#pawghter

The sound of your name being called sparks a sharp current that travels down your spine. You spin on your heels to watch Annie wave you closer towards her position at the east wing of the stage and without thinking, you rush on over.

“Conference meeting in five.” She takes your microphone and hands it over to one of the crew members without sparing them a glance. It’s natural for you to quickly pull out your in-ears and hand them over, too. “You okay like this?” She motions to your outfit — wide legged sweatpants in powder pink, long sleeved leotard nearly the same shade, and Ugg boots. “Because I don’t think we have time to change. This is still kind of last minute.”

You give a soft smile that doesn’t quiet meet your eyes, “ ‘m okay, Annie.”

Your fingers don’t match your words, always the tell tale in revealing your never still, always bubbling anxiety. You twist at the rings that cover nearly each one, continuously ‘round and ‘round, rub and squeeze at your knuckles — all a rhythm to somehow keep your thoughts in one order. Every tiny movement is an anchor as the abhorrent conference meeting you’ve all but known about since last week approaches.

”I know it’s not ideal but the guy is more busy than I expected. I thought the two of you could maybe have a one on one some time last month to become better acquainted but, no hope. You’ll probably meet him at the stadium’s conference meeting in a few days.”

That’s all the warning Annie had given you and for six days, you were left on edge, dreading it, anticipating it, itching for it. You’ve heard his name more times than you’ve heard your own these past couple of months, seen his face in passing on billboards, press photos, and on a walking stranger’s t shirt. One glance around the conference room and the thought is rapid — there’s no hiding from him here.

It’s smaller than you expected. Fluorescents are harsh against the pale walls and dark wood of the large, oval shaped table that twelve, cushioned rolling chairs surround, though only two remain empty. The surface of the table is scattered in paper, diagrams of the stage, laptops, coffee cups, and walkie talkies. About ten others are peppered here and there, leaned against the wall while taking a phone call, shooting a text, or even hovering over the table to point at a paper and discuss something with another. Seeing the familiar faces of the rest of your team calms your racing heart.

You say your gentle hellos and go to take a seat beside your security lead, Reiner. His presence is stabilizing, a familiar tether in the midst of this somewhat controlled chaos. The empty seat beside you feels daunting in a way. You know who it’s for, you know that the meeting between you both is inevitable yet you can’t stop bouncing your leg underneath the table. “He’s late,” Reiner leans over and murmurs close to your ear.

“Oh,” your eyes grow wide and instinctually, you reach for the thin chain you wear that dangles the first initial of your name. “Am I—“

“You are. But there’s a hell of a difference between five minutes and ten.”

Your eyes travel across nearly each face within the room. Most appear unbothered by it, Annie rolls her eyes, the stage manager rubs at the wrinkles in his forehead . . more so out of stress about whatever a production coordinator is quietly mumbling to him than the fact that the tour’s headliner is eleven minutes late to the meeting. You try to focus on what you can, the diagrams and messily scribbled versions of the setlist mostly, however can’t stop your eyes from continuously darting towards the double doors where you hear approaching footsteps.

One of them quickly opens without a knock and you catch eye of a man, about six feet tall, blue eyed, wearing a suit pressed without a wrinkle or line in sight first. He steps in to hold the door open for him, Connie Springer, who’s followed by two more people that you don’t really recognize. He walks with an easy confidence, dressed in a pair of dark washed jeans, stitched with a subtle, swirling pattern all over them and matching hoodless jacket with a clean, white tee underneath. He wears glinting gold jewelry — handful of chains, some rings, and a blue faced watch that all wink hello underneath the artificial, white lighting of the room and your eyes catch on the new design that’s dyed almost all over his token buzzed and bleached head — cheetah print.

The room somehow feels smaller. Your tongue moves against the roof of your mouth, or at least tries to, nonetheless, it’s gone completely dry. He’s there . . he’s here, in all of his disgustingly handsome, six foot four glory and you can barely even move.

You watch him smile faintly at everyone. His manager’s apologizing for their tardiness yet you can barely hear him over the monotonous, loud thuds of your heart. your chest feels tight. instincts scream at you to look away, and you do, however your eyes can’t stop slowly traveling back up to him. He takes his time working throughout the room, shakes a few hands, quietly introduces himself to most of your team until he’s finally a couple steps away from you. Closer, you notice that his eyes are hazel — you see his face almost everywhere but, the intensity of them in person is something else entirely. Every movement he makes feels natural though measured, every glance is purposeful and lands with a quiet command that makes spines straighten.

His attention settles on you.

“Connie, this is—“

“—I know who she is.”

Your acrylic nails dig so far deep into the meat of your palms, you’re sure that they’re a hair away from bursting an artery.

His voice is calm. Brooklyn is woven through his words and you catch the faint inflections in the way he pronounces each one. The chair beside you is pulled back and angled slightly sideways to give himself more breathing room when he settles into his seat. His cologne hits a second later — dark and smooth, like leather, and smoked vanilla — a kind of scent that envelops a person’s senses in only the sweetest way possible. His eyes are scanning the table again, assessing everything and everyone as he leans back, loosely interlocks his fingers on top of his abdomen, and gets comfortable. Then his gaze is back on you, composed yet inquisitive. The air feels heavy.

Your lips are parting in readiness of an introduction.

Not less than a second later, Connie’s tour manager claps her hands and he parts his attention towards her. “Let’s get started!”

The meeting moves quick — transitions, security checkpoints, stage positionings and timing are discussed. Efficient. Straightforward. Both Connie and you listen quietly. You, with your hands politely folded in your lap, Connie, with his head lowered, posture slouched, and ease written into nearly every line of him. When all is said and done, chairs roll against the floors as people break off into smaller clusters, already mid sentence in discussing lighting cues and load times. Your pr agent and choreographer, Anthony, stand, give you goodbyes and assurance that they’re only a phone call away and Reiner lets you know that he’ll be standing outside the door.

The room eventually only leaves you, Annie, the two people connie entered the room with, him, and his manager. The silence feels different. only slightly less tensed, less crowded.

“You good?”

He’s talking to you.

The volume of his voice is somehow even lower than when he first walked in. You don’t strain your ears to listen but it does force you to look at him and give your attention. His focus is settled entirely on you now. He no longer scans the room but you, in his own particular way without even having to break his eyes from your own.

“ ‘m fine.”

His chin dips the slightest bit lower then they squint a bit, not in suspicion but evaluation. “Fine . .” he weighs the word on his own tongue. “. . You been on stages this size before?”

“A few.” You don’t have to hesitate on your answer because it’s the truth. Therefore, again, you say, “I’m fine. I’ll be okay.”

The corner of his mouth pulls upward — deliberate and slow. You can’t help glancing down a few times at it, at his teeth. Not veneers, you’d guess that he maybe wore braces in his teen hood because they’re flawless. Barely a gap nor a single chip, and a pearly white. You watch his eyes flick down then back up, it’s quick but not crude . . he’s assessing you like, you assume, he does almost everything else in his life. “Good, good,” a careful nod. “Just makin’ sure my opener ain’t gon’ pass out underneath those lights.”

Something in your tummy flips. His words hang between you both, weighty. My opener. You straighten your posture, squeeze your hands tighter together, “. . You worried about me or your show?”

A pause. You feel Annie shift where she stands a couple feet behind you. Connie’s manager pretends to check his phone.

Your question forces him to suddenly lean forward, forearms on knees which brings him a little closer to you though not entirely within your bubble. The color of his eyes lean more towards the grayish scale of hazel — a ring of dark storm clouds with specks of mahogany and sage caught near the iris. They don't just look at you, they render you almost completely immobile. “Mm, difference?” He gives a small shrug and faint purse of his lips.

There.

A test.

You fight to hold his gaze, and the thing is, you successfully do. And although your eyes are on his, you still think he hears the faintest warble in your voice when you respond with, “I don’t need babysitting.”

Quietly, he studies you for a long second, eyes searching yours for something, then nods once. “Good. I don’t like carryin’ people.”

His words should feel insulting, maybe even dismissive yet they don’t. Instead, they feel like a request. When he stands, you do, too. He’s adjusting the clip of his watch and the expensive cologne you had a whiff of melts into the air around you both. “Can’t wait to see what you do with that thirty, ma.”

He takes the air you breathe when he exits out of the room with his team flanked behind him. Your chest rises and falls in a tremble as you remain silently staring at the now closed door, listening to Annie scoff, “A prick, isn’t he?”

You immediately shake your head, never tearing your eyes away from the knob. The anticipation of it twisting again bubbles beneath your skin. Maybe he left something? Maybe he simply wants to have a longer conversation. “No, no,” your voice is quiet, faraway. “. . He seems nice.”

ׅ ❤︎

The hours leading up to a show have always put a strain on your nervous system.

You told Connie the truth about that — that you’ve performed on stages this size before because you have. Clips of your VMA performance last year still goes viral once a month but, you suppose you lied a little too. You’ve never performed for more than forty thousand people in a stadium, and this one houses sixty.

“Mmm,” you pace back and forth in your dressing room, head bowed and eyes closed as your knuckles massage the bridge of your nose. You hear the murmurings of about fifty thousand conversations outside your door as everyone settles into their seats and the thumping bass of Connie’s artist approved pre show playlist — not too loud, but just enough to keep the room on edge. Ten minutes before a performance, you always request your dressing room to yourself. Ring lights dimmed, door locked, and room quiet, you inhale deep breaths as you slowly walk back and forth, wall to wall, to keep your nerves from jittering too much.

The flowing, dramatic sleeves of your stage fit kisses your skin as you move. Chains suspended along your abdomen, dangling from your custom designed top shimmer beneath the low lighting. You think your heart beats louder than the bass out there.

Suddenly, you stop.

You turn to look at your reflection within a full length mirror, at the glowing undertone of your warm, brown skin that illuminates beneath a thin veil of body oil. An abstract bloom of pigment, slightly lighter than your skin tone, stretches across the full planes of your cheeks and settles over the bridge of your nose. It's not neat, not aesthetic as one would say, but it's you. Took you nearly eight years to stop trying to erase it. Eight years of pressing full coveraged powders into your skin and carefully layering blush over it to better conceal. You blurred yourself into something flat. Dull. Now at age twenty three, you let it breathe most times underneath sheer foundations.

Leaning closer into the bulb framed mirror lets your eyes catch onto the tiny, heart shaped rhinestones that dot the outer corner of your eyes. Gloss gleams across the plushness of your lips and a forty five inched, kinky curly sew in flows down to your knees — one side slick and tucked behind your ear to expose one of your in ear’s with its milky, opalescent surface shifting from a delicate lavender to icy blue like moonlight caught behind glass.

You look pretty.

You feel like someone who’s deserving of being here right now.

A shaky breath puffs out your cheeks then you’re smoothing your hands down your stomach. Your heart still gallops but it’s different now . . you can bear it. “You’re okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “You’ll be perfect.”

Outside your dressing room door, you hear the volume of the playlist lowering and a slower more swelling baseline. One of your first cues.

Then, a knock at your door. “꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, you’re on in five!”

“Okay!”

You straighten your back prior to leaning and grabbing your microphone from off of the vanity. It’s chrome base is cool against your fingers — solid and grounding even, with the body coated in a fine veil of white, crystal shimmer that scatters light similar to a pocketful of stars each time you tilt it. It’s not loud, it sparkles. Purposeful. Custom made exactly how you wanted it. It’s weight is balanced perfectly with the grip sized to your small palm. You even made sure the finish was glossed to its touch to keep the crystals from scraping against your rings.

A microphone has always felt right in your hand, albeit your hairbrush, mop stick, or television remote, the feeling’s never changed. Holding it now feels less like picking something up and more like being returned something that’s always belonged to you.

Therefore, after one last breath, you’re turning, unlocking your door, and quickly pulling it open to let Annie, Reiner, and more of the tech coordinators shuffle you into the back seat of a golf cart to drive you towards the stage.

In the far left wing of the stadium’s custom towering, smiley faced designed stage — his distorted, neon lit trademark — Connie stands. He shouldn’t be here, he knows that. Never has he watched sets from the wings. If his name is on it, he’s either performing or already in an Escalade on the way back to his hotel. Standing still while another commands the room has never felt right to him. Intrusive, even.

But when told that you’re up . . . he had to leave his dressing room from his pre-set work out to come see this. To see you.

As the beat of your opening song swells deeper and deeper, low, dreamy, and patient, he folds his arms, shifts his weight, and clears his throat. He hears the crowd getting louder. The ground of the stage is beginning to sheathe with a thin fog. He tells himself it’s out of simple curiosity. Industry respect, too. Then the spotlights shift from white to a pearlescent pink . .

You walk out and Connie’s brain quiets for what feels like the first time in over a decade.

He’s known about you for a while.

Longer than what most people would suspect maybe. You started off posting covers on Soundcloud seven years ago when you were sixteen. You were anonymous then. Tagging each one underneath the name ‘solstice.’ Connie didn’t hear about you until you were nineteen, but come that first play of your first hit single on the radio about a year and a half ago, he knew.

Your voice alone is flawless, but it wasn’t just that that garnered his attention. You seem to carry a certain type of magnetism that sticks to a person — hovers over them through the shittiest boom box speakers or high end headphones. The way even the smallest notes you produced invoked something in him let Connie know that he needed to protect it, hold it close, make sure the world didn’t swallow it before he got his turn.

That’s why he wasted no time making you the opener of his first stadium tour without even knowing what you looked like.

Barefoot, iridescent make up, highlight high on your cheeks, and brown skin glowing beneath the long, fluidic, liquid white draping of your stage costume, Connie finds himself standing with his fist nearly covering his mouth. His index and thumb loosely curl around his lips as he watches, eyes focused on you flowing through sweetly seductive choreography with his eyebrows lowered.

Your music has always sat between sensual and melancholic. There’s something almost casual in the way you move. There’s not a lot of force or power. You aren’t trying to be sexy, you just are.

Connie takes the chance at looking up at one, out of six, large, led screens above your head. The camera catches at your eyes — though brown, they’ve still managed to darken beneath the lighting. They’re beautiful . . you’re dangerous. He notices how the crowd screams your lyrics back to you, desperate to be heard. Strangers in the front row grabbing onto each other’s arms out of excitement when you glide closer to the edge of the stage, bodies jittering almost frantically. Applause grows more thunderous the more you stay up there.

He exhales a slow breath through his nose . . . quietly nods.

Yeah.

You’re a star.

Not the fragile kind or one that burns out underneath too much pressure. No, you’re here to stay. Right before those lights dim and your last note fades into a reverb, instinctively, you’re turning your head towards the left wing in search of Annie, Anthony, something or someone solid. Nevertheless, your eyes are drawn to where the halo of your spotlight dissolves into shadow — and there he stands just before it, arms folded, as if he'd been rooted there all night.

Was he?

Did he stand there during the entire thirty of your set? For a split second . . you look at him.

He returns your stare with his own and your pulse skips.

There’s a slow, deliberate shift of his jaw and just as briskly, you force your eyes to snap away.

The lights fade back into a warm gold and breathlessly, you’re giving your shy and sweet thanks into your microphone. You don’t look left again. You don’t think that you can. Instead, you bow, turn, and follow your twelve background dancers that usher you behind one of the led towers backstage where he’d been standing.

Subconsciously, you find your eyes darting from here to there as you try to search for him. He’s gone. Your microphone and in ears are taken, then a cold water bottle and towel are shoved in your hands. Where did he go? Faint shreds of disappointment manage to work their way into your previous sphere of proudness. He was here, you know he was . . but he isn’t anymore.

It’s a little upsetting and you aren’t sure as to why. You’ve never needed anyone’s approval before, although Connie’s attention . . his praise, you saw it glowing beneath the storm of his eyes, felt nice. Better than anything you’ve felt before. If you’re honest with yourself, it somehow even felt better than words could describe. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek and preparing to shuffle off towards your dressing room when you hear—

"Good set, ma.”

Low and close.

He’s behind you. You turn but he’s already quickly walking past while adjusting his in ears. Your nose catches onto the notes of his cologne again — this one’s more fresh . . clean. You tip your chin higher to look up at him, but his expression gives you nothing back. It's calm and composed, as a stylist adjusts the swaying, white gold, cuban link chain on top of his chest while another blots his forehead free of any excess oil or sweat before the shine even forms. He doesn't break eye contact you for a second through it all. "You held the silence good,” he continues softer, eyes half lidded when he stares down into your own. Not lazy, not tired . . . focused. “Most people rush it.”

And that’s all. Before you can give a timid thanks or even question him of his time spent watching you, he’s moving towards a ramp downstairs that will lead him below one of the stages where a platform waits to rise him up on within the center of the warped, neon lit face. The skin at the back of your neck prickles with goosebumps. There’s that feeling again . . . of pure, unadulterated elation at the confirmation of him watching. Of him subtly letting you know that he did. You want to scream. You want to turn on your heels, head back to your dressing room, and let the rest of the night blissfully pass. But, you can’t. The soles of your still bare feet remain planted against the smooth flooring beneath you as the entire stadium suddenly goes black.

Everyone knows what that means. The crowd erupts into almost animalistic screams.

There’s a spark of light when a single bass note drops — deep and heavy.

That’s all there is for a a few seconds, silence broken by roars of excitement. Energy pulses throughout the stadium as a square shaped platform rises from beneath the stage, right in the center of the smiley face’s warbled grin. It’s as though come the second his silhouette becomes recognizable, the yells surge louder. You nibble upon the skin of your bottom lip when the platform locks into place with a heavy, metallic thud. Behind him on the screen is glitching surveillance style footage . . . black and white, grainy, and distorted. Staticy lines like old cctv footage snag across the shouting faces of fans packed tight standing within the ‘face’ of the smiley — the pit, as they reach up towards him.

He doesn’t rush.

A camera watches him lift his head and you stare, nearly breathless, as he turns and takes a few slow steps to his right with his chin up to assess people in the high rised seats. He lifts his mic up to his mouth, “Mhmm.”

The beat of his first song of the night plunges.

You feel it in your ribs . . his hunger, his control of it. He moves along the circular edge of the stage now, black timberlands heavy against the floor that glows beneath each step he takes. A black muscle tank beneath a tactical vest clings almost hungrily to the wide, beefy span of his abdomen, dampening with sweat when five minutes hit twenty. The cuban link around his neck catches at every strobe of light and the camera soaks in the glints of dazzling rainbows shining against honeyed skin. Dark tattoos, only a few colored at the wide slope of his biceps and forearms, shift and flex without them even meaning to.

Everything he does is meticulous.

Eyes of grayish hazel scan the pit slowly as he keeps the head of his mic pressed against his lips. They assess . . sometimes selects a person who’s rapping along to each bar for a fierce challenge. Every one of them always ends up exploding, screaming his name, scrambling at the barriers. He never gives a full smile, only ever a knowing smirk or bites one down over his bottom lip.

You swallow.

It’s the restraint, you find. Connie doesn’t chase their screams, he has command over them. For a moment, he appears less like a performer and more like something carved out of the stage itself — industrial, illuminating, untouchable. What begins to settle in your chest, it’s not only commendation . . it’s some wariness, too. He stood here in this very spot and watched you like this. Calculated, quiet, soaking you in the same way you are soaking him in.

Suddenly, the memory of his slow, deliberate jaw shift feels different now. You realize you’ve been watching him this entire time with your arms hugged around yourself, fingers restlessly rubbing at the hip of your flowing skirt.

You inhale a deep breath.

It’s hard to pinpoint what these exact feelings are, but they make you hyper aware. Of everything . . . your posture, your voice, the blood pumping through your veins. Because if he performs like this . . . you’re aware that touring with him won’t just be background noise. You had expectations of you politely opening each concert and slipping off backstage with that much more exposure than the night before. A win-win. However, this isn’t going to be that.

This is going to be pressure, late nights, shared green rooms, and close proximity.

Another inhale — this one shakier. You know yourself well enough to understand one thing: getting too close to Connie holds a lot of risk and won’t have you walking away from him unchanged. This tour . . and the undeniably charged current that flows between the two of you is either going to make you into something bigger than you’ve ever been . . or split you completely in half.

ׅ ❤︎

The official tour announcement drops two days later.

An eight second teaser video of the two of you in your own respective studio sessions — flashes of your frames in a booth, fingers on the sound panel, voices quiet and layered beneath each other’s is posted onto both of your respective’s Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok’s and is viral within ten minutes. Clips of both of your performances circulate, edits pair your songs together, ship you together, you make sure to limit your screen time to a measly two hours a day come stumbling across an account dedicated to only posting said edits.

You don’t need them getting in your head.

Rehearsals are immediate — everyday, between nine am and two pm. The stadium is empty during these hours. No exhilarated screams or constellation of phone flashes shining at you. Just you and your evocative echo. The first one you share with Connie, you keep your distance. It’s easy to.

You make sure to get there about an hour early with Annie, Reiner, Anthony, and your vocal coach and start scales before the light bulbs even warm. Your voice stretched smoothly up into the rafters while stage crews began setting up for another night of spectacle that by the time Connie walks onto the stage — perpetually dressed in oversized sweats, fitted cap, and zip up hoodie thrown over it as if he rolled out of bed and accidentally became famous — you’re already grounded. Already somewhere steady. Somewhere mentally where his intimidation slides off you clean.

It’s always professional.

He stands a few feet away during your run through, fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he lifts his chin to watch the monitors. Or pretending to. You never look at him long enough to confirm. When passing each other’s crossing marks, it’s a brief orbit of two bodies aware of gravity but scarily mindful of refusing collision. That first show in Los Angeles was hot. Three nights at one stadium means there’s no time to romanticize it, though. Night two is sharper . . cleaner. You know what to expect, what to perfect. You begin to familiarize yourself with the stage underneath your feet which culminates into night three being all about control.

You let yourself sit in a note for a split second longer, take in the applause that crests louder and louder.

Connie had watched your set silently from the wings on all three nights — never smiling, never frowning . . just observing. With his arms folded, shoulders swole, and eyes seemingly stuck on the line of your body and contours of your face. Between these nights, you learn the rhythm of ice baths, vocal steams, and quick debriefs with Annie and the rest of your team in dim, busy hallways. Connie becomes only someone you see in passing.

During the wee hours of the morning, you’d sometimes spot him standing within the middle of a parking lot your two tour buses would claim overnight with a hand shoved down the front of his sweats to keep it warm while the other held a chubby blunt between his fingers. Underneath the rising sun the plush, pink pillows of his lips would pull a long hit from it and smoke’d curl out lazily from them whenever he exhaled. He never paces, never strolls. Merely just . . stands there, staring out at the horizon as though he were waiting for something. He’s an early bird — you learn that. By the time you and your team, as well as his, drag yourselves out towards catering tents or food trucks for breakfast, he’s already showered, new hoodie, cap pulled low over his bleached head.

Coincidentally, sometimes you find the both of you next to each other in line while waiting to grab some food. There’s never any real conversation. You give a soft though tight lipped smile, he always nods subtly back in return. When you pass each other in narrow backstage corridors, it’s a simple glance. brief. Quickly analyzing. Never invasive or rude, solely . . aware.

In between the two days from Los Angeles to San Francisco with no shows planned, Annie mentions a campaign shoot. “Full visual rollout. You and Connie,” she says while pencilling schedules into her calendar on the digital screen of her iPad. “Warehouse downtown.” You don’t ask why it can’t be separate because you know the answer. The morning before San Francisco night one, your black Escalade pulls up to a stretch of industrial buildings that appear abandoned on first glance. Loading docks are rusted at the hinges and bricks darkened with age are covered in moss.

Having been glammed up in your hotel suite, the brittle crunch of gravel beneath the thin high heels you wear makes you feel slightly out of place. Each one of your steps are careful and slow as Annie and Reiner follow closely behind you around a production truck where cables weave out through its opened doors. While walking by, you glance up within its interior, noting the lighting rigs and coiled cords stacked like metal intestines. Inside the warehouse, the dull scents of dust and electricity waft about. Nervously, you rub your lips together as your eyes naturally roll up to scan the almost scarily high ceilings.

Within the center of the room is a lone, steel chair. Around it, long translucent panels drape from the iron beams up above and flow to the floor. They're all sheer and gauzy, some a light cream, others pearly white, suspended at fluctuating angles to create depth. A gentle breeze caused from hidden fans keep them all in light motion, never flat. Some of the bones of the industrial building remain exposed, brick and iron, a sharp edge in the softness. A warm glow from the late morning sun filters in through the skylight. It all feels like something perfectly crossed between mechanical and empyreal.

You swallow, eyes locked on the chair. Senselessly, it intimidates you. Or maybe, it's the air around it that does. One chair that is somehow designed to hold two figures. One floating, one grounded.

You’d been told that the aesthetic for the shoot was 'soft brutalism' — quoted directly from Annie. "Soft lighting in a steel warehouse. Flowing but still." Now, while standing before the entire set design, you can’t help butterflies from swarming your gut at how intimate this all feels.

You take another look around the room — this time, you really look. Just beyond the sweep of fabric, standing near a dome camera tucked off to the side is Connie. He's in a wine red button down, material not glossy or silk, but a high quality cotton that holds structure at his arms though drapes down to stop just barely after his knuckles. Black tailored trousers fall straight down his long legs and right over a pair of wheat colored timbs pulled straight out of a box.

Soft but still . . . sharp. He looks less like a performer today and more like a figure pulled straight from an editorial spread of Harper's Bazaar.

“We’re going to need some touch ups,” Annie’s mumbling while swiveling her head on her shoulders, likely looking for the make up team. “You can head on over there, babe. Just give me a minute.”

You falter but force your legs to begin to carry you closer to that chair. He isn't looking at you . . . not yet at least. His focus is on watching a staff member adjust one of those hanging panels as he stands back, not saying a word.

Suddenly, one of the layers billows out due to a particular harsh wind of a fan which blurs Connie's outline into nothing but a tall, indistinctive blob for a second. When it settles back into place, he's looking directly at you — not scanning the room, not past you, but at you. The beat of your heart begins to thud that much quicker. You pretend not to notice as the director cuts through your path to begin a brisk but polite introduction. "Hey, great, perfect timing," he smiles while offering a hand. "We're keeping this really minimal. Lots of negative space. We want the focus to just be on you both."

Even while offering a gentle smile and affirming nods, you still feel it. His stare. It pierces through you and renders you keenly aware of your own body. Of the way your shoulders sit, the rise and fall of your chest, warmth gathering underneath your skin. Suddenly, every movement you make simply feels exposed. You wonder if you're holding your hands weird, if his attention has found the birthmark that extends across your nose to your cheeks. One glance back towards him and it's confirmed . . . he isn't looking away.

"Alright, I need you and Connie center."

Warm light catches on his button down, deepening the color as he begins to walk fully onto the set. He's wearing two gold chains, thin and delicate, that glint flashes of amber when he moves. On his index finger sits a chunky ring, a warm shine against the olive undertone of his skin. He doesn't rush his steps. Each is measured — timberlands thudding upon the concrete with every one of them. You inhale a breath through your nose as the hum of the warehouse fades into a barely there buzz when he stops a few feet in front of you.

Not close enough to really touch but close enough to where you feel a subtle shift in the air. Upon gathering enough courage, you finally look directly up into his eyes. "First one's simple," the director's saying though you don't really catch the tail-end of it because you notice Connie's eyes drifting.

Slowly. Deliberately. Not crude or in a rush.

From your eyes, to the bridge of your nose . . . lingering for a bit at the marble of your birthmark. Then lower, tracing the line of your jaw, hollow of your collarbones, then they slip down to the bodice of your dress. You're sure he sees the way the muscles beneath the skin of your abdomen tense because, due to the style of it, half of it is exposed.

"I want you standing. Connie, sit."

His attention is snatched away and without a beat missed, he lowers down onto the steel chair without much hassle and leans back against it as you fall into place beside him, letting the director instruct you on what to do with your arms and hands. "Perfect," the director soon mumbles before he's quickly walking away to grab his camera. You watch how Connie's legs naturally fall open, grounded and unbothered. His left hand rests upon his upper thigh, leaving his elbow jutted outward which creates a strong line throughout his frame. To top it off, his head angles just slightly downwards as he fixes a gaze of almost impassiveness towards the lens.

You, at his right side, are more graceful. Your body curves where his straightens — hand upon the back of the chair he sits in. The subtle angle of your stature creates a long, cultivated sweep from your shoulder down to your hip. The contrast between you both is immediate . . it's electrifying.

"Hold it."

