1. The Man Who Saved You

2. The Man You Make Uneasy

3. The Man With a Beautiful Smile

4. The Man Who Kiss You for the First Time

5. The Man Who Speaks With His Eyes

6. The Man Who Makes You Whole

7. The Man Who Found His Fire in You

8. The Man You Didn’t Expect to Need

9. The Man Who Knew Before You Did

10. The Woman He Followed Into the Dark

It was for some children’s literacy nonprofit, and you’d clicked it half-delirious, half-joking, adding one entry just to say you did.

Two weeks later, you got the email.

You thought it was a scam. Then your phone rang—an actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedro’s team had already cleared the date.

You stared at your phone long after the call ended. You were twenty-three, in college for a degree in screenwriting, juggling a bookstore job and unpaid pitch work. Pedro Pascal had been your comfort actor since your late teens—long before the mainstream hype. You’d watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didn’t even remember.

Now you were going to sit across from him. At lunch. For an hour.

You didn't even have anything to wear that didn't look like it came off a Goodwill clearance rack.

The restaurant was tucked away in Laurel Canyon, low lighting, all exposed brick and polished glass.

You checked your reflection four times in the car window. A blouse that didn't cling too tight. Mascara you applied with shaking hands. You told yourself he probably did dozens of these. He wouldn’t even remember your name.

When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, “Right this way,” and there he was.

Pedro Pascal. In a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Beard trimmed. Brown eyes soft.

He stood when you walked up.

“Hey, you must be the donor,” he said warmly. “Thanks for donating.”

You managed a smile. “Thanks for being the prize.”

He laughed. A real one.

You thought it would be awkward. Stilted. But he was funny, sharp, easy to talk to. You ended up rambling about how much his performance in The Bubble meant to you—how you watched it on your laptop in your dark bedroom during a bad depressive episode, how it got you through that awful year.

He looked surprised. Touched.

“I forget anyone actually saw that movie,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“I watched it five times. At least.”

He blinked. “Wait, are you messing with me?”

“Nope.” You grinned. “I even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware he’s a fraud but keeps smiling through it—like, that’s the whole metaphor.”

Pedro blinked again—then gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.

You weren’t flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe that’s what caught him off guard.

He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.

“Seriously,” he said, “this was the best version of one of these I’ve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt like…” he paused. “A real conversation.”

You tried to play it cool. “That’s the goal. I’m supposed to be a screenwriter, right?”

He smiled, wider this time. “If you ever finish something, I’d love to read it.”

You stared at him, then snorted. “That sounded like a line.”

You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.

Pedro leaned against the building’s side wall, sunglasses back on, arms folded. The California sun caught the edges of his hair, bringing out the warm gray in his curls. You tried not to stare.

 You were failing.

“Do you ever get tired of people telling you they’ve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?” you asked, mostly teasing.

He laughed under his breath. “Depends on how they say it.”

You glanced up at him. “And how did I say it?”

His mouth curled. “Like someone who isn’t obsessed anymore. Just curious.”

That made you blush, which only made it worse. “Right. I’m too grown for fangirling.”

He tilted his head a little. “How grown are we talking?”

You gave him a look. “Grown enough to know that question is a trap.”

He grinned. “Smart.”

The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if you’d name it.

You didn’t. You weren’t that bold. But you did say, “So, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?”

He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. “Can I be honest?”

“Please.”

“I thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didn’t expect to actually…” He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. “...like someone.”

Your stomach fluttered. “Someone?”

“You,” he said plainly.

Oh.

You blinked. “I—um. Okay. That’s… wow.”

Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”

“No—no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

He smiled again, softer now. “That’s fair.”

Then, casually—almost like it was nothing—he said, “Would it be weird if I asked for your number?”

You stared at him. “Wait—seriously?”

He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re comfortable. If not, that’s okay. I just—” he hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.”

You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t in a rush, like he could wait forever.

“…Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll give it to you.”

Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.

You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.

He glanced down at it, then nodded. “I’ll text you. So you have mine.”

“Cool.” You tried to act normal. “Cool, cool, cool.”

Pedro smirked. “You’re very cool, yeah.”

Your rideshare pulled up just then. Saved by the bell. He opened the car door for you, gentlemanly as ever.

Before you got in, he said, voice low: “I’m really glad it was you.”

You didn’t even know what to say to that. So you smiled, and got in the car, and tried not to immediately check your phone.

But when it buzzed two minutes later, your breath caught.

Unknown Number: Glad I made it through lunch without embarrassing myself. – Pedro

You didn’t text back right away.

Mostly because you didn’t want to seem eager. But also because you were still staring at your phone like it had just whispered your name out loud.

You waited ten minutes.

Then typed:

You: I think we both made it out with our dignity intact.

But that’s a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.

The dots appeared instantly.

Pedro: Damn, you’re already funnier over text. I’m scared. Should I be worried about my performance?

You smiled, flopping back on your bed.

You: You were decent. You only said “like” twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac. Pedro: You counted?? You: I’m a writer. I observe. Pedro: Dangerous. Pedro: Remind me never to lie to you.

He kept texting over the next few days. Nothing crazy. Nothing that could get him in trouble.

But his messages were always right there—close enough to be curious. Casual enough to deny.

Sometimes it was jokes about his press schedule. Sometimes questions about your scripts. One night, it was a photo of an old movie on his TV.

Pedro: I think this director peaked with this one. Tell me I’m wrong. [screenshot from Days of Heaven] You: You want discourse at midnight? Pedro: I want you to talk to me at midnight.

You stared at that one for too long.

Typed. Erased. Typed again.

You: That sounds dangerously flirty for a man with a whole IMDb page. Pedro: That sounds dangerously flirty for a girl who called me “decent.” Pedro: …But I’m not taking it back.

By the end of the week, he was sending you voice memos.

Low, rough-voiced ones. Mostly teasing. Sometimes just quiet thoughts he didn’t want to type.

“You know, I reread your screenplay sample. You weren’t kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think I’m obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.”

Another night:

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought about texting you something sexy but decided on this instead: Do you think people fall for potential, or do they fall for the version of themselves they think the other person sees?”

That one stayed in your phone for days.

You didn’t answer it. Not directly.

But your next message said:

You: If you’re ever back in L.A. and bored, I know a dive bar that makes the best nachos in the city.

We could talk about your IMDb shame pile.

Pedro: You tryna seduce me with nachos? You: Maybe. Pedro: Tell me when. And don’t wear that blouse again. Or do…

Four Weeks Later

The texts don’t come every day anymore.

He warned you. Said work was picking up again—press junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. You’d gone in expecting one hour of his time, not a month of flirty messages and midnight voice memos.

But still, you missed it. The tiny buzz of your phone. His name lighting up your screen.

You missed the way he made you feel like he actually saw you—like you weren’t just some girl who lucked into a celebrity lunch but someone with ideas, talent, nerve.

The last message had been five days ago:

Pedro: Sitting in a hotel bar in Berlin. Bartender looks like he’s judging my wine choice.

You responded. He didn’t reply.

You told yourself he got busy. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Still, you reread the thread more than once.

He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.

He didn’t know why you stuck in his head. Why you’d gotten under his skin like a song he couldn’t stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadn’t thought to say to anyone in years.

And you hadn’t even done anything, really.

You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasn’t on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.

And now you were quiet.

Maybe you’d gotten bored. Moved on. Maybe it was better that way.

But when his plane landed in L.A., jet-lagged and strung out, the first thing he wanted—before coffee, before sleep—was to see if you were still around.

You’re watching a terrible dating show in your apartment, sipping flat wine, wearing the same hoodie three days in a row when your phone buzzes.

Pedro: Back in town. That nacho place still open?

You stare at it.

Then:

You: It closes at 2am. So yeah. Still time for questionable choices. Pedro: Are we talking about food or me? You: Don’t make me say it. Pedro: Say it in person.

Then:

Pedro: Tomorrow night?

Your stomach flips.

It’s been weeks. You thought he forgot. You thought maybe you dreamed the whole thing.

You wait ten seconds.

Then:

You: Tomorrow night.

The bar is dim and humming when you walk in. Wood-paneled walls, strings of yellow bulbs, and that warm, greasy smell that hits just right after 9 p.m.

You spot him instantly.

Pedro’s in the far booth—back against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. He’s dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos. 

He looks up and sees you. Smiles.

Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.

“Hey,” you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.

You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heart’s fluttering like it’s your first date in high school.

He leans forward slightly. “You look…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tired?”

He laughs. “No. Just better than I remembered.”

You smirk. “You say that to all the raffle girls?”

Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. “You think I’m doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?”

You don’t answer. You just meet his eyes—and hold them a second too long.

The first drink goes fast. So does the second.

Conversation’s easy again—teasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.

“You’ve got that look again,” you say at one point.

He tips his head. “What look?”

“Like you’re thinking too much.”

Pedro taps his fingers on the table. “I am.”

“About what?”

“You.”

That shuts you up. For a beat.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re officially flirting.”

“Only officially now?”

You glance at him. “Are we pretending we haven’t been doing that for weeks?”

He leans in a little, voice lower. “I haven’t been pretending, cariño.”

That word—cariño—drops right down your spine.

You sip your drink just to buy time.

Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.

He’s shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.

You can feel the heat of him—slow and steady, like a stove left on low.

“You’re braver than I thought,” he murmurs, voice near your ear.

You turn your head, pulse thrumming. “Why?”

He’s looking at your mouth when he says, “Because I think you know exactly what this is.”

You swallow.

“You think it’s a game?” you whisper.

“No.” His eyes lift to meet yours again. “I think it’s trouble.”

You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:

“I think I want it anyway.”

Pedro exhales, almost like relief.

His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at first—like he’s asking.

You don’t stop him.

Back at your place — 1:07 a.m.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s cataloging every detail in case it’s the only time he sees it.

“Cute place,” he says.

You shrug. “It’s fine. It has a couch, at least.”

Pedro gives you a look. “So subtle.”

You smirk, toeing off your shoes. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” he says, trailing behind you into the living room. “Because when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I saw—”

“—Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm. “I was picking a song.”

“You were bending the laws of nature, muneca.”

You plop onto the couch and toss a pillow at him.

He catches it easily, eyes dancing.

