#o'connell

Bent slightly forward, breathless like he’s just legged it across half of Bristol, sweaty fringe stuck to his forehead. His hands are on his hips, and he’s not even looking at you—his eyes are glued to this massive black bag at his feet, like it's about to explode or grow legs and run off.

"What the f—"

“Your dad home?” he cuts you off, still half-wheezing, his voice rough and urgent in a way that shuts your mouth before the curse can land.

You’re tempted to say what you always say—he’s never here. Hasn’t been for weeks. Probably off chasing some new life you weren’t invited into. But you don’t. Because that would mean opening the door to all the feelings you’ve nailed shut behind your ribs.

So instead, you fold your arms like armour and lift your chin.

“Why? You fall out with your dad again and need somewhere to crash?”

It comes out more bitter than you meant, coated in venom you’ve been saving for someone else. You’ve been bracing for the next person to use you like a bolt hole, and for a second you let yourself think maybe that’s all this is.

But Freddie’s face shifts—softens. You see it in the little twitch of guilt, the way his eyes flick up to yours with something like hurt. And instantly, you feel like shit. Because Freddie wouldn’t. Not like that. Not to you.

“It’s not for me,” he says. And nods at the bag. “Help me get this inside, yeah?”

You hesitate, just for a second. Then grab one end, and holy shit—it’s heavy.

“What’ve you got in here?” you groan, practically tripping as you both heave it over the threshold. “Freddie, when I said I loved you enough to help you hide a body, I was joking.”

He barks out a laugh, quick and nervous. But before he can answer, the bag shifts. There’s a rustle. A puff of smoke. 

“Mate,” you mutter. “Your bin bag’s on fire.”

Then the top bursts open, like it’s been holding its breath—

—and out comes Cook.

Grinning. Cigarette dangling from his lips. Arms stretched above his head like he’s just won a fight or crawled out of the grave.

“S’alright, love,” he says, voice cracked and cocky. “Didn’t miss me too much, did ya?”

Your heart stutters. Stops. Then restarts with a lurch so hard it hurts.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your mouth opens and closes once, then again. You look at Freddie like he might explain this, might slow the world down long enough for you to catch up.

“He’s not supposed to be here,” you manage. It comes out too quiet.

“Supposed to be in prison,” you say louder, jaw tight now, rage catching up with disbelief. “He’s meant to be inside.”

“Oi, I’m right here, y’know,” Cook says, stepping fully out of the bag like he does this kind of thing every Tuesday. He wobbles a bit, legs stiff from being curled up gods know how long, but he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

And you don’t take yours off him either.

Because he’s real. Cook. In your hallway. In your fucking house. Looking exactly like the boy you told you loved, just days before he disappeared.

You shove past the lump in your throat.

“I thought you were—”

“Arrested?” he offers with a grin. “Nah. Almost. Escaped”

Freddie clears his throat. “Couldn’t keep him at mine any longer. Dad’s asking questions.”

Now your anger finds somewhere to land. You round on Cook, voice like flint.

“You’ve been out this whole time? And you didn’t tell me? You let me think—”

He steps closer, hands up, not laughing anymore.

“I wanted to, alright? I fuckin’ tried. But I’m like, the most wanted bastard in Bristol. Couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk you.”

He grabs your face then, both hands on your cheeks, forcing you to look at him like it’s the only way to speak the truth. His thumb brushes just beneath your eye, soft. Too soft.

“Would’ve run straight to you if I could’ve. You know that.”

And fuck. You do.

You do because you remember. You remember his mouth on yours just before everything fell apart. The way he said he loved you like it burned coming out. Like he’d never said it before and might never say it again. You remember not knowing what to do with it—any of it. How you both shook with it. With fear, with wanting, with everything.

You step back. Break the contact. It’s too much. Still.

He drops his hands, but doesn’t take his eyes off you. 

“Can I stay?” he says, voice quieter now. “Just for a bit.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, spin on your heel and walk toward the living room.

“You ever asked permission in your life, Cook?”

His laugh follows you down the hall, wild and warm and stupid.

“Didn’t think so.”