No eye contact between you is exchanged but the space where your bodies part feels impossibly deliberate — like a line drawn in chalk neither of you are allowed to step over. From the outside looking in, the pose reads as cool and unperturbed. From the inside, it feels like a line of pressure being stretched taut between two fixed points. You blow out a quiet breath, the sound softer than you expected it to be, after what feels like a dozen shots are captured and you both are able to move again.

Quickly, both of your own separate make up artists rush in. As yours go to dab on a fresher coat of gloss, one adjusts Connie's sleeves and blots at his forehead. His gaze is shifting again, towards you. He barely reacts to the bodies buzzing around you both, barely even blinks. Your make up artists tilts your chin up a higher fraction with her pinkie, "Look up for me." You do, and in doing so, you feign close interest at the skylight up above, admiring the wispy specks of clouds extended over a sky of blue like stretched cotton.

Seconds tick off into long minutes, eventually twenty. Within those twenty minutes, you and Connie are instructed into four more different poses. Between each one, you look over by the monitors where Annie stands. Her eyes jerk back and forth among several computer screens and she sometimes nod at whatever a tech crew tells her. Although stone faced, you've known Annie long enough to recognize that she's ecstatic. The pictures must be coming out better than you think. She can hardly keep still — pacing slightly from left to right, stopping only to listen closer to whatever someone's telling her or point at a screen with a remark.

"Lets close up the space a little," the director says while silently apprising someone to remove the chair from the shot. "Connie, hand at ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱'s waist. Not grabbing, just a light touch."

Your stomach curls into knots immediately.

Carefully, you step into position beside him. You turn lightly towards him when asked and feel the swaying pleats of your asymmetrical, floor length gown brush against his trousers as you do.

"Ready?"

With a manicured finger, you brush a curl from your high, bun updo out of your vision behind your ear before nodding.

His hand finds your waist — not too sudden but surely not hesitant neither. It's a firm, steady placement against your bare back where the curve of your dress remains open which leaves his warm, shockingly soft palm against your own skin. His hand nearly spans from one side of your hip to the other which causes you to become acutely aware of how little space now exists between both of your bodies.

Unfortunately, your body reacts before you can train your brain to ignore it.

Your shoulders tighten, breath catches. The easy pose you were holding quickly hardens.

"Cut," the director softly says. "Loosen up your top half."

With a quick mumble of an apology, you straighten your posture and give a nod. One more time. Again. Connie's hand is at your waist this time. His thumb settles closer to your hip where, subconsciously, he rubs a small circle onto. You try to breathe, nevertheless, you fail. Your spine stiffens. "Relax, babe," Annie's voice cuts through some murmur as the director gives a quick suck to his teeth.

Another nod. You feel Connie's hand shift, not tighter, just more decisive. It reads almost as if he were making sure to ground you in place to steady you up against him. From your peripheral, you watch his face lean in slightly closer against your ear. "Tranquila," he utters, low and quiet. Your hair lifts on its ends at the back of your neck. "I got you."

The words aren't flirtatious. They're said as if it was a simple fact.

Swallowing, you struggle with letting your shoulders fall to trust the stable press of his hand.

The director hums, "Alright, lets do it."

You manage only two shutters of the lens capturing you both before your hip awkwardly juts out wrong. Embarrassment begins to flood through almost every inch of your body. You feel stupid, you feel stupid. You’re wasting time. Why cant you get it together? Closing your eyes, you press your index fingers lightly against your inner eye corners, "I'm sorry," you whisper quickly. "Sorry, everyone."

There's a soft exhale near your ear — sounds almost like a puff of amusement however, it's not mocking. ". . You nervous?"

Opening your eyes, you only manage to glance quickly up into Connie's before shaking your head. "No."

A second passes. Connie soon then sniffs, "Yeah, aight."

When he tries again, when you decide to finally allow his touch to simply settle, your body, bizarrely, molds instead of braces within it. You soften into something natural. You feel his fingers flex at your hip when you do. You take it as a muted form of his approval.

"Threee she is. There we go, you two."

The camera shutters.

Once, twice, thrice.

"Beautiful. Cut. That's a wrap everyone."

The word wrap nestles a weird feeling in your chest. You feel Connie's fingers part from the skin of your waist. One second they're there, the next, they're gone. Though it'd maybe only been a few minutes of his touch being there, the absence of it registers immediately. It feels wrong, almost. You swallow while watching crew members flood in around you both to begin unclipping fabric from the rafters that fall onto the floor in soft waves. Dome cameras go dark, one by one, as your stylist walks over with a comfortable, shin length robe to help you shrug on. The belt is tied with quick fingers as your eyes shift. Connie's already gone. He's on the far side of the warehouse, tossing a hoodie over his red button up, shielding gold beneath the fabric.

You don't want to look. you refuse to.

But, you do anyway.

He's looking at you again, eyes focused while pulling his hood over his freshly bleached head. The dark fabric frames his face, making him appear all the more forbiddingly handsome. The world around you blurs . . . almost as if someone has smeared their thumb across wet paint as noises fade into deadened mumbles — someone laughs over by the monitors while wrapping a long cord around their palm, your stylist says something to you that you can't quite catch.

Neither of you wave. Neither of you even nod.

The rolling door behind Connie opens, leaving golden sunlight to spill into the warehouse. He looks away, turns, steps outside of it, and not a second later does the door slam back shut . . leaving the world around you to sharpen again. Sound rushes back into your ears as someone drops something with a small curse. Your stylist gives a small nudge to your side, eyebrows shooting up her forehead in slight concern, "Hey, you okay?"

Innately, you nod, even if your mind feels elsewhere. "Yeah."

Something has shifted on its axis, that, you know. You tell yourself that it's just work . . that it will always be just work. But, whatever that's been newly strung between you and Connie feels too taut to blatantly ignore.

ׅ ❤︎

San Francisco is much colder than LA.

Fog rolls low over the city in thick clouds, the air is sharp and tinged with notes of salt. Shows are back to back. Thursday, Friday, then Saturday. Annie has informed you that between these seventy two hours are scheduled soundchecks, team meetings, and magazine interviews. All enough to keep your mind busy . . off of him, until she catches you the night after the first concert, in the lobby of the hotel before the both of you are going to part ways for the night. "Look, I know it's kind of sudden but, the label would like a teaser clip of some studio footage to post by tomorrow," her eyes flitter down to where an Apple watch wraps snuggly around her wrist. "Connie already said he's free—"

Your eyes widen and your voice rises an octave from the nervousness beginning to bubble within the pit of your stomach at only the mention of his name, "—Wait, wait. Right now? Are you serious, Annie?—"

"—I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But, you two are supposed to have this single released in three weeks time. We have to squeeze it in somewhere—"

"—The night after a show? I want a bubble bath."

She's grabbing you by the hips to spin you back in the direction of which you came which would be the hotel's rotating doors. "Bubble bath after this session, okay? Just an hour and a half max. You can do that for me, right?"

You want to tell her no. You want to dig your heels into the buffed marble of the lobby's floor and refuse to move a single inch, but you don't. Annie's the best. The label you signed to two years ago upon first gaining mainstream traction is a small one — Harborlight House.

It'd been Annie that you had clicked with the most out of the dozens of other managers who entered your dms with offers and promises that made your brain spin and stomach queazy. Annie has shown you genuine protection from the start. She flew out on her own dime after you accepted her meeting request and sat with you at a duck pond with her Ipad and pencil in hand instead of a contract thicker than your head. She asked you about what you wanted to accomplish, didn't flinch when you told her such, what success meant to you, what you didn't want to lose.

You signed with Harborlight House only about a month later.

Not because of the numbers, but for her. She'd been the one to push back when a bigger imprint wanted to rush your EP. She'd also been the one that made sure your masters stayed yours and yours alone.

Therefore, you try to do what she asks of you. Because Annie would never purposely lead you into harm's way. Prime example, after listening to you heave a big, bratty sigh, she puts you in the back of an escalade right beside Reiner and tells him, "You don't leave her side for a single second. Wherever she goes, you go, too."

As the car weaves through downtown traffic, your reflection stares at you through tinted glass — gloss still fresh, new lash set fluffy, stage costume set long gone and instead replaced by a white I Am Gia set printed with pink polka dots. You look okay. You don't completely feel okay, though.

Connie already said he's free.

Annie's words surprise you. You start to twist and pull at your fingers, reminding yourself that this is work. Only work. And it will always be.

The studio Connie's label rented is tucked within a more quieter part of the city — completed with industrial brick, dark, caged windows, and only three floors. You and Reiner have to enter up a narrow staircase that smells like warm dust and coffee to make it up to the second floor where you already hear the thumping bass of a smooth tempo track nearly twelve feet from from the door it's coming from at the end of the hall that's only cracked slightly ajar.

The closer you walk towards it, the slower your steps become.

You've performed in front of thousands and walked red carpets. You've had interviewers try to corner you about your love life, other celeb drama, and politics all in one and yet . . . that nervousness doesn't compare to how you currently feel. You hear Reiner mumble from behind you, "You good?"

" 'm good."

You push open the door.

Warmth hits you first.

Inside, the fairly large room is pleasantly lit with tall, standing lamps, as well as a few Himalayan salt ones that have been deliberately placed around the perimeter of it. The glow reflects against the smooth, exposed brick of the walls. A huge vocal booth sits at the far end of the room, topped with two, wide spanned monitors that display layered tracks in neon lines and glass slabs seals it off from a control panel that spans from almost one side of the room to the other, completed with mixing boards, sliders, and illuminating buttons that brighten then slowly dim as if they'd been breathing.

A dark, leather couch has been pushed against one wall and a low table stands in front of it, covered in cables, water bottles, a laptop, and chinese take out containers.

Connie sits in a rolling chair . . dressed in a pair of oversized, black track pants and a mustard yellow hoodie with the word supreme printed on the back. He had his head bowed and elbows on his knees with his hands interlocked between his legs as he listens closely to the track playing. Though, when you enter the room, he lifts it to look up at you.

He fixes his eyes on you and doesn't look away as the other two producers, both men — one with long locs and another with wavy, blond hair turn to face you. "Aye, right on time," the one with locs gives a smile. "We've been gettin' ready for you."

"Hi," a manicured hand is held up for an apprehensive wave as you step further inside. There's no visible reaction from Connie, no grin or smirk or faux reaction of surprise. Akin to yesterday morning at the photoshoot, he simply just watches you.

As Reiner settles in to stand beside the door against a wall, routinely inspecting with just his eyes and minimal words, you set your bag down upon a couch cushion when Connie eventually speaks, "You made it."

"Yeah," you pretend to dust lint off of your thighs so you don't have to look at him. "Uhm, there was just some traffic."

"Mm," is all he gives. You suspect that he knows that you're lying. You're grateful he doesn't continue to push though. When he stands up from the chair, measured and unhurried, instinctively you straighten your spine. You watch him cross the room in two, long strides to stand diagonally from you, almost near the couch as well. "You good?" That familiar question makes you feel like you're going crazy.

Loosely, you cross your arms over your chest in efforts to somewhat regulate your heart rate, "I'm fine. Why?"

His eyes, greyish and dark, quickly study the features of your face. It takes him only half a second. He hums softly again, " 'm jus' askin'."

You hear the track loop back into the beginning as your lips part . . . though, you say nothing. ". . Uhm," quickly, you turn away and walk towards the booth. The more space, the better. "Should we start?"

The blond haired producer nods. "Lets begin with the hook."

ׅ ❤︎

An hour passes by quickly. You record the hook perfectly after four takes and half of your verse. You'd been told, through the glass panel by one of the producers, that Connie has completed his. He now only has to finish the bridge, but everyone's decided that it can happen another day.

Throughout your time in the booth, Connie sits on the couch behind the two men, leaned comfortably back into the cushions with his fists shoved in his hoodie's pockets. You try not to focus too much on him, nonetheless, he makes it difficult. During the repeated takes of the hook, you couldn't help but notice the minuscule reactions he gave when disliking or approving of something. When you cut a word shorter than he'd like, you supposed, you could see it in the faintest shift of his lips. Never a full frown but just a slight tighten at the corner of them, as though he tasted something not quite right.

When you drifted off into a melodic run, his leg bounced. Once. Approval.

He never says anything. He barely moves, never interrupts. Just listens . . . intently.

You tell yourself to simply focus on you. But, he makes it hard.

"Again," one of the producers says through the speakers of your chunky, over ear headphones. "More air on the front line this time."

You nod. Your voice is smaller when you utter, "Okay," into the microphone after clearing your throat.

With his instructions, you try the harmony once more.

Something in the air shifts. You feel it. It doesn't sound . . . right. On the next run, you gather in a deeper breath to open up your diaphragm. Then arrives a long silence after it. Through the glass, you watch the blond nod his head. The dreadhead leans closer into the board to fiddle with a slider switch. Behind them . . . Connie still lounges, back against the cushion, hands in his pockets, albeit, his jaw has tightened. Not noticeably, but, just barely. You swallow.

"More bigger."

"Smaller run."

"Make it tighter."

By the fifth take, Connie stands. Midway through a note, you quiet and take a step back as though you were preparing for him to storm into the booth and snatch the microphone away from your lips. You're thankful one of the producers has his finger still on the button so that you're able to hear what's going on when his mouth opens. "Nah, nah, nah," Connie's shaking his head and walking closer to the mixing board.

One of them chuckles, "It's alright, man. We're just molding it."

"Mold it without makin' her disappear."

Another silence lugs on, tensed and prickling. ". . It's just direction."

Connie's tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, once. He looks up over at you without lifting his head, ". . . You like how that sound, ma?"

You're hesitant. Truth be told, you don't. You've managed to perfect the art of your sound and their direction is wiping it away, note by note. ". . 's fine."

"It ain't fine," he snatches one of his hands out of his pocket to rub at the soft, dark hairs that dust his chin. "Sing it how you did the first time."

You shift, "U-uhm—"

"—Connie, man, this isn't your session—"

His attention doesn't part from yours when he roughly clips, "—Do it."

It's firm and leaves no room for another word. So, you do. It's sweet . . soft though warmly textured . . akin to velvet dragging across the warmth of one's skin. The room quiets after the track suddenly pauses. Connie gives a small nod, jaw shifting. "That." It's quiet. No need for overdone praise. He says it like he knew you had it in you the entire time. Looking down at the producers, his voice is low and edged with something raw when he states, "Now mix it."

You watch as he turns to grab his water bottle and then walks out of the door.

It shuts behind him with a soft click. No slam or any dramatics. He's just . . gone. For a second, no one moves. Eyes shift, but bodies don't. The room feels simultaneously bigger yet tighter now that he's no longer here. The dreadhead clears his throat and fiddles with another slider, as if nothing even happened. "Alright," he mumbles, hoping to lighten the mood. "That take was great."

You remain standing in the booth, blood feeling as though its too hot for your body.

He never raised his voice, he never looked away from you. He told you to do it and you did . . . and it felt . . . so good. You listen to the producers replay the same melodies you just gave. No further direction is given. Eventually, after being waved out of the booth, you walk out noting that the air outside of it feels denser than what it once was. His warmth still resides within the cushions of the couch when you replace his spot. You tell yourself that the quiet ache that throbs in your chest is just relief, nothing more.

A lie.

Your personal phone soon pings from within the confines of your bag with a new message. Sighing, you grab it to fish through tubes of lip gloss, travel sized perfumes, and a lone pair of clean panties to find it buried at the bottom. Annie is expected . . but, instead, it's from an unknown number.

Your heart drops into your ass. No name or contact photo attached, only two simple words.

You stare at it for longer than you'd like to admit. He has your number. How does he have—

Your lips part with the sudden realization of three weeks of touring, rehearsals, and interviews. Of course, he'd been able to get it when he wanted to. But he's using it . . . and now. Another ping.

Your breath catches before you can try to regulate it. The hair on your body stands straight as your head snaps up, thinking that he may be inside the room. You can try to ignore it, pretend that you're busy, but, for some reason, doing that doesn't feel right. He's not asking, not begging, however, he's waiting. Looking at the producers, you watch them softly talk to one another about equilibrium adjustments, barely paying any attention to you, so you stand.

"Uhm, 'm . . g-gonna step out for a minute."

"Alright, no worries."

You watch Reiner's gaze sharpen on you as you move closer to the door. " 's okay," you mutter with a soft hand to his forearm. "I'll be back in a few. You have my location still."

There's some hesitance but he eventually nods, so, slowly, you walk out and down the hall you previously came from. It's just work, you repeat to yourself. Just work. It's only work. Even so, your hands can't stop trembling. You expected him to be outside, as he said, but when you open the door to the stairwell, he's standing halfway down them, arms folded and back leaned against the wall. When he hears the door, he looks up. His face is unreadable. There's no anger or annoyance . . . but something you can't quite pinpoint.

With your hand on the banister, you let the door close behind you with a final slam, leaving you both enclosed within the narrow spine of a room of steps. Silence is loud. The soles of your Uggs press down onto specs of dust and tiny, barely there pebbles as you slowly descend down until you're two steps above him . . close enough to see the small shards of warm green that swim within the grey and brown of his eyes. "You got my number," is what you eventually say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. Is he upset with you?

"Mhm." No apology or explanation given. "You scared of that room?"

No bullshitting around.

Automatically, you shake your head.

"Then why you ain't say nothin'."

He's not asking a question, he's wanting an answer. You look away from him and bend your finger back and forth on the wood of the banister. ". . I didn't wanna make it harder."

He's tilting his head. Not in a puppy-ish way but in a way that feels surgical — as though he's adjusting himself to get a better look at you. "For who."

You're quiet. You keep your eyes on your finger, feeling the pad of it curve into the natural indents of the wood. "For the session."

"Mm, nah, that ain't what I asked."

Your lips roll tightly into your mouth as you suddenly snatch your arms up to fold them across your chest. A sharp exhale through your nose, "For them, I guess."

He's wearing a beanie underneath his hood tonight. His eyebrows are slightly thick. They lift up on his forehead in a bogus manner of incredulity. "For them."

The words drift between you both as if he were tasting the weight of them on his own tongue. ". . And you?" he soon asks.

You tense. You hate that — when he keeps pulling focus back on you. ". . 's nothin' I can't handle."

Connie nods, slowly. "Mm." Then takes one step higher up towards you. It leaves you both nearly eye to eye for the first time. Something in the air shifts. You keep your focus on him to keep him from noticing your breaths quivering now. "You ain't answer me in there," he says with a soft squint of his eyes.

"I did."

"You said it was fine."

You don't respond because the two of you know that wasn't the question. The hum of the city fills the silence this time around — a few car honks as some whizz by and a faint helicopter.

"You scared of that room?" his first question is repeated.

You shake your head slower this time. ". . . No."

When you lower your chin, he's inclining his neck slightly lower too to find your eyes once more, "Then why you ain't say nothing."

"Connie—" You stop yourself then lift them up towards the ceiling as if the words you want to say are written there. In the end, when you can't find them, you release another sharp breath and meet his eye contact. He's waiting . . patiently. "I didn't wanna make it harder."

He studies you for a longer second. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, "You let them fold you. You let them niggas cut you down smaller every time they asked. Even when you knew you wasn't fuckin' wit' it."

You shift on your feet. "You noticed?"

There's no hesitation when he answers, "Yeah."

"That's weird."

He shrugs, eyes part from yours for the first time though not out of nervousness. It's to make a point when he says, "You in a room. I'm aware." Then they're back on you, steady and unblinking. There's no flirtation . . . for the second time within forty eight hours, he says something that makes your heart skip as if he were citing a traffic rule.

You stare at him this time, trying to read him the way he obviously can read you but, you find it difficult. His face gives little away. It makes you feel exposed, like you're underneath a spotlight. Therefore, you part your glossed covered lips to softly question, "You think I can't handle this stuff?" It isn't defensive . . your voice is quiet. It reads closer to vulnerability. You ask it as if you really want to know.

"I think you can."

"Then what?"

He licks his lips. For a moment, they glisten with his saliva — thick, pink, and smooth with a thin, neatly trimmed mustache right above them. God. "I think you don't like friction, ma."

" 'm not scared of friction."

"Hazme caso, not callin' you scared," He inhales through his nose as his gaze drifts up at the stairs behind you for a brief moment. "When shit rubs you wrong . . you swallow it."

You make a move to deny, "That's not—"

"—It is."

It's firm, but oddly not as harsh as it would've sounded coming from someone else. Looking away again, you can't help the pout that's starting to push at your lips, no matter how hard you try to reel it back in. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me, Connie." More lies beneath your tone than just pettishness. There's a hint of a plea. Why are you looking so hard? Don't name it.

"I'm not." A pause. "I'm jus' watchin'."

The word settles heavily over the conversation. ". . . You think you got me figured out after only three weeks of knowing me?"

"No."

The answer throws a curveball. You expected him to say yes — be cocky about it, because somehow, deep down, you have a feeling that if he doesn't already, he will soon. "I jus' don't like watchin' you bend like that."

Stubbornly, you grumble out, "Wasn't bending."

His honesty unsettles you in almost the sweetest of ways. You're aware of how close the two of you now, only a step separating your bodies. He smells like smoky vanilla again . . . The same scent he wore when you both were introduced to each other, only tonight, tinges of marijuana burn at the edges of it. It clings to the edges of his hoodie and to his fingers when he lifts his hand to adjust his beanie lower over his forehead. "You was. You ain't gotta make shit easy for nobody, especially not in a room where they supposed to be workin' for you."

Your gaze grows sharp, "You would've just argued with them all night, then?"

"Yeah."

"And make it awkward."

"So?"

He doesn't look angry. If anything, he appears resolved. You can't understand him. You don't think you have enough energy in you tonight to even try. ". . Why do you care so much?" The words tumble from your lips before you can try to stop them.

For the first time tonight, his expression shifts prior to him wanting it to. His jaw works once then twice as if he were grinding down the words between his teeth to decide how honest he wants to be. Eventually, he replies, "I don't like seein' you dull yourself."

Unable to help it, you deflect, "You think I'm dull?"

He huffs a quiet breath, nearly amused. His voice is a tinge rougher when he drags his thumb up to his closed eye to rub slowly at the inner corner, "Man, you like twistin' shit, hm."

" 'm not—"

"—You know that ain't what I said."

You watch him lift his hand. He rests it upon the banister, gripping at it, directly next to your hip. He isn't touching you, but he might as well be. "Next time," his voice is gentle and he makes sure to wait until you meet his eye again before continuing. "Don't say it's fine if it ain't."

You bite down on the gummy inside of your cheek, working it back and forth while studying him through your lashes, ". . You always this invested in other people's studio sessions?"

The ghost of a smirk pulls at his lips. It softens him in way you've never seen before. "Nah, ma."

Just yours, goes unsaid.

ׅ ❤︎

Week four on the road doesn't arrive loudly, it simply settles.

Somewhere after you and connie's late night conversation on the stairwell in San Francisco — after vanilla scented air scorched with weed and Brooklyn accented mutters — the dynamic of you two shift without either of you naming it. It isn't softer, but . . heavier, and somehow steadier, too. You're in Seattle next for two nights. The first is loud, big. He continues to watch your performances from the wings, arms folded and his head angled down as if he were examining you like architecture. "You owned that shit," he mumbles when you and your dancers shuffle past as the crowd screams for an encore. You pant and smile, with your lungs burning and sweat cooling against your spine, and try not to let yourself grow too shy in front of him because his approval has slowly been becoming something you've been chasing.

You hate that you are, however, can't reel yourself in close enough to stop doing it.

He'll utter things like, "Don't fold." "You know what to do." Close to your temple before shows when everyone's hurrying you to the stage and the stage manager is counting down from thirty — always low, always only meant for you, and you listen. You adjust the way you shine within the spotlight because of him, hold a note longer because you know that he's listening for when you could possibly retreat. His attention is your anchor and accelerator . . what keeps you steady yet lights a match beneath your ribs.

It's after Seattle and Phoenix, in Vegas, when both of your managers tell the two of you that it's crunch time.

The single scheduled to be released next week featuring you both is only eighty percent done. After the show, when everyone's packing up, crowds are bustling towards the exits in efforts to be the first ones out and the projector screen is rolling credits of the stage crews' names in glitching, vhs style — Connie's typical aesthetic — you're carrying a large, puffy tote on your shoulder, dressed in a pair of flared leggings and thin, tight camisole. You walk beside Annie and Anthony, a few of your dancers and Reiner behind you as all of your footsteps tap against cemented stairs to head for the underground parking garage where eight, glossy black Escalades wait — some for your team, others for Connie's.

There's a lot of mutter . . . some laughs, some hugs shared as you all part ways for the night.

Your arms are wrapped tight around the hips of one of your closest dancers as you smooch a big kiss to her cheek, "Get some rest, okay?" you tell her. "Take a bubble bath and add some epsom salt in there, seriously!"

"But it's Vegas — you don't wanna come out with us for a little bit?"

Before you can answer, there's a voice behind you cutting through, "Nah. She gotta work tonight."

It isn't loud. It never has to be. Connie's voice carries differently after a show — lower and more gruff after commanding a stadium of fifty thousand people with that same Brooklyn edge that makes everything sound finalized. The small circle around you instantly shifts as he emerges from the same hall you all came from with his own team.

He's wearing an all black fit . . . fitted tee, baggy jeans, and 'black cat' jordan fours with an opened, oversized jacket covering his tatted arms. His bleached head has been re-dyed tonight with jagged, electric blue lightning bolts cutting through the fade all over. The diamonds within the chains he wears glisten underneath the fluorescents in quick glints.

At the sight of him, you grip the shoulder strap of your tote tighter.

Anthony claps his hands once. "Aye, and that's our cue. Don't be up all night. My crew, let's roll."

A few more hugs are exchanged, promises to text, and some laughter as car doors open then close. You say your goodbyes to Annie last, telling her that you'll keep her updated and see her in the morning, bright and early. It's when most of your teams are already in the cars, leaving you, Connie, Reiner, and two of Connie's own personal guards standing beside the rumbling trucks when you turn to face him with your arms folded. ". . . Not even a drink?"

His slitted eyebrow twitches, "You was thinkin' about goin' for real."

You look away, pouting only slightly. "Only for like, an hour."

You feel it before you see it — his gaze drops. You've taken off all of your make up so you're sure that your birthmark is a little more blatant than usual. His eyes trace the irregular shape of it, akin to an uneven splatter of pale color thrown carelessly over the bridge of your nose, not confusedly or even in curiosity. His eyes map over it it like he's trying to memorize it, before he drags his stare back into yours again. "You tired?"

". . Yeah."

"You wired?"

"Mhm."

"Now imagine you off a drink or two on top of this."

You bristle, unable to help huffing when he opens a back door to one of the trucks. "I was gonna ride by m'self—" He's shaking his head, not even looking at you when he braces a hand against the roof so you won't hit your head and says, "—You ridin' wit' me. C'mon." There's no room for banter or a negotiation. It's already been decided. You pause and look around the emptying parking garage. Reiner leans against a wall, simply watching, while Connie's guards stand beside their own truck.

You try to sound annoyed when you utter, "Seriously?" But your tone betrays you. Comes out a little more meek than wanted.

He's slightly smirking now. "Seriously."

You sigh as you climb in and settle in the seat behind the driver's. Reiner takes the passenger and connie slides in behind it then slams the door shut beside him. It's almost deafeningly quiet inside the car after he does, silence only broken by a sports broadcasting channel that hums along through the speakers with commentators droning on about stats and positions. Vegas nights are warm this time of year. You slide down your window a bit when he does as the truck starts to move, letting the air waft across your bare collarbones. "Are you always so . . . bossy?"

Connie sits with his legs spread and arm thrown over the back of the seat you sit in. He doesn't falter when he replies, "What you think?"

Turns out, he's staying in an airbnb, nestled near the outskirts and rolling hills of Vegas that dulls the busy city noise within its openness. Houses are spaced far enough to feel completely private, gated and secluded with the lights of the strip only a faint gleam in the distance. When the SUV rolls to a smooth stop at the bottom of a wide, arched staircase that leads to a large pivot door made of steel and glass, elegant and sharp, Connie's already pushing his door open and stepping out as if he's been here a million times before — no pause or glance around, just smooth certainty. While he rounds the backside of the car, you take notice of the headlights of another escalade where you assume his security occupy, pulling in behind you all.

"I'll take my post outside the front door right here," Reiner says from over his shoulder with the tilt of his chin to motion to it. "You need something, you call me."

Nodding, you softly retort an "Okay."

Before you can even reach for your door handle, it's opened by Connie. He stands there, warm, bronzy skin painted almost ethereal beneath the silver moonlight. The subtle diamonds in his ear sparkle as he turns his head to motion something to his security before leaning in slightly closer to offer you his palm. "C'mon, ma."

