#jane smith

Hope you like it :D

Sequel

Mr.&miss smith's 2024

Episode 1 : The slight throwback

[Pressed okay]

- Alright.

[...Loading...]

[ Would you be willing to leave your old life?]

She didnt hesitated to respond.

- umm. yeah.

[...]

- you mean.. even my mom? He scoffed after pondering on the question for a little while.

[...loading...]

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(Present time)- Episode 8-

Leaving for good

- okay.., she said with her shaky breath.

-3...

He could see it. That look in her eyes. It pained him enough to see things turning out this way. Jane..., he thought to himself, as he tried to stare at her watery eyes.

-2...

He could barely keep his eyes open.Let alone breathe properly. His body only seemed to give up.His visions blurred yet his mind remained determined to see her. To look at her one last time.

-1..

She unlocked the door. That other Jane already ready with her semi- automatic gun was caught by surprise for a split moment. At that moment, they took open fire.

BANG! ..BANG!.........

For a little while, the room went silent. Whimpering and gasping sounds was the only thing present. Then a dead body.She gasped in relief. Finally over. She suddendly groaned at the throbbing pain in her left arm. She was shot. Bright red blood falls from her wound.

-Bxtch..

Luckily, the bullet went through.She quickly ripped off a piece of her top to bandage her arm before verting her attention to her beloved, John. He sat with his back against the wall unconscious. She hurried to to check up.on him.

Please be alive

As she looks at him , she saw that his bandages to his stomach had gotten so much blood. Perhaps..a bit too much. She didn't want to believe it. A gun shot like pain pierced through her chest. Almost instantly, Jane brought her 2 fingers to his neck. Trying to calm herself down,She steadied her breath to hear him. To feel something. Anything! But, that anything never came. So many thoughts crossed to her at once. The new life they had imagined so recently was thrown to the trash.She thought to how they first met.The elevator.That awkard first introduction seemed now somehow bittersweet. Even through all the fights they had, she still loved him. He made her world .She couldn't see herself with anyone else then him. Nobody other than him understands the little parts of her. He loves her and she loves him. She sobbed at the thought. He was her everything. She regrets not making up earlier. Maybe if she hadn't keep a secret of her dad not wanting to see her or maybe if she had tried to open herself more to him. Then maybe...

Either way, those were all things she could have told him. The truth. To communicate with one to another. They both failed to express themselves until the very moment were no words was needed but a single look. His gaze pierced through her.

His look.

..I...I cant...

Jane took the only way out that she knew.

Lauren's POV

These days we have been very busy. The new generation has reached 5 years of age, and getting them to shows and all that is definitely keeping every single staff member busy. But today the busy-ness was slightly less busy. Because a few days ago a new horse arrived. His name is Tashiro, and is after Vivian's favorite - now retired - stallion Taiwan and an old mare of ours: Equador.

Hiro - as we have nicknamed him - is almost 3 years old (he will be 3 in the next few days), and as good as ready to be broken in. Today Jane and Vivian decided that a little weight on his back wasn't gonna hurt him. I took this picture of course.

- Jane Smith

pairing: Jane Smith x Reader

summary: A love that stayed quiet—until it couldn’t.

tags/warnings: angst, fluff, smut, top!reader, g!p reader, bottom!janesmith, mention of divorce

author's note: so sorry for late upload (i really want to be an active author) it just so happens that i’m sick lol…

word count: 3982

The scent of jasmine and old paperbacks always clung to Jane’s house, a comforting, familiar perfume that had been my sanctuary for years. I’d spent countless afternoons there, watching her children grow, witnessing the beautiful chaos she orchestrated with such effortless grace. My heart, a traitorous thing, had long ago decided it belonged to her, even when her life was irrevocably entwined with John's. He was a good man, a kind father, but every time I saw her laugh, a genuine, unrestrained sound that crinkled the corners of her eyes, a pang of something akin to jealousy, yet softer, a yearning, would twist in my gut. I loved her, an impossible, silent love that I meticulously buried under layers of friendship, beneath shared cups of lukewarm tea and late-night calls about school projects and global crises.

