protected you and been there for you but we realized it too late but I promise you that we are going to leave all this in the past and although you don't want to believe it now, we love you and we always will.'' She was right, you couldn't believe her. Your mind was going down a somewhat dark path and you were sure that if your mother had even the slightest idea of what was going on in your head, she wouldn't hesitate to send you to a psychologist. ''Plus, you will love the new house! It has a beautiful patio and a pool where you can practice in case you want to join the swimming team at your new school.’’ She told you slightly excited, trying to pass on the feeling to you but you didn't have the heart to tell her that it wouldn't be possible, so you just nodded and looked out the window again.

You could feel your mother's gaze on you, perhaps waiting for an answer or even a smile but you didn't have the energy to do it or even fake it.

You had become what they call a ''bookworm''. Despite having access to technology and internet, you had developed a great love and appreciation for physical books and the smell of a new book excited you more than what is perhaps ''normal'' but thanks to the fact that apparently not many people shared the sentiment, the library was empty most of the time (at least the one located in the junior wing of the school, you didn't know about the one in the senior wing, but you have heard that it has like three floors and a private cafeteria).

You were reading one of your favorite books again and even though you practically knew the story by heart, you couldn’t stop laughing and feeling your heart flutter at the thought of how it would feel to be loved like that. Would you ever be able to find someone who would love and admire you just for being you? Just for existing? You had a love/hate thing for romance books. You read about how the characters were loved, cared for, how they could let go and turn their brains off to just…be. Exist. You knew you had just turned 14 and that according to your parents and the logical part of your brain, you have a whole life waiting ahead of you, but you can’t imagine that someone could love you like that. You couldn’t even make friends, how the hell are you going out to dates? No idea, but you didn’t want to think about it and fall down that rabbit hole. You turned the page, excited as you were only about 10 pages away from your favorite part but decided to leave it for later to read in the comfort of your room.

The alarm distracted you from your book and with it, you knew that you only had 10 minutes left of lunch (you weren't a big fan of the cafeteria, lots of people and noise so the library was always a good choice) and that you had to go to the biology lab, not forgetting to stop by your locker to look for the essay that you have to hand in today. When you reached for your backpack, you felt a strange tug in your stomach that you didn't know how to describe, you had never felt anything like it before, so you were quite confused, but you ignored it since you knew you didn't have much time left.

Then you saw him. A boy your age was entering the library but you turned around facing away from him, so he was unable see you. You barely saw him for a few seconds but boy, was he cute. Is this what you always read about? You didn't even know the boy's name, but you noticed his short brown hair, his rosy cheeks and how tall he was. Was this your first crush? It’s dumb! You watched him for a few seconds but apparently that was enough to make you fantasize what it would be like to talk to him or what his name would be, if he was nice or a jerk like the rest of the boys in your class (which would be a bummer). All of the other girls in your class have no problem talking to boys or making friends in general but here you are, covering your face with your hair so the cute boy you saw for two seconds doesn’t notice your presence.

You walked out of the library with your coat hanging on your backpack, it wasn’t cold so you didn’t need it at the moment. You had 5 minutes before Biology started so you headed to your locker and you always walked close to the walls, that way you drew as little attention as possible. Apparently, old habits die hard. Up until now, you had done a pretty good job of being a regular girl and not drawing attention to yourself. The girls in your class dangerously reminded you of the girl responsible for you having to move and change schools mid-year and the boys in your class are jerks, is the best way you can describe them. There was no way you wanted to run into any of them. You wake up, go to school, go home, do your homework and then go to bed. Same routine, every day. You watched on social media as your other classmates went out, had fun, went to the mall, bought makeup and clothes, posted photos and videos in groups, laughing, and as much as you wished you didn't care, you felt envious. Why can't you be like that? Why do you have to be the little weirdo who always goes unnoticed, and no one pays attention to?