And then he sits.

Close. Closer than necessary.

Your knees touch.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything.

His hand brushes yours.

Once.

Twice.

Then it stays.

“I keep telling myself not to do this,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.

You tilt your head. “Then don’t.”

Pedro looks at you.

Long. Direct. Hungry.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow.

His lips soft, searching. No rush. No agenda.

But your hand slides into his hair and his body shifts, just a little, and suddenly—

His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.

You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like he’s been trying not to make it for weeks.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You started it,” you whisper, breathless.

His tongue traces your bottom lip. “Don’t remind me.”

He pushes you back into the couch cushions, one knee slipping between yours, just enough weight to make you feel it.

You arch beneath him. Hips rising—seeking.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he says, voice low. “You know that?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re not bad either, old man.”

He huffed a laugh—and kissed you harder.

You end up straddling him, your hands under his shirt, his teeth grazing your neck. You whisper something shameless into his ear and he freezes, groaning into your shoulder like you just ruined his life.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like it,” you say, biting back a smile.

“Too much.”

It doesn’t go any further.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Not because you don’t.

But because there’s something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.

 1:41 a.m. your apartment

You don’t get off his lap.

Even after the kissing slows. Even after his hand stills on your thigh and his breath evens out against your collarbone.

You just lean into him, cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, and say:

“So what’s your comfort movie?”

Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on you—one lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.

“You want comfort?” he murmurs. “I watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.”

You sit up just enough to look at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

You grin, brushing your nose against his. “Mine’s Coraline. I know it’s for kids. Don’t care.”

“Oh, I respect that,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Creepy doll button eyes? That’s some formative trauma.”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Exactly.”

The conversation drifts.

From movies to music, then weird dreams, then the worst job he ever had (you make him promise never to do commercials for adult diapers), and the story of your first kiss (in a movie theater during a Marvel sequel, popcorn still in your braces).

You fall asleep like that for a while.

Wrapped around him. The TV is still on. His hoodie swallowing your frame.

It’s not a sleepover. But it’s the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerous—something real.

5:07 a.m. 

He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.

The Uber’s headlights bounce off the curb.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.

You raise your brows. “You’d behave?”

“No.”

“Then go home.”

Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. “I hate that you’re right.”

“You love that I’m right.”

He kisses your forehead. “Text me when you wake up, cariño.”

Then he climbs into the car and disappears into the fading dark.

Later

You you looked like a mess when you left was kind of hot

Pedro don’t start i walked into my kitchen like a teenager head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.

You “what is she doing to meee…”

Pedro don’t mock the broken man

You it’s cute I kinda like breaking you

Pedro yeah i could tell you were smiling while you ruined me

You and you didn’t stop me

Pedro never would

Pedro (real talk though… i haven’t kissed someone like that in years) what are we doing?

You no idea but i don’t really want to stop

Pedro good i’d be pissed if you did

You also i’m watching Paddington 2 tonight thought you should know

Pedro you’re trying to make me fall in love with you

You Trying?

A Few days Later

Pedro okay serious question what’s your go-to coffee order i’m at a café and there are too many words on the menu

You iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes. why?

Pedro just wondering what i’ll need to remember when i see you again it’s been a minute you free soon?

You maybe. depends. is this a brunch date disguised as a “casual hang”?

Pedro yes. and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal

You hot I’ll see you Sunday then

Two Weeks Later

Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.

You’re holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedro’s walking beside you—cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.

You look like…friends.

Which is the goal.

Except his hand keeps brushing yours.

And when you laugh too hard at something he says about a failed audition back in ‘99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.

You don’t even notice the guy on the opposite sidewalk.

Phone angled low.

The shutter click barely audible.

Another car slows down. Just a beat.

Pedro notices first.

His body tenses next to yours.

You follow his gaze. A pair of figures across the street. Hoodies. Big lenses. Moving fast.

Click click click.

You suck in a breath. “Shit.”

He doesn’t grab your hand.

He can’t.

Instead, he leans in like he’s just whispering something dumb.

“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “Act like you’re annoyed with me.”

You glance up at him. “That’s not hard.”

He grins, tight-lipped. “Atta girl.”

You duck into a bookstore.He buys a random novel and keeps the receipt.

You pretend to browse while your stomach spins.

He brushes his hand against your back briefly as you walk toward the back exit.

“Your face was covered,” he says quietly. “You’re fine.”

But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.

“I knew this might happen,” you mutter. “Still sucks.”

Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:

“If anything ever actually comes out…I’ll handle it.”

You nod.

But it hangs there. Heavy.

You’re still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.

But the part that makes your pulse spike isn’t fear.

It’s the way his voice dipped when he said “I’ll handle it.”

Like he already decided he would.

Like you weren’t just a girl from a raffle anymore.

Pedro they didn’t get anything you’re safe

You you sure?

Pedro i’ve done this a long time if they had something good it’d be online already trust me

You i do just didn’t expect it to feel that...real

Pedro it is real at least for me

You i know. me too.

Pedro next time no public sidewalks just you my place pizza and zero danger

You and maybe another dramatic sigh against your fridge?

Pedro oh i’m already practicing i’ll be thinking about you all week

You good maybe i’ll make you wait again

Pedro maybe i’ll let you

Few More Days Later

You i just bombed my stats exam tell my family i died doing what i hated

Pedro nooooo not stats not you :(

You i’m so tired i might actually cry in the campus parking lot like a teen drama character

Pedro you want company or silence? or pizza? or a forehead kiss?

You omg

You that last one just made my brain short circuit is that allowed???

Pedro it is if you want it to be offer still stands come over i’ll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts

You you’re dangerous give me an hour

That night — 8:13 p.m. 

Pedro’s apartment.

The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.

Pedro’s in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is just…normal. Like you always do this. Like he wasn’t in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.

“You ever cook for girls like this?” you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.

Pedro smirks without turning around. “Not girls who make me nervous.”

You blink.

He glances back at you. “Just being honest.”

You open your mouth—then close it again.

Your throat’s warm. So is your chest. Your fingertips tingle against the glass of red wine in your hand.

The rest of the night unfurls gently. Like a held breath being let out.

He makes a simple pasta with veggies. You help slice strawberries for a little balsamic-glazed dessert (“This is so extra,” you laugh, and he just shrugs—“You deserve extra”).

You eat on the couch with the coffee table dragged closer, your knees brushing under the bowls.

Music plays low. Something acoustic and nostalgic.

His hand rests on your leg, casual but firm.

Yours finds his thigh a little later.

You’re sitting sideways in his lap again, back to his chest, your cheek against his jaw. He smells like citrus body wash and red wine and something inherently him.

His hands haven’t left you all night.

Thumb tracing slow lines into the top of your thigh. Fingertips under your hoodie hem.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw.

You hum softly, turning your face toward his. He doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss starts easy. Then deeper.

And deeper.

You straddle him this time, your knees pressing into the couch cushions, your hands in his hair. His grip tightens around your hips—then softens again, like he’s reminding himself to slow down.

There’s heat. So much heat.

You shift against him, just slightly—and feel him underneath you.

He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. “Wait—wait.”

Your foreheads press together.

You blink. “Did I do something—?”

Pedro shakes his head fast. “No, no. God, no. You’re perfect.”

You’re quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“I just…” he swallows, “don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be right.”

You exhale, your nose brushing his. “Okay.”

He looks at you—tender, serious. “You trust me?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You trust me?”

Pedro leans forward and kisses you again, slower this time. His hands stay on your waist. Yours trail up the back of his neck.

Then he says the most dangerous thing of all:

“Stay tonight.”

You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.

The bed’s big and warm. You climb in beside him, and he pulls you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other across your waist.

Neither of you says much.

But when you whisper, “You smell like something familiar,” he smiles into your hair.

And when he murmurs, “I like having you here,” you smile too.

You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.

It’s not the night everything happened.

But it’s the night everything changed.

The Next Morning — 9:12 a.m.

You wake up warm.

Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedro’s hands heavy over your waist, his breath slow and deep against the back of your neck.

It takes you a second to remember where you are.

The smell of his sheets. The weight of his arm. The stretch of your legs tangled with his.

Then it hits you.

Last night. Dinner. That kiss. Him asking you to stay.

You shift slightly, careful not to wake him.

But you feel him stir behind you.

His voice is a slow, rough murmur in your ear. “Morning.”

You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. There’s a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you—soft at first. Barely there.

But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.

And it doesn’t feel sleepy anymore.

It feels like wanting.

Pedro’s hand moves under your shirt, smoothing up your back, dragging his fingers up your spine. You sigh into his mouth as you press your chest against his, your body already buzzing.

He rolls gently onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.

“You okay?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes search yours. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, clear and certain. “I really want to.”

That’s all he needs.

He sits up, kisses you again—this time with intent. His hands slip under your shirt fully now, dragging it up over your head and off.

Pedro pauses when he sees you.

Like he’s trying to remember every inch.

“God,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples. You shift forward, rolling your hips against his just a little, and feel him hard underneath you.

He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.

It’s slow. He treats your body like something worth learning.

Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue dipping below your breasts.

He lays you back and kisses down your stomach, looking up at you the whole time like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You don’t.

You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.

Pedro groans when he finds you wet.

“So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “Jesus, baby…”

He touches you slowly, gently, working you open with his fingers until you're panting, until you're grabbing at his hair and whispering his name like it's the only word that matters.

Then he comes back up and kisses you again—deep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.

“You like that?” he breathes.

You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. God, Pedro—”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You smile shakily. “I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow.

Painfully slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel you—wrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.

You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

“You okay?”

You nod, hand fisting the sheets. “Keep going. Please.”

Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.

It’s not fast. It’s not rough.

But it’s intense.

Every roll of his hips is deliberate, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that builds unbearable heat between your legs. He stays close, his chest brushing yours, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip like he needs to anchor himself there.

You moan into his mouth. “Pedro—oh my god—”

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gasp—your whole body tightening around him.

He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like he’s fighting to stay in control.

“Not gonna last,” he groans into your neck. “You’re too good—fuck—”

You cling to him, mouth at his ear. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He fucks you through it—slow, patient, like he’s memorizing you.

Until you come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling.

And then he lets go.

Buried deep inside you, his arms locked tight around your body, he shudders with a groan that sounds almost broken.

