#mel writes things

Aisling remembered the first time she met Finan.

It happened like this:

She was twenty-two, had just bought her first apartment—it was a small one-bedroom with enough space to have a bedroom and a bathroom—and was a year out of college. Still, she was burdened with the one thing most college grads had once they graduated—student loans.

Aisling did the math. It would be impossible to pay off unless she suddenly was given five-thousand dollars in her bank account.

Her waitressing job wouldn’t cut it. She didn’t get enough tips to even think about crunching the numbers to see how many years that would take.

So she did what needed to be done; she signed up for a sugarbaby website. Aisling went on her way for a week, working her long shifts at the little diner pouring coffee and giving people their food. She didn’t have time to check her phone, working twelve hour shifts made her tired as it was. Whenever her break came around, Aisling would wolf down the leftover food and go back to work when it was over. And then, once she finished her shift, would go home and relax before going to bed.

Needless to say, she didn’t have much of a social life. Her life was consumed by work and bills—one thing she struggled to pay on time. She was relieved to barely pay them on the day.

On the second week, her phone screen lit up with a notification. Aisling was in her apartment reading one of those bodice rippers her mom used to own—though her mom didn’t want it anymore, thus it was hers now—when her phone caught her attention.

Securing her page with a folded post-it note, she closed her book momentarily to click on the notification and was brought to the website.

Congratulations, you’ve been matched!

Aisling’s eyebrows knitted together as she absentmindedly tucked a piece of her rust-colored hair behind her ear. She was matched with a man named Finan. Clicking on his profile, she was greeted by a man with dark hair, brown eyes, a full beard, and tan skin. He’d put his age as thirty; Finan was a former Navy SEAL, working as a bodyguard for hire, and was looking for a sugarbaby—a companion.

She’d never step foot in a gym—unless you counted all the times she needed to take gym class in order to graduate—so she knew she wouldn’t be asking him health questions. At first glance, she found him attractive. There was that. But something that lingered underneath she couldn’t help but be attracted to. Something about him she couldn’t pinpoint. But Finan looked nice enough, so she sent him a text.

Aisling: Hello sent at 8:25 p.m

It was a simple message. As soon as she sent it, Aisling shut her phone screen off, put her phone on the small coffee table she bought at a swamp meet, and returned to her book.

Ten minutes later, her phone pinged with a new notification. Curious, she put down her book and picked up her phone.

Finan: Hi Aisling. My friend Uthred says he thinks Romeo and Juliet isn’t a romance. Why do you think it is? sent at 8:35 p.m

She immediately raised an eyebrow. Curiosity was eating away at her, and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes, amused at whoever this Uthred was.

Because, yes, she was firm on the opinion that Romeo and Juliet was a romance. But not in the sense of oh Romeo and Juliet are stupid teenagers, of course they’d fall in love at first sight. No, not like that. It was the obvious fact that their households had a bitterly rivalry for centuries. The tragedy was that their love wouldn’t survive the play—it even said so in the beginning.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, 

A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their lives.

It was what made Romeo and Juliet a tragedy, after all. Aisling texted her reply, a smile tugging on her lips.

Aisling: Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy because they’re star crossed lovers. Did Uthred fall asleep during English class? sent at 8:39 p.m

Finan’s reply a few minutes later made her snort.

Finan: Yes.

sent at 8:41 p.m

Chuckling, she replied one more.

Aisling: Well, someone should read it to him. Shakespeare’s meant to be performed. sent at 8:42 p.m

Finan: Really? sent at 8:42 p.m

Aisling: Yes. But I like to construe it too. sent at 8:43 p.m

Finan: Why? sent at 8:43 p.m

Aisling: Idk. I find it entertaining. sent at 8:44 p.m

Finan: I think I might’ve fallen in love with you, Aisling Cooke. sent at 8:45 p.m

Aisling looked at her phone screen for a long moment, unable to know what to say. Her cheeks colored with embarrassment. What could she say to that? Speechless, she didn’t reply for a moment. She didn’t even move her fingers to type on the keyboard.

When she mustered the courage to reply, she typed:

Aisling: Sorry, I didn’t know what came over me. People usually don’t like to hear me talk about Shakespeare. sent at 8:49 p.m

Finan’s reply was instantaneous.

Finan: No, I want to hear about it. Is Friday at seven p.m good for you? sent at 8:50 p.m

Aisling blinked. Then a moment later, all she could think was—Oh, he’s good. A smile crept on her lips as she texted her reply.

Aisling: Friday at seven sounds great. sent at 8:50 p.m

That Friday, she showered, scrubbing her body until it fleshed a lovely shade of pink, moisturized her body with lotion, put on her favorite perfume, slipped into her favorite light green dress, and styled her rust-colored hair with her hairbrush and hairdryer. She wasn’t great at doing a winged eyeliner, so she lined her eyes with a nice light green eyeliner that sparkled under the light. But she was good at applying mascara—that was something to be proud of.

Swiping on her lip gloss, Aisling pressed her lips together, slipped her lip gloss into her purse with her phone, and left her apartment to take the subway to the restaurant. Friday evening was packed with people. But considering she didn’t own a car—too poor—it was either taking the subway or taking the bus. Aisling didn’t want to pay every time she got on the bus, and the pass for the subway wasn’t too expensive.

Besides, she used it everything. Better to pay a monthly fee for something she actually used than something she’d forgot she was even paying for.

Ten minutes later after four stops, Aisling got off the subway, hurried up the steps that led to the street, and texted Finan she’d be arriving in five minutes. The street was crowded, and five minutes later, she stepped into the restaurant.

“Hi, I have a reservation for Finan? He said he’d already be here,” Aisling said to the hostess at the front behind the desk.

“Oh, yes, right this way,” the woman replied.

Aisling followed her upstairs. The atmosphere immediately told her this was a restaurant she could never afford—not with her current job at least. The music was calm, but the guests looked to be people with money. Aisling averted her eyes to look at the back of the hostess’s head, suddenly feeling self-conscious. The green dress she wore was something she bought after months of money saving, a treat to herself. It’d cost a bit of money, so it wasn’t too out of place like something like this, but Aisling couldn’t help the uncertainty that crept up her throat.

They walked upstairs to the second floor, and the presence here was different than downstairs. The first floor was lively; the second floor was quieter with a different classical tune filling the space, but she noticed the people dining on the second floor were much better dressed. Most of the men looked to be businessmen or someone who worked a good job. Men who worked in the heart of the city who could afford a summer house or two.

The hostess led her to a booth that had a nice view of the art museum that one of her friends Jemma worked at. Aisling promised she’d visit one of these days, but considering her job, was currently too busy.

Maybe if this worked out, she could have time to visit once. Aisling always wanted to visit an art museum. She’d visited Jemma at her apartment once and marveled over the second bedroom that was converted into her friend’s art studio. It was a chaotic sight, but Aisling thought it was charming.

Aisling stopped in her steps when she made eye contact with Finan. Her heart skipped a beat when the corners of his mouth curved into a smile, feeling her legs go slightly weak when his eyes twinkled.

If Jemma was here, she’d be tugging her into the bathroom before bursting into laughter at how her cheeks were currently flushed.

“Thanks Caroline, I’ll take it from here.” Finan stood to his feet and gently grasped Aisling;’s hand, a bolt of electricity rushing down her spine. But Aisling didn’t allow herself to jump like she wanted to, letting him guide her to the spot across from him. Sliding into her seat, she watched him take his spot, and she offered a small, awkward smile.

“Are you a regular here?” she asked.

“Uthred is,” Finan said with a shrug. “The food here’s fine, but he likes to spoil us.”

An amused chuckle left Aisling’s lips, the awkwardness lifting from her shoulders as she said: “Is this the same Uthred that fell asleep during English class?”

“The very one,” he acknowledged with a nod.

“And how did he take my comment of someone reading it to him?” she teased.

Finan’s mouth curved into a smile again as he replied, “He was a bit flabbergasted that someone suggested that it should be read to him. He’s… a bit impatient when it comes to reading.”

“He’s never listened to an audiobook?” Aisling queried, raising an eyebrow as her hand reached for the glass of water in front of her. 

Taking a sip, she watched him as Finan told her, “He’s always busy. Sihtric and I told him he ought to take a break one of these days to relax, but he’s…”

“—a workaholic?” Aisling supplied when she put down her glass of water.

“Something like that,” he agreed with a chuckle.

“Well,” she noted, “from another workaholic, I think he should take a day off when he can afford it. And by this”—she gestured to the luxurious restaurant—“I think he can.”

“Ya said you worked as a waitress,” Finan stated. Although his statement sounded more like a question. She mildly picked up an accent—Irish, she thought—that made her core clench around nothing.

She was way too over her head. He was everything she liked in a man: tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and had an accent. Even if this didn’t work out, she could memorize his voice for masturbation material; there was that.

Swallowing her anxiety (and maybe her embarrassment too) by drinking some more water, Aisling waited until she put down her glass to reply. “Mhmm. I got the job a year ago. It’s kinda shit, but at least I’m surviving.”

She didn’t want to tell him that just before she joined the site, she almost broke down wondering if she would make her rent. Aisling was lucky that she scraped by, but not by much. If this didn’t go well…

Aisling felt a jolt of electricity run down her spine again as her eyes flickered to her hand, that—

He was holding her hand. He’d reached over to hold her hand.

Fuck, her life was just some fucking historical romance from the eighties. Hand holds and all.

Rendered speechless, she chose not to reply as her blue eyes were transfixed on his hand in hers. She’d seen his picture—saw how broad his shoulders were—so she shouldn’t be so… so… mesmerized by the build of him. She shouldn’t wonder what he looked like underneath, that was anything but appropriate.

But her thought lingered, and it was all she could think about as she kept her eyes on him, her mind wandering as he gave her a reassuring smile. She found herself returning it, her nerves alleviating as Finan inquired if she’d like to look through the menu, and she chuckled.