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Through the rain and the frost, through everything I do it all for you

You knew. You fuckin’ knew. Told him it was gonna piss it down, and what did he do?

“And why d’you listen to me anyway?!”

He looks at you like you’ve just stabbed him, dramatic as always, dripping from head to toe like someone dropped him in the canal.

You’d tried to stop him — said the air was thick, storm’s comin’, maybe don’t sneak out tonight, yeah? But he’d been pacing the whole day like a lion in a fuckin’ zoo. Kept moaning about the bathroom window being his only breath of freedom. "I’m suffocatin’, babe."

You told him to stop being such a dramatic little criminal.

Still, you caved. Of course you did.

Now you’re both soaked, head to toe, squelching back into your flat like two rats climbing out the deep end. The rain’s gotten into your bones, cold and mean, and you swear your jeans weigh about ten kilos each.

As soon as the door shuts behind you, you're stripping off layers like they’re tryin’ to strangle you. Cook just stands there like a stunned goldfish, watchin’ you fight with your hoodie like he’s never seen tits before.

“Me hands ain’t workin’,” you mutter through clenched teeth, fingers shaking. “Shit, I’m freezin’.”

You shove your hands in front of his face like he’s responsible for your blood circulation. He stares. You turn, presenting your back like a challenge.

“Do somethin’, will you?”

You point at your bra clasp, bouncing a bit on the spot to keep warm. He doesn’t move. Just stands there like a right muppet, starin’ at the moles on your back like they’re fuckin’ constellations.

“Cook,” you warn, “it ain’t the first time, get on with it.”

Snapped out of it, he fumbles the clasp and you feel the weight of the wet fabric drop to the floor. You expect him to say something crude, but he’s gone quiet. You look over your shoulder and his eyes are wide like he’s seeing something sacred. You don’t stay to indulge him.

You peg it up the stairs in your knickers, half-laughing, hair plastered to your face. At the halfway point you stop, dripping, stark, water tracing your spine, and you twist around to catch him still staring.

“You comin’ or what?”

You don’t wait. He’s already tearing his hoodie off on the way up, leaving a trail of wet clothes behind like some budget breadcrumb path. You’re already curled in the bath, knees to chest, when he gets there — arms wrapped around your legs, head tucked down, teeth still chattering.

Hot water’s rising and your whole body sighs at once.

You hold out your hand. It’s always like this. You stretch your palm toward him, even if you’re mad, even if you’re cold. And he always, always takes it.

But instead of getting in behind you like you expect, Cook steps over the tub and settles himself between your legs, back against your chest like he’s trying to disappear into you. He fits too easily there — knees up, spine curled, like a kid hiding from the world.

You blink. “You alright?”

He shrugs, then mutters, “You’re warmer.”

You rest your chin on his shoulder, wrap your arms around him. His skin’s still damp and goosebumped, but he’s starting to melt in the heat, muscles softening with every breath.

You don’t talk much after that. Just let the silence stretch, full and soft, while the water climbs over your legs and across his ribs. You run your fingers over his arms, down his chest, across the fading bruises he never explains.

He shivers again — not from cold this time. You brush your lips against the back of his neck, feel him exhale like he’s been holding it in all week.

There’s still storm in the sky and static under your skin, but in this moment, in your bathtub with Cook between your legs like it’s the only place he belongs—

You feel like this messy, soaked, slightly broken boy is yours. Even if neither of you’s said it. Even if you never do.

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Well, holy moly, me oh my, You're the apple of my eye. Girl, I never loved one like you

“Yeah, just like that, luv.”

You look up, and fuck — the way he's staring at you? It shoots straight between your legs like he pressed some hidden button in your core.

His eyes are blown wide, completely gone — starring you. His mouth is slack, panting like he’s run a marathon, but all he’s done is lie there while you go to town on him. His fringe is stuck to his forehead with sweat and his cheeks are flushed like a kid caught doing something naughty.

The sight makes your pussy clench, sharp and sudden. You shift slightly, grinding down on nothing like some desperate virgin, chasing a friction you know you won't get. Not like this. Not yet.