Then the news broke, a seismic shift that reverberated through the tabloids and, more profoundly, through the quiet corners of my own existence. The divorce. John and Jane. It felt monumental, like a mountain range collapsing, reshaping the landscape of everything I knew. My first thought, shameful as it was, wasn't for their pain, but for the tiny, insidious sprout of hope that unfurled within me. A chance. A whisper of a possibility I’d never dared to entertain.

Don (their eldest son), even then, carried an old soul in his young frame. He was perceptive, observant, his eyes often holding a wisdom beyond his years. One rainy afternoon, while Jane was on a call, tucked away in her study, he found me in the kitchen, idly stirring sugar into a forgotten mug of coffee. The silence between us stretched, comfortable, until he spoke.

“You look at her differently,” he said, his voice quiet, almost a murmur, as he watched the rain streak down the windowpane. He didn’t turn to me, just kept his gaze fixed on the blurring world outside.

My heart lurched. Had I been that obvious? Had my carefully constructed facade crumbled? “What do you mean, Don?” My voice felt thin, reedy.

He finally turned, his expression unreadable. “Not like a friend. Like… like how Dad used to look at her, sometimes. Or maybe… even more.” A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. “You love her, don’t you?”

The air left my lungs in a whoosh. I felt exposed, vulnerable, my secret laid bare by a teenager. But there was no judgment in his eyes, only an unsettling clarity. I swallowed, the coffee suddenly bitter in my mouth. “Yes,” I breathed, the word a confession, a release. “More than I should.”

He nodded slowly, a thoughtful gesture. “She deserves to be happy.” He paused, then looked directly at me, a directness that startled me. “And you make her happy. You always have.” His words were a balm, an unexpected blessing. “She needs someone now, more than ever. Someone who sees her, really sees her, not just… the idea of her.”

His understanding, his quiet support, was a revelation. It wasn’t an endorsement for immediate action, but a validation of my feelings, a silent permission to hope. I knew Jane needed time. The divorce was raw, a gaping wound. My approach had to be subtle, a slow, gentle weaving of my presence into the fabric of her new reality. I became her anchor, her unwavering constant. I’d arrive with homemade meals, not asking, just placing them on her counter. I’d listen for hours, offering a silent shoulder, a steady gaze, never pushing, never judging. I’d help with the kids, reading bedtime stories, supervising homework, a silent, loving presence in their lives. I wanted her to feel my love not as a demand, but as a soft, enveloping warmth, a safe harbor.

The months bled into a year, then more. The sharp edges of the divorce began to soften, replaced by a weary acceptance. Jane started to laugh more freely again, her eyes regaining some of their former sparkle. My hope, carefully nurtured, swelled. Then, one Tuesday afternoon, she called me, her voice light, almost giddy.

“You won’t believe it,” she practically sang into the phone. “I met someone.”

My stomach dropped, a cold, leaden weight. The air in my apartment grew thin, stifling. “Oh?” I managed, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel. “That’s… that’s wonderful, Jane.” Each word was a tiny shard of glass in my throat.

“He’s an architect, Y/N. So smart, and he makes me laugh. Really laugh, you know?” She sounded so happy, so utterly delighted. It was a sound I’d yearned to be the cause of, the recipient of. “We’ve been out a few times. I think… I really like him.”

I mumbled something about being happy for her, about needing to go, a flimsy excuse. I hung up the phone, my hand trembling, the receiver cold against my ear. The hope I’d so carefully cultivated, so tenderly protected, withered and died in that instant, leaving behind a vast, echoing emptiness. The world, which had started to regain its vibrant colors, dulled to shades of gray.