Pedro lies beside you, one hand still tracing circles over your bare back.

You’re tucked into his side, head on his chest, your body boneless and warm and aching in all the right ways.

He kisses the top of your head.

You murmur, “So…”

“So?” he echoes softly.

“I don’t want to leave.”

He smiles. “Then don’t.”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze.

“Okay.”

10:36 a.m.

The bedroom’s quiet, dim with late morning light.

Pedro’s hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesn’t want to break the silence. You’re sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.

You murmur, “My thighs hurt.”

Pedro laughs softly under you. “That’s a good sign, right?”

You pinch his side gently, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying.”

He kisses your hair. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“Same thing.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck. “We should get up.”

“We don’t have to.”

“We will eventually.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.”

You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.

Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. “You’re doing the ‘walk of shame’ all wrong.”

“Oh yeah?”

He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. You’re supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.”

You lean back into him. “I can sneak if you want.”

He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. “Don’t you dare.”

You perch on the counter while Pedro makes eggs and toasts thick slices of sourdough. Coffee gurgles in the French press. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Fleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.

He hands you a piece of toast like it’s a peace offering.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur between bites.

He shrugs. “You stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.”

“What else does it earn me?”

Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. “More coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.”

You laugh.

But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.

Then, a little more serious, he says, “You’re okay? With last night?”

You nod right away. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t feel—like it was too fast?”

You pause. “No. Do you?”

He looks away for a second. Then back at you.

“No. I just… I don't want to mess this up.”

Your heart thumps.

“You’re not,” you say, and it’s true. “I like being here. With you.”

Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.

“You make me feel lucky,” he murmurs. “Like… really lucky.”

You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “Sappy.”

“You love it.”

“I kinda do.”

You end up back in bed with the window open and your coffee cups half-full on the nightstand.

You scroll through your phone lazily while Pedro reads a book beside you, one hand resting on your thigh like he just needs to be touching you, even when he’s distracted.

Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “let me take you out properly. Like a real date.”

You glance up. “Like…in public?”

He nods, hesitating. “If you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.”

You study him for a beat.

Then smile.

“Okay.”

He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.

And it hits you—how easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldn’t want this badly.

But you let him kiss you again.

Because right now?

You just want more.

Pedro 🍯 Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?

You depends will there be food? and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?

Pedro 🍯 I’d open every door in LA for you even the ones I’m not supposed to

You that’s hot okay I’m in what’s the dress code? do I need to look famous?

Pedro 🍯 You are famous. In my phone. In my bed. In my head. But no—look like yourself. That’s what I like.

You you’re lucky you’re cute I’ll give you flirty and effortless

Pedro 🍯 It’s a look that destroys me every time

 Friday Night – 8:04 PM

Private restaurant in West Hollywood

The hostess barely glances at you as she leads you down a narrow hallway to the back, where the lights are low and the table is tucked away in a cozy, dim corner.

Pedro’s already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile that’s reserved for you now.

He says, “Wow,” under his breath when he sees you.

You grin. “That’s what you were waiting for?”

“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But it’s a damn good bonus.”

He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tension’s quiet but buzzing. This isn’t like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.

The waiter arrives quickly—Pedro’s arranged everything. Wine’s already poured. A cheese plate. You’re grateful, because you’re nervous.

“Not what you expected?” he asks, eyes warm.

“It’s nice,” you say. “Just… kinda crazy. We’re really out.”

He leans in, voice low. “We don’t have to stay long.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I want to.”

You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts he’s reading. It’s easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.

But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the corner—just a shift, a flick of someone’s head.

You both go still.

Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.

“Don’t look,” he says gently. “They won’t get anything.”

You nod, swallowing.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

His grip tightens slightly.

“So am I.”

Outside the restaurant

Pedro’s car pulls around to the back entrance just like he’d asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses on—even though it’s dark—and hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasn’t his first time protecting someone.

Once you’re in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked… he finally exhales.

You laugh a little, heart still racing. “That was weird.”

“It was,” he agrees, starting the engine. “But not terrible, right?”

You glance at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been watched while eating cheese.”

Pedro grins. “To be fair, you looked very hot doing it.”

You nudge his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

You do.

 10:05 PM – His Apartment

He lets you in first. The lights are soft. The space smells like bergamot and whatever cologne still clings to his jacket.

You take your shoes off by the door without thinking. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it on the back of the couch. His shirt’s still half-unbuttoned.

“Wine?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Just water.”

Pedro nods and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the fridge. You trail behind him, watching the lines of his back move beneath the dark cotton of his shirt.

When he turns, you’re sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently, handing you the glass.

You take a sip. “Just thinking.”

He nods. Waits.

You hesitate. Then, “Do you worry? About people knowing?”

He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.

“I do,” he says honestly. “Not because I’m ashamed. I just… I know how people talk. And I don’t want them to get it wrong.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He watches you.

“I also don’t want to stop seeing you,” he adds softly. “So I guess I’ll figure it out.”

That makes your stomach flip.

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?” you ask. “This?”

He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.

“No. Not when you look at me like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Pedro smiles a little. “Like I’m not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like I’m… real.”

You don’t say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.

Your hand lands gently on his chest.

“I like the real you,” you say. “Even when you’re dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

“You literally made an escape plan for dinner.”

He chuckles in a low tone. “Fair.”

Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.

“Can I stay again?”

Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.

“Please do.”

Pedro steps between your legs, his palms firm against your thighs, slowly sliding up under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunches at your hips, but neither of you cares. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this—not when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.

Your breath catches. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. “You wore that dress.”

You tilt your head. “You told me to.”

He smirks. “Yeah. My own damn fault.”

His mouth is on yours again—hot, unrelenting. The kiss turns hungrier. You moan into it when he presses closer, the hard line of him slotting between your thighs.

His hands are greedy now, tracing the backs of your thighs, then cupping your ass, pulling you forward against him. Your hips grind instinctively. He groans into your mouth, like he’s trying to hold back but failing.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus—”

One of his hands slips around to your front, dragging his fingers between your legs over your panties. He feels how warm you are, how soaked the fabric is. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and full of heat.

“This all for me, baby?”

You nod, lips parted. “Been like that since dinner.”

He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where you’re throbbing. You roll your hips against it, helpless. Your legs tighten around his waist as your back arches into him.

Pedro leans in, his voice ragged. “You want me to touch you?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches you—slowly, carefully—like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. The pad of his middle finger slides through your slick folds, circling your clit just once.

You jerk slightly, gasping.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”

You try to kiss him again, but he teases you, keeping his lips just out of reach. His fingers move lower, pressing gently at your entrance. He slips one inside, slow but sure.

Your head falls back. “Pedro—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. “You feel fuckin’ incredible.”

You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but you’re burning everywhere else—chest flushed, heart racing.

Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. “I wanna see you come like this. Just like this.”

You grip his shoulders, legs trembling slightly as the pressure builds. He keeps his thumb on your clit, circling it in time with every curl of his fingers.

“Fuck—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I won’t, baby. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

It hits fast. Your hips stutter, mouth falling open in a whimper as you come around his fingers, clenching tight while he keeps working you through it. He watches every second of it, like he’s completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.

When it’s too much, you grab his wrist, panting. “Okay. Okay—”

He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.

“Next time,” he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, “it’s gonna be in bed. And I’m not gonna stop until you beg.”

You smile, still breathless. “Who says I won’t beg right here?”

He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re trouble.”

“You like it.”

Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “I really do.”

Pedro kisses you again—more urgently this time, like he’s chasing the taste of your moan. You’re still coming down from your high, but he’s nowhere near finished. His hand strokes down your thigh, then back up slowly, deliberately. His lips drag down your neck to your collarbone, tongue flicking over the skin as he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.”

You squirm in his grip, panting softly. “Pedro…”

He groans when you say his name like that, like a plea. His hands slip under your thighs, and in one swift, effortless movement, he lifts you from the counter and carries you into the living room. He lays you out gently on the couch, kneeling between your legs, spreading them with his hands.

Your dress is still bunched around your hips. Your panties are crooked, barely hanging on.

Pedro looks down at you—lips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. “You want more?”

You nod, voice shaky. “I—I want your mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He leans in, dragging your panties down your legs slowly, deliberately. You watch him with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. He kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, reverent—then bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.

And then he licks you.

It starts slow—his tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesn’t stay soft for long. He groans into you like he’s starving, hands gripping your thighs as he locks you in place and sucks hard on your clit. Your hips jerk up, and he just tightens his grip, flattening his tongue and dragging it slowly up and down before circling your entrance.

You’re already close again.

“Pedro, fuck—oh my God—”

He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. “Come again for me. Just like this.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, anchoring yourself while he devours you. He slides one finger back inside you, then another, curling them just right as his tongue works your clit. You fall apart again—loud, shaking, hips grinding against his mouth as you come harder than before.

You feel him groan when you clench around his fingers. He fucking likes how wrecked you are.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless and trembling. He kisses your inner thigh one more time before leaning over you, lips slick with you, eyes blown wide.

You reach for him, cupping him through his sweats. He’s rock hard and twitching under your palm. “Your turn.”

He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. “I’ve been dying since you walked in.”

You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you ask, sweet and soft.

He groans low. “Not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

But he lets you guide him on top of you, your thighs still slick and spread. You rub his tip against your folds, not letting him in—just grinding, coating him in your arousal. You both moan at the contact.

He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, hips moving in slow, desperate circles.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters.

You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me for real.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “This isn’t even close to done, sweetheart.”

He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses you—deep and messy—as he comes against your stomach with a groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

You lie there together, tangled and panting, the whole room humming with the tension that still lingers.

Pedro finally exhales a breathy laugh. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

You grin, heart racing. “Big, big trouble.”

He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. “Worth it.”

You’re curled up in Pedro’s bed again, half-asleep with your cheek against his chest, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your back.

He shifts a little beneath you, reaches over with a yawn to grab his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lights up.

Then he goes still.

You feel it before you hear it—his body tensing just enough to draw your attention.

You peek up at him. “Everything okay?”

Pedro doesn’t answer right away. He swipes through something on his phone with a sharp breath through his nose, then hands it to you silently.

Your stomach flips.

It’s Twitter.