“I’d love to,” she said, and everything seemed right.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Now, a year later, Aisling checked her phone to see another three-thousand enter her bank account. A sight left her lips as she looked up from her phone screen to look at her bills again. With this three-thousand, she could pay everything off and have one-thousand five-hundred left.

Still, Aisling did the math again. Carried the same two she’d carried two math problems ago to get the same result.

Well, that was good at least. She moved from her phone to her laptop where she’d pulled up all the websites and paid off her bills for the next two months. Her rent was already paid—her landlord seemingly had a change of heart and bumped down her rent by two hundred dollars; it still made her rent one-thousand three-hundred, but she’d take all she would get.

Then, her phone pinged with a message.

Jemma: Sihtric texted me to buy something at the mall for our baby shower. Did you wanna tag along? sent at 2:35 p.m

Aisling: Sure. Is it decorations? sent at 2:35p.m

Jemma: No. He wants me to buy something nice for myself. You know what that means. sent at 2:36 p.m

A smile tugged on Aisling’s lips as a laugh vibrated in her throat. Unlike her, Jemma wasn’t Sihtric’s sugar baby. She worked at an art gallery—Peter fucking overworks me, Jemma had told her on more than one occasion—and signed up as a surrogate at a hospital that her sister worked at. She’d saved up enough money from her second job as an artist, and found herself becoming Sihtric’s surrogate to him and his wife Sigdeflaed. From what Jemma told her, they all somehow found themselves in a relationship through the process, and Jemma was currently in the process of moving into with them.

Aisling didn’t know where Sihtric lived. Never stepped foot into his home. But Jemma told her he and Sigdeflaed lived in a nice townhouse. Big enough to take care of the babies, and enough space for the upcoming family of five.

Aisling did find it amusing when Sihtric suggested if one of their babies was a boy, they should name him after Uthred. Uthred had taken immediate offense, and to make up for not having a son named after him, humbly accepted the godfather position after Sihtric convinced him.

Jemma: Aisling? You still wanna go? sent at 2:41 p.m

Aisling: Sure. sent at 2:41 p.m

Twenty minutes later, Aisling studied the lingerie set she’d taken off a rack. It was a nice forest green—it’d go well with her hair. It was a simple two-piece, nothing too extravagant. It was enough for her. Slipping off her blouse and skirt, she put her clothes in a pile as she slipped on the lacy pieces and snapped a picture for Finan.

Aisling: Does this look okay? {Aisling sent an attachment} sent at 4:21 p.m

Aisling put her phone down next to her purse and turned back to look at herself in her full-body length mirror. Feeling humorous, she did a little twirl and laughed to herself. It did look nice. She looked nice.

Before she could do anything else, her phone started ringing, alerting her that Finan was calling her. Aisling bent over to grab her phone and answered the FaceTime.

“Finan, I’m in the changing room,” she said.

“Are ya still wearing it?” Finan asked.

“Yes, Finan,” Aisling laughed. “I just sent you a picture. Do you like it?”

“Will ya wear it for Sihtric’s baby shower?”

“It’s a baby shower, Finan. I don’t know if that’s appropriate.”

“Sihtric doesn’t need to know.”

“Finan,” she laughed again.

“Love,” he refuted, never backing down.

Aisling sighed after she caught her breath. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”

Finan cocked his head—a clear indication that there really was only one option. The next thing he’d tell her would probably be that Sihtric, Sigdeflaed, and Jemma wouldn’t mind. If she wore it underneath her clothes and no one was none the wiser, then would it be really that bad?

“Okay,” she chuckled. “I’ll wear it, but if you bring it up, I’m telling Sihtric it was your idea, and then you’ll have to explain to him why I’m wearing lingerie at his baby shower.”

“I’d never,” Finan said in mock hurt.

Aisling shook her head. “I’ve got four more sets to try on. I don’t know if you wanted to—”

“—Yes.”

Amused, she secured her phone against the wall of the changing room and stepped slightly out of frame to scourge through the bag for her next set. “Do you want to know the color of this next one?”

“Tell me,” Finan said.

“It’s periwinkle. I didn’t know if it would look good on me, but Jemma said it would look nice.” Aisling moved back into the frame as she reached behind to unclasp the bra hooks before peeling it off, revealing her breasts to him.

“Ya look beautiful in everything,” Finan said quietly, his eyes still trained on her body, tracing every inch with his eyes—a dark hungry gaze that sent heat curling in her belly.

Aisling chuckled softly before bending over slightly to wiggle out of her underwear. “Of course you would say that,” she said after she’d picked it up and set it aside neatly beside the shopping basket. Reaching into the basket, she pulled out the periwinkle set and slipped it on her body, stepping back into the frame.

Doing a little twirl for him, she inquired: “So? How does it look? And don’t”—she sent him a look—“say that I look nice in it because you want to be nice.”

With her rust-colored hair and pale skin, her skin turned to a lovely peaches and cream when paired with softer pastel colors. Aisling’s mother, for a period of time in her life gave her a bright yellow that made her look like an overripe citrus fruit. When Aisling, who was ten at the time protested, saying she looked like a lemon, her mother had sniffed and said, and quote, “Yellow is a happy color. If you wear yellow, everyone will see you’re a happy girl.”

Well, the other kids hadn’t thought she looked happy. Aisling had always been a chubby girl, and when the kids saw her bright yellow clothes, thought she looked positively like a large and bright sour lemon.

Never again would she wear bright yellow. Never.

“It looks beautiful on ya,” Finan said truthfully. “Periwinkle's ya color, honey.”

Aisling’s lips curved into a smile. “Thank you. I really like this one. I mean, I like the forest green one too, but I thought this one would look the best on me.”

“What are the other two colors?” Finan asked, curious.

“Light blue and orange. Think a creamsicle.”

“Creamsicle, huh?” Finan pondered it for a moment. “Let me see that one first.”

Aisling chuckled. “Okay. Give me a second.” She stepped out of the frame again to slip on the creamsicle set before stepping in front of the camera and doing a little twirl. “How’s it look?”

“Not too bad,” Finan said. “Lighter than I thought.”

Aisling looked down at the lingerie before meeting his eyes, saying, “There was a bit of variety for the creamsicle colors. I just didn’t grab the brighter orange. My mom made me wear bright yellow when I was a kid. Bright colors don’t look good on me.”

“I trust ya judgment,” Finan agreed. “That shade looks beautiful on ya.”

She chuckled softly. “Did you want to see the last one?”

“Of course I do.”

Aisling moved to change into the light blue set. The cooler hue made her skin look like peaches and cream, and she tucked her hair behind her ears when she stepped into the camera and twirled for Finan. “I really like this one too.”

“It matches ya,” Finan said, nodding his head in agreement. “Ya should wear that for our date on Friday. With your green dress?”

“The one I wore for our first date?” she laughed.

Finan nodded, completely serious. “And then ya should let me take it off of ya.”

An amused smile played on her lips. “It’s your right.”

Just then, a text message from Jemma appeared on her screen.

Jemma: Are you almost done? Sihtric called—I need to get back really quick to check something at the townhouse. sent at 4:30 p.m

Aisling stepped forward, took her phone off the wall, and typed back her reply.

Aisling: Sorry, Finan FaceTimed me. I’m almost done, coming out in a few. sent at 4:30 p.m

Jemma: Lol sent at 4:31 p.m

Jemma: Tell him I said hi sent at 4:31 p.m

Aisling: Lol sent at 4:31 p.m

Aisling: I will sent at 4:31 p.m

“Finan, I have to go,” Aisling said, angling her phone to show her face. “Jemma needs to drop by the townhouse for something.”

“Have her drop ya off at the loft,” Finan said. “Sihtric’s townhouse won’t be that far.”

Aisling made a confirming noise in her throat. “Alright. I’ll be home soon.”

Home. The word made warmth spread in her chest, and blossomed further when Finan murmured: “I love ya, Aisling.”

“I love you too, Finan,” she whispered. Aisling didn’t know when their relationship—the dynamic between them changed, maybe she’d never know, but she hadn’t minded since then. Whatever they were now, she was happy.

Aisling changed back into her blouse and skirt, meeting Jemma back at the registers. Her puffed-up sleeve blouse was a lovely cream color, paired with a floral skirt. Jemma’s maxi dress billowed behind her as she waved, signaling for her to hurry along before the line moved. Aisling scurried to join her.

Jemma, heavily pregnant, still gave her a grin. Her golden-brown skin glowed from her pregnancy, and made her slanted, almond-shaped brown eyes aglow with something that could only be from her current state in life. Her broad nose crinkled with amusement when Aisling told her what’d happened in the changing room.

“Of course he’d want to know,” Jemma laughed when Aisling wrapped up her tale. “Poor Finan.”

Ten minutes later, she sat in Jemma’s car in the passenger’s seat as she drove her to the loft apartment. Finan bought it a while ago after they agreed to move into it… eventually. Aisling’s lease wouldn’t be over for another five months, but she’d begun to slowly move her things into it. She didn’t know if she would ask another person to take it over for her—so that way she wouldn’t need to sell her furniture—but she’d get there when it happened.

Finan’s lease was already up, and he’d lived in the apartment for the past three months. Aisling had bounced back and forth between the loft and her small, simple apartment for the same duration, but as she thanked Jemma for dropping her off, gathering her things and stepping out of the car, she looked at the loft apartment on the sixth floor of the apartment complex and smiled.

Home. It was home.

She greeted the doorman as she made her way to the elevators, and five floors later, stepped out into the hallway. Walking to the correct door, she unlocked the door and pushed the door open. Silence greeted her as she walked inside and shut the door, locking it behind her.