You had to take one more turn to get to your locker when you heard giggles behind you. You turned your head slightly and saw two boys who were a grade above pointing at you and laughing; your chest started to hurt and you felt like there wasn't enough air to breathe. Anxiety, you felt anxious. You ran to your locker as the laughter intensified behind you and you just knew that you were the reason for it. Suddenly, you felt that same tug at the bottom of your belly.

''Oh no, no, no, please don't...'' you whispered almost on the verge of tears. You felt something hit your head and then fall to the ground. You wanted to die when you looked down and saw a sanitary pad that someone had thrown at your head which made the laughter louder.

''Oh no, the weirdo is bleeding out! I hope she has another skirt because yikes.''

''Hey! You're staining the floor, how fucking disgusting!''

''If I was the janitor, I'd make her clean it up. How disgusting.''

''Hey, honestly, how did you not notice? Didn't you feel your vagina wet or smelly or shit? Fuck, I have to get my book, but my locker is next to hers, imagine if it smells. That will be so gross!''

''In case you prefer to put things inside rather than a pad, weirdo'' Someone had thrown two tampons at your head, one of which had gotten tangled in your curls. At this point, you were already sobbing, not being able to hold back the tears and humiliated, all the while you were still turning your back on everyone with the locker open, with fear and shame eating you away.

Suddenly, you felt someone's presence which brought you out of the little dazed status.

''Honey, come on, I'm going to take you to the infirmary. Come on, you're okay, let's go.'' You could tell by the softness of the voice that it was a woman. She was the school's duty nurse. Apparently, someone was kind enough to call her while the others were scoffing. You let yourself be guide towards the infirmary and could distantly hear the nurse demanding them to stop laughing. At this point, you didn't care anymore, you just wanted to get to your bed and cry, that's all.

5 Months Later

You were in the south courtyard of the school, the farthest of all, with your third sketchbook finishing what would be your second attempt at drawing your mother. It would soon be her birthday and although you had already bought her a gift at the mall, you wanted to give her something that only you could do. Besides, she was the number 1 fan of your drawings and she bragged to her friends that her daughter was a great artist. Sometimes it embarrassed you but at the same time you felt good knowing that you had someone on your side, supporting you. With each stroke, you felt your confidence increase and, you had even opened an Instagram’s account for your drawings, and you felt good knowing that there were people who recognized your talent and encouraged you to continue learning, even if they were strangers. Maybe you were not totally alone.

You felt stuck. You couldn’t draw the hands, and with each attempt you only felt like you were screwing up more. Before you got more frustrated, you decided to take a break and continue in the comfort of your bed after eating. When you were about to start packing your things, your notebook fell open right on the last page that always made you blush. The boy from the library, who you now know also plays on the school soccer team (not that you’re stalking him at all) was looking back at you in an unfinished drawing in your sketchbook. You had only seen him passing by the halls and you couldn’t admit out loud that you unconsciously tried to match your schedule with his, like when he had his sports class. Oscar, that was his name, and you knew it thanks to the fact that he was apparently the star in the games and his name was always shouted by the people in the audience. Apart from seeing him in sports class, you didn't get the chance to see him much since he was in a grade above yours.

It was Tuesday, 3:40 PM according to the alarm you had set. School had ended 10 minutes ago but the alarm reminded you that in 5 minutes the soccer practice, Oscar's soccer practice, would start. Pathetic? Yes, but it wasn't a crime to want to appreciate your crush from afar, right?

Before you could leave the courtyard, you saw out of the corner of your eye a cardboard box which was dirty and you swore that it moved for a second. It looked like trash, but it couldn't be since the school has a zero-tolerance policy regarding that and you can literally end up suspended for throwing trash outside the trash bin. They were really strict about that. You approached it with some caution and jumped a little in shock when you saw that it did move and that it wasn't part of your imagination. Your heart stopped when you heard a small sound...a kitten? You approached more confidently, and your heart skipped a beat when you saw that the box didn't have any holes in it and was in fact sealed with many pieces of tape.

