#lowrisemiller

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.

It batters against the tin roof like it’s trying to get in — thunder rumbling over the hills like a warning. You’re curled on the couch in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a worn S.H.I.E.L.D. hoodie, one knee pulled tight to your chest, a book in your lap you’ve read the same page of five times. The fire’s dwindled to glowing coals.

And Bucky’s sitting across the room like a statue.

He hasn’t said much since you both got in hours ago —wet, bruised, exhausted from the mission. Just stripped off his tac gear and sat down on the edge of the bed, mechanical hand flexing like it couldn’t settle. He’s been like that ever since you joined his team —polite, helpful, quietly protective. But always… distant.

Like if he got too close, he’d ruin something.

Another crash of thunder shakes the cabin. You flinch without meaning to, hand clutching the blanket tighter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Come here,” he says, voice low but solid.

You blink up at him.

“What?”

“You’re cold,” he murmurs. “Don’t argue, I can tell. C’mere.”

You hesitate. He looks so serious, dark hair still damp from the rain, black T-shirt hugging the hard lines of his chest. His expression is guarded, but his eyes are warm — warmer than you’ve ever seen them.

You cross the room slowly. He shifts, leaning back against the headboard, lifting the blanket beside him in invitation. Something tight coils in your chest. You’ve slept in the same room before — hotel rooms, bunkers, quinjet corners — but never like this.

You sit beside him. He wraps the blanket around your shoulders, pulls you in.

And suddenly you’re tucked under Bucky Barnes’ arm, your head resting against the soft fabric of his shirt, the sound of his steady breathing in your ear.

Your body relaxes before your mind can catch up. He’s warm. Unbelievably warm. And strong. You feel it in every inch of him —the way his arm curls protectively around your back, the subtle press of muscle as you lean into him.

“You okay?” he asks after a while.

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… long week.”

His chuckle is barely audible. “Understatement of the century.”

For a moment, it’s just the storm and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Then he speaks again — so quietly it barely registers.

“I hate seeing you scared.”

You look up. His jaw is tight, his gaze focused on the firelight.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”

You swallow. There’s something aching in his tone —something raw.

“You don’t talk this much,” you say softly.

“I know.” He turns his head, meets your eyes. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think it.”

Your breath catches. His eyes are ocean-deep, stormy like the night outside, but warm — so warm.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks.

You nod.

“I think about touching you all the time.”

Your heart stops.

He keeps going, voice steady but trembling at the edges.

“Not just sex. Not even that, really. I think about… brushing your hair out of your face. Holding your hand. Pulling you onto my lap just because I can. I think about waking up next to you.”

He swallows hard.

“But I don’t. Because I don’t want to scare you. And because I don’t know if you’d want that. Want me.”

The rain seems to hush for a moment, like the world is listening.

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed like he’s afraid to believe it’s real.

“I’ve been waiting for you to touch me,” you whisper. “I thought you wouldn’t want to.”

His eyes snap open —like you just lit a fuse.

“Don’t move,” he says hoarsely.

You stay still.

His hand —warm, broad, careful —comes up to cup your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, then your lip. His other hand, the metal one, rests on your thigh with featherlight pressure, like he’s scared you’ll flinch.

You don’t.

You lean in.

And he kisses you.

It’s gentle at first —lips soft and reverent against yours, like he’s still scared he’ll wake up. But then you press closer, fingers tangling in his shirt, and he deepens it —groaning into your mouth, tongue brushing yours, hunger bleeding into every movement.

You shift into his lap, straddling him instinctively, and Bucky grabs your hips like he’s grounding himself —like if he lets go, he’ll wake up alone again.

His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing, and the look he gives you is hungry —like you’re the first warm thing he’s touched in years.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growls. “You know that, right?”

You rock against him gently, and his jaw goes tight.

“You can touch me,” you whisper, hands in his hair. “Anywhere. However you want.”

He huffs a breath like he’s trying to keep from losing it.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

His metal hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider over him. His other hand slides under your hoodie and up your back, warm and solid, tugging the fabric over your head and tossing it aside.

When he sees you —bare, flushed, breathing hard —he curses under his breath and cups your chest with both hands, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they stiffen. You gasp, grinding against the hard line of him beneath his sweatpants.

“Lay back for me,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You do —breathless, already aching —lying back on the bed as he kneels between your legs.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your flannel pants.

“Every inch of you.”

He drags them down, slow and deliberate, along with your panties —eyes never leaving yours as he exposes you. When you’re naked and spread out under him, he runs his hands up your thighs, parting them wider with firm, reverent pressure.

Then his mouth is on you again.

Warm, slow, worshipful.

He kisses your inner thigh, then the crease of your hip, teasing you until you’re trembling, trying to press yourself against his mouth. But he pins your hips with his metal arm and groans, low and broken, like the taste of you has him spiraling.

He laps at you slowly, teasing your clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking softly. You moan—high and sharp —and tangle your fingers in his hair. His tongue circles, flicks, licks deeper until you’re whimpering, thighs trembling.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathes, voice muffled against your cunt. “So perfect, so good…”

You try to respond, but your hips buck when he slips one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

He adds a second finger, fucking you slowly with a perfect rhythm as he sucks your clit again. The pressure builds like a wave — deep and hot and inevitable.

“I—I’m gonna—”

“Do it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

You fall apart on his mouth, writhing, gasping, your hands pulling hard at his hair. He doesn’t stop — licking you through it, holding you firm until your body finally slumps back against the mattress.

He looks up at you, lips slick, eyes glazed with want.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You reach for him, dazed. “Need you inside me.”

That’s all it takes.

He strips fast — sweatpants gone, briefs gone — and your eyes go wide at the size of him, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip.

“Condom,” he mutters, reaching for his bag—

“No,” you whisper. “I’m on the pill. I want to feel you.”

His eyes darken. “You sure?”

You nod, pulling him in. “Please.”

He lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, and groans like he’s barely holding it together.

Then he pushes in —slow, stretching you inch by inch, until he bottoms out and you’re both gasping.

“Jesus Christ,” he pants. “You’re so tight. So fuckin’ perfect.”

He stills, letting you adjust, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw. “You okay, baby?”

You nod. “Move.”

And when he does —slow and deep at first, then faster, rougher —it’s like the world narrows to just the two of you. His hands grip your hips, his mouth never leaves your skin, and every thrust drives you higher.

He murmurs praise like a prayer—

“So good for me.”

“You feel like heaven.”

“I could stay inside you forever.”

When he feels you tighten around him again, he fucks you through your second orgasm — hard and deep — before groaning into your neck and coming inside you with a shudder that rocks his whole body.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet.

Just stays there, buried deep, breathing against your collarbone.

“I’ve never—” he murmurs. “Never had this. Not like this.”

You stroke his back, warm and damp with sweat.

“You have it now.”

He kisses you then —soft and slow, like a promise.

And this time, it’s not about hunger.

It’s about home.

The fire’s burned down to embers.

Outside, the rain has stopped. All that’s left is the gentle patter of water dripping from the eaves and the faint glow of early morning light peeking through the curtains.

You’re warm —so warm —tucked beneath the threadbare sheets, wrapped in Bucky’s arms.

His body is solid heat against your back, chest rising and falling steady with sleep. One hand is splayed across your belly, the other curled under your neck, holding you close like he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real.

You shift slightly, and his breath catches. The hand on your stomach tightens, thumb brushing your skin like a reflex.

“Did I wake you?” you whisper, voice soft.

“Mmm,” he hums sleepily, lips brushing your shoulder. “Been awake. Just didn’t wanna move. S’too good.”

You smile, turning in his arms to face him. He’s a mess of tousled hair and morning stubble, blue eyes heavy-lidded and soft.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi.” He leans in, noses at your cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

“You never have to ask.”

The kiss is slow —tender and lazy, mouths fitting together like they’ve always known how. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and you melt into him like you’ve been waiting all your life to be held like this.

When you shift again, your bare thighs brush his —and you feel it.

He’s hard. Already. Pressed warm and thick against your stomach.

You pull back to look at him.

His cheeks are pink. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry.” You reach down, wrap your hand gently around him. His hips twitch.

“I want you again,” you whisper. “Just like this.”

He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. “You sure?”

You nod. “Slow n soft.”

His jaw clenches, just a little. Then he exhales and kisses you again —sweeter this time, deeper, like a slow ache.

Like gratitude.

The sheets fall away as he shifts over you, pushing your legs apart with his hips. He slides his metal hand beneath your thigh, lifting it gently as he rolls his body over yours.

He’s big —broad and warm and so careful —and you feel yourself open for him all over again.

“I didn’t hurt you last night, did I?” he murmurs, brushing your hair back.

“No,” you whisper. “You made me feel so good and safe.”

He groans softly, like that this alone is enough to undo him. Then he reaches between you, guides himself to your entrance, and sinks in slow.

The stretch makes you sigh —familiar now, but no less intense. He presses deeper until your bodies are flush, his cock buried inside you, and stays there for a moment, unmoving.

His forehead rests against yours.

“I could stay like this forever,” he breathes. “You feel so good. So warm. So perfect.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist.

“Then stay.”

He moves slowly, rolling his hips in deep, rhythmic strokes —not chasing release, just feeling you. Making love like he has nowhere else to be, like your body is the only place he’s ever felt peace.

The way he looks at you —like you hung the stars —has your whole chest aching.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder. “Touch me more.”

And he does. Big hands exploring your body all over again —your waist, your breasts, your thighs. He never stops moving inside you, never pulls all the way out. Every thrust is slow and deep and intimate, like he wants to leave a piece of himself inside you.

When you start to tremble beneath him, he cups your face with both hands.

“Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You come with a soft cry, clinging to him as your body shudders. He follows moments later, gasping your name, cock pulsing inside you as he buries himself one last time and spills deep.

You stay tangled together afterward — skin flushed, breath slowing, heartbeats syncing.

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he murmurs against your neck.

“Good thing we’re stuck here another day.”

He chuckles, pulling you tight against him. “Don’t tempt me.”

But his voice is soft. Sweet. Like he wants to be tempted. Like he already is.

The lab was quiet, except for the soft scribble of pen on paper and the low, constant hum of equipment Reed swore was essential, even if it sounded like white noise to everyone else. You sat perched at your workstation, chin resting in your palm, eyes drifting from your screen to the man pacing ten feet away—muttering under his breath, brow furrowed, fingers twitching.

You’d seen that look a hundred times.

It meant he was close to a breakthrough.

It also meant you could scream I want you in morse code and he wouldn’t register it.

You sighed, clicking your pen against your notebook. He didn’t glance up. Not even when you shifted in your seat and stretched in a way that was definitely for his benefit.

Ten months.

That’s how long you’d worked beside him—helping with calculations, organizing lab notes, fending off media inquiries, even stopping one of his machines from literally catching fire last Tuesday. You’d poured yourself into this job. You knew his schedule better than he did. You brought him his coffee the exact way he liked it. You wear that plum lipstick because he’d once said it was a “pleasing wavelength” for visual stimulation.

He hadn’t looked twice.

You weren’t just harboring a crush at this point. No, this had evolved into something much more volatile—an emotional chemical reaction waiting for a catalyst.

And Reed? Reed was… oblivious.

Gorgeous, brilliant, maddeningly unbothered Reed Richards. With his rolled-up sleeves and distracted glances, the way he chewed on pens when deep in thought, the offhand compliments he gave without realizing they were compliments—“Your spatial reasoning is exceptional,” he’d said once, looking at your notes. You’d practically melted.

Now he stood a few feet away, talking to himself like always. You watched the way his hands gestured mid-air, sketching invisible shapes.

“Frustrated with the equations?” you asked, keeping your tone light.

“No, no. Just… considering variable Y’s response under quantum fluctuation,” he murmured, barely registering your voice. “Though I suppose an extra set of eyes wouldn’t hurt.”

He handed you the clipboard and your fingers brushed. He didn’t even flinch. Your heart did.

You took it wordlessly, biting the inside of your cheek. How could someone so brilliant be so stupid when it came to people?

Maybe that was unfair. Reed wasn’t cruel, or cold. He was kind in his own absent-minded way. But he had tunnel vision—for science, for discovery. He didn’t notice the things that didn’t present themselves in a neat, testable format.

Like how you lingered in his orbit.

Or how your eyes followed him when he wasn't looking.

Or how sometimes, after long days, you fantasized about climbing into his lap right in that damn desk chair and making him pay attention.

Your pen scratched against the clipboard now, pretending to read the data while you watched him from the corner of your eye. He was back to pacing, lips moving silently. His sleeves were pushed up again, exposing strong forearms, veins prominent, hands twitching like he needed to do something with them.

God, you were losing it.

You placed the clipboard down. “You ever think maybe the problem isn’t quantum fluctuation, Reed? Maybe it’s just human error.”

He blinked and turned. “Are you suggesting I made a mistake?”

“I’m saying maybe if you took your head out of the wormhole generator long enough to eat or sleep or…” You paused. Look at me.

“…notice things, you’d think clearer.”

He looked like he might ask what “things” you meant. But instead, he turned back to his calculations, nodding. “Duly noted.”

You stared at his back, silent for a moment. And that’s when the thought struck you: He’s never going to see it unless you make him.

He would go the rest of his life chasing black holes and entropy and would never realize the way you burned for him—not unless you showed him.

Your pulse skipped.

Your patience is snapping.

You were going to be an anomaly he couldn’t ignore.

It was a new day, but nothing had changed.

Reed was still buried in data, half-dressed in a rumpled button-down he probably hadn’t noticed had two buttons mismatched. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered ten minutes before walking into the lab and immediately got lost in thought again. You stood at your usual station, sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending not to glance over at him every thirty seconds.

You weren’t pretending very well.

This was your fourth twelve-hour day this week, and you’d long since passed the phase where your crush felt cute. It was heavier now—dense, loaded with tension you had nowhere to put. Not when he kept looking right through you, offering praise only when it was tied to data points or completed tasks.

Today, he barely looked up when you walked in, just said, “Morning,” like you were air and math and all the other constants in his life.

You sat your coffee down a little too hard.

“Sleep okay?” you asked, typing with one hand as you glanced toward him. His back was to you as he scribbled across the whiteboard.

“Didn’t,” he replied casually. “The formula’s been looping in my head since 2 a.m.”

Of course it had.

You nodded to yourself, refocusing on your notes—but your brain wasn't on line graphs. It was on how his voice sounded deeper in the mornings. Rough. Scraped thin. It was on how he'd rolled his sleeves again, unconsciously, like he was giving you just enough to fantasize about but never enough to touch. It was on how he’d leaned over your shoulder the day before, close enough to make you forget your own name, then pulled away without even noticing how stiffly you sat for five minutes after.

You were starting to feel stupid.

Or worse—transparent.

You tugged at the edge of your shirt, adjusting it subtly, then pushed your chair back.

“Reed,” you said after a moment, tone careful.

He glanced up.

You hesitated. You could say it. “Do you ever think about me when we’re not in this lab?” Or even just “Do you notice when I’m trying to get your attention?” But all that left your mouth was:

“…Do you want lunch?”

He blinked. “No, thanks.”

You smiled tightly and nodded. “Okay.”

A long beat passed before he added, “You should eat, though. Your concentration dips if you skip meals.”

That nearly made you laugh. He didn’t notice your new lipstick or the way you leaned closer when talking, but he noticed a dip in your concentration?

“Noted,” you muttered, turning away. Your heart was starting to feel like an overworked computer—on the verge of burnout.

Still, you stayed.

He asked you to help calibrate a device and you did, even though his hands grazed yours and he didn’t seem to feel it. You reorganized his notes for the hundredth time and he said, “I’d lose my head without you.” Your stomach flipped, and you cursed yourself for letting it.

Eventually, the day wore on. The lights buzzed overhead. He worked in silence. And you sat across from him, eyes on your computer screen but brain nowhere near it.

You weren’t going to say anything today. You weren’t ready. But you were closer.

You were watching him more intentionally now. Watching how he moved. Noticing when he forgot to eat, when his jaw clenched at a miscalculation, when he sighed like the weight of the universe had settled into his spine.

And more importantly… you were starting to plan.

Because if Reed Richards wasn’t going to notice you on his own, maybe it was time you made it impossible for him not to.

You started small.

A hand on his shoulder when you passed behind him—just a light touch, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. A compliment you slid in while reviewing his data aloud. Your tone didn’t change, but your eyes watched his face this time, looking for any flicker of reaction.

Still, nothing overt.

But you were a scientist too, in your own way. You knew not all reactions happened in the open.

So you adjusted variables.

Today, you wore something just a touch more fitted under your lab coat. Nothing flashy. Just subtle. Intentional. Your lips were glossed in a soft cherry sheen and you had your hair tucked behind one ear, leaving your neck bare when you leaned over your notes.

You didn’t say much when you came in. Just a soft, “Morning, Reed,” as you brushed past him to your desk. He looked up. Briefly. His eyes caught on your profile, then flicked back to his screen. But there was… a beat. Just long enough to file away.

You smirked, barely.

He worked for hours, absorbed as usual. But today, you noticed something.

His eyes flicked to you more than once.

Quick glances. Measured. Like he was calculating a change in the room’s atmosphere. Like he felt something different but hadn’t yet assigned it meaning.

When he handed you a tablet to review notes, your fingers touched—warm, steady. This time, he paused.

Just for a second.

Not long enough to be certain of anything. But long enough to make your heart thud against your ribs.

You gave him a slow smile. “Thanks.”

He blinked and muttered, “Of course,” then turned away like he needed to recalibrate.

You kept working. Quiet. Focused.

But later—when you reached for a beaker on the shelf above his head—he stood behind you, offering, “Let me.”

You turned, close enough that your chest brushed his arm as you stepped aside.

He stilled.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed, like it wasn’t completely on purpose. “Thanks.”

His gaze flicked down. A flicker of something behind those eyes. He handed you the beaker wordlessly, but his jaw was set. Not tight. Just… aware.

There it is.

It wasn’t much. A subtle shift in the lab’s atmosphere. But it was enough to keep your spine humming, your thoughts racing.

You’d pushed the threshold.

And Reed felt it.

It happened again.

Reed forgot what he was saying mid-sentence. You were across the room, head bent over your tablet, pencil in your mouth, lab coat slipping slightly off your shoulder. His sentence just… stopped. Hung in the air unfinished.

And for once, he noticed you noticing.

You looked up slowly, eyebrows raised like well?

“I—” he cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. “Never mind.”

You bit back a smile.

Another day in the lab. Another carefully applied variable. You weren’t loud about it. Just present. Vivid. A little perfume on your wrist. Lip gloss again. A comment here and there, perfectly timed to stick in his head.

“Careful,” you murmured when he bumped into the desk beside you. Your voice was soft. A little amused. “You almost ran me over.”

He looked down at you, flustered. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

Liar.

You knew he had near-total environmental awareness. Reed Richards didn’t miss anything. But lately, he missed a lot—because he was looking at you and then pretending he hadn’t.

You kept it casual. Calculated.

You’d brush past him with a hand on his back, stand just a little too close while looking at the same screen, ask questions in that tone you saved for only him.

He was unraveling slowly. Quietly.

You caught him watching once—when you walked away to grab a coffee. His gaze dropped to your hips and stayed for three full seconds before jerking back to the screen like he'd been slapped.

You pretended not to see. But your grin behind your coffee cup was downright smug.

Later that day, he dropped a tool and you crouched down to grab it first. When you stood and handed it back to him, your fingers touched. He held on a little too long.

You tilted your head, teasing. “Forget what you needed it for?”

He blinked down at your joined hands and pulled back sharply. “No. Sorry. I—”

He coughed. “I’m distracted.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

By now, you knew the exact cadence of his footsteps when he was deep in thought. The slow, uneven rhythm that meant he was pacing without realizing it, caught in his own mental spiral.

You could hear them behind you now—soft thuds on the concrete floor of the lab. Reed Richards, brilliant, infuriating man, walking through formulas with half his shirt untucked and his fingers twitching at his sides. His muttering was barely audible over the hum of the machines, but you caught bits of it:

“Non-linear increase… No, that’s not right. Unless…”

You didn’t look up. Not yet.

Instead, you sat at your workstation, half-focused on the screen in front of you, legs crossed slowly under the table—exposed just enough to draw the eye if someone were finally looking.