His hand completely dwarfs yours as you lean into his help to jump from the high risen truck. It's warm . . somehow strong . . grounding. "Studio's in the basement," he utters while leading you up the staircase. He doesn't let it go. "Fucked around with it earlier before rehearsals. Shit's nice." You find yourself glancing between the side of his face, to the faint tension settled in the hard line of his jaw and the tiny spider inked right beneath the corner of his left eye, and his hand that still engulfs yours the entire walk up. Your pulse sounds louder within the quiet of the night.

You don't say anything about it. He holds it like it's second nature — to have you tethered to him, that is. It feels like second nature. Your stride adjusts to his longer ones without much hassle and your fingers fit delicately into his palm. You try to swallow your disappointment when he eventually has to let it go though to key in a code to unlock the door and push it open.

Inside is nice. Abstract decor with black marble floors glisten bright enough under recessed lighting to reflect your face back up at you when you look down at it, completed with high ceilings which stretch into clean architectural designs. Somewhere deeper inside, the kitchen you think, gleams soft, ambient lighting that makes you feel warm.

You let Connie lead you down a wide staircase that spirals out into the lower half of the house as both your footsteps echo. He moves like he’s already memorized the layout of the entire home — as if this were just another temporary kingdom he’s occupying for the night. You pass a home theater, two laned bowling alley, and lounge before a glass door opens into the home’s studio. It’s all very indulgent and excessive . . very Vegas. The lighting within the studio is lower, warmer which makes it feel all the more intimate. Connie seems to already have his laptop in here with the track settled over the monitors and ready to go. Everything’s positioned exactly how he wants it, like he knew you’d been walking in here tonight.

“You wanna start?” he asks with a casual shrug off of his jacket. Ink coils across his skin — down his arms, a few on his hands, curling up his neck — mostly black, only a couple red . . one near his forearm, the other on his bicep as if it were intentionally tucked away.

You swallow and shake your head come his question. His eyebrows lift slowly, not in offense but slight curiosity. He seems to wait for a beat, expecting you to change your mind however when you don’t, he doesn’t press or tease you about it, he pivots. “Aight, mama,” he mutters while grabbing the set of headphones off of the mixing board. “I’ll lay mine first.”

Your tote falls onto the empty center table as he pushes the booth’s door open with his shoulder to step inside. Quickly, you realize this will be your first time seeing him record. You've experienced seeing him perform, you've seen him rehearse, but never record. Electricity hums beneath your veins.

He looks unworldly, standing within the center of it with his chin lowered as he scrolls through his phone to presumedly memorize his lyrics. You’re staring — letting your eyes drag across the broad span of his shoulders and biceps, down to the taper of his hips. He’s . . . handsome, but the word falls flat honestly. There’s a reason why his face goes viral every other day, clips of him performing, mid interview, smiling, staring, frowning. He’s conventionally attractive of course, but it’s almost something unreal about him. Up close? It’s something else entirely. He’s a rare case, you think. Like he was carved with precise intention . . by someone who made sure to take their time.

It’s stillness before he starts. He doesn’t pace or fidget, doesn’t rehearse out loud or even mumble to himself. He just stands there, reads it once, twice, maybe three times to lock it in then he powers his phone off, shoves it back into his pocket then looks over at you. No gesture needed, you seem to understand his stare without him having to say a word. You hit a button on the mixing board to let the track smoothly play in.

There’s a strong bass line. The melody floats in a few seconds after, light and almost playful. It’s fun but there’s weight to it. You think the producer did well with encapsulating you and connie’s vibes within it.

You watch his lips part.

Fuck.

His voice slides in smooth, almost lazy, like he’s talking his shit to a homeboy on the sidewalks of Brooklyn instead of recording something that’ll be streamed worldwide. But, it works. His tone carries on the beat instead of chasing it. Your nails dig into the meat of your palms as you stand there behind the chair in front of the mixing board, entirely transfixed.

And an hour and a half passes like that.

With Connie buried in the booth and you curled up within a large, padded spinning chair in front of the sound panel, consistently replaying the track when he wants. You both fall into a rhythm. He's tweaks a word here, switches up his flow there. He ends up recording the bridge three times, trying to decide which one sounds better and it's as you're sitting with a piece of a spicy crab sushi roll held between chopsticks, nearly halfway up to your mouth, courtesy drop off by Connie's security, and listening to him record another line when he cuts himself off mid-bar.

The beat is still playing when he heaves a tired sigh from his nose and pulls off his headphones.

"Fuck, man."

Your eyes are wide and you're midchew when scrambling up to stop the music. The room drops into a silence so thick that it makes it hard for you to swallow. He's irritated. He's not dramatic with it, nonetheless, it's obvious. Maybe only to you. "Somethin's off," he utters. You watch him pull open the booth door and quickly brush out of it as if it's offended him personally. He brushes his hand over his scalp before taking the other chair beside you. "Anda. Go. Do your part."

You cover your mouth to swallow. "Right now?"

"Yeah," his tone is sharp when he replies. He doesn't seem impatient with you, moreso this song and himself. "I wanna hear it with you on there."

Hesitating, you soon give a small nod prior to settling your chopsticks down on a napkin then standing. You smooth out the wrinkles in your flared leggings and tug at your camisole when noticing that it's ridden up above your navel piercing before stepping inside the booth. You feel his stare as you settle the headphones over the dark curls of your flip over sew in, making sure that they aren't pressing down too hard on them or your ears. The mic still sits at his height, so you have to reach up with nimble fingers to adjust it down to your own.

When you inhale a big breath to steady yourself, you catch the familiar traces of his cologne dancing within the enclosed space of the booth. It makes something in your tummy flip. “ ‘m ready.”

You watch him press play. You’re required to only layer some harmonies beneath the bridge he’s working on. Your first ones are clean, supporting, and gentle. Air beneath his gravel. When doing a second layer, you part your mouth open just the tiniest bit wider to fill in some opened space.

Connie leans back in his chair, slow and deliberate, and folds his arms over his chest while watching.

He’s never been able to indulge in staring at you. Not properly. When he watches your performances, he’s mostly just listening. In the rare moments he lets his eyes drift, it's always quite professional — keeping an eye out for a wardrobe malfunction or if one of your dancers is too close within your center light. When he passes by you in the halls, while on the way to your hotels or tour buses, it's never enough time to get a real, good look at you.

That doesn't mean he hasn't tried. The photoshoot you both did was half an exception, as well as that first, shared studio session, but this time . . there's no one else in the room. No stylists, sound engineers, or managers. Just you both. so he lets himself look.

You keep your lashes done — full and fluffy with wisps in between that soften your stare. They dust across your cheeks as you keep your eyes closed to really hone in on a note. Your curls spill down your back akin to a halo, resting only an inch away from the curve of your waist. The camisole you wear is thin enough to reveal the intricate lacing of your white bra underneath. Lower, his eyes fall down to the fullness of your hips, thickness of your thighs. God, you really are something.

He knows what you entail.

Letting himself give into you brings a lot of eyes, headlines, and even more questions. He hates all that shit. He's always been about his music, just his music. Sure, yeah, he's entertained the usual, stereotypical distraction people of his profession commonly go for. The occasional instagram model flown out for a weekend here, a single mom he met at an after party who understood discretion there — no strings, no complications, just something to release his stress when the days blur together and the cameras, the fans, the pressure, and the numbers all become too much.

You're like gravity, though. since the start of this tour, Connie's been finding himself thinking about you, on flights, the backseat after a show, in the shower . . . more than he's thought about another person in a long, long time.

Swallowing once, he rubs a hand down his jaw as if he's trying to physically reset himself. He's never been the type to try to fight it though. He'll hold off on whatever his heart, mind, or soul tells him for a while, stall it, test it, tell himself to just wait a bit, but never will he run from it. Because the way he sees it — anything that pulls at him like this deserves to be closely examined, not avoided. When the music settles and you're opening your eyes while pulling off the headphones, eyes wide and plump lips parted, obviously searching for his approval, something in his blood rushes into static. He thinks he may like you . . . a lot.

"Did you like it?" is the first thing you ask when out of the booth.

"Adored it. Shit was perfect." His eyes are focused on the sound waves of the track as he replays it with his own.

You can't help but notice how his jaw moves when listening to himself, though. It grinds slowly, back and forth, revealing his dissatisfaction with it. You step a little bit closer to him. ". . What's wrong?" You hum. "With yours, I mean. What do you hear?"

He doesn't answer immediately. He lets you listen for yourself.

Your harmonies opened up something you didn't hear before. "You're dragging the word at the end on the sixth bar," you soon say. "Sounds really good but a little crowded. If you clip it, the melodies can fill up the space instead."

He stares at you for a beat longer than usual, then he rewinds, plays it again, and envisions your input.

". . Damn."

You watch him bite down on a slow, pretty smile. "That's perfect, mama."

"Really?" Your shoulders lift to your ears as you brighten up with a wide grin. You watch him nod and stand, already making his way for the booth.

"You got plans in the morning?"

"Just . . rehearsals, I think."

He's shaking his head with his hand on the booth's door. "Cancel it. I wanna run this again after you sleep on it. Fresh ears matter." A second passes. He licks his lips. "I want you to have breakfast with me, too."

There it is. An opening.

Your eyes go a little wide and you shift on your feet, looking up into the same stormy, hazel eyes that never seem to blink first. ". . . O-oh. Okay."

Something unreadable flickers across his face — something that appears crossed between contentment and contemplation. "I'll pick you up around ten."

ׅ ❤︎

Connie rides with you, his driver, and Reiner again back to your hotel at three in the morning. Vegas' lights still twinkle bright and people walk the strip, dressed in mini skirts and half button ups with drinks in their hands and laughter on their lips. He doesn't appear as tired as you as he sits beside you, arm thrown over the back of your headrest again. His eyes remain sharp, staring out of the tinted windows at the bustling city. It makes you wonder how many long nights he's pulled like this. How many hours has he stayed up before his body has collapsed from exhaustion. He doesn't seem to mind walking you up to your suite. He stands beside you on the entire elevator ride up, quiet and intense, as always.

"Uhm," you stop in front of the double doors with a keycard in hand and turn to face him. He forgot his jacket. He's still donned in his all black fit, electric blue swimming through warm blond upon his head. "So . ."

"I'll send the track over to the labels around six," he says, not giving the awkwardness time to grow. ". . . I want you to sleep. Cut your phone off."

He says it like an instruction . . . as if your rest has already been accounted for in a plan that you don't know of. Your head tilts, eyes grow softer than usual. Connie's jaw flexes. "You're not gonna sleep, too?"

He shrugs, "I will." When he reads the uncertainty radiating off of you, a slight smirk pulls at his lips. "No te preocupes. I been doin' this for a long time."

You give a sigh, "You should, Connie." His statement doesn't answer for your concerns but you don't think he cares, therefore, you turn to swipe your keycard and push open the door a crack when the machine flashes green. There's something suspended in the air between you two. Not awkward, not particularly dramatic. Just . . . loaded.

"Ten," is the last thing he says. "Get some sleep, for real."

"You'll be able to tell if I don't?" It's a small tease. A little push back against him but you notice his eyes squint. Not in annoyance but assessment.

"Yeah."

"Mm, how?"

He takes one step closer and your pulse skips. The small smile you wore gently fades. "I'll hear it," he replies, voice low. "In your voice."

He doesn't grin when he says it. It's matter of fact, spoken like it's obvious. You try to search his face for exaggeration but there isn't any. You swallow, "Okay." Ten. You keep that little, three lettered word in mind as you finally give him a little wave before stepping inside your room.

Connie watches your door slowly close. He makes sure he hears the latch click into place before he turns and strides back down the hall without looking back. His mind feels like a live wire — buzzing, sparking, and refusing to power off.

Ten.

ׅ ❤︎

Annie's suspicious when you call her at nine am. "Why . . . are you calling me before rehearsals?" she asks. You hear the doubt in her tone and it makes you feel like you're five all over again with your parents asking you if you put glitter all over your pomeranian.

Your cheeks burn as you toe at your suitcase that sits, flopped open in the middle of your hotel room's living area, dressed in only a robe with your bonnet on. " 'm having breakfast . . with Connie . . ."

"Breakfast," she repeats, tone dry. "With Connie . . ."

". . . Mhm . . ."

"What the hell happened in that studio last night, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱? Let me do damage control while I can—"

Your eyes are squeezing closed and your body tenses as you squeak out, "—Nothing! I swear, I swear! Oh my god, Annie!"

"You do not cancel rehearsals over a casual breakfast, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱."

Without thinking, you blurt, "But it's not casual!"

The minute the words leave your mouth, you melt onto the floor on your knees beside your suitcase and drop your forehead into your palm. Stupid. You are so stupid.

Annie's quiet . . . in a way that shows that she's slowly processing. "Ah," she soon mutters. "So, it's not casual."

"That's . . n-not what I meant, Annie."

"Then what did you mean."

You groan, "Nothing happened last night. We worked on the song, it was nice. We just, talked a little bit, finished, he dropped me off at the hotel, walked me to my door then left."

"Is he picking you up?"

While fiddling with the tie of your robe, you softly shrug as if she can see you, "I think his security is."

"You're letting his security pick you up."

"He told me it's just to go upstairs to the restaurant. It's private."

She echos a, "Oh, it's private."

"Annie."

You hear her breathe out a sharp sigh. You can already see her in the same position as you. Dressed to the nines in an all black, perfectly tailored pantsuit. Make up already done, blond bob perfectly straightened with her forehead in her palm. You're her proudest achievement and biggest headache sometimes.

". . . You like him," she soon says.

Her words make you still.

. . . Do you?

You haven't really . . thought about it like that. ". . I dunno."

"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, please don't lie to me."

You're pouting now, "He jus' . . makes me nervous."

"That is not the same thing and you know it."

A silence stretches on. You keep your mouth shut, afraid of saying the wrong thing at this point. You hear Annie inhale a breath this time. "Okay, you get two hours. Rehearsals aren't canceled, they're postponed. I'll let Anthony and the dancers know. No disappearing, no leaving anywhere without security. Say you understand."

"I understand," a weight feels like it's been removed off of your chest. ". . I think he just wants to talk."

"Men like that don't ever just want to talk."

She makes you swear that you won't do anything career altering before you've had some type of caffeine in your system and after you hang up, you're left to stare at your reflection within the dark tv screen across the room while a big, slow smile subconsciously spreads across your lips and you're left to squeal into a throw pillow as you kick your feet.

ׅ ❤︎

The outfit you choose to wear is something crossed between soft glam and streetwear. A baby blue micro skirt works as your statement piece and an oversized, fleecy, grey hoodie with a sky blue, air brushed background softens it all up. A pair of white, Isabel Marant sneakers maintains that edge you're going for and after doing your own make up and accessorizing with a bag and cute, silver jewelry, you feel ready to go.

Connie's security are two men of very few words. One of them knocks on the door, asks if you're ready, then the both of them keep you sandwiched between them, one in front, one behind, at all times the entire walk to the car. Your stomach is fluttering with butterflies the entire ride over to the restaurant. you wonder which he chose, if he's already ordering, what he'll order.

"Upstairs," the hostess tells you with a nod when you arrive.

More security is waiting at the top of the stairs when a red velvet rope is unhooked to allow you entry. They mutter soft, respectful "Good morning"s before parting to let you walk further in. You already see him, with his back against a wall, seated in a chair with dark sunglasses rested on the table beside a clean, empty plate.

You find the restaurant to be quite beautiful. Exposed brick makes it feel homely while large, tall windows maintain a quiet feel of luxury. Connie's standing when you close the distance between you both. He's wearing a tailored, burgundy quarter zip over black pants and new, wheat timbs. The blue in his hair has been washed out, leaving it only blond. He looks . . . yummy.

"G'mornin'," you softly smile, letting him pull out your chair so that you're able to take a seat.

"Mornin', ma." you watch him take his. He flicks his fingers towards himself a few times then says, "So . . . lemme hear it."

"Hear what?"

"Your voice. I wanna hear it."

You can't help it. A soft, squeaking giggle bursts out of you before you can help it. "Connie, 'm literally talking right now."

He shakes his head once, "Mm-mm. That was a laugh."

Slyly, you roll your eyes, "What am i supposed to say?"

"Anything."

Your fingers fidget with the binded leather of the menu as you try to find a word, ". . . Hi."

"That all you got?"

"You're weird."

He smirks. It makes you blush. "There it is." Just by that, he can tell you slept. You find yourself to be a little scared to ask how, so you don't. But you wonder.

Thankfully, a waiter approaches to fill your glasses with water and ask for orders before a silence stretches on for too long. You listen to Connie's deep, raspy voice reply, "Mangú con los tres golpes. Eggs fried hard, please," and almost as if it were an afterthought he adds, "And a black coffee."

Connie watches the waiter nod, jot it all down, then turn his head towards you. "Uhm, do you have chocolate chip waffles?. . Seriously? Okay, yay, that please? With a side of breakfast potatoes and . . . a peach lemonade."

When told that your orders will be out shortly, then being left alone, Connie reaches for his glass of water. "Chocolate chips?"

He watches your spine straighten. You feel judged. "Yes."

"In the morning."

"Mhm."

After a sip of his water, he sets it back down on its coaster like he has all the time in the world. "That's bold."

"It's breakfast." You're starting to pout. It's cute.

"You always order what you actually want?"

Your head tilts. "What do you mean?"

"Most people order what they think sound grown," he leans back, folds his arms over his chest then lightly shrugs. "Egg whites, dry toast, green juice. Shit like that."

"I order what I like," you respond with another head tilt. He's sure you don't know how cute you look when you do them. ". . So what's mangú?"

He lifts his eyebrows, "¿No lo sabes?" It slips out of him, calm yet measured. It isn't like you haven't heard him speak spanish before . . however, all of those other times were usually instances of him saying something quickly, as though he simply couldn't help it. And, in other cases, while performing. This time feels different. Maybe it's because this time feels slightly more intentional and his question is directed at you.

You've been around enough spanish speakers though to somewhat translate what he asks. Shyly, you shake your head.

He studies you for a second longer then unfolds his arms. "It's basically jus' mashed, green plantains," he says. His voice is lower now, less guarded. "Some people use butter . . some oil. Red onions. Los tres golpes means three hits. Eggs, fried cheese, salami, that's all."

Your tummy growls. A slow smile spreads across his lips as your face burns hot. "That sounds really yummy."

"It is."

"Is it like, a special occasion thing?"

He shakes his head, leaned a little bit more towards you. You've realized you're doing it, too. "Nah, that's regular. That's home."

Home. You imagine a younger Connie, walking the streets of Brooklyn with headphones over his ears and a backpack hanging off of his shoulder. You can see him sitting somewhere loud yet warm with a plate of that in front of him. Your voice is gentle when you ask, "Do you miss it?"

He seems to think about your question. You appreciate that — he never answers anything without reflecting for a second. It's refreshing. "Sometimes."

"Mm," you find that now that you've gotten the both of you in this space right here, you can finally also ask, "Is Connie your real name?"

His eyes are more brown than grey or green today. They're dark and assessing as they search yours as if to decide how much of him you get today. "Why?"

You slightly lift a shoulder then let it drop, "It sounds like it could be, but also like . . it's not."

"It ain't." He's still staring. You hold it for the longest you ever have with him. "It's Constance."

You blink. The room feels quieter now. The both of you are speaking quietly and you aren't sure of when that happened. "Constance?"

He nods. Once. "Yeah."

He watches you study him, like you're trying to fit it on him. ". . . That's pretty."

The sudden compliment makes the both of you still. You, from shock of having said it out loud, Connie, because no one's ever really said that to him without some irony attached to it. His jaw shifts. You watch him slowly lean back while exhaling through his nose, "You real comfortable right now," he says with no real bite.

Another head tilt. You smile real big until your eyes form crescents, "Am I?"

He tries hard not to, but he ends up smirking anyway. His blink is slow when he hums, "Mhm."

Both of your plates arrive not too long after. Yours is set down in front of you first — waffles stacked high with pockets of chocolate melted within the batter and powdered sugar dusted over top with your breakfast potatoes settled on their own separate plate. Cheese still melts over top of them with bacon and chives sprinkled all over.

Connie's is next. His plate is heavy enough to fall onto the table with a thunk. Steam spirals from the mound of mangú, whipped smooth between two fried hard eggs. Salami glimmers with crisped edges and thick, golden slices of queso frito sit along the side of them. His savory versus your sweet.

"You lookin' at mine like you regret somethin'," he mumbles.

"Leave me alone."

Connie watches you carefully pour syrup all over your waffles, gather your knife and fork, then begin to cut them. Come your first bite, you're melting with a happy sigh out through your nose yet your eyes can't help drifting to his plate.

He cuts into his eggs, mixes the golden yolk with the pale mangú with slow, practiced movements then bites.

For a moment, you both are quiet.

". . Can I try?"

Connie's not surprised. He doesn't tease, doesn't mock. "Hm." He pushes his plate a little bit closer to yours with no hesitation. He eyes how your fork moves. You do the same thing he does — plantain with egg, mix them, then you push it past your lips.

Rich warmth coats every inch of your tastebuds. "Oh." With a hand over your mouth to cover it as you chew, your eyebrows furrow in. "Oh my gosh."

Connie doesn't know how to take it, "You like it?"

You're nodding, "It tastes like a dream."

He can't help exhaling a soft laugh. "Fuck. A dream?"

"Mhm . . like . . like something someone makes when they love you." When it's all swallowed down, you're spearing a piece of waffle on your fork then holding it towards him. "Your turn."

For a moment, he simply looks at it then back at you. He never says anything. You expected him to take the fork and slide the piece onto his plate, however it's surprising when he only lowers his head and takes the bite directly from it. Your breath catches. You watch the way his jaw moves, how syrup glistens upon his lips, how he watches you as he chews.

Eventually, he mutters, "It's sweet."

"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy. You're still reeling.

"Yeah."

He swallows as you try to regain your ground. ". . . You really don't like sugar?"

"Not unless I need it."

You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Underneath the table, your foot unwittingly nudges against his, but what's weird is . . . he doesn't move it away. He keeps it there as if he wants you to do it again. The air surrounding the table sparks with electricity — this doesn't feel like just breakfast anymore and you have an inkling that you both know that whatever is unfolding between you isn't just harmless curiosity, but also mutual and deliberate. It's impossible to now pretend that neither of you feel it.

ׅ ❤︎

A week passes by quickly.

And after Vegas is Houston. The city known for its widely diverse culinary and culture brings lots of interviews which means you end up staying for a week. Monday is full of radio interviews. You hop from station to station to promote the new single featuring Connie that's already been hitting ten million streams per day after last friday's release. You answer questions about the tour ("I don't think i've ever had this much fun in my life"), how life is on the road ("It's . . a lot. but, I love it"), and how it's been sharing the stage with someone as big as Connie Springer. Your answer to that one consistently remains the same — "He's someone that I truly do admire. His work ethic is one of a kind and he's taught me a lot. I really do appreciate him for making me apart of something as special as this."

Tuesday becomes your one and only day where no one asks anything of you — no press runs, shoots, or recordings. Just . . . quiet. You sleep it away as though you've been drugged, phone completely powered off, curtains drawn over your hotel room's large windows, and do not disturb sign hung from your doorknob. Your parents call near the night and while facetiming on your Macbook, you watch the two of them make dinner while babbling about the sights you've been seeing, your favorite tour nights so far, and filling them in on your next stops to go.

You leave certain details out . . . ones including stormy, hazel eyes and an aura so brooding that it makes anyone near him want to choke on their own tongue.

Wednesday marks nothing but rehearsals. Anthony has you practicing new choreography with sharper footwork and faster transitions.

He makes you drill the same section over and over again until your lungs feel like they're on fire and sweat trickles down into crevices of your body that you didn't even know was possible. You lose yourself in it though, happily, might you add, because ever since breakfast in Vegas, you've been avoiding him.

You make sure your rehearsal slots are no longer matched up. If his team blocks out the stage from one to three, you suddenly prefer mornings. If a double booked studio session occurs, you're feeding Annie some excuse about how your voice needs rest.

The first day feels like coincidence.

By the second, it's deliberate.

By the third, it's routine.

It all becomes a quiet and careful choreography of its own — enter here, exit there, arrive after he leaves, leave after he arrives. Because truth be told, after that breakfast, after the foot nudge underneath the table, you two talked for three more hours.

The both of you got so lost in conversation, in each other, that by the time one of you realized, both of your teams had been blowing your phones up, wondering what the hell was going on. It was during these conversations that he asked about your life, what made you upload those first couple songs on Soundcloud all those years ago, why you kept going even when nobody was listening yet.

You told him things you don't usually say out loud.

About recording covers underneath the covers in your childhood bedroom because you've always been so painfully shy. About saving money from house cleaning jobs to afford a decent microphone. About how the first time one of your songs cracked twenty thousand plays, you stayed up all night refreshing it just to make sure the numbers weren't a glitch. You even told him how sometimes, it still feels a little bit strange listening to tens of thousands of people screaming your lyrics back to you nearly every night.

And he listened.

Intensely — with his body leaned in close to yours, hands interlocked between his knees underneath the table, dark gaze steady as he sometimes asked a question that proved he was truly listening.

You learned more about him too.

About the songs his mother used to play around the house when he was a boy, all the fights he got into until he hit the age of fifteen, and how he first got signed when he turned twenty. ever so often did spanish slip into his sentences, fast and natural, and nearly every time did you have to timidly pause him to translate.

He'd halt mid sentence, blink once like he forgot you didn't speak it, then do so softly.

Something about the way he spoke — half spanish, half english — voice calm and low like it was the most natural rhythm in the world, kept your attention completely hooked on him even when you tried to force yourself to look away.

At one point in time, while reaching for your glass of lemonade, your hand bumped his. His arm'd been outstretched, hand lazing on the table. He didn't flinch away, same thing with his foot. And for some reason, you decided to let your finger keep put too, and for almost an hour, you both spoke like that — pinkies only sometimes grazing each other's as if you'd been star-crossed lovers at some point in time, destined for each other in some other life.

Your heartbeat had started to pick up a strange pattern. Not fast enough to panic, though not slow enough to be calm neither. You were hyperaware of his hand, his leg brushing against yours every now and again, the way his gaze lingered on your birthmark, how he barely smirked when you laughed.

When you finally walked away from that breakfast, phone buzzing with a dozen missed calls and a weak feeling in your knees, what was once contentment slowly darkened into dread. Because up until that morning, Connie had been just a collaborator. A collaborator that made you nervous sometimes, sure, but after . . . he just . . wasn't that anymore.

Which is exactly why you've been dodging him for so many days now.

You're exhausted by Thursday, sure, but exhaustion helps. It keeps your mind busy and off of him. you told yourself distance will get your mind back right too. No contact, no touching, no words, you'll be fine.

But, then Thursday night happens. You're lying in your hotel bed with an episode of severance playing on the television screen and popping peanut m&ms into your mouth one by one, all of them sorted by color. The reds, greens, oranges, then brown. You save the blues for last because they look prettier.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes. It's a text from Annie.

She sends you a link and right below that is her text — a simple '?'

Instantly, you click on it without reading the preview. The page loads for a while before a tweet is suddenly covering the breadth of your phone screen. It's short . . . blunt. It makes your heart drop as you stare at it for two seconds longer. His fans are in speculation mode. lots of 'who????' 'album bout to go crazy' and 'pls go live's. It's as you’re scrolling through the other thousands of them when another pops up on his feed.

Neither tweet has a name to it but his tone reads sharp to anyone with working sight.

Your stomach feels like it's in a knot. Everything is pointing to them being about you, even when you try to talk yourself out of it that they're not. you quickly lock your phone, shove it underneath your pillow, and breathe out a shaky exhale while trying to focus back on the show. You don't reply to Annie. You don't make a subtweet back. Tomorrow's rehearsals start early in preparation for the show. deep down, you're now aware your little dance around Connie isn't going to last that much longer.

ׅ ❤︎

When morning comes, a nauseating feeling of unease sits within the pit of your gut akin to a dumbbell dropped into wet cement.

At three am, you went ahead and scrolled through Connie's twitter account to assess if he does that often — subtweets. And he doesn't. His feed is clean . . an occasional fan retweet praising his music . . or one from his label promoting a single or album. Sometimes he shares a link to a song he seems to have on repeat (about a year ago, one of them was yours, you tried not to freak out too much about it) or to a cause he donates to. Never does he post anything in reference to what's going on in his personal life which makes his last two more impactful.

He's past the point of patience, you realize. He's noticed your little game and he doesn't like it.