I started to pull away. Slowly, subtly at first. My calls became less frequent, my visits shorter, my excuses more elaborate. I told myself it was for the best. To see her with someone else, to witness her joy, a joy I so desperately wanted to be the source of, would be unbearable. It was self-preservation, a desperate attempt to shield my already fractured heart from further damage. But the distance, meant to protect me, only amplified the ache.

Jane noticed. Of course she did. She was too attuned to the people she loved not to. Her calls started to come more often, her texts filled with questions, with a growing concern. I deflected, I prevaricated, I created a carefully constructed wall of unavailability. I couldn’t face her, couldn’t pretend.

One blustery Saturday, my phone vibrated with a text from her. “The kids miss you. I miss you. Come over. Please. They want you to help them build the new Lego castle. And I… I just want to talk.”

I hesitated, my finger hovering over the screen. The kids. Their innocent faces, their unadulterated joy when I walked through the door. How could I deny them? How could I deny her? The guilt gnawed at me. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

I arrived at her house, the familiar scent of jasmine and paperbacks hitting me like a physical blow. The front door was ajar, a cacophony of children’s laughter spilling out into the crisp autumn air. They were outside, I realized, their voices carrying from the sprawling backyard.

Jane met me at the threshold, her expression a mix of concern and something I couldn’t quite decipher. Her eyes, those extraordinary green eyes, searched mine, probing, questioning. She wore a soft, oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face. She looked tired, beautiful, and utterly perplexed.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice soft, but with an underlying current of something unyielding. “Finally.” She stepped aside, ushering me in. The house felt strangely quiet without the children inside, the usual hum of activity replaced by a tense stillness.

I walked past her, my gaze fixed on a spot on the wall, anywhere but her face. “Hey, Jane. Sorry I’ve been… busy.” My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears.

She closed the door behind me with a soft click, the sound echoing in the silent hall. “Busy? For three weeks? You haven’t returned my calls, you’ve canceled every plan we made. What’s going on?” Her voice had hardened, a steely edge I rarely heard.

I shrugged, feigning indifference, though my heart hammered against my ribs. “Just life, you know? Things come up.” I moved towards the living room, a desperate attempt to escape the intensity of her gaze.

She followed, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor, but her presence was a palpable force. “No, I don’t know. Not when it comes to you. You don’t just vanish, Y/N. Not from me. Not from the kids.” She stood directly in front of me now, blocking my path, her arms crossed, her expression resolute. “Tell me. What is it?”

I finally met her eyes, and the raw emotion there, the hurt, the confusion, twisted a knife in my gut. “It’s nothing, Jane. Really. I just… I need some space.”

Her laugh was sharp, devoid of humor. “Space? From me? After everything? What did I do, Y/N? Did I say something? Did I offend you?” Her voice rose with each question, a rare display of anger. “You were my rock through the worst time of my life! You were here, every single day, and now you’re just… gone. And you expect me to believe it’s ‘nothing’?”

The accusations, the hurt in her voice, chipped away at my carefully constructed defenses. My own anger, born of pain and frustration, flared. “You want to know what it is, Jane? Fine!” I took a step closer, my voice rising to match hers. “It’s that I can’t stand to be around you anymore! It’s that it’s too hard!”

Her eyes widened, a flicker of shock replacing the anger. “Too hard? What are you talking about? What could possibly be too hard about being my friend?”

“Being your friend?” I scoffed, a bitter taste in my mouth. “That’s what you think this is? Just friendship?” My voice was trembling now, the dam threatening to break. “God, Jane, how can you be so oblivious? So utterly blind?”

She recoiled slightly, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Blind to what, Y/N? Explain it to me! I’m trying to understand, but you’re making no sense!”

The words tumbled out then, a torrent I couldn’t stop, years of suppressed emotion finally erupting. “Blind to the fact that I’m in love with you, Jane! That I have been for years! Blind to the fact that every time you talked about John, it felt like a knife twisting in my gut! Blind to the fact that I stayed, I waited, I hoped, through all of it, through the divorce, through your pain, because I thought… I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d finally have a chance!” My voice cracked on the last word, tears blurring my vision. “And then you call me, all giddy, talking about some architect, about how you ‘really like him,’ and it just… it broke me, Jane. It absolutely shattered me.”