Aisling unzipped her boots and kicked them off, walking to the bedroom she shared with Finan to put her bag down on the chair. She walked into the kitchen, scrounging in the fridge to see if there were any leftovers. When she didn’t find any, closed the fridge door and walked to the pantry to find a snack. Finding the large box of pocky she’d bought on her last food shopping trip, she pulled out a bag with the horizontal pink strips—the strawberry flavor—and opened it. Procuring a thin coated pocky stick, Aisling plopped herself at the couch, snapped off a bite, and picked up the TV remote to watch one of her reality TV shows she liked to watch.

A bag of pocky and two episodes of the soapy reality show later, Aisling heard the front door open. Picking up the remote to pause the current episode, she got up from the couch to greet Finan at the door. Scurrying, she met him with a smile that quickly turned into her lips parting at the look in his eyes.

The look in Finan’s eyes was practically primal as Finan took her in. His eyes raked down her body before moving upward to meet her bright, caught-in-headlights gaze. Aisling barely heard the front door close as he approached her, and before he could take a step further, she threw herself at him, wrapped her legs around his hips as her lips met his in a hurried motion.

Aisling kissed him with an urgency she’d felt for the past hour, ever since she snapped the picture of herself for him to look at. If she was going to be honest, she only did it with good, innocent intentions. As her Catholic distant aunt liked to say, “Hand on the Bible” or something along those lines.

But now, every fiber of her being was on fire, burning for him. She needed him with a strong desire she hadn’t felt in a while. Having sex with Finan always left her satisfied. Craving him, wanting him, desiring him—she’d felt that many times.

This feeling that ran through her? Aisling couldn’t pinpoint it. She couldn’t describe what it was. She couldn’t call it desire or lust. It was deeper than that. If she didn’t have him inside her, his cock filling her body, she’d probably die.

…Alright, maybe that was a bit much, but in this instance, Aisling was willing to let the dramatics slide. At least for today.

Aisling’s hands fell to his pants, somehow unbuttoning his pants and pulling down the zipper. She’d always looked down when she did it, but today it seemed she was too excited and yet focused. Or maybe she’d just fucked him enough times to memorize where to put her hands. Maybe that too.

She finally broke the kiss when Finan’s hand sank underneath her skirt, sliding into her underwear, and the wet, sucking noise from her cunt filled her ears. A broken whimper vibrated in her throat.

Aisling leaned her forehead on Finan’s as his breathed ghosted her cheek, a deep groan pulled from his chest while he moved his fingers inside her sex, getting his fingers lubricious with her arousal. Finan curled his fingers, pressed the first joint of his fingers on the spot that made her squirm, made her pussy squeeze tighter around his fingers.

The sensation made him throatily chuckle. “Are ya aching for me?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, her thighs quaking around his palm as Aisling weakly tried in an effort to raise her hips to grind her bare cunt on his palm for more friction; to try and alleviate the ache that pulsed in her cunt.

But Finan’s fingers were moving, thrusting inside her, preventing her from moving her hips as she wished. Moans spilled out of her mouth as Finan built a steady rhythm, brushing his fingers on the spot that made Aisling’s voice hitch in her throat, and a feeble whine sounded in her throat when his thumb found her clit, stroking it once. The movement made her hips jerk with surprise; Aisling would’ve nearly slid down the door if it weren’t for Finan wrapping an arm around her to keep her pinned in place.

Aisling hiccuped as Finan circled her clit with his thumb, her cheeks flushed and her hair tousled. She grinded her hips against his hand, meeting the thrust of his fingers; the movement caused her mouth to fall open, little noises quivering in her throat as the pleasure built up in her belly, accumulating into an orgasm that made her thighs tremble as her pussy convulsed around his fingers; her inner walls fluttered, wanting to keep him inside while Finan worked his fingers inside her quivering sex, helping her through her climax until she slumped against him. The movement caused his fingers to slid deeper into her cunt, all the way to his knuckles, making Aisling’s breath stutter.

“Need you,” she slurred. “Want you inside me. Please, Finan, please.”

Finan pressed a kiss to her forehead before sliding his fingers from her cunt, grunting at how her pussy fluttered around his fingers, not wanting him to leave, and then chuckling with amusement when her sex clenched around nothing—her cunt desperate for some part of him to be buried inside her. His hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, his prick long and hard, throbbing his palm, his cock so damn hard because of his ache for her. He’d spent the entire FaceTime call hard in the car while at a stakeout, the urge to push down his pants to wrap a hand around his aching, rock-hard cock to frig himself, to relive himself from the lust coursing through his veins. Or, at least, keeping it at bay until he finished the job and came home to Aisling.

Luckily for him, it’d gone in his favor. He’d finished the job and came home, possessed with a craving he’d never felt. Finan pushed his cock through her pussy, past her lips, sinking into her folds, and then rolled his hips to ensure she took him to the hilt.

Aisling nearly wept when he bottomed inside her. Her cunt stretched, quivered at the sheer size of him—like the first time. But the ache was a welcome one. She wanted to work for it, wanted to earn the right to please him. She wanted to be everything to him.

Her inner walls clenched around his cock, encased him inside her, wanting to revel in the feeling of her pussy wrapped around his erection for a moment. Every time he was inside her… she was whole. Like everything fell into place—like it was meant to be.

Her heart squeezed. She loved him so much.

“Please,” she rasped. Her sex clenched down on his cock, aching, wanting him to move—wanting him to come inside her.

What kind of a man would Finan be if he didn’t honor her request?

Finan gently pulled his erection from her cunt, his eyes fixated on her, watching how her eyebrows furrowed together as a pathetic protesting whine threatened to leave her throat—Aisling was unable to contain the noise from her throat, and Finan’s lips curled into a smirk at the noise; then, he slid the length of his cock back inside her body, filled her up with his cock, and snatched the breath from her lungs.

With his arm wrapped around her to keep her in place, the sounds of their coupling reverberated in the loft as Aisling met Finan’s thrusts with her own, meeting his hips with a frenzy that only fed the hunger that possessed her body—the desire for him that needed to be gorged again and again until her body deemed she was satisfied.

Beads of sweat rolled down her back under her shirt and bra, but it was all for naught as the pleasure controlled every last one of her senses. It was all Aisling could focus on, and her pleasure was doubled when Finan’s hand slipped between their bodies to cup her cunt and slide his thumb between her inner lips and the length of his cock to circle her sensitive clit.

Aisling gasped, hiccuped, and her voice bounced in her throat as her hips stuttered in reaction to the sudden sensation. Finan continued to circle her clit with his thumb, never faltering with his thrusts, her arousal and his pre-ejaculate smeared on her inner thighs and seeped down her legs as Finan guided her closer to her orgasm. When her thighs began to shake, she knew her climax was close. Her hips rose, her cunt clenched, and Aisling cried out when she came around his cock.

Her sex convulsed around his length, and her inner walls fluttered around his shaft as Aisling closed her eyes, the pleasure overwhelming her senses as her pussy clenched down on his cock in an effort to keep him inside her. But Finan eased his cock out of her anyway, continuing on with his thrusts, to draw out her pleasure until she slumped against him.

Aisling whimpered when Finan came inside her moments later, her pussy clenching around his prick once more to take all he gave her. Let the feeling of his come filling her body fill her senses until Finan’s cock softened, and eventually, he pulled himself from her. The length of his cock was slick with her arousal and his come, but Finan leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

“How are ya?” Finan murmured.

“Hungry,” Aisling heard herself answer shyly.

He chuckled. “Did you check the fridge?”

“I checked the fridge for snacks. I didn’t find any.”

Finan hummed in understanding. “Well—it’s not too late to have a snack. Let’s make some food.”

Aisling nodded in agreement, and then rose to her tiptoes, her cunt still full of his come and kissed him. “Welcome home.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Three days later, Aisling stood in the bathroom, fully showered and dressed, having finally recovered from the shared shower she’d spent with Finan.

An hour ago, she’d straddled him to the bed, her hands on his shoulders, riding him, bouncing on his cock—even though she knew they needed to shower and get ready for the baby shower. She knew, she’d just… gotten distracted.

Or rather, Finan had noticed her laying out her lingerie on the door hanger—the forest green set she’d shown him on the FaceTime call—and just as she turned around to ask if he was going to get ready, he strode toward her and pulled her into a kiss, and then… well, she didn’t want to recount the rest.

Aisling, as she grabbed her hairbrush and clicked a button on the hairdryer plug and turned it on, felt the heat that crept up her body at the recollection of the memories. But she began to brush through her damp tresses, which was sprayed with hair product, focused on the task at hand. After blow-drying her hair, and styling it with her brush, she applied a little bit of makeup, and put her unplugged hairdryer away in the cabinet.

At the sound of Finan’s footsteps getting close to the bathroom, she opened the door to see him stand before her.

“Ya look beautiful,” Finan said.

Aisling looked him up and down. Finan had changed out of his usual attire—usually a nice button-down shirt and dress pants with clean dress shoes—into a simple dark t-shirt and dark washed jeans. His beard was nicely trimmed and brushed, and his dark hair was still slightly damp, in need of being dried.

“You look very handsome,” she said, her voice light. “Did you need the hairdryer? I’m done. I can wait for you in the living room.”

“I won’t take long,” he said.

Aisling laughed softly, beckoned him inside, dodging his kiss with a giggled “I’m wearing lip gloss Finan” and laughed again at his pout before leaving the bathroom. In the bedroom, she walked to the beside table to unplug her phone from its cordless charger and slipped it into her purse. Pulling out the golden chain that came with it, she slipped it over her, securing her purse on her hip.

Just when she walked into the living room and sat down on the couch, Aisling’s phone pinged in her purse. Aisling pulled out her phone and checked her text messages, seeing that Jemma had texted her.