You keep moving anyway.

You rehearse like usual with Anthony and your dancers. Muscle memory takes over while your brain floats on an entirely different realm. Annie works in a wardrobe fitting. You focus on yourself, even while realizing Connie's team starting to pour in one by one, you disregard them. Hours past like that until four o clock ticks off into five — three hours before the show. The stadium starts to empty out, slowly as everyone parts for their routine before it does.

You're grabbing your insulated water bottle and phone from off of the stage floor and zipping up your defined jacket over its matching sports bra you wear while walking through the wings, on your way towards an exit ramp.

Your body is tired, but, in a rare, satisfying way. You're prepared for tonight. Until . .

"Yo."

You completely freeze. You smell him before you see him. Blunt smoke and vanilla. Tentatively, you turn on the heels of your Chanel sneakers to see him standing near the bottom of the stage stairs, leaning against them like he's been there for a while. It's darker down there. He's dressed in a red hoodie with its hood thrown over his head, baggy black jeans, and distressed sneakers with a blunt pinched between his fingers. Its ember glows within the low light he’s enshrouded in.

Smoke lazily curls from the end of it as he motions with his chin, "C'mere."

His eyes, glossy and red, watch you closely. Your own seem to tremble as you go to shake your head.

You hesitate, ". . . I'm good—"

His voice cuts through the nearly empty stadium, calm but edged, "—Stop fuckin' playin' wit' me, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱." His words seem to echo, even though he smoothly pushes them out and your chest tightens.

Slowly, reluctantly, you walk down the stairs to meet him at the bottom. The smell of weed is more potent now. Nonetheless, you still think it mixes well with his cologne. Up close, only three steps away from each other, tension is rolling off of him in waves. It makes a knot of stress form within the base of your neck, almost immediately.

Smoke leaves his mouth in a slow stream as he carefully studies your face, "Look at me."

You chew on the inside of your cheek, wavering, before blinking up to stare at him from beneath your lashes.

"How long you gon' do this."

Your throat tightens, "Do what?"

His tone is dry when he replies, "You been duckin' and dodgin’ me all week . . . and now you gon' stand here and act like you don't know what I'm talkin' about."

"I haven't been doing anything—"

"—Lie better."

His bluntness hits you with the force of a slap.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Look away. Then sigh. "Connie—"

"—Don't," his voice cuts through as his eyes barely squint. "Don't do that soft shit."

"I've just been busy."

You watch him blink slow, deeply inhale, run a hand down his jaw, then slowly blow it out. "You think I'm stupid?. . ." When you remain quiet, he continues. "Nah, I'm for real. Tell me."

Your heart is starting to beat faster when you respond, "No."

"Then why you actin' like I am?"

" 'm not actin' like anything . . I jus' . . . needed space."

He'd been going to take another hit from his blunt however when you finish your sentence, his hand pauses halfway up towards his mouth and he quietly repeats the word in disbelief, "Space . ." Slowly, he begins to nod. While looking away, he takes the hit, holds it in for a second, then lazily lets the smoke pour from his mouth once more. His eyes are back on you when he resumes speaking, "You've always had space."

"That space was different."

"¿Cómo diferente?"

Your head tilts. His eyes are lazy, almost bored when he slowly bites out,

"How . . . was it . . . different."

Your throat feels tight. You don't know why you have a sudden urge to cry. He’s never been so curt with you. "It's . . . a lot."

"Mm."

"This," you find yourself gesturing between the both of you. "You. You're a lot, Connie."

His gaze suddenly grows sharp, "You scared?"

The question catches you completely off guard. You wouldn't particularly use that word. Rubbing your glossy lips together, you pause, ". . . You're intense."

It shocks you when he suddenly huffs out a short laugh. "Intense."

"It's scary . . you're like," you take in a deep breath and rub your fingers over your eyebrows. "You're getting in my head. I dunno know what to do."

" 's been a week, a whole week of you treatin' me like I'm some fuckin' random," his eyebrows furrow in deep when he asks, "You think I'm takin' you somewhere you don't wanna go?"

You're aware of how immature you may seem now. Spoiled, ungrateful, childish, because from what you’ve heard, Connie hand picked you out of the thousands of other alt-r&b and indie pop artists out there to open his first stadium tour, not anyone else. You're almost shrinking back when you mewl, "That's not what I—"

"—You think I want a version of you that ain't real? Playin’ these stupid ass games? You think I'm playin' with you?"

"What? No." You shake your head quickly as his questions hit you with the force of a thunderclap.

'"Then what?"

"I don't . . 'm not . ." you clamp your mouth shut and look down at your feet. " 've never felt like this before. It's scary."

The confession hangs between you both for a moment. You're terrified of looking back up at his face in fear of what you might find — confusion, disgust, or even amusement. Your voice grows even quieter, borderline a whimper when you say, "You make me feel steady . . it's weird."

His stare is penetrating. You fight to ignore it as you continue with the main thing that’s been plaguing your brain all day.

". . . Then you called me irritating."

For the first time tonight, Connie's mouth twitches with a smirk. He doesn't try to hide it when you eventually look up at him. He simply brings his blunt to his lips again while murmuring, "You saw that, hm?"

"Everybody saw it."

"Good."

Silence takes room again. Connie runs his eyes across you. From the new, tiny ginger boho braids that hang from your scalp down to your knees, your pretty face full of dejection, tits sitting up sweet and full in your bra, to the shoes at your feet. ". . You done runnin'?" he blows the smoke out. " 'Cause i don't chase for long. Tell me you'on want this and I'll back off."

Something in you grows absolutely petrified, because you know he's telling the truth. He will back off and you don’t know if you can handle not having the part of connie that obviously isn’t shown to majority of the world. Some other part of you, more smaller, delights in it. Because, "I do, but if you leave . . ." you rub at your eyebrows again, feeling something in you absolutely shatter. it’s as if a small pin has been shot into glass and something in your chest collapses as your voice grows soft again when you whimper out a watery, "Fuck." You hate this feeling. This is why you've been avoiding him for so long.

Connie doesn't make a move to comfort you. Not yet. "You think I'm somebody that's temporary?"

You don't answer. You remain rubbing at your forehead with your head down, pressing at it as if you can somehow work out your anxiety, and that's when Connie finally moves. He drops his blunt, crushes it beneath his shoe, then pulls you in by the waist to force your head up. Oh. You're pretty when you cry. All watery eyed, pouty lipped, and weak.

"Hm." He wipes your tears away with his thumb, watching you sniffle. "Don't ice me out like that again. Ion play that shit."

There's no yelling. No threat. Just a dark, bolded lined boundary.

You believe him. Completely. Your breathing is shaky when you softly murmur, ". . Okay," with your voice softer than what it's been in what feels like years. Connie takes heed, instantly. Something dark yet sweetly warm settles beneath his eyes. His hand slides a little bit higher up your side, steadying you when you sniffle again. "Look at you, ma," he utters. He watches your eyebrows faintly knit as his thumb catches on the wetness smeared under your bottom lashes. "Whole week you been runnin'," his opposite hand finds a soft grip at the hem of your leggings. "And now you right here."

Before you can let yourself think for long . . .

You stand on your tip toes, curl your arms around the back of his neck, and tug him down to your lips.

For a split second, he doesn't move. Your stomach drops instantly. You think that maybe the move was too much, too fast but then . . his hand at your cheek, slides down to your throat, and suddenly, he's kissing you back. It isn't soft nor hesitant. It's deep . . and possessive. Entirely consuming.

The force of it, pushes you back a step as you gasp, feeling his lips in pursuance of yours.

His mouth moves against yours as though he's been holding it back for days. You quickly lose yourself — hiccuping between the slick sounds of your lips meeting then separating. Your fingers clutch at his hood as your head spins, feeling the web of his hand force your chin up higher in order for his tongue to slowly swathe against the roof of your mouth.

He tastes like weed . . . and dark roast coffee. It's dizzying.

"C-con . . nie."

"Mmm." He pulls away . . slowly, as if he's trying to commit your taste to memory before he does. Your vision feels blurred. You blink once, then twice, before it focuses again. But then he's back and your eyes are fluttering closed once more. His lips are soft and full, tapping at your own for slow pecks as though he's unable to get enough. The press of his body is solid, broad, and warm and you feel it — the quiet demand that you don't pull away. So, you don't. You give in, letting him guide, letting him claim the space he's always wanted you in.

Between warm breaths he murmurs, "You mine now?"

You're in a daze when you mewl back "Mhm," while nodding.

"You gon' let me treat you right?" His voice is gruff though he's almost teasing with something darker lying underneath.

You nod again, "Yeah . ." The admission feels a lot like surrender. He hums low and the sound seems to vibrate through your entire body, settling in your chest and pooling warm within your tummy. Giving into him softens the tension you've been holding onto for weeks. There's no need for anymore words. The confirmation of this not being casual nor fleeting makes everything feels heavy . . and real. You're sleepy, you realize. Your mind hasn't gone this quiet in a long time so you let your arms fall around his abdomen, lean closer into him, and press the side of your face against his stomach.

"See." He holds his hand at your back. "That wasn't so hard."

You're still sniffling and slightly pouting when you whisper back, "It was terrifying."

"I could tell."

". . . What happens now?"

You feel him lean his back against the railing and widen his stance to somehow bring you into him even closer, "You stop actin' like i'm temporary."

Your heartbeat skips. "And you . ." you hum and pause for a second, ". . stop tweeting mean stuff about me."

A chuckle is exhaled through his nose. ". . I ain't mean nothin' by that shit."

"Still mean."

In all fairness, you were irritating him but Connie decides to let you win this one. His hand, the one at your waist, softly squeezes it as a silent give in. He'll chill . . as long as you don't pull away like that ever again.

ׅ ❤︎

Life goes on mostly the same after that.

Or at least, from the outside it does. That same night, you perform with something new buzzing beneath your skin. The stage lights are blinding, the crowd's loud as ever, and you can feel him, still . . . his stare. He watches from the wings, as always, eyes focused, arms folded over his chest and hand cupped over his mouth. You catch his gaze a few times — it almost trips you up but you gather yourself quickly before a camera even notices.

Everything's the same, but . . . different.

When you're off stage, he's there . . most times now, parting from you with a subtle kiss to your temple that a nearby onlooker can almost miss before his set. It makes you giddy all the while. You watch him perform too. Eyes wide and transfixed on the large screens that track his every move and expression.

When shows are over, he's the first one there at the door of your dressing room, leaning against the wall with that same quiet patience he always carries as he waits alongside Reiner for you to gather your belongings. Then he's tossing an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side and directing you out into the private parking garage to help you climb into an escalade with him in tow.

Both of your teams notice . . . no one says anything.

You guess part of the reason why is because Connie's always been a private guy. Not a single soul has ever approached him with a direct question about his personal life, aside from a rare, bold blogger. You like it. Too many questions would mess up you guys' pace, you think. Because truth is — he's never spent a single night with you. Each show it's the same routine, he drives with you to your hotel with his thumb drawing idle circles into the back of your hand as the cities whizz by through tinted windows. Walks you through the lobby, to the elevator where the both of you stand quietly, letting the machine carry you up to the suite. He always swipes your keycard for you when you make it to your door, pushes it open, steps inside and is only in there for about two minutes time.

Within those two minutes, he never really says much because after a low "C'mere" he's always kissing you . . . slow at first, like he's reminding himself to take it easy, then all devouring. His height and weight usually ends up boxing you within a corner, without him seeming to try because one step forward for him is two steps back for you, leaving you surrounded with just him. Hotel hallways have cameras — and Connie knows what you two look like when this happens . . . the soft sounds that can't help slipping out of your mouth when it goes on for too long, your tongues swirling against one another's.

The shit he does to you would have you both front page on every blog site within ten minutes of him leaving to his own room. So, he always pulls away first. "Shower. Phone off. Sleep," he consistently murmurs after he steps back towards the door. It always sounds like something he forces himself to say. Like it physically costs him something to stop.

Sometimes you smile to yourself when he leaves. Sometimes you pout.

Because Connie's never been the one to linger nor does he stand around talking. He gives you, only you, those two minutes and you begin to cherish them.

It's in Miami, a couple weeks after Houston, when the masks slip.

There's an album release party one of your industry friends, Mikasa, throws. Connie happens to also know her. It's on the rooftop of a sky high building. You socialize as needed, sticking with Annie and Kennedy, one of your dancers who's been growing into a close friend. Your dress is tiny, fitted, and red . . entirely backless which shows off the pretty dip of your spine and plush butt sitting up high within it. You feel pretty.

You catch Connie's eye occasionally. He nurses a glass of something dark with two ice cubes in it. whenever he takes a sip, his eyes are searching over the slope of it through the dozens of people For yours. You can't help teasing a bit . . you let your gaze linger on his before you're looking away to refocus on something someone's saying. When someone has to shuffle by to squeeze past you, you smooth your hands down the sides of your dress afterward — pressing out invisible wrinkles, palms tracing your waist slow, to an onlooker, absentmindedly all while knowing your back is in his direct line of sight. Connie's never been one to not be composed, though, even given your little games. Not until the night grows dim. He keeps an eye on you for nearly the entirety, glancing at you giggle, chat with friends, have a shot.

Then suddenly, you're gone.

Everyone's winding down — taking seats on the lounge couches as the music grows softer and alcohol settles into bloodstreams. You'd been standing near the railing with Kennedy, he saw, but now Kennedy's alone and Annie's taking a phone call in the corner. Connie's jaw ticks. What the fuck? Never the type to announce his departure, he simply eases off from a conversation about streaming numbers and touring logistics to head inside the building.

Briskly, his eyes sweep the hall as he walks. Elevator, unmoving. Women taking pictures of themselves in a mirrored panel. He inhales a sharper breath than his last while easing to the restrooms. He takes his chance with the women's by carefully nudging it open just enough to look inside . . . and there you are – sitting on the marble counter with your head bowed, shoulders slumped, and phone held loosely in your hand as a ten second clip constantly replays.

"Aye . ." Connie's moving before he can stop himself.

Your head snaps up.

You've been crying. Your make up isn't completely fucked but the dark shadow that'd been thinly buffed beneath your glossy eyes is smudged now. He goes still when he's standing in front of you, "What happened."

For a moment, you don't answer. Though his face doesn't show it, Connie's stumped. You'd just been laughing and enjoying yourself. He’s at a lost.

Eventually, after swallowing the knot in your throat, you nudge your phone into his hands. A tiktok video is paused on the face of some music critic — white guy, glasses, and scrawny. When connie presses play, he hears it, "She's pretty, don't get me wrong. Dreamy. A gorgeous girl. Music's," his lip twists while his shoulder lifts. "nice. But can she carry a stadium tour alone? I don't think so."

The video sits with two million views and three hundred thousand likes.

Something hard settles beneath Connie's stare. He listens to you sniff as he powers your phone off and places it face down on the counter beside your thigh. " 's so stupid, I know," you hiccup.

The bathroom is quiet aside from your breathing.

" 's . . . it's trending everywhere." You've never been the type to care about stuff like this. However, you can't help but notice that something feels different about it this time around. "It k-keeps popping up on my feeds like it's . . the funniest thing anyone's ever said."

You look away, letting his words bounce around your skull, "Pretty," you bite out weakly. ". . dreamy. I . . . d-dunno if 'm built for this, Connie."

For a moment, Connie takes you in.

Really takes you in. A girl in a red dress, teary eyed, and hurt over a fucking loser making videos in his friend's attic. "Wipe your face, ma," he says it but he's already doing it himself. Grabs you by the chin and dabs your tears away with careful presses of his thumbs. "Why the fuck you lettin' somebody like that get into yo' ear about what you can and can't carry?"

You look away, sad and huffy. ". . Because people listen to him."

"People listen to all types of shit, that don't hold no weight." He doesn't like this . . this feeling of knowing that he can't shut the whole thing down for you. He's unable to reach into the internet and bury the words into a black hole before they get to you. It makes him feel incompetent. Eventually, he sighs through his nose.

"You sold out three nights in LA . . two in Seattle . . two in Houston . . Chicago broke the fuckin' ticket site for a minute. Every crowd knows every lyric you wrote." Your lashes flutter as you look down at his chest where a pair of platinum dogtags hang on a chain. ". . . Pretty," he ultimately sucks his teeth then gives a small squeeze to your thigh. "Yeah . . you are. But that ain't why people show up."

"Mmm." His words feel good.

Slowly, as if shy, you drop your head onto his shoulder. Immediately, Connie's hand is at the back of your neck, grounding you back calm. His voice is quieter when he says, "You don't ever break down in front of the internet. Fuck that shit. You break down here." A kiss to your temple and you mewl. "You cry. I fix it."

His words invoke you to breathe out a small giggle, “. . You make it sound easy.”

His thumb drags slow strokes up and down your nape, inattentively but steady, similar to the way a person would pet a small, shaken kitten until it calms. “It can be.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” His hand slowly lowers until it’s settled within the arch of your spine. His touch against your bare skin makes your nerves feel like they’ve been lit on fire. He presses into it to get you to open up your legs the slightest bit wider so that he can stand closer between them. “You need to forget that internet shit. And remember you got me watchin’ you.”

When your head lifts to look up at him, you take in his expression. It remains the same — always focused, stare always intense, but you watch his gaze drop to your lips for a split second before it flicks back up to your own. “You think I ain’t seen that lil shit you was pullin’ out there?”

“. . Huh?” your lips part as you feign innocence, “What stuff?”

“Mhm. Okay.”

Connie’d let his attention slip. Usually he’s better at keeping an eye peeled out on his surroundings, but you’ve got him in a trance. The bathroom door is suddenly pushed open by a woman, clearly not prepared to see a buff, six foot four man tatted and dark eyed talking to a girl seated on the counter. On instinct, she jumps where she stands which makes you jolt within Connie’s arms. He doesn’t apologize for the scare. “C’mon.” With an arm around your waist, he pulls you down until your heels hit the floor. He’s aware that your relationship has now been the slightest bit compromised but when the two of you are back at the party with your phone powered off in his pocket as he watches you giggle at something Kennedy says from across a crowd of people’s heads, he doesn’t have it in him to truly give a fuck.

ׅ ❤︎

Leg one of Connie's stadium tour ends in New York — as expected.

Madison Square Garden is booked for three nights, an entire weekend, and his famous, smiley faced emblem is displayed at the peak of the Empire State Building and beams out across the skyline as if the city itself is welcoming him home as soon as you all touch down. You recognize the change in Connie immediately. Somehow, he becomes even more quiet, retreats more inward, like a coil pulled into itself.

It's not nerves. Connie's nothing if not scarily calm at all times of the day but there resides something . . heavier about him. You see it when he first climbs the steps to the stage of night one's rehearsals. His hands rest idly at his sides, shoulders relaxed as his eyes dart across the entire span of the stadium, seemingly trying to catalogue each seat into his brain. When it's your turn to practice, he's not too far away, slowly pacing while watching how you execute each note, each step, each everything. As much as his presence has became something almost grounding to you, you think you'll always be just the slightest bit intimidated by him.

You say so when it's just the two of you standing there, on the little taped X's of your marks while the stage crew continues to bustle around the coliseum . . . "You're makin' me nervous."

His face doesn't change much — eyebrows only lift up a bit as he takes your words in. "How?"

"I dunno." Truthfully, you don't. ". . I think . .” Connie watches you look down at your feet which you shuffle from left to right on as your lips twist while you try to find the right words. Everything you do is somehow becoming more and more precious to him, he can’t help but wait patiently as you soon sigh. “I jus' . . wanna be good for you . . . for your city."

For the first time in a while, Connie smiles. It works its way across his lips slow, revealing nearly all of his perfect teeth. It's rare enough that it makes something in you grow tight and warm when you see it. “For my city, huh?” It’s there for a while before it melts off again — always serious, always intense. “You’on gotta worry about that. You always perfect." As your stomach flutters with new butterflies, you go to respond before you're cut off.

"Connie! Run it again from the first drop?"

He doesn't immediately look away from you. He remains staring at your face, examining your current expression before nodding towards the tech crew. "Yeah, let's do it."

A squeeze at your waist, then he's turning you towards the wings, "Go," he mumbles. "I ordered you some lunch. Eat."

You pout, not wanting to part so soon. This past week has been relentless. Both of your schedules have been jam packed, the only times you have been seeing him is during rehearsals, the show, and when he walks you up to your hotel suites. "But 'm not—"

Shaking his head, he's already pushing in his in-ears while clicking his tongue once, "—Didn't ask. I said go eat, ma." There's no edge in his tone but there's no room for arguing either.

He appreciates it when you simply give a nod after a few seconds. He reads it off of you — the restlessness, the nerves. You keep fidgeting with the rings on your fingers and chewing on the inside of your cheek. You need fuel and a nap. So you go.

ׅ ❤︎

The rest of the afternoon is a blur.

A plate of soul food from a spot Connie's frequented since he was a child is delivered to your dressing room, then vocal warm ups, followed by a short nap curled on the couch while the muffled sound of his setlist echoing throughout the stadium lulls you in and out of sleep. It's all well needed after one of your glam girls wakes you up about an hour and a half later with a gentle shake to your hip, "Hey, babe. Sorry. We gotta start gettin' you ready." You feel better than you have in days.

With a big stretch and yawn, you climb off of the couch and immediately into the chair in front of your vanity whose surface is already swimming with cosmetics and hair utensils. "What are we thinkin' for hair today?" She asks while gently fluffing it.

Softly, you blink at her through the mirror then go to touch your forty inch bundles that have been sewed in and dyed a pretty burgundy. "Mm, deep crimps today, please." You want to be at your absolute prettiest, reason obvious.

And as light foundation is buffed into your skin, shadow is pat on your eyelids, and your hair is crimped, you wonder about Connie. You think about the first time you performed at a big show in your hometown, remembering that minutes before you went on stage, you had felt like you wanted to cry. And for the strangest reason too — it'd just been different.

Being in your city surrounded by faces that've possibly gone to the same schools or grocery stores as you, that knew pieces of you felt both strengthening and nerve wracking. Connie's presence lingers within the back of your mind similar to a thick fog. You picture him in his own dressing room, head in his arms, as he tries to ground himself before going on, because even if he doesn't show it, you know that he's nervous.

A strange mix of fear and excitement swirls around you, nevertheless. He's been able to make the most ordinary of things feel electrified and you both are performing at Madison Square Garden. You can hear the buzz, the screams, you feel the anticipation. You know that he's going to kill it and you just hope that he doesn't feel the same pressure that you do.

But once those lights go up and the music swells, everything feels like it's been put in a matrix.

You don't remember seeing Connie at the wings, you barely even remember holding your mic up to your mouth, however, once you're off stage, you're immediately squeezed within a group hug so big that your lungs nearly collapse. "You did so good!" "Oh my fucking God!"

Connie's performance is nearly a streak in the haze, too. You guess it's because of all the adrenaline. Your focus is pinned on just a few things.

Him.

In a black varsity jacket made of wool with cream leather sleeves with his emblem stitched on the back in chenile. The stage lights kept catching on the open faced, diamond grillz that framed the bottom row of his teeth each time he smirked at the crowd and you distantly remember that same moment when he slowly peeled off his jacket, dropped it in the face of the pit, and listened to the crowd scream until nearly all of them were blue in the face.

He'd been slow . . controlled . . intense.

Songs blended together, screams became white noise, lights, fog, sweat, bone rattling bass, then suddenly . . it's all over. There'd been no dramatic goodbye from Connie once it all ended. He had only stood there with beads of sweat dripping down his temples to the swirling ink tatted across his neck. The applause sounded like crash of waves against shore.

With his hands pressed together, he bowed at the waist, mouthing his thank yous.

And just like that, he's lowered beneath the stage and Madison Square Garden night one is completed.

ׅ ❤︎

You're dressed in a pair of fold over micro shorts, a fitted crew neck that's been cut into a crop top with a pair of kitchen shears, slouchy socks, and nike cortezs when Connie finally sees you again for what feels like the first time in hours.

He doesn't shout your name or say anything — you simply open your dressing room door while checking your phone for the time, look up, and he's leaning against the wall as if he'd been there for a while.

"O-Oh."

His jacket is gone now. He wears just a white, distressed tee that stretches over the span of his broad shoulders, a diamond chain, black cargos, and a pair of clean air forces. "C'mere," when said by him, you have a front row peek at the diamonds that also still glisten within his mouth. You let him pull you closer, however, are unable to help trying to peek over his shoulder for the rest of his teem. "Aren't you gonna celebrate with them?"

"Niggas poured champagne all over me," he mumbles with a small kiss to your forehead. "They got their celebration. Ima get mine too."

Giggling, you lean in closer to get a whiff. Yeah. He smells like it. "Did they give you a sip at least?"

"Fuck no."

Connie watches you laugh. Your cheeks go fat at the apples and you smile so big, your eyes get squinty. He smirks. ". . Hm." You watch his reach up towards his neck. You think he's simply going to adjust the chain he wears, albeit, he's taking it completely off to then drape over your own neck. It's heavier than it looks. You immediately look down at the pendent of where platinum dog tags reflect back at you with engravings of his initials, C.S.

". . . Connie—"

"–Leave it. C'mon."

His voice is quiet and firm in a way that makes you clamp your lips shut and let him intertwine his fingers within the spaces of yours to lead you towards the exit ramp for the garage. Your face feels ten degrees warmer than usual as you go to touch the chain, still warm from his own skin. "W-Why are you lettin' me wear it?"

He keeps his eyes forward when he responds, "I'm lettin' you keep it. 's yours now, mama."

Cool, New York air hits your skin as soon as he pushes the door open. And for a moment, everything feels mostly normal until you hear them, until you see them . . . camera flashes.

"Connie! Connie, over here!" "꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, say hi!" "Look this way!"

You freeze. Connie's security, who you hadn't even known been tailing you both, are quick to step in front of you and him, acting as a barricade against the small cluster of paparazzi that have managed to slip through the blockade separating the garage from the buzzing street. Your first instinct is to step away, turn, and go back to where which you came, however Connie's hand is at your waist, gently pushing you into the opened door of a sprinter as he uses his opposite arm to keep the flashes from completely blinding you as you step up and inside.

You barely have time to even blink before the door slams when you, him, and both his security are in your seats and the SUV is instantly pulling off.

For a second, the only thing heard are your uneven breaths. You think about Annie, your parents, your career. "O-Oh my god."

"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱."

Your hands are shaking when you press them to your temples and lower your forehead to your knees, "They got p-pictures, oh my God." The words come out thin and strained as if someone had been physically squeezing them from your chest.

Connie's palm is firm against the back of your neck. Heavy. Stabilizing. It makes your shoulders relax only the tiniest bit as your phone is already begins to buzz where it's held between the hemline of your shorts up against your skin. You can already see the headlines, the comments, the threats, the new intrusion into something that had only existed between you and Connie up until five minutes ago.

"You good," Connie's muttering. His voice is low . . measured. "You gotta breathe, ma."

You whimper, "T-This is bad, Connie."

"It ain't."

You lift your head and your fingers are immediately grabbing your phone. Notifications are already beginning to stack.

"Yo, give me that."

The device keeps vibrating. Two hundred jumps to eight hundred, then a thousand, then fifteen hundred. You don't want it. You don't want to see what they're already saying. With shaking fingers you push it into Connie's awaiting hand, watching him slip his own out from his pocket. He shuts yours off, completely, barely glances at his before doing the same, then shoves them back in. "Mami, you gotta calm down. Seriously."

You're suddenly aware of the city lights zipping by in long ribbons of red, gold, and white, and your anxiety only flares higher. "Where are we going?"

He's pulling at you . . dragging you actually, by the thigh, like he's already decided you need this, until you're seated sideways upon his lap. "Somewhere where you can chill the fuck out." His voice stays calm — almost bored, even. Like the situation happening outside of the car is the least of his worries.

Your breathing slows underneath his touch. Just barely. You don't have it in you to ask another question, so you don't. You let your body fall sideways until your face is tucked against his shoulder. With your new comfort, Connie lets his head fall back upon the seat and for a few minutes, neither of you say anything. You can hear his security's thumbs tap away as they send messages and scroll through feeds on their phones, likely scoping the damage of the new release of pictures.

Connie's hand begins to stroke up and down your back. Slow. Comforting.

Your voice is tiny when you mewl, ". . They're gonna tear me apart." You want to cry. "J-Just for bein' with you."

The words feel strange to say aloud, nonetheless, they're the truth. A man like Connie, with fans all over the globe, with three hundred million Instagram followers and counting, you know you've just stepped into some deep shit. "Pictures ain't the end of the world."