And he was.

Reed had been distracted for days now. You saw it in the way his gaze lingered when you bent forward to check wiring. The way his voice wavered slightly when you spoke too close to his ear. The way he’d started pausing in his work like something had thrown off the trajectory of his thought process—and that something was you.

It was working.

He still hadn’t named the tension, but it was eating at him.

So today, you’d decided: no more hints. No more tests.

You were going to prove it to him in a way he couldn’t ignore.

You stood slowly, walked to the central console where he was now bent over a string of data projections, brows furrowed. He didn’t notice you at first—not until you placed a hand lightly on the edge of the table next to his.

His voice faltered. “The waveform collapse pattern could still—”

You leaned in just enough that your shoulder brushed his. “Still what?”

He straightened slightly, blinking at the screen like it had betrayed him.

Your voice was quieter this time. “You’ve been off lately, Reed.”

He turned his head, barely. “Off?”

You tilted your head. “Distracted.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

You hummed. “I know. But I’m starting to think the problem isn’t in your equations.”

That got his attention. His eyes flicked to yours, guarded. “What do you mean?”

You let the silence hang for a moment. Then:

“I think the thing disrupting your work… is me.”

Reed went still. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He was computing. Processing. Trying to refute it. But his body betrayed him—his hand clenched on the table, his gaze briefly darting to your mouth before jerking away.

“I’m not—” he started. “You’re not a disruption.”

You smiled softly. “Then why do you keep looking at me like you’re afraid of what happens if you do it too long?”

He looked stunned. Then—guilty.

You took a breath, slow and steady. This was it.

“I’ve tried everything,” you said. “The lipstick. The touching. Standing so close you could feel my breath.” You leaned in, lower now, voice like silk. “And still, nothing.”

Reed was frozen in place.

“I think,” you continued, “that you’re just waiting for someone to spell it out.”

You stepped back, slowly, and hopped up onto the edge of the table in front of him—knees parted, one leg brushing his thigh. You leaned back on your hands, tilting your head like a challenge.

“Well, Reed?” you asked softly. “Do you need a demonstration?”

His pupils were blown wide. His breath caught. And his hands—god, his hands—hovered like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“You…” he said hoarsely. “You’re serious.”

You nodded, lips curled into a smile. “You want to calculate the pattern? Fine. Let’s start with some field data.”

You reached forward and took his hand—placed it firmly on your thigh.

He made a strangled sound. His fingers flexed. “This is… highly inadvisable.”

“Why?” you whispered, leaning forward so your lips nearly brushed his. “Because you’ve thought about it?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Your breath hitched.

“Every day this week,” he rasped, voice low now, broken open. “I’ve tried to ignore it. Tried to focus. But I’m… I’m failing. Every time you walk by me. Every time you touch me. I—” He shook his head. “I can’t think when you’re near.”

You dragged his hand a little higher, slow, teasing. “Good. Don’t think.”

And that’s when Reed snapped.

He surged forward, kissing you hard, like he’d been starving for air and only just found it. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, tugging your lab coat open like it was a barrier to understanding.

You moaned against his mouth, arms around his shoulders, legs parting instinctively as he stepped between them. He kissed like a man undone—like every theory he’d ever held was shattering under your touch.

“You have no idea,” he breathed against your neck. “How long I’ve been holding back.”

“Show me,” you whispered. “All of it.”

He groaned, low and guttural, and then his hands turned curious. Focused. Scientific. One settled at your throat, not squeezing, just holding—fingers spread like he was feeling your pulse, measuring your response. The other slid under your skirt, over the curve of your thigh, then—

“Oh,” you gasped, spine arching.

“I need to know,” he murmured, almost to himself, “what makes you tremble like that.”

Another touch. Another gasp. “That’s a reaction. Fascinating…”

“Reed—”

“I’m cataloging,” he said, voice filthy and analytical. “You’re the most compelling data set I’ve ever encountered.”

And then his fingers stretched.

Not just in confidence. Literally.

You whimpered as two elongated fingers traced up your inner thigh while another hand—normal-sized—cupped your breast through your shirt, thumb teasing slowly. The other hand remained at your throat, grounding you, steadying you.

He was everywhere.

“Can you feel what you’re doing to me?” he whispered, pressing forward until you felt the thick, hard line of his cock against your core through layers of fabric. “You’ve disrupted every model. You’ve introduced chaos.”

You pulled him closer, panting. “Then let it consume you.”

“Consider this your field test,” he whispered against your lips.

And then he kissed you like he was sealing a pact—hands spanning your body, holding you like something he’d discovered and didn’t intend to release. His mouth was hot and searching, lips sliding down your jaw, teeth grazing your neck. You gasped, clutching his shirt, and that one sound made him groan hard, hips bucking against you without thinking.

“You make that noise again,” he muttered, “and I swear I’ll never let you leave this table.”

You did.

Just to see.

A breathy, needy gasp as he licked a slow stripe up your throat—and his hands tightened on your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the table until your hips tilted forward and your clothed core was flush against the bulge straining in his pants.

He cursed under his breath, forehead pressed to yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“Then study me,” you whispered, breath hitching. “Make sense of it.”

He did.

God, he did.

He dropped to his knees between your legs, hands spreading your thighs open as he looked up at you like you were divine—something to worship, something to break open and understand. His fingers pushed your skirt higher, until it was bunched around your hips. When he reached your panties, he paused.

“Wet already,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Stimuli, minimal. Response, immediate.”

You shivered.

Then—he pressed a kiss right to the center of the damp fabric. Slow. Gentle. Reverent.

Your hips jolted, and he smiled.

He peeled your underwear down your legs, lips brushing your inner thigh as he murmured, “I’ve never wanted anything this badly.”

Then he finally—finally—tasted you.

His tongue was hot and slow, dragging a firm, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit. You cried out, and he groaned like he could feel it in his bones.

And then the muttering started.

Low. Incoherent. So Reed.

“God—taste is sharper than expected… pressure response is increasing…” His tongue flicked faster, and your head fell back. “Sensitivity peak here—yes, that’s it, I knew it—”

“Reed,” you gasped, fingers burying in his hair. “You’re talking—”

“I’m studying,” he said against your clit, tongue relentlessly. “Don’t interrupt the process.”

You moaned.

He grinned. “Good girl.”

That made your whole body jolt.

Reed caught it instantly. “Huh. New variable: verbal praise. Noted.”

His tongue circled tighter, and then—another hand slid up your torso, not the one braced on your thigh. It was soft, gentle, and a little too synchronized.

You looked down.

Another finger. Stretching from the hand holding your hip. Long and curved and perfect.

“Multi-point stimulation,” he murmured between licks. “Let’s test your threshold.”

You whimpered as his tongue lapped at your clit while that second hand slipped beneath your shirt, under your bra, pinching your nipple softly. Another elongated finger curled between your legs, circling your entrance, teasing—but never pushing in.

“I need to see you come apart,” he said. “I need to feel it.”

And then he did it all at once.

Tongue flicking. Finger pressing deep inside you, curling like he knew. Fuck, was that another?—spanning your lower back to hold you down as you arched off the table.

“Oh my god—Reed—”

“Give it to me,” he whispered. “Let me feel what I’ve done to you.”

You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a burst of static—crackling down your spine, clenching around his fingers, your legs trembling on either side of his head.

You cried out his name, again and again, and he ate it up, moaning like it was his reward.

When you came back to yourself, he was standing again—his hands all back where they belonged, his mouth slick and shining. He looked wrecked.

And then—his belt hit the floor.

“You think I’m done?” he rasped. “You think I’d stop at one data point?”

He pulled you forward—off the table, into his arms—and turned you around until your back hit the cool surface. His cock, thick and flushed, pressed against your slick entrance.

“I’m going to learn you,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Every reaction. Every tremble. Every time you scream my name—I’ll know why.”

And then he pushed in.

All the way.

Slow and deep and perfect.

You sobbed into his shoulder as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, cock twitching inside you like even he was shocked how good it felt.

His breath hitched. “Oh… oh, fuck. You’re…”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He started to move.

Slow strokes at first—grinding in, pulling out halfway, pushing deeper again. His hands explored every inch of you—mouth on your neck, chest, shoulder. He whispered your name like it was a formula. He muttered observations even as he fucked you harder.

“You clench when I say your name—tight around me, just like that—fuck—”

“Your back arches when I hit here—god, you’re perfect—”

“You feel like you want me to lose control—so I will.”

And he did.

He lost it.

His pace stuttered, then snapped—hips slamming into you with brutal precision, every thrust angle to hit that perfect spot. You clung to him, moaning shamelessly, barely coherent as he fucked you like he’d been waiting years.

You came again—harder this time—and he groaned so loud it echoed in the lab.

“Gonna come inside you,” he warned, wild-eyed. “You want it?”

“Yes, yes, Reed, please—”

He slammed deep and stilled, cock pulsing as he filled you, one last ragged cry falling from his lips as he buried his face in your neck.

You held him as he trembled through it, panting, hands tangled in your hair.

It took a full minute before either of you spoke.

Then, voice hoarse, he whispered:

“…I think I need to run a full repeat trial.”

After.

The lab was quiet, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. You were still sprawled across the console table, legs shaking, chest heaving. Reed leaned over you, both hands braced on either side of your hips. His head was bowed, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.

Neither of you moved.

Finally, he let out a shaky laugh.

“...I think I blacked out for a second.”

You let out a breathless huff. “Welcome back.”

He looked up. His hair was a mess—curling wildly at the edges, gray hairs damp with sweat. His eyes were wide and stunned and so soft, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And then he leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed you like he meant it.

Not a theory. Not a test. Just feeling.

When he pulled back, he looked at the mess between your thighs and the growing stickiness on his abs. When did his shirt come off? His brows pulled together, equal parts concern and fascination.

“I, uh—there’s a shower down the hall. Private. It's not… state-of-the-art, but…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d like to take care of you.”

You nodded, still dazed. “Okay.”

He helped you up with this heartbreaking gentleness, hands steady at your waist like you might vanish if he let go too fast. He gathered your clothes in silence, cradled your hand in his, and led you barefoot down the corridor to a sealed side room.

The lab shower was built for function—stark white tiles, a metal bench, one glass wall—but it felt almost sacred now. Reed adjusted the water temp with clinical precision before motioning for you to step in first.

Then he joined you.

And just… looked at you.

Not with lust, not yet. With wonder.

His hands were slow as he lathered soap across your shoulders, over your back, down your arms. He was quiet now, like something had settled deep in him. His thumbs traced gentle circles into your hips, his forehead brushing yours beneath the spray.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen today,” he said quietly. “Not like that.”

You met his eyes, searching. “You regret it?”

“No,” he said instantly. Then, softer: “I regret how long I ignored it.”

You swallowed.

He washed your thighs carefully, then cupped between them—not to tease, just to clean you, slow and reverent. You bit your lip and let him.

He kissed your forehead, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

Then you reached for him.

His cock was half-hard again—because of course it was—and when you wrapped your hand around him, his eyes fluttered. He leaned back against the wall, mouth parted, not stopping you.

“I want to try again,” he breathed. “When we’re not losing our minds.”

You smiled. “You want another trial?”

His head tipped back against the tile, a low groan leaving his chest. “God, yes. Multiple. Longitudinal.”

You came to Iceland alone, not because you were running from anything, but because you finally could.

The freelance contracts were stable. The email backlog was manageable. Your rent was paid through next month. It had been a year since you last went looking for someone who wasn’t looking for you. A nice milestone if you will. 

So you booked a flight. Reykjavík, Iceland. Last-minute, no itinerary and no agenda. Just a carry-on, a reading list, and the jacket you’d meant to return twice.

The first few days were all adjustments. The light of day that never really left, the water tasted like minerals, and the quiet that slowly creeps in and rests inside you. No sirens and no upstairs neighbor dropping weights at 2am. Just you, your doc martens, your thermos, and enough space in your brain to hear yourself think again.

You hiked trails with names you couldn’t pronounce, you bathed in sulfuric water that stung your skin in the best way, you had lamb stew in a restaurant carved into the side of a hill, and when the server brought you a second slice of rye bread with butter so soft it melted before it hit your tongue, you almost cried. You didn’t. But you almost did.

You reread Giovanni’s Room in a crater. Hunger Games on a black sand beach. And Persuasion in the lobby of your hotel, sipping coffee that tastes like smoke and people watching like you’re being paid to do so.

You didn’t speak to anyone really. You wanted that.

You missed New York in the way a body misses caffeine, shaky and fond but knowing you’re better off without it, at least for a little while.

And now, it’s your last morning.

You get to the airport early. Not for the reasons most people do. You weren’t stressed at all. You just enjoy the stillness that happens between gate calls, when everyone’s pretending they’re not judging and one-upping each other. You like airport coffee, even when it’s terrible. Especially when it’s terrible.

You find a café with wide windows and a view of the grey sky swallowing the tarmac. There’s a table near the corner. Two seats. You take one and drop your bag in the other, claiming space you don’t need but don’t feel guilty about.

You order a black coffee and pull out a paperback from your coat pocket, something used and marked up, with a name that isn’t yours on the inside cover.

You’re half a page in when a man asks,

“You think this book is any good?”

You don’t look up right away. You clock the voice first: American and crisp. Manhattan maybe, old money, maybe, or the kind of boarding school vowels that only break when they’re drunk or heartbroken.

Then you glance over.

He’s tall, dark-haired and looks like he shaved two days ago but hasn’t cared since. There’s a jacket slung over one arm and a bruise-like tiredness around his eyes that doesn’t make him ugly. It just makes him real.

You nod toward his hands before you speak.

“Depends. Are you reading it or just holding it like an accessory?”

He blinks. A pause. Then the ghost of a smirk.

“Reading it.”

You glance down at the cover he’s holding, you recognize it immediately.

“Funny. I edited that one.”

His eyes lift, sharp with interest now. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” You sip your coffee. “Didn’t expect to see it outside Park Slope or a first date.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Which one do you think this is?”

You raise an eyebrow, but don’t answer yet.

You let the silence hang, sip your coffee, and let him look at you.

Not stare exactly. More like observing, as if he’s trying to pin you down and failing, and finding that a little thrilling.

“So you’re from New York?” he asks.

You glance at him over your cup. “What gave it away?”

“I can hear a little accent,” he says, smiling. “And you mentioned Park Slope. Not just anyone knows that.”

You chuckle under your breath. “True. Most tourists don’t go there.”

You pause just long enough to make him wonder if you’ll return the question. Then:

“What part are you from?”

He shifts, leans forward slightly like he’s letting you in on something personal but not too precious.

“Tribeca.”

Your eyes widen, just barely. A flicker. Most people wouldn’t notice. He does.

You school your expression, take another sip of coffee, and say,

“Hm. Then I’ll have to keep you extra close.”

He smirks. He doesn’t blink.

“I’m okay with you being really close.”

You tilt your head at him. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe,” he says easily. “Is that okay?”

You don’t answer right away. You look down at your book, the one he interrupted. Your thumb slides against the pages. You pretend to read a line, but your eyes aren’t moving. Then you close it.

“Sure,” you say. “It’s okay.”

You both settle back into your seats like you’ve earned something. Not exactly comfort. But permission.

He lifts the book he was reading again and says,

“So, you do this full-time?”

“Yeah. I used to work in-house. Left a while ago. Too many men in Patagonia vests who think they’re publishing gods.” You shrug. “Now I freelance.”

“Sounds like the right move.”

You nod once. “You?”

He hesitates. You can see him weighing what to say, how to say it. There’s something performative about rich men when they don’t want to seem like rich men.

“Private equity.”

You let out a dry breath. “Ah. So you’re the one who keeps buying up independent bookstores and turning them into juice bars.”

That gets a real laugh from him. “Guilty by association, maybe.”

“What kind of stuff?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Used to be startups. Tech, mostly. Now it’s... portfolios, scaling, strategy. The kind of things people pretend to care about on LinkedIn.”

You smile. “Sexy.”

“It’s not. But I’m good at it.”

There’s no brag in his tone. Just a quiet resignation. A man who knows his lane but isn’t in love with it.

“So,” you ask, folding your hands around the cup, “what brought you here? Iceland, I mean.”

He exhales, eyes tracking the window for a second.

“I was supposed to come here with someone. Lucy. We broke up about a week before the flight.”

You nod slowly. “Oh.”

“Yeah. She booked everything. I figured, might as well go. I already paid for the room.”

You hum in understanding. “Did you stay in it alone?”

“Yeah. Her perfume lingered on some of my clothes for the first couple nights.”

That hits something in your chest soft, familiar. You don’t ask more.

He shifts again. “What about you?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I wasn’t dumped, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I mean—what brought you out here?”

You lean back in your chair, watching steam curl off what’s left of your coffee.

“I promised myself I’d take one solo trip a year. This was the first time I actually followed through with it. No laptop, no phone calls, just me and a stack of books I’ve read already.” 

He smiles.

“And no heartbreaks?”

You smirk faintly. “I mean… not recent. Nothing fresh. But yeah. There was someone. Awhile back. He never really showed up for me. Not in the ways that matter.”

“That’s brutal.”

“Not really.” You shrug. “I learned a lot about myself.”

“Like what?”

You look at him then, hold his gaze just a second longer than you should.

“I’m not giving my time to guys who only want me when it’s convenient.”

That knocks the smirk right off his face. But not in a bad way. More like he’s been seen. It hits him somewhere behind the chest, in that place where the echo of Lucy still lives.

“Noted,” he says quietly.

The conversation drifts.

Not in that small-talk, filler way but back and forth. You both tread water comfortably.

You talk about how Reykjavík air tastes like snow and metal. He tells you he ordered something called fermented shark at a bar near the harbor and immediately regretted it.

You talk about the subway and the best place in Queens to get a late-night pastry.

“Do you miss it?” he asks, eyes flicking up as if he could see the city from here.

“Sometimes,” you say. “But I don’t want to miss it all the time. I wanted to miss myself first.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“That’s a good answer.”

You glance at the clock. The boarding call is coming. You can feel it. The shift in the café’s atmosphere. People are rising and putting jackets on. The brief return of gravity.

You both stand.

“Flying coach?” he asks, not in a judgmental way. Just… cataloging.

“Always,” you say with a shrug. “I’m not that classy yet.”

“I am,” he says, smirking. “First class.”

You grin. “Figures.”

At the gate, he hesitates before walking into the priority lane.

“I could have them upgrade you,” he offers. “There’s room.”

You shake your head, a little amused, a little flattered. “Nah. Coach builds character.”

He grins, but there's something underneath it, something quieter. “At least let me send a car. I’ve got one waiting at JFK. It’d be easy.”

You meet his eyes, soften your tone just a little.

“I appreciate it. But I like the way the city feels when I come back in a taxi. Grime on the window, everything ugly and alive again. I like that moment.”

He watches you for a long breath. He doesn’t press.

Instead, you pull a card from your wallet, just a simple one. Name. Email. Phone number. A line that says freelance editor in cursive and nothing else. You hand it to him like it’s a folded note in school. Casually.

“In case you want a better book next time,” you say.

He takes it, carefully. Like it might smudge if he touches it wrong.

“I’ll read in the margins,” he says. “Swear it.”

You nod once. “Safe flight, Harry.”

“You too,” he replies, and then tucks the card into the inside pocket of his blazer—pressed flat, precise, like he’s not letting it out of his sight.

You board a few minutes later. You're in a middle seat in the back half of the plane, next to someone who keeps snoring through takeoff. But it doesn’t matter.

Because for the first time in a long time, you’re not dreading what’s waiting for you back home.

A Week Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

The sun is already dipping behind the skyline by the time you close your laptop. It’s been a long day. Quiet, manageable edits for a debut memoir that won’t get half the press it deserves. You liked the voice, though. Witty. Tired in the way only New Yorkers romanticize about the rot and decay around them. 

You stretch your arms above your head, spine popping as you glance out of your apartment window. A kid is biking the wrong way down the block and someone is burning incense out on their fire escape again. It smells like patchouli and sage.

You finish your tea, let your eyes drift to your phone.

Three texts from a client, one from your cousin, and a missed call from an unknown number.

Weird.

You barely finish blinking before it rings again. It's the same number.