In a hurry, you threw your backpack on the floor and took out your scissors to cut the tape. You could feel the adrenaline and fear of what you might find inside if it turned out to be exactly what you thought but still, you carefully but firmly cut the tape. If they turned out to be kittens, you were going to start crying. You took a deep breath and opened it, feeling your eyes water. There were 4 kittens that looked like they couldn't be more than a few weeks old. One was completely white; another was almost completely black but with a few white spots while the last two were a combination of orange and white. One of the orange kittens, unlike its siblings, wasn't meowing and was just lying there barely breathing. You felt your heart break. They looked cold and hungry, so tiny and defenseless. You have always been a cat person, kittens being your weak point. Quickly, you grabbed your backpack, hooking it on your shoulders so you could carry the box without dropping it and you couldn’t run but did your best to walk fast. When you got to the school gate, you called your mom to come pick you up telling her about the box you found and that you wanted to take them to the vet. Your mom knew there was no way you were going to leave them abandoned after finding them so after 10 minutes you were already on your way to the vet with four beautiful kittens with you.

---------

Your Instagram account dedicated to your drawings has gained 1,000 followers, which was a great achievement for you, but you decided to take that opportunity to post that you had 3 kittens up for adoption. It destroyed you knowing that you couldn't keep the 4 kittens, but your parents had already let you keep Cotton (cliche because the kitten was completely white, you knew it, but you didn't care).

You were appalled while looking at your notifications. Oscar. Yes, that Oscar was messaging you and after checking a little more you realized that he had been following you for a while and you hadn't even noticed. You could feel your cheeks turning red, but you took a breath and remembered that he was only doing that because he wanted to adopt a kitten, you were of zero importance.

my_cherryblossom

Liked by Oscar_piastri and 57 others

A few weeks ago I found a box sealed with tape that contained 4 kittens inside. It's obvious that the intention of whoever put them there was for them not to survive but I found them just in time. Sadly, I can only keep one, which is why I am giving up the other 3 for adoption! They are so cute and playful.

If you're interested, write me.

P.S. These kittens are my life so if you give me weird vibes, I won't give you one lol

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The spoon analogy comes to mind. You’re juggling too many, and they’re all on the verge of clattering to the floor—if they haven’t already.

When the doorbell rings, it’s almost the final straw. You weren’t expecting anyone, and truthfully, you don’t feel like seeing anyone either. Your friends wouldn’t understand—or worse, they’d take it personally. So, it’s been easier to go quiet for a few days. Send the occasional message here and there, just enough to let them know you’re thinking of them, even while you’re fighting a war inside your own head.

With a deep, heaving sigh, you open the door, only to find yourself face to face with a broad chest and a familiar shirt. Your eyes travel upward, closing the height gap until they settle on Noah’s face. Your mouth opens, ready to say something—maybe an apology, but nothing comes out. You’re speechless as he looks down at you, something soft and unreadable in his expression.

“Hey,” he says gently. He leans into the doorframe, reaching out to idly tug at the string of your pyjama pants. You hadn’t bothered changing into real clothes, just swapped one set of pajamas for another after your shower. It’s not like you had plans to go anywhere.

“Noah.” You breathe his name, and suddenly you’re flooded with the urge to hand him a barrage of excuses, one after the other, but nothing comes. Instead, you watch as he dips his head slightly, leaning in closer.

“I came to see if you knew where my girlfriend was,” he says, voice light but laced with concern. “It’s been a few days, and, well… she’s about yay high.” He lifts a hand to mimic your height. “Prettiest eyes, terrible sense of humor—but amazing taste in food.”

You look at him, frozen for a beat, before you throw yourself toward him, arms wrapping tightly around his waist. His own arms engulf you easily, pressing you against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble against his shirt, feeling the nuzzle of his nose against the top of your head.