{Jemma has sent an attachment} Jemma: How's it looking? sent at 4:49 p.m

Aisling chuckled at the sight of Jemma posing in front of a table. Her maxi dress billowed behind her in a bright lavender color—a signifier of the twins sexes—with her dark curls allowed to be loose around her shoulders. Jemma enthusiastically beamed at the camera with fairy lights in the background.

Aisling: It looks great lol sent at 4:50 p.m

Jemma: Is Finan ready yet? sent at 4:50 p.m

As if he was summoned, Finan walked out of the bathroom and their shared bedroom. He walked into the living room, adjusting his belt as Aisling made eye contact with him.

“Are you ready?” she queried, shooting off a quick reply to Jemma.

Aisling: He just walked into the living room. We’re gonna leave in a few minutes. sent at 4:50 p.m

“I’m ready if ya are,” Finan said.

Aisling got up from the couch and went to him. “I’m ready.”

He chuckled. “Let’s go.

Finan sat beside Aisling as he watched people socialize in front of him. They’d arrived ten minutes ago, and after they greeted Jemma, Sihtric, and Sigdeflaed, Aisling moved to grab a plate of food.

“My mom never let me eat this much during things like this,” Aisling said before she started eating.

Finan glanced at her, a flicker of surprise showing on his face. Despite having their arrangement for a year, she never talked about her parents much. He knew she had three siblings; she was the three oldest child with an older brother, an older sister, and a younger sister. Aisling was the middle child—always forgotten, never spoken of, and in her words “could never match up to her sisters.”

“I’m just happy I don’t have to wear yellow,” Aisling chuckled. She plucked at her purple dress—a rich purple that complimented her forest green lingerie she wore underneath, and was complete with a pair of pale gold kitten heels.

Finan tried to imagine what she’d look like in yellow. “Ya would look lovely.”

She chuckled. “Not bright yellow. My mom used to put me in bright yellow clothes—I looked like a bright lemon.”

He had to concede with her on that point. He observed her as she ate, and some kids of the families who came to the baby shower began to play in the corner, and one of them even persuaded Finan to join them.

“We’re playing duck, duck, goose,” one of the kids explained with a toothy grin. “You can play our goose!”

“Is it because I’m tall?” Finan japed, turning to Aisling for an answer. Aisling just smiled, her cheeks pink with warmth, her ocean blue eyes sparkling like the sun sparkling down on the sea, and she tipped her head back and laughed.

“Yes,” she teased, “it’s because you’re tall.”

Finan snuck glances at Aisling while he played with the children. She ate her food while watching them, looking seemingly lost in thought. He always wanted to know what she was thinking about; always wanted to know how her brain worked. Somehow, the distant look on her face tugged something in his chest. It began as a soft little jab—it didn’t hurt at first, but as he focused on her (as the children wanted to take a break) the feeling blossomed into a strange paralyzing sensation that felt like ice in his body.

She looked lost, his little dream. Like someone who was looking a vision of the present that should’ve been her past. Finan glanced down after a kid tugged at his shirt, enthusiastically telling him they wanted to play one more round before returning to their families.

Just before he allowed himself to be taken away back into the formed circle, Finan wondered if she was looking at a reflection of herself—what she wished she could be.

The thought nagged him even after the baby shower was over, and Finan volunteered to help put everything away. It was a welcoming distraction from the thoughts that cumulated in his head. Aisling stood off to the side, discussing something with Jemma and Sigdeflaed, Whatever was being discussed, she was nodding along in agreement and she was replying back to whatever Jemma and Sigdeflaed was telling her.

Something grew in his heart. But before he could focus on it, Sihtric spoke his name and handed him another box of things and Finan picked it up, the thought leaving his mind.

When they arrived back at home, they moved to their bedroom after taking off their shoes at the door, and Aisling inquired if he could pull down the zipper of her dress.

Finan grasped the zipper gently, murmuring for her to hold still as he held onto the bottom of the zipper before pulling it down. Aisling shimmied out of her dress, leaving her in her lingerie as she took her dress from him, striding to her closet to put it back on the hanger. He followed her, watched the swing of her hips, and quietly wrapped his arms around her when she closed the closet door.

“Have I ever told ya I want to know what goes on in ya pretty little head?” Finan said.

Aisling chuckled softly, the noise warm as it vibrated in her throat. “No.” Then she lifted her head and tilted it slightly to the side so she could look at him. “Why?”

“I just want to,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. “I wanna know what ya are thinking about all the time.”

Aisling, amused, continued to look at him with a gleam in her eyes. “I don’t know if you do,” she teased him, her voice light with humor, “my mind’s a very boring place. If I don’t think about snacks, then I think about books, and if I’m not thinking about snacks or books, I’m usually thinking about how many steps I need to take so I can take a nap.”

“And I want to know all that,” Finan told her earnestly.

She laughed. Then, something shifted in her eyes as she queried: “Is there something wrong?”

He blinked. “What do ya mean?”

“Earlier,” Aisling said, “when you were playing with the kids, I saw you looking at me.”

Still not moving from his spot, Finan answered, “I saw ya looking… different.”

“Like what?” she prompted.

“Ya were… staring off into space. Like ya weren’t physically here. Ya were looking at the kids, too.”

Aisling turned her eyes away from him to look at the full-length mirror that was hooked to the closet door. Clad in her forest green lingerie, she looked a sight in front of Finan. Finan was still dressed in his clothes, and the spot allowed him to see how the lace clung to her body. He had a moment to see it on their FaceTime call, but it was nothing compared to seeing it in person. The dark green lace was tantalizing to him—lying atop the swell of her breasts and stopping just shy of her thighs—like a map he could trace with his fingers; or with his tongue.

Finan ran his forefinger down her bicep almost lazily as he continued to gaze at her in the mirror.

“I thought about it,” Aisling said after a small silence, catching his attention. “When I was watching you with the kids… I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like.”

“Like what?” he murmured, even though he had a sinking suspicion of the answer, his cock growing hard in his pants.

Aisling squirmed slightly against him at the evidence of his desire that pressed against her. “I just thought what it would be like if we”—she squirmed again as she tried to wiggle against him, her cunt clenching around nothing, the familiar ache building in her belly—“if we had a baby, like—”

“Like Sihtric?” Finan said, his voice low with desire.

Finan saw a shiver run down Aisling’s spine. His hand pressed gently on her belly, trying to imagine what she’d look like—her belly rounded and swollen with their child. Aisling’s eyes followed him, locked in on his palm as quiet filled the room.

Just then, her phone started to go off. It was a loud blaring, jarring sound that made her nearly jump out of her own skin.

“I’ll get it,” Aisling said hurriedly, barely twisting herself out of his embrace before scurrying to the bedside table where her phone was. Finan followed her, watching as she picked up her phone and her eyebrows scrunched together, and then all the color drained from her face.

“Aisling?” he asked, a note of hesitancy in his voice. “Are ya alright, love? Who is it? Is it Jemma?”

A full-body tremble wracked her body. And yet Aisling’s phone still rang until it reached the third ring. But then whoever was calling on the other side called again, the same ringing tone that sounded shrill.

Finan went to her immediately, brought her into an embrace, hiding her from her phone as he gently took it from her hand. Glimpsing at the caller ID, he didn’t recognize it as someone she had in her phone. Finan wasn’t the type to look through her phone—he only memorized Jemma’s phone number because she was Aisling’s friend, and he had her number in his phone too.

This number? He’d never seen it before.

“Do ya want me to answer it? Whoever’s calling”—Finan looked down to see as the person called again for a third time—“they’re very persistent.”

“I don’t want to talk to them,” Aisling mumbled.

Noticing her distress, Finan gently raised her chin with a simple movement of his thumb. “Strip. I’ll start a bath for you. And I’ll put your favorite blanket in the dryer. Did you want me to make the mac and cheese you like? The one with cheese with bread crumbs on the side?”

Aisling sniffed. “You don’t need to do all that.”

“Ya are mine,” Finan said simply, like that was all it was to it. “I take care of what’s mine.”

A small beat of silence fell over the room that was cut off by the continuous, obnoxious ringing that pierced through the quiet. Then, Aisling nodded meekly. Finan helped her strip her lingerie from her body, carefully memorizing every inch of her naked body to his mind, even if he’d done it countless times before.

He’d never get tired of it—looking at her naked.

Once Finan pulled a hot bath for her—with her favorite liquid soap—and put her favorite blanket in the dryer, just as he entered the kitchen to make her favorite mac and cheese for her, Aisling’s phone went off once more.

Really, who could be so insistent on calling her this much? Finan began to boil the water and finally answered the call when he brought out the four cheese blocks.

“Finally, Aisling!” A woman’s voice shouted on the other side of the line. “How many times have I told you to get better at answering your phone? Do you know how long it took for me to track down your new number? How could you treat your mother like this?”

Finan didn’t answer for a moment. The woman’s voice—the woman who brought Aisling into this world—her voice sounded strident and was rough on his ears like someone had rubbed a piece of sandpaper on his cheek.

If this woman really was her mother, he could understand why Aisling would want to be away from her as far as possible.

“Aisling—”

“This is Finan.” He adjusted her phone on his shoulder as he pulled out the cheese shredder. It was a pretty pink with different parts to shred cheese and even chop vegetables, but today, he’d use it to shred the four blocks of cheese. “I’m Aisling’s husband. Who are you?”

When he heard silence on the other side of the phone, Finan chuckled lightly, like this was just amusing to him, and hung up the phone. Swiping the block option on the number, Finan put it on the counter, far away from where he was going to cook, and heard the water slosh in the bathroom.

Before he could control himself, his footsteps carried him to the bathroom. Aisling laid in the bathtub, her rust-colored hair draped on her wet shoulders, stuck together.

“Was it my mother?” she asked tiredly.

“It was no one important,” Finan said smoothly.

Aisling chuckled, the noise hollow. She turned her head and said: “I heard what you said.”