You hesitate, thumb hovering, then swipe to answer.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. Then a voice you absolutely recognize says:

“Hi. I- It’s Harry. Castillo. From uh well Iceland. The airport café.”

You don’t answer right away. Just smile into the silence like he can see it.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he echoes, softer. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. I didn’t… I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

You scoff lightly. “Please. You don’t seem like the kind of guy people forget.”

He laughs, and it sounds a little boyish. 

“I’ve been meaning to call. The whole week’s been insane. I flew straight into a mess at work, deals falling through, someone quitting without notice, my inbox looks like an emergency room. But I’ve been thinking about you. I swear I have.”

You lean back in your chair, let the words settle in.

“I figured you were busy,” you say, trying not to sound too concerned about it. “You’re important. Tribeca-important.”

He groans. “God. Please don’t say that.”

You laugh. “Fine. I won’t.”

“But seriously,” he says, “I’ve been… wanting to talk to you again. In, like, a non-airport setting.”

You raise an eyebrow, voice teasing. “Are you asking me out, Harry Castillo?”

He hesitates, and you can almost hear the way he runs his hand through his hair. You picture him in a glass-walled office, tie undone, coat slung over a chair, pacing.

“Yes,” he says finally. “I mean. If that’s okay. I’d really like to see you again. Maybe somewhere that doesn’t involve security lines or boarding passes.”

You let the silence hang just long enough to make him squirm.

Then

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” He sounds almost surprised.

“Yeah. Just don’t try to send a car for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll cab it to Queens.”

“Damn right you will.”

Two Days Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

The night air is warm and heavy with city sounds, muffled music from an open window, someone dragging a trash can across concrete, a group of friends laughing on the sidewalk with half-finished drinks in hand.

You’re early, but just barely. The restaurant you picked is familiar. You've come here with friends, exes, and even alone with a book. It has no Instagram presence and still uses paper menus. That’s the charm. It’s a test.

You're in a soft black slip dress that falls just below your knees, layered with a light denim jacket and scuffed up white sneakers. The kind of outfit that says, I'm effortless, even though you tried on three different jackets before settling. Hair down, your favorite small silver hoops, a touch of mascara and lip tint. You didn’t overthink it. Not really. Just enough.

He rounds the corner like he’s been here a hundred times before, though you know he hasn’t. There’s that same easy walk, confident but never cocky, and he spots you before you see him.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “Right on time.”

He’s dressed in dark denim jeans and a charcoal grey sweater that fits just right. No watch tonight. No flash. Just a quiet show of expense. A beige coat is folded over one arm. His hair’s a little neater than it was in Iceland, but not too neat. He looks rested and sharp. But you still remember the version of him leaning back in that plastic airport chair, talking like the world had finally gone quiet for once.

“This place is great,” he says, glancing up at the worn awning and exposed brick. “Very you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even know me.”

He smirks. “No. But I’m trying.”

You’re seated at a table near the front window, the kind of table made for long talks and longer looks. There’s no tablecloth, just a flickering plastic candle in a chipped glass holder.

The server brought you wine, he asked what you liked, and when you said white but not too sweet, he remembered.

“So,” he says after the first sip, leaning forward, “how many manuscripts have you torn to shreds since we spoke?”

You grin. “Two. But gently. I only tear with care.”

“That sounds like it should be on a t-shirt.”

“I’ll make merch.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “God, I missed this.”

You look at him. “You say that like we’ve known each other longer than the airport and a phone call.”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t take long to know when someone’s different.”

You feel the words settle under your ribs. Warm. Unrushed. He doesn’t follow it with a compliment. Doesn’t pivot to flirting right away. He just lets it sit there, honest, unornamented.

Later, between bites of pasta and bread dipped in olive oil, you ask him what his week was really like. He tells you about a last-minute investor call that nearly tanked a merger, and you try not to fall asleep. He teases you about zoning out, and you tease him right back for trying to impress you with balance sheets.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you say with a smirk.

“Oh?” he leans back, hand cradling his wine glass. “You think I’m hot?”

You deadpan. “I think you’re decent looking. In dim lighting.”

He grins, eyes twinkling. “I’ll take it.”

By the time you leave, your cheeks hurt from smiling. The walk back to your apartment is short, only a few blocks, and he doesn’t ask to come up. You don’t offer. Not this time.

But when you stop outside your building, he lingers.

“This was…” he says, hands in his coat pockets. “God, this was exactly what I needed.”

You smile softly. “Me too.”

He hesitates, then, “can I see you again?”

You reach for the door. “Sure,” you say over your shoulder. “I’ll pick a place with better chairs.”

He grins. “Deal.”

Before you step inside, you turn and add, “and I’m still not letting you send a car.”

“Even if I ask really nicely?”

You arch a brow. “Especially if you ask nicely.”

He watches you go like he wants to follow, but doesn’t. And that’s what makes it better.

You step out of the café where you just finished catching up with one of your longtime authors, a smart, sweet nonfiction guy who’s somehow always three years late with a manuscript. It’s warm out, not hot, and you’ve decided to walk the long way back just for the hell of it. Phone in hand, sunglasses on. You’re halfway through typing a text when your phone starts ringing.

Unknown Number.

Except you know who it is by now. You really need to put his name in your phone. 

You answer with a smirk already in your voice. “You again.”

“Guilty,” Harry says. His voice is all low charm, like a secret he’s letting you in on. “I’m on lunch. Want to join me?”

You snort. “I’m a little far from Tribeca, and I walked, so—”

“Where are you?” he asks, cutting you off gently.

You tell him. There's a pause on the other end.

“Okay… don’t get mad at me, but I sent a car.”

You stop walking.

“…You didn’t.”

“I did.”

You’re about to launch into a scolding monologue when a sleek black vehicle rolls to a stop in front of you. Windows tinted. Polished to perfection.

You press a hand to your face and burst out laughing. “You are insufferable.”

“Get in the car,” he says, grinning audibly. “You can reprimand me over oysters.”

The place he’s picked is one of those restaurants. Small, tucked behind a street of gallery spaces, with a menu that changes every week and never bothers to explain itself. The table’s already set when you arrive. He stands to greet you, jacket off, sleeves rolled up just enough to show a watch that probably costs more than your rent.

“You look very summery,” he says, holding your chair out.

You sit. “You look like you paid someone to make you look like you’re not a billionaire..”

He grins. “I did. Her name is my assistant.”

The restaurant is cool and quiet inside, with sunlight spilling across the marble bar. The server brings you fresh bread, olive oil with shaved fennel, and menus printed on textured paper.

You let Harry order, he insists, so you end up sharing:

Burrata with charred peaches, basil oil, and crushed pistachios Hand-cut pasta in a lemony brown butter sauce with crispy sage A chilled rosé that tastes like it was bottled by gods with good taste in music

You’re halfway through your second bite when he says:

“Okay. Important question. Childhood crush.”

You blink. “That’s your big lunch question?”

“It reveals a lot about someone.”

You pause, then say, “Captain America.”

He stares. “The super hero?”

You nod. “When I was younger it was the crappy cartoon version. This new guy though, Chris Evans? I love his accent and the presence he gives as Captain America. It’s called taste.”

He laughs, nearly choking. “Okay. Wow. I was not prepared for that.”

You raise a brow. “Yours better be good.”

“Liv Tyler. Armageddon. I was convinced she was waiting for me, specifically.”

You tilt your head. “That’s very classy of you.”

“I was an emotionally repressed child with a lot of money and no real outlet.”

He says it lightly, but you don’t miss the faint weight under his voice.

You lean back in your chair, taking a sip of wine. “So what were your parents like?”

“Oh,” he says, “we’re going there.”

“Briefly,” you say, “and only because I told you about my super serum kink.”

He laughs again, a warm one, and then shrugs.

"My mom’s a powerhouse, super passionate about social issues, but always with reasons behind it. My dad was more business-minded. Tougher. We haven’t talked since my brother’s wedding. Things were complicated between us, but I think, in the end, we kind of understood each other."

You nod, letting the moment rest.

“What about you?” he asks.

“My parents are still in New York now in Long Island,” you say. “Still together. They always hoped I’d go corporate. Something stable. I said ‘no thanks’ and started making barely enough to live off books.”

“And now you make slightly more than barely enough?”

You smile. “Something like that.”

By the end of the meal, your plates are cleared, you’re still smiling, and Harry is sitting just a little closer than he was when you started. Not touching. Not pushing. Just near. Warm. Present.

“Thank you,” you say as you stand.

“For the car?”

“For lunch and the laughs..”

“Anytime,” he says, eyes not leaving yours. “But next time, I’m picking you up on foot. Like a man of the people.”

You’ve just turned off the lamp.

The apartment is quiet. You can hear someone’s music faintly through the wall, and a car alarm hiccuping somewhere blocks away before slowly stopping. You’re in bed, finally. Bare-faced, sleep shirt on, book half-open next to you. Your phone is face down on the nightstand.

You don’t expect it to ring.

But it does, just as you’re sliding deeper into sleep. A soft vibration, and a light across your cheek.

Harry Castillo.

You blink at the name; it's still strange to see it there, tucked between texts from spam and a random DoorDash update. 

You hesitate, then answer.

“Hello?”

His voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Hey. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You roll onto your side, tucking the blanket under your chin. “Not really. I was pretending to sleep but mostly just realizing how cold my feet are right now.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You can hear a drawer opening. Something soft shuffling.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Mmm. Financial guilt?”

“God. That’s terrifyingly accurate.”

You smile into the dark. “So what happened?”

"Work went off the rails after lunch, endless calls, two people threatening to quit, and I somehow offended a potential partner by describing his margins as ‘borderline invisible.’”

You snort. “That does sound like you.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a pause while he moves again—maybe into another room. His voice shifts slightly as if he’s brushing his teeth or pulling off a shirt.

“I didn’t want to be alone in my head tonight. That okay?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

You hear the sound of a faucet. A clink of glass on marble.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly.

“Night routine. Trying to forget about my job. You?”

You glance around the room.

“Lying here. Wearing a shirt that says ‘I love books more than people.’ Left sock halfway off.”

“Hot.”

You grin. “I tried.”

“I wish I could see you.”

You freeze for half a second and recover quickly. 

“I look like a raccoon that's reading Murakami.”

“I think that’s exactly my type.”

You talk.

Not about anything important, not really. Just… things.

Favorite words. “I like ‘luminous,’” you say. “I like ‘ruin,’” he replies. You talk about what you’d re-name each dog breed, about how weird it is to feel exhausted and overstimulated at the same time and about how sometimes the city feels like it’s chewing on you, but in a good way.

He tells you he’s in bed now. That he’s staring up at the ceiling. That there’s a crack in the plaster shaped like an ampersand (&). 

“Maybe it’s a sign,” he says.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Something to come or that I should become a book editor too.”

An hour passes.

Then another.

Your voice gets lower. You laugh less but not because he’s not funny. Just because you’re sinking into something heavier. Softer.

There’s a pause where neither of you speak. You think he’s fallen asleep, but then he murmurs,

“This feels intimate.”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. Just… It’s been awhile.”

You exhale slowly. “Same.”

You roll onto your back, phone resting against your ear. Staring at your own ceiling. No cracks shaped like ampersands, just a water stain and the faint shadow of an old dream.

“Feels dangerously domestic,” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh. “God forbid.”

“I mean, we’ve passed ‘what’s your favorite pasta shape.’”

“I’ll try not to get too earnest, then.”

“Too late.”

He’s quiet. Then, “you’re not hanging up, though.”

“Neither are you.”

Eventually, your voices start trailing off. He gets quieter. You feel the words before they form:

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Don’t forget me by morning.”

You don’t answer. Just smile into the dark and let the silence stretch between you like a thread that won’t break.

The late-night phone call is still swimming around in your head when you wake up.

You slept better than you expected, despite your brain playing his voice on repeat like a lullaby.

You have an interview this morning. One of your more polished authors. Midlist, legacy type. He wears cufflinks and uses the word “zeitgeist” unironically.

So, in a rare move, you reach for your version of a professional editor outfit, something you haven’t done in years.

Chestnut colored low-waisted trousers that fit like they were made for you. Crisp cream blouse, just slightly undone at the collar. A slim leather belt. A dark red lip that says I will criticize your work out loud, and you’ll enjoy it. Hair pinned back in a clean low bun, a few soft pieces left out. Kitten heels and your favorite silver hoops.

You look like the version of yourself that used to walk into publishing houses and command rooms full of men who thought they were smarter than you.

You haven’t worked in an office in years, but this version still lives somewhere in you. And today? She came to play.

As you’re passing through your building’s small, scuffed lobby, coffee in hand, tote bag over your shoulder. Then the building manager flags you down.

“Hey, uh… someone left this for you.”

He gestures to a sleek black envelope with your name printed in elegant script, leaning against a tall white box on the mail desk.

You frown, glancing at it. You’re not expecting anything. Not from a client. Not from anyone.

You open the box.

Inside: flowers.

But not just any flowers. Something rare. Something lush, strange, and stunning. Delicate cream and rust-colored juliet garden roses, pale orchids folded like paper secrets, and spidery accents of chocolate cosmos the kind that smell faintly like vanilla and firewood.

You blink.

You've never seen a bouquet like this.

Tucked between the stems is a small card, handwritten in blocky, careful print.

You reminded me of summer yesterday. So I thought I would bring summer to you. – H

You’re still staring when your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Harry Castillo calling.

You answer. “Okay, you’re actually a menace.”

“So you got them.”

His voice is warm, smug, but just a little uncertain beneath it. Like he’s waiting to see if he went too far.

“You didn’t think they were too much?”

You glance back at the bouquet, still cradled in your arms.

“Harry, I didn’t even know flowers like this existed.”

“That’s why I picked them. They reminded me of you. Unusual,  gorgeous and slightly intimidating in the best way.”

You snort, flustered and weirdly breathless. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“That’s not the goal. I just… wanted you to know last night meant something.”

Your fingers tighten on the phone.

“Me too.”

You're halfway out the door again when you stop, pivot on your heel, and mutter, “Shit.”

“Everything okay?” Harry’s voice comes through your phone, still tucked between your ear and shoulder.

“The flowers,” you say, rushing back inside.

You head straight for the kitchen, set your bag down, and rummage through the cabinet above the fridge. Your “vase” selection consists of a chipped pitcher, a pasta jar, and something you once used to make sangria. You choose the pitcher, it’s wide enough, and besides, the cream glaze makes the florals pop.

You set the bouquet down gently on the island, like you’re afraid it’ll bruise.

“Are you arranging them?” he asks, his voice low and amused. You can picture him: still in bed, hair a little messy, coffee half-drunk on his nightstand.

“Of course I’m arranging them. These are insane. I should charge for admission.”

“Send me a picture.”

You pluck a dead leaf from a petal and sigh. “You really know how to mess with someone’s head, you know that?”

“Just yours. And only in the nicest way.”

You don’t say anything to that. Just bite your lip and step back, checking the vase’s angle from across the kitchen. It’s perfect. They’re perfect. It’s all too much, and yet… not enough.

“I have to go,” you say eventually. “Client time.”

“Kill it.”

“I always do.”

“I’ll call you later?”

You hesitate just a second before saying, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You hang up, grab your bag, and try not to look back at the flowers. You fail.

You're still somehow early.

Either your client is late, or you’ve inherited your father’s compulsive punctuality. You’re sitting in the second-floor lounge of a midtown publishing house, a place that smells like over-air-conditioned paper and expensive hand soap. A wall of glass gives you a view of the city. Cranes in the distance, clouds bruising the sky, and the taxis below like yellow fish in a steel aquarium.

You’ve got your phone out, pretending to scroll through notes.

But really?

You’re thinking about Harry.

You’re thinking about the sound of his voice last night, the slight rasp like he was stretched too thin but letting himself unravel just for you. You’re thinking about the way he said “they reminded me of you” and how you didn’t flinch at it, how you wanted to believe it.

“Ms. Elliot?”

You look up.

Your client is here. Finally.

The interview starts slow, he talks a lot. He’s proud of his book. You nod, you smile, you ask the right questions. You’re good at this. Still, some part of your brain keeps echoing Harry’s laugh, the flowers on your counter, the heat in your face when he said I wish I could see you.

But you redirect. You’re a pro.

You circle back to theme, structure, tone.

“Do you think your work is more political or personal?”

“Both,” the author says, “but I’d argue that good writing always is.”

That gets a real smile from you. The kind you’d usually savor.

But even now, even now, you wish you could tell Harry about that line. You wish he could see you in this moment, sharp and engaged and glowing with capability.

You finish the interview on schedule, exchange a handshake and a thank-you, and step out onto the street again, wind in your hair, sun hitting your skin like a reward.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry Castillo:

Tell me how it went. And tell me what you’re doing tonight.

You type back slowly, thumbs and cheeks suddenly warm.

You:

Went well. Crushed it. And tonight… why? Are you planning something?

Three dots. Then:

Harry Castillo:

Maybe. You ever had mediocre ramen on your rooftop?

Your heart kicks once.

And suddenly, the rest of your day has a direction.

You wait a beat before replying to Harry’s text.

You don’t want to look eager, even though you’ve already mentally rearranged your whole evening at the idea of him. You reread his message and smirk.

Then you type back:

You:

I’ve got ramen in the back of my pantry and a rooftop of my own. But I’m warning you, it’s Queens, not Kyoto.

He replies a minute later.

Harry Castillo:

I’ll risk it. What time?

You glance at the sun dragging its way toward the horizon.

you:

Seven. Bring your own chopsticks.

He shows up right on time.

Not that you were waiting at the window or anything.

You buzz him in and open your apartment door barefoot, your hair is still in a messy knot. The air smells like toasted sesame and garlic, and you cheated and added an egg along with a handful of scallions to the instant ramen to make it look slightly more presentable.

“Hey,” Harry says when you open the door. “Wow. You really went all out.”

He’s in loose black jeans and a slate-colored henley, sleeves pushed up. He doesn’t look like he works for Wall-Street tonight and more like the boy-next-door who happens to have a portfolio. His hair’s a little damp like he showered before coming over, and you hate that you notice. You really hate it.

You step aside, letting him in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

He glances around your apartment, books stacked in messy piles, a print of a Matisse sketch by the record player, a candle that smells like amber, old paper and vanilla.

“Feels very you.” He lifts a brow. “It’s warm and a little intimidating.”

You grin. “Again, just like me.”

You move toward the kitchen to grab the bowls, one slightly chipped, one a gift from an ex fling you barely remember and gesture with your elbow.

“Rooftop’s this way. Don’t get lost.”

He follows without question. You lead him out your front door, up the narrow stairwell that always smells like warm brick and weed. You push open the old metal door with your elbow and your hip, and just like that, you’re above the city.

It’s not glamorous. The rooftop has a warped picnic table, a few plastic chairs stolen from someone’s backyard, and an ancient milk crate you use as a step stool when the neighbors don’t return theirs. But the view?

The view makes up for everything.

Queens spread wide below you, glittering and unpretentious. In the distance, the Manhattan skyline cuts sharp against the violet sky, scattered windows still glowing like someone left the light on just for you.

Harry exhales behind you.

“God. This is…” he trails off.

You set the bowls down on the blanket you laid out earlier and glance over your shoulder. “Still willing to risk it?”

“Absolutely.”

He sits beside you, knees bent, arms draped over them in a way that makes him look accidentally posed. You pass him a bowl, then settle cross-legged beside him, your foot barely brushing his.

You both eat for a few minutes in a comfortable quiet. It’s easy. It’s not nothing.

He slurps a noodle and winces. “Okay, that’s criminally good. What did you do?”

You shrug. “Doctoring ramen is a sacred art. I could teach you, but I’d have to ask for your soul.”

“Your soul already owns most of mine, so... What’s one more piece?”

You snort. “You’re really laying it on tonight.”

“Only ‘cause I mean it,” he says while shrugging.

You side-eye him, spoon pausing near your mouth. “You always seem to mean it. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

He grins, but doesn’t argue.

The wind picks up just a little, and you hug your knees for warmth. A second later, without comment, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders like it’s nothing.

You let it happen. Don’t say a word.

“So,” he says after a beat. “Still not a date?”

You smirk. “No.”

“Right. Got it.”

A pause.

“If it was, though, I’d be blowing it. I didn’t even bring wine.”