The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the children’s laughter from outside. Jane stood frozen, her face a mask of disbelief, her mouth slightly agape. Her eyes, usually so expressive, were wide, unblinking, fixed on mine. The anger had completely drained from her, replaced by something akin to awe, a profound realization dawning in their green depths.

“You… you love me?” she whispered, the words barely audible, as if she was testing their sound, their meaning.

I nodded, tears streaming freely down my face now. “Yes, Jane. I love you. More than anything. And it hurts. It hurts so much to just stand by and watch you fall for someone else, someone who isn’t me.”

She took a slow, deliberate step towards me, then another, until she was standing directly in front of me, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from her body. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and gently cupped my cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear. Her touch was electric, sending a shiver through me.

“Y/N…” Her voice was still a whisper, laced with a new kind of emotion, a tenderness that made my breath catch. “I… I had no idea.” Her eyes searched mine, a depth of emotion swirling within them. “No idea it was… like this.” She paused, her gaze dropping to my lips, then back to my eyes. “But… I felt it. Something. I always felt something with you. A connection. Different from anyone else. A comfort, a safety I couldn’t explain.”

Her hand moved from my cheek to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair, drawing me closer. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a desperate hope rekindling, fragile yet potent.

“When you pulled away,” she continued, her voice gaining strength, “it felt like a piece of me was missing. Like the air went out of the room. I didn’t understand why I felt so… lost without you. So empty.” Her eyes, now shimmering with unshed tears, locked with mine. “I thought it was just… friendship. But it was more, wasn’t it? It always was.”

She leaned in, her forehead resting against mine, her breath ghosting across my lips. “That architect… he was nice. He made me laugh. But he didn’t make me feel this.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “He didn’t make me feel… whole.”

My hands, which had been hanging uselessly at my sides, rose, finding purchase on her waist, pulling her closer still. The scent of jasmine and her own unique perfume filled my senses, intoxicating. “Jane,” I breathed, her name a prayer, a plea.

“I love you too, Y/N,” she whispered, the confession a soft explosion against my lips. “I think… I’ve loved you for a long time, and I was just too afraid to see it. Too afraid to admit it. Too afraid to lose you.”

Her lips met mine then, soft, hesitant at first, a tentative exploration. It was nothing like I’d imagined, nothing like the fiery, passionate kisses I’d fantasized about. It was soft, a gentle pressing, a slow unfolding, tasting of salt and tears and a profound, aching relief. I responded, my own lips parting, inviting her in. Her tongue, warm and soft, tentatively brushed against mine, a delicate dance of discovery. I deepened the kiss, pouring all my stored-up longing, all my silent devotion, into the movement. She reciprocated, her body pressing flush against mine, her arms winding around my neck, pulling me tighter. The kiss grew in intensity, a slow burn that spread through my veins, igniting every nerve ending. We moved as one, a silent conversation of longing and recognition, our lips molding together, tongues intertwining, tasting, exploring, a desperate thirst finally being quenched.

Her fingers threaded deeper into my hair, her nails gently scraping my scalp, sending shivers down my spine. My hands roamed her back, tracing the curve of her spine, feeling the soft fabric of her sweater, the warmth of her skin beneath. Our chests heaved against each other, our breaths mingling, ragged and desperate.

She broke the kiss, her forehead still pressed against mine, her eyes fluttering open, glistening. “Upstairs,” she murmured, her voice husky, a soft invitation. “Now.”

I didn’t need another word. I scooped her into my arms, a surprising strength surging through me, and carried her towards the staircase. Her legs wrapped around my waist, her head tucked into my shoulder, a soft giggle escaping her lips. Each step was deliberate, a silent promise, our bodies swaying with the rhythm of our desire. The house was quiet, the children’s laughter a distant, muffled sound.