“I want to stop this,” Finan said softly, his hand reaching for hers—for her left hand. “I want you to be mine.”

She kept her gaze on him as her ocean blue eyes grew misty with tears, the water sloshing around her as she moved to be closer to him. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Finan’s thumb caressed her ring finger, empty with no ring. At least—not yet. “Let’s do it tomorrow. Just you and me.”

Aisling nodded. “I’ll wear my green dress and the light blue set you like.”

Just as he pulled her close for a kiss, her phone went off again. Aisling pulled away from the embrace, stood up, and rinsed herself off. Cladding her body in a towel, she stomped out of the bathroom to the kitchen where her phone was going off.

“Why are you calling me?” she snapped, and then a beep noise echoed in the kitchen, the person was on speaker.

"You need some release, brother," Juan jokes at dinner.

Rodrigo laughs, agreeing with his son.

"Yes, from you," Cesare mumbles, irritation grating his voice. To hide the double meaning of his words.

And it earns him a light smack on the arm from his father. "You ought to cease saying such things."

"One day your brother won't be here," Vanozza comments, picking at some cheese on her plate, "and you'll regret words of animosity being the only thing laying between you."

At that Cesare chuckles.

Because what their mother and father don't know is that later he'll cry out, cock buried and spilling his seed deep into Juan at his brother's command.

"There are other things between us." He says, popping a grape into his mouth, eyes dark on Juan, "Are there not, brother?"

And Juan's smile dies, a flush creeping up high on his cheeks. That his brother dare insinuate such a thing at the table.

In front of their mother.

He should punish Cesare for such impoliteness.

Lucrezia notes the way her brothers are half breathless based on just a little conversation, and whispers, "Whatever it is you two are up to, may I join?"

Using the cloth to wipe whatever stray food might cling to his mouth, Cesare tells her, eyes still on their brother, "Not tonight, sis."

************************************************************************

Cesare's a whining mess on the bed, crying and squirming awaiting his brother's command. His cock near ready to explode.

He's regretting ever agreeing to his brother's demands at all.

Juan's finger teases the tip of Cesare's leaking cock, and cum threatens to spurt out.

Juan slaps Cesare's hip, forcefully. "Not yet, brother."

Cesare lets out a strangled whine, his body trembling and exhausted.

He can't take anymore of this.

This teasing. It's torturous.

He should kill Juan for this.

But first, he needs his permission.

For release.

"It's been near two hours, Juan!" His voice is high, strained, caught in the back of his throat. His hips seeking friction his brother forbids.

He's half convinced even a slight breeze, or his brother's breath would be his undoing at this point.

"Please. I'll die." He cries, desperately needing Juan's permission. So that he may finally fall over the edge he's been on for two, long, torturous hours.

"Such theatrics," Juan laughs. Then, taking in the seriousness of his brother's begging, "Fine, fine. You may-"

Before he can even finish the command, Cesare's eyes are rolling back, his body convulsing as his seed spills onto the thin trail of hair near his navel.

And Juan's cock twitches to life at the sight and sounds his brother makes.

The moans, and grunts, and groans, and string of curses that fall from his brother's lips are enough to bring anyone to the brink of ecstasy, but especially Juan.

And soon enough, Juan joins Cesare in bliss, spilling himself onto his brother's stomach. Their cum combining, and a thought forms in his head.

"A pity--all that wasted seed. We should have invited our sister, don't you think?" Juan asks, collapsing next to Cesare.

But Cesare's already half asleep.

The blizzard had finally stopped.

Nick, laying naked in bed, turned to look at you. You were half-awake, your eyes still cloudy with sleep as you yawned quietly, and then murmured that you were thirsty.

“I’ll go and see if we have hot coca in the pantry,” you said sleepily.

“You’re still asleep,” he said, “let me do it.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, another yawn escaping you. But this time, you stretched like a cat in the sun.

“Yeah,” Nick said, and then he leaned forward to kiss your forehead.

Your eyebrows scrunched together as you murmured, “You’re… you’re not going to tell Mace about this, are you?”

“Do I need to?” he replied.

“She’s your partner,” you told him. “She’s my… replacement.” The word was hollow in your throat, and Nick could hear an underline of jealousy in it too, like you were offended at the mere thought that he’d replaced you with another woman.

But you weren’t wrong. He wouldn’t correct you—it was a fact he’d chosen Mace as a partner after you faked your death.

Something he still was angry by. If Nick had known four days ago that you’d faked your death, suffered the loss of his child—that you were alive, breathing in front of him—and you’d hidden yourself away from him all these years, he would’ve excused himself to be in another room, stew in those emotions for a while, and then would’ve returned to you and asked why you’d done it. Why you had vanished without a trace. Why you’d accepted that job in Spain. Why you’d allowed him to believe you’d been dead for the last five years.

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” he mused. There was a sick part of him; a part that reveled in the way your eyes grew bright with anger at the thought of Mace fucking Brown hanging off his arm, of her sharing a room with him when they were on a mission undercover, of—

You were stewing in it. You were jealous. Somewhere in your heart, a part of you loathed Mace Brown. But another part of you knew it wasn’t her fault. After all, you’d chosen the mission in Spain. You’d chosen to fake your death because of—

“I shouldn’t be,” you muttered. “I know it’s… it’s my fault.”

He wasn’t going to say it. Nick got out of bed, pushing himself forward until his feet hit the floor, and you watched him with desire brewing in your eyes as he turned to look at you.

“It is,” he agreed. “I don’t know if I should put you over my lap and spank you until you promise to never do it again, or suggest we run away together and go off the grid.”

You chuckled. “That sounds nice.”

“Which one?”

A playful smile spread on your face. “Both.”

Nick’s eyes darkened. “Brat.”

You grinned and joined him. You knew his eyes wrecked drinking you in—greedily mapping the length of your body—but you were doing it too. Letting your eyes rake down his body, looking at the body you’d memorized with all of your senses; a body you that still haunted your dreams. Moving to the chair that held one of your shirts, you slipped it on, followed by your underwear.

Out of instinct, you grabbed your phone. It’d been a good thing that you’d brought along your portable charger. In circumstances like these, it was a miracle you could keep your phone charged just in case anyone called.

As if on cue, your phone screen flashed with a familiar caller ID. Quickly accepting it, you put your phone to your ear. “Hey Gemma, is everything alright?”

“The blizzard’s over!” Gemma exclaimed.

“Is it safe to drive yet?” you questioned, your feet immediately moving out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Your feet carried you to the kitchen window, and you pulled the blind away a little to reveal a snowy wonderland outside. You didn’t hear any wind, not like the first night. But you’d chosen another way to pass the time. A wry smile pulled on your lips as the memories of being tangled under the sheets, reduced to moans and whimpers as Nick took you, coming inside you again and again.

Subconsciously, your hand pressed to your flat belly. You’d done that many times after losing the baby, but these past couple of days, it seemed to become a frequent occurrence.

“…Are you still there?”

You blinked back to the present. “Sorry—lost my track of thought. Is it safe to drive out yet?”

“No,” Gemma answered. “But you should be in the clear tomorrow.”

“Alright, thanks.”

You exchanged pleasantries before you hung up the phone.

“Who was that?” Nick asked, then he approached you from behind and pulled you into his arms. He’d dressed himself—just a pair of boxers—but you hummed.

“A friend,” was all you answered.

“Can she be trusted?” he inquired.

You chuckled. “Only by me.”

You felt him stiffen slightly against you. You were hiding things from him again. You didn’t blame him for having doubts; how could he trust you, after all you’d done? It was a natural response, and you didn’t fault him in the slightest.

Unwrapping yourself from his touch, you went into the pantry in search of hot cocoa mix and marshmallows. Upon finding hot cocoa mix, a bag of mini marshmallows, some instant coffee, sugar, and cinnamon, you put them on the counter before getting the milk and a saucepan. From there, you began making the hot coca.

“Can I ask you something?” Nick asked as you started to warm up the milk.

“Yeah?” you replied while opening the drawers to find a whisk.

“Why didn’t you—why didn’t you tell me about the baby?”

Your hand wrapped around a whisk. But you paused for a moment and your eyes landed on the milk. Thoughts swarmed in your head, and you wondered what you should say. Many things rested on the tip of your tongue, and your other hand pressed on your stomach again.

“Because I didn’t want to tell you I was thinking of leaving the CIA.”

Nick looked at you with disbelief. “So what—you were planning to just leave me? Severer our partnership and just leave?”

You finally turned around to look at him. “No. No, I… I did want to tell you I was—that I wanted to leave. I wanted to tell you after I came back from Spain.”

He took one step closer to you. “And the baby?”

“I did want to tell you about the baby,” you admitted, and the emotion that crept up your throat made tears brim in your eyes, and you bit back a choked sob when you added: “I wanted to tell you about the baby first. But Spain happened, and”—a shaky breath left your lips—“I lost the baby.”

Nick saw the sorrow that shone in your eyes. It was like someone had struck him fast and hard. He felt the agony spread from his chest to his entire body. You’d lost your baby even before they could take their first breath.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” he heard you say. It brought him back to look at you again, to keep his attention on you. “I did want to tell you.”

Maybe he’d never get over it. Maybe he’d never be able to let go of the leftover anger and bitterness he felt toward you, knowing he had mourned you for this long. Five years was a long time, and thirty-eight was different than thirty-three.

“I won’t give you my forgiveness that easily,” he said.

“I know,” you replied. “I won’t ask for it.”

Nick came closer to you, put an arm around your waist and pulled you close, and bent down to kiss you. The kiss quickly deepened, and you were pushed against the fridge. His hands roamed down your body, feeling every inch of your skin. He kissed you until you needed to part for air, panting to catch your breath; your eyes were wide and blown from desire, your body tingling and warm with need, and your hands even trembled from not wanting to lose control and take him on the floor.