You lean back on your hands, glancing sideways. “You showed up, you’re eating my ramen, and you sent me flowers. That’s enough.”

“And you’re wearing my jacket.”

You look down at it like you just noticed.

“I guess I am.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s just thick. Heavy with everything you’re not saying. Your arms brush. His knee shifts a little closer.

You clear your throat. “So. When’s your next big deal or billion-dollar merger or whatever?”

He chuckles. “I actually pushed everything back for the rest of the night. This is it.”

You blink. “This?”

“You.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. You just sit there with the city stretched out around you, a bowl of ramen cooling in your lap, and Harry beside you, warm, still, and impossibly present.

You shift slightly, feeling the weight of his words settle in the air between you. The city noises below, the distant hum of cars, the occasional bark of a dog, fade into the background, like they belong to another world. Up here, it’s just the two of you.

You meet his eyes, searching for a sign. Instead, he offers a small, almost shy smile. It’s the kind of smile that says, I’m trying, but I don’t want to rush this.

You fold your arms loosely around your knees, pretending to study the skyline but secretly memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his brown eyes catch the last light.

“You’re full of surprises, Harry Castillo,” you say, voice low.

He leans back on his hands, gaze drifting over the rooftops. “I could say the same about you.”

A comfortable silence stretches. Neither of you wants to break it, but neither wants to disappear either.

“I like this,” he finally says. “No pretenses. No pressure.”

You nod, your heart beating a little faster than it should. “Yeah. Me too.”

He glances at his watch. “I should probably get going soon. I have an early day tomorrow.”

You rise, brushing crumbs from your jeans. “Me too.”

He stands as well, hesitating for a moment as if weighing something unspoken.

“Can I walk you down?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate. It feels like the right thing to do, even if you’re not sure why.

“Sure,” you say.

The metal stairs creak under your steps as you descend together, closer now than before. In the hallway, he stops just outside your door, fingers lightly touching the frame.

“Tonight was… nice,” he says, voice soft.

You smile, heart fluttering. “It really was.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then adds, “I’m glad I came.”

“Me too,” you whisper.

He finally steps back, the distance between you settling like a promise.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Night, Harry.”

You close the door, leaning against it with a smile that lingers long after he’s gone.

You wake up slowly, blinking into the late morning light that slips past the curtains. There’s a moment, maybe two, where the dream still lingers.

It was him.

Of course it was.

Not a sexy dream, not exactly. Just one of those oddly tender ones. His hand brushing your lower back in a crowd. His laugh echoing in your apartment like it belonged there. You two reading in silence, feet tangled, breathing in sync. Comfortable. Easy.

You turn onto your side, eyes half-lidded, trying to hold onto it.

It’s been a long time since a man’s made it into your dreams without breaking something first.

Harry was dreaming too. Only he’s not really sleeping anymore, just lying still in bed, sheets tangled around his waist, laptop abandoned on the far corner. He’s staring at the ceiling and thinking about you.

Not the rooftop or the ramen, specifically, but the way you looked at him. The way you didn’t push or pull. Just let him be.

He’s thinking about how different that is from what he had with Lucy.

Lucy had been... fine. Beautiful. Sharp. But every conversation felt like a contract, every touch like a negotiation. He used to think that was normal.

But then there was you, barefoot, sarcastic, eating cheap noodles on a Queens rooftop, and suddenly, everything felt different.

He exhales hard, runs a hand through his hair, and reaches for his phone before he can stop himself.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry 💼:

Question.

Do you like beautiful old bookstores that smell like ink and with secrets?

You sit up, already grinning.

You:

I’m not a monster. Why?

Harry 💼:

Because there’s one in SoHo I used to walk past and think, “one day I’ll have a reason to go in there.”

And I think you might be my reason.

You stare at the message, heart thudding in your chest.

This man.

You type back:

You:

Okay. I’m intrigued. Time?

Harry 💼:

1 p.m. I’ll meet you there. Casual as hell, I promise.

The bookstore is tucked between two designer boutiques, a tall narrow building with sun-bleached windows and a brass bell that jingles when the door opens.

You get there early. Not on purpose, just… eager, despite yourself. You keep it casual, black t-shirt tucked into jeans, boots, your tote slung over your shoulder. You wander through the first floor while you wait. It smells like old paper, cedar, something faintly floral.

You’re halfway through flipping through a dog-eared collection of letters between two 20th-century poets when you hear the bell above the door.

You don’t even need to turn.

“I was hoping you’d beat me here,” he says behind you.

You look over your shoulder. He’s in dark jeans, a white tee under a navy jacket, sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Effortless. But it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s been thinking about this all morning, that sends something skittering beneath your ribs.

You smirk. “You remembered this place just for me?”

“Technically, I remembered it for myself. But it only became important once you existed in my life.”

You raise a brow. “Careful. You’re gonna make me blush in public.”

“That’s the goal.”

You spend the next hour wandering.

You pull a collection of translated poetry off the shelf. He skims the back cover of a book on finance and laughs. You sit together on a creaky leather couch on the mezzanine, flipping through coffee table books and making snide commentary about overly abstract art.

But something in the air has shifted.

It’s quieter now. Closer.

You catch him watching you a few times, when you tuck your hair behind your ear, when you underline a line of prose with your finger, and when you laugh with your whole mouth open.

He doesn’t hide the way he looks at you.

And you don’t hide the way it shakes you.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, a book open in his lap, eyes still on you.

You glance over. “That sounds like a compliment and a threat.”

“It’s just the truth. You make everything feel a little different now. Better.”

You look away quickly. Pulse thumping in your ears. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might start believing you.”

“Good. You should.”

You close your book, suddenly unable to focus. “Lets check out.”

At the register, you both buy something. He picks a first edition he insists on getting for you despite your protest and when he hands the clerk his card, you catch him glancing sideways at you. Like he wants to say something. Like he’s trying to hold it in.

Outside the bookstore, sunlight spills over the sidewalk in soft white-gold. The street buzzes faintly with city noise, horns, bike bells, someone on a Bluetooth call arguing in Italian.

You both linger near the corner, the edge of something unspoken tightening around your ankles like ribbon.

“You hungry?” he asks, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, leaning a little closer.

You nod. “Starving.”

“Let me call a car. There’s a spot I’ve been meaning to try. It’s close.”

You open your mouth, already halfway to saying no, I’ll walk—but then you pause. He’s looking at you like he’s not just suggesting lunch. Like he’s asking you to let him care for you in his quiet, expensive way.

And for once, you let him.

“Okay,” you say. “But just this once.”

“Deal.”

The car is sleek, dark, and unreasonably quiet inside. He opens the door for you without saying anything, just a glance that makes your pulse jump. You slide in, legs crossed, arms folded loosely across your stomach like you’re trying not to look like you care.

A few minutes into the ride, his phone buzzes.

“Shit,” he mutters, glancing at the screen. “Do you mind?”

You shake your head. “Go ahead.”

He taps to accept. “Yeah, this is Harry.”

And then he’s off, voice low and measured, all clipped sentences and layered confidence. You sit beside him, pretending to look out the window.

But you’re not really listening to the call.

You’re watching him.

The way his jaw flexes ever so slightly when he listens. The little lines that appear at the corners of his mouth when something doesn’t go the way he wants. The way he gestures with two fingers, like he’s conducting the air. The way he leans forward when he says something decisive.

You shouldn’t find this hot.

You definitely do.

And when he says “I’ll review the deck by seven, but loop me in on the legal first” like he’s wrapping a bow around someone else’s fire drill, you feel it low in your stomach. That quiet ache of watching a man who’s not just smart but capable.

He ends the call with a quick “I’ve gotta go,” drops his phone in his lap, and glances over.

“Sorry. Work.”

You raise an eyebrow, carefully neutral. “That was... extremely corporate of you.”

“Don’t lie, you were into it.”

You snort. “I plead the fifth.”

He takes you to a small corner place with wide windows and zero branding. One of those ungoogleable restaurants that only exists by word of mouth. Inside, the vibe is stripped-down: pale wood tables, worn-in leather seats, white wine chilling in ceramic buckets, and a chalkboard menu that changes weekly.

It’s nothing like ramen on a rooftop late at night.

It’s quieter. Slower. Cozier.

The hostess knows Harry by name. “It’s been a while,” she says with a wink.

“Trying to change that,” he replies, glancing at you.

You’re seated in a back corner by the window. The table’s small. You could stretch your foot out and touch his ankle. You don’t. But you think about it.

“They do this roasted fish with pickled something-or-other,” he says, handing you the menu. “It sounds weird. It isn’t.”

You scan it. “I trust you. Mostly.”

“I’ll take that.”

You both order. He gets the fish. You get something with farro and beets and citrus vinaigrette. He orders two glasses of wine before you can stop him.

“Wine? At lunch?” you ask, lifting a brow.

“What else are you supposed to do on a fake date in the middle of a workday?”

You grin. “So it’s a date now?”

“I didn’t say a real date.”

“Right. Casual. Just two friends getting tipsy on a Tuesday.”

“Exactly. Two friends who almost held hands in a bookstore.”

You kick him under the table.

He kicks you back, gentler.

The wine comes. The food follows. And somewhere between laughing over a bite of his fish and him dabbing a drip of vinaigrette off the corner of your lip with his thumb like it means nothing, you realize you’re in trouble.

You like him. Too much.

And he’s looking at you like maybe, just maybe, he does too.

The table is quieter now.

Your plates have been cleared, wine glasses half-full, the sun shifting low through the window and casting shadows across the tabletop. Outside, the city keeps moving, horns, heels, soft static from a passing bus, but here it’s all muted.

You swirl the stem of your glass between your fingers, lazily.

Harry’s been quiet for a minute. Not uncomfortable. Just... hesitant.

He leans forward, elbows on the edge of the table, eyes steady on yours.

“So—” he starts, and then pauses.

You look up. “So?”

His voice drops. A little rough. 

“There’s a gala Friday night. Work-adjacent. Black tie, too many speeches, probably bad shrimp.”

You nod, amused. “Sounds exciting.”

“Every year my assistant sets me up with some woman I’ve never met to make me look... normal. Taken.”

“You really love living the fantasy, huh?”

“I declined this year.”

You tilt your head. “Oh?”

“Because I was hoping you’d come with me instead.”

You blink. It’s not that you didn’t think this could happen, it’s that hearing him say it like that, so plainly, knocks something loose inside your chest.

He watches you carefully and quietly, like he’s trying not to chase your answer out of your mouth.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he adds. “You really don’t. It’s just... I’d rather go with you than sit next to someone who calls Tribeca ‘Truh-beekah’ all night.”

You press your lips together, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That’s fair.”

“So?” he says, trying to sound casual, but you can tell, you can tell, he’s not.

You lean back in your chair, eyes scanning him like you’re solving a riddle. Because part of you wants to say yes right now. And the other part, the smaller and sharper part wants to savor it. To make him wait just a little.

You lift your wine, take a sip, set it down gently.

“You’ll send a car?” you ask.

“Of course.”

“And you’ll make sure the shrimp’s not actually bad?”

“I’ll pull strings.”

You tap your finger on the rim of your glass once. Twice.

“Okay,” you say finally. Soft. But solid.

“I’ll go with you.”

His shoulders relax like you just gave him oxygen.

“Yeah?” he says, his smile tugging. “Really?”

You nod. “But I swear to God, if I end up next to someone talking about NFTs or their yacht for three hours, I’m leaving with a waiter.”

“Deal,” he laughs. “But only if I get visitation rights.”

You laugh too. It’s easy again. Warm.

Then, after a pause, he adds, more cautious now, but still hopeful:

“One more thing.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Here we go.”

“I want to send you something. A dress.”

You blink. “Harry…”

“No pressure to wear it,” he says quickly. “But I saw one and thought of you. I already have it saved. My assistant owes me a favor. It’s nothing dramatic. Just something elegant and sharp.”

“You’re describing a Bond girl.”

“No,” he says, his gaze soft. “I’m describing you.”

Your stomach flips.

You reach for your wine again, just to do something with your hands. “You know I can dress myself, right?”

“Of course you can. But I also know how it feels to want to look a certain way when you walk into a room like that. And I want you to have exactly that feeling.”

You go quiet. You weren’t expecting that answer. You weren’t expecting how much it would hit.

“Okay,” you say again, quieter this time. “But only if it’s actually my size. And nothing overly sparkly.”

“Promise. No sparkles. Just something you’ll look delicious in.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts.

Two Days Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

2:14 p.m.

You’re half-editing a paragraph and half-re-reading the same sentence for the third time when your phone buzzes.

Harry 💼:

Hey

Don’t yell at me

I need your measurements

You blink. Pause. Then type back.

You:

…for what exactly?

Harry 💼:

The dress

I told you I wanted to send you one

I mean unless you want me to guess. But then I can’t be held responsible for the fit

You roll your eyes, already smirking.

You:

So what are we talking ballpark sizing? Height? Waist? How scandalous is this thing?

Harry 💼:

Depends Do you consider “strapless” scandalous?

Your mouth drops open. You swallow a smile.

You:

Oh we’re playing like that ? Strapless, huh?

Harry 💼:

I figured if I’m going to show up with the most captivating woman in the room, she shouldn’t have to tug on sleeves

Or think about shoulder seams. Just her confidence

You stare at that one a little too long.

You:

You talk like that to all your dates?

Harry 💼:

I don’t have dates Not lately Just you

Your heart makes a very unprofessional move in your chest.

You:

You realize you’re making it very hard for me to concentrate on work right now

Harry 💼:

Good. Send me your numbers

Let me do the rest

You hesitate for all of one second before sending him your measurements. And once you do, he doesn’t respond right away.

Two minutes later:

Harry 💼:

Perfect

Thank you

I’ll have it sent directly to you. No peeking until tomorrow.

You:

You’re not the boss of me

Harry 💼:

Not yet.

You nearly drop your phone.

The Next Morning 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

You don’t expect to see him. You’re halfway to your mailbox, wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts when the door buzzes.

“Package for you,” says the manager behind the desk. “Real fancy.”

You raise an eyebrow just as the glass doors slide open.

Harry Castillo steps through them holding a black garment bag.

You stop walking.

He smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Good morning,” he says. “I had something to drop off.”

“Most billionaires use couriers,” you reply, crossing your arms, trying not to grin. “Is this what they call a personal touch?”

“Something like that.” He eyes your outfit with amusement. “Should I have brought coffee too?”

“I would’ve liked a croissant.”

“Noted.”

He steps closer, handing the garment bag over like it’s a sacred artifact.

“No pressure to wear it,” he says, lowering his voice. “But as I said,I saw it, and I thought of you.”

From the desk, the manager clears his throat loudly, but with restraint.

You glance sideways at him, then back at Harry. “You always this charming?”

Asking as if you don’t already know the answer. 

“Only in Queens.”

You try not to blush. You fail.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he adds, voice dropping half an octave as his eyes flick over your face.

You nod. “Yeah. You will.”

He’s gone two seconds later, out the door like he didn’t just drop a bomb and walk away.

Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

You unzip the garment bag slowly, like it might whisper if you move too fast.

Inside is the dress.

A vintage charcoal grey gown, smooth and liquid in your hands. It’s strapless, with a refined, statuesque shape that skims the length of your body. The fabric catches the light in a quiet, expensive way. Nothing too flashy.

There’s embroidery stitched delicately along the bodice and fine silver-threaded detail that curves like vines framing your collarbones. Elegant. Minimal. Dangerous.

You slip it on with care.

No tugging, no adjusting. It fits perfectly. The way it hugs your waist, the slight flare of the hem, the way the bodice presses close without suffocating it feels like it was made for you. Like he really looked.

You twist to check your reflection in the mirror.

You don’t look like the woman who edits manuscripts on her couch in a hoodie and glasses. You look like the woman who walks into a room and makes people turn. The kind of woman who deserves to be watched.

You pin your hair into a soft, low updo, leaving a few pieces loose at the nape of your neck. Subtle makeup, your favorite brick-red lipstick, a little liner, highlighter so faint it only shows when you turn your head.

Then the finishing touch: your baby blue heels.

They shouldn’t work with the dress. But somehow, they do.

They spark against the grey. A wink of color. 

You glance at the clock. 6:57.

And then—your buzzer goes off.

You check your appearance one last time in the mirror by the door, fingers smoothing the fabric at your hips. The heels are just high enough. The updo stays pinned. You breathe in once, twice, and grab your clutch.

Then you head downstairs.

The moment you step into the lobby, the room hushes. The manager behind the desk nearly drops his clipboard. The elevator chimes shut behind you. But you don’t see any of them.

Because at the far end of the lobby, waiting by the glass doors in a crisp, black tux and a perfectly tied bow tie, is Harry.

He turns when he hears your heels click against the tile.

And for a full, suspended moment, he forgets how to breathe.

His eyes sweep over you from head to toe, slowly, reverent, and utterly still.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Your smile curves, shy and wicked all at once. “Nice tux.”

“I don’t— Jesus.” He closes the space between you, eyes still wide. “You look... devastatingly beautiful.”

Your hand is already in his before you even realize you reached for him.

“Ready?” he asks, like his voice just came back online.

You nod, fingers tightening slightly around his. “Let’s go.”

The car is sleek and low-lit as usual, the partition already raised for privacy. You sit beside him, knees angled together, clutch held tight in your lap.

But your other hand?

Still tangled with his.

You don’t speak much. Don’t need to.

His thumb traces your knuckle slowly, and you feel it everywhere. The soft city blur outside the window fades beneath the weight of his attention.

“The gala’s at The Frick,” he murmurs, gazing at your profile. “They rent it out once a year for this foundation thing. Mostly donors, trustees, people who pretend to read art journals.”

You smirk. “Sounds awful.”

“It will be. But you’ll be there soooo—”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels too tight, too warm

The car glides to a stop outside the stately mansion-turned-museum on the Upper East Side. Lights wash the limestone facade in a golden glow. A crowd is gathered beneath the archway, camera flashes starting up like clockwork.

You grip your clutch tighter as the door opens.

But then he’s there offering his hand, not just to help you out, but to anchor you.

You take it.

The moment your heels touch the cobblestone, voices ripple.

“Who is that?” “She’s stunning—look at that dress.” “Is that Harry Castillo’s date?” “God, the two of them—”

You don’t hear all of it. But you hear enough.

Still, your eyes only find one pair.

Harry’s.

And the way he looks at you?

Like he likes the attention. Because they see you the way he already does.

part two —>

HE KEEPS looking at you while walking, yet he remains silent. It’s one of the harshest winters he has faced since the outbreak, and you appear more like a porcelain doll that ought to be kept safe in a box, rather than a survivor in the wilderness. There were six people at the start of the journey, but now it’s merely the two of you. He has already had to bid farewell too many times in his life. It would be unfortunate to attempt to forget your pretty face as well.

You were shivering despite the many layers you had as you tried to keep up with Joel.

He sighs before he stops and turns around to face you. You can see in his gaze the concern he feels for you.

"You're freezing." He says, stepping towards you.

“N-No shit,” you said through chattering teeth.

He simply huffs at your protest, gently wrapping the coat around you. He then looks down at you, his gaze softens slightly.

“N-No Joel you need it.”

"I'll manage. You're smaller and freezing. Now shut your pretty little mouth and keep warm, okay?"

“O-Okay Joel, T-Thank you,” you said, still shivering but his coat helped.

He nods, a small smirk on his lips. It seems like your compliance has earned his grudging respect.

"You're welcome.”

He starts walking again, but this time at a slightly slower pace so you can keep up with him.

THE CABIN

After walking in the blinding white snow for what seems like forever, Joel's gaze catches a small cabin in the distance. He halts, his eyes focused on the structure. He lets out a small hum, seeming to consider something.

"Looks like we might get some rest."

“D-Do you think it’s safe?”

He looks at you, his expression is a mix of consideration and caution.

"Hard to say for sure. But it's our best shot for now."

He approaches the cabin cautiously, his hand on his revolver as he checks the surroundings.

“O-Okay.”

He nods at you, still wary. He arrives at the cabin's door and presses his ear against it, listening for any sounds inside.

He then gives the doorknob a few experimental twists, but it doesn't budge. He takes a couple of steps back and prepares to kick the door open, but pauses.

"Stay behind me."

You nodded.