We reached her bedroom, a sanctuary of muted light and soft textures. I gently set her down beside the bed, our eyes never breaking contact. The air in the room hummed with anticipation, thick with unspoken desires. Her hand reached out, her fingers fumbling with the hem of my shirt, her gaze still locked on mine. I understood.

I pulled my shirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap. Her eyes devoured my chest, a slow, appreciative gaze that made my own skin tingle. I reached for the hem of her sweater, and she lifted her arms, allowing me to peel it away, revealing the delicate lace of her bra. Her breasts, full and soft, rose and fell with her quickened breath.

“Beautiful,” I whispered, my voice rough with emotion, and leaned in to kiss her again, a deeper, more urgent kiss this time, my mouth claiming hers with a newfound confidence. My hands cupped her face, my thumbs stroking her cheekbones, as our tongues danced, a fervent, hungry exchange. I tasted her fully, the sweetness of her mouth, the faint tang of desire.

My hands moved from her face, tracing the line of her neck, down to her shoulders, then along her arms, pulling her closer until our bodies were pressed together once more. I could feel the heat radiating from her, the soft swell of her breasts against mine. Her fingers, delicate yet firm, unbuttoned my jeans, slowly, deliberately, each button a small explosion of anticipation.

We broke the kiss, gasping for air, our eyes shining with a shared intensity. Her fingers slid beneath the waistband of my jeans, her touch sending shivers down my spine. I reciprocated, my own hands finding the button of her jeans, then the zipper, easing them down her hips. The denim pooled around her ankles, and she stepped out of them, her legs long and graceful. She wore a pair of soft, silk panties, clinging to the curve of her hips.

“You’re so beautiful,” I murmured, my voice thick with awe, my gaze sweeping over her body. Her skin glowed in the soft light, smooth and inviting.

She reached for my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine, and led me towards the bed. We sank onto the mattress, the soft give of the springs a welcome embrace. We lay facing each other, our bodies close, our eyes locked in an intimate dance. Her hand, still holding mine, lifted, and she brought my knuckles to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to each one.

“I want you,” she breathed, her voice a raw confession, her eyes burning into mine. “I’ve wanted you for so long, and I never even knew it.”

My heart swelled, a joyous, triumphant ache. I leaned in, kissing her gently, softly, a tender exploration of her lips, her jawline, the soft curve of her neck. My hand found the clasp of her bra, and with a soft click, it came undone. I gently pushed the fabric aside, revealing her breasts in their full glory. Her nipples, dark and inviting, puckered, standing at attention.

I lowered my head, my mouth closing over one, a soft suckling motion. She gasped, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through me. My tongue flicked and swirled around her nipple, teasing, tasting, drawing out a moan that was pure pleasure. Her hands tangled in my hair, holding me close, pressing me deeper. I moved to the other breast, lavishing the same attention, my lips and tongue working their magic, eliciting soft whimpers and gasps from her.

Her hips began to move, a slow, sensual sway against my own. I felt the friction, the growing heat between us. My hand moved from her breast, trailing down her stomach, over the silk of her panties, until my fingers found the moist warmth between her legs. She was wet, so incredibly wet, a testament to her desire.

I slipped a finger beneath the silk, tracing the delicate folds of her labia, feeling the soft, engorged clit beneath my touch. She arched into my hand, a sharp intake of breath escaping her lips. “Please,” she whispered, her voice strained, almost pleading.

I eased another finger in, then another, slowly, carefully, stretching her, preparing her. The soft squelch of my fingers entering her wetness was a symphony to my ears. Her hips lifted, her body instinctively seeking more. I stroked her clit with my thumb, a rhythmic, teasing motion that sent shivers through her entire body. Her moans grew louder, more insistent, but still muffled, a conscious effort to keep our secret from the children outside.