You look down at your shoes. "It feels like it."

Connie nods, "I know. But it ain't."

He sounds so calm, so . . at ease. It confuses you. With a frown, you lift your chin to look up at him, "You're not worried?"

He glances down at you then back out the tinted windows. "I knew this shit was gon' happen eventually."

"You did?"

"Mm." He's quiet for a second longer. " 's not like I was gon' keep you a secret forever anyway."

The sprinter turns off a main road into a gated one after the driver punches in a code on a keypad with his thumb. You're surrounded by tall, brick buildings of old warehouses with glass fronts near the water that have been converted into luxury lofts. The car doesn't stop until it's in front of the largest one with the skyline of New York painted behind it. "C'mon." Connie's pulling open the door and patting your thigh to get you to hop down. You don't have to ask where you are because it's somehow obvious. ". . . Is this . ."

No hesitation. With his arm around your waist, he's steering you into the direction of the glass door entrance, "Yeah. This my place."

The lobby is more of a gallery. Concrete floors are buffed smooth and dark, steel beams stretch across the high ceiling. A long slab of polished, black marble acts as the reception desk where only one woman works with her braids pulled into a high bun and glasses on as she takes a call.

You clutch the strap of your little handbag tighter, watching the doorman greet Connie with a simple head nod.

No conversation. Barely even a pause. Connie nods back and is leading you towards the elevator near the back of a hall. He jams his thumb into a button, they open immediately with a quiet, metallic whisper and it's after you both step inside when he produces a key fob from his back pocket, presses it up against a sensor panel, and the doors close. You barely feel anything when the elevator starts to rise.

You feel like you've drunken four nitro espressos back to back.

When you slowly glance up at him to take him in, you see him simply standing there with his hands in his pockets, face handsome and devoid of any type of expression as he gazes forward. You suppose your stare must have been hard because he suddenly glances back down at you too, "What?"

You shift your eyes back forward, "Nothing."

The elevator slows.

You expected a hallway, or maybe even another lobby, but when the doors open, you've both been transported right within his loft.

You step off first then quickly stop.

The space is gigantic. It stretches across the entire top floor of the building with exposed, dark brown brick running across the length of the room, only sometimes broken by a wall of floor to ceiling windows. He has a view from nearly every angle of the loft. East, West, South, and North.

Dark walnut flooring stretch beneath your feet with a large, abstract rug in cream or charcoal spotted here and there, the pattern similar to brush strokes painted on a canvas. The living area acts as the center piece . . . dipped low away from everything else with a dark, leather sectional — the kind you sink into — facing a wall mounted television screen about as large as a movie theater's. Even the lighting fits in with everything – golden yet dim, painting the space in a vibe that makes your breathing slow.

". . Oh my . . god, Connie."

Your voice echos against the high ceilings.

You hear him drop a set of keys in a shallow, concrete bowl as he walks over to the kitchen, casual yet slow, to open a matte black, fridge door. You continue on your own little tour, finding the space to be too grand to not want to explore. Walking closer to the windows, you spot a balcony that stretches out for what looks like half a mile, wrapping around the exterior of the loft as his own private deck where an infinity pool runs along the edge . . sleek, long, and narrow. You remember his words, 'Somewhere where you can chill the fuck out.' Yeah. One deep inhale and look out at the city, and you find yourself to be almost entirely relaxed.

Here, the world feels quiet.

Like everything and everybody exists somewhere on an entirely different plane.

"You good?"

You turn around to face him. He's taken a seat on the sectional with his shoes off and legs outstretched in front of him. It's the most relaxed you've ever seen him. You watch him lean to grab a blunt and lighter out of an ash tray, shaped in a 'C' and only after lighting it, taking a drag, and realizing you haven't said anything else yet, does Connie simply watch you for a long second before saying, "C'mere."

He watches you slowly walk over and descend the small staircase. Before sitting down, you drop your purse on the center table then take a seat upon a cushion, a few inches away from him. You smell like cherries. Cherries and almonds. And for a while, he lets his eyes take you in. You're pretty, always fucking pretty, but you look especially pretty tonight with your hair still crimped, make up still bringing out the sharp line of your eyes, and your lips glossed. His chain still hangs from your neck. It's so long on you that the dog tags sway against your stomach. "So."

You look away from him, shy as always. ". . So . ."

He lifts his head to blow a stream of smoke out towards the ceiling, "You calm now?"

". . . Yeah."

"You wanna talk?"

"About what?"

"About these pictures circling the 'net now."

Seeing his place for the first time must've completely pulled you out of that headspace because once he brings it up, he watches your shoulders tense and eyes snap closed. The inhale through your nose is sharp. Connie's shaking his head. "Yo . . breathe."

" 'm trying." You sound exhausted when you toe off your shoes to lie entirely back against the other couch cushions with your arms thrown over your face. It leaves your feet in Connie's direction which he grabs with both his hands to pull your legs properly over his thighs while holding his blunt between his lips. ". . What are we gonna do?"

He's quiet for a while.

You almost think he didn't hear you until you drop your arms from your face to look at him to see him staring intensely at the chain that has now came to rest on the mounds of your tits. His stare isn't one of lust, just . . . focus. The intensity swimming within the dark clouds of his hazel eyes makes the hair on your skin stand upright. "If we do this," he utters quietly. "we do it right."

Your voice is gentle when you hum, "Hm?"

He licks his lips, looks away for a second, then takes another hit of his blunt. "I mean, I don't play that embarrassin' each other shit." His voice is quiet but hard. "If you mine, you mine. Simple as that."

Your stomach flutters. You remain silent for a while, before lifting up on your elbows. Your voice sounds almost meek when you mutter back, "So, if I'm yours then . ."

He blows out the smoke. "Then I'm yours, too."

"Oh."

Your little, quiet reply is so small yet so genuine that Connie's eyes can't help promptly flicking back to your face to study it. But, it appears his attention is much too much and abrupt for you because you end up dropping back flat against the cushion to cover your slowly widening smile like you're trying to hide from the moment entirely.

Connie only stares for a while before a breath is exhaled through his nose . . something close to laughter.

"Man, look at you . . ." One of his hands is pulling at your wrist. "Why you hidin' for?"

" 'm not."

He waits until you drop your hands. Only then does he get a better look at your face. He can tell you're blushing, regardless of the brown of your skin hiding it. Something in his chest tightens as he smirks and leans back while beginning to circle his thumb slowly over the smooth, soft skin of your shin. "You fuckin' precious."

"Connie, stop it."

He's chuckling, "Nah, for real. We doin' this shit so that means I gotta know some shit."

You're humming again, sweet and soft as your head tilts, "Know what?"

He leans forward to ash his blunt as his voice grows more gruff when he says, "What you like, what you don't like . . . shit you expect from me."

You gently blink, "Oh . . ." Honestly, you're stuck. Your fingers start to fiddle with his — your — chain as you try to think while Connie eyes you the entire time, quiet and patient, with the slow stroke of his thumb never halting. He watches how you go to say something, part your lips, then snap them back closed like you're indecisive. A small smirk pulls up his lips. "You'on know?"

Cutely, your nose wrinkles. "I do know . . . 's just weird sayin' it."

His head shakes, "Ain't weird." Another hit of his blunt. "You just shy."

When you go to melt away again, he's back pulling at your legs to keep you exactly where you are. " 'm askin' this 'cause I actually give a fuck. I don't want you guessin' and assumin' shit . . . I don't wanna be guessin' and assumin' shit."

Everybody's different. And Connie wants this. He wants you more than he's ever wanted another person in his life.

". . Okay," your voice is delicate as you start to thumb with your fingers on your stomach. "I guess . . . I just like when someone's honest. And . . I don't like feelin' like 'm bothering you."

Impossible, he thinks, but he nods slowly while letting you continue.

Your eyes drift towards one of the windows when you mumble, "I like . . attention. I don't wanna feel like . . 'm too much . . . or too little for you."

"You ain't gotta worry about that wit' me."

You watch him outstretch his arm along the backrest of the couch. "Why not?"

His gaze settles on you, slow and steady. " 'Cause if I didn't wanna deal wit' you, you wouldn't be in my house right now." The blunt is back at his lips.

His answer, his stare, invokes something warm within the pit of your stomach. You've had a front row seat in watching Connie move and you know he's telling the truth. Being someone special, only his exception makes you feel good, you won't lie to yourself. "Okay . ." you're back smiling again and looking away. "Just be consistent with me . . . and sweet to me . . and I'll be okay."

"You easy to please, you know that?"

Your eyes widen in slight surprise, "Really?" You think any other guy would have already been rebutting some stuff and you've barely even said anything.

"Mm," he's rubbing at your shin again, a little higher this time, near your knee. "I jus' want you to get used to talkin' to me."

You bottom lip juts out a little before you can help it, "What do you mean?"

"Means," his eyes flick down to where his thumb rubs before they're back on yours, "you'on ever hold eye contact with me for too long. I don't like it."

Of course he's noticed. " . . 'm sorry." Your tone softens again.

His smirk deepens as he keeps his stare steady, "Ain't nothin' to apologize for . ." He leans forward to ash his blunt again before pulling it back to his lips. "Jus' . . work on it for me."

"Okay."

Higher, his thumb rubs. It's an inch above your knee now, near the inside where your skin gets softer and dimples with faint cellulite. You swallow, fight to ignore it, and go to ask, "Your turn now. What else?"

"I don't fuck with that silent treatment shit," his attention is on the window. The city lights swim within his eyes that appear more murky green tonight. You know that the both of you are thinking about Houston . . you dodging him, avoiding him. You look back at your fingers and rub at the pretty, pink gems studded all over your extra long, jelly white acrylics. "If you mad, tell me. You sad, tell me." He waits until you nod before he resumes, voice hushed but hard. "Ain't gon' be seein' you entertaining nobody else. Smilin' in niggas faces, lettin' em touch you." He takes a longer pull of his blunt while shaking his head. It's as if the thought alone is enough to piss him off.

You shake your head slowly, batting your lashes as your brows furrow, ". . I won't, Connie."

"I know." It's firm, final. No need to get too deep into it because that line's been drawn clear. "And I know you expect the same from me. You don't gotta trip over me doin' shit like that. I like loyalty."

Another nod from you and he does the same.

"You just gotta talk to me, ma," higher, his thumb climbs. It's near the middle of the inside of your thigh now so you break your streak of faux nonchalance to look down at his hand. He continues to talk as if he doesn't realize but you feel it . . . in his stare. He knows what he's doing. "Talk to me . . . 's only so much I can read off you. Lemme in your head . . lemme hear that pretty voice and we'll be all good."

"O . . kay." You breathe and close your eyes, willing the stirring in your gut calm. Your pussy is starting to warm as more of your blood rushes south, straight down to your clit.

Then the room grows really quiet. So quiet to where you can hear the faint splash of the river wading below and hear how the leather beneath his back shifts as Connie leans deeper against the cushion behind him. When you open them, he's staring at you . . . not outside the windows, at the skyline, at your chest, but at your face, like he's analyzing each minuscule expression you make.

His thumb creeps higher.

You inhale again and tighten your fingers around the pillow beneath you. He notices the way he notices everything else but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't quicken his movement, nor does he slow, he just . . watches.

Another quiet pass of his thumb, and it's right there, right at the edge of where your little micro shorts stop above your thigh. Only inches away from your pussy that thumps with the matching beat of your heart. You watch the corner of his mouth lift, just barely. "You think too loud."

You feel it then.

His thumb on your clit, through your shorts and panties and the singular touch is enough for your eyes to flutter close as the slightest, tiniest whimper pushes out your nose. "Mmph."

" 's okay," he mumbles, rolling it 'round and 'round in slow circles. He takes another hit of his blunt, snapping his eyes from your face to his hand to watch your thick thighs slowly begin to part the slightest bit more opened. "Wit' me, you'on gotta worry about me neglectin' this either."

A deep inhale, a shaky exhale. You suddenly clamp your thighs around his wrist which makes him hold his blunt between his tightly folded lips to push one of them back open. Around the joint, he murmurs, "Nah, we don't do that shit over here."

"C-Connie." Your voice breaks around his name.

His thumb is working steady now. Smooth, perfect circles that has your hole clenching around the thin cotton of your panties as if it were trying to pull them inside for some sort of penetration.

"Tranquila," promptly, he pulls his blunt away. "You good, mama. Jus' feel it."

He's watching . . . reading . . . studying. Your breathing, the little furrow in your brows, how you bite at your bottom lip to keep from making too many sounds. You don't masturbate often, it's obvious. You're tightly strung, like your whole body's a knot. Connie wants to work you lax. "Take these off."

His hand is gone.

You bat your eyes open with your chest rising and falling shakily to watch him stub his blunt out. Then he's back. He hooks his hands within the fabric of your shorts and underwear to slowly peel them down your thighs off of your legs. " 'm nervous." It slips past your lips before you can reel it back in, however Connie's already shaking his head before the word fully leaves them.

"Nah, you don't gotta be. You jus' gotta lay here. Let me do what I do."

Still mewling, you let him part your legs open for him to get a good look at what lies in between. Your pussy's pretty — fat and brown and waxed smooth with your lips thick enough to hide your hole away but not your clit. It peeks out from in between them, puffy and slick, begging Connie to keep going, to treat her sweetly. "You so pretty, mama."

A sound seems like it's wrenched out of you when his bare thumb is on it now, doing the same thing he was just doing just seconds ago through your shorts. You're so sensitive. Eyes of stormy hazel watch as you turn your face into your arm you throw up beside your head. He watches you bite down on your bicep as his thumb dips low to tease the puckered entrance of your pussy — working the tip of it just barely in and out to feel you gush around it before it's back at your clit, this time more slick than it was before.

"Told you I was gon' celebrate, ain't I?"

You didn't think he meant this.

"C-Connie," you hiccup and dare yourself to glance down.

His thumb swirling on your bud, his tatted arm, his bicep, up to his shoulder. God, he's a dream. He's your dream. You feel his body lower. His lips find your cheek for a soft peck before he's forcing your head out of your arm to push a wet, sloppy kiss on your lips. "Nah," he mumbles into the cavern of your panting mouth. "You can say Daddy . . . or you can call me Papa. I'll let you choose."

Another strangled whimper when his thumb suddenly slides nice and deep inside your pussy til it bottoms out with a nasty squelch. "Mm, both . ." you sniffle back while lifting your hips into his hand. "Wan' both."

He's smiling again. His rare one. The one that shows all his teeth — only tonight, the bottom sparkles with an open faced frame of diamonds. "Puedes tener ambos, mama. Ion judge."

"F-Fuck."

He's pulling his thumb out to trade it for his middle finger. The both of you watch it push in, the glide nice and smooth. Your pussy pushes out a small splatter of wetness that splashes onto his wrist where a black, calfskin strapped, phillipe watch is wrapped around. He doesn't give you time to adjust to it before he's pushing his ring finger along side it. Your eyes roll back into your skull. "U-Unh—"

Connie has never been so honed in yet foggy brained on something, on someone, until now. His lips are parted, forehead pressed against yours as he starts to push his fingers in and out . . sweet and deep, muscles firm. The desire that's slowly been building inside of him for you over the course of these past couple months feels like it's gnawing at all of his patience now, chewing away the part of him that's normally more composed. He thinks about you on stage, at rehearsals, in a booth — pretty and doe eyed. All the times he's felt you staring at him however, each time he'd look back, you'd dart your eyes away . . nervous, like he caught you doing something you weren't supposed to.

"Always so fuckin' shy, huh?" He's pinning your arms up above your head to keep you from hiding your face inside them.

It used to make him smirk to himself.

Now it just makes him want to see how long you can hold his stare before you crack.

"Look at me . . open y'fuckin' eyes . . watch me make this pussy mine."

He rocks his palm up into the swollen bead of your clit, watching you squeak and go to try to snap your legs closed. But, he's between them. You can only lock your thighs around the span of his hips as you hiccup, "—nie . . Connie, p-please."

His forehead is back, pressing up against yours as he inhales your wet, shuddery breaths into his lungs, "I know," he's kissing you – holds your face between his fingers that he squeezes in to make your lips pucker out. "Oh, I know, mami. I know."

That feeling is already creeping in close. Right between your pelvis that makes the soft, pulpy walls of your cunt clench around his fingers and your heart drop. Your pussy is gurgling so loud now that if anyone were to suddenly come up the elevator, just one step inside and they'd know immediately what the sound was. You're so wet. Thick, transparent liquid, texture like syrup, trickles down the crack of your ass to the leather below. It smears against your cheeks, makes Connie's hand dirty.

Another moan — this one weak, broken. You cry like Connie's hurting you but the way your hips jerk . . . one would be confused as to what's truly going on. "Daddy," you whine for him. You squirm beneath the hold his singular hand has both your wrists in as your voice grows weary. "Daddy, please."

"You good," Connie's mumbling, face focused as he tilts his head to get a better look at your walls dragging against his knuckles. "You good, baby," He says it like he swears it. "You just gotta cum."

"Okay," you nod quickly, words going breathy as if you were simply just pleading with him to not make you do that. "Okay, okay . . O . . . kay—"

He twists his fingers in, pulls them out, twists them back in, and buries them til the hilt to massage the pads right into the doughy blob of your gspot.

"Hng." Your back arches up into his chest as your toes curl and cum washes out around his fingers. It gushes down his palm, down to his wrist and in between the cheeks of your ass to the couch. Connie growls out a short, gruff 'Hmm' sound, watching strings of the thick, pearly liquid play between his digits like spider webs each time he pulls them out and stretches them apart. His hand is glossy, from finger to wrist.

"There you go . . There you fuckin' go, ma."

You're shaking . . . hiccuping and twitching, letting him plunge them back inside your little, messy cunt for another thrust, pull them out, plunge them back in, and keep up the rhythm until you're pleading with him, " 's a l-lot . . T-Too much . . Daddy, wait—"

Connie backs off. One last plunge then pull out and he's smacking wet, little slaps against your clit. "Voy a gozar con ella," you hear him mumble. "Messy as fuck. I didn't think you'd get like this."

He pinches your folds together, just to watch your clit bulge at him. It's as though your pussy is a drug. Regardless of him simply staring at it, touching it, tasting it, or playing with it, he can't get enough.

You're teary eyed and brainless, watching him stand, reach behind his neck then peel off his shirt within one fluid motion. Beneath the moonlight, his abs are carved deep within his abdomen, each line catching the light like they were sculpted there by hand. Black ink moves across his skin in hypnotizing swirls, curling over his pecs and sliding down his obliques to disappear beneath his cargos. You can only admire — still foggy brained, thoughts still tangled, watching him press his tongue into his cheek for a moment while staring at you as if he were trying to decide just what to do with you before he's leaning in, sliding his strong arms beneath your back, and pulling you up into him while standing.

Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck, feeling his hands find the plush globes of your ass to hold as he walks you both through the house, pass what feels like a thousand windows, down a long hall, to a set of double doors.

While he opens them, you take the chance to rub your hand down his hair.

It's been growing out a bit, just barely. Tiny, blond curls and roots of black. You like it. It fits him. You listen to him inhale as you scratch your nails down his the back of his neck.

"Mm," he hums, kicking the door shut. Your lips find the arch of it where his shoulder almost begins as he walks. You kiss first, soft and sweet before suckling gently, feeling his muscles ripple beneath your fingers. "Shit feels good."

He tips you backwards until you fall against his plush, pillow top california king mattress that slightly swallows you when you land. "Said you was gon' be mine, right?" He remains standing at your feet. His room has only one wall of windows and it leaves just enough light to trace the outline of his body. "I want you to eat this dick up, then."

At just the mention of it, you're already curling onto your hands and knees to meet him at the edge. "I know it's a lil unfair . ." He eyes your lips as he mumbles, low and dawdling. "But Daddy promises . . . I'll make you cum on my tongue later on tonight, okay?" You're nodding, eyes big and brown when you pull at his zipper. You don't care. For so many nights you've thought about him . . about his hands, his voice, his smile, his eyes. So many lonely hotel nights where you'd punish yourself about it. No touching, no shower head, no pillow humps.

You've thought about what it'd look like.

Fat and short, long and skinny, no veins, lots of them. You didn't know, it drove you fucking crazy. Seeing him the next day always made you feel like a creep.

One push of his hand to the hem of his Tom Ford briefs and it bounces out over the elastic.

For a split moment, you don't even realize you stopped breathing. You can feel heat rushing to your face, your chest, your cunt. Everywhere. Because it's beautiful.

"Mm." A sound leaves him. Not quite a laugh but not . . not one either. "You can touch it, mami."

He watches your lips part. It's as though once given permission, you go ahead and do so — grab him by the base, feeling the weight of it settle in your palm like a dumbbell. You're amazed, almost. Eight inches long, perfect girth with a handful of veins that branch out across his shaft like bolts of lightning to pump blood up to his fat, leaky tip that is the same delicious pink shade of his lips. His balls are heavy when you cup them too . . swollen with so much cum that you think should hurt. But he only breathes, soft and calm at your sweet touches, holding his hands behind his back to let you take your precious time.

"Think it's gon' fit?"

You look up at him while holding his shaft right up against your face.

Connie's eyes grow so dark, you think they're black. Beneath his breath, he whispers, "Oh my fuckin' . ."

He watches you slowly begin to nod. "Yeah," you whisper back. Cute and sweet. "We can make it fit, Daddy."

Oh my fucking God.

A soft kiss to his tip.

Connie watches your plump lips push out in order for you to properly wrap them completely around it so that you're able to suckle out his leaking pre as if his dick was a straw. His eyes grow heavy. You hear his voice in your head, 'Ain't nothin' to apologize for . . Jus' work on it for me.' You keep your gaze locked steadfast on his as you slowly push an inch deeper inside your mouth.

No sounds from him yet. No words. Just . . a scarily intense amount of focus. He slowly brings his bottom lip beneath his teeth, watching you add in another and another.

When you hit six is when he sees it.

Your eyebrows furrow in, nose wrinkles, and your back caves in as you suddenly cough then pull back. "Mmmm . . almost." He's smirking while suddenly palming the back of your head to pull you right back. "Casi, mama. Casi. One more time."

He slowly feeds his cock right back inside your mouth. He hears you whimper around it as he keeps his hand at your head, pushing you lower and lower. When you gag again, he's right there, keeping you down while wrapping his hand around your throat. "Hazme sentir orgulloso," he's mumbling as if he's straining himself to push in deeper. "Lemme see it . . lemme watch my baby swallow my shit, huh?"

You cough, Connie disregards it. He pulls you only halfway off before both his hands, the one at your head and the one at your throat, are pulling you back in. "Yeah . ." He makes a nice rhythm, pulling and pushing, listening to you gag as his jaw falls open at the feel of your warm, little mouth. Your tongue works at the underside, obscenely swirling and slurping as you try your best to keep your cheeks sucked in tight. Spit begins to pool within the corners of your lips. It trickles down your chin as he plants his feet flat to really dig himself in deep. "Fuck, relax your throat . . Y-Yeah . . There you go. Qué niña tan inteligente, hm?"

His tone, dark and heavy, teeters the line of sweet condescension. It makes your pussy pulse and work out a glob of slick that runs straight down your clit to drip between your legs upon his sheets.

It's so good. Letting him stroke his dick in and out of your throat, even while occasionally choking on it, feels so good. Your spit thickens into strings of foam once he lets you go, grabs your hand and makes you wrap it around his base. He doesn't have to say it because you can feel it radiating off of him, Show me what you can do. You're not the most experienced, but what you lack in it is made up entirely in your effort.

Connie watches you pull him out and smack his dripping wet shaft on your lips while panting. He loves that shit. He loves it even more when you loll your tongue out to bounce his tip off of it, over and over. Your eyes are heavy as you stare up at him. You're high off the musk of him. His taste is potent enough to linger at the back of your throat, minutes after having swallowed his precum into your stomach. When you start to stroke him, you use both hands, circling them in opposite directions while focusing on the tip — just the tip. you dig your tongue into the little hole of it while massaging it against the bumpy roof of your mouth.

One of Connie's eyes squint closed as he slowly breathes out a shaky breath, ". . S-Shit . ." His voice is strained thin yet deep. "Just like that, baby. Just like that."

Saliva squishes beneath the spaces of your fingers. You feel them, his balls, gently swaying as you tug at his cock, needy for his cum to be swallowed into your throat. You pop him out of your mouth with a cute sniffle and gasp to get your tongue on them. They're fat enough to only fit in your mouth, one by one so it leaves the left one to receive your care first. You tongue and kiss at it if it were Connie's lips, sweet and messy, feeling his hand at the back of your head to keep you there. "Keep strokin' . . keep pumpin' that fuckin' fist."

You swirl it up and down his length, feeling his hand wrap around yours to coach you through it. He shows you how he likes it — grip tight, extra love at the tip from your thumb. When you switch over to the right, he tells you so, "Love that shit," he utters, words panted out. "Y . . Your tongue, mama. Love it right there."

You purr out a darling sound of happiness.

His eyes drag over your face slow. Taking in what he can see which is only really your nose and eyes. Your pupils are blown wide, you stare back up at him like you love it, too. His balls in your mouth, his dick in your hand, dripping pre down your pretty nails. ". . Ungh, shit." His eyes roll back as his head falls rearward. He's about to cum. You're about to make him cum. Fuck. He thinks about this being regular . . . your pussy wrapped around his fingers, his dick in your throat. Winding down after a show, before a show. He thinks about the soft cheeks of your ass gripped between his fingers, your skin under his teeth, tongue in his mouth . . You both in Greece somewhere, island hopping in Santorini, feeding you strawberries, pumping your stomach full of load after load in a bungalow surrounded by the ocean.

He's pulling you back forward to feed his dick back inside yours.

"S-Stay still," he mumbles quickly. He pumps his fist up and down his shaft, feeling your lips wrap around his tip and you sit there . . waiting for it. "Qué buena tú ere," he huffs. "So good. You so fuckin' good, mama, fuck."

His dick throbs when he cums. It pumps out . . . glob after glob into the warm hollow of your mouth, forcing you to swallow in fear of letting a single drip trickle past your lips. And the face he makes . . .

Every single feature of his goes entirely lax as he groans out a slow, slurred curse that mixes with the syllables of your name. He watches you slowly swallow it before you pull off with an adorable popping sound of your lips. You watch his dick bob in the air, heavy and still hard, rushing with blood at knowing what lies between your thighs. It's while you're blushing and shyly smiling, staring at it as if you've been struck by an arrow from cupid when you squeeze it before murmuring, "I wanna do it again."

Hell no.

Connie's bending at his waist, grabbing you by the face and pushing his tongue inside your mouth. "Nah, nah, nah." He's smiling as your tongue traces over the diamonds sparkling in his mouth while pushing you back until you fall back onto the bed. "We'll worry about that another time, pretty."

"But—"

He's shaking his head, leaning over you with his hands pressed upon the mattress on either side of your head. The moonlight cuts across the bulging slopes of his shoulder muscles as he hovers there, close enough so that you can feel the warmth of his skin radiating onto your own. He makes sure you're listening when he quietly says, "—When I tell you some'n, you need to listen, alright?"

You're looking away again, pouting, as you poke your fingers into his skin like you almost want to say no. Connie's waiting for it, anticipating it actually because he's always been able to tell that underneath your timidity reads a wretched, little pup that just wants to test how far she can stretch her leash.

His mouth twitches.

"See. There you go."

You blink up to gaze at him beneath your dark and fluffy lashes, " 'm not doin' anything."

"Mm." With the tip of his cock, he runs it along your soft, fat folds. He watches your mouth fall the slightest bit open as he nudges at your clit with it, swirling it around like he did with his finger. "You get quiet sometimes . . start lookin' away . . try to talk back. I seen you do it to your manager, too."

You whimper when he nudges at your entrance. The crown of his dick is fat enough to already stretch you open and he's barely even given you an inch. You anticipate the rest, needy for it as you bite your lip and look down at his hand that holds his base steady. "It's cute," he mumbles, forcing your eyes back up to his. ". . . But you still need to listen . . You understand me?"

Thoughtlessly, you're nodding while tossing your arms over his shoulders. You just want it. You need him.

"Okay," your legs are moving to wrap around and pull him in closer. "Yeah."

Connie reads straight through it. As much as he doesn't want to, he keeps his dick away from even touching your drippy, little cunt when he says, "Yeah what?"

There it is.

You breathe out a long, wounded whine, throw your head back into the sheets, eyebrows furrow in tight — God, the dramatics. "Yes, I u-understand."

The words come out of you as if they'd been reluctantly dragged from the depths of your pretty soul. Connie's jaw clicks.