Joel gives you one last glance, making sure you're behind him, before he slams his booted foot against the door. It creaks and eventually gives way, opening fully. Joel steps inside, revolver raised and trained on every corner and shadowed spot.

You also took your gun out just in case.

The cabin is empty, which comes as a relief to Joel. He lowers his revolver, letting out a sigh.

"Looks clear."

He steps further into the cabin, quickly checking every corner and hiding place for any sign of danger. After a few moments, he decides it's safe.

"You can come in."

You all but ran in there, desperate to seek any warmth and put my gun back in my pack.

He lets out an amused snort as he watches you rush into the cabin.

"In a hurry, aren't we?"

He shuts the door behind you, locking it to add an extra layer of security. He then gazes around the cabin, his eyes roaming over the tattered furniture and bare walls.

“It was fuckin freezing,” you said, already settling into the place.

He chuckles, his gaze meeting yours. He takes in your shivering form and sighs.

"I can tell.”

He walks over to the fireplace, which is thankfully already stocked with firewood. He starts working to build a fire, his large hands moving swiftly.

You couldn’t help but look at his hands as you helped him with the wood.

He glances at you a few times as you help, taking note of your silent observations. His hands, rough and calloused from a lifetime of survival, move with surprising grace and precision as he arranges the firewood into a neat pile.

After a few moments, the fire roars to life, its flames casting an inviting warmth over the cabin.

As you were warming up you shrugged off his jacket and gave it back to Joel.

He takes the jacket, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief moment. He shrugs it back on, the fabric a little damp from your body heat and the snowflakes that had melted on it.

He settles on the floor near the fireplace, leaning against the wall. He pats the space next to him, a weary but somewhat inviting gesture.

"Come sit."

You nodded and let out a simple “alright,” and sat next to him.

He watches as you take a seat beside him, the firelight dancing across your face. He remains silent for a moment, his gaze drifting back to the fire, but he can feel your presence next to him and it's oddly comfortable. It's been a while since he's had someone by his side.

“This is nice.”

He glances at you, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I guess it is."

He stretches out his legs slightly, the tension from their journey showing in his movements.

"It's been a while since I've had a moment of peace like this. Been non-stop moving since the outbreak."

“Yeah tell me about it,” you chucked.

He lets out a soft chuckle, his eyes still fixed on the dancing flames.

"Yeah, it's a goddamn nightmare out there."

He pauses for a moment, his expression growing serious.

"I can't remember the last time I slept in a bed and didn't have to keep one eye open. And finding shelter like this...it's a small miracle."

“Yeah it’s a cute cabin, I uh actually meant to bring this up but…” You averted your gaze to the wooden floor.

He turns his head to face you, his gaze curious and a bit wary. He cocks an eyebrow, silently urging you to continue.

“Uh I was looking around the place and there’s only one bedroom with one bed…”

He freezes for a fraction of a second, his expression unreadable. He then lets out a scoff, running a hand through his hair.

"Well, that is something to talk about."

He eyes the single bed across the room, then looks back at you. He's trying to act nonchalant, but your observation has clearly caught him off guard.

“I mean I’m fine with it. I think we both deserve to sleep in a bed and we’re both adults it’s okay… unless you’re not comfortable with it—”

You sputtered out quickly.

He cuts you off, his tone firm but not cold.

"No, no it's fine."

He lets out a sigh, running a hand over his face. He's trying to conceal his discomfort. Of course, they were both adults, but sharing a single bed was...intimate. Something he hadn't done in a very long time. But he quickly pushes that thought aside, refusing to show any vulnerability.

"We both need rest. It's just for one night."

“Right. Yeah…Yeah.”

He nods, his gaze returning to the fire, a mix of resignation and exhaustion in his eyes. Despite his attempt to act cool about the situation, he's clearly not used to sharing personal space with anyone.

There's a long, heavy silence as both of you sit there, the crackling of the fire providing the only background noise.

“Do you think… Could we stay here longer? Not just a night?”

You said, breaking the silence.

He considers your question, his eyes distant as he stares into the flames. He runs a hand over his face, a weary gesture.

"I suppose we could...for a few days, at least."

He finally looks over at you, a hint of skepticism in his gaze.

"But it's risky. We can't stay in one place too long. We could get ambushed, supplies could run out."

“Joel c’mon there’s nothin for miles, we could stay here for winter.”

His expression darkens at your words, his jaw clenching briefly. He knows you have a point – the cabin is secluded, and they're surrounded by miles of isolated wilderness during this heavy winter. But that thought alone makes him uneasy.

“Winter? That's months, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Yeah and? All we do is slowly die when we’re walking in the snow. Nothing changes, it's just dreadful and cold,” You said, finally looking back at him again.

He scoffs at your words, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"And what, stay here and wait it out? What if someone finds us? Or if we run out of supplies?"

He shakes his head, his whole body tense. He's not used to being told what to do, let alone by a pretty girl half his age.

“We kill them and we find more supplies, you’re good at that stuff why are you afraid all of a sudden?”

"I'm not afraid."

He snaps, his voice gruff. He's irritated by your insistence and the fact you seem to have no fear.

"I'm being cautious. We can't rely on blind luck forever."

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration clear in every line of his face. Your casual attitude is beginning to wear on his nerves.

“But we should bask in it for a while, c'mon you said it yourself. You need some peace.”

You said in a matter of fact tone.

He can't argue with your logic, and that makes it even more frustrating. He lets out a weary sigh, his gaze returning to the fire.

"Fine. We'll stay here for the winter. But the moment it becomes dangerous, we're out of here, got it? No arguments."

“Yes sir,” You said with a mock salute.

He rolls his eyes at your sarcastic tone, a hint of annoyance on his face.

"Watch it, sweetheart."

He's trying to sound irritated, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice. He's actually a little entertained by your feistiness.

⋆꙳•❅*• •*❆ ₊ ⋆꙳•❅*• •*❆ ₊⋆꙳•❅*• •*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳•❅*• •*❆

A few days have passed since the decision to stay at the cabin. Despite the initial tension, the two of you have settled into a somewhat comfortable routine. The cabin is still relatively barren, but it has become a makeshift home of sorts.

Joel sits by the fireplace, sharpening one of his knives. The repetitive scrape of the blade against the stone is the only sound in the room. He glances over at you.

You were sitting in the corner of the worn down sofa reading one of the books in the abandoned bookshelf.

He continues sharpening his knife, but his attention drifts towards you. You seem engrossed in the book, the fire casting a cozy glow on your face. He watches you for a moment, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

Eventually, he breaks the silence.

"What're you reading?"

You turned the book over showing him the cover.

“The Da Vinci Code”

He raises an eyebrow at the title, a hint of surprise on his face. He didn't take you for a Da Vinci Code fan.

“Ah, the Da Vinci Code. Heard about it but never read it myself.”

He sets his knife and sharpening stone aside, turning his attention fully towards you.

“Is it any good?”

“So far yeah, just a bunch of history.”

You shrugged.

He lets out a soft, almost amused chuckle.

"Surprised you're into history."

He's not trying to be condescending, just making an observation. History isn't something he associates with women your age, nor something he usually finds particularly interesting.

“Just somethin’ to read.”

"Fair enough."

He leans back against the wall, crossing his arms. The silence stretches for a few moments, but it isn't uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that comes with familiarity and shared space. He continues to watch you, his expression a bit softer than usual.

You tried your hardest to move my eyes away from joel and back onto the words on the yellow pages. But joel just looked good like this. Like he wasn’t looking behind his back constantly, warm and domestic even.

Unaware of your thoughts, Joel continues to gaze at you. It's as if he's seeing you in a different light. You're so young, and yet here you are, braving the horrors of this world without breaking. He feels a strange sense of protectiveness towards you, even though he knows you can take care of yourself. He tries to ignore this feeling, but it gnaws at him, like a stubborn itch he can't scratch.

Hours have passed, and the sky outside has grown dark. The only source of light in the cabin is the flickering fire, casting dancing shadows across the room.

Joel is still leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. He looks like he might have been dozing off, but he suddenly stirs, his eyes snapping open. He glances around the room, his gaze finally settling on you.

You fell asleep on the couch with the book on your rising and falling stomach.

He raises an eyebrow at the sight of you, a soft chuckle escaping him. You look so peaceful in your sleep, despite the harsh world outside.

He stands and silently crosses the room towards you. Crouching beside the couch, he carefully lifts the book off your stomach and sets it aside. He covers you with a coarse blanket, his touch surprisingly gentle.

You stirred in your sleep, reaching out for Joel.

He freezes as you reach out, his heart skipping a beat. For a moment, he's torn between pulling away or giving in to the strange urge to move closer. He doesn't understand why the sight of you, half-asleep and grabbing for him, affects him so deeply.

Eventually, he decides to give in to the impulse. He gently takes your hand in his, his rough fingers closing around yours.

“Stay,” you whispered.

His breath hitches in his throat as he hears your whispered request. He was not prepared to hear those simple yet impactful words from your lips. His gaze softens as he looks down at you, your hand still clasped in his.

“I...I'll stay.”

He responds, his voice unusually quiet, almost intimate. He gently squeezes your hand in reassurance, a gesture of comfort and perhaps something more.

You moved to make room for him on the couch.

He hesitates for a moment, his eyes locked onto the empty space beside you on the couch. But he ultimately decides to give in, easing himself down next to you, careful not to disturb your sleep.

His body is stiff at first, the unfamiliar closeness making him feel vulnerable. But slowly, he relaxes as he feels the warmth of your body next to his. He lets out a quiet sigh, his hand still holding yours, as he closes his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of your breath.

You burrowed yourself more into his warmth.

Despite his initial tension, Joel finds himself responding to your nearness, his body betraying him. He wraps his arm around you, carefully pulling you closer, as if trying to shield you from the world outside.

He breathes in your scent, a mixture of the subtle fragrance of your skin and the slight musk of the wilderness. It feels oddly soothing, grounding him in this moment, this bubble of quiet intimacy.

He can feel your heartbeat against his chest, a gentle rhythm that calms his racing thoughts. For a while, he just lies there, lost in his own musings and the unfamiliar sensations coursing through him. He remembers the days when he rarely let himself get close to anyone, the days when he was so closed off that physical contact felt foreign to him. And here he is now, his arm around a girl half his age, and it doesn't feel wrong. It feels...safe.

You felt very safe in his arms as you drifted off back to sleep.

He feels you relax further in his arms, your breathing slowing as you fall back into a deeper slumber. For a long moment, he continues to lie there, simply holding you close, feeling the rise and fall of your chest against his. Then, he gently shifts onto his side, pulling you even closer, his arm tightening protectively around you.

The pale morning light streams through the lone window of the cabin, illuminating the small space. Joel slowly opens his eyes, bleary and disoriented.

For a moment, he forgets where he is. But then he feels the weight of you in his arms, your head on his chest, and everything comes rushing back. He tenses for a second, reality hitting hard, but he quickly adjusts to the situation.

He glances down at you, his gaze softens as he watches you sleep peacefully.

He realizes that he's still holding you, his arm wrapped around your waist, your leg draped across his, the blanket tangled around both of you. He can feel the warmth of your body against his, the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. It dawns on him that, for the first time in a long while, he actually slept through the night.

He doesn't move, not wanting to disturb your rest. He simply lies there, contemplating the strange intimacy that has developed between the two of you.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He's getting too comfortable, too vulnerable. But he can't lie to himself - holding you feels good. It feels safe. And that thought scares him more than anything he's faced in this god-forsaken world.

You began to stir a little.

He feels you start to move against him, and he reflexively tightens his hold on you, his protective instincts kicking in. He watches you closely, his gaze fixed on your face as he waits for you to fully awake.

“Mmh you’re warm,” you said, clearly still half-asleep.

A faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he hears your sleepy grumble. He relaxes a little, his grip on you loosening slightly, but his arm remains wrapped around you.

“And you're surprisingly clingy,” he replies, his voice teasing but a hint of affection in it.

You blushed and turned around in his hold.

He chuckles softly as you turn around, facing him. Your sudden closeness creates an intimate moment, and his initial teasing comment seems to have backfired on him. He can see the slight flush on your cheeks, and it does something to him. His arm instinctively tightens again, as if he can't bear the thought of letting you go.

He clears his throat, trying to regain his composure, but he can't find the right words. He just stares at you, the early morning light illuminating your face, making you look soft and vulnerable. He can feel his heart racing, his mind filled with a whirl of conflicting emotions.

You stirred more this time, definitely waking up.

He watches as you continue to stir, slowly coming to wakefulness. He knows that whatever moment they were just sharing is about to end. He loosens his grip on you a bit, not wanting to come across as too possessive.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but there's a hint of huskiness in his voice.

“Hi,” you spoke from his shoulder.

He feels a shiver run down his spine as he hears your voice, muffled against his shoulder. The sound of it, sleepy and unguarded, does something to him, and he has to fight the urge to pull you closer.

"Sleep well?" He asks, clearing his throat again to mask the unexpected effect you have on him.

“Hm don’t let it get to your head but that might’ve been the best sleep I’ve ever had.”

He can't help the smirk that forms on his lips at your comment, the pride he feels in knowing that he was a part of your peaceful slumber. He gives you a light nudge with his shoulder.

"Oh, trust me, it's already getting to my head, sweetheart."

You pushed at his chest and laughed.

God your laughter, it was one of the sweetest things Joel has ever heard.

He laughs along with you, surprised at how easily you make him laugh. It's a sound he hasn't made in a long time. When you push at his chest, he feigns being hurt, clutching at his heart.

“Hey, careful there. I'm an old man, you know.”

“Oh right I forgot I was dealing with a senior citizen.”

He narrows his eyes at you, the smirk returning to his face. He can't help but find your playful banter entertaining.

“Watch it, sweetheart. It's disrespectful to speak to your elders like that. I might have to teach you a lesson.”

He says this with mock seriousness, his hand coming to rest on your waist.

He catches the shift in your laughter, the tension suddenly palpable. His hand stills on your waist, fingers gently tracing circles on your skin, almost involuntarily. He looks at you, studying your reaction, his expression a mixture of amusement and something deeper.

“Something wrong?” He asks, his tone low and gruff.

“N-No of course not.”

He can see the slight flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes dart away from his gaze. It makes him curious, it makes him want to push you further.

“You're not a good liar, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand trailing higher on your waist, his touch becoming more deliberate.

“Wasn’t lyin—”

He notices your breath hitching, a smirk tugging at his lips. He knows he's getting a rise out of you, and he can't help but enjoy it.

“Really? Your face says otherwise.”

He takes a chance, leaning in a little closer, his other hand coming up to graze your jawline.

“Joel…”

Hearing his name come from your lips, so soft and breathy, has an effect on him he hadn't expected. He swallows hard, his gaze locked on you. He can't help but close the distance between you a little more, his hand still on your waist.

“Yes?” He asks, his voice gruff and low.

His gaze darkens, and his grip on your waist tightens a fraction.

“I want you. All of you.”

He says it with a quiet intensity, as if the admission is both a confession and a realization. The last remnants of his composure are slipping away, leaving only raw desire in their wake.

You blushed and put your softer smaller hands over Joel’s big rough ones.

The simple gesture of your hands covering his, so innocent and yet so intimate, nearly undoes him. He lets out a ragged breath, his gaze locked on you, his whole being consumed by the need to be closer to you. He tugs you closer, his arm around your waist sliding down to your hip, pulling you onto his lap so you're straddling him.

You gasped at the sudden change in position. The grogginess from your sleep is now gone.

Your gasp sends a thrill down Joel’s spine, and he watches your eyes widen as you settle over him. His hands stay firm on your hips, grounding you, keeping you close. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like you’re something he’s been craving for longer than he’d care to admit.

“You good?” he murmurs, eyes scanning your face, even as his thumbs stroke slow, lazy circles into your skin.

You nod, breathless. “Y-Yeah…”

That’s all he needs.

He leans in, brushing his lips against yours—not quite a kiss yet, just a tease, a promise. You chase his mouth instinctively, and he grins into it, finally closing the distance and capturing your lips in a kiss that’s slow and deep and filled with heat. There’s nothing rushed about it—Joel kisses you like he wants to memorize you, like he wants to make it last.

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently, and he groans into your mouth. That sound vibrates through you, making your core tighten, your body arch into his. He shifts his hips beneath you, and the friction pulls a soft moan from your lips. You feel him—hard and warm beneath the thin barrier of clothes—and it only heightens the growing ache inside you.

“You feel what you do to me, baby?” he whispers against your lips, his voice thick and gravelly. “Every damn time I’m near you…”

His mouth moves to your neck, kissing a line up to just below your ear, sucking lightly on the spot that makes your hips twitch. His hands trail up under your shirt, calloused palms brushing up your spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Take this off,” he growls softly, tugging at the hem of your shirt. You lift your arms and let him pull it over your head, and the moment your chest is bare to him, he curses under his breath.

“Christ…” His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples until they pebble under his touch. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

Your head falls back when he leans down and takes one into his mouth, sucking gently while his hand keeps working the other. The pleasure blooms fast, hot and dizzying, and you can’t stop the sounds you’re making—needy, breathless gasps that make Joel’s grip on you tighten.

You grind down against him instinctively, and the way he growls low in his throat makes you feel powerful and small all at once.

“You gonna let me have you, sweetheart?” he rasps, pulling back just enough to look up at you—his pupils blown wide, his chest rising fast beneath you.

“You already do,” you whisper, hips rolling against his once more.

His lips crash into yours again, hungrier now, more urgent. One hand slides into the waistband of your shorts, slipping inside to find the heat waiting there.

“Fuck… you’re soaked,” he murmurs, rubbing slow, tight circles over your clit with his fingers. “You want me this bad already?”

You can’t even form words—you just nod, whimpering when he presses a thick finger inside you, then another. He works you open slowly, watching your face the entire time, learning what makes you tremble, what makes you gasp.

And then he’s pulling his fingers out, tugging his shirt over his head and shoving his sweats down just enough to free himself. Your eyes drop, and you suck in a breath—he’s big, thick, and already leaking at the tip.

“You sure?” he asks, voice wrecked and barely holding on. “Tell me now if you’re not.”

“I’m sure,” you breathe, bracing your hands on his chest.

He guides you down onto him inch by inch, the stretch making your breath catch, your nails dig into his skin. Joel groans, low and deep, as he sinks all the way into you.

Once you’re seated fully, he stills, letting you adjust, his hands holding your hips tight. Your forehead rests against his as you both breathe through the heat coiling tight between you.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You meet his eyes, and then you move—slow, grinding circles with your hips that make both of you moan. Joel’s hands help you set a rhythm, and soon you’re moving together, your bodies rocking in sync, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing in the quiet room.

Every thrust, every grind, builds the pressure in your belly higher, tighter. He kisses you again, messy and deep, and then trails his lips down your throat.

“That’s it, baby… come for me,” he growls. “Come on my cock.”

His words send you over the edge, your body trembling as pleasure crashes through you, and Joel follows with a guttural groan, spilling into you as he buries his face in your neck.

You collapse against him, both of you breathless, skin sticky with sweat and heat. He holds you close, fingers drawing lazy shapes on your back.

“Yeah,” he murmurs after a beat. “Definitely the best sleep you’ve ever had.”

You laugh softly, chest still rising fast. “And the best wake-up.”

“Damn right,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “But just so you know… I ain’t done with you yet.”

The fire was down to glowing embers when you finally slipped out of bed, the heavy chill in the air biting at your bare skin. You tugged on one of Joel’s flannels and some thick socks, the scent of him still clinging to the fabric. Joel sat on the edge of the bed lacing up his boots, his brow furrowed in that familiar, quiet determination.

“Where are you going?” you asked, voice still a little hoarse from sleep and everything else.

He looked up, softening a little at the sight of you bundled in his shirt. “Out to check the traps. Might be somethin’ in ‘em. We’re down to one can of beans and a bag of rice.”

You frowned, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “It’s freezing out there. Can’t we do it later? Or… I’ll come with you.”

He shook his head, already shrugging on his jacket. “I won’t be long. Just a loop around the ridge. No sense in both of us freezin’ our asses off.”

“You always say that, Joel, but it’s been getting colder every day. What if you slip on the ice or—”

He stopped lacing, looked up at you with that patient-but-firm look that made your stomach twist with frustration and affection.