But you love it. The power. The heat. The way he’s fucking melting for you.

You flatten your tongue against the underside of his cock and drag it slowly, teasing the sensitive ridge until he lets out this guttural moan that makes your nipples harden. You can feel how heavy he is on your tongue, how alive he is in your mouth. It’s obscene. It's filthy.

It’s perfect.

His hand is tangled in your hair, guiding you without pushing, and the other comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, eyes locked on the way his cock disappears between your lips. Like he can’t believe it. Like he might die if he blinks.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

But oh, you do. Because it’s doing things to you, too. Your underwear is soaked, clinging to you like a second skin, and every needy pulse between your legs is screaming for attention.

You hum around him, and the reaction is immediate — a shiver that runs through his entire body. You feel his thighs tense under your hands, his whole body surrendering to the sensation. And then he looks at you again, that same dazed, reverent look that makes your skin tingle.

“Oi,” he mutters, voice hoarse and dripping with amusement, “if you ain’t gonna use your hands, put ‘em somewhere else, sweetheart.”

You pull off him with a wet pop and grin up at him, cheeks flushed, lips red and shining with spit.

“You said no hands, Cookie.”

The nickname makes his cock twitch right next to your face — like it agrees with you.

“Yeah, well, changed my fuckin’ mind, didn’t I? Put ‘em on my balls. I shaved and everything.”

You pause, brows arching, lips just inches from the tip as your warm breath makes him shiver.

“…You shaved?”

You arch an eyebrow, and then tug his pants and briefs all the way down. What you see makes you bark a laugh.

“Soft as fucking peaches,” he says proudly, hips giving a little jerk, “don’t they deserve some love?”

You stare at him, momentarily speechless, lips wet and parted from how long you’ve been on your knees. Then your eyes narrow.

“Are you kidding me? You used my razor?”

“Obviously. That little green strip? Aloe vera magic, babe.”He chuckles, all low and rough and cocky.

You shake your head, but you’re grinning as you cradle his balls in your hand, fingers feather-light at first.

“You absolute goblin.”

“A sexy goblin, though.”

Your nails graze his smooth skin and you give him a gentle squeeze — just enough to make him hiss and clench his abs.

“Oi! No bollock torture, yeah?”

“You owe me a whole new pack of blades.”

“Then take it outta me,” he says with a wink, “go on, ruin me.”

And oh, you will. You lean forward and lick one of his balls with slow, deliberate intent — a long stroke that ends with your lips sucking him in, tongue swirling lazily.

You take him into your mouth again, slowly this time, lips stretched wide and obscene, and he writhes under you. That little jolt of satisfaction runs down your spine and coils in your gut when his hand finds your hair again, threading through the strands and guiding you like he can’t help himself.

You’re soaked, drunk on the sounds he makes. You want to be the reason he comes undone. You want to feel it — all of it. His body twitching under your touch, his filthy little whimpers, his cock twitching on your tongue.You could come just from this, honestly — from the taste, from the mess, from the fact that he’s yours, right now, panting and swearing and losing his damn mind in your mouth.

You take him deeper this time, feeling the stretch of your jaw, the weight of him. Your throat tightens just as he groans something unintelligible that might’ve been your name or might’ve been just “fuck” — either way, it makes your toes curl.

And then he whimpers. Loud.

That sound. That raw, helpless sound — it does something to you. You moan around him, loud enough to vibrate through his cock and into your core.

You push further, eager, greedy. He slips into your throat and you fight the gag with everything you’ve got, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

Then he laughs.

Actually laughs.

You pull off him again, coughing a little, eyes glassy with effort, and glare up at him.

He’s got the nerve to be grinning. Full-on dimples, devilish twinkle in his eye, proud as fuck.

“Chokin’ on me like a champ,” he says, wiping your tears away with his thumb. “My little throat goat.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, but you're laughing too, breathless and hot and so turned on you could scream.

He grins wider. “You love it.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you slide him back into your mouth without warning — and this time you don’t stop. You work him hard, lips tight, tongue relentless, bobbing your head with a rhythm that makes his hips stutter.