A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.

Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?He’s walking beside you on the sidewalk. His hood is up, and yours is too. Your face is angled down, half-covered by your oversized scarf. But it’s undeniably him.

His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.

The photo already has over 80k likes.

“Shit,” you whisper, sitting up a little.

Pedro watches you carefully. “Your face isn’t in it. You’re okay.”

“I mean… yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, aren’t they?” You hand him the phone, heart thudding.

There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:

“whoever she is… I fear I’m her now” “idk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetry” “Pedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hours” “y’all think this is PR? 😭”

You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. “I literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.”

Pedro chuckles softly. “And now you’re an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.”

You glance over at him. “This doesn’t freak you out?”

“Not really.” He reaches out, brushing your hair back. “I’ve been through worse. You okay, though?”

“I mean…” You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “I didn’t think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.”

Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.

“We don’t have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I also—” He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I like this. You and me. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You soften. “I don’t want that either.”

“Then we play it smart.” He smiles a little. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”

You squeeze his hand. “Okay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam account…”

“I’ll delete the internet for you.”

You laugh, and he leans over to kiss your temple.

Just like that, the tension fades a little. Not gone, not really, but tucked away beside the coffee cups and slow mornings and quiet confessions in bed.

You wake up later to the smell of butter and fresh coffee.

The space in bed beside you is empty, but warm. Sunlight spills through the curtains in long strips, cutting across the crumpled sheets and your bare legs. You stretch slowly, sore in the sweetest way, your body still humming from the night before.

You find Pedro in the kitchen, barefoot in his plaid pajama pants, the ones with a little rip near the pocket. He’s focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like he’s trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.

You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like you’re afraid saying his name will break the spell.

He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.

“Well, good morning, mystery girl.”

You grin. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? You are a mystery.” He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. “You’re trending.”

Your stomach dips. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”

Pedro nods. “Hashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.”

You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. “This is so surreal.”

He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing changes that.”

You rest your cheek against his back. “I know, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to feel this big.”

Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. “Then let’s keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.”

You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way that’s oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like it—too much cream, not enough sugar.

“God,” you say, taking a sip. “This is dangerously domestic.”

Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. “Dangerous?”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I’m into it.”

He lets out a low laugh. “You have no idea how into you I am.”

You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would.

After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, “So what happens next?”

Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like it’s second nature.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “We will figure it out. Together.”

And there it is again—that quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.

Hope.

You sat alone on the narrow stone balcony of your family's modest farmhouse. The rough-hewn ledge cool beneath your palms as the countryside stretched before you in a vast, shadowed quilt of rolling hills, and contours softened by the deepening twilight.

Far to the south, the distant lights of Rome shimmered like a scattering of gold coins on the horizon. It’s unreachable flames that spoke of power and splendor. You had only heard through stories and riding soldiers' worlds away from the quiet and peaceful life you knew.

The sky above was moonless, yet alive with stars in a vast, glittering canopy that seemed to press down gently upon the earth. The last sliver of sun had slipped below the hills, leaving only a faint rose glow at the edge of the world.

A soft breeze stirred the air, carrying the earthy scent of turned soil, the sharp tang of olive leaves, and the warm, musky odor of grazing animals. From the nearby pastures came the low, rhythmic bleating of sheep in their gentle, familiar sounds that rose and fell like a lullaby.

Your five brothers moved through the fields, their silhouettes dark against the fading light as they checked the fences and herded the last stragglers toward the stone enclosures.

Torches flickered to life around the farmhouse made up of simple clay lamps and open fires that painted the walls of your home in warm, dancing gold. The structure itself was humble. Thick walls of local stone and sun-baked clay, roofed with thatch, its windows small and shuttered against the night.

And a single muddy track that led from the yard, winding through green meadows and toward the ancient Roman road, paved centuries ago by emperors whose names you barely remembered.

Inside, your mother hummed softly as she mended a tunic by the hearth, the needle flashing in the firelight. Your father, weary from the day's labor, sat sharpening his crook.

The air inside carried the comforting smells of baking bread, woodsmoke, and the faint lanolin of wool from the fleeces piled in the corner from your own hands, and set reminders of the simple rhythm that had defined your days since childhood.

You drew your shawl tighter against the growing chill, gazing out over the land that had cradled your family for generations. Shepherds, seamstresses, and simple humble farmers.

Your world was small, but it was yours, perfect and settle enough for you. Yet tonight, something felt chilling, and it wasn’t the air that made you think so. No, it was restlessness and stirred in your chest, as though the wind whispered in your ear of coming change.

Unbeknownst to you, that change was already riding toward your home, with torches blazing along the imperial road, horses' hooves pounding the stones, soldiers and couriers bearing the Emperor's seal without notice.

The counsel had decreed, that the twins who ruled Rome, Geta and Caracalla, needed an heir to secure the throne. Each should find a wife of their own, from their free choice.

Naturally, Caracalla had thrown a fit that he had no desire to marry nor bed a wife, at least for now. So, it was left to Geta to go about finding himself a new empress despite his fury in doing so.

And so far, not one noble daughter had pleased Geta's discerning eye; no princess had stirred his cold heart. Some had thought he only did it on purpose to delay his marriage. Seeking that his power over the people didn’t need tender caring of show, because his presence of rule should be enough.

Now, in desperation, they sought further afield—simple women from the provinces, women like you. Which meant with every square mile of Rome, they would take all the first born daughters to the capital to have prepared like a meal in front of starving hyenas.

The night was quiet, save for the animals and the wind. But soon, the silence would shatter both the tiny village and your world.

And after some time you all decided to retire, you had kissed your mother’s weathered cheek, felt the familiar scratch of your father’s beard against your lips, and murmured blessings to each of your five brothers, who would rise before dawn to tend the flocks.

They answered with soft grunts and tired smiles, the same ritual that had ended every day since you could remember. You climbed the narrow ladder to the loft where your pallet waited, the wool-stuffed mattress still warm from the day’s heat trapped in the thatch above.

You pulled the heavy blanket over your shoulders, the scent of lanolin woven into its fibers, and snuffed the single tallow candle with a pinch of your thumb and forefinger. Darkness folded around you like a second skin while sleep found you quickly.

It was torn away just before first light anyway. A sudden, brutal chorus that eerily shattered the stillness due to baying hounds, and iron-shod hooves striking the muddy earth as men bellowed orders in clipped Latin.

The village woke in terror. Mothers screamed from open doorways; children wailed; fathers shouted useless defiance. Torchlight bled through the cracks in the shutters, creating angry orange streaks that danced across the clay walls.

Your family was already on their feet when the first heavy fist pounded on the door in three deliberate, thunderous knocks that rattled the wooden frame.

Your father reached it first, unlatching it with steady hands even as your mother clutched the youngest brother to her side. The door swung inward before your father could even open it properly and a Roman soldier filled the threshold. Helmet gleaming dully in the torchlight outside, his scarlet cloak mud-spattered and his face carved from stone.

He stepped inside without permission, boots tracking mud across the swept floor. His gaze swept the room to find five sons ranged protectively in front of their parents, your mother nervous but upright, while you peeked down through the planks to watch discreetly.

The soldier’s eyes narrowed before he seized your father by the collar of his rough tunic, yanked him forward, and drew his gladius in one fluid motion until the blade kissed the skin beneath your father’s jaw.

“All I see is sons,” the soldier said, voice low and dangerous. “But you must have daughters. No?”

Your father’s throat worked dryly. “I have only sons.”

A rough shake and the sword pressed harder; a thin line of blood welled. “You lie. We were told two women live here.” His stare cut to your mother. “There’s one. Where is the other?”

“Please—” Your second-eldest brother stepped forward, hands raised.

Another soldier moved inside like a ghost, sword flashing free and leveled at the boy’s chest. “Speak, old man, or you’ll have one less son.”

“Stop.” The word left your lips before you could think.

You stood at the top of the loft, shawl slipping from your shoulders, hair loose and wild from sleep. Every eye turned to you. Your mother cried out in a broken sound.

Your oldest brother lunged to block the ladder, but you pushed past him gently, firmly descending the rungs with deliberate steps. You walked straight to the soldier holding your father, chin high, eyes blazing in the torchlight.

“Leave them,” you said. “I’m their only daughter. It’s me you want.”

A moment of silence stretched, heavy as were their gaze. The two soldiers exchanged a long, wordless glance. Then the one gripping your father nodded once. They released him so abruptly he staggered.

Rough hands seized your upper arms, with iron-hard fingers digging into your flesh. You were hauled forward, feet dragging for a heartbeat before you found your balance.

Your mother surged after you, voice splintering into sobs, “No, no, my girl, please—” but your brothers caught her, held her back as she fought them with desperate strength.

Their faces were masks of pure grief, fury, and utter helplessness. Outside, the night felt dead in its wake. More girls were being dragged from neighboring houses, their cries mingling with the barking of hounds and the harsh commands of centurions.

Horses stamped and snorted, breath steaming in the pre-dawn chill. One rounded toward you both and the soldier lifted you onto the back of a cavalry mount as though you weighed nothing.

You sat astride behind a broad-shouldered soldier, his armor cold against your thin shift, his arm banding around your waist to keep you in place. The horse sidestepped, eager to move. You twisted once, just once, to look back.

Your family stood clustered in the doorway, silhouetted against the firelight within as you took one, last, hard look at them. Your mother’s hands reached uselessly toward you while she sobbed.

Your father’s shoulders slumped as though the weight of Rome itself had settled there. And your brothers stood like deadbeats, fists clenched, eyes shining with unshed tears and rage.

You lifted your hand in a small, steady gesture and shaped the words with your lips so they could see, “I love you.”

The soldier spurred the horse and the village fell away behind you in a blur of torchlight and tears. Other riders flanked you, each carrying another young woman, some weeping openly, some staring ahead in stunned silence.

The imperial road stretched south toward Rome, straight and merciless under the fading stars. You kept your gaze on your home until the last flicker of firelight vanished behind the hills. Then you turned your face forward, into the dark road and whatever waited at its end.

And so, the Emperor Geta had demanded a bride from the people and the people had answered. Unwillingly.

Two weeks had passed since the night the soldiers tore you from your family's arms. Fourteen days that blurred into a haze of endless gardens and marble halls, echoing city noise beyond the walls, and the ceaseless murmur of other women in waiting.