You may actually be worse than he thought.

No need to worry though. The blood rushing beneath both of your veins is hot. He's aching for you, you're aching for him. He'll give you a pass this time. But after muttering, "Yeah, we gon' work on fixin' yo' attitude another day, too," beneath his breath, he's pushing his cock within the welcoming walls of your pussy.

You hiccup on your next inhale — sounds like the wind's literally been knocked out of you as he works himself in slow, inch by inch, with his forearms beneath your head, acting as a makeshift pillow to keep you comfortable and lift your face closer to his so that his eyes can drink in your face morphing into one of slight plain.

He's smirking when he whispers, "Tá grande, eh?"

You nod as if you understand, hand flat against his abdomen. You don't push at him but the mere action is enough to piss him off. Patiently, he moves your arm away, not needing the obtrusion from keeping him pushing deep inside or blocking the view of your warm, soft walls literally sucking him in. But, then you're back and you're weakly shoving at him this time and tenderly babbling, "C-Connie . . 's e-enough. N-No more, okay?"

He looks down to gauge your progress. Five inches.

"Nah, you got a little more ways to go, mami."

Impossible. It feels like he's already in your tummy. You shake your head, pushing at him again. "Connie, noo—"

Grabbing you by that same arm, he lifts one of his hands, with your wrist inside of it, to gather your other and pin them both against your stomach. "Lo hacemos caber, 's what you said. So we gon' make it fit." He doesn't need the whining and crying and pleads. One more thrust in and he's buried so deep inside you that he feels something inside absolutely gush out the minute he does. You squeak and he blows out a slow, deep breath while looking down at the picture of your folds split so wide apart that your clit is poking out now, hard and blatant. "Mhmmm."

He watches your eyes grow heavy. He must have hit a button inside you to make your brain shut off because now, you're quiet . . only hiccuping, sucking in shaky breaths, and mewling his name. "You okay," he mumbles with a kiss to your lips. "Shhh . . tranquila, there you go."

He works you open with slow, careful strokes — pulling his hips back then pushing them back forward as if he has all the time in the world. Each push inside has his dick only pulling out more wet than before. You feel so . . . fucking . . good. Connie wouldn't have thought you would — not like this. Words are unable to describe how truly heavenly it feels to have the tight, grooved confines of your pussy working at his dick like this. Molding, kneading, and gripping at it.

"O-Ohh, shit," you quiveringly whimper. You hear it — the faint sounds of your juices trickling out around his shaft as he faithfully begins to thrust. He still has your wrists in his hands though they're unmoving. You feel as though you've been rendered immobile from the sudden onslaught of pleasure that's taken your brain in capture. "Con— . . Fuck . . . Mhmmmm."

When you begin to nod, Connie does too. He lets your wrists go to slip his arms back beneath your head, "Mhmmm," he mimics softly. "What I say?"

Your clit rubs against the faint, coarse mat of his pubes in only the most delicious way. You feel like your head is spinning. You can't respond.

"Lemme stretch this shit out," he mumbles, pulling further back to add more weight within the next thrust. "Jus' lay here and take it. Lemme make this pussy mine, mm?"

Your eyes tightly close as you listen to your skin begin to smack. You want him to. You need him to, you just can't say it because your tongue somehow feels too big for your mouth. Thankfully, Connie seems to understand your nonsensical babbles because after another kiss, this one upon the bridge of your nose where your birthmark stretches across, he lifts himself up on the flats of his palms to start to beat your pussy sore. You fight to keep your legs open, fight to keep from squirting too much of your slick on him, but it's proven one of the most challenging instances of your life when he bends one of them further back into your shoulder to dig in deep.

Tears gloss over your eyes.

You'd have think he was stirring your gspot into battered mush. It's overstimulating in the most weirdest way — you're at a threshold of so much pain and pleasure that you don't know what to do.

A dollop of his spit is cool against your clit once he lets it drip past his lips and onto it which he then uses to rub with his thumb, "You gotta lemme make you feel good, mama," he utters beneath your pitiful sobs and blubbering. "The only way me and you gon' work . . . gotta let me do this."

"O-Okay," you're hiccuping against, sounding absolutely precious as you grip at the sheets beneath you. " 's j-jus' so . . deep, Daddy."

He nods as though he understands, eyebrows pinched in sympathy, "I know, baby . . You takin' it so fuckin' good, though."

It's so loud . . . the skin smacking, the build up of your cream as he churns your slick into goo, you keening out his name. Connie could give less of a fuck about the world outside of you both. Nothing but you matter. Nothing but you and this perfect fucking pussy you have between your legs matter. He pushes his chain out of the way to shove your shirt up and grab a handful of your plump, bouncing tit.

"Hngg — God — Fuck . . please."

Each drag of his dick inside the weeping walls of your pussy is relentless. Pleasure sparks at every nerve of your body as you dig your nails into the skin at his sides, feeling the muscle beneath his skin crest. Everything about him is dizzyingly attractive. "S-So han'some," you slur, unable to help rubbing your hand down the side of his face. You watch his eyes grow sharper as he turns it into your palm to press a kiss against your wrist.

"Mmm, thank you, mama," he groans, burying your scent within his nose. "Y-You so sweet. S-So fuckin' sexy, too."

He refuses to pull out when he wants to change positions. He lowers down, rolls over onto his back and pulls you on top to grab you by the soft, fleshy skin of your ass cheeks to force you to rock your pussy up and down the length of his cock. Oh. He likes this view. You're unable to hide your face away as you keep your hands on his pecs for balance as you let him bounce you as if you weighed nothing but a mere pound.

The skin at the bottom of your thighs tremble with each slap of them against the tops of his own. You feel your ass ricochetting off of his pelvis as your chain swings against his chest. "Pussy's so fuckin' good," Connie growls, lifting you high to slam you back down until you're cutely squeaking with every one. "Look at you . . creamin' on my shit, ma."

You're dangerous. Connie doesn't think you know what you've just done . . . just what you've unleashed inside of him. A man so entirely enraptured with you, that when the thought creeps in, quiet and unwelcomed, of this not working out, he doesn't think he'll be able to go back to normal. His jaw tightens at the mere idea of it. Because Connie's always been good at control – at keeping people within the respectful boundaries of his life, close or far, forgettable and not.

But you . . . you've somehow slipped past his usual lines.

Slow at first. Some glances here, a small smile there, maybe even a wave if you were feeling bold that day.

And now you're here, teary faced and doe eyed, getting your pussy plowed from the bottom by him as you look down at him like he's hung the exact moon tonight in the sky, like he's something bigger than what the world already sees him as, looking at him like he matters so fucking much to you.

How easily you can break him if you choose to . . . and you don't even know it.

His jaw clenches again. His balls draw up tight. He feels you. " 'm cumming, Daddy," you mewl. God, he hopes this is forever.

"Córrete, por favor," he grunts, feeling himself creep closer to that edge for the second time tonight. He needs you to cum. "Please, mami. Do it. Squirt on this shit."

Cream is packed at his base. It sticks to your pussy in thick webs as he forces you to rise and fall on his length until you're there — you're squirting out a sweet, messy stream of liquid that leaves your body with an audible hiss. Connie's not far off when he sees it. Your body shaking on top of his, mouth opened, mind gone. He lets you fall down on his dick with a loud plop as he forces you to keep still when he starts to pump thick, white ropes of his cum deep past the tiny hole of your cervix. "Hng, shit," he groans, forcing you back up . . only to slam you back down again. "Fuck, mama." Again. And again.

You press your hand against his forearm, silently telling him that you've reached your limit.

Your cunt feels like it's been beaten sore. Your make up is completely fucked and you're mentally exhausted. You collapse on top of him and bury your face into his neck with a weepy hiccup. "N-No more."

Connie's catching his breath, feeling the mess of cum beginning to slowly dry between the both of your legs. He doesn't think he have it in him to move you or even move himself. "Okay," he whispers with a kiss to your cheek. "Alright . . . try to close your eyes."

You do. With enough slow rubs to your back and kisses on your shoulder, you slowly fade off into a world of dreams, content within his arms.

ׅ ❤︎

It's in the morning, near eleven am when the both of you power back on your phones.

You nibble at your thumbnail, dressed in one of his hoodies with sleep still swollen in your eyes and standing within the middle of his living area as you scroll through the thousands of notifications that have piled upon your screen. DMs, comments, likes, and shares. You're surprised to open up the comment section on a four pic grid of the infamous paparazzi pictures, climbing with nearly one million likes to see 'fork found in kitchen' 'hope they have 36 babies on you losers' 'somebody hack his icloud and leak the tape.'

There's a few bad ones sure, claiming you slept your way up to the top to be at this point in your career and now hand in hand with Connie Springer . . . but it's easy for you to ignore upon looking up to see a familiar set of stormy hazel eyes already staring at you from the kitchen, waiting for you to power it back off, drop it in his hand, and fall into his embrace.

With a big smile, you’re whispering, “Okay,” not before quickly rushing over to set your water bottle down beside your gym bag, grab your phone, then settle right back into place within the middle of the room.

Connie knows he’s biased — he’ll always be when it comes to you, but truthfully, no bullshit . . you’re on an entirely different playing field when it comes to the rest. You’re hypnotic when you move, when you sing, when you talk, when you eat, when you sleep, when you breathe . . .

He watches how the fluorescents reflect off of the sweat beading at the fluffy swirls of your edges and button of your nose. You wear only a tiny, pink sports bra whose straps are delicately criss crossed at your back with a matching pair of shorts. Staring at the duplicate image of you through the mirror behind you, the dip of your spine is pretty . . it glistens with your sweat too.

“. . Well?” you’re panting and walking closer to him when the music ticks off on its outro, thumping with a dreamy bass. “Good?”

“Adored it.”

Your smile is pretty. You lift your shoulders high enough to damn near touch the diamond studs pinned through the lobes of them as you squeak, stand on your tip toes and give his lips a few pecks. “ ‘ve been tryin’ so hard to perfect it.”

“I know, baby.”

“I’ve been so tired,” you pout.

“I know you have.”

He watches you heave a sigh then turn on your heels to start to walk over to your belongings that are sat flushed against a wall beside a tower speaker.

“You been here late all week?”

You look at him over your shoulder before giving a small shrug, “I gotta rehearse, papa. M’album drops in only six weeks.”

He nods, stare shifting about the room before it’s back on you once more, “Where’s Rei’? Why ain’t nobody here wit’ you?”

You’re bending at the waist to drop your Airpod case, phone, and water bottle into your bag then zip it closed. “I sent him and the dancers all home. Why should they stay and watch me rehearse the same thing twenty times, they need rest.”

With a small crease forming between his brows, Connie says, “You in the middle of Brooklyn at midnight with nobody else in this buildin’ but you.”

“There’s a security guard down in the lobby.”

Connie doesn’t really feel like explaining why this entire predicament is simply sketchy as hell. Mentally, he files it all away in his brain, telling himself that he’ll talk to Reiner, and maybe even one of his own guards, to ensure that this little routine of yours won’t continue. A distant part of him wants to bring up the same topic that’s been plaguing the both of your conversations for a couple months now, too — you finally moving in with him. He can only be satisfied with having your location for so long.

This situation is prime example why he keeps bringing it up.

But you’re independent. Disregarding the two of you coming up on nearly a year and a half of having been together now, you still insist on keeping your penthouse to prove that you’re capable of handling things yourself. Connie doesn’t understand it for the fucking life of him.

Because your schedule is electronically pinned into his phone calendar alongside his own. If you’re not eating out, you’re likely at his condo, eating his cooking, sometimes his mom’s. Your rent and most bills are pulled from his account. And it isn’t like he minds any of this . . he doesn’t understand why you won’t go all the way.

His tongue pushes against his cheek.

One look at him and you know exactly what he’s thinking. Sighing, you roll your eyes, “. . Connie.”

“What.”

“I’m fine.”

Exhaling through his nose, Connie shakes his head, “ ‘s not the point.”

“What is the point? ‘m rehearsing in a dance studio, not a dirty alley.”

“That don’t mean shit. You’on know who can run up in here.”

You want to scream, but instead you shake your head with a huff, “I swear you do this all the time.”

“Do what.”

“You like . . take something so freakin’ small and turn it into this whole thing where you tell me what I should and shouldn’t be doin.”

Connie pushes himself off of the mirror and tightens his jaw. “So? You think I jus’ be sayin’ shit for no reason? . . Jus’ to piss you off?”

The slight edge to his tone makes your eyes slowly squint at him in irritation, “You know what your problem is?”

“Nah, tell me,” he responds with an almost mocking head tilt.

“You act like I’m some . . fragile, little girl. You think I can’t handle myself.”

“You are though.”

Silence swells . . thick and heavy. You don’t have enough fight in you tonight, you realize it immediately. Your body’s starting to grow weak with exhaustion, you’re sleepy, you just want a hot shower and your bed. Silently, you start to walk towards the exit. You watch Connie’s gaze grow sharp.

“Where you goin’, ma?”

“Home.” You hitch the strap of your bag higher up your shoulder prior to mumbling, “You always act like you own every decision I make.”

He intercepts your path, right when you’re a couple steps away from the door. You stare at his chest for a few seconds, jaw clenched tight before you calmly blink up to look at him through the wisps of your lashes. Shockingly, his expression has evened out. He’s calm, almost too calm, when he utters, “Nah. You’on get to walk away from me after sayin’ some shit like that.”

You’re not sure what’s gotten into you. Maybe it’s the exhaustion that has your brain muddled when you mutter, “I don’t?”

His blink is soft. “No.” You watch him lick his lips then lean his face a bit closer to yours. “I’m givin you til the end of this month. That penthouse comin’ up outta your name and yo’ shit gettin’ moved into my house.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

You tighten your grip around your strap in frustration and stomp your foot. The sound echos with a reverberating thud. “No, it’s not, Connie!”

“On everything I love it is.” his tone hardens when he continues with, “I’ll show you how I control this shit for real now.”

“Excuse me—“

Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to argue with him about it, maybe you shouldn’t have tried to push past him, maybe you should’ve just kept your mouth shut.

All these maybes don’t happen though. Because somehow, in some way, your shoes, shorts, panties, and bra end up painting the floor and you find yourself laying upon Connie, back against his torso, who’s laid against the floor mats with his strong arms hooked beneath the backs of your knees, drawing them up to your chest with his hands interlocked behind your head, forcing you to watch him lift his hips to repeatedly work his dick in and out of the sweet confines of your dripping pussy through the mirror.

It’s your first time being put in a full nelson.

You aren’t too sure you like it — only because the view is too humiliating in front of these mirrors. You’re left to watch how utterly pathetic you look as your mouth drops open around long, high pitched whines as he pummels his cock at a pace steady enough to have the sounds within your throat jerking in time with each thrust. His balls plap against the swollen pearl of your clit come each sharp one up he gives and you’re forced to watch how your pussy only produces a more gooey, pretty cream at the abuse she takes with each one.

“Talk all’lat big shit. Now this big ass dick in you got you quiet, hm?”

You can’t move. He has you entirely restrained — arms and legs alike. You hiccup on the syllables of his name as your fingers flex behind your body.

The position has the back of your head close to his shoulder, therefore his face is nearly next to yours too. You can smell the spearmint on his breath, how he groans when your pulpy walls flex around the fat rod of his cock. “F-Fuck,” you whimper when he slows down his rhythm to deep . . slooow pushes of his hips — sluggishly pulling out until his tip kisses the warm ring of your cunt before he’s smoothly sliding all the way back inside until his balls are smooshed upon your bud.

Each one only causes your eyes to roll back into your skull. You feel him nearly at your cervix — not exactly there, but close. “. . L-Le . . Lemme k . . keep m’pent . . house, Daddy.”

“Nah,” he whispers back through his heavy breathing.

You hiccup, “P-Please?”

“No. Ask me again and watch what I do.”

You want to cry . . and the thing is, you do. Tears blur the surface of your eyes as you watch his pace grow meaner and meaner until — squeaking, you squint your eyes tightly shut . . not wanting to look at the pornographic image you make with the soft, brown mounds of your tits bouncing and little pussy painting your boyfriend’s cock white. Glistening droplets of tears trickle down the fluff of your cheeks down to your wobbling chin. “S-So mean,” you hiccup between those vicious, unfair thrusts. “Feels so . . g-good — you’re so . . . mean.”

Connie can’t even fake to show you that he gives a fuck. As long as you’re feeling good, he’ll be alright. And as long as your wardrobe is filling up the upper level of his closet, cars in his garages, and he comes home to you sleeping in his bed every night within the next two weeks, he’ll be more than alright.

His black leathered cowboy hat is tipped low and his sunglasses shield his eyes but the strong line of his scruffy jaw, slope of his nose, and creases of crows feet reveal to most that this is a man used to long, tiring days working underneath the sun. His hands are beefy and calloused, dusted with wispy blond hairs that runs along the backs of them all the way up to the knuckle. They’re strong and steady as one of them continues gripping at the wheel while the other brings his cig up towards two, pink, faintly chapped lips for another drag, this one shorter than the previous.

Languidly, he hums along to Minnie’s melodies as he pulls it away, drapes his arm back out of the window and spots a faint dot way out where nearly the sky and land touch.

It immediately catches his attention because it’s odd.

He’s driven this same road nearly twice every other day for the past eight years. Most people know that this stretch of dirt, as quiet and predictable it may be, sometimes features nothing but the occasional wandering, hungry mutt or tumbleweed. A person is a rarity out here.

Armin’s gaze lingers on that speck as he eases his toe from off the gas pedal just a bit. The closer he gets, the larger that dot grows until it morphs around the silhouette of a person, a girl.

You’re small against the backdrop of the melting sky — nearly get swallowed up by the grass that line the fencing you walk beside. On your back bounces a pink, daisy printed backpack whose straps you hold between your fists as you keep your head lowered while you walk to occasionally kick at a small pebble with a sneaker. Armin’s eyebrows push in.

“What in the god damned hell . . .”

The sight doesn’t sit right. Evening’s nearing, he still has about a fifteen minute drive so he could truly only imagine just how long that’d be in your steps, not to mention, before the road splits off to his acreage of land, first is Mr. Beauregard’s and God knows what the man and his group of slick tongued, dirt fingered farmhands would do to you if they got their hands on you. Armin’s jaw clicks at the simple thought. Folks around here drive, they don’t walk. Especially not this far from town.

Flicking his cigarette out of the window, he lets the wheels of his truck roll him just a little bit closer. He’s sure you hear him but you don’t look up. Head down, you keep on walking — right foot then left, slow and steady. Up close, even with you not looking directly at him, Armin can tell that you’re young. Your hair sits in a big puff atop of your head and sunlight catches on the sweated out, intricate swirls of your edges that are now lifting at your hairline. Yeah, he can’t leave you out here on your own. Not you. With a small sigh through his nose, he eases up just alongside of you to gruffly call out through his opened passenger window, “. . You lost, lil’ miss?”

Head still lowered, you keep walking and don’t respond.

Armin can’t be too mad at that. Who knows what kind of man you think he is — some stranger slowing his truck down next to a young lady walking down a quiet road. Ain’t a nice picture.

Still.

You just keep moving, toe of a sneaker lightly kicking a fair sized pebble some feet ahead of you as if it were the only thing keeping your attention.

The engine of Armin’s truck rumbles on before he blows out a breath, rolls the vehicle forward some, then angles the front end of it right into your path. You hardly even notice. Nearly almost run into the passenger door before you look up to find yourself standing right in front of it.

You’re frowning when you lift your chin. Your eyes are big and brown, bordered with long, thick, pretty lashes that any other lassie you meet around here would probably kill for. Nevertheless, seconds pass and not a word is said. You stare at him as if he were something strange that just rolled into your view, like something you knew not to trust yet.

“Y’got somewhere ya headed?”

Your grip tightens around the straps of your backpack as you take a tiny step back. “. . . Town, sir.”

Pretty, little voice. It fits you. However, Armin knows you’re lying to him. A thick, blond brow lifts beneath the brim of his hat to show his skepticism, “Town’s in the other direction.”

You press your lips together in a firm line, shifting your gaze behind him to take in the vast, empty fields on each side of you. Silence stretches again, only broken by the buzzing of mosquitos and flies. Armin takes in the sweat that glistens at your collarbones that are exposed beneath the tight, blue and white gingham patterned tank top you wear that also sticks to your stomach from the heat. One look up at your face again and he sees the exhaustion that sheathes your features, not from walking in this blazing warmth, but just in general . . . you’re tired.

His thumb taps against his steering wheel a few times as if he were deciding something before he drawls out, “Look, I ain’t gon’ grill you ‘bout it. Ain’t my business, but if you keep walkin’ this way, you bound to run into Beauregard’s land ‘fore long. An’ them boys he keep around ain’t particularly a nice bunch.”

You start to chew on the inside of your cheek as a flicker of worry sparks within the depths of your eyes. Yeah, you’re not from here. It’s obvious due to the fact that everyone who’s actually from this town or even only one or two over knows just how those boys are.

“Hop in.”

“ ‘m okay.”

Armin shrugs, “I ain’t say you weren’t.” His tone reveals that it isn’t something he’ll ask again. “. . . My lil girl will have my hind if I left you out here all night. Do me the favor, please.”

You debate it over in your brain as your eyes scan the interior of his truck. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. A glass bottle of flat coke held in the single cup holder underneath the old radio and some fresh cigarette butts decorate the dash, but other than that, the seat is clean and nothing on the floor.

The handle creaks when you finally pull the door open. Armin watches you slowly take your backpack off, brush some dust off of your bottom, then use the roof handle to climb in, take a seat and slam the door behind yourself.

With a rough sigh, he uses the stick to put his Ford back in reverse and return back to the road. One glance over, “. . Seatbelt, please an’ thank you.”

“O-Oh.”

With fumbling fingers, you reach behind yourself to grab it, stretch it over your abdomen then click the buckle into place. Armin gives a single nod, thumb resuming a slow tap on the wheel, “Your name, miss?”

The question sags within the interior of his truck and settles between the hum of the engine and rattling of a loose item in the glove department. Outside, across the skies, pink and gold are deepening into a navy blue. You nibble on your bottom lip, staring at your folded hands that sit atop of your backpack which rests on your lap and for a moment, one may think you’re ignoring him.

Then, you tell him. Soft and timidly as if you were afraid.

“Hm.” He hums and tests it quietly on his tongue to commit it to his memory. “Armin.”

Minnie Riperton’s voice continues to float through the small speakers of the truck, sweet and dreamy as you begin to glance out of the window at the rear view mirror to watch the road disappear behind you both. Your unease is palpable — sits in between you and him as if it were another passenger. It makes Armin shift a bit in his seat as he continues staring straight forward out of the windshield. He’s not a grimy man. Never has been, never will be. He was brought up with respect for God, women, less fortunate, then animals, in that order. Making ladies uncomfortable, especially pretty, little ones like you, unnerves him a bit, he’ll be honest, disregarding him being a man not usually moved by shit else.

“. . You from ‘round here?”

Head shake. His attempt at easing the ever growing tension is smashed into pieces.

He thought so.

A tensed minute passes however you soon build up the courage to ask, small and quiet, “Do you got a farm o-or somethin’, sir?”

“Mhm.”

“. . . What kind?”

Armin breathes out a slow breath through his nose while lazily flipping his blinker before turning down a curve, “Bit a’everythin. Uh, some sugarcane. Corn. Couple barns. Got some chickens, goats, cows, and three horses . . . that ‘bout covers it.”

You blink a few times, “Oh,” you whisper. Just picturing yourself taking care of all that is enough to send your head in a tizzy. “ ‘s a lot.”

“Damn straight.”

“You jus’ . . take care of all that by yourself?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “Mostly. I got some help at home.”

My lil girl will have my hind if I left you out here all night. Your lips round in understanding as his previous words clicks into place within your brain, “Your daughter?”

It’s faint, extremely faint, but a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “She likes helpin’ out sometimes. I let ‘er . . . helps get all that damn energy out, I find.”

He notices that at the mention of her, you seem to disarm a bit. Your shoulders loosen up and hands relax from squeezing the other in your lap as his truck splits down the more tougher road once it forks. The dirt has been roughly paved and rolled over with tractor tires and bigger pebbles. You guys are nearly there, that, you realize. You can feel it. The fencing changes first — they’re more clean and paralleled as opposed to the old, shabby ones on the road leaving white vinyl to glisten beneath the setting sun. Miles of greenery span out into the beautiful landscape of sloping mountains as the truck keeps on carrying you out. Then suddenly, the greenery is cut by rows and rows of corn stalks that seem to stand tall like soldiers in formation with their green and gold leaves waving you hello.

A breeze drifts along your nose, scented of fertilizer and warm soil.

Afterwards, abruptly, following a firmer press of the gas to force the truck higher up a small hill is a farmhouse. It’s a large, two storied structure with a wide, wrap around porch hugged around it, decorated with a swaying porch swing, few rocking chairs scattered along the edges, hanging plants, and clusters of potted flowers near the small staircase that leads up to the front door. Atop of the house stands a stone chimney which light smoke curls from, indicating someone’s cooking inside.

“Geez . . .”

You’re amazed.

About fifty feet away from the house, on its right is a wide, sloping barn with a rusted, yellow tractor parked near its doors. Its large tires are still caked in fresh mud from the fields. Beside the barn is a chicken coop where soft clucks of a few hens conversations echo, sometimes punctuated by a low, drawn out ‘moo’ from a cow inside the barn. Further out, three horses walk along a fenced off paddock and then the acreage never seems to end. It seems to span out further and further until you can see the field of sugarcane and goats peppered on low hills as they chew on weeds and brush. Fences crisscross like veins, meticulous and orderly, some electric, some piped, few wooden. Even from your seat in the truck, you can tell that there’s structure here, regulation . . . plenty of peace, too.

Everything has its place, its purpose.

Grass isn’t grown wild or bleached dry. Animals aren’t wandering loose. Gates are locked and shut. Fields straight lined and planted with little to no gaps. There’s some discipline to it all, too.

It’s obvious that whoever runs this land has had his fair share in hard work and making sure that things are exactly how they’re meant to be.

When the engine cuts, Armin leans back in his seat with a sigh. It sounds tired but . . also threaded with notes of comfort. Like, he’s finally made it home.

Without the rumbling, the sounds of the farm are a little bit louder now — stomps of horse hooves as they graze, rustle of corn, and chicken clucks.

Then . . . the quick padding of footsteps inside the house.

“Brace yer’self, lil miss,” Armin mumbles as he opens his door. “She can be excitable.”

You hear his boots his the gravel, heavy and sure, therefore quickly, you open your door to hop out as well. The evening air feels humid and thick, scented of hay and sunbaked soil. You’re just rounding the front of the truck when Armin unhooks the tailgate to gather paper bags of groceries into his broad chest.

Then, the screen door is pushed open with a creak and a girl steps out onto the steps, seemingly your age, barefoot and small, wearing a pretty, dandelion yellow sundress whose hemming skims up against her upper thighs when a soft breeze catches on it. Tight, coiled curls spill down her back, full, dark, and shining with health as she pauses upon seeing you with a small hand on the porch staircase’s banister. She’d been smiling, though it goes a little frayed when she meets your eye.

At first, it’s casual. Just some curiosity as she tilts her head.

Then she takes a step lower and something on her face crosses between disbelief and confusion. You blink, once, twice, letting your irises catch on the deep dimple that craters into her cheek . . . the monolids framed around her big, brown eyes . . and curls that frame her face like a lion’s mane.

You’ve seen this face before.

Years ago. Younger.

Your heart lurches in your throat as your next inhale shudders. The name slips out before you can reel it back in, “. . . J-Jubie?”

She goes completely still, as if her world has been completely shifted on its axis and for a long moment, neither of you say anything, only stare.

“꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ . . .?”

As if saying your name confirms it all, she slaps her hands over her plump lips and widens her hands with an, “Oh my God.”

Her voice is softer than you remember. Quieter, too. But it’s her. Uncaring of the gravel biting within the soles of her bare feet, she inches closer to you as her eyes wildly flick over the features of your face and body, searching, taking in every detail as though she’s trying to piece back a memory that was torn into shreds. “It’s you, oh my God.”

And as if magnet particles were swimming in your blood, distance closes and your bodies collide together for a sudden, bone crushing hug. Air leaves your lungs as her arms wrap around the back of your neck, yours around her waist, as you both squeeze like you’re afraid the other will seize to exist within the next moment. “J-Jubie?” You’re in utter disbelief as you bury your face into her shoulder, finding that somehow, she still even smells the same . . . like warm oats and roses. “Y-You left, I thought . . thought I’d n-never see you again.”