He’s groaning now, constant and shameless, your name tangled in curses as his hand tightens in your hair.

“Fuck, princess. Fuck me — you’re perfect, ain’t you?”

You hum again, throat relaxing, letting him sink all the way in.

You feel him hit the back of your throat and then — twitch. Buck. Curse.

He’s close. You can feel it in the way his thighs shake, the way his breath stutters, the way his words fall apart into broken syllables.

“I’m gonna — fuck — you’re gonna make me—”

You nod without stopping, ready for it. Begging for it.

And then—

He pulls out.

Just like that. Slips out of your mouth with a slick pop.

You blink. Offended.

“Excuse me?”

But he’s already sitting up, panting like a dog, grabbing his cock in one hand with wild, manic eyes.

“No, no, wait—I got this. I wanna see it, baby. I’m gonna paint a fucking masterpiece.”

You snort. Loudly. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, still kneeling between his legs.

“A masterpiece?”

“Yes,” he huffs, jerking his cock furiously, tongue between his teeth like he’s concentrating on oil painting, not orgasm. “This is ART. Stay still.”

“You dramatic little shit.”

“Shh. Don’t move. You’re the canvas.”

You lean back on your heels, grinning like a wolf, watching him with raised eyebrows. He’s properly going for it now — fist pumping, jaw clenched, head thrown back. You reach up lazily and cup his balls, warm and heavy in your palm. He jolts like you electrocuted him.

“Jesus—bloody hell—”

“You were right,” you say, running your thumb along the seam, “soft as fucking peaches.”

“See?? I told you. I shaved for this. This is a curated experience.”

“With my razor, you knob.”

You give him a very gentle squeeze in retaliation, just enough to make him gasp and roll his eyes back.

He glares at you through bleary eyes. “Don’t ruin my moment.”

“You’re jerking off two inches from my face, babe. Moment’s already ruined.”

“Don’t mock the muse.”

You roll your eyes dramatically — but you stay still. Because deep down? It’s kinda hot. Filthy. Ridiculous. So him. And you love it.

Then he gasps — sharp and loud — and his whole body stiffens like he’s been electrocuted.

“Fucking—I’m coming—!”

And he does. Violently. A hot, messy splatter hits your cheek, your chin — and your nose.

You blink, frozen. There’s a pause.

Then he opens one eye and stares.

“…Did I just cum on your nose?”

You wipe it slowly, still stunned. Then grin.

“Right up the nostril, Cookie.”

He groans, flopping back dramatically, hand over his face.

“I ruined the canvas.”

“I’m gonna be smelling you for a week.”

“You’re welcome.”

You crawl up his chest, straddling his waist, your face still sticky and smug.

“That’s not how masterpieces work.”

“Sure it is,” he pants, hair a mess, grinning up at you. “It’s modern art. Abstract. Raw. Post-orgasmic expressionism.”

You slap his chest lightly.

“You owe me a tissue and a fucking smoothie.”

“I owe you everything, my throat goat queen.”

And then you're both laughing, tangled and filthy and breathless.

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Well, hot and heavy pumpkin pie. Chocolate candy, Jesus Christ. Ain't nothing please me more than you

It was late. That part of the night when your belly’s full and your eyelids start drooping heavy. You were both on the sofa, the telly on in the background, but neither of you paying it any real mind. He’d decided personal space was a myth, sprawled across you like he owned the place, head resting on your chest, body warm and lax and stupidly heavy. His thumb dragged lazy circles beneath your shirt, brushing skin without meaning to. Or maybe he did. Hard to tell with him.

Your fingers were in his hair, combing slow, soft strokes like you were calming a wild thing. Maybe you were. It felt calm. Still. Almost too still.

You’d lost track of how many days he’d been there. He’d slipped into your flat the way he always had—loud, grinning, with no warning—and just stayed. Like he belonged there. Like the crooked lamp in the corner or that painting above the sofa you never took down. He fit. Too well. And it scared you.

Because peace, in your world, didn’t last. It shifted, always. Sweet things left bitter aftertastes. And the longer it felt like home, the more it felt like something was about to snap.