The hot cocoa. Your eyes flew to the pan, and saw it bubbling on the sides. Thankfully, it wasn’t a full, roaring boil, and you quickly put in everything before stirring the milk. You stirred until everything had incorporated, and poured the hot cocoa in two mugs.

Nick and you sat at the small table, drinking your hot cocoa in silence. You couldn’t turn on the TV, the electricity was still out. You were both lucky the stove wasn’t electric.

But, being that the only entertainment could be either talking or fucking, it was a mild surprise you drained your hot cocoa in silence. When you’d finished off the pot, you washed everything in the sink while Nick dried them.

After you finished, you weren’t truly surprised when he looked at you with a dark gaze in his eyes.

“You wanna go back to the bedroom?” you murmured.

Nick didn’t offer a reply, only swept you off your feet and carried you back to the bedroom. The door closed behind you two, and you laughed when he dropped you on the bed, your back bouncing off the mattress a little, and Nick climbed on top of you. His hand grasped the hem of your shirt and pulled it up and over your head, then his hand sank into the waistband of your underwear, tugged it off of you completely and tossed it aside.

You didn’t try to contain the laugh that left you as you reached for his shirt, pulling it off him, and then his boxers. A small shaky breath escaped your throat when his hand sank between your thighs, his fingers sliding into your pussy—your pussy that was still full of his come and your arousal—with a lewd noise. As if it was easy for him to find his way inside you again. But it was. It was easy for him to know your body when he’d been your first—your first everything.

Nick curled his hand around his shaft and pushed inside you with one thrust, filled you completely with his cock, and your mouth tipped open.

“Please.” It was the only word that left your lips, and Nick quietly obliged.

You didn’t know what time it was when you woke up again, blinked for a moment before reaching over to look at your phone. It was currently two in the afternoon, and to your surprise, you weren’t hungry. You weren’t hungry or thirsty, but your carnal hunger, your desire for Nick was satiated.

For now.

You left the bed and dressed yourself in your shirt, jacket, jeans, and socks. Nick was still in bed, asleep when you quietly left, and you walked into the kitchen. The electricity hadn’t come back on yet, so all you could do was play a game on your phone for a bit.

Ten minutes later, you heard Nick’s footsteps come from the bedroom and into the living room. “You weren’t in bed.”

“I woke up.” You turned off your phone screen and turned around to look at him. “Are you hungry? The blizzard stopped. I could make us some soup.”

“No,” he said. “I’m alright. I was just looking for you.”

Getting up from the couch, you walked to the kitchen window, Nick not too far behind. You looked out the window, your gaze enraptured by the snow outside. “It looks nice outside,” you told him. “Did you want to step outside for a second?”

He chuckled as he said, “And do what?”

“Well,” you remarked, “it’s not safe enough to drive anywhere—not that it would be any help for us, we’re in the middle of nowhere. But we could…” You paused for a moment to wrack your brain for any ideas. Your gaze followed out the window again, and you focused on the snowy ground.

Then, less than a split second later, like a light bulb had gone off, you suggested: “We could make snow angels.”

“Snow angels?” Nick had to think for a moment. Then, he added: “Why not. It’s nice enough outside. Something we haven’t done yet.”

“We never got the chance to,” you replied with a small chuckle, one full of melancholy and longing. In the back of your mind, you wondered if Nick ever made snow angels with Mace; if that was something she had the honor to share with him and not you.

“We can do it now.” Nick grasped your hand in his, and you turned your head to him. You looked at him with vulnerable eyes, and you allowed yourself to sigh when he leaned forward to kiss your forehead.

“I’ll get my coat. Wait for me.”

Five minutes later, you both made it outside to the snowy grounds that surrounded the safe house. Being that you too were in the middle of nowhere, it wouldn’t have mattered if you could drive. The nearest town was four hours away, and really, you didn’t need to drive anywhere anyway.

You plopped yourself on the ground with a little laugh, and your laugh became louder, higher, full of warmth when Nick joined you, his little laugh joining yours. Your arms and legs moved to make two snow angels; they were imperfect things, but it didn’t matter. 

You turned your head to look at him, and without realizing it, your hand slid into his. That small part of you—the small part of you that never stopped longing for him, aching for him—it fell silent. It fell silent, and for the first time in a long time, the hole in your chest knitted back together and became hole once again.

Nick met your gaze, and you leaned forward to press your lips against his. Nick kissed you back; it was desperate, needy, and his hand pressed into the nape of your neck to bring you closer to him, to press your body on his. He kissed you until you both needed to break away for air, and you breathed out: “Take me back inside.”

He carried you back inside and brought you into the bedroom. It was becoming a familiar sight to you, and some part of your body tightened as you thought, It would be good to look around this place, to look at him one last time.

“Stay with me,” Nick murmured after you had taken each other’s clothes off, and he was beneath you. You were straddling him, your knees spread out and planted down on either side of his hips, and your breasts jiggled and swayed as you sank to take his cock to the hilt.

You both groaned at the sensation.

“Stay with me,” he told you as you started to raise your hips, move your slick sex up and down on the length of his prick.

You looked at him, never broke your gaze as you continued to move, continued to ride him as the blunt head of his cock brushed on your clit, making pleasure burn in your belly. “I will,” you promised him, and then moments later, your announced your climax with a cry.

Then, Nick flipped you over on your back, and entered you again with a swift thrust. “You’re mine,” he said.

“I’m yours,” you told him. Then, you clenched down on him and said quietly, “You’re mine, too.”

Nick reached to tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear, and then he placed his palm on your belly, before his eyes flickered to meet yours. “And they’re ours, too.”

Hours later in the early morning, when Nick woke up, you were gone. 

At first, he thought you’d woken up early and pattered to the kitchen on the search for breakfast, but a pull in his gut told him the opposite, All of your things in the bedroom were gone. He shot out of bed immediately, scurrying to the bathroom, and sure enough, your things you’d stacked in there also vanished.

He returned to the bedroom and spotted a piece of paper on the small table. Nick went over and grabbed it, his eyes hungry.

Nick, I’m sorry. I lied to you again. If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. I wanted to stay with you, but I can’t. I can’t tell you why. I’m sorry I’m too much of a coward to tell you I couldn’t in person. I’m not doing it because I want to hurt you. I wanted to stay here with you and pretend it was just us, but you and I both know we can’t do that. Maybe if we were younger, but we’re both old enough to know we can’t. Not anymore. Please don’t come and look for me. You won’t find anything. Maybe this time, I’ll come and look for you. If we ever meet again, I’ll tell you about Sophie. She was supposed to be our girl. I’m sorry. I love you. 

You hadn’t signed your name. He didn’t need you to—he could decipher your handwriting in a heartbeat.

Nick put down the letter and glanced out the window. He saw the two snow angels—the only evidence you’d shared this safe house with him. It was just a distant memory now—a fleeting moment. Just like you.

His phone pinged on the bedside table. Nick somehow was there in a moment, and he picked up the phone.

The blizzard’s over. Come back.

Until one day. Helena would remember this day as the second most favorite days of her life.

It went as such:

She was nine and sitting in the drawing room of Yang House—the London townhouse that belonged to Lord Wilmot. Helena was reading Hamlet when her aunt Maria announced, “We have callers.”

The dowager viscountess liked to sit at the window while she did her embroidery so she may see when the family had callers. Helena thought her aunt enjoyed the little japes she’d say about every visitor before they entered the townhouse.

A few moments later, Phillips, their butler opened the door and she heard two footsteps enter the entrance hall, and Phillip’s voice rang out, “Good day, Lord Rutherland. Lord Northwick. Are you here to see Miss Emmy, Lord Rutherland?”

“Yes,” Jonathan Gower—a friend of her family, and Emmy’s closest friend, replied. Helena hid her smile behind her book as a shy smile came over her cousin’s face. Helena heard enough gossip from the servants and saw the looks from Emmy and Jonathan to know they harbored a fancy for one another. They could say it was friendship all they liked, but Helena could see them married in the future.

And if they needed a push toward matrimony well, she was more than helpful to guide them in that direction. Jonathan would make Emmy a good husband. Jonathan made Emmy laugh, and Helena knew to be in love was to make the other person laugh. After all, Jonathan made Emmy laugh every time they were together. They must be in love.

The doors to the drawing room opened as Phillips stepped inside and announced, “The Marquess Rutherland and his friend, the Marquess Northwick, my lady.”

Helena put her book on the sofa as she gathered to her feet with her cousins and aunt. While her aunt and cousins curtsied, she acknowledged the new presence in the room with a nod.

(Another such thing that did not make her a lady. She could not curtsy.)

Jonathan was a familiar sight. He was eighteen now, freshly new to Oxford. His locs were shorter than when he was a boy, down to his shoulders now, but his brown eyes never lost his softness when his gaze raked over the room. His waistcoat was a cream shade whilst his tailcoat was a navy blue, and his trousers were tucked into his boots. 

Helena did not recognize the man who stood beside him, why she’d never seen this man before in her life!

But she knew he was a man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and he needn’t anything to fill his tailcoat. His waistcoat was a crisp white and his tailcoat was a deep burgundy. Dark chestnut-brown hair curled down past his ears, and a few even fell in his eyes—something his lordship was quick to mend by simply tucking them behind his ear. He was tan too, sun-kissed. He probably spent time in the sun.

His lordship smiled, something Helena told herself he must do often. He looked the type. And when his gaze landed on her book, his smile widened.

Could he like Shakespeare too? she wondered.

“Could you ask the cook to bring us three platters of biscuits and three pots of tea, Phillips?” Maria requested.

“Right away, my lady.” Phillips bowed and closed the doors on his way out.

“Lord Rutherland, it is an honor to have you in our home once again,” the dowager viscountess said as she went over to greet the two new guests.