You feel her shoulders shudder as her fingernails bite into your skin.

For just a split second, those memories between ages six to thirteen arrive — the bike rides to school, scraped knees covered in hello kitty bandages, whispered secrets at sleepovers, pinky promises underneath the apparatus — and flood your brain. The years between then and now suddenly feel short, like they were just yesterday.

Behind you both, you hear the rustling of paper bags.

Armin doesn’t say much when you both finally pull away with tear glistening eyes and trembling fingers. But he sees it . . . the history radiating off of you both. It's evident in the way you both whisper one another's names, how you squeezed each other tight enough to cut off the other's airflow. He studies it for a moment, carefully before gently clearing his throat.“Alright, now. These bags gon’ burst if we all keep standin’ here.”

Warmth spreads beneath Jubie’s soft, light brown skin, a bright coral shade that spreads across her nose. “Oh — yeah. C’mon.”

Without a second thought, she’s reaching for your hand to interlace her fingers between the spaces of yours, just like she’s done a thousand times before and then begins tugging you towards the porch stairs. Armin trails a few steps behind, eyes taking in the picture behind his sunglasses, “. . . Hm.”

She never lets it go as the two of you move together, steps a little shaky and uneven, due to the fact that neither of you can stop glancing at the other with shy smiles still painted in disbelief playing on your lips. This close, you can see her better. Her skin glows beneath the warm, bright bulb of the porch light and a fair dusting of beauty marks pepper the middle of her forehead, down to her nose, and cheeks. The mole that dots the edge of her upper, heart shaped lip, on the left side is still prominent. You’d always thought it made her look so pretty . . majestic even. And, she is. She’s grown to be . . . stunning, you find. With her sundress shifting softly across her thick thighs and skin moisturized with body butter that makes her soft to the touch.

And she keeps looking at you, too.

No longer quick glances, but full on staring like she’s trying to catalogue every inch of you into her brain.

Your face. Your puff. The lace that trims along the edges of the little, jean shorts you wear. Your heart thuds beneath her attention.

“You’re so pretty,” she suddenly blurts out with a cute laugh of marvel following her words. The sudden compliment makes you cover your mouth to hide your shy, wide smile at the sight of her dimples.

“You are, too.”

She ducks her head, curls slipping over her shoulder as her blush deepens until her face is nearly the shade of a ripe cherry.

“The door, baby.”

Jubie startles again, once more forgetting about the towering, six foot four man behind you both that holds five bags of groceries in his arms and goes to open the screen door then main. The hinges creak as warm air from inside the house smacks you all in the face, scented of caramelized onions, herbs, and something savory warming in the oven. When you step inside, you aren’t surprised to find the interior to be just as big as the outside. The foyer is pretty long with a coat rack hanging right beside the door, and boots, sandals, and flats stacked neatly on a rack near it too.

And as Armin steps around you two to presumably head for the kitchen, some hanging, framed pictures that hang on the walls on either side of it catch your eye. Most of scenery or animals, though one stands out from the rest . . . Jubie and Armin standing beside his truck, her with a big, dimpled grin, engulfed back to chest within his beefy arms and him, handsomely stoic faced.

Something clicks.

Jubie notices which one that catches your attention then smiles and nervously tucks a curl behind her ear that seems to be covered in more piercings than you recall. “ ‘s been me and him for a good while now.”

“Oh,” your lips round in understanding. “. . That’s sweet, Jubie.”

The nickname makes her intertwine her hands and pull them to her chest. Her voice is breathy and her tone is full of sweet awe when she says, “You still call me that.”

You let out a soft, shy laugh and look down at your shoes, “U-Uhm, yeah. You’ve always been Jubie to me.”

“Hmm,” she’s still smiling though it goes a little wary upon her mumbling, “I thought . . I thought if we ever s-saw each other again, you’d like . . run the other way.”

Her words make something in your chest grow dark. They make you feel like the air has been punched out of you in disbelief. “No. Gosh, no. Why?”

She hesitates, bites down on her bottom lip and looks down at her hand as she starts to rub at her knuckles. “For jus’ . . leavin’ you. Without sayin’ goodbye. I thought you’d be angry with me.”

For a moment, the air prickles with all the words unsaid you’ve both been meaning to express to one another after all these years if you ever saw each other. You’re pouting a little when you utter, “I mean . . I was . . . and for a long time, but . . I think I missed you, more than I was angry.”

Something crumples along the pretty features of her face, something crossed between tearful, soft, and soothed, “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“You gonna keep ‘er standin' in the foyer all night, doll?”

The bass sitting within Armin’s voice makes the both of you jump. Jubie huffs a small snicker, “Dang it. Sorry, c’mon.”

Somehow, the farmhouse opens up wider the deeper inside you walk. To the right is the living room as soon as you emerge from the foyer. A thick woven rug, occasionally stamped with a muddy boot print stretches along the dark wooden flooring beneath a large glass coffee table where a small platter of hard candies and a half burnt candle, scented of cashmere and vanilla, sit within the middle of. A record player has its own little corner near a shelf of vinyls about as tall as the both of you, spines worn from use and titles fading. Facing the stone fireplace is a large, soft L shaped sofa and a worn out armchair that’s been overstuffed and seemingly claimed by one person.

Likely Armin.

A faded pair of black work gloves and glass of lemonade with the ice cubes melting in it rest on the little table near the arm of it as though they’d been recently forgotten about proves so.

Jubie takes you to the open spaced kitchen. It’s bigger than the living room with its own door and screen that leads to the back of the house. Armin stands with his back facing you both, stacking some cans in the pantry. His hat has been tossed onto the table, revealing a mop of thick, sun-dark blond waves slightly dampened with sweat that stop near the nape of his neck.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears you two. Piercing blue eyes catch you, calm and measuring. They linger on yours long enough to make something in your throat knot before shifting to Jubie. “Gonna tell me how you girls know each other?”

His voice is low and sprinkled in a thick southern drawl, not full of suspicion, but just . . observance, like he simply just wants to know. Jubie shifts her weight to lightly bump her hip against yours. You bite down on a small smile. “We grew up together.”

Armin turns to face you, “In what way.”

“We were neighbors since we were six.”

A slow whistle slips out past his lips, “. . ‘s that right?”

“Mhm.”

“Y’never mentioned her, why?”

Jubie’s lips curl to the side as she pauses for a moment, “. . ‘Cause I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.”

The honesty lands in your chest similar to a knife being stabbed into a cutting board. You’d thought the same. Spent so many nights fighting to remember the features of her face if you were to see her again, so many diary entries featuring her name with the ink smudged and paper dotted in your salty tears.

The thought makes you shaky.

Armin studies you both, deep, blue eyes shifting between your faces as though he’s piecing together something unsaid before he shuts the pantry door to walk over to the sink. “Best friends, I assume.”

“Bestest friends.”

“Mmm.”

The quiet rush of running water fills the kitchen as he washes his hands. When he’s done, he shakes them out, once, before folding his arms and leaning back against the large, farmhouse sink. “You got a place you headed?”

The question is innocent but his stare is back on you again. You find it immobilizing, not to mention, how handsome he is underneath the warm, overhead lighting, standing only some feet away is enough to make your knees feel like jelly. Up close, free from his hat and sunglasses, he looks older than you first thought, too. In a way that only sharpens his rugged features in the best way possible. The small wrinkles of crows feet and rough shadow decorating his jaw makes him look seasoned. Cultivated. You pause, “U-Uhm, not . . really, sir. No.”

His eyes squint, just barely. “. . Not really.”

You look down at the kitchen flooring, “I was jus’ walking.” Your voice somehow becomes even softer upon revealing it, like saying it out loud makes it sound more senseless than it had in your brain.

You feel Jubie’s arm interlock with yours, “What?" Her voice is breathless come the new information you reveal. "You was walking out there?”

You nod while watching her eyebrows pull together, showcasing her concern. “That’s miles, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

“I-I know.”

Armin exhales through his nose while straightening himself back out, “Alright, take a seat. You hungry?”

The last meal you ate was nearly twenty six hours ago, you feel like you can eat an entire bison. “Yes, sir.”

He gestures to one of the seats that surround a large, wooden, oval shaped dining room table. Four seats facing each other, one at the head. No need to question who occupies that one. “Sit.” He says it this time with a bit more firmness, leaving no room for refusal or question.

Swiftly complying, you take one of the seats next to the head and let your backpack fall off of your arm to the floor against the leg of the chair. Armin grabs a lone dish rag hanging off of the oven’s door to open it and use one strong hand to grab the heavy pan from inside and let it fall against the counter with a solid thunk as steam rises from the contents inside. The scent of something savory wafts against your nose not long after and your stomach responds with a deep grumble. You watch Jubie stand on her tiptoes to grab three plates from a cabinet, hand them over to him, then walk to the fridge whose doors were embellished in colorful letter magnets, a few blurry landscape photos, and a chart . . . dotted with sparkling, star shaped stickers. You're unable to get a good look at what the chart specifically tracks because after producing a glass pitcher of lemonade from inside of it, Jubie’s closing the door back shut leaving it out of your immediate eye sight

Within a mere minute, the table is full and a plate toppled with a thick slice of cheesy, meat filled casserole, scoop of mixed vegetables, and a golden, buttered roll is sat down in front of you. For some strange reason, you find yourself wanting to cry. The scents of everything is rich, homey. You suppose Jubie’s presence only intensifies the feeling. Everything about her feels familiar, like a memory that’s been tucked away for years, nearly a decade, has been flattened back open and pressed straight.

The soft way she says your name, like she’s a bit shy to even mumble it, the cute cadence of her voice, the dimples that cave into the soft skin of her cheeks whenever she smiles at you as though she’s unable to grasp the fact that you’re really here, seated at the table, sharing a meal with her and Armin.

You both haven’t been reunited for more than fifteen minutes . . . however, the feeling of something old and dear slipping quietly back into place is hard to shake.

Neither of you really notice Armin’s observance of you both come him taking his seat at the head of the table. The minute that first bite of casserole hits your tongue has your shoulders loosening. You pull the fork from between your lips slow, letting the flavor sit there on it for a second before beginning to chew, eyes downcast on your plate.

You’ve been hungry for so long.

“You still eat so slow,” Jubie suddenly mumbles.

When you look up at her across the table, she’s smiling into her glass of lemonade prior to taking a sip.

You swallow your mouthful, “I do?”

“Mhm . . . little bites.”

“Makes it—“

“—last longer.”

A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of your soft lips before you mutter, “Shush.”

Quietly, Armin observes with his eyes drawn to the both of you, watching how you slightly lean closer to the table when speaking to Jubie, how both your voices stay soft as if you were sharing secrets instead of talking about vegetables and what your favorite kinds are now. The two of your hands reach for a napkin at the same time, and come your fingers colliding, you’re quickly pulling yours away, mumbling for her to go first.

History is threaded between you two. Deep and thorough.

Years of it.

It shows in how Jubie silently piles two more buttered rolls on your plate and how you don’t fight her about it.

Two girls. Barely grown.

The tension that was sitting in your shoulders — Armin could see it from nearly a mile away from where you were walking alongside that road, it remained there as you stood in front of his passenger door, debating on taking the ride, and even as you sat there in his seat, however now . . .

Now it's entirely gone.

He studies how you reach for your glass of lemonade with a little more purpose, how your shoulders rest, no longer curled inwards as though you were preparing for someone, anyone, to run you off, your hands are no longer balled into little, tensed fists within your lap neither. There resides something new within Jubie, too. Having been with her nearly three years now, Armin's familiarized himself with her tells. He can read the girl like a well worn book — spine cracked, ink fading, and pages softened at the edges — everything about her has been memorized by heart. Those exact tells of a small head tilt when she's watching you look away before saying something and the intense gaze of her eyes as you smile reveals that she's excited . . captivated . . curious.

He'd be blowing out smoke if he said he wasn't either.

"You said you don't have anywhere you're headin' tonight . ." Jubie nibbles on her bottom lip, eyes wide and brows softened as she looks into your own. "Y-You can sleep here . . . I mean, i-if you want. Right?" Looking over to Armin for his grace, you follow her stare to watch the man slowly cross his arms over his strong chest while leaning back within his chair.

"Ain't no sense in sendin' 'er back out there this late."

When a big, bright smile overcomes Jubie’s soft lips, you're quick to rectify, "I promise I w-won't impose. I'll do m'best to be gone by sunrise—"

"—Nonsense," slowly, he rolls his tongue across the inside of his cheek, taking heed of the exhaustion that takes physical form beneath your eyes. When you reach up to rub one with the heel of your small palm, he glances down at your plate then at Jubie’s. The both of you have already ate a good amount so he goes on to roughly utter, "You look just 'bout ready to fall over."

You do your best to straighten up, " 'm okay."

"No you ain't."

Armin jerks his chin towards the hall before speaking to Jubie, "Want you to give 'er the grand tour, show 'er the guest room. Come back down then me an' you can work on this kitchen together."

Doused in excitement and slight nerves, Jubie’s mono-lidded eyes widen before she nods, stands, and grabs your wrist. "C'mon, lemme show you."

Rising from your chair, you grab the back strap of your backpack as powder blue eyes watches the both of you move. Armin's jaw is tight, nonetheless, relaxed as he commits the picture to his memory — the bounce in Jubie’s steps, the heaviness in yours, how the two of your fingers brush against one another's as you walk beside each other. The distant feeling of this making sense crosses his mind. Jubie’s shy. Always has been since he was first introduced to her by Mrs. Loretta Bellflower, co owner of one of the best diner's these here parts have heard about, Loretta's Kitchen. She'd been a waitress there, only for a mere, few weeks before Loretta pulled Armin to the side as he was exiting the diner with his styrofoam plate in hand, heavy with three pieces of chicken fried steak, grits, and eggs.

"The girl is lost, mista Arlert," Loretta had told him with sympathy swimming within the dark pools of her eyes. She'd explained to him that Jubie’d used to be a shoe shiner for the town's parlor before Loretta's husband got her out of that, finding the job all too demeaning for a young thing like her. "I suppose now that's prob'ly why she was a shoeshiner. She's good with her hands, that's for damn sure, but she won't talk to anybody. Barely even talks to me. I can't have a waitress workin' here that can't speak."

Armin'd sucked his teeth, "Whaddya askin' me, Missus Loretta."

". . . Maybe she'd be better on the farm with you—"

"—Awe, nah—"

Loretta's gaze had turned sharp, "—You can't keep managin' all them damn acres by y'self, Armin. Gon' run y'self dry. I'm tellin' ya, she's good with her hands. I watched the girl fix a dishwasher under ten minutes. Jus' give 'er a chance."

One look at her through the diner's window and Armin had immediately sensed that there was more to the tiny, quiet thing standing behind the bar counter. He watched her stack about a dozen plates in her hands like it was nothing, noticed how she mouthed the words of a customer's order back to herself when she thought no one was watching. Yeah, she was shy, definitely — barely made eye contact with Armin for the first time after the two of them'd been working together after nearly five weeks — but there was also something else to it. She was careful . . observant . . cautious.

Watching her guide you through the hall, a hand on your bicep, careful not to jostle you too much however with just enough pressure to sweetly nudge you forward, it's obvious to many that, although small, Jubie is fiercely protective of who and what she cares about. This, the two of you, makes sense because after only having been around you for about an hour and a half now, Armin can tell that you're just as shy. And like Jubie, it's clear that you happened to stumble across this little town in Missouri unintentionally.

Whether destiny brought you here or not, Armin knows one thing is for certain: you're not walking back out of their lives tonight. Not when the weariness settled so deep within your bones makes your vulnerability as obvious as the nose on your face and surely not while Jubie’s here. Armin doesn't even think she'd let you.

"Down there is Armin's office. Boring stuff. Farm paperwork."

He watches from his position still seated at the table as you both slowly round the staircase. You listen closely, sometimes tilting your head as Jubie explains all of the quirks of their home — the cute, little reading nook beside the mud room's door, how this closet is stacked with spare pillows and blankets, and that bathroom has a window that can never fully close shut so it gets really cold in there during the winter. Obediently, you follow her around, nodding most times, before occasionally asking a small question with both hesitation and wonder coating the cadence of your voice. In turn, Jubie patiently answers them all — there's a certain rhythm to you both. Quiet and intimate.

"Send 'er to bed, sweetheart," Armin calls out when you're both finally upstairs.

"Okay!" Jubie’s voice quiets back down when speaking to you, "Guess I'll show you the rest tomorrow. This is the guest room."

When she opens the door, the faint scent of lavender and warm wood greets you both. The room is small, cozy with a pillow topped queen sized bed centered against the far wall beside a window. Its frame is made entirely out of hardwood and catches your attention first. A thick quilt, hand stitched in muted patterns printed with fern leaves and suns, covers the entire mattress and adds a rustic charm. In front of the bed, against its own wall is a simple dresser made of the same wood of the headboard. A small ceramic lamp with its shade decorated with hopping hares sits on top of it.

There's an old chair sitting in front of the long, narrow window near the foot of the bed as well and holds a thin blanket that's been draped over the back of it. The air feels calm . . safe, almost as if its been waiting for you.

"I think I have . . ." Jubie never finishes her sentence because after sliding open one of the dresser's drawers and shuffling through it for a moment, she produces a thin, pink pair of shorts and loose t shirt, about two sizes bigger than your regular. "Here. You can keep them too, if you want."

"Oh," tenderly, you take them with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Jubie."

She watches you slowly walk over to the bed to take a seat and instantly, your body sinks into the mattress, making her suddenly giggle, "Okay, yeah. You're super tired. I'll leave you be." Stepping within the doorway, for a second, she hesitates and lingers within it to watch you rub your hand over the material of the quilt, finding it to be much softer than it appeared.

"Uhm . ."

When your eyes snap back up to hers, fingers still delicately tracing the scalloped stitching, she closes her mouth then gives a small shake of her head, leaving her curls crushing up against her mole dotted cheeks as she does. "We'll see you in the mornin', 'kay? . . Gnight."

Still smiling, you nod while clutching the fabric of the t shirt and shorts in your hand, "Okay. Sleep well."

She lingers for a bit longer, just enough to give you a final warm glance before she fully exits while softly shutting the door behind herself. The faint click of the latch fastening makes you sigh and fall back against the pillows. You allow the weight of the day to melt within your bones as the strange comfort being here, near Jubie . . near Armin, underneath their roof, become a gentle reminder that you're fed and safe. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, after you've gotten undressed and into the pajamas Jubie had given you then bury yourself beneath the quilt in bed, you think that you can hear the distant mutter of their voices downstairs, nonetheless, exhaustion overtakes you, leaving the world to darken.

・・・・・

Sunlight streams in through lacy, white curtains the next morning which paints the guest room in shades of amber.

And sweet scents of yeast and wood waft about the farmhouse as you stir beneath the comforter that's somehow gotten itself tangled around your limbs. Your eyelids are heavy with sticky remnants of tears that cling on tight to the wisps of your lashes as you fight to open them. Nightmares. They've been reoccurring since the day you turned eight. And while some nights are better than others, waking up only once from them has become a victory . . some are worse. Last night'd been moderate. Only three times did you gasp yourself conscious, only to find yourself here in this room, on Armin's farm, with him and Jubie only two rooms away . . . and the thought of them had been calming enough to lull you back into a slumber each time.

One look at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside the bed and upon reading 10:37 am, the time makes you sit up slowly while rubbing your hands over your face, trying your best to fight off the drowsiness that still stubbornly lingers through your veins while fishing through your backpack for your toothbrush.

You didn't mean to sleep so late. You're not even supposed to still be here.

After brushing your teeth in the tiny guest bathroom across the hall from the bedroom, peeling your pajamas off and sliding into the only other outfit your bag holds, which is another pair of shorts, this pair a bubblegum pink, with a flowy white top, you're quick to redo your hair, and make your way downstairs where Al Green's Let's Stay Together drifts from an old, radio speaker and meets you halfway towards the kitchen.

The warm smell of biscuits and sausage makes your tummy rumble. And standing in front of the stove, in a pair of dark denim overalls, tiny strapless crop top, and boots is Jubie. She hums softly to the song while standing on her tip toes to grab a specific biscuit from off the pan with a pair of steel tongs. Her head of curls are pulled up today in a large ponytail with a claw clip. The sight of her makes something in your chest constrict. Bathed within the morning sun, she somehow looks even prettier.

At the sound of your footsteps, she turns her head, eyes widening just for a moment before a big, bright smile overtakes her glossy lips, "Mornin'."

"Good morning," your cheeks feel warm as you walk over to the table. "I . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake up so late."

You take a seat as she slides a plate of scrambled eggs, biscuits, and sausage on over to you, " 's okay, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ ," her voice is soft while she walks over to the fridge. "We don't mind. We hope you slept well."

We.

Your eyes scan the kitchen and hallway as your ears tune in more intensely for a sound of a gruff, deep Mississippi drawl or grumble, but nothing. You gather that he must be out working. "Oh." Jubie’s setting a cold jar of grape jelly beside your plate alongside a pitcher of what appears to be fresh squeezed apple juice. "Y-Yeah, I slept fine."

You can feel her staring at you as she takes the seat beside you today with a biscuit held between her fingers. You only manage to take a bite of your sausage link and chew three times before she's suddenly giving a small gasp, ". . You still have those nightmares?"

Instincts scream at you to deny her claim so you do, "No. I don't, I swear—"

"—Don't lie," she's coo'ing in soft consolation while scooting closer to the edge of her seat to somehow get a better look at your face now that you won't make eye contact. "See? You're still tired."

The pout she wears only makes you want to do the same. "Jubie, 'm fine—"

"—You are not." Her voice is soft but there remains a certain layer of firmness that makes your chest grow tight. One of her hands reach out, and her fingers hesitate before she ultimately decides to touch your forearm. ". . You're clammy. You were sweatin' in your sleep . . . You're worn out, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ ."

"That's okay—"

The huff of a man clearing his throat from debris breaks the conversation in two. Both of your heads lift to watch Armin walk down the hall with the screen door slamming shut behind him. The closer he gets, the more you tense. When he's standing within the arched threshold of the kitchen, large, stocky frame nearly spanning from edge to edge, you can hardly swallow your last bite of biscuit. He has on another cowboy hat today, this one a deep, chocolate brown, some spots of it well worn where his fingers have gripped it too much over the years. He looks at you two girls while pulling off of his work gloves slowly. "Mornin', lil miss," He soon mumbles while walking closer to the table. "Sleep alright?"

The biscuit is forced down your esophagus by your tongue, "Y-Yes sir."

Jubie doesn't say much but you can feel some disappointment radiating off of her in small waves.

Licking your lips, you suddenly stand which takes the both of them by slight surprise. Armin's hand finds a grip on one of the chairs' back while Jubie straightens her spine, "Thank you both for allowin' me to spend the night, I really appreciate it."

When you grab your bag, Jubie’s bolting up on her feet. "W . . Wait. Where are you goin'?"

". . 'm not sure yet, but—"

"—You don't have to leave so soon," she gently interrupts with the springs of her hair bouncing slightly as she takes a step closer your way. "C'mon, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ . Please? You jus' woke up, ain't even had a chance to breathe yet. Eat . . . S-Stay a little longer."

You won't lie. A large part of you is startled by the insistence layered beneath her tone. Her words aren't demanding, but there's a small edge — one she's only ever used with you. Tenderness intertwined tightly with tenacious care. And it's always been hard to deny her when she looks at you like that. Feline shaped eyes somehow wide and full of hope with her dimples forming in the soft dough of her cheeks.

You nibble on your bottom lip, "I—"

Armin's voice cuts through, deep and quiet, "Jubie’s jus' worried about ya', 's all. And she's got a point, too. Ain't no shame in stayin' till y'ready to move. You must've been walkin' a long time yesterday."

His words land heavy within you all. Part of you still wants to protest. You never want to be that person who overstays their welcome. But, your body feels like lead. The muscles of your calves still strain, shoulders ache, and spine feels taut — you're tired.

Jubie doesn't give you a chance to make a decision. Quickly, she interlocks her arm within yours to lead you towards the hall, "C'mon. I'll show you the rest of the house and then I'll give you a tour of the farm. You'll love it, I promise. The animals love meetin' new people. I think you'll like Junebug the most . . ."

・・・・・

Somehow, in some way, Armin’s farm is more beautiful than it appears.

After the rest of the house tour is completed, Jubie’s leading you out of the back door first, down a smooth, dirt path. The late morning air is warm and carries the scent of damp earth and hay as you silently follow behind her while twisting at the small, gold bracelet encircled around your wrist. Your eyes dart about, taking in the world around you that appears both wild yet meticulously cared for. The barns are first — both sets of doors wide open as if they were welcoming you two in. Pointing up at the hayloft of the bigger one, Jubie spins on her heels with a sweet giggle, “I like to nap up there sometimes. ‘s peaceful.”

You can picture her, curled up on a cushion, eyes closed, lips parted as sparkles of dust dance within the golden beams of sunlight squeezing in through the barn’s narrow slats. She takes you to the chicken coop after where the hens cluck hello and pick at the feed she holds out in her palm. You smile with your hands interlocked in front of your lips, amazed at how calm she is surrounded by nearly a dozen of them. “They’re sweet, but not as sweet as m’Junebug.” Junebug turns out to be a young goat. Happily he bleats while nudging into her touch as the three of you stand within a field of bright, green grass. You can’t help but to kneel and give him a soft pet which he responds sweetly too — a louder bleat, turns away from Jubie and pushes more into your hand.

Showing you the horses is next. They graze about a wide fenced paddock beside the barn and she points towards the more leaner one with a shiny, chestnut colored coat and dark mane. “Sonnet’s mine.” The other is more broad through the chest, strong, with a deeper, chocolate tone. “That’s Claude. Armin’s. He’s . . . mean and stubborn, only ever listens to Armin, but he’s loyal.”

As if to prove a point, Claude gives a small wuffle while continuing to chew on a handful of hay like the interaction with you both is barely worth his time. You can’t help but softly snicker. “He’s handsome.”

Jubie giggles, “Yeah, he is . . . such a meanie though.”

Further down the paddock is a third horse. You can tell he’s younger than the other two almost immediately. Body not quite proportioned yet, with long legs and a little less muscular than Claude. He seems strong, even so. Anyone looking at him can see that he’ll grow into a lot of power.

“That’s Samson,” Jubie murmurs with a soft smile as you both walk a little closer to him. “Armin brought him home, like . . eight months ago. Someone was sellin’ him for dirt cheap ‘cause he’s too erratic for work.”

He takes a few, curious steps closer to the fence. His golden coat shines like honey beneath the sunlight as he breathes a warm puff of air towards you while lowering his head over the rail. Hesitatingly, you reach out . . and he doesn’t flinch when your fingertips brush over the long bridge of his nose. “Hi Samson,” you whisper. “He’s so sweet.” Erratic. You don’t see it one bit as he nudges his face into your hand for another loving stroke.

Jubie’s wearing a wide grin while flicking her eyes between you both, “Maybe he’s found his rider, finally.”

The corn field, sugarcanes, then beyond them, nestled between rolling hills of green is a small forest. Jubie tells you that a creek runs through it, shallow but beautiful, and while staring off at it, you feel the gravitating pull — knowing that it promises hidden nooks and sweet solitude when needed. When you both make it back towards the house, she casually calls your attention to the two, long rows of clothesline strung between strong posts. Your eyes denote the fabrics gently swaying on a breeze. Soft cottons and linens, in between them, some daintier, frilly, and threaded with bows and lace. Warmth floods your cheeks as you quickly look away towards Armin’s plaid flannels and sun faded jeans. What’s more interesting are the stuffed animals, clipped by their ears as they also swing softly in the wind — a plush, white bunny, chubby, pink pig, and classic soft brown teddy bear. “Armin’s up usually super early in the mornin’,” Jubie softly says when you’re both entering the house’s back door again. “Usually five, four if he got enough sleep. He feeds everybody, makes sure that they have fresh water, makes a round through the fields to also make sure nobody or nothin’ got in durin’ the night.

“Then, he usually heads down the hill to check the mailbox, talk t’a few of our neighbors if he’s in the mood. Makes a cup of coffee, reads the paper, sits out on the porch and smokes after he’s done. He don’t talk much in them moments but . . if y’ever happen to wake up with him then jus’ . . watch. You’ll find that it’s nice.”

You both have stopped in the hall, next to the stairwell. She stands on the second step, arms on the banister, chin resting on them. The tour’d been long, you have no doubt that she’s a little bit winded because you are too. Her words make you hesitate. She speaks like there’s a chance that ever could happen.