"Your hair’s gotten long," you said absently, tugging a strand and holding it up to the light.

He didn’t lift his head. Just looked up at you through those ridiculous lashes.

"Yeah?"

You nodded, twisting the ends between your fingers.

"Can’t go out for a trim, can I? Bit risky, that. Don’t think a haircut’s worth prison."

You scratched at his scalp, watching his lashes flutter. The way he melted under your touch made something clench and soften all at once inside your chest.

"I like it," you said, barely audible.

"That ‘cause you’ve got more to grab when I’m between your legs?"

You wanted to be annoyed. Really, you did. But you just rolled your eyes and tugged his hair hard enough to make him wince.

"You’re such a dickhead."

He grinned like it was a compliment.

"You could cut it."

He shifted, chin now on your chest, breath warm against your collarbone. You looked down at him and your heart stuttered. You’d never seen sea storms in real life, but his eyes—they were the colour you imagined storms would be, right out in the middle of it. Dark and endless. And you knew, if you let him, you’d drown.

You didn’t say you loved him. Even if it was the only thing sitting in your throat. Instead, you nodded.

Which is how you ended up in the bathroom, him plopped on the toilet seat, legs splayed, and you between them with a pair of kitchen scissors meant for fish.

You’d never done this before. Not properly. But he didn’t question you once. Trusted you in that way he always had—reckless and absolute. And it made you feel something sharp and soft at the same time.

You’d finished the back as best you could, now working on the front. Your hand was steady. Almost.

His hands found your hips, settled there. Hot and firm and unmoving. You nearly dropped the scissors.

"You’re gonna end up bald if you keep that up."

"Worth it," he murmured, his hands slipping lower to squeeze your arse.

"Cook..."

It was a warning. Your eyes didn’t leave the hair in your hand, but you could feel his gaze, all heat and mischief.

And then—his lips, warm through the fabric of your tee, pressed against your belly.

You bit your lip to keep from groaning. Or gasping. Or saying something that’d break the moment.

His kisses moved upwards, grazing the space just beneath your bra. You stopped. Dropped your hands to your sides and stared at him. He looked up at you like he always did—like you were the only thing in the room.

You took his face in your hands, tilted it this way and that, pretending to check your work. But really, you were memorising. Every line. Every freckle. You wanted to kiss the bridge of his nose, his jaw, those lips—still chapped from chewing them when he got anxious.

"Keep looking at me like that, princess, and we’ll never finish."

His grip tightened on your arse and you let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan. The kind that twisted up your stomach.

"It’s done, you idiot," you said, lifting his chin and pressing a soft, quick kiss to his lips. Just a peck. But it left him blinking like you’d hit him.

You grabbed his hands, still clinging to your hips, and moved them away gently. Stepped aside so he could see himself in the mirror.

He stood, ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wide.

"Oi... you’ve actually done a decent job. Maybe you should sack off uni, start your own thing. Haircuts for dickheads. I’d be your first customer."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. He kept looking, kept touching his hair, and then—his expression shifted. Eyes a little darker. Mouth set different.

"Was lookin’ like a fuckin’ homeless bloke, weren’t I?"

You knew what he meant. Knew he wasn’t just talking about the hair.

You stepped behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, rested your chin on his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate. Grabbed your hands where they rested on his stomach. Held on tight.

He looked at you in the mirror.

"You’re not," you said, voice thick. "You’ll always have a home, James. As long as I’m here."

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. Just stared at you like you’d undone something in him.

It was too much. You buried your face in his neck, nose pressed to his skin. Too close. Too honest.

You kissed his shoulder. His jaw. The base of his neck.

He didn’t speak. But you felt the way his breath caught. The way his fingers curled tighter around yours.

Some things don’t need words. Not between you two.

Not then.

Not ever.

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Oh, home, let me come home. Home is wherever I'm with you

𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝒻… You never left.

“Movie night!”

His voice cuts through the flat like a firecracker, too loud for how small he is, but the joy’s contagious. He’s standing on the chair again, that same one you’ve told him a hundred bloody times not to stand on after tea.