You were one of dozens now, plucked from farms, villages, and distant provinces, all herded into the imperial women's quarters like prized livestock readied for auction.

The air here smelled of rosewater, myrrh, and the faint heated oils, that were nothing like the clean earth and lanolin of home. The attendants, were older women with sharp eyes and practiced hands that treated your arrival as a project.

You had worked the fields, tended sheep, stitched wool for years by firelight; to them, that marked you unclean, your skin roughened by sun and labor.

So they bathed you repeatedly, not once but three, four times a day at first, in steaming pools scented with lavender and costly cinnamon. They scrubbed you with pumice and barley meal until your arms and legs stung, then anointed you with olive oil infused with saffron and frankincense until your skin gleamed like new and polished.

They plucked every stray hair and then some all from your body with sharpened bronze tweezers, leaving your flesh smooth and vulnerable to the cool drafts of the open air palace.

Nails were filed short and neat, then buffed to a soft sheen; your cuticles were pushed back with ivory sticks and glossed over by rich oils until your hands looked like they had never known a needle or a crook.

You submitted to it all with quiet discomfort. The pampering felt foreign, indulgent, almost intrusive. The soft horse-hair brushes gliding over your scalp to suit your needs.

The perfumed creams were massaged into your shoulders and pulse points, until the attendants' murmured approvals when your skin finally took on the shine and unblemished glow so prized in Rome.

A clean, blemish free complexion was the beauty itself here. It was flawless and in their terms pleasing to the gods to be as close to godliness as one could. That just spoke of leisure and mattered more with high birth.

As for you, you thought it to be yet another society complication they pressured young women to believe. To think, you could only be found attractive if you followed the new trend of the hour or be shunned from the public for not being beautiful enough.

You had never sought such perfection; the sun had kissed your skin freely, and you welcomed blemishes as they were natural and you had worn it without shame.

To be imperfect, is to be human.

When the day came for dressing, the attendants led you to a chamber lit by oil lamps that cast long, flickering shadows. They stripped you bare before a circle of watchful eyes of matrons, seamstresses, and a stern-faced overseer.

All in which inspecting you as one might appraise a horse. Turning you slowly, noting the curve of your waist, the line of your spine, your backside and the modest swell of your breasts or not. No one spoke of modesty; this was preparation for an emperor's gaze. And you felt sick.

They laid out fabrics across a low table. Silks imported from the East, in shades of cream, pale rose, and the deepest indigo. All finer than anything you or your mother had ever woven.

The overseer, in her gray-haired, authoritative stance, chose for you after a long, appraising look. "Geta favors simplicity in form, but richness in movement," she said, almost to herself. "Something that flows, that reveals without vulgarity."

What they draped over you was a stola of gossamer silk, the undertunic beneath it a whisper thin subucula of the same luminous white. The stola itself was sleeveless, its folds caught at the shoulders with golden fibulae shaped like laurel leaves.

It fell in soft pleats to your ankles, but the fabric was so sheer in the lamplight that it clung and shifted like mist over water, hinting at the contours beneath, and leaving everything up to the wandering gaze.

A deep neckline plunged low across your chest, exposing the graceful hollow of your throat, the delicate ridge of your collarbones, the smooth expanse of your shoulders and upper back.

The silk grazed your skin with every breath, cool as alive, the hem brushing your calves like a lover's touch. A slender golden cord—thin as a serpent, cinched at your waist, gathering the fabric and accentuating the natural dip and flare of your body.

They wove delicate threads of gold into your hair, pinning it accordingly to match the frame of your face rather than the towering, elaborate piles favored by some of the noblewomen, and it made you look ever more stunning.

A single armlet of hammered gold coiled around your upper arm like a vine, cool against your skin. Sandals of soft leather laced high on your calves, their straps adorned with tiny gold studs, but the unfamiliar height made each step precarious, the rough inner edges already promising blisters by day's end.

Your face they left lighter than most. No thick layer of ceruse . . . the poisonous white lead paste that gave other women the ghostly pallor of statues.

Instead, a subtle dusting to even your tone, a faint gold and rose stain on your cheeks from crushed madder root. For your eyes, only kohl of black lines drawn with a fine stick of soot and galena, extending the almond shape to make them appear larger, brighter, more arresting against your skin.

The contrast was striking. Your gaze seemed deeper, more luminous in the flickering light. You were grateful for the restraint; the other women wore heavier masks of white powder caked thick, lips reddened with cinnabar, cheeks rouged to an almost feverish bloom.

Some of the gowns around you were bolder too. Vibrant crimsons, deep purples, beautiful emerald greens that caught the eye like spilled wine or fresh blood.

Whispers rippled through the waiting women, so garish, so bold for the emperor's taste. Yet the dressers (take from yours) insisted that Geta, they said, delighted in vivid color, in the drama of it, perhaps because it echoed the gore he had seen on battlefields and in the arena.

You wore white, simple and luminous, a quiet contrast despite the spectacle, and it made you relieved. One on knowing you liked simple, and the other knowing he’d go for one of the more vibrant choices then.

Not all the women bore their transformation with grace though. Some wept openly, ruining the careful kohl with tears until attendants disciplined them with sharp slaps or cold compresses, forcing composure.

Others preened, thrilled at the luxury, eyes bright with ambition to capture the heart of the young emperor. You stood neutral, neither eager nor broken. There were too many here, you reasoned.

Dozens upon dozens, each more polished than the last. You were only one face in the crowd. Surely the emperor would choose elsewhere, and you would be sent home with a purse of coin and a story no one would quite believe. Why waste tears on a fate that might never claim you? So you waited.

Each day, groups of women were summoned to the imperial audience chamber. Pleasant, perfumed girls with doe-like eyes and practiced smiles. You were not yet called.

In the hours between, you wandered the permitted corridors under the watchful eyes of guards whose own eyes lingered on you a second too long.

The palace was a labyrinth of white marble veined with gold, columns rising like petrified trees to ceilings painted with gods and countless triumphs.

Your stola flowed behind you like smoke, the silk whispering against the stone floor with every step. You trailed your fingers along cool pillars, feeling the chill seep into your skin, marveling at the scale of it all.

Rome. The city your father had described in half-warnings and half-wonders. He had spoken of its dangers of the crowds, the countless thieves, and the men who looked too long at the girls.

"Not for you," he would say, kissing your forehead before setting out with your brothers to sell wool and cheese at the markets. "Rome devours the innocent."

He had shielded you from it, from the lustful stares, from the city's hunger. Now you walked its very heart, dressed like a goddess, yet feeling more exposed than ever in your life.

The corridors stretched on, endless and beautiful, but cold. Somewhere deeper in the palace, the twin emperors held court. Geta and Caracalla, brothers bound by blood and divided by everything else. You had never seen them, not even from afar. But the waiting carried its own weight, heavy as the gold at your throat.

You told yourself it was only a matter of time before they sent you back to the hills, to the sheep, to the hearth where your mother waited with unspent tears. But the palace had its own rhythm, slow and inexorable. And Rome, as your father knew, did not easily release what it had claimed, if only you knew.

You stepped through an arched colonnade into the open peristyle garden, where a vast number of plant life you’d never seen before resided. Stone and marble framed it all, admitting the full, unfiltered light of the sun as it began its slow rise.

The garden itself was a quiet miracle to you amid the palace's relentless grandeur. With its endless manicured box hedges, climbing roses trained against white marble trellises, and beds of lilies and irises whose perfume hung heavy in the still air.

At the center stood the fountain in a broad, shallow basin of polished travertine fed by hidden aqueducts. Rising from its middle was a larger-than-life marble statue of an earlier emperor, perhaps Trajan or Hadrian, armored and laureled, one hand raised in eternal command.

Water cascaded in soft sheets from the basin's rim, rippling outward in concentric rings that caught the light like molten gold. You approached the fountain's edge and settled onto the wide marble rim as though it were an ordinary bench.

The stone was cold, yet smooth beneath your palms. You arranged the folds of your stola with care, drawing the silk modestly across your chest so the deep neckline revealed nothing untoward. You drew your knee up toward your chin, leaning forward slightly, the posture more country girl than court lady.

The gentle fall of water was calm to your aching skin. It murmured steadily, drowning the distant and more or less constant buzz of the palace.

You reached toward a nearby rose bush and deftly snapped a single petal free. Between thumb and forefinger, you twirled it, then dipped it to the water's surface, watching tiny ripples spread outward.

The hour had turned golden. The light shortly after sunrise had softened to that perfect, honeyed glow that painters chased and poets praised. It bathed everything in warmth.

The marble gleamed like old ivory, the roses deepened to blood-red, and your white silk caught fire in a translucent way where it clung and luminous where it drifted. Gold threads woven into your hair shimmered; the armlet on your upper arm flashed like ember.

You were deeply lost in thought, circling the petal through the water. Not noticing the distant heavy footsteps nearby that seemingly broke the stillness. Emperor Geta stormed from the direction of the western court, his crimson cloak snapping behind him.

Fury etched every line of his face while his jaw clenched, brows drawn tight, the vivid patterns of gold embroidery on his tunic flashing with each angry stride.

Whatever audience or argument had just ended had left him white with pure anger; his hands flexed at his sides as though still itching for a sword. He meant only to pass through the garden on his way to cooler chambers, but something, like a flash of white and gold, caught the corner of his eye.

He began to slow as his eyes drifted slightly before they stopped on you. You sat haloed by the rising light, the sun at your back transforming you into something almost unearthly.

The silk of your stola seemed to drink the gold hour and give it back brighter; your skin glowed as though dusted with the same precious metal. You still faced away minding the petal, drifting it in lazy circles on the water's surface, unaware.

He came to a full stop then, and simply stared. Servants did not wear silk like that. Servants did not sit with such careless elegance beside an imperial fountain. Curiosity and something a bit more irritated pricked him. He stepped forward, sandals ringing on the stone path, until he stood only a few paces away.

“You there,” he said, voice low and edged with command. “By whose leave do you wear such finery, servant?”

You had turned at the sound of him calling out, but in hopes he meant another. The movement was slow, unhurried. Yet, when your gaze lifted to meet his, the full force of the golden hour struck him like a blow.