“I’ll be fine, sweetheart. Done this kinda thing more times than I can count.” He stood and crossed the room, cupping your cheek with a warm, calloused hand. “I just need you to keep the fire goin’ and maybe have some coffee ready for when I’m back.”

You leaned into his touch despite yourself. “I hate it when you leave.”

“I know.” He brushed his lips over your forehead, then your mouth—slow and sweet, like a promise. “I’ll be back before you miss me too much.”

And just like that, he was gone, boots crunching through the snow, axe slung over his shoulder.

The hours passed slowly.

You kept the fire fed, stacked kindling, reheated what little food you had. Every time the wind howled against the cabin walls, you peeked out the frosted window, searching for his shape.

But true to his word, Joel returned just as the sun began to dip, cheeks red from the cold, a rabbit slung over his shoulder and a small proud smirk on his face.

“Told you,” he said, shaking the snow from his jacket at the door. “Still in one piece.”

You rolled your eyes and threw your arms around him anyway, burying your face in his chest. “Took you long enough.”

He held you tight, his body radiating warmth, and nuzzled into your hair.

“Missed me already, huh?”

You mumbled against him, “I always do.”

He kissed you again, this one a little hungrier, hands cold on your waist but body warm and solid, the rabbit forgotten on the floor.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he muttered, breath hot against your cheek, “I’m gonna have to earn my coffee another way.”

Joel’s arms tightened around you, the weight of his return finally settling in your chest. He was always gone longer than he said he’d be—always underestimating the cold, or the time, or maybe just how anxious you got when you were left alone in this empty cabin with nothing but the wind and your own thoughts.

You stayed wrapped around him for another few moments, breathing him in. Snow and pine and faint sweat. That leather smell of his jacket, the scratch of his beard against your temple.

“You’re freezing,” you murmured.

“Snow’s gettin’ thicker out by the ridge. Almost lost the trail twice.” His hand rubbed slow circles on your back, thawing through the layers. “Traps were half-buried. I dug ’em out.”

You pulled back enough to glance up at him, your fingers brushing over his beard where the tips of it still glittered with frost. “You didn’t fall, did you?”

Joel huffed. “No. Took it slow. Careful, like I promised.”

That earned him a quiet smile, but the worry hadn’t fully left your chest. “You really found something?”

He nodded and gestured toward the rabbit lying just inside the door on a patch of burlap. “One little guy, but he’s good-sized. That’ll stretch us a few meals if we ration it.”

Your stomach gave a quiet gurgle in agreement. He caught it and grinned.

“Why don’t you sit?” you said, stepping back toward the hearth. “I’ll heat up water. Your hands are like ice.”

Joel sat with a soft grunt, joints stiff from the cold and the work, and stripped off his jacket and gloves. You poured water into the tin pot and set it near the fire, watching him from the corner of your eye as he rolled his shoulders and rubbed at his hands.

They were raw and red, the backs of them weather-beaten and scarred from years of hard work, and you found yourself crossing back to him with the little tin of balm you kept on the shelf.

“Give me your hands,” you said gently.

Joel blinked at you. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

With a quiet sigh, he surrendered them, holding them out palms-up as you dipped your fingers into the salve and began working it gently into the rough skin. He didn’t speak at first, just watched you. Watch how your brows furrowed in concentration, how careful you were with him.

“You got good hands,” he said softly. “Real gentle.”

You glanced up, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “I’ve had a lot of practice taking care of stubborn men.”

He chuckled low in his chest, but it faded quickly, replaced by something quieter.

“I’m not used to this,” he admitted after a moment. “Comin’ back to someone. Feels good. But it's strange.”

You paused, fingers still curled around him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes searched yours for a long, heavy beat. “I know.”

The fire popped softly behind you, filling the quiet that followed. You finished tending to his hands, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist, just where his pulse beat steadily. He watched you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Alright,” you said, breaking the spell before it got too thick between you. “Let’s clean that rabbit.”

Joel stood slowly, groaning like the old man he always claimed to be, and retrieved the burlap sack. You helped him set up on the back table near the door where it was cooler, handing him his blade while you gathered bowls and cloths. The two of you worked in sync, the process methodical—Joel skinning and cleaning the meat with quiet skill, you preparing a small stew pot to simmer bones and scraps.

“You ever butcher anything before?” he asked, glancing at you.

“Nope. I just pretend to know what I’m doing.”

He smirked. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re more helpful than most I’ve known.”

You shrugged. “You bring home the food, I make it last. Fair deal.”

You caught him watching you again—like he was tucking the image away for later. The pot clanged softly as you set it over the fire, steam already curling upward as the fat began to melt.

Soon the little cabin filled with the smell of meat and rosemary—leftover from a stash you’d found in a forgotten spice cabinet. The mix of warmth, firelight, and the comforting aroma created a bubble against the harsh world just outside the frosted windows.

As the stew simmered, you both settled by the fire again. Joel sat with his back to the hearth, legs stretched out, while you leaned into his side, your head resting on his shoulder. He pulled a blanket over the two of you and settled his arm around you like it was second nature.

Outside, the wind howled, snow sweeping past the windows in swirling white ribbons, but here it was warm. Safe.

Your eyes slipped shut as his hand idly traced up and down your spine, the rhythm of it as steady as his breathing.

“Still cold?” he murmured.

You shook your head against him. “Not with you here.”

Joel didn’t answer, but you felt the way he held you tighter.

The worst of the cold had finally loosened its grip.

It didn’t vanish overnight, of course. Winter in this part of the country never did. But there were signs—tiny, quiet things. The way the wind didn’t scream quite as hard through the cracks in the cabin walls. The longer stretch of golden light that filtered through the windows in the late afternoon. The sound of dripping icicles on the porch roof, melting slow and steady. A promise, almost.

You and Joel had settled into something unspoken but good. A rhythm. A way of moving around each other that felt easy. Reliable. Like the creak of the cabin’s floorboards or the hiss of the kettle heating on the stove.

Mornings came quietly now. Not with desperate shivers or the panic of dwindling rations, but with small moments of peace. Joel always rose first—he’d stoke the fire, make coffee, and sometimes if he was feeling generous, dig out some of the dried fruit you both had been hoarding. You’d wake to the sound of the tin cups clinking or the soft hum of him stirring oatmeal. And sometimes, if he thought you were still asleep, he’d mutter a tune under his breath—something old and Southern and low enough that it blended with the wind outside.

You didn’t call him out for it. Just smiled quietly against the pillow and pretended to sleep a little longer.

You’d help him with the chores after that. He’d go check the traps while you swept the floor, tidied the shelves, boiled snow for drinking water. When he came back, you’d help him skin whatever he’d caught—rabbit, mostly, sometimes a squirrel if he was lucky. You never liked the mess, but he’d watch your hands, always patient, always ready to nudge you through it.

“You’ve got a stronger stomach than you think,” he told you once, rinsing blood from his hands in the snow. “Just takes gettin’ used to.”

And maybe he was right, because none of it felt so jarring anymore. None of it felt wrong.

In the evenings, you’d sit by the fire together, sharing whatever meal you managed that day. There was rarely enough for full seconds, but neither of you complained. Joel would whittle sometimes—little pieces of wood that he shaped into animals or stars or once, a crooked little bird you kept on the mantel. He’d pass it to you without a word, and you’d accept it like a gift, because it was.

You didn’t talk about what came next. Neither of you brought up spring in the way that people do when they’re planning to move on. You didn’t make maps or speak of the nearest settlement. No talk of returning to the road, or of going back to the people who might be waiting somewhere.

You just stayed.

It was one of those days when the snow was soft instead of sharp, when the sky outside the cabin glowed with pale light and the chill inside wasn’t unbearable. You’d both been inside most of the day, tending to little things—patching a tear in your coat, organizing the few supplies in your pack. Joel had been quiet, more than usual, but not distant.

After dinner, the fire had been roaring strong. You were sitting on the floor in front of it, your knees tucked under you, Joel behind you on the edge of the mattress. You’d pulled your hair back, neck bare, as you rubbed balm into the dry skin on your hands. His gaze had been on you for a while—unspoken, steady.

“C’mere,” he said, voice low.

You looked up. “What?”

“Come here.”

You stood slowly and moved toward him. When you stopped in front of him, his hands came to your hips, slow and careful. He looked up at you like you were something that had crept quietly into his chest and refused to leave.

“You cold?” he murmured.

You shook your head. “Not right now.”

“Good,” he said, and his hands slid up under your sweater.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The firelight made his eyes look darker, and his touch was soft—just fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, up your ribs, over the hem of your worn shirt. You inhaled quietly, and Joel watched the movement of your chest, eyes flickering there, then back to yours.

“I think about this all the time,” he admitted. “How you look. How you feel. What it’d be like.”

You licked your lips, heat coiling low in your stomach. “You already know what I feel like.”

He pulled you gently down, guiding you into his lap, his knees spreading so you could straddle him. Your legs settled around his hips, your hands going to his shoulders for balance. It felt natural. Like this wasn’t the first time, even though it was.

“But not like this,” he said, eyes roaming your face. “Not slow. Not how you deserve.”

You reached down and ran your fingers through his hair, brushing your thumbs along the curve of his jaw. “Then show me.”

That was all it took.

Joel’s mouth was on yours, slow but sure. Not tentative—he didn’t kiss like a man unsure of himself. But there was care in it. Patience. The kind of kiss that made your hands shake a little and your chest ache. He held your waist while you kissed him back, your body flush against his. You could feel him getting harder beneath you, feel the quiet groan he let out against your lips when your hips shifted instinctively.

“You feel good,” he muttered against your skin, lips brushing along your jaw, your throat. “So fuckin’ good, sweetheart.”

Your sweater was pulled over your head in a smooth motion, and Joel’s hands were on you—exploring like he was memorizing. No rush. He didn’t just grab; he held. Palmed the curve of your back. Let his rough fingers ghost over your chest, your stomach, leaving heat in their wake.

When you pulled his shirt off, you took your time too. Traced the line of his collarbone, the faded scars along his ribs. He let you. Watched you.

The mattress creaked quietly beneath you as he lowered you down, blanketing you with his body, the fire crackling behind him. And when he finally pressed into you—slow, thick, deep—you felt the air leave your lungs in one long breath.

“Joel,” you whispered, overwhelmed by the stretch, the heat, the way he filled you so completely.

His head dropped to your shoulder, his breath ragged. “You’re alright,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You moved together slowly. No frantic pace. Just the kind of rhythm that came from knowing each other—really knowing. Joel’s forehead pressed to yours, his hand laced with yours above your head, your other palm resting over his thudding heart.

You didn’t say much. Just soft gasps, whispered names, the occasional curse when the pleasure overwhelmed you both.

When it was over, Joel didn’t pull away.

He stayed on top of you, warm and heavy and safe, his nose pressed into your neck. Your fingers played lazily with the hair at the nape of his neck, your leg curled around his.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

“I know,” you whispered.

And you meant it.

One month bled into another one. Joel started teaching you how to shoot—slow, careful lessons with his old pistol in the clearing out back. He’d stand behind you, one hand steady on your shoulder, the other adjusting your grip.

“You’re a good learner,” he said once, after you hit the bottle dead center. “Better shot than me when I was your age.”

You’d laughed, breath fogging in the cold. “You were probably wild and reckless.”

“Still am,” he teased, nudging your side. “But now I know how to aim.”

That night you cleaned the pistol together on the table, Joel’s flannel draped over your shoulders as you sat beside him. He handed you the cloth and watched you move with the same focus he gave to every task. No distractions. Just the work. Just you.

There were no declarations. No sudden confessions. But the way he touched your back before bed, or the way he pulled you closer under the blankets without a word—those were his language. That was how Joel said stay.

And you did.

Every morning, you woke to the quiet weight of him beside you. Sometimes his hand brushed against your hip. Sometimes your legs tangled under the blanket. Sometimes you’d wake in the middle of the night, and he’d already be awake, watching the dying fire like it held all his thoughts.

He never said what haunted him, and you never asked. You just leaned into him, warm and soft, and his arm would come around you like it always did—steady, grounding.

You never had a moment of decision. No single conversation. But one morning you woke to the sound of birds—actual birds—and Joel handed you a mug of coffee with a faint smile and said, “Spring’s comin’.”

And instead of saying anything about leaving, you just sipped your drink, leaned your head on his shoulder, and nodded.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It is.”

The day begins like it always does—with the light bleeding in through the dusty blinds, soft and warm against the wooden floorboards. You wake up slow. There’s no rush, not this early. Outside, the sun hasn’t even fully broken over the ruins yet, but the faint gold smear across the sky means it’s close.

The safehouse is cold in the mornings. You pull your old knit sweater on before your boots, feet brushing the cold floor as you shuffle to the kitchen. There’s a rhythm to it now: water from the barrel, fire from the coals you banked last night, the small stove coming back to life with a crackle and puff of smoke. If there’s any power that day, the fridge might hum back to life. If not, you’ve still got your root cellar, and enough dried things to last the week.

You move quietly, out of habit. The safehouse isn’t a bustling place, not unless someone’s bleeding.

You’ve had all types—smugglers, couriers, FEDRA deserters, even one terrified kid who didn’t say a word and only stayed the night. Most people don’t linger. That’s the unspoken rule: get patched up, get fed, keep your head down, and move on. You’re not a hero. Just a warm bed, a stitched wound, maybe a few cans of food tucked into a knapsack before they disappear again.

But they remember you. Tess, especially.

She’s the one who first showed up with her face split open and a bullet graze along her ribs. That was two winters ago, and now she drops in whenever the city gets too hot or the tunnels start to flood. You’re used to the sound of her boots on your porch, the sharp knock, the muttered “It’s me.”

Others are more fleeting—Marcy with her burn scars, Lyle with his limp, the girl with the broken radio who swore she could fix your generator (she couldn’t). You keep records in your head. Some people don’t give real names.

You move through the morning like a ghost, pouring boiling water over stale tea leaves, slicing into bread that’s harder than you’d like. There’s a satisfaction in the stillness, but also something else—loneliness, maybe. Or restlessness. Like the quiet’s stretching too long lately. Like something’s due to change.

You scrub the floor. You mend a ripped sleeve. You step out onto the porch and sit with your tea, watching the horizon.

And then, around midday, someone comes.

You hear the crunch of boots before you see them—three people, two you recognize. Smugglers. The third is new. Skinny, wild-eyed. He’s limping, gripping his side like he’s holding something in. You already know before they speak.

“Shot in the hip,” one of them says. “Clean through, but he’s losing blood.”

You don’t ask names. Just step aside.

They carry him in, and the air fills with noise again—muttered curses, clinking metal, the smell of sweat and blood. You boil water. Tear sheets into bandages. The others hover, pacing or leaning against your walls, until you send them outside.

It’s just you and the boy now.

He’s younger than you thought, and his eyes dart around like a cornered animal. “You gonna kill me?” he whispers.

You shake your head.

He winces as you work, flinching from the needle. “I got no caps,” he says.

“You’re bleeding out. Worry about caps later.”

He doesn’t speak after that. Just breathes heavy and clutches the edge of the cot. You work quietly, humming under your breath—a song from before, something your mother might’ve played on a Sunday morning. You hum it when you’re scared, or when someone else is.

When it’s done, you give him water, painkillers. “Rest,” you say, and he does.

By dusk, he’s sleeping.

The others left a ration packet as payment. You heat half of it and eat on the porch. The sun’s dropping low now, sky bleeding into orange and gray. The wind rattles the door once, then settles.

You think of Tess.

She hasn’t been by in weeks. Last time, she was tired in a way you couldn’t fix. Said she was pulling in a new runner, someone dangerous. Someone she wasn’t sure about yet.

“He’s good, though,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Keeps quiet. Scares the hell outta half the guys we run with, but he doesn’t waste time.”

You asked his name. She just smirked. “You’ll meet him eventually.”

You hadn’t thought much of it. You get all kinds through here—angry ones, broken ones, ones that drink too much or talk too little. They pass through, you patch them up, and they leave. Simple.

But tonight, as you sit on the porch with your tea cooling in your hands and the wind whispering against your bones, you wonder about him. The runner. The quiet one.

You wonder if he’ll come.

It’s been a month since Tess stopped by, and Boston has settled back into its usual uneasy rhythm.

Gray skies. Wind through broken glass. Blood stains that won’t scrub out of old wood. The safehouse breathes quietly again, but her visit lingers like smoke in your clothes.

She hasn’t returned. No one has mentioned her. But she’s in your head. Or maybe it’s not her—it’s him. The man she didn’t name.

You start noticing shadows more. Listening harder. Wondering if each pair of boots might be his. You don’t even know what he looks like. But you picture him anyway. Dark hair. Stern mouth. A scowl molded by grief. The kind of man who kills without flinching, then washes his hands in your sink.

You should know better. But still.

The nights stretch longer in November. The cold settles into your bones even when the fire’s high. You patch up a runner with a bad shoulder. A kid who doesn’t speak, just nods and stares. You share your last can of peaches with an old woman who gives you an extra box of ammo out of pity.

You clean. You rearrange. You listen to the wind.

And then—one night, long after the lanterns are out, there’s a knock.

Three, spaced out. Not urgent. Not begging. But deliberate.

You pause in the hallway, heart kicking against your ribs. You haven’t had visitors this late in weeks.

The knock comes again.

You open the door with the pistol raised, just a little. And then you see him.

He’s taller than you expected. Broad shoulders. Blood on his shirt. His hand clutching his side. Not dying, but not good. His face was unreadable. Weathered and silent and sharp like a cut stone.

He looks at you like he already knows what you’ll do.

“Tess said this place was quiet.”

His voice is gravel soaked in whiskey and bad sleep.

You nod once. “She was right.”

You don’t ask his name. You don’t need to.

He steps in and takes up the whole room without trying. Doesn’t look around much. Doesn’t ask questions.

You get the feeling this man only speaks when he has to. He doesn’t sit—he leans against the counter like he’s waiting for someone to shoot at him.

You reach for the med kit. “You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I know.”

He shrugs off his jacket, stiff, and pulls up his shirt just enough to show the gash along his side. It’s not deep, but it’s dirty. Long. Like a knife meant to scare, not kill.

He watches your hands while you clean him up, silent. You try not to shake under the weight of his stare.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breath and the soft tear of gauze. He smells like sweat and metal. Like the road. Like something ruined and sacred all at once.

You want to ask him if Tess is okay. You want to ask if he’s Joel.

But you already knew the answers.

So instead, you say, “You’ll need to stay off it for a few days.”

He grunts. “Ain’t got a few days.”

You press harder on the bandage than you need to. “You want it to get infected?”

His mouth twitches—barely. Like the ghost of a smirk or something close to it.

“I’ll manage.”

He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t offer to trade. Just pulls his shirt back down and winces as it sticks to the wound.

“I can give you antibiotics,” you say, softer now.

He nods once. “Tess said you don’t ask questions.”

You meet his eyes.

They’re dark. Heavy. Tired in a way that no sleep could fix. He doesn’t look at you like a person. 

Not yet.

Just someone doing a job. Someone useful.

That should make it easier.

But something about him—his stillness, the way he’s holding everything back like a dam about to break—makes your stomach twist.

You hand him the pills in a folded napkin.

He pockets them without a word.

He leaves just before dawn. No goodbye.

You stand at the door after he’s gone, heart still racing.

The space he took up feels colder now. You clean the blood off the counter, but not all of it. You leave the faint smudge on the edge of the sink.

You sit with it like it’s a secret.

For the next week, you think about him constantly. It’s not even his face. It’s the way he didn’t look at you. Like you were air. Or a wall. Or a bedpost.

You imagine what his hands would feel like if he weren’t trying to hold himself together.

You touch the sink where the blood stain still is, and wonder if he ever thinks about you.

You know he doesn’t. You’re just a stop. A patch. A soft place in a hard world.

But you still watch the road. Every dusk. Every dawn.

Waiting.

You don’t talk about it to anyone, but the air feels different now.

Joel’s visit was like lightning splitting the sky once and then disappearing, leaving you in the crackle.

You didn’t realize how silent your life was until he filled it for five minutes and walked out.

Now everything is louder. The wind. The squeak of the back door. The creak of your bed frame when you turn at night, restless and annoyed with your own thoughts.