"Oi, mate—what did your mum just say, eh?"

Cook’s voice comes from behind you, carrying the dishes through, trying to sound serious but failing. You can hear the grin beneath the growl.

“But—but…” His chubby hands shoot out toward you, knowing full well you’ll pick him up. You do. Instinct, innit. You set him back on the chair properly, his legs swinging like they can’t wait to be somewhere else.

Cook’s stacking plates, watching him with that stupid soft look he gets when he thinks you’re not watching him watch. The kid catches it too, can’t help but grin back at his dad.

“Have you picked one then, yeah?” you ask, brushing a few curls from his forehead. He wriggles down off the chair with a high-pitched squeal like gravity’s still a challenge.

He sprints off, comes back with a DVD case from the shelf, shaking it in his little hands like it’s trying to escape.

“Again?” you say, squinting at the cover. Not annoyed, more surprised. He nods so hard his whole body wobbles. “Well, lucky us. That’s exactly what I fancied.”

Cook peers over your shoulder, trying to clock the pick. You mouth the words at him—"Shrek 2"—and watch his face twist like he’s been personally betrayed. But he only nods, dead serious, like it’s the only reasonable option.

“Solid choice, mate. If the sound cuts out, I’ll do the voices. Not like I know it all off by heart or anything.”

You open your mouth to give him grief, but your son jumps in first:

“You be Donkey, Dad.”

You burst out laughing, a proper belly one.

“Oi! Why do I gotta be the one who never shuts up?”

“Not just that,” he says, brandishing the DVD case like a sword. “He’s the cat’s best mate. And I’m Puss in Boots!” He swings at imaginary dragons in the air, eyes wild with concentration.

Cook’s face softens in that way that makes your chest hurt. He doesn’t say anything for a second. You rub slow circles into his back, grounding him.

“So I’m the dragon, then?” you offer, trying to lighten it. He half-smiles. The kid stops mid-swing, scowling like you’ve missed something obvious.

“No, Mum. You’re Shrek.”

Cook wheezes a laugh beside you. You reach up, tug a bit of his hair—not enough to hurt, just enough to shut him up. He hisses, still laughing.

“That how you see me? I’m a grumpy green ogre to you, sweetheart?”

The boy claps a hand over his mouth, laughing too hard to answer right away.

“No, Mum!” he says, serious all of a sudden, meeting your eyes like he’s five going on forty. “You’re like Shrek ‘cause you always look after everyone. Like when he fought the dragon to save Donkey.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You’re just looking at him, those big blue eyes that don’t belong to you. It’s Cook who brings you back, squeezing your hand hard—your anchor in all this.

“Go on then, champ. Stick it on. No time to waste.”

You mouth thank you at him.

He finishes up and drops himself onto the sofa like it owes him money, limbs everywhere. Your son curls up into his side like a perfect puzzle piece, still chatting about how funny the gingerbread man is and how he’s gonna be just like him when he’s big. Cook chuckles, tossing a blanket over them both.

You stay at the dining table, hunched over the laptop, surrounded by papers and notes and a document that hasn’t changed in days. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, useless. You flick through the same pages again, chasing facts that won’t land.

“Mum!”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” you answer, eyes still scanning.

“You’re missing the film.”

“No I’m not. I’m watching it,” you lie. You listen for a second, pick up the line and say in perfect time with Donkey: “Are we there yet?”

He nods, smug. You smile. You can’t remember your deadlines but you know every line of this bloody film.

The screen blurs. The weight behind your eyes starts pulling harder. You think about joining them on the sofa, but your legs feel nailed to the floor. Somewhere along the way your cheek sinks into your palm and everything slows.

The kid tugs at Cook’s shirt, pointing at you. Cook glances over and freezes.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Mum’s asleep.”

You’ve got your head in both hands, mouth parted, the glow of the telly washing over your face. Cook gets up quietly, the boy following him on tiptoe.

He crouches beside you, gently pulling the pen from your fingers and trying to wipe the ink smudges off your cheek.

“Mum’s always tired.”