“Why?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

Maybe it was your own doing. Being stuck in your head, caught in the spiral that convinced you that needing time alone—without explanation or contact—somehow made you a bad person. It made you stretch yourself beyond your limits, again and again. Or maybe you’d just spent too much time around people who demanded more than you could ever give.

“Because I haven’t seen you or spoken to you,” you mumble, face pressed to his chest. Your breath staggers as the emotion rises, eyes burning with the press of unshed tears.

“Baby, it’s okay,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head as his arms tighten, keeping you close.

“Shall we go and help you relax a little?”

You nod without a word, still refusing to pull away. He shuffles you back through the door before scooping you into his arms. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, arms looping around his neck as you nestle into the crook of it, grounding yourself in his warmth.

“I can’t promise I’ll be much fun,” you mumble against his neck, your nose brushing his skin as you breathe in the familiar scent of him. It envelopes you instantly, grounding you, soothing you—like being pulled back under a warm blanket of safety.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he assures you, and it feels like a weight slowly lifting.

“Really?” You pull back slightly to look at him just as he reaches the couch and gently lays you down on it.

“Yeah.”

“Even if it means not wanting to talk?”

“Even then.”

He leans in, his lips brushing your forehead before pressing a tender kiss there. Your eyes flutter shut, and the heaviness that clung to you just moments ago lifts—just enough for you to breathe again.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like a security blanket, like you need to keep him close.

Noah doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to. Instead, he shifts beside you on the couch, gathering you into his arms and resting you against his chest. One large hand cradles the back of your head, his fingers gently rubbing your scalp, slow and comforting. The warmth of him, the rhythm of his touch, the quiet—all of it begins to blur, the fuzzy feeling pulling you under until sleep takes hold.

When you wake, it’s definitely not a pretty sight. You can feel the dry drool at the corner of your mouth, and you blink sluggishly as you try to push yourself upright. Noah’s long limbs are no longer wrapped around you, but you hear the distinct sound of his voice singing in the kitchen, accompanied by the soft hum of a radio in the background.

Your vision blurs as you come to, but once you’re awake enough to focus, a smile slowly spreads across your face. He’s moving around your kitchen with a familiar grace and ease—something he’s done more and more since he started coming over. He knows the layout well enough to plate something up without even thinking about it, and that’s exactly what he’s doing now.

“Oh, you’re awake!” he calls out, licking a bit of sauce from the pad of his thumb before flashing you a playful grin. “Someone had a good sleep, I see.” He nods toward you—specifically your hair, which is standing up, messy and wild.

“Yeah, well…” you mumble, huffing softly as you try to pat it down. Whether or not it helps, you’re not sure, but all thoughts of bedhead vanish when he walks over, bearing two plates.

“I got you some food for sustenance,” he says, setting them down on the coffee table in front of you. “Looked like you were living off those leftovers longer than you should’ve.”

You duck your head, guilty as charged, eyes falling to the food in front of you. “Thank you,” you murmur, a tired smile pulling at your lips. Then you pucker them slightly, wordlessly asking for a kiss.

Naturally, he obliges the moment he sees you. He leans in and presses a tender kiss to your lips before sinking down onto the couch beside you. “It’s from your favourite place,” he adds, balancing his plate in one hand as he leans back against the cushions. “And maybe after, I can run you a bath—or a hot shower?”

“Are you trying to say I smell?” you ask, turning your head to raise a brow at him.

Noah just laughs, shaking his head. “Well…”

You scoff and nudge him with your shoulder, but the smallest smile tugs at your lips at the thought. A small, sweet gesture. One you didn’t realize you needed.

“I’d like that,” you say softly.

As promised, Noah runs you a hot shower, and to your surprise, even when he steps in behind you to join, there’s no funny business—no ulterior motive to his gesture. Just sweetness and him. He leaves the gentlest kisses along your shoulders and the back of your neck as he lathers you up, his touch tender and unhurried.