The light framed you in a radiant corona, gilding the curve of your cheek, the line of your throat, the dark sweep of kohl that made your eyes seem sharp and impossibly vivid.

They were like that of deep pools under sunlight—electric. Just alive, and utterly unafraid of his presence. The sheer silk clung and shifted with your breath, revealing the elegant architecture of collarbone, shoulder, and the subtle rise of your breasts beneath the fabric.

Yet there was nothing vulgar in it; the dress was simple, almost severe in its purity, and that restraint only sharpened its effect. Geta forgot to breathe for but a moment too long.

He had seen beauty before no doubt. Polished, way too over calculated, offered up by ambitious families and trembling princesses. He had rejected them all. But this . . . this was different.

You were no statue carved for display; you were alive, breathing, seated on imperial marble as though it belonged to you. The white silk against your skin, the glints of gold in your hair and at your waist, the way the light worshipped you.

It struck some buried chord in him. Gold had always been his weakness, the color of triumph and their symbol, of blood craved in torchlight, of coin and crown.

It was simply him and his brother expressing the irregular looks they had, to contrast their ghastly yet oddly captivating beauty. But this here, white with gold was something he favored deeply. and it truly beheld you.

You rose smoothly to your feet, the stola whispering around your ankles again. The movement pulled the silk taut across your form for one devastating instant, and Geta’s mouth went dry, then flooded with sudden, unwelcome want. He swallowed once, hard.

He wore his own opulence like armor, crimson wool shot through with thick gold thread, heavy rings on his fingers, a torque of twisted metal at his throat.

He and Caracalla had always favored excess, the better to shock and dazzle, to mask whatever lay beneath. Yet here you stood in luminous restraint without trying, and it humbled every vibrant excess he had ever donned.

For the first time in years, Geta felt something stir that was not anger, not calculation, nor something out of boredom. He felt wonder. You said nothing at first, only regarded him with those steady, luminous eyes. The petal still floating like a boar adrift on the water beside you.

While in that suspended moment, with nothing but flowing water and the sound of your beating heart, the Emperor Geta, who had refused every daughter of Rome, found himself utterly, irrevocably captivated by a girl who had never asked to be seen.

“I am no servant,” you said, voice calm despite the sudden knot in your chest.

The words cut between you, sharp enough to snap him from his trance. You stood taller upon eye contact, refusing to cower under that intense gaze, though your heart almost hammered out of your chest.

He blinked once, twice, as if emerging from a dream. His brow furrowed deeply, carving lines of confusion across his chiseled features.

“Then who are you?” he demanded, intrigued yet bewildered. “One of the magistrate’s daughters, perhaps? Come to curry favor in my gardens?”

You hesitated, lips parting but no sound escaping. His presence was overwhelming, like a beast contained in human form, radiating heat and authority that pressed against you like a midday sun.

The golden light still framed him while he directly faced the rising sun. Catching the intricate embroidery on his tunic, but it was his eyes that held you just the same. Dark, piercing pools of golden brown, that stirred something within, you couldn’t name.

He stepped closer, closing the distance until only a breath separated you. The scent of him enveloped you, rich honeyed wine mingled with sharp citrus oils, underlaid by the faint musk of sweat from whatever fury had driven him here. It was intoxicating, heady, and entirely too intimate for a stranger.

“Answer me,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated through the space between you.

There was no mistaking the imperial edge to it, the expectation of instant obedience.

“I’m not,” you replied, the words clipped with a hint of defiance.

You lifted your chin, meeting his stare head-on, even as your fingers twisted nervously in the folds of your stola. Who was this man to interrogate you like a criminal? Dressed in finery, yes, but the palace was full of arrogant courtiers it seemed.

He tilted his head, a slow smile curling at the corners of his mouth, not kind, but predatory, and amused. “Not a servant, not a magistrate’s whelp. Then why are you here, in my court garden?”

He emphasized the word my, letting it hang like a boast, his chest puffing slightly as he gestured expansively to the marble and roses around you.

“By what authority do you wander these paths, plucking flowers like some woodland nymph? Do you know whose ground you tread upon, girl? This is the heart of Rome—my Rome.”

His tone was teasing now, laced with that boastful authority, as if he delighted in wielding it like a toy. He circled you slowly, sandals scraping softly on the stone, his cloak brushing the edge of the fountain.

The movement forced you to turn, keeping him in sight, and you felt the heat of his gaze tracing the lines of your silk-clad form. It felt like being back on the farm, as a sheep while a rabid wolf stalked you like prey.

It was infuriating. His arrogance, his assumption that you should quiver before him. Your temper flared, a hidden trait made up from the fields where you’d argued with brothers and bartered with traders.

“And who are you to question me like this?” you shot back, a slight edge creeping into your voice even if you were playing a dangerous game. “Some lordling playing at power? The gardens are open to those waiting on the emperors’ presence. Or have I missed a sign barring simple folk from the fountains?”

He froze mid-step, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before narrowing in delight at you not knowing him. A low chuckle escaped him, rich with unexpected and it sent a shiver down your spine.

He liked it. The bite in your words, the refusal to bend and the odd pleasure of knowing that you knew not who he was. It thrilled him, oh yes, you could see it in the way his posture shifted, from interrogator to hunter savoring the chase.

“Oh, you have fire. I am amused,” he murmured, stepping closer again, so near now that you could see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the pulse beating at his throat.

“Most women brought here simper and bow, ready to give me pleasure. But you . . . you snap like a wild thing, don’t you? Tell me, does that tongue of yours ever command still? Or does it work like that at all hours?”

A new tension filled the air between you, charged with something electric and shuttering. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes, and you felt a heat rise to your core and bloom throughout your body.

Yet you held your ground, refusing to look away. “It stills when I want it to,” you retorted, though your voice softened just a touch, laced with the growing awareness of how close he stood.

The golden hour’s light played across his face, highlighting the sharp angles, his full mouth curved in that maddening smile, and then you finally notice.

Perched atop his gold curls, half-hidden by the play of shadows that blended so well until now sat a circlet of hammered gold to match, wrought with laurel leaves and imperial eagles. A crown. Not the ostentatious wreath of a festival, but the subtle, undeniable mark of absolute power.

Your breath caught at the realization. One of the two emperors, twins, in fact. Geta and Caracalla, rulers of Rome. He was one of them. You couldn’t tell which brother he was, given the whispers of their temperament of being so, volatile, brilliant, and cruel when crossed.

Your attitude faltered, the realization crashing over you like the fountain’s cascade. You had bitten back at an emperor. He noticed the shift immediately, the widening of your eyes, the subtle retreat in your stance. That predatory smile widened, but there was no malice in it now, only a deeper intrigue, and a spark of genuine pleasure.

“Ah,” he said softly, reaching out to trace his fingers along your jaw, his fingers lingering just a moment too long against your skin.

The touch felt electric and hot, sending a jolt through you. “Now you see. Emperor Geta, here to serve—or rather, you at mine.”

You swallowed hard, the attitude draining away into a mix of awe and lingering defiance. But even as you dipped your head in a belated show of respect, your eyes flicked up to meet his again.

“Forgive me, Emperor Geta,” you murmured, though there was still a hint of challenge in the words. “I didn’t know.”

He laughed outright then, a genuine sound that echoed off the stone corners. It was rather warm and disarming. “Hm, I prefer the fire.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, breath warm against your ear and neck. “It makes the chase so much more . . . thrilling.”

The tension coiled tighter, a palpable heat building in the scant space between you. His hand dropped to your arm, fingers tracing the golden armlet lightly, possessively.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you felt a strange pull toward him, this man who ruled the world, yet looked at you as though you were the only thing in it worth conquering.

“But tell me truly now,” he continued, his tone gentler, though the tease lingered. “You are one of the daughters sent from the farther provinces, are you not?” He gestured vaguely toward the palace wings. “You’ve strayed farther than allowed, haven’t you? The attendants will be searching.”

You nodded slowly, finding your voice again. “I am. From the hills beyond the Tiber. They brought me . . . for you, or your brother. To choose from.”

His expression shifted into that of anger then at the mention of his brother getting you instead of him. It also surprised him to know you weren’t a high-born considering your raw beauty.

Surprise, followed by a slow, satisfied gleam. “For me,” he echoed, as if tasting the words.

He stepped back slightly, but not far, his hand still on your arm. “Then perhaps the gods have smiled today. Come, walk with me. These gardens are vast, and I would hear more of this fire from the provinces.”

You hesitated only a moment, the weight of his crown and his touch warring with the girl you’d been two weeks ago. But there was no refusing an emperor and, if you were honest, looking at him you had no desire to. The thrill mirrored his own, a dangerous, unknown wanting igniting in your chest.

As you fell into step beside him, the golden light fading into blue, the palace gardens seemed suddenly smaller, more intimate with you two. The whisk of your silk, his divine robes and footsteps mingled with the fountain’s song, and the air hummed with the city noise again.

Deeper into the peristyle he led you, asking you many questions to which you answer honestly. Past alcoves where statues of forgotten gods watched with marble eyes.

You had both lingered in the garden far longer than either of you realized. The conversation stretching on and lengthening time and space at Getas will.

Hours that slipped away in quiet exchanges, his teasing questions about your ways, your sharp retorts that drew that rare, genuine laugh from him, the way his fingers brushed yours once, twice, until they entwined. You had been simply intriguing, and exotic to him, to the point he wanted to taste it all.

Then the bright day turned into the pale hours of the evening, stars lightly pricking the oculus dome overhead like scattered jewels. His guards found you first in a phalanx of blazing torches and boots pounding the paths in disciplined urgency.

They burst into the peristyle with drawn swords, faces pale with fear of the consequences if the emperor had come to harm. Geta rose smoothly, waving them off with an irritated flick of his hand.

“Stand down,” he commanded, voice calm but edged with steel. “I am unharmed. Escort the lady back to the women’s quarters. Tell the attendants to ask of her no questions. Her whereabouts are my concern alone.”

The soldiers bowed low, one stepping forward to offer you his arm. You glanced at Geta once more; his eyes held yours in the torchlight, dark and unreadable. Then you turned, silk whispering, and followed the escort through the labyrinthine corridors.