You find yourself moving slower. Listening harder.

You rearrange the shelves—again. The second-aid kit, the ammo drawer, the canned food pantry that never has enough. Everything feels cluttered, like it might bother him if he ever came back.

You don’t even know why that matters. He didn’t comment. Barely even looked around.

But still.

A man stops in, asking for water and a patch for his busted palm. You help him.

You do what you always do.

But he stares at your mouth when you talk and leans too close, and all you can think about is how he isn’t Joel.

How he barely looked at you. Barely breathed in your direction.

And how, for some reason, that felt worse. Felt real.

You send the man off with a mumbled goodbye and your pistol half-raised until he’s out of sight.

That night, you try to remember Joel’s voice. You thought it was rough. But there was something quiet in it, too. Something steady.

You play it back in your head, every word. Tess said this place was quiet.

You should’ve said more. Should’ve asked him to stay, even just for another hour. Should’ve found a reason to matter to him.

But you didn’t.

You just let him go.

A week later, you find yourself watching the treeline longer.

You hear every snap of a branch, every shuffle of boots in the dark, and your heart lifts at every sound.

And drops just as fast.

You dreamt about him, once. He didn’t say anything. Just stood in the kitchen, bleeding again. Same cut. Same shirt. But this time, he looked at you. Really looked.

You wake up drenched in sweat, embarrassed by yourself.

You make coffee even though you’ve run out of sugar. Sit by the window with your feet tucked under your knees. Eyes on the dirt road.

You used to sit there because it made you feel safe. Like you were guarding something.

Now, it feels like you’re just waiting.

Waiting for someone who maybe only needed you once.

Someone who doesn’t know what he left behind.

On the third Sunday since he showed up, you take out the blood-stained rag you used to clean his side. It’s still in the laundry bin, forgotten.

You press it flat. Fold it once, then again. Put it in the drawer next to your bed.

You don’t know why.

Maybe it’s stupid.

But it’s the only proof you have that he was ever here.

The roads outside the safehouse tracked into mud overnight, rain washing away any clear footprints—except his. Joel Miller drags his boots through the slush, heart loud in his ears. It’s been four weeks. Four weeks since he bled out across the threshold, four weeks since she stitched him up and sent him off without a backward glance.

He tells himself he’s here for the job. For Tess. “Just checking the perimeter,” he says, over and over. He’s a professional now. He’s got business beyond blood and bandages. But his steps—stubborn as a hound’s—lead him straight back to her door at dusk.

He pauses on the porch, breath misting in the cool evening air. Through the cracked window, he sees her silhouette—lean and sure—moving from counter to shelf, humming under her breath. He swears he can almost hear it.

“Can you read my mind? I’ve been watching you…”

He’s been watching her for days. Watching her load gun shells into a box, watching her wipe down the chipped sink, watching her finger the blood-smear rag. 

 When she opens the door, it’s no different than last time. She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t bat an eyelash at the dried blood on his shirt. He steps inside and the warmth hits him like a punch. Not just the stove, not just the shelter. Her.

He clears his throat. “Evenin.” His voice is low, ragged.

“Joel,” she says, as if he should’ve warned her but didn’t. Then: “Was expecting Tess.”

He can’t meet her eyes. “I came instead.”

She shrugs and steps aside. “Come in.”

Inside, the lamplight pools gold and orange. He watches how her hair catches it—same as last time, but she stands taller now, more worn around the edges. He’d have said she looked safe then; now he only trusts himself to keep her that way.

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the same counter he bled on, hands braced on the wood. It’s scarred with tiny grooves. He’s carved his name there once, a half-remembered dare. Now he presses his fingers into the dents, letting the moment anchor him.

“Coffee?” she asks. Quiet question, offered like an olive branch.

He nods. She turns away. He watches the curve of her spine, the way her sweater dips at her waist. He swallows. 

She places the steaming mug in front of him. The rich smell pulls him back—a glimpse of who he was before the scars and the secrets. He lifts it in a thankful grunt.

“You’ve been here a lot, lately,” she says. Her tone’s flat, but the question is there. Taut.

He looks down at the mug. “Makin sure it’s still standing.” He wants her to push. He wants her to ask—why he really came back.

She studies him a moment, then turns to the window. He catches the flicker in her eyes. Worry? Curiosity? Something else.

“Right,” she says, as if she half-believes him.

He knows she doesn’t.

She moves to the shelf and brings down a jar of peaches—the same brand he stole once from a corner store, back when he thought he was invincible. She passes him a slice on a chipped plate. “For the road,” she says.

He bites. Sweet, sticky. Everything tastes too sharp in his mouth.

“I should ask,” she says then, very quietly.

He bristles. “Ask what?”

Her shoulders tighten. “Why do you keep coming back.”

He looks at her—really looks, for the first time since he arrived. She’s waiting. He hates that she makes him feel small or needy or exposed.

Instead he turns away. “Things to handle.”

She turns too. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

The words hit him like a shot. He’s spent years telling himself he’s alone, that care means weakness. But there’s something in her voice—steady, patient—that threads into his gut.

He clears his throat. “Why do you keep this place running?” He tries to sound casual, but his voice cracks. She arches her brow.

“You know why.”

He blinks. “I don’t.”

She steps closer, eyes even with him. “Because somebody has to.”

His pulse jumps. She’s always been courageous—patched up strangers and sent them on their way. But him? He lingers in her mind like a bruise she can’t press away.

He swallows hard. 

“Good men die too, oh, I’d rather be with you, you, you…” 

He grips the edge of the counter. “I’m sorry,” he says, in a voice rougher than he intended.

Her mouth softens. For a heartbeat, he sees her as someone who cares as much as he does—then the moment breaks and she steps back.

“It’s late,” she says, turning toward the stairs. “You can take the cot in the back.”

He nods, but the room throbs with unsaid words. He watches her climb the stairs, the line of her neck… and he almost follows. Almost says he can’t let her go up alone.

But he doesn’t. He stays.

Late that night, he slips outside and circles the perimeter—just like he told himself. He crouches in the long grass, peering through the trees. She’s safe. For now.

He waits. Breath steamy in the chill. His thoughts spiral: What if she’s gone when I wake? What if she hates me? What if she forgets me?

He knows he needs her, but he can’t admit it.

He kneels. Hands on his knees. The world feels too loud.

He whispers into the dark: “I could do whatever I want to you…”

He doesn’t know if he means it.

But he will come back. He already knows.

He leaves before dawn. Her door closes quietly behind him, and he steps into the gray morning, alone again—haunted by her silhouette in the window, by the taste of peach and coffee and half-finished apologies.

His heart hammers. He chalks it up to the cold—but he knows better. There’s a crack in his armor now, and it runs straight to her.

He walks the muddy road, promising himself: Not for long.

And as he fades into the mist, her last words echo in his mind: “You don’t have to do it alone.”

He doesn’t knock anymore.

He stays in the trees.

The safehouse looks the same—half-swallowed by overgrowth, rust curling along the tin roof, a soft plume of smoke trailing from the chimney. Her light’s on in the back room. That same amber hue, low and flickering. He sees her shadow move across the curtain. A brush of her hand. A cup lifted. A head tilt and he’s memorized.

It’s been three days since he left. He was going to stay away this time.

But something about the silence made him restless. Boston’s noise couldn’t drown it out. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t sit still. He caught himself staring at the bottle she gave him on his last visit—some ointment in a mason jar, tied with twine. He didn’t need it anymore, but he wouldn’t throw it out.

So he left again. Didn’t tell Tess. Didn’t leave a note.

Now he’s crouched behind a birch tree, hours deep into watching the same window. He counts her steps. Times how long she’s gone when she disappears into the back. Notes the new placement of her rifle—moved closer to the door. Good. Smart girl.

And still—he doesn’t feel peace.

He’s told himself over and over:

It ain’t ‘cause of her.

You’re just making sure she’s safe.

You owe her that much.

But his stomach knots when she opens the door to take out the trash. When she pulls her sleeves up. When some old trader comes by and she smiles that smile—the one Joel barely got for himself.

He digs his fingers into the bark. Stares harder.

“Something's been feeling weird lately

There's just something about you, baby (there's just something about you, baby)

Maybe I'll just be crazy (I'll be crazy)”

It’s a curse. Every time he sees her, something in him stirs that shouldn’t. Not this way. Not this loud.

She’s just a girl.

But he remembers the way she looked at him when he flinched in pain. The way she pressed her palm to his ribs. The way her breath caught. The way she said his name, not like a warning—but like a prayer.

Joel.

She’s in his dreams now.

On the fifth day, he hears them.

Three men. Stomping through the brush too loud to be animals. Laughing the kind of laugh that always meant trouble back in Austin. He ducks behind a fallen log and narrows his eyes.

They’ve got old rifles. One’s got a bloodied bat. Another carries rope. They don’t look like locals.

He’s already shifting forward, close enough to catch their muttered words.

“—heard she lives alone.”

“Quiet one. Doesn’t let anyone stay past dark.”

“She’s cute. Maybe we won't kill her.”

“Could keep her alive. Sell her, even. Good trade in the QZ for girls like that.”

The rope guy snickers.

Something in Joel goes ice cold.

And then red hot.

He doesn’t remember moving.

Doesn’t remember unsheathing the knife.

He’s just there—on them—before the last word even finishes.

The first guy doesn’t even see him. Knife to throat. Dead weight in seconds.

The second pulls the bat. Too slow. Joel crushes his knee and drives the blade up into his chest, fast and furious, grunting through gritted teeth. Blood splashes his shirt.

The third runs. Joel follows. His lungs burn. His side stings—scar tissue tugging where she sewed him shut—but he doesn’t stop.

He tackles the guy by the stream. The fight’s sloppy. Fists. Mud. A kick to Joel’s stomach that makes him roar.

He pulls his gun and fires once—close-range, just below the chin. The shot echoes like thunder.

Then there’s silence.

He’s panting. Covered in mud and blood. He wipes a shaking hand down his face and realizes it comes away wet.

Not sweat.

His blood.

One of them got a hit in—a lucky swipe of the knife across his lower abdomen. It’s deep. His hand clamps down, and he stumbles.

But he doesn’t fall.

He doesn’t go back to Boston.

He goes to her.

The porch creaks under his boots.

His vision’s going dark at the edges, his hearing warped. The wind howls. Or maybe that’s just in his ears. He slams his hand against the door once. Twice.

It swings open.

She’s standing there in a robe, barefoot, eyes wide.

The smell of herbs and pine and cinnamon hits him like a kiss.

And he drops to his knees.

“Joel?!”

She catches him as he falls.

Her voice comes through in waves—high and panicked, tugging at him from the edge of unconsciousness.

“What happened?”

“Oh my God—Joel, stay awake!”

“You’re bleeding out—stay with me!”

He mumbles her name. She’s real. She’s warm. Her hands are under his shoulders, dragging him in, across the wood floor.

He hears her voice crack. He thinks she’s crying. But maybe that’s just the wind again.

“Good men die too—but I’d rather be with you…”

He lets go.

Because he’s finally home.

The door crashes open like he couldn’t bear to knock.

You barely register the noise before you see him—Joel, stumbling in, blood dripping from the side of his face, a deep cut over his brow, and darker stains soaking the side of his jacket. Your stomach drops.

“Joel—Joel,” you gasp, rushing to him as the door slams behind him.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, even as he leans heavy into the wall. “Just—fuck—just need a minute.”

He’s not fine. Not even close.

You press your hands to his chest, guiding him down before he topples. He collapses onto the patched-up couch with a grunt, one hand instinctively reaching for your wrist like he needs to anchor himself.

“What happened?”

“Raiders,” he mutters. “They were talkin’… about you.”

Your chest tightens. “About me?”

“They knew you were helpin’ smugglers. Knew you were alone.” His jaw clenches. “I followed ‘em. Took care of it.”

The weight of that sinks in like cold water in your lungs. He didn’t just stumble into a fight. He went into one—because of you.

You kneel in front of him, fingers trembling as they search for more wounds. His shirt is soaked down one side. You lift the fabric carefully, wincing when he hisses.

“Hold still.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks down at you like he’s memorizing something. Like it’s the last time he’ll see it.

“You could’ve died,” you whisper, unable to look him in the eye.

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me.”

Silence drapes over the room like a thick curtain. His voice breaks it, low and rough.

“Yeah, I did.”

Your hands stop moving.

He drags a breath in, jaw twitching. “I keep tellin’ myself to stay away. That it’s better if I just… come and go. Not get involved. Not care.” His eyes bore into yours. “But I do.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I care, sweetheart. More than I should. It ain’t safe. It ain’t smart. But fuck if I can stop.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. The room feels too small for the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re something precious. Like he’s scared of what you’ll do with what he’s just given you.

“I thought you didn’t,” you whisper. “I thought you were just… here because of Tess. Because it was convenient.”

Joel flinches like you slapped him.

“That what you think of me?”

“I didn’t know what to think.” Your voice cracks. “You never stayed. You never looked at me like—like this.”

“I stayed away because I’m already too far gone.” His hand lifts to cup your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheek. “You let me rest here. You patch me up, smile at me like I’m worth somethin’. I—I don’t know how to be around that without wantin’ it all the time.”

You press into his touch, eyes burning.

“I want you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not just your bed or your supplies. I want you. And when I heard them talkin’ about takin’ this place from you, takin’ you—I saw red.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

He leans forward, wincing as he moves, and presses his forehead to yours. “Say somethin’, baby. Please.”

You take a shuddering breath. “You could’ve told me all this… before you bled on my couch.”

Joel chuckles, hoarse and tired. “Had to make it dramatic.”

You kiss him.

It’s not delicate or soft. It’s messy, desperate. He groans into your mouth, one hand tangling in your shirt, the other anchoring around your waist. You crawl into his lap without thinking, straddling him carefully so you don’t press on his injured side.

“You’re hurt,” you murmur between kisses, pulling back just enough to breathe.

“I don’t give a shit,” he growls, chasing your lips again. “Just wanna feel you. Been starvin’ for it.”

You kiss him again.

It’s messy, breathless, and tastes like copper and desperation. Joel groans into your mouth, his hands rough on your waist, tugging you closer like he can’t stand another inch between you.

You straddle him without thinking, careful of the wound on his side but needing to be on him, against him, now. Your thighs bracket his hips, and the heat between your legs pulses with each shaky breath you take.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your mouth, “you feel so good, baby—been wantin’ this. You don’t even know.”

You gasp when he cups your ass, grinding you down against the hard line of him. There’s no teasing—he’s already thick and aching beneath you, straining against the denim. You rock your hips once, twice, and his head falls back with a low growl.

“Get these off,” you mutter, tugging at his jeans. “Joel—please.”

“Yeah,” he pants, lifting his hips to help you. “C’mon, sweetheart, take what you need.”

You fumble his belt open, push his jeans down just far enough, and his cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. You moan softly at the sight, wrapping your hand around the base to stroke him once. He twitches in your grip, his stomach flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he groans. “You tryna kill me?”

“I want you,” you whisper, lining him up with where you’re already dripping. “I want this.”

Joel cups your face, his thumb brushing your lip. “You sure, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promise, and then sink down onto him in one slow, shaking motion.

Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as he stretches you, inch by inch. He’s thick, the kind of full that makes your eyes roll back, makes your body tremble from the inside out.

“Goddamn,” Joel grits, hands gripping your hips so tight it might bruise. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You start to move—slow at first, adjusting, then faster, grinding down to take him deeper. His hands slide up your sides, guiding your pace, his eyes fixed on where you’re joined like he can’t believe it’s real.

“Fuck—you’re takin’ me so good, baby. So tight. So warm.”

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and roll your hips faster, chasing the friction, the pressure building low in your belly. The slick sounds of your bodies moving together fill the room, and Joel’s breath goes ragged.

His thumb slips between your legs, circling your clit in tight, perfect circles. You cry out, hips bucking, and he shushes you gently, kissing your jaw, your throat, your shoulder.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my good girl.”

You clench around him hard.

“Yeah, you like that?” he breathes. “My sweet girl, fallin’ apart on my cock.”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but useless. Your climax hits hard—sweeping through you in waves, stealing your breath, and Joel holds you through it, groaning when you spasm around him.

“Fuck, baby—just like that. You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

He’s close. You can feel it—the way his thrusts grow more erratic, the low growl in his throat, the way his hands tremble on your waist.

“Inside,” you whisper, not even thinking. “I want it, Joel. Please—inside me.”

Joel curses, loud and broken, and then he’s spilling deep inside you with a strangled groan, his hips grinding up as he throbs and pulses and presses your body tight against his.

You both go still, panting, shaking.

His arms wrap around you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You rest your head on his shoulder, your skin damp with sweat, your heart still racing. He strokes your back with one hand, the other sliding down to squeeze your thigh gently.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough, lips against your hairline.

“Yeah.” You press a soft kiss to his neck. “Are you okay?”

He laughs, breathless. “Took down three raiders and then got ridden within an inch of my life. Feelin’ real fuckin’ lucky, actually.”

You smile against his skin, lifting your head to meet his eyes. They’re softer now. Warmer.

“I meant what I said,” Joel whispers. “I’m yours.”

You kiss him again, slow this time. Like you’re promising something back.

And this time, neither of you pulls away.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper.

“You didn’t.” His voice is rough but certain. “I’m right here.”

You curl into his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over his shoulder as his hand strokes your spine.

“You’re not sleepin’ on the couch anymore,” you murmur.

Joel huffs. “Was gettin’ real sick of it anyway.”

You smile, the kind that hurts a little. He tilts your face up and kisses you again—slow and sure and full of everything he didn’t say before.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, sweetheart,” he promises. “You got me now.”

And you believe him.

You’re still tangled together, skin to skin, when the air finally settles.

Joel’s chest rises and falls beneath you, a deep, steady rhythm that lulls your racing heart into something softer. You shift gently, brushing your lips across the curve of his shoulder, and he hums in response, one hand stroking lazy circles on your back.

The tension’s gone now. Or maybe it’s just changed—melted into something heavy and warm. Something real.

“C’mere,” he says, voice hoarse but gentle.

He guides you to lie beside him, tucking you against his chest. His arms wrap around you like he’s still afraid someone might try to take you away.

You run your fingers lightly over his ribs, careful near the bandage. “Hurts?”

“Nothin’ compared to earlier.” He huffs a soft laugh. “Pretty sure I forgot the pain the second you climbed on top of me.”

“Mm. I was very motivated.”

“Yeah, you were,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You good, sweetheart? I didn’t go too rough?”

You shake your head, tracing a fingertip over the fresh stubble on his jaw. “You were perfect.”

Joel’s eyes close like he’s trying to soak in the moment, memorize every detail. You stay like that for a while, quiet. Breathing each other in. Until you shift, rest your chin on his chest, and give him a crooked little smile.

“I owe you a black eye and two kisses.”

He blinks. “Do what now?”

You grin. “You scared the hell outta me, Miller. Showed up bleeding, collapsed on my porch like some western outlaw, and then you told me you were mine.”

His hand comes up to cup your cheek. “I am.”

“I know. That’s why you’re only getting one black eye.”

Joel laughs—deep and rough and real—and the sound wraps around your heart like a blanket.

“Alright,” he says. “Guess I deserve that.”

You lean in, kiss the edge of his mouth, slow and sure.

“Tell me when you wanna come and get ’em,” you whisper against his lips. “The other kiss too. It’s waitin’ on you.”

He flips you gently onto your back, careful with his weight, hovering just above you now. That soft look in his eyes is back—like he’s never seen anything as precious as your face.

“I want it now,” he murmurs.

So you kiss him again, deep and slow. And this time, it feels like healing. Like a promise.

When you finally break apart, you tuck yourself into his side again, and Joel pulls the blanket up over your bare skin. His thumb strokes your shoulder, and his other arm stays tight around your waist, protective even in rest.

You fall asleep like that—warm, safe, claimed.

And Joel doesn’t let go.

tags: @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlemillersbaby @midwest-goth-lesbian @lokis-right-femur @whimsicalangel111 @grayandthyme @littledes1re @monicasblues @amyispxnk @penguinz0s-no1simp @justsarahbella @eri-maull @uncassettodiricordi @fairylights-throughthemist @catch1ngmoths @mystickittytaco @cocobear18 @millersdoll @serruten @dearstcupid @saturnyo @boscogirlsworld @valentineispunk @spookyfunhottub @sage-babydoll @aj0elap0l0gist @plsilovedilfs @grayandthyme @ivuravix @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @alyhull @alidiggory92 @cokewithcameron @killmesweet

They didn’t talk much, and that suited them both just fine.