His fingers glide across your skin, caressing every dip and curve with reverence, taking in every inch he passes. It’s soft and worshipful, a kind of care that makes you feel deeply loved. You easily melt back into his chest, letting yourself sink into the solid feel of him and the warmth of his body against yours.

When he lathers your hair, his fingers gently massaging your scalp, it sends a shiver down your spine, goosebumps rising across your skin. Your head tilts back instinctively, and he dips forward—pressing one kiss, then another, trailing along your neck and up to your jaw until you turn and meet his mouth with yours. All the while, his fingers continue working through your hair, still massaging, still gentle.

“How does that feel?” he whispers.

A soft, pleased sound escapes you. “Good,” you nod, your hands pressing to his stomach as you steady yourself, leaning into him while he guides you back under the stream of water.

He takes his time—rinsing the bubbles out, working in the conditioner, then rinsing that out too, and when he finally turns off the water, he steps out with you, reaching immediately for a towel and wrapping it snugly around your body.

You slip your arms around his waist, pressing your face to his still wet chest. You breathe him in—the faint scent of your shared body wash mixed with that distinct scent that’s just him. It makes you melt, makes butterflies stir in your stomach, fluttering in a way you don’t think could ever stop, especially not when he scoops you up bridal style and carries you off to the bedroom.

There, he picks out another set of pyjamas for you to slip into, something soft and comfortable, and once you’re dressed, he climbs into bed beside you, pulling you into his chest like you belong there, because you do.

Truthfully, he loves these moments: when he gets to steal time with you. No obligations, no emails or phone calls, which have interrupted many a morning with you both, but not this morning. This morning, it’s just the two of you.

You promise to bring him breakfast in bed if he lets you go. It takes a little extra bargaining, a few more kisses, before he actually lets you slip free.

“Did all that catering give you culinary skills?” he teases.

You glance back at him, a flicker of a teasing smile on your lips. “Maybe,” you shoot back, and then you’re gone. Wearing his shirt, which barely covers past your ass, you slip out of the bedroom and wander down the hall of your apartment until you reach the kitchen. It’s small, but quaint—and all yours.

Strawberries, fresh cream, and pancakes. You have less in stock than you anticipated, but enough to make something to share. Grabbing two mini cartons of orange juice, you run back to the bedroom to surprise him with your culinary delight.

“I thought we said no phones,” you scold him, setting the plate down on the nightstand as you catch him sitting up against the pile of pillows, scrolling through his phone.

“Unfortunately, I don’t turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes midnight.”

“And I do?” you gasp, reaching for the plate and scooping up some of the cream, smearing it onto the tip of his nose in retaliation. A hum of laughter rumbles in your throat as you lick your finger clean.

“Never,” he beams, hands sliding to your hips, gripping the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, and dragging you closer, back towards the bed.

You push the covers aside and climb on top of him, straddling his lap. Reaching over, you begin cutting a piece of the pancakes with the side of your fork. “Well, lucky for you, Cinderella here can cook too,” you tease, bringing a forkful of pancake, strawberry, and cream to his lips, watching him closely as he happily accepts it, soft satisfied moans escaping him.

“Delicious,” he mumbles, and you lean in, stealing a kiss—wiping away the smudge of cream coating his lips in the process.

“The strawberries are especially sweet.” You reach over, setting the fork down, this time using your fingers to pick up a piece. Lifting it high, you feed it to Noah, his eyes eagerly fixed on you as his mouth closes around your fingers, his tongue swiping at the remaining juice.

This time, he can’t resist another kiss, pulling you in, one hand cradling the nape of your neck as his mouth meets yours. It’s soft, sweet, and sets off an eruption of butterflies in your stomach.

You get to wake up to this—to him—every single morning so far. He’s refused to leave, your side, your bed, you. It’s been beyond perfect, the two of you creating a bubble you never want to escape from.

“My turn,” he declares proudly, reaching for a piece of strawberry and scooping up some cream in the process, but instead of offering it to you right away, he trails it down his bare tatted chest, letting it rest just above his navel.