Your personal overseer awaited you at the entrance to the quarters, her sharp gaze missed nothing. She took in your shy demeanor, the faint disarray of the gold smeared on your arms, stroked by his thumb.

Her lips curved in a knowing half-smile, but she said nothing, only inclined her head. “You are late,” was all she murmured, and the glint in her eye spoke volumes that she knew.

Two weeks had passed since your secret and accidental meeting with Geta. A full month since the soldiers had dragged you from your father’s doorway. The number of women dwindled steadily, once dozens, now only thirteen remained.

The others had been dismissed in waves. Some with a purse of silver and a carriage home, others with nothing but tear-streaked faces and the sting of rejection.

Geta had seen them one by one in private audiences, and found them overbearing. Whispers circulated that he had grown impatient, cruel in his dismissals, sending some away mid-sentence or even mid-pleasure.

No one knew of your encounter in the garden. You had kept quiet about it, burning the memories quietly beneath your skin, just like he’d hoped. But ever since that evening, your thoughts had circled back to him relentlessly.

In the way his scowl had softened into amusement when you bit back. The way the heat of his breath against the pulse of your neck, and the possessive trace of his fingers along your skin felt so good.

It angered you, how much you longed to see him again, even as guilt twisted in your gut. You did not want this life, never thought about this life, the palace, the silks, the endless waiting.

You wanted the hills, the sheep bleating at dawn, your mother’s hearth. Yet the memory of his gaze—hungry, and so undone, as though you had unraveled something in him, it all had begun to haunt you.

The luxury grated now. Trays of exotic fruits such as pomegranates from Carthage, dates dripping honey, arrived daily, untouched. Jewel boxes spilled open with necklaces of pearls and emeralds; you left them where they fell. The silks felt heavier each day, confining rather than caressing.

You lounged in the tepidarium annex of the women’s baths. A spacious, colonnaded chamber the attendants called the solarium, where the remaining girls gathered in the afternoons to bask in their glow and laughter.

Sunlight poured through high clerestory windows, warming the mosaic floors patterned with nymphs and grapevines. Low couches draped in fine linens lined the walls; servants fanned the air with peacock feathers, stirring the scent of rose oil and incense.

Here, the women reclined, gossiped, practiced their poses and lustful eye contact for the emperor’s gaze. Some laughed too brightly; others stared into the distance, hollow-eyed.

Today, your overseers had summoned you all with new instructions. “The emperor has narrowed his favor,” one announced, voice carrying across the chamber. “Only thirteen remain in consideration for marriage to Emperor Geta. Each of you will now receive a personal task, a demonstration of worth, of suitability as imperial consort. Prepare yourselves. The summons will come soon.”

Instant squeals and murmurs rippled through the room. The others had met him already, in private audiences of the throne room or private chambers, where they had curtsied, smiled, or offered song.

You had not, which came off weird to the rest of the young women. It had also bothered you. And with the realization of still being one that remained, it settled like cold lead in your stomach and bitter on your tongue.

He still kept though, even though he didn't see you like the others. So, what then? Would he choose you now? After all this time? Would he even consider you, his empress. . .Bound to Rome, to him, forever.

Your family would fade into memory if that happened; the farm, the muddy tracks, your brothers’ laughter—all distant. Marriage was expected of women, a duty to leave home for husband and new hearth. But this was no simple union, no, this was elevation to a throne stained with blood.

The twins’ rule had been whispered about even in your distant hills and beyond. You were no fool. Your father and brothers spoke of it in low voices when the wine flowed late.

How Septimius Severus’s sons had inherited an empire forged in war, only to tear it apart with their hatred. They had ruled jointly after their father’s death, dividing the palace itself, each commanding separate courts, separate guards. It was all a mess awaiting a downfall.

The brothers’ shared reign had been marked as devastating in other domains, where they claimed new territory under General Acacius. It caused division, and sudden, shocking violence to a prelude of sole tyranny. But it granted citizenship to all free men only to tax them harder, while their armies grew fat on plunder and terror.

Geta, they said, had been the quieter one. Administrative, less openly cruel. Yet he shared the throne with a monster, and the empire suffered for it. Evil, your father had called them both. Terror in every conquered domain.

You hated that you still wanted him. Hated the way your pulse quickened at the memory of his touch, the citrus-and-honey scent of him, the way his eyes had darkened with raw desire when the sun gilded your skin.

No man had ever looked at you like that. Hungry and completely destroyed, as though you alone could sate something feral in him. Your parents would have been ashamed. Their simple daughter craving the touch of a man whose hands were stained with blood and only met once.

Yet the little game you had played in the garden thrilled you in ways you could not name. His teasing authority, your defiant snaps, the sexual tension that had built until the air itself felt charged enough as it is.

It was new, intoxicating. For once, someone wanted to please you, not the other way around. Desire bubbled beneath your skin, corrupting you, who had always put others first. It began with his gaze, that lustful, glare of hunger and now it spread, a slow fire inside your veins you could neither quench nor ignore.

You reclined on your couch, staring at the mosaic ceiling where Bacchus lounged amid vines, and wondered if the next summons would be yours. Part of you prayed it would not. The greater part, the part that had tasted his attention and craved more, hoped it would.

It was a mental and eventual physical battle between yourself. And in the quiet of the solarium, with the other women whispering of virtues, you felt the corruption take deeper root in its slow, inevitable surrender to wanting something, someone, for yourself for once.

The night was warm and still, the kind of Roman summer darkness that clung to the skin like damp fabric. You had been pulled from sleep without warning, the overseer’s hand firm on your shoulder, a single finger pressed to her lips for silence.

Beside her stood a soldier. His helmet, scarlet cloak and presence alone was command enough. They led you wordlessly through the mixed corridors, past flickering oil lamps that cast long, wavering fingers across the marble.

On the terrace they stopped. Moonlight silvered the balustrade and turned the distant city lights into a faint, scattered constellation far below.

The overseer placed a long, soft scroll into your hands, that was made up of fine goatskin, supple and pale, tied with a simple cord of braided rope.

“Read this,” she said quietly. “Out loud. Here. Until I return for you.” No explanation was given, nor questions permitted.

The soldier took up position at the far end of the terrace, back turned, giving the illusion of privacy as she just vanished into the palace shadows. You settled onto the low, cushioned sofa they had prepared.

Deep indigo cushions piled against the balustrade; a wool throw draped over the arm. The night air carried the faint perfume of jasmine from the gardens below and the distant murmur of the Tiber. You untied the cord, unfurled the scroll, and felt your breath catch.

It was poetry. Not the stiff legal documents or imperial decrees you had half-expected, but elegant verses, flowing script inked in deep black with occasional flourishes of red for emphasis.

You recognized that the hand was careful, deliberate, and the work of a skilled scribe. And you knew the poem almost at once, a pastoral idyll, one you had spoken of fondly to the overseer weeks earlier, in a rare moment when she asked what comforted you in the endless waiting.

Literacy among Roman women, especially those of your station, was rare, almost suspect. Noble matrons might read letters or household accounts, but full fluency in poetry, the ability to parse meter and savor metaphor, belonged to men of high status such as senators, philosophers, and soldiers who quoted Virgil on campaign to steady their nerves.

Your father had taught you in secret, tracing letters in the dust of the barn floor when the brothers were out with the flocks. Later, your eldest brother had slipped you scraps of parchment, proud and amused by your quick mind.

You had devoured what little came your way. Fragments of Catullus, nights of Ovid, and when the loneliness of the hills pressed too close, you had written your own lines in quiet moments, scratching them onto broken pottery shards before hiding them beneath the dirt.

To read aloud now, under the open sky, felt like a small rebellion. You drew a steadying breath and began. The poem told of a boy that was wandering. He was rootless, cast out from the clamor of cities, until he stepped into a wild valley where the world remade itself.

Rivers sang over stones; olive groves whispered in the wind; a single cypress stood towering against the sky. Beauty crept in slowly, not with fanfare but with the patient insistence of dawn to make the boy’s anger soften, his steps slowed, until he knelt in the grass and understood that the earth had been waiting for him all along. Its beauty calling.

Your voice was soft at first, hesitant in the vastness of the night, but it found its rhythm. The words flowed like the waterfall that cascaded into the lower garden before you.

Below with gentleness, and ceaseless to carry you with them, you traced the lines with a fingertip as you read. The goatskin warm from your palm, the ink faintly raised beneath your touch.

You did not see him, but Geta had been there from the beginning. He stood behind the slender column that flanked the waterfall’s source, half-hidden where the spray misted the air and moonlight fractured into rainbows.

His back pressed to the cool marble, head tipped back against the stone, eyes lifted to the wheeling skies above, speckled with bright stars. But he was not watching the sky. He was listening.

Your voice reached him in waves so clear, so unadorned, carrying the faint lilt of the countryside even through the polished Latin. No artifice, shrill in your voice, and no per formative lilt like the court poets who declaimed for coin. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had loved these words long before they were summoned to a palace.

His heartbeat too fast which was a traitor beneath the crimson tunic. He had orchestrated this after your overseer told him everything about you so far.

When he had discovered your love for poetry, it made him think about how soothing your voice would be if you read to him like his mother did.

He chose the exact story you mentioned, having the author write your own personal copy. He had you summoned for this starry midnight, outside his chambers terrace, chosen for its seclusion and its acoustics.

He had wanted to hear you without the weight of his crown between you. Without the posturing, the fear, the temptations that over shadowed his most vulnerable side. He had originally told himself it was curiosity, nothing more. Just a whim.

It was not a whim. He had not stopped thinking of you since the moment he laid eyes on you. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld. Rather, too pure and innocent as he could see for his lustful eyes, this he knew.

He tried pushing it away, the longing to see you again. He had seen the other girls, tried seducing them into his bed, but couldn’t finish the work he had started when all he could see as he closed his eyes were your own. And the feel of skin that was cold and not your soft warmth.

And now, just like you had back in the garden with him, every line you read struck him like a quiet arrow. The boy in the poem could have been him, lost in the blood and ambition of Rome, searching for something the throne could not give.

And there you sat, bathed in moonlight. Looking like a goddess, just like the first time he saw when the sunlight did the same. Simply reading the very story that had once steadied him through nights when Caracalla’s insanity grew closer, when the palace walls felt like a tomb crumbling down on him at any moment.