Arthur had always said the land did most of the talking anyway. The wind in the grass. The lowing of cattle at dawn. The metal clang of fence wire tightening under calloused hands. After years of gun smoke and ghosts, the quiet wasn’t so much peace—it was penance. And Joel understood that better than anyone.

They’d run the ranch together for nearly a decade. Fifty head of cattle. A weather-beaten barn. Long days spent working fence lines or chasing down strays in the hills. Evenings filled with whiskey and silence by the fire. Arthur cooked. Joel carved. They didn’t need much. Just the land, the dogs, the horses, and the kind of friendship you didn’t have to label.

They were men who’d lost too much to ask for more.

The work was hard, and that was good. It gave their hands something to do. Their thoughts are something to drown in. Neither of them said it, but the house felt too big for two men their age. There were extra bedrooms no one stepped foot in. An empty porch swing that never moved. Sometimes, Joel would glance at the seat across from him at dinner and imagine someone laughing there.

Arthur would look out across the pasture at sunset and feel the ache in his chest like a ghost pressing a hand to his ribs.

Then came the girl.

She rolled up in a truck that coughed smoke and looked like it hadn’t seen an oil change in ten years. It was early spring—the thaw barely settled. Joel had just come back from hauling feed when he spotted the dust cloud and narrowed his eyes at the figure stepping out.

Boots in the mud. Soft flannel. Strong arms. A stubbornness set to her jaw.

Arthur stepped out onto the porch, wiping his hands on a rag. “You lost, darlin’?”

You shook your head. “Looking for the Lyle property.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Old George Lyle’s place?”

You nodded. “He passed a few months ago. Left it to me.”

Joel leaned against the post, arms crossed. “Didn’t know he had any kin.”

“I’m not,” you said simply. “Just someone he trusted. Taught me everything I know about cattle and fixing fences. I owed him.”

Arthur blinked, then smiled faintly. “That man was a hell of a card player.”

You smiled back. “So I heard.”

Joel muttered, “Place’s damn near falling in.”

“I can handle it.”

You didn’t ask for help. That was what caught their attention first.

────🌾────

Arthur watched you from the hilltop as he lit a cigarette. Joel noticed the way your back stayed straight, even when your shoulders shook from exhaustion.

By the end of the week, Arthur brought you a wheelbarrow and a fresh pair of gloves without a word. Joel handed you a water bottle and said, “You’re stubborn.”

You grinned. “So are you.”

You worked from sunup to sundown, bandaged your own blisters, and cursed loud enough to make Arthur chuckle into his coffee. You shared dinner with them one night, then two, then a week’s worth.

Eventually, Joel fixed the plumbing at the Lyle place. Quietly. Arthur rewired the porch light. You thanked them both with a smile that made something shift behind Joel’s ribs.

Then the rain came. And the roof leaked.

Joel stood in your doorway with his arms crossed, dripping wet. “Get your things.”

Arthur leaned in the truck window. “Spare room’s open. Ain’t much, but it’s dry.”

You moved in that night. One duffel bag. One quiet “thank you.”

────🌾────

Weeks passed like molasses, slow and sticky and sweet in their own strange way.

You never expected to stay this long.

The old Lyle property was half reclaimed from the brambles, but the rain had done a number on the roof, and more than once you’d found black mold in places you didn’t want to name. Arthur had patched what he could. Joel came over one morning with a cordless drill and never really left after that.

Eventually, they offered you the spare room in their house. Said it was temporary. Said it just made sense.

But after a while, no one brought up the word temporary again.

You all slipped into rhythm without meaning to. Mornings started with coffee and bare feet on cool wood floors. Joel took his black, Arthur loaded his with too much sugar, and you drank yours leaning against the counter in a sleep shirt and shorts, eyes half-lidded. One of them always made eggs. The dogs—Boone and Lady—sat at your feet, loyal and lazy, with their heads in your lap.

You fixed fence posts beside Arthur, sweat beading on your skin, nails between your lips as he handed you the hammer. He liked the way you didn’t flinch around mud, the way you cursed like a 70-year-old rancher and sang old songs under your breath.

Joel taught you how to ride his favorite quarter horse. Big, quiet gelding named Shimmer. Said you had good balance. Strong thighs. His voice always got rougher when he said thighs.

Sometimes he’d linger behind you in the saddle, correcting your grip with a hand on your waist. Sometimes his breath would hit the back of your neck, and you wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t even breathe.

You rode fence lines together at dusk. Swam in the creek on hot days. Played cards and drank beer on the porch at night. You started calling Arthur cowboy when he got bossy, and Joel sir just to see his jaw twitch.

They teased you back, sure—but never touched. Not really.

They were good men. Older. Quiet. They didn’t want to scare you off.

But something was shifting.

Joel caught himself looking at your hands. Your neck. The soft line of your spine when you bent over to stack feed bags. He started lighting his cigarettes farther from the porch—so he wouldn’t be tempted to sit too close.

Arthur got quieter around you. His laugh lingered a little longer, but so did the way his eyes drifted lower when you walked into a room. He fixed things that didn’t need fixing. Made excuses to be near you.

They never talked about it.

But you felt it.

Like that one night you were in the stables brushing Shimmer’s mane and Arthur joined you.

It was late. The horses were fed, the sky painted in fading streaks of gold and mauve. You were still brushing Shimmer down in the barn, sleeves rolled, boots muddy. Arthur stepped in, quiet as always, carrying a mug of tea like it was just something he’d thought to do.

“You keep brushing that horse, she’s gonna shine like polished silver,” he said in a low tone.

You smiled without looking up. “She likes it.”

Arthur leaned against the post. “So do you.”

You paused, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He stepped forward and handed you the mug. You took it, your fingers brushing his—rough against your smooth. He didn’t pull away.

“You work too hard,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “So do you.”

He gave a soft laugh, but didn’t move. He was close now. You could smell cedarwood soap and old tobacco. His eyes dropped to your lips, just briefly, and that alone made your breath catch.

“Got dirt on your cheek,” he murmured, lifting one hand.

His thumb brushed your skin. Slow. Careful. You swore he lingered. His hand didn’t drop right away. Instead, it cradled your jaw for just a second too long—his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t dare.

He held your gaze like a man about to say something dangerous—but instead, he only stepped back, knuckles brushing yours as he whispered, “Night, darlin’.”

You stood there in the hay dust, heart pounding, wondering what would’ve happened if you’d leaned in.

Or

That morning with Joel in the kitchen.

The house was quiet except for the soft clink of dishes. You were in the kitchen rinsing out a coffee mug when Joel came up behind you—close, not touching, but close enough that your body noticed.

“You always leave your mugs in the sink?” he asked, voice low and dry.

You smirked. “You always hover behind people in the kitchen?”

Joel didn’t laugh. Didn’t move.

“You been wearin’ my flannel all day,” he said instead, voice rough.

You glanced down and shrugged. “Yeah. It was on the hook.”

He reached past you, slow, grabbed a plate from the drying rack. But his body brushed yours just slightly—his strong chest at your back, his hand ghosting near your waist.

You stayed still.

“I like how it looks on you,” he said, almost to himself.

You turned to face him, breath caught halfway. He was too close now. His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up. His hand rested on the edge of the counter beside your hip.

“I’m not tryin’ to start somethin’,” Joel said roughly.

“Then don’t stand so close,” you whispered.

But neither of you moved.

His knuckles brushed yours. You swallowed hard.

“I do things slow,” he said finally. “But when I want somethin’—I want it all the way.”

Then he stepped back.

And your knees nearly buckled.

────🌾────

It became too much. The two men took over every single thought. Before you’d go to sleep at night you would replay memories and little things they both have done.

You hadn’t meant for this to happen.

At first, it was just about survival. About fences and feed and early mornings with dirt on the window. You were too busy trying to patch the roof and clear out the barn to think about anything else. Joel and Arthur had been kind—quiet and rough around the edges, but kind. You respected them. Trusted them.

But something changed.

It was in the small things. The way Arthur always made your tea just right. How he’d linger near you in the barn, his warmth close enough to touch. The way he looked at you like you were soft, like you were some delicate thing he didn’t dare grab with dirty hands.

And then Joel—God, Joel. That man carried tension like it was sewn into his spine. Everything about him was hard angles, clenched jaw, calloused hands. But the way he watched you in his flannel, the way his voice dropped when he was near—it made your whole body buzz.

You liked being near them.

Too much.

Sometimes you caught yourself comparing them. Arthur’s steadiness, Joel’s intensity. The way Arthur said darlin’ with that gravel-deep gentleness. The way Joel’s hand would rest on your lower back for a second too long, fingers twitching like he was holding himself back.

It was starting to keep you up at night.

You’d roll over in bed, heart pounding, wondering what would happen if you reached out. If you chose.

But the truth was, you didn’t know if you could.

Because they were both slipping under your skin.

And then—

One night, it all cracked open.

You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a throw blanket pulled to your chest. The movie playing was old and slow—some western Arthur liked. Joel had fallen into the armchair, nursing a beer, and Arthur sat beside you, closer than usual.

You said something about the sky, about how it was turning purple outside. Arthur hummed.

And then you felt it.

Joel’s eyes on you. Arthur’s hand against your leg, heavy and warm. The silence between all three of you stretched, pulled thin.

You turned your head—and both men were looking at you.

Not casually.

Not kindly.

But like men who had been trying not to want you for a long, long time.

Joel’s gaze dipped to your mouth. Arthur’s thumb traced a lazy circle against your thigh. You didn’t stop him.

Your breath caught.

No one spoke.

But the silence was loud.

And you knew—without a doubt—that this thing between the three of you wasn’t quiet anymore.

It was burning.

Still no one spoke.

Arthur’s thumb was still brushing circles against your thigh, slow and patient like he was memorizing your skin through the blanket. Joel hadn’t moved, but his eyes were darker now—hooded, jaw clenched, fingers tight around the neck of his beer bottle. The air in the room was charged, thick with heat and breath and something unspoken.

You swallowed hard.

And then, just barely above a whisper:

“…what are we doing?”

Arthur’s hand paused. Joel leaned forward.

You looked between them—at Arthur’s calm, unreadable face and Joel’s gaze flickering over your lips like he was already imagining what they’d feel like against his.

Neither of them answered.

So you pulled the blanket back, just enough to show the curve of your thigh, bare under the hem of Joel’s old flannel.

Arthur’s breath caught.

Joel stood up.

He crossed the space in three slow steps and knelt in front of you on the rug, large hands bracing on either side of your legs.

“You really want this?” he rasped. His eyes were locked on yours—hungry, hesitant, already gone.

You nodded, whisper-soft. “I do.”

Arthur let out a breath behind you. You turned slightly, meeting his eyes.

He was leaning close now too, hand still on your leg. “You sure, darlin’? Once we start this…”

“…we’re not stopping,” Joel finished.

You let your knees part between them.

That was all the answer they needed.

Joel leaned in first—slow, deliberate. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip before he kissed you. It was careful at first, his lips warm and slightly chapped, tasting faintly of beer and restraint. But when you sighed into him, he deepened it—tilting your face up, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger he’d clearly been holding back for weeks.

Behind you, Arthur’s hand slid higher on your thigh.

“You two gonna make me sit here and watch?” he murmured, voice thick with heat.

Joel pulled back just enough to glance over his shoulder. “Thought you liked watchin’, Morgan.”

Arthur chuckled low, and then his hand moved beneath the hem of your—Joel’s shirt—his palm warm and rough against your bare skin.

You gasped, turning toward him, and his lips were already there—softer than Joel’s, slower, his kiss all patience and promise. He kissed you like a secret. Like he wanted to keep you.

You moaned softly, body caught between them, and Joel let out a sound from deep in his chest.

“Bedroom,” he muttered.

Arthur didn’t answer—just stood and lifted you effortlessly into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. Joel followed close behind, one hand guiding your back, the other grazing your hip.

You were dizzy with it—wrapped in warmth and want, floating somewhere between them, their hands anchoring you. They moved like they’d talked about this before. Like they’d been waiting for the moment you’d fall into them.

And now?

They had you.

And they weren’t about to let go.

Arthur laid you down with care.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, creaking softly under the solid strength of his body. Joel stood at the edge of the bed, watching—his eyes burning dark, like he was trying to memorize you just like this: flushed and breathing heavy, hair mussed, legs parted slightly on the sheets.

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur murmured.

His hands were on you already, calloused palms sliding up beneath the borrowed flannel. You gasped when his fingers brushed over your ribs—feather-light at first, then firmer as they moved up to cup your breasts, thumbs stroking lazy circles over your nipples.

“God,” you whispered.

Joel leaned over, hands braced on either side of your thighs. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Arthur was kissing your neck now, his beard rough against your skin, lips soft. He moved slow, like he wanted to savor it—each kiss dragging lower as he pulled the shirt higher, exposing your bare stomach inch by inch.

Joel’s hand slid up your thigh, spreading your legs wider. “She’s shakin’,” he rasped.

“I know,” Arthur murmured. “I got her.”

He kissed the curve of your hip as Joel leaned in and kissed your mouth again—this time harder, deeper. His tongue met yours with raw hunger, his grip on your thigh tightening. You moaned into him, your hips twitching upward, aching for more.

Arthur moved between your legs now, dragging his mouth lower, slower, lips brushing your inner thigh.

You whimpered.

“Patience, sweetheart,” Arthur said, voice low and warm. “We’re gonna take care of you.”

Joel’s hand came up to cup your jaw, turning your face back to his. “Gonna treat you so fuckin’ good. You hear me?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Arthur’s mouth pressed right where you needed it, hot and open, licking and sucking on your clit, and your back arched. Joel swallowed your gasp with another kiss, his hand sliding under your head, cradling you there, grounded and worshipped all at once.

They worked in tandem—Arthur’s tongue slow and methodical, like he was learning every response you gave him, every tremble. Joel’s lips at your ear, whispering things that made your skin burn:

“Can’t believe you’re lettin’ us have you like this.”

“Such a good girl.”

“Never gonna forget the way you sound, takin’ us like this.”

You reached down blindly, fingers threading through Arthur’s hair, and he groaned low against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

“Joel—please,” you breathed.

He growled softly, undoing his belt with one hand, kissing along your jaw with the other. “You want both of us tonight, baby?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes. Please, I want—”

Arthur’s mouth dragged up your body again, kissing your sternum, your throat. “Then you got us, darlin’. Every fuckin’ inch.”

Joel’s mouth met yours one more time, possessive and rough.

And as they undressed—hands and mouths and quiet praise—you realized something:

This wasn’t just desire.

It was need.

Arthur kissed you again—slow, steady—his mouth hot and tasting faintly of you. He’d shed his shirt somewhere between the bed and your thighs, and now his body was pressed against yours, warm and solid. You could feel every inch of him, every deliberate drag of his chest over your nipples, every reverent pass of his hands over your hips.

Joel was behind him now, kneeling on the bed, jeans tugged halfway down. His eyes never left your face.

“You want Arthur first?” Joel asked, voice low, almost a growl.

Your breath caught.

“I—yes,” you whispered.

Arthur groaned. “Good girl.”

He kissed down your body again, this time moving slower. Not teasing—just devoted. He wanted to feel every shiver. Wanted you pliant beneath him when he finally slid into you.

You reached for him, fingers threading through the back of his hair as he nudged your thighs apart again, lining himself up with practiced care. You felt the thick press of him at your entrance, and your whole body tensed in anticipation.

Arthur cupped your face with one hand, brushing his thumb over your lip.

“Breathe for me, darlin’.”

You did.

And then—he pushed in.

A long, slow slide that made your toes curl and your jaw drop, gasping as he filled you inch by inch. He held himself there once he was fully seated, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting softly.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “How good you take me?”

You nodded helplessly, overwhelmed by the fullness, the stretch, the heat.

Joel sat beside you now, one hand stroking your hair back from your damp forehead, the other trailing down to your chest. He cupped your breast, watching Arthur move inside you with a hungry, reverent stare.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Joel muttered. “Look at you.”

Arthur started to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that rocked your body up the bed. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, whispered soft praise as your fingers clawed at his back.

Joel leaned in, kissed your cheek, then your lips—deep and lingering, tasting every moan Arthur pulled from your throat.

“You’re so good,” Joel murmured. “So fuckin’ good for us.”

You were unraveling, every nerve lit up, caught between Arthur’s steady rhythm and Joel’s mouth and hands. You felt possessed, held, worshipped.

And then Arthur pulled out slowly, pressing one last kiss to your sternum.

“Think she’s ready for you,” he murmured, looking at Joel.

Joel didn’t wait. He was on you in seconds, flipping you gently onto your side, spooning in close behind. His chest was slick with heat, breath ragged against your ear.

“You okay, baby?” he murmured, lining himself up.

“Please,” you whispered.

He pushed in with a groan—deeper than Arthur, thicker, dragging a broken cry from your throat as he filled you completely. Joel’s hand curled around your waist, holding you in place as he began to move—grinding slow and deep, his mouth pressed to your shoulder.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he hissed.

Arthur knelt in front of you now, brushing hair back from your face, kissing your mouth sweetly while Joel fucked you slow and unrelenting from behind.

“You’re ours now, ain’t you?” Arthur murmured. “Both of us.”

You nodded, tears at the corners of your eyes from how full you felt, how overwhelming it was to be held between them.

Joel’s thrusts grew harder, his breath turning rough against your skin. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re ours.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “I’m—yours.”

And when you came—loud, shaking, completely undone—they didn’t stop holding you. Didn’t stop whispering how good you were, how beautiful you looked, how they’d never let you go now.

You belonged to them.

And tonight, they made sure you knew it.

────🌾────

The room was quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles in after a storm—soft and sacred, broken only by the sound of three tangled breaths.

You were between them again, your body boneless and glowing, cheek pressed against Arthur’s chest. His heartbeat was a slow, steady thump beneath your ear, and one of his hands ran lazy circles along your spine, grounding you.

Joel lay behind you, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist, his body flush against your back. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his skin, the quiet way he breathed your name like a prayer.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

You nodded, lips brushing Arthur’s skin. “Yeah. Just… wow.”

Arthur chuckled low in his throat. “That a good ‘wow,’ or a we-gotta-run-away-and-never-talk-about-it-again kinda wow?”

You laughed softly. “The first one.”

Joel hummed, and you felt his lips move against your shoulder. “Good. ‘Cause we’re not lettin’ you go now.”

Arthur shifted just enough to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. “Didn’t hurt, did it? We didn’t push too much?”

“No,” you said, voice thick and quiet. “It was perfect.”

They exhaled together, that tension in their bodies finally melting all the way out of them.

Joel sat up first, kissed your shoulder, then leaned over to grab a warm cloth from the bedside. He was slow and gentle cleaning you up, murmuring quiet things like I got you, just relax, you were so good for us. Every motion was careful, reverent. Like you were something fragile. Something theirs.

Arthur pulled the blankets up, letting you settle again between them.

You felt completely safe. Wrapped in warmth and worn flannel and calloused hands that held you like you were the softest thing they’d ever touched.

“You always this quiet after?” Arthur asked, his fingers trailing along your ribs.

You shrugged, half-smiling. “Not always. But I’ve never… done this before.”

“With two men?”

“With two people who actually care.”

They both stilled.

Joel leaned forward, brushing hair from your face. “We do,” he said quietly. “Care.”

Arthur nodded, resting his forehead against yours. “This wasn’t just a one-time thing for us. Not if it ain’t for you.”

You looked between them, your heart thudding louder than it had all night.

“I don’t want it to be,” you whispered.

Joel smiled—soft and warm and rare. “Good. Then stay.”

“I'm already here.”

Arthur kissed you again—slower this time, with all the gentleness in the world. Joel tucked himself closer to your back, his hand slipping under your shirt to rest flat over your heart.

You fell asleep wrapped in both of them.

And when the sun rose through the dusty window panes the next morning, they were still there—one hand in your hair, the other tracing your spine, like they’d never let go.

And maybe they wouldn’t.