Shuffling back, you happily dip down, leaving a trail of kisses as you follow the path he created. When you reach the strawberry, your tongue rolls over the spot, slow and deliberate, and you hear his breath hitch beneath you with every teasing movement.

You let out a squeal the moment his arms wrap around you, pulling you down against him as he rolls you both over. His head dips to capture your mouth in a kiss, sharing the sweet mixture still lingering on your tongue. It’s slow and sensual, his mouth soft against yours, each of you savoring the moment, just like you have ever since you locked yourselves away together in your little apartment.

“I love being here with you,” he whispers, his mouth soft against your skin as he trails light kisses down your throat, tucking into the crook of your neck. His hands edge beneath the shirt—his shirt—you’re wearing, large palms brushing against the soft skin of your back. The heat of him makes you tremble. He’s always had that effect on you, from the very first moment you met—his touch subtle enough to set you on edge and set your body ablaze, all at once.

“Would you stay here forever?” you ask. It’s cliché, but he indulges you.

He nods, whispering a soft "In a heartbeat" against your pulse before pressing a kiss there, feeling the way it thrums beneath your skin.

You can’t think of anything more idyllic than hiding away in your apartment together, shutting out the world—a world so incessant in its curiosity about him: where he is, who he’s with. Enough time should’ve passed for the “mystery woman” to be forgotten—she was, to you, and yet somehow, the rumors pull him into new assumptions, linking him to another artist, with whispers of secret proposals and declarations of an engagement.

None of it’s true—except maybe his desperate attempts to get you to come with him to every show, and his constant pleading for a trip to Paris.

“You’re still on that?” you tease, just as he lifts his head and brushes his teeth lightly against your chin in a playful bite.

“It’s romantic,” he insists. And it is—beyond romantic. Almost too romantic for two people who’ve only just met, who are still in the early stages of something so new, something not yet defined, but Noah is falling, hard, harder than he ever has, and the soft look in his eyes when he finally pulls back to gaze down at you tells you everything.

“You’re crazy,” you whisper, shaking your head as your fingers rake gently through his hair.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “About you,” no cheek, no cockiness, just pure adoration, like no truer words have ever been spoken.

“What would we even do out there?” you ask.

As usual, that question transforms him into his walking tour guide self, listing off everywhere you could go—his voice low and easy—while his mouth charts its own path along your jawline and neck, leaving soft, lingering marks behind.

“There’s a hotel that overlooks the Louvre,” he murmurs, “and at night, it shimmers so beautifully.” His body presses closer against yours, and your head grows cloudy at the thought. He talks about the view, about the city, about the hotel room and all the possibilities it holds for you both.

Breakfast on the balcony. Dinner while watching the Louvre light up at night. All of his sweet words slowly dissolving into soft filth as he whispers them against your skin. “And I can watch the city lights reflect in your eyes as I fuck you over the balcony.”

You think a soft ‘yes’ slips from your lips between quiet moans and the frantic effort to shed the only article of clothing between you—his shirt, and when he sinks into you, it’s full and deep, a feeling that spreads through every inch of your body, like he’s sinking home, as though this is exactly how you belong—together, completely entwined.

Every morning has followed the same pattern on the days you refuse to leave the bed, falling into slow, lazy morning sex. The kind that feels like the perfect start to the day simply because it begins with him inside you.

It’s the slow drag of him between your walls that you love—the way he stretches you, the way pleasure ripples through every inch of your body, the way he stays pressed close, like all he wants is to remain right here, wrapped around you.

Your mouths move together in slow, teasing kisses. A flick of your tongues, playful at first, until he grows greedy and presses his tongue into your mouth, seeking out the taste of you. There’s a faint trace of strawberries and cream on your tongue—just enough sweetness to deepen the kiss, to make him crave more.