Helena sat back down and opened her book. Her eyes flickered over the pages, and she found where she left off. Satisfied, she continued to read as she listened to her aunt and Jonathan speak.

“It is a sight for sore eyes,” Jonathan agreed softly. “Better than spending all of my time in the schoolroom with my other peers. It does tire me after a while.”

“Well, I hope you visit us every week then,” Maria chuckled. “Lord Northwick, it is a surprise to see you in our home. I do not believe we’ve had the honor of you here.”

“I do not believe so either,” his lordship answered, his voice holding an accent—Spanish, she deduced—followed by a laugh. Helena knew it. His lordship was a happy man. “It is an honor to be in your home. Is the viscount in?”

“No,” Maria answered, “my brother-in-law is currently disposed of, at the moment. He is in the countryside attending a shooting party with his acquaintances. I decided to bring our family here, other than my nephews. They are with their father in the countryside at this moment, I’m afraid.”

“Is it just you and your daughters?” his lordship inquired.

“My two daughters, yes, and my niece, Helena.” Maria said.

“I told you, Northwick,” Jonathan said, “the viscount has a daughter I thought you’d find an association with.”

Northwick turned her way and smiled. “I remember now. Miss Helena. I knew who she was just by her book.” Then, to her complete surprise, he walked away from his friend and her aunt, and joined her at the sofa.

Helena lifted her head from Hamlet and blinked owlishly, confusion gracing her face. “Good day,” she said, because one could not ignore the presence of a marquess.

“Good day,” the marquess replied in kind. It was the first time anyone of the opposite sex was kind to her—other than her brothers. Helena could not help but look at him, study him with a gleam in her eyes to see if his interest was genuine. “I saw your book here and I could not help but ask you your feelings on the character of Ophelia.”

He was genuine. The realization struck her at once, and Helena, shocked, did not reply for a moment. All she could say was, “I, er…” when she finally did.

“Do not scare the girl, Northwick,” Jonathan said from where he sat beside Emmy. Maria sat on another sofa toward the bell the family used to ring for tea, a twinkle in her eyes.

“I think there is a tragedy within her character,” Helena finally said.

“I agree,” his lordship said, “the play is a tragedy.”

Helena shook her head. “No, my lord.”

Northwick tilted his head. “Go on.”

She glanced down quickly to see if her page would be secured, and when she saw nothing, she pulled a hair ribbon from her head, and a lock clumsily coiled on the nape of her neck. Helena, securing her page, closed her book and placed it on her lap before she continued on. “I do believe Shakespeare was conveying the tragedy of being born a woman—especially in the sixteenth century. Ophelia is at the mercy of her father, her brother, and her love Hamlet. The men in her life ought to treat her better, but they do not—they are men. She is fated to be Hamlet’s mistress if the prince ever were to take a wife, as she is not titled high enough as a potential bride, and such is proven when Hamlet calls her a whore and tells her to become a nun—the greatest insult ever to be placed on a woman. Only after her father’s death by her sweet love’s hands does she become mad and drown herself in a river. It is not the fault of the woman, but the fault of men.”

Helena could have continued on, but realized she was blabbing nonsense to the marquess he always knew, and thus clamped her mouth shut. She must look a fool in front of him; a little girl reduced to her rambles on a topic she loved. Helena always knew she liked to talk too much when it came to Shakespeare, much to her family’s amusement. It was another thing she needed to keep hidden, just like the viscount’s hatred of her.

But his lordship simply raised an eyebrow. His lips parted in such a way that could only say why in bloody earth did you stop? and waited for her to pick up where she left off.

“I… I apologize,” she said humbly.

“Apologize? Apologize for what?” the marquess questioned, his head straightening, and he looked at her seriously when he added: “There is nothing to apologize for; you are clearly passionate on the subject, and it brings me joy that I have found another kindred spirit who enjoys Shakespeare’s works as much as I do.”

She had suspected he did. But Helena was not prepared to realize then, his lordship smile at her and then chuckle. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. Go on, finish your thoughts. I am more than happy to hear them.”

It was the first time a man than her brothers smiled at her and made a noise that wasn’t one of disgust. It shouldn’t have awed her as much as it did, but it did. This newfound feeling that made her chest lighten and her lips to curl into a smile was one she never felt before.

“You would… like me to continue?” she asked hesitantly.

“I would, yes.” The marquess nodded.

Helena allowed herself to linger on him a moment longer, perhaps to memorize how he looked at her so she may remember it whenever she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Finally, her tongue darted out to wet her lips and she mustered the courage to finish where she left off. “Ophelia’s greatest tragedy is her mistreatment at the hands of men. She is a cruel symbol of what women endured, and it is important she haunts the play—and Hamlet—after she is dead.” Then Helena gave a little shrug of her shoulders and finished with: “It is what Hamlet deserves. His heart is consumed for revenge for his father, something I won’t deny is his right. But his treatment of Ophelia is his final sin that leads to his death.”

Helena lowered her eyes as the room fell silent. She would never speak about Shakespeare ever again. She would never greet the Marquess Northwick and ask him about Shakespeare ever again. She would scurry to her bedchamber, crawl underneath her blankets, and never come out ever again.

Then, the marquess began to laugh. Laugh!

Oh, he was mocking her. He was mocking her, and she was going to gather her things and leave the room as quick as her legs could take her.

But Helena listened, and she found his laughter was not mocking at all. Rather, his laugh was joyful, and she lifted her eyes to see him smiling.

“There are two of them now,” she heard Jonathan tease softly to Emmy, who nudged him, and he chuckled. “I only jape, Emmy.”

“Shush,” her cousin said, laughter in her voice. “Helena is smiling.”

And then, Helena laughed. She laughed, and the marquess laughed and smiled. His eyes were honey-brown, she noted. They were full of warmth. Warmth for the fact he found someone else who enjoyed Shakespeare as much as he did.

They abandon their bags and decide to seek out answers first, heading to the kitchen towards Mother and Itachi. His shoulders relax as he finds them chatting and smiling, prepping vegetables together, but he also finds his anger rising even more. Why is no one attending to Sarada when she is obviously incredibly upset?

“Why is Sarada crying?” his wife asks them, before he can. It was probably for the best that she did. In the state that he’s in right now, Sasuke’s pretty sure he would have snapped at them—and Mother wouldn’t have liked that at all.

But he’s not quite sure he would have minded that, now, after seeing the way Mother smiles and shrugs like this is all no big deal. Sarada is crying and terribly upset. This is a big deal.

Itachi starts to crack up, and Sasuke scowls. Whatever he is finding funny in this situation, Sasuke isn’t seeing it at all.

There is nothing funny about Sarada being this upset, he thinks with gritted teeth, pulling his crying daughter closer and rubbing her back. He kisses the side of her head.

Mother sees the look on his face, and she sighs dramatically. “Oh, Sasuke, lighten up. She overreacted a little, that’s all. We were making dinner, and she was helping us—well, you know, ‘helping’ us,” —she uses quotation marks, here, to emphasize that his daughter had no doubt only hung around them and chatted her little heart out, because she was too young to truly do anything yet— “while we were prepping everything. But then when she noticed Itachi adding tomatoes in the frying pan, she got very upset.” She rolls her shoulders into one of her rare shrugs, going back to the chopping of her green onions. “She ran off before we could explain to her that this was only our dinner, and that she didn’t have to have any of it because we were making a special-no-tomato version just for her.”

“You are?” Sarada blubbers, wiping her very wet, very red eyes to look at her grandmother. 

The latter grins at her in return, and abandons her work to lovingly pinch her cheek and pepper kisses all over her face. “Of course we are. We didn’t forget about you. In fact, we love you so much that you’re getting a special dinner all to yourself. And your uncle Itachi and I were just talking about making you your favorite dessert, too. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Yes…” Sarada whimpers, rubbing her wet cheeks dry, though tears continue to roll. 

But when Itachi holds his arms out, inviting her to go with him instead, Sarada turns her face away and into Sasuke’s neck once more.

“Ouch, that hurt my heart a little. Are you still upset at your favorite uncle, Sarada? I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you first about the tomatoes.”

“Want to stay with Papa…” she sniffles, hugging him tightly.

Rubbing her back still, Sasuke hugs her back, and murmurs soothing words.

“I don’t understand why she would be so upset about you adding tomatoes,” Sakura whispers, no doubt so their daughter wouldn’t overhear. “She never cries about it when we’re at home. Maybe she’s tired?”

“Well, honestly, she wasn’t crying when she ran off,” Mother admits, sighing. “She went to see Fugaku in the living room, and five minutes later, well…”

Sasuke stiffens, and he just about growls. “Father made her cry?” he snaps, quieting his voice as his rising anger seems to upset Sarada again. “Where is he?” he hisses.

Itachi takes his turn to sigh, now; Sasuke hates it, because it sounds downright patronizing. “Sasuke, she’s a child. Children get upset every now and then. I’m sure Father wasn’t being a monster.”

And it is downright patronizing. He grits his teeth. “Where. Is. He? I want to talk to him.”

Mother makes an exasperated noise, and she props a hand on her hip, her dark eyes narrowed admonishingly at him. It still builds a swirl of anxiety in Sasuke’s stomach even now, but this is his daughter who’s crying, and his daughter that no one is taking seriously, and he can’t let his mother step down from the importance of this matter. 

“Sasuke, is that really necessary?” Mother asks, shaking her head. “Honestly, I’m sure this was all a big misunderstanding. You know how much your father loves Sarada.”

“Then he won’t mind clearing it all up to me, will he?” Sasuke snarls, because he is getting tired of Sarada’s feelings being trivialized, and being brushed off merely because she’s a child.

His father is not a cruel man, but he can be callous and cold without realizing, Sasuke remembers. And he won’t tolerate him playing the same mind tricks on his own granddaughter. 