Cook looks down at him, heart breaking a little. The kid’s looking at your notes like he’s searching for the answer too. Then he brushes your hair off your face, just like you do with him.

“She’s studying something she loves,” Cook says, more to himself than the boy.

The kid nods like it’s gospel.

“We can help her.”

Cook raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“I think the answers, and you write ‘em down.”

Cook snorts. “Not sure that’ll help much, mate.”

He yawns, and Cook remembers this life’s got routines now. School nights and bath times.

“Let’s get Mum to bed first, yeah?”He lifts you carefully, arms under your knees and back. “To bed, Mrs Cook.”

You stir, mumbling something about not being married. He huffs a laugh.

You snuggle closer to him, half-asleep. He nods at the boy, who follows along barefoot, solemn like it’s a mission.

“So that’s how it works,” the boy says, whisper-shouting. “When I fall asleep on the sofa, that’s how I wake up in bed.”

Cook grins. “Nah,bud. That’s magic. I’ve seen it myself.”

He lays you down slow, careful as anything. Like if he moves too quick, you might disappear. Your body folds into the mattress with a soft, weighted sigh, the kind that leaves your lips without permission. The boy clambers in after you, half-asleep already, and tucks himself right beneath your chin, like that’s where he was always meant to be.

Cook watches. Doesn’t move. Just… stands there.

There’s this look on his face, like his insides are doing somersaults. Like he’s just watched a miracle happen in his living room and doesn’t trust it not to vanish.

You, curled up with his son—your son—and that stupid film still whispering through the hallway. He’s never been given anything this good without it getting taken away. Part of him thinks it’s a trick. That maybe if he blinks too hard, the bed’ll be empty again and the flat cold.

But then your hand twitches out across the duvet, palm up, fingers slightly curled like they remember his shape. That same little motion. Like years ago, on the cold floor of someone else’s kitchen. On a rooftop. In a field where you shouldn’t’ve fallen asleep. That open hand that never asked, just offered. That open hand that always meant, I’ll hold the weight for a bit, if you’re too tired.

And God, is he tired.

He climbs in beside you without a sound. One arm around the boy—his heart, his tiny clone—and the other around your back. His fingers press into your spine just enough to feel the warmth of you. Just enough to believe you’re here. Still breathing. Still bloody stubborn.

He rests his forehead against yours. Breathes in that scent you carry, all crushed lavender and laundry powder and ink-stained skin. Smells like care. 

“He says we should finish your essay for you,” he whispers, soft as a joke that doesn’t want to wake the room.

Your mouth moves first, then the words come slurred, sleep-heavy. “Mmm... tell him he’s hired. Hope he likes footnotes. I pay in—” You pause. “In toast.”

He laughs through his nose, quiet so it doesn’t rattle the peace. “What about hazard pay?”

You nuzzle the top of your son’s head. “That’s... unlimited cuddles. And sometimes I hum.”

He breathes in your laugh like it’s something rare. You feel the boy shift, blindly stretching one foot to press against his dad’s thigh, like he can feel the distance and won’t have it.

You murmur again, voice nearly lost now. “Too warm. Can’t think. Head’s full of... bees. Nice bees. Not the mean ones. Just... fuzzy.”

He grins into the dark. “Yeah? Thought you didn’t do soft.”

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Shut up.”

But there’s no weight in it. No bite. Just the fog of sleep pulling at the edges of your words.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he teases. “You... all snuggly and talkin’ about bees.”

Your hand finds the hem of his shirt, tugs it weakly. “I’m asleep. Doesn’t count. I’ll deny all of it in the morning.”

He kisses your temple, barely there. “Won’t need to. I’ll remember it for the both of us.”

You sigh again, melting deeper, as your son shifts once more, perfectly still now, his breath evening out. One of his hands stays on you. The other curls in Cook’s shirt like he doesn’t trust the night to hold the three of you without him.

…

The house smells… wrong.