He closed his eyes, letting your voice wash over him. The waterfall’s murmur wove beneath it, a counterpoint; the night insects added their soft chorus.

You reached the passage where the boy first touches the earth, fingers sinking into soil, feeling the pulse of roots beneath, and Geta’s breath hitched as he imagines it was him but with you.

He had never told anyone this poem was his favorite. Not his mother, not the tutors, not even the brother he had once loved before hatred consumed him. Yet you read it as though you understood.

When you finished the final lines, the boy lying beneath the cypress, at peace, the world no longer enemy but home, you let the scroll rest against your lap. Silence settled, broken only by the water and the distant city hum.

You exhaled, a small, private sound of contentment. Geta stepped from behind the pillar. The movement was deliberate, unhurried. Moonlight caught the gold circlet in his hair, the gleam of the rings on his fingers. He crossed the terrace slowly, sandals silent on the stone, until he stood before you.

You startled, scroll crinkling in your grip, eyes wide. He said nothing at first. Only looked at you, the way he had that first evening in the garden, as though memorizing every line of your face but this time with tears threatening to spill.

“You read it better than I ever could.” His voice was rough, stripped of its usual imperial edge. Vulnerable, almost. The confession hanging between you.

You rose slowly, scroll clutched to your chest like a shield. “You . . . were listening.”

“I arranged it,” he admitted. No boast this time, no teasing authority. Just truth. “I wanted to hear you. Alone. Without the eyes of the court.”

You searched his face, those dark eyes dressed in charcoal, the faint scar at his temple, the tension in his jaw that spoke of battles fought long before you arrived. “Why?”

He stepped closer. The scent of citrus and honey reached you again, warmer now in the night air making your heart flutter. “Because you see things the rest of Rome has forgotten. What I’ve seem to forgotten.” he said softly. “Beauty in the small. Peace in the quiet. I thought . . . perhaps you could remind me what it feels like.”

The words landed heavier than any command he had ever given he thought. And you felt the pull again, that dangerous, corrupting thread of desire, but softer this time, mixed with something of deeper need and recognition.

He reached out, slowly, and brushed a knuckle along the edge of the scroll. “Keep it,” he murmured. “It was made for you. Read it when the hour grows too heavy. And when you do . . . think of me.”

You swallowed. “And if I don’t wish to think of emperors?”

A ghost of his old smile flickered, wry, and boyish. “Then think of the boy in the poem. Lost. Until he found something worth staying for.”

He lingered a moment longer, gaze tracing your lips, your throat, the way moonlight silvered the silk at your shoulders. Then he turned, cloak swirling, and vanished back into the shadows of the palace.

You stood alone on the terrace, scroll warm against your heart, the waterfall singing on. And for the first time since the soldiers came for you, the silence did not feel empty. It felt full. For both the man who ruled an empire yet for the boy who came to you in in vulnerability.

Each night passing had become a quiet ritual of stolen intimacy since. Every evening, as the palace settled into hush, the overseer would appear at your chamber door with another scroll.

Sometimes a familiar work of Virgil or Propertius, sometimes verses no scribe had copied before and random poems without an author's signature.

Eventually, you had come to recognize Geta's hand in the latter. The slight flourish on certain letters, the way the ink pressed harder when emotion overtook his precision.

Those were his own poems, written in the small hours when sleep eluded him. They spoke of a woman seen through sunlight and moonlight, of gold shining over her, of a voice that could quiet the clamor of an empire. Romantic as almost reverent. Nothing like the man Rome feared.

It felt like courtship, though no one would have named it so. For thirteen days you watched the remaining women depart one by one after being summoned to accompany him on inspections of the legions or audiences with senators, processions through the Forum.

Each returned changed, some glowing with favor, others pale with dismissal. You received no such summons. Instead, the gifts arrived in silence.

Scrolls of Catullus left on your pillow by himself, along with a small posy of white roses tucked beneath it, a single almond cake dusted with cinnamon, otherwise known as his favorite, and never shared with another soul.

Once, he came to the women’s court in person. The chamber fell silent as he entered, crimson cloak sweeping the mosaic floor. The others surged forward, curtsying, offering practiced smiles and excited notes.

He acknowledged them with polite nods, a broad imperial smile that never quite reached his eyes. His hands remained clasped behind his back in a formal, distant way, until his gaze found yours across the room.

Then the smile softened, becoming private. A small inclination of his head, a flicker of warmth meant only for you. The other women noticed nothing; you felt the look like his soft touch.

One by one they vanished. Until only you remained. You stood on the high balcony of the women’s quarters that final morning, palms braced on the warm marble rail, staring down at the sprawling city below.

Smoke rose from a thousand hearths; the Tiber gleamed like molten bronze in the dawn. A disbelieving smile curved your lips; you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle the soft laugh that escaped.

You already knew. He knew. The waiting had been his gift to you, time to choose freely, without the pressure of command. And still he delayed the inevitable, because he was preparing something sweeter.

That evening an attendant came for you again. No scroll this time. She dressed you carefully in a stola of luminous white silk, the same pale shade you had worn the night he first saw you.

It was adorned only with the delicate golden armlet, the thin cord at your waist, the simple fibulae at your shoulders. No heavy jewels, no overdone hairstyle. Just you, as he had first beheld you.

Your heart thundered as she led you through corridors you had never walked through before. You past guards who bowed low without meeting your eyes.

Massive bronze doors loomed ahead, flanked by Praetorians in gleaming lorica segmentata. The attendant brought you to the overseer who paused, squeezed your hand once reassuringly, bowed, then stepped aside.

The doors swung inward.

You froze.

Your family stood in the center of the grand triclinium. Your father, weathered and proud, eyes shining; your mother, hands clasped tight to keep them from trembling.

Your five brothers, scrubbed cleaner than you'd ever seen and awkward in borrowed tunics, grinning like boys caught stealing figs. They looked exactly as you remembered—sun-browned, sturdy, and home.

And among them stood Geta. He wore no crown tonight, only a simple tunic and matching robe of deep purple edged in gold, yet the authority clung to him strongly as ever. When your gaze met his, his expression softened into something loving.

The small smile that threatened to break across his face was the same one he had given you in the garden weeks ago. Your family rushed forward before you could speak.

Arms enveloped you, your mother’s fierce, tear-soaked embrace, your father’s steady grip on your shoulders, your brothers’ laughter and clumsy pats.

“Look at you,” your mother whispered, tracing the silk at your collarbone. “Our beautiful girl.”

Your father’s voice cracked when he said your name. They marveled at the changes, the glow of your skin, the quiet confidence in your stride, yet they still smelled of earth and wool. Which made your stomach drop homesick.

Geta had invited them for a private feast, he explained quietly when the first rush of reunion ebbed. No senators, no spectacle. Only family, and the man who wished to make you his.

The meal passed in a warm blur, platters of roast, nuts, seafood delicacies, fruits and honey, wine from his own personal estates. Geta sat at the head of the table, quiet but attentive, answering your brothers’ hesitant questions about the legions and listening to your father’s stories of the hills with genuine interest of his people.

When Caracalla appeared, it was late. He was imperious, and his presence felt like a heavy wet blanket. He offered curt greetings before retiring early, leaving the room lighter in his absence.

Afterward, as the tables cleared and your family was led to guest chambers prepared for them, Geta rose. He crossed to you without flourish, simply extended his arm. You slipped your hand through it, feeling the steady warmth of him, but also the faint tremor beneath his calm.

He led you back to the peristyle garden where it had all begun. Moonlight silvered the fountain, turned the roses ghostly white. The waterfall sang its endless song.

He was unusually silent as you walked, brow furrowed in thought, jaw tight. The man who commanded anything it seemed, for once, was nervous and uncertain.

“What bothers you?” you asked softly.

He stopped beneath the cypress that overhung the path, turning to face you fully. Moonlight carved sharp planes across his features.

His dark eyes searched yours. As he slowly lifted a hand to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone with such gentleness it stole your breath.

“I have fought this,” he said, voice low, rough with emotion. “Every day since that first evening. I told myself it was infatuation, a distraction. I refused the consul’s urgings, sent away every candidate they paraded before me. I thought distance would kill it.” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “It only grew.”

He took your hand in his free one and pressed it to his chest, over the steady, frantic beat beneath the fabric. “You must feel that? It has not rested since I first heard your voice reading in the dark. No—Since the moment I saw you at this fountain where we stand.”

Your own breath caught. His heart raced at a pace that was concerning beneath your palm.

“I’ve fallen in love with you,” he whispered, the confession sounding almost like a wound. A crime. “Completely. Irrevocably. You have undone me, and I find I do not wish to be mended.”

Tears stung your eyes. His brows drew tighter, pain etching lines around his mouth.

“Please,” he said, voice breaking on the word. “End this torment.”

He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles slowly, reverently, then each fingertip, lingering as though memorizing the taste of your skin. “Be my wife.”

The plea stunned you. This was no command from an emperor. This was a man stripped bare, offering his heart without armor, terrified you might refuse.

“Be mine,” he murmured again, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your wrist, then your palm. Hot tears escaped him, falling onto your hand one after the other.

You drew your hand back gently. He froze, eyes wide with the certainty of rejection, shoulders bracing for the fall. Instead you reached up, cradled his face between your palms, and kissed him.

Softly as tentative, tasting salt and the faint sweetness of wine. His eyes fluttered closed; a shudder ran through him. Then he answered, arms encircling you, drawing you close until there was no space left between your bodies.

The kiss deepened, with a slow ach, tears mingling on your lips, his hands trembling where they cradled your waist. When you parted just enough to breathe, he searched your face with desperate intensity, as though afraid the moment would vanish.

You shook your head once, a small smile breaking through your own tears, and kissed him again. This time he melted into you, completely, holding you as though you were the only thing he had.

Beneath the watchful gaze of the full moon, in the garden where the golden hour had first brought you both together, you stood wrapped in one another’s arms. Emperor and a simple country girl. Conqueror and a quiet reader of poetry.

The most unlikely of pairs, yet in that suspended heartbeat, the most inevitable. Rome would come to know this love story in time and in forums, sung by poets, carved in marble. And Geta once the cruel would turn and go down as noble and just.