Mother and Itachi both protest when he starts trudging away, and even Sakura says something along the lines of, “Sasuke-kun, darling, wait just a minute—” but Sasuke doesn’t listen. He can’t. He stalks angrily around his old home with purpose instead, Sarada hiccuping in his neck still and holding onto him for dear life, which Sasuke isn’t surprised to find isn’t any better than her sobbing. It hurts just the same to listen to.

Father will pay for hurting her.

When he gets to the living room a minute later, Father is sitting on the couch, rubbing a tired hand over his face while he watches the news. Whether that’s because he is truly tired, or feels guilty for hurting Sarada’s feelings, Sasuke doesn’t know—but he does truly hope for the latter, for his father’s sake.

Father looks up, and genuine surprise crosses his features. This doesn’t catch Sasuke off guard; his father’s hearing hasn’t been great ever since a bomb accidentally went off at his police district after it had been presumed harmless due to malfunction. 

(luckily, no one had been hurt.)

Father blinks. “Sasuke? When did you and Sakura get back? I didn’t hear the door—”

“What the hell did you do to Sarada?” Sasuke demands, his tone as icy and threatening as his dagger-glaring eyes. He knows he’s being rude and disrespectful, but he’s too pissed and worried about his daughter to care.

His father startles, but it isn’t long before his lips thin out and his gaze narrows with contained fury. His jaw cinches, and he grits out, “Mind your tone, boy. Your mother and I taught you better than that, and I’ll be damned if—”

“What the fuck did you do to her!” Sasuke yells, which triggers some outraged cries from the kitchen that he ignores, only listening to the way Sarada starts to cry again. He kisses her head and holds her tighter, unable to manage gentle soothing sounds. She only begins to calm when he rubs her back and bounces her a little, though Sasuke is far too focused on the way his father recoils and doubles down with twice the anger to think about doing anything else to pacify her.

But after a few silent seconds boiling with unspoken rage, Father does the unexpected, and forces his fists to unclench at his side. He sighs heavily as he does, as though he thinks that somehow, not fighting makes him the better man.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to upset Sarada any further, he realizes, as his father’s eyes flicker to his daughter, who is sniffing miserably in his arms.

Sasuke’s anger softens, but not much. He still glares angrily at the man before him, because even if he is right, and his father is sorry, he still shouldn’t have hurt Sarada in the first place.

Father shakes his head, and rubs the back of his neck. “Sasuke… I promise you, I didn’t do or say anything mean to her. I know I wasn’t always the warmest father to you, but I’m trying my hardest to never be anything but warm with Sarada. When she ran over to me, she was half-crying already. She tripped over the carpet and fell down—bumped her forehead in the process. When I came over to help, she started crying on the floor. I started soothing her—and it was working.” He pauses for a few breaths. His throat bobs with a swallow. “Until I forgot that she hated tomatoes, that is.”

A wave of confusion hits Sasuke, wariness replacing some of the fury on his features. A little voice in the back of his mind, which he half-thinks is Sakura’s fault that it’s there as it is often resonating her opinions, scolds him that he should have waited lest he just have overreacted and caused disrespect to his parents for no real reason.

He mulls his lips, and asks with some hesitation, “You… offered her a tomato?”

Father’s lip twitches at a corner, so briefly and faintly Sasuke might have missed it if he blinked. His face remains neutral, but Sasuke can see the glimmers of amusement swimming in his eyes. His father crosses his arms over his chest, huffing. “Close. She had a big red bump on her forehead. I teased that now she had a big tomato there. I thought it would make her smile.” He shakes his head like he’s silently scolding himself and wishing he could turn back time. “It wasn’t until she started bawling and ran off again that I realized I should have picked another red fruit to compare her forehead to.”

Just like that, Sasuke’s anger fades and bleeds into a whirlwind of guilt; it seeps into his stomach, and climbs all the way around his heart. Fuck. He had overreacted. Mother was not going to be happy with him. Or Sakura.

Though in his defense, he had been acting solely for the way he thought his daughter was being mistreated, so maybe that would soften their scowls a bit.

Hopefully.

The thoughts must show on his face, because Father’s features twist with even more amusement as he watches him, so Sasuke looks away and turns his attention towards his daughter instead. Sarada is sniffling into his neck, even now, but she doesn’t seem as sad as she has been since he’d arrived, so there’s some relief in that.

He kisses the top of her head to reassure her, then gently tugs her away and whispers inquisitively if he can take a look at her. Sarada doesn’t put up any complaints, so he takes that as a yes and brushes her damp bangs out of her red face. Her eyes are puffy, wet and glimmering still with tears, and even though she looks more tired now than she does sad, it still breaks his heart into a million pieces.

At least the presence of the big red bump on her forehead that indeed exists is distracting enough that he doesn’t have to think about that, much.

He can’t believe he hadn’t noticed it until now. But he supposes she was hiding her face in his neck for most of the time since he’d arrived from the grocery store, so maybe it isn’t so unbelievable that he didn’t.

His daughter rubs her forehead, eyes growing a little mistier, and she looks at him like it’s the end of the world and like nothing could ever be possibly worse. “Oji-chan said I have a tomato on my forehead…” she whimpers, scrubbing her eye as she often does when she’s exhausted. She sniffles, tears spilling over her cheeks again as she hiccups and fights back sobs. “And uncle ‘tachi and Baba were putting tomatoes in dinner… I hate tomatoes, Papa…” Her last words crack, and her breaths break into little gasps as she buries herself in his neck again and starts crying, which Sasuke doesn’t fight.

He shushes her sweetly and starts rubbing her back while murmuring reassuring words and loving encouragements, letting her snivel and weep against him freely. The more she does, the more she’ll tire herself out, and Sasuke believes a good long nap will do her some good.

When she quiets and is back to her miserable sniffles, Sarada asks him, “Do you think Mama can make the tomato go away, Papa?”

Sasuke’s lips twitch, but he somehow manages to hide his smile. Father struggles as well, it seems, and the guilt Sasuke has over disrespecting him grows twice-fold. Father loves Sarada more than anything in the world, just as he and Sakura do. He wants to be a better grandfather to her than he was a father to him.

Sasuke’s eyes lessen with apology, but he focuses on Sarada for now and pulls her back to give her one of his rare smiles—the ones he solely reserves for her. He brushes her cute bangs away from her soft, round face.

Instead of answering, Sasuke leans in and lays the fondest, lingering kiss on her forehead; not in the middle, but exactly over her big red bump that’s causing her so much distress.

Sarada winces. 

“There,” he murmurs, kissing her nose. “No more tomato on your forehead. Papa ate it.”

His daughter gasps. “Really?” She tries to touch her bump to check it, but Sasuke grasps her hand, peppering sweet kisses all over her hand.

He smiles. “Really.”

She launches her arms around him and hugs him tight, muffling into his neck, “Thank you… I love you, Papa.”

“I love you too, Sarada.” He rubs her back and gives her a pat. “You understand now that sometimes if you see us adding tomatoes, it isn’t because we forgot you?” Sarada pulls away from him, and she nods. Sasuke nods back. “Baba and Itachi were hurt earlier when you ran off. But they’re even making your favorite dessert anyway, tonight. Go apologize to them.”

“Yes. Okay, Papa. I’m sorry,” she whispers, and he kisses her nose before he lets her down, satisfied.

Sarada wipes the tears from her face one last time, and she smiles up at him even in her tired state. The sight lifts Sasuke’s heart by miles.

But just as she looks like she’s about to run back off towards the kitchen, she hesitates. She turns around, and swiftly tackles her grandpa’s legs into a tight hug. “I’m sorry, Oji-chan. I hope you weren’t sad. I love you.”

Father seems a little stunned, but it isn’t long until he picks her up to fully return her embrace, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He murmurs something in her ear, and Sarada pulls back with a wide smile and a giggle, nudging his nose with hers in an eskimo kiss. Father grins and peppers a few last kisses over her face, then let’s her down. 

There is nothing but happiness and smiles on Sarada’s face as she pats hurriedly towards the kitchen, traces of her sorrow now all but nearly gone, save for her puffy, red eyes. Mother will likely have some kind of magic home remedy for them.

When they are left alone, Father crosses his arms over his chest, and his face slips back into his usual apathy. Sasuke knows he has to apologize, and that his father is expecting it, but the words won’t leave his throat when the prideful part of him screams that he was only defending his daughter.

He opens his mouth and tries, anyway, but nothing comes out. He tries once more, and then again a third time, all with the same results.

He expects his father to admonish him and his lack of respect, but instead, what he gets is totally unexpected. His father cracks up, and slips a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. A smile Sasuke doesn’t think he’s ever seen directed at him since he was a very young child.

His mouth hangs rudely, too stunned to remember his manners.

“You’ve really inherited the worst parts of me. I wish I could lecture you about your complete lack of respect and your damn stubborn pride that won’t even let you apologize, but I don’t know how to begin doing that without feeling like a complete hypocrite.” His father’s features soften back to something more neutral and unreadable, but he still shakes his head and huffs, amused. “I’m sorry I taught you pride came before humility, Sasuke. And I’m sorry I never apologized to you when I was wrong. I should have.”

“Yes. You should have,” Sasuke finds himself admitting, and his gaze drops in panic. He runs a hand through his hair and looks in the direction of the kitchen with a sense of dread, crossing his arms, too. “I’m not sorry for being angry with you when I thought you mistreated Sarada.” He pauses, just for a breath. “But I am sorry that I jumped to conclusions so fast.”

“Your mother will make sure you won’t be doing it again,” Father says, an odd tone to his voice.

Sasuke looks back to find him smirking. He can’t blame him.

Looking back to the hall leading to his next dreaded destination, Sasuke’s shoulders drop. “Yeah. Sakura will, too,” he mutters.

He’s not sure who will kill him first.

.

.