Not dangerously wrong—no alarms going off, no smoke thick in the air—but there’s a definite whiff of burnt toast and something vaguely sweet and charred. You stir, face still pressed into the pillow, your body warm from where your son’s small limbs wrapped around you all night like a koala. You shift slowly, careful not to wake him. He murmurs something, lashes fluttering, then settles deeper into sleep.

You slip out of the bed in your T-shirt and sleep shorts, yawning through the stretch that pulls at your ribs. The hallway’s dim, quiet except for distant swearing and the soft ping of the toaster. That’s what gets you smiling before you even see him.

You find him shirtless in the kitchen, like a scene out of some ridiculous daydream. Except, in this version, the counters are a mess, something is smoking in a pan, and Cook is standing in front of the stove like it personally insulted his family.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” he mutters, poking at what might’ve once been a crumpet. “Stupid bloody bastard of a—that’s not even how you toast bread, is it?”

You stay in the doorway for a moment, arms crossed, watching him fight domestic appliances like they’re demons. His hair’s a mess. There’s flour on his temple and a smudge of something sticky across his chest. One sock on. He’s talking to the kettle like it betrayed him.

Your laugh slips out before you can hold it in.

He whirls around, spatula raised like a sword. “Don’t sneak up on me, woman, I’m in the trenches.”

You walk in slowly, shaking your head. “Is this how you woo me now? Burning carbs and cursing the toaster?”

“I made tea,” he says proudly, grabbing a mug and holding it out.

You take a sip. It’s cold. You grimace.

He winces. “Alright, round two then.”

“Step away from the toaster.”

He grins, hands up in mock surrender, backing away like you’re the armed one now. “You’re sexy when you take control of the breakfast battlefield.”

You toss the burnt crumpet straight into the bin and glance back at him, catching the soft, warm eyes on you. It hits you, again, how easy this has gotten for him. The living. The showing up. The little things. You never asked him to change—but he did. He became quieter in the mornings. Gentler. Swapped pub nights for pack lunches and school drop-offs. He’s still Cook—loud and shameless and rough around the edges—but he’s folded himself into your life like he was always meant to be there.

You feel his hand brush yours. Not by accident.

“You’re up early,” he says, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Smelled the chaos.”

“Was tryin’ to do breakfast in bed. But the toaster and I had words.”

You turn to face him, resting your hands on his hips, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back. He smells like flour and smoke and himself. You kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and unhurried.

He leans into it, his hand sliding up your side like he’s reminding himself you’re still real.

“I could ruin you on this counter,” he whispers, lips grazing your jaw, his voice low and ragged, “real quick. Before the gremlin wakes up.”

You snort softly. “Wouldn’t take much, would it?”

“Absolutely not,” he grins, already pressing you against the counter, hands slipping lower. “You in this shirt, I’m defenseless.”

You curl a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. It’s slow. A bit filthy. His thumb slips under the hem of your shorts and you make a quiet, pleased noise against his mouth—

“MOOM—!”

You both jolt, heads knocking.

Cook immediately yanks his hands off your arse like a schoolboy caught cheating.

Your son barrels into the room at full speed, hair wild, face flushed with excitement. “I was a dragon! A red one! And I could fly and everything, and there was a bad guy and he tried to fight me but I just—whoosh!—and he went boom!”

Cook scoops him up before you can even react, lifting him high into the air, spinning him gently before settling him on his hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“A red dragon? That’s serious business,” he says, eyes wide.

“With horns! And I bit the bad guy. Like—RAHHHHH!”

“Course you did,” Cook says, completely sincere. “What happened then?”

“He exploded.”

“Exploded? No way.”

You lean against the counter, watching the two of them—your son bouncing with excitement, Cook nodding like he’s hearing a government briefing. He’s still shirtless. Still has flour on his face. He doesn’t care.

Your son wraps his arms around Cook’s neck mid-story. Cook tucks him close, humming quietly in that way he does sometimes, absent and gentle. You see it in the way his hand rubs slow circles over the boy’s back, grounding him. Like it’s just another day. Like it’s always been this.

And for a second—just a second—it feels like maybe it always will be.

The toast still burns in the background.

You’ll let it

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If Cook ever became a dad? Yeah, this is 100% the vibe. No question.