I leaned up, my eyes meeting hers, a silent question passing between us. She nodded, her gaze fierce with desire. I pulled down my boxers, freeing myself, my cock springing forth, hard and throbbing, slick with pre-cum. Her eyes widened, a flicker of awe and anticipation in their depths.

I lifted her legs onto my shoulder and positioned myself between her legs, my cock pressing against her wet entrance. The sensation was exquisite, the heat of her skin against mine, the promise of what was to come. I pushed gently, slowly, easing the head of my cock inside her. She gasped, her body tensing, then relaxing as I slid deeper. The wet sound of my cock entering her wetness was a primal symphony, a testament to our shared desire.

“Oh, God,” she whimpered, her voice a strangled gasp, as my cock slowly, deliberately, filled her completely. I felt her muscles clench around me, a warm, tight embrace that stole my breath. I paused, allowing her body to adjust, to acclimate to the fullness, to the glorious invasion. Our eyes locked, a silent communication of pleasure and profound connection.

“Remove this”, she said referring to my only cloth on, my bra. I removed it and throw the piece of clothing somewhere on the floor, not taking my eyes off her.

Then I began to move, a slow, steady thrust, pulling almost entirely out, then pushing back in, deep and full. The rhythm was hypnotic, a primal dance of bodies intertwining. Her hips rose to meet mine, her moans growing louder, “Fuck.. Y/N…” though still muted, a soft, breathy chorus of pleasure. The bed creaked softly beneath us, a rhythmic accompaniment to our movements.

Each thrust was a declaration, a release of years of unspoken longing. I felt her tight around me, the soft give of her flesh, the heat of her core. The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure. I leaned down, kissing her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, tasting the salt and sweat of her skin. Her hands gripped my back, her nails digging in slightly, a desperate need for more.

“F-..aster,” she gasped, her voice raw with passion, her hips arching higher, urging me on.

I obeyed, quickening my pace, my thrusts becoming more urgent, more powerful. “Oh my… mhmF-fuck yes!.” The bed began to rock with our movements, the rhythmic creaking growing slightly louder. We moved together, a seamless unit, our bodies slick with sweat, our breaths ragged. The sounds of our pleasure, soft gasps, whimpers, the wetness of our bodies intertwining, filled the room.

My balls slapped against her ass with each thrust, a satisfying thud against her soft skin. I felt the pressure building within me, a delicious, unbearable tension. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me even deeper, her climax nearing. Her moans became more frequent, more desperate, her fingers digging deeper into my back.

Suddenly, her body tensed, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as she arched beneath me, her muscles clenching around my cock in a series of exquisite spasms. Her climax was a silent scream, her head thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut, her entire body trembling.

I felt myself nearing my own release, the glorious contractions of her orgasm pushing me over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, I emptied myself inside her, a hot, pulsating rush that filled her completely. “Fuck baby..” I groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure ecstasy, my body shuddering with the force of my own climax.

I collapsed onto her, my body heavy, spent, yet utterly content. We lay there for a long moment, our breaths coming in ragged gasps, our bodies still joined, the warmth of her wetness around my spent cock a comforting embrace. The sounds of the children’s laughter, still distant, still muffled, seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the quiet hum of our shared afterglow.

She stirred beneath me, her fingers gently stroking my hair. I lifted my head, meeting her gaze. Her eyes, still heavy-lidded from pleasure, were soft, filled with a profound tenderness. A small, contented smile played on her lips.

“I never knew,” she whispered, her voice still husky, “that this was what I was missing.”

I chuckled, leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Me neither,” I admitted, my voice thick with emotion. “But I’m so glad we found it.”

We lay there for a while longer, tangled together, our bodies cooling, our hearts slowly returning to a normal rhythm. The world outside, with its architects and its demands, seemed a distant, irrelevant thing. All that mattered was this, this quiet intimacy, this shared space of love and vulnerability. The children’s laughter, now a comforting background melody, reminded us of the life we had, and the beautiful, unexpected future we had just begun to build, quietly, in the soft light of a shared afternoon.