Your hands roam his body—his biceps, his back, his hair. You comb your fingers through the strands and tug gently, arching your hips to meet the slow, deliberate rhythm of his own.

He draws out the pleasure for you both. You feel the way he twitches and pulses inside you, the tremble in his stomach as he leans into you, holding steady, refusing to give in too soon. Even when he does, he doesn’t stop. Half-hard and sensitive, he keeps moving—thrusting into you with slow, determined strokes until you feel him hardening again, like your body is the answer to everything for him.

There’s no clear edge where he ends and you begin. Your bodies feel made for one another—perfectly in sync—and he whispers as much against your skin, each word soft and reverent as he kisses along your body.

“It’s like you were made for me.” It’s a quiet murmur, but it makes your stomach ripple with butterflies, a slow build of pleasure trailing behind it, because it feels exactly like that. Like you were made for each other—soul to soul, body to body.

“You’re all mine,” he whispers, and the words have an instant, heated effect. You clench around him, your body responding without thought.

“All yours,” you echo, breathless, affirming what you both already know. You are his—in a way you’ve never belonged to anyone before.

“Just like I’m all yours.”

That’s what sends you over the edge. The words, the truth of them, hit with unexpected force—your climax erupting slowly but deeply, spreading heat through every nerve. You tremble beneath him as he cradles you close, moans spilling into his mouth as he kisses you through it.

He’s all yours. He belongs to you—just as you belong to him. There’s never been any doubt. From the moment you met, he made it abundantly clear: there’s no one else for him, only you.

You don’t even bother clicking on the article. Your eyes quickly scan the headline, then briefly glance at the blurry photo below it—a grainy, zoomed-in shot of Noah taking a step beside a woman whose face is partially turned away from the camera. Her hair falls just right, conveniently obscuring what they’ve decided makes her a “mystery woman.”

Mystery woman or not, she’s far from either of your minds right now.

The corner of your mouth curls up as you glance at Noah, whose lap you currently occupy. He’s shirtless, his hair still tousled from sleep. A faint red mark trails down the side of his neck, where his tattoos don’t reach—a mark you left there just hours ago. He’s sipping coffee from a mug featuring a motif from his favorite TV show, Severance—something you learned about during your late-night hours of getting to know each other. He’s scrolling aimlessly on his own phone, completely oblivious to the buzz his name is generating in the outside world.

You tilt your screen toward him with a soft snort. “It seems you’ve been quite busy.”

Noah raises an eyebrow, leaning forward to catch a glimpse, a quiet laugh escaping his lips. “Mystery woman, huh?” he mutters, his voice rough from the night before. “If only they knew.” A sly smirk spreads across his lips as he refocuses on you, his gaze lingering on your lips before he leans in and kisses you.

They may not know, but you do because you were there—you remember the night perfectly.

What they saw: 

Another album release party event has found you catering, but this time, it’s for a band you’ve never heard of—even though your music preferences are vast. You spend the evening mingling, offering drinks and appetizers, while the band who is the center of attention seem to be fading into the background. You almost don’t realize who the event is for until you overhear conversations mentioning their names, particularly Noah, which becomes the center of one young woman’s conversation.

You later spot the same woman approaching whom you’ve deduced to be Noah—through process of elimination—and attempt to initiate a conversation. From a distance, you observe her; she laughs at his jokes, he’s courteous, she leans in as she speaks, and when he moves past her to reach for someone else, his hand brushes against hers—a fleeting, innocent touch.

A casual touch, barely a second long, but long enough to be manipulated and framed in any way the media chooses.

Then comes a photo—another one that accompanies the grainy one taken when he leaves the venue. This time, it’s a selfie they’re standing in the back of. It’s a blurry candid shot of Noah caught in profile, mid-smile, his eyes vaguely angled towards her. Her gaze is slightly upturned, and for a fleeting moment, as the briefest frame of the photo captures, it seems like something is happening between them—a shared glance, a lingering gaze.

You know better, because all of his glances came to settle on you.