Jane's POV

I am so proud of my daughter right now! She is taking all of this (Prince's death/Sally's arrival) in stride, and even if she is of course missing her old pony, she is moving forward and training harder than ever.

They already have the trot down to a T now, though canter is slightly more difficult to her/them, since Sally is bigger than Prince was - as is her gaits.

- Jane Smith

pairing: Jane Smith x Reader

summary: Jane’s weekend lover.

tags/warnings: smut, angst, top!reader, g!p reader, bottom!janesmith

author’s note: thinking of turning this into a v v short series.. if it does well. (DM me to get on the tag list.)

!idea from tt’s “weekend lover” audio!

word count: 1429

The silk sheets, cool against my back, twisted around my legs, a silent testament to the storm that had just passed. Jane’s head, heavy with sleep, nestled against my shoulder, her breath a soft, even rhythm against my neck. Her dark hair, a wild cascade, fanned across my chest, tickling my skin, each strand a silken whisper. The scent of her—a mix of expensive perfume, sweat, and something uniquely hers, like sun-warmed earth and jasmine—still clung to the air, thick and intoxicating. My cock, still swollen and sensitive, throbbed gently between my legs, a dull ache of satisfaction and something else, something sharper, already beginning to prick at the edges of my contentment.

She stirred, a soft groan escaping her lips, her body a warm weight pressed against mine. Her hand, slender and elegant, found my hip, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. I closed my eyes, trying to bottle this moment, to hold onto the fragile peace before it inevitably shattered. It always shattered.

“You’re still awake,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep, a low purr that always sent a shiver down my spine. She lifted her head, her green eyes, luminous even in the dim light filtering through the blinds, met mine. A slow smile spread across her face, a private, knowing curve of her lips that made my stomach clench.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I managed, my voice rougher than I intended. I ran my fingers through her hair, letting the strands slide through my grasp. Her skin, flushed from our exertions, glowed in the muted light. I remembered the way her back had arched, her nails digging into my shoulders, the guttural cries that had spilled from her throat as I pushed into her, deeper, harder, until her body convulsed around my cock, milking me dry.

Her thighs, still slick with our mingled fluids, brushed against mine. My cock, thick and rigid, had been a furious piston between her legs, plunging into her wet, eager pussy. Her lips, swollen and red, had been a constant source of torment, sucking on my tongue, nipping at my lower lip until I tasted the faint metallic tang of blood. Her clit, a hard bead, had pulsed under my thumb as I teased it, swirling my finger around its sensitive head, watching her eyes roll back in her head. The rhythmic wet sound of my cock sliding in and out of her had filled the room, punctuated by her gasps and whimpers. Her pussy, a tight, hot sheath, had gripped me so fiercely, every thrust had been a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure. I’d watched her tits bounce with each thrust, her dark nipples, erect and tempting, practically begging for my mouth. The air had grown heavy with our scent, a musky, primal aroma that promised endless nights of sin. I had felt her come, a series of exquisite tremors that ran through her entire body, tightening around my shaft, squeezing every last drop of pleasure from me until I couldn't hold back, my own release a hot, surging wave that emptied into her, filling her with my seed.

Now, she leaned in, her lips brushing mine, a soft, lingering kiss. “You were incredible,” she whispered, her breath warm against my mouth. “Absolutely incredible.”

My heart, stupid and stubborn, swelled in my chest. This was it, the fleeting moment of intimacy, the illusion of permanence, before the inevitable. I knew the script by heart.

She stretched, a languid, cat-like movement that showcased the elegant lines of her body. My eyes traced the curve of her waist, the gentle swell of her hips, the long expanse of her legs. She was a masterpiece, a living, breathing work of art, and I was her willing, foolish devotee.

Then, her hand reached for the bedside table. My breath hitched. There it was. The phone. My stomach plummeted, a cold dread washing over me, familiar and unwelcome. She picked it up, her movements fluid and unhurried, as if she weren’t about to stab me through the heart.