As the night drew to a close, they managed to capture the photo that sparked the headline. Noah walking towards the exit, the crowd thinning out and the mystery woman standing beside him—not speaking this time, not even looking at each other. However, the camera didn’t care about their conversation; it only focused on angles and their proximity to sell a story based solely on coincidence.

To them, she was the woman he went home with; that was all they needed to claim it. She was the mysterious woman who had led him to a wild and passionate night.

What they didn't see:

They miss the way you catch Noah’s attention when you brush past him after he enters the room. They also miss the way his eyes keep scanning for you from there on. You’re just a stranger, but the faint scent you leave lingering in your wake keeps him hooked. His eyes are peeled for you, searching through the crowd in hopes of seeing you again—his mysterious stranger.

You catch him staring at you for a second too long. Not in the way someone admires an outfit or scans a crowd, but as if he’s memorizing you. They don’t notice that, or how every time you look up at him after that, he is already looking back—his lips twitching into a small, genuine smile—real—just for a fleeting moment.

You notice him watching you as you navigate through the crowd, ensuring that the trays in your hands remain steady, even under his watchful eye. His gaze then shifts to your legs, your fingers, and the subtle hint of collarbone that the uniform didn’t quite conceal. You feel heat bloom beneath your skin every time your paths cross.

You hear the way his voice drops when he catches you passing by, asking casually, “Haven’t I seen you before?” as if the three times you’ve offered him appetizers were mere coincidences.

They don’t see the two of you in the alleyway—Noah leaning against the wall with one foot propped behind him, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. You uncomfortably close to him—closer than polite or appropriate—but neither of you seem to mind.

You hadn’t intended to follow him out, not really. But when he slipped through the side door, you hesitated for only a minute before pushing it open yourself. It was as if an invisible force compelled you to follow him.

They don’t witness the smirk on his lips as you step into the dim light, or hear the quiet, “I was wondering how long you were gonna take.”

They don’t hear the way your breath catches, or how his eyes dip to your mouth, or how yours do the same.

They don’t notice you staring at his cigarette—not because you desire one, but because you yearn to savor the taste of something which has been between his lips.

They don’t see the tension stretch between you like a wire, taut and humming with potential. They don’t hear the long, heavy silence that fills the space between flirting and something else entirely.

When you both return inside, they don’t notice how your cheeks are slightly warmer, or your lips are slightly bitten.

His gaze follows you differently—less subtle and less patient now. As if something had changed in that alley, something that couldn’t be ignored for the rest of the night.

They witness him leaving with her, but they fail to notice your silent exit ten minutes later.

They don’t hear the first time he utters your name, as if he yearns to savor it. They don’t witness the passionate kiss he shares with you as soon as you’re out of sight—desperate, possessive, and messy. They don’t see the Uber ride, where you climb into his lap and barely manage to reach the second red light before his lips find your neck—heated, possessive. They don’t witness his fingers tracing your thighs, his hands entwined in your hair, and his voice whispering in your ear, confessing that he’s been contemplating this moment since the instant he laid eyes on you.

They don’t see you now, nestled on his lap in the gentle radiance of morning, draped only in his shirt. Your legs are warm against his thighs as he indulges in lazy kisses along your neck, gently nipping at the delicate skin just below your ear, as if he’s still yearning for you, as if last night wasn’t enough. One of his hands curls at your waist, while the other trails light touches up your thigh, fingers brushing the edge of the shirt that barely covers your curves.

Your coffee sits forgotten on the table. His mug is in reach, but his focus is on you—always you.

They don’t hear the rasp in his voice as he whispers your name, like it’s a secret meant for no one else. They don’t see the way he holds you, not possessively, but with a sense of certainty—like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Like here—with you—is where he’s destined to be.

He doesn’t even know her name, but he knows yours. If you have anything to say about it, it’ll be the only thing he says for the rest of the day—soft, breathless, and repetitive, against your skin.