“Just need to check something,” she said, not meeting my gaze, her eyes already scanning the screen. Her thumb swiped, and the bright glow of the display illuminated her face, starkly outlining the sharp planes of her cheekbones, the slight frown that creased her brow.

My jaw tightened. “Right.”

She tapped a few keys, the soft clicks echoing in the quiet room, each sound a tiny hammer blow against my fragile composure. She brought the phone to her ear, her back slightly turned to me, as if to offer a pretense of privacy, a gesture I found both insulting and utterly predictable.

“Hey, it’s me,” she said, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone, a tone she reserved for him, the man who waited for her, the man she always returned to. “Just calling to say… I’m on my way back. Traffic was a nightmare.”

My vision blurred at the edges. Traffic. A nightmare. The lie, so casual, so effortless, twisted in my gut. I closed my eyes, a wave of nausea washing over me. I heard her murmuring, something about a late meeting, a client call. Her voice, usually so vibrant and expressive, flattened into a practiced monotone, devoid of the passion she’d shown me mere minutes ago.

“Yeah, I know, love. I miss you too. Be home soon.”

Love. The word, a poisoned dart, struck me squarely in the chest. I felt a cold, hollow ache spread through me, a familiar emptiness. I was just the pit stop, the convenient detour, the secret indulgence. I was the toy she played with when she was bored, the release she sought before returning to her real life, her real love. And I, like an idiot, always welcomed her back. Always.

She ended the call, a faint click, and then turned back to me, her expression unreadable. She offered a small, apologetic smile, a flicker of something in her eyes that might have been guilt, or perhaps just pity.

“John,” she explained, as if I needed an explanation, as if I hadn’t just heard every word. “He worries.”

I pushed myself up, the sheets pooling around my waist. The air suddenly felt too thin, too suffocating. My cock, which had been blissfully sated, now felt heavy and useless, a stark reminder of my foolishness.

“He worries?” My voice was low, laced with a bitterness I no longer bothered to hide. “Or you just needed to remind yourself you have a husband?”

Her smile faltered. Her eyes, those captivating green eyes, widened slightly. “Y/N, don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “Don’t start what, Jane? Don’t start acknowledging the giant, gaping hole in this arrangement? The fact that you just fucked my brains out, then called your husband to tell him you’re coming home?”

She sat up too, pulling the sheet higher, a defensive gesture. “It’s not like that. You know how complicated things are.”

“Complicated?” I scoffed, running a hand through my hair. “Complicated is an understatement. It’s a fucking carousel, Jane. And I’m the idiot who keeps getting on for the same damn ride, knowing exactly where it ends.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper, her eyes pleading. “You know I care about you. This… this means something to me.”

“Does it?” I challenged, my voice rising. “Because every time you do this, it feels like it means absolutely nothing. It feels like I’m just a convenient distraction, a warm body to fill the space between your husband and your perfect life.” My chest heaved with the effort of holding back the surge of raw emotion. “I can’t keep doing this, Jane. I can’t be your weekend lover anymore.”

She reached for my hand, her fingers cool against my skin. “Please, Y/N. Don’t say that. We can talk about this.”

I pulled my hand away, the touch burning. “There’s nothing to talk about. You have a life, a husband. And I…” I looked around my apartment, at the quiet, empty space that felt like an extension of my own hollow heart. “I deserve more than this. I deserve someone who doesn’t have to lie to get to me, or lie to leave me.”

Her face fell, the mask of composure finally cracking. Her lips trembled. “Are you… are you saying this is over?”

The words caught in my throat, a bitter pill. My heart screamed no, begged me to pull her back, to fall into her arms and pretend none of this mattered. But another, stronger voice, a voice I had ignored for far too long, finally spoke.

“Yes,” I said, the word a painful, defiant whisper. “I’m choosing myself, Jane. For once, I’m choosing myself.”