“After that, he’s usually patchin up the barns, fixin’ fences, checkin’ irrigation an’ stuff. He’s always busy, always movin’. But he always has an eye out and his ears open too. He’s amazin’.”

The way her voice drifts off on a sweet tilt makes your heart thud a little harder in your chest. Hearing her talk about him is sweet. It reminds you that this is their life. This home, this farm — it’s all something that’s been built, long before you winded up on their porch. Before you can say anything else, Jubie perks up with her eyes wide, “Ooh, hold on a second — I gotta, uhm, I gotta pee.”

You listen to her boots scamper upstairs which leaves you still standing there beside the banister. For a moment, you don’t move. You gather in a long, deep breath through your nose then blow it out of your mouth. Nine years.

Nine years and Jubie has managed to build a safe, secure life.

A life you’re only peeking your head in to admire before you exit again. Your eyes slowly scale along the dark walls, framed photos, and soft hum of the whirling ceiling fan in the living room. Jubie’s touch is everywhere — in some of the vinyls by artists you know she’s always loved that play peekaboo between the others, the cute, worn sandals lined beside the door, and hand stitched, decor pillows that have been attentively placed in a specific order on the couch. As much as you see her in the home, you see Armin as well. The wallet and truck keys tossed carelessly on a side table, messy notebooks full of quickly scrawled measurements and sketches of some barn renovations prove so.

The delicate scent of tobacco smoke carries the weight of him too. All of the tiny imperfections and purposeful placements tell stories of a man and girl in love and maintaining a sweet, peaceful life together.

Maybe you should leave now. Maybe it’s better to before your yearning gets worse. Whether said yearning is in regards to the stability and calmness that’s maintained here, their life, or something even deeper — you shake your head before your brain starts to spiral.

You walk to the door, bend to grab your bag from beside it, push a hand out on the screen and step outside.

Soft, healthy grass brush against your ankles as you track your way across the yard towards the driveway after hopping off of the porch. Distantly, you think about the route you saw Armin drive to get here. Maybe there will be a rest stop somewhere out there if you start walking now.

Nevertheless, you don’t make it far.

Near the parked truck, leaned against the fence with a boot on the lower post behind him, Armin slowly wraps a long, tattered rope around his palm. The material of his gloves creak between each completed loop as ice blue eyes watch you from beneath the shadow of his hat that’s been pulled a little bit lower on his forehead. You’re whispering something to yourself, something he can’t really hear.

“Headin ‘ out already?”

His voice makes you startle and freeze about ten feet away from the truck within that field of grass. He watches your hands tighten around the should straps of your backpack. “U-Uhm,” your voice is soft. He can barely hear it over the breeze. “Yeah.”

You watch him finish that last loop of the rope around his hand before he rings the completed pile of it on one of the fence’s wooden posts. He straightens out then, starts to take his gloves off, “. . Does Jubie know that?”

A twist in your gut tells you not to lie to him, so you don’t. “No, sir.”

He hums, walking over to you slow while snatching the other glove off, “Yeah,” he inhales a breath, reaches behind him to shove them in his back pocket. “Funny thing about boltin’ . . folks usually do it before settlin’ in.”Armin looks down at the picture you make when he’s standing about two feet away from you. Posture slumped over, big, brown eyes locked somewhere on his chest to avoid his own. “House this big, only two people livin’ in it . . . plenty a’room f’a third pair of boots by the door,” a sharp, blue eyed gaze flicks across the pretty features of your face. “You ain’t exactly crowdin’ nobody.”

Your eyes fall down to your shoes before you slowly begin to rock from left to right on them, “. . ‘s not that simple,” is your mumbled reply.

“Most things ain’t, lil lady.”

For a moment, you two stand there, bathed in silence. You listen to the wind whistle against your ears, feeling Armin’s unmoving gaze locked on every little movement you make. Your brain fights to compartmentalize his words. Stay . . . It’s while you’re asking yourself ‘why should you?’ when the house’s front, screen door suddenly is pushed open. You hear the swift pats of bare feet slapping against the porch steps before they’re moving across the grass.

“What’re you doin . . .”

Jubie’s voice is soft, but hearing it still makes something in your heart pang.

Halfway, you turn to look at her taking in how she stands about six feet away with her arm hugged across her stomach, eyes wide as she stares into your own before they flick towards Armin then back at you. She looks scared . . confused, taken aback. All three. Especially upon noticing the backpack you carry. Quieter, she asks, “You leavin’?”

You swallow. Standing between them both makes you feel like you’ve been caught in the middle of something that wasn’t even supposed to be disturbed. “. . I feel like ‘ve stayed for too long already, Jules.”

Owlishly, she blinks at that, “Stayed too long?”

Armin knows not to interrupt. He folds his arms while taking in the picture of two girls standing a few yards apart on his field. One frozen, nearly halfway gone, the other who’s appearance and voice makes it seem as though the ground is halfway close to crumbling beneath her feet without warning. He watches Jubie take two steps forward, “B-But you jus’ got here yesterday. That ain’t too long.”

“I jus’,” you’re looking down at your feet again while moving some grass around with one. “I don’t wanna get used to this, that’s all.”

Your words hang between the three of you — dense and honest.

“This is your life. Your home. And I jus’ . . showed up outta nowhere—“

Jubie’s lips are beginning to pull with a frown, “—You didn’t jus’ show up. You found me.”

“Jubie—“

“—Did I s-say or do somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” is quickly said as you shake your head. “You didn’t. Cross m’heart.” She didn’t.

“Then why are you runnin’?”

That word makes you tense, “ ‘m not runnin’.”

Armin drags out a quiet, dry hum that reveals to you he doesn’t quite believe that either.

Jubie steps all the way forward until only about two are left between you both. Her eyes are searching yours for something when she says, “I used to sleep over at your house every weekend . . .” Memories of you both laying side by side on your tiny, twin sized mattress snap through your brain — nuzzled up against each other for warmth as you whispered into the dark, long after your bedtimes. The hum of your old box fan and venom filled spats drifting from underneath the crack of your door from your parents’ room acting as a backdrop. “We used to make plans at lunch about runnin’ away . . to somewhere safe. This is safe. Here with Armin is safe. Jus’ stay.” She’s reaching for your backpack strap to slowly begin to peel it off of your shoulder. “I can show you the creek—“

You’re pulling yourself away with a soft, nervous smile pulling at your lips, “I jus’ don’t wanna overstay, Jubie.”

Armin finds himself staring at it. That warbled smile . . . before his eyes shift down to the new, exposed skin of your back through your top where an old splotch of blue and purple decorate the soft, brown skin near the bone of your shoulder. It’s pure coincidence that when the pieces align, you end up mumbling, “I h-have people lookin’ for me.” Your voice is thin. “I think he’s still tryin’ to find me.”

Jubie blinks, “. . . What do you mean?”

Armin hums, eyes fixed on that bruise for a second longer before he utters, “That so.”

“I left about . . eight days ago now,” you reply, voice quiet.

“Boyfriend?” Jubie asks.

“Barely.”

Armin’s tone remains calm yet you can still hear that something beneath it has shifted when he questions, “That fella the one that put that color on your shoulder?”

Instinctively, you reach to touch it while those big, brown eyes flutter up to his in shock. The question isn’t harsh . . just unexpected. A deep frown overtakes Jubie’s lips as the familiar sheen of tears begin to gloss the surface of her eyes, “. . He hurt you?” Her voice cracks. “W-Why didn’t you tell me?”

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t utter a word. Denying their claims would be foolish when it’s obvious what’s going on. Jubie could always read your flimsy, little tells anyhow.

Armin exhales slowly through his nose, hands settling on his hips as he looks out towards the sloping, dirt road behind you. His eyes cling onto the landscape as though he’s measuring the distance . . like he’s imagining someone stupid enough to come slugging up here. “Been alone this whole time?”

After a few seconds, you give a timid nod.

He scratches slowly at the scruff of his jaw before saying one, simple word, “Alright.”

It’s in the manner of how he says it which makes you and Jubie look up at him. Like something’s been decided.

You opt to take a chance by taking one step back as your nervous systems still screams at you to bolt however, before your foot can even settle completely in the grass, pinning, blue eyes settle on yours beneath the shadow of his hat brim. Silently, he shakes his head. Don’t. “Somebody comes sniffin’ around here lookin’ for a girl who don’t wanna be found, they gonna have a real hard time doin’ so.”

Something cracks opens within your chest, something akin to hope — a feeling you haven’t felt in a long, long time. It spills over into places that have been dark within you for years.

“Ain’t many folks daft enough to come pokin’ ‘round on my land uninvited anyhow.”

His statement isn’t loud. Doesn’t need to be. He doesn’t ask neither. His boots crush over loose pebbles as he starts his trek towards his truck, “Sandwiches for you girls’ll be ready in an hour.” He opens the driver door. “. . Take ya’ over to the creek afterwards.”

The realization settles in slowly. For both you and Jubie. He isn’t asking, he isn’t offering. You’ve been decided for and he’s making room.

You hear Jubie breathe out a shaky breath. When you look at her, she’s covering a big smile with trembling fingers. You can practically feel the happiness beaming off of her and waves. “. .You hear that?”

Your heart thuds against your chest.

“You’re stayin’.”

Disbelief cradles your voice as you weakly ask, “. . I am?”

“Uh huh,” she mumbles while inching closer to you. A sweet pout overtakes your lips. This feeling . . .

It’s strange and unfamiliar. But it’s warm and overpowering, too. For so long, you’ve been feeling displaced. Never stopping long enough to keep a fulfilling connection with anyone — always moving. Always running. And now here you are. Standing here on the massive acres of a quiet farm in rural Missouri while your childhood best friend gazes at you as if she’d just received something precious back that she lost years ago. Your eyes drift towards Armin’s truck when you hear the engine purr to life. He doesn’t look back again. He doesn’t need to. He knows what and who will be waiting for him when he gets back.

“C’mere.” Jubie’s gently squeezing your hand before tugging you back towards the house. “Let’s go get you settled in.”

・・・・・

When the sun has finally settled beneath the horizon, the moon hangs high within the sky, and dinner has been made, served, and ate, Jubie finds herself seated on the kitchen counter. The farm is quiet. The house is too.

You retired off to bed early — finished eating, took a long shower, then let the guest bedroom door close behind you with a soft click. Jubie had done the same. Only instead of slipping off to bed, she’d tip toe downstairs, around the banister, down the hall, to head to the kitchen where she’d found her lover pouring a glass half full of whisky with two ice cubes in it. He’s still the only one dressed, only now, without his hat. Jubie can’t help but admire him as he takes a gulp to the head — tilting his own back with the strong etch of his jaw flexing as he clamps his mouth closed, swallows, then breathes out a slow, deep breath after.

She picks at the frayed hem of one of his old wife beaters she’s stolen for the night as neither of them speak for a while. Serenity. That’s what Armin brings. Being with him has taught her what quiet is supposed to feel like when it isn’t dangerous — not the kind that makes her listen for footsteps creeping towards her door or the kind that culminates into something horrible happening next.

Just sweet silence. Heavy in the best way.

Jubie lets her eyes drag up the strong line of his body slowly. It’s what she always does when she thinks he isn’t looking.

But Armin feels it. He knows. He always does.

His steps toward her are unhurried and slow. He’s taking another sip from his glass when he stops directly in front of her. While swallowing, the ice clinks softly as he lowers his hand then utters, “You shouldn’t be up.”

Jubie hums, “I know.”

“Mm.”

The wind whistles outside, in between the wooden chimes hanging from a hook near the kitchen’s back door. “. . Thank you, Papa” she soon says while her fingers tug at the shirt hem again. “For lettin’ her stay.”

Armin’s hand falls flat upon the counter near her hip. “Ain’t nothin’ I had to think too much about.” He reads the softness that sits on her pretty, feline like features, not surprised to watch her soon say, “She feels . . more fragile.”

It’s a conversation that’s been waiting to happen. Armin knows that Jubie’s been watching you like a hawk for he has too. That’s why he doesn’t deny it.

He nods, once. Slowly. “She does.”

Jubie’s lips scrunch to the side as her eyes flick quickly from side to side behind Armin as if her thoughts were caught up in a whirlwind. “She kept sayin’ that she doesn’t wanna overstay . . . ‘s like she’s waitin’ to get told to leave or something.”

Armin exhales slowly through his nose, looks down at his glass, before pulling it towards his lips, “She remind me a’you.”

Jubie blinks and refocuses her sight back to him. “. . Me?”

“Mhm. Shy . . . Cautious. Too soft for a world that don’t care if ya’ soft or not.”

He says it like it’s not an observation but recognition. A pause settles between them again as Jubie takes it in.

“World eats up girls like that,” He continues on a gruff drawl. “Quiet ones. Sweet ones. The ones that don’t raise hell when they should . . . and I don’t like watchin’ it happen.”

His words land heavily. It makes her breathe out a small, shaky breath which makes his arm loop around her waist to tug her closer to him. “We have a lotta history, Pa,” she mewls with her eyes fixed on a button of his flannel that she fiddles with. “Me and her . . we grew up together. And her parents . . . weren’t good to her. Like, ever. Was always fightin’, always loud, only paid her attention when they had to. I’d go to her house sometimes just so that she wouldn’t be alone. Sometimes she came to mine, but it was always durin’ the day ‘cause I didn’t want her around . . when m’stepdad . . .” She suddenly stops, swallows, and shakes her head. Armin sets his glass down.

“Hey,” he drags out lowly. “ ‘s okay, lil one.”

“ ‘m sorry—“

Armin’s fitting the bottom of her jaw between the web of his index and thumb to pull her face up for deep, slow pecks to her lips. That apology dies on her tongue because it isn’t needed. The sound of the sets of them meeting then pulling away are sticky and loud within the calmness of the kitchen. He doesn’t want her to think about it. And truth be told, he doesn’t want to think about it. The rage he’s susceptible to feeling each time he’s reminded of what his girl has gone through is enough to have Armin seeing red behind his eyes.

The anger crawling up his spine is something old yet violent however he inhales slowly while pulling away, brushing his forehead against hers to force the feeling back down where it belongs. Because Jubie deserves calm more than she deserves vengeance.

“None a’that was your fault,” he mumbles, eyes closed while breathing her in. “. . Understand me? Don’t apologize for nothin’ like that.”

He feels her faint nod, “I know.”

But the frailty that underlines her tone tells him that knowing and believing are two different things. He tilts his head down once more, brushing a smaller kiss against that pretty mole that sits upon the line of her upper lip, near her cupids bow.

“I never wanted her t’see that part of my life back then,” she says. “She used to ask me to sleep over sometimes . . and I used t’make a bunch of excuses . . she probably knew I was lying.”

Armin gently huffs, “Kids know more’n folks give ‘em credit for.”

Jubie nods with a sad frown pulling at her lips before her gaze drifts out towards the hall. “I liked bein’ there for her . . more than she knew. She always had these nightmares. Real bad ones. Would wake up breathin’ like she ran a mile . . sometimes I’d wake up to her sobbin’ in ‘er sleep and I’d make her listen to m’heartbeat jus’ to calm ‘er down.”

Armin pictures that — a younger Jubie and you. Two small girls crammed side by side on a tiny mattress somewhere in a house that never felt safe enough. Jubie’s little arms wrapped around you with your face pressed against her chest as the two of you breathed together. He imagines you clutching her shirt in your sleep. Jubie coo’ing against your bonnet until your crying stopped. His jaw tightens.

“. . That right?”

Jubie’s fingers pick at his flannel again, “She used to say that m’house felt calmer. And I mean . . it wasn’t. Not really. But our days were quieter. My momma would be sleepin’ off whatever she drank the night before, brother out ditchin’ with his no good friends, and uhm, he’d be at work so . .” she huffs a quiet, timid breath. “For a few hours, me and her could pretend that our lives were normal.”

Deep, blue eyes study her face. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

Jubie processes that while looking down at her small, nimble fingers, “. . Yeah. It was.”Quieter, she whispers, “. . . I want her to stay, Dad.” The words come out as though she’s been dying to finally say them. She sounds exhausted. “F-Feels like if she leaves . . I won’t ever see her again. Again.”

“I know, honeybee,” Armin leans in to press a long kiss against her forehead. “I know.”

And upstairs, the quiet guest room echos with your deep, sleeping breaths — completely unaware to the two people downstairs are already quietly deciding on molding their lives to fit you in it.

・・・・・

Learning to live with Armin and Jubie on the farm is quieter than you expected.

Not an empty, aching quiet. Just . . . steady.

Out here, the silence breathes — sweet and peaceful so at first, you simply wait for it. A slammed door or harsh curse so that you can bolt first thing. But neither happens. Mornings start early . . mostly for Armin, that is. Usually, he’s waking up before the sun . . his footsteps heavy and slow as he lugs himself around the bedroom. Sometimes you hear the pipes groan as he gets a shower going. He’s always in there for about fifteen minutes tops before their bedroom door is opening. What’s odd . . is sometimes you can hear his footsteps stop for a split second before he walks downstairs.

Near your door. Like he’s listening for your breathing through the walls — checking to see if you’re still here.

You suppose that whenever he’s satisfied with whatever it is he’s doing, he then carries on down the staircase.

Jubie’s different in the mornings.

Quieter, softer. She’s up about an hour later. Hour and a half is she stayed up longer the night before. On a rare morning when the both of you happen to open your doors at the same time, you found her standing at the top of the staircase, preparing to walk down. Her curvy, little frame sheathed by a thin nightgown as she held a stuffed bunny within the crook of her elbow. Its fur curly, worn soft, and eggshell white with beady black eyes and a pink, triangular shaped nose. Sticking out of her silk, baby blue bonnet were her curls as she rubbed her eye with a fist.

Something about the sight had made your heart stutter on its next beat. During the days, Jubie’s shy. She’s shy yet giggly and spirited and vibrant. During the nights she becomes quieter, a little more reflective as though she’s sorting through pieces of the day and things she doesn’t yet know how to say out loud. But the mornings, you think the mornings house your favorite version of Jubie.

“Mornin’,” she had smiled softly. Mole dotted lips, bleary brown eyes, and dimples. You swallowed, “Gmorning.”

She always asks . . . “You sleep okay?”

“Mhm. I t-think so.”

And then she always studies you for a few seconds — you suppose to make sure that you aren’t lying to her. It’s when your stay with them inches into nearly eight later when you gently ask Jubie, “Do you think that I can help out with the farm, too . . ?”

She’d been curled up on the couch, knitting a blanket with that same, familiar bunny tucked in close beside her folded knees. You learned that its, her, name was Babs. “I dunno,” her lips quirked up with a small, cute smile as she kept her eyes focused on her swift moving fingers. “You’d have to ask Armin.”

Armin.

“Oh.” Suddenly your body feels like an olive being held up on only two toothpicks. That. You picked up on it, instantly — how she says his name like it’s both a boundary and permission slip. Jubie’s aware that Armin intimidates you. She knows without you having to say it. Your sentences so far have been curt when speaking to him and eye contact is barely made. When the two of you happen to be in a room alone, you’re quick to suddenly dismiss yourself up to your own or outside to sit upon the porch. It bothers Jubie a bit, she’ll be honest.

That’s why she glances up at you to softly say, “He’s not mean, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱. Jus’ particular. Especially ‘bout the farm. ‘Bout things bein’ done right.”

You shake your head quickly with the lie already sitting on your tongue, “I don’t think he’s mean.”

Jubie’s head tilts. She doesn’t say much, only gives a look that rather reveals her true, obvious thought before softly sighing and leaning bank further against the couch cushions while pulling Babs closer to her chest. “He’ll say yes.”

“Really?”

“Mhm,” she hums. “He watches you a lot.”

That single sentence makes your heart drop in a way you can’t fully explain as she continues with, “Not in a bad way . . jus’ . .” softly, “his way.”

Your fingers pull at the hem of the loose nightshirt you still wear as you shift your foot to curl your toes over the top of your opposite one. You’re not sure the statement comforts you. Intuitively, you turn your head to look out towards the living room’s entry, down the hall, thinking that Armin might just appear from inside the walls at the sheer mention of his name. Jubie giggles softly, “He’s not inside.”

Shyly, you stammer, “I wasn’t—“

“—He checks on you too. In the early mornings sometimes.”

Your heart skips as you go to softly press your lips together at the confirmation of your thoughts being true. Jubie’s only glancing at you now as she works her needles a bit slower. “He doesn’t . . think I notice, I guess,” she continues quietly. Beneath her tone reads fondness — like she’s been wanting to say this for quite a little bit now. “But I do.”

You think about those heavy footsteps and how still the house goes in between those long pauses. “W-Why?”

“He wants to be careful, I think,” she says. The answer feels incomplete, as though there’s more to it but Jubie decides to leave it there for now. You’re made to stand there with your mind silently racing as the distant crunch of boots against dirt and pebbles grows closer and closer towards the front door. They make it towards the end of the trail and up the porch steps before the screen door is being pulled open with a creak and the front is pushed.

Armin steps inside the house carrying the scent of sun warmed leather, grass, and something like gasoline with him when he slowly exits the foyer to stand there within the living room’s large, curved threshold. A cream, suede cowboy hat’s brim shadows his eyes for a split second before he knocks it up to really get a look at you two girls. Jubie curled up on the couch, you standing beside the arm of it like you’d been caught doing something wrong. Arctic blue eyes settle on you as he slowly pulls off one of his gloves, finger by finger, to then hold in his hand while reaching his new, bare one towards his back pocket.

“Was thinkin’ me and you girls head off into town,” he mumbles while opening a box of marlboros to pull a stick out with practiced ease without looking at his hands. “Two a’you can’t share a wardrobe forever.”

Gently, Jubie gasps as her face instantly brightens, “Shoppin’?”

“Mhm,” he pulls it to his lips along with a hand cupped around the flame emitting from the valve of a gold zippo held between his fingers. “Truck. Outside. Fi’teen minutes.”

He begins the trek down the hall towards his office near the back of the house and you can’t help but let your stare linger on the wide span of his shoulders stretching the black fabric of a nicely fitted button down whose sleeves have been pulled halfway up the strong line of his arms dusted in dark blond hair. Built like an ox. You’ve heard the saying before but have never seen someone who fit it until him. The attractive taper off his waist is more pronounced due to a brown, leather belt being pulled through the loops of his tailored levis that hug the firm shape of his glutes.

You like the way he walks.

Not particularly lazy when it comes to his speed, just . . unhurried. A quiet kind of saunter. There’s heavy weight transferred into each long stride of his legs as his hips naturally sway — not in an exaggerated way. It’s a movement that’s simply hard not to notice when the person’s wearing well fitted denim. When he suddenly turns his head over his shoulder to look at you, your gaze clashes with his, causing you to lightly startle.

On a low drawl he says,“Got you some boots too, sweetheart. By the front door.” Before he’s opening his office door to step inside then close it behind himself.

When he’s gone, you suddenly feel like you can breathe again.

And twenty minutes later, per his instructions, you and Jubie are seated upon the cracked vinyl of his Ford’s bench seat, you in the middle, Jubie passenger, as four wheels roll you all closer and closer to town. Your toes slowly wiggle within your new boots as tall rows of wheat lazily sway as Armin drives with one of his hands resting high on the wheel and his other arm hanging out of the window. Ever so often you feel his gaze, covered by his black tinted, aviator sunglasses, drift towards your face within the rear view mirror. Not long enough to completely be a stare, not short enough to be only a glance either.

You listen to Jubie softly hum along to the music he plays as she walks her pretty, manicured fingers up and down the length of your palm that she holds in her lap out of boredom. Whenever the truck hits a small bump in the road, it subtly knocks the three of your bodies against each other though no one makes an effort to adjust or even acknowledge. You recognize when town is getting closer because about fifteen minutes later, Armin’s pulling his Ford over the gravel of an old gas station before he parks by a pump.

“Ol’ girl needs gas.”

Jubie perks up beside you, “May I go pay, please? They have those caramel apple suckers I like here.”

Armin cuts his eyes towards the little convenience store, spotting not another soul but the cashier inside before he’s slipping a fifty dollar bill from his thick, rubber banded wallet and into the small palm of Jubie’s hand.

“Twenty five on one. Don’t wander.”

When Jubie reaches for the door handle without responding to his words, interestingly enough, Armin’s voice has to grow softer for her to suddenly tense and pause to look at him. “Hey,” he hums, eyes piercing through hers through the lenses of his shades. “You say what? Yes . .”

Jubie nibbles on her bottom lip then quietly, “Yes, sir. I won’t wander. Pinkie promise.”

“That’s right,” he mumbles then juts his chin towards the store. “Go on now.”

Jubie’s opening the door and giving a small hop to land on her feet from the high risen truck. You swallow, watching her cutely skip towards the doors, cocoa butter scented curls bouncing behind her. Then you realize . . .

It’s just you and him.

The world feels smaller now. And he doesn’t move right away. The thumb on the wheel begins to lightly tap at it as the both of you stare out of the windshield listening to the door jingles when she disappears inside. When everything else goes quiet, you listen to him inhale a small breath and squeeze your hands into fists come his incoming question, “You always watch her like that?”

Your mouth dries, “. . L-Like what?”

The side of his mouth dips to respond with an expression saying ‘Who knows?’ “Like she might float away if you don’t.”

Your chin dips close to your chest. “I jus’ . .” you pause, trying to look for words to say but find them all inadequate to describe your feelings. “I don’t know . . .”

Silence settles for a little bit. You feel him turn his head an inch to look at you. “. . Y’nervous ‘round me?”

The question makes you instinctively shake your head, “No, sir.”

He waits. And you feel it — the ever growing pressure of someone who knows that you’re not telling the full truth.

You remain staring at your hands. “. . Jus’ a little.”

A small breath is puffed through his nose — not a sound of amusement, something more like recognition. “Tell me why.”

“You’re . .” once more, your brain scrambles while trying to search for the correct word — the perfect one that describes the sheer density that caves into your chest each time you happen to meet his eye. “Y-You’re really big.”

The minute the sentence leaves your mouth, you want to disappear into the seats.

Armin’s hums, expression remaining even, “Big.”

Delicately, almost weakly, you nod.

“Can’t help that,” he says with a small twitch of his lips.

“I didn’t mean—“

“—Y’aint got to apologize.” He watches your lips close as you go to give a small sigh and slump against the seat. “Up. Spine straight.” Without having to be told again, you straighten the length of your upper body. “You scare easily, lil miss.”

Your lips pull down into a frown, “I do not.”

“You do. An’ it ain’t necessarily a bad thing.” He turns his head back towards the windshield with a small suck to his teeth. “Means you pay attention.”

Studying his magnificent side profile for a moment, you recall Jubie’s words. ‘He watches you a lot. Not in a bad way . . jus . . his way.’ Unable to keep the words bottled down when they start to climb up your throat, you find yourself softly blurting out, “Do I make you nervous?” Maybe that’s why he’s always watching you, why every morning he stands by your door to listen for you. Maybe you unnerve him. Maybe this gives you an opening, an excuse, to leave.

However, your question seems to surprise him. Only for a millisecond. His thumb taps against the steering wheel, slow and contemplative. “No.”

Something in your gut flips from the quickness of his answer.

“. . No?”

A tinted gaze is turned and angled back down towards you. Calmly, he replies, “. . Naw. Ain’t nervous,” he drawls, steady and unrushed. His voice is gruff — raspy. It makes your skin break out in goosebumps. “I know what t’do with nervous things.”

The door bell jingles again as Jubie comes skipping past it while holding a handful of green wrapped lollipops. You feel his eyes slowly scan the features of your face before he’s shifting in his seat to push open the driver’s door and climb out. The truck rocks slightly when his boots his the gravel and proudly, as Armin’s unscrewing the cap from the gas chamber, she’s sliding into the seat beside you while announcing, “I got six! Hm.” She gives you one.

Inhaling a small, trembling breath, you pull the wrapper off to lay the oval shaped candy against your tongue. Sharp yet sweet. It makes the glands of your saliva water as you go to suck on it — green apple lollipops have always been yours and Jubie’s favorite candy. She’d already been suckling on hers while walking to the car, now that she’s seated with the door closed, she goes to pull hers free from her lips while looking at you before murmuring, “What’s wrong? . . You look nervous.”

You blink a few times before pulling yours away too, “‘m okay.”

Her head tilts, “Did you and Armin talk?”

“N-Not really.”

“Mmm.”

You look out of the rear view mirror.

He stands with one hand holding the pump, the other’s arm resting on the ledge of the truck bed. The beaming afternoon sun catches on the brim of his hat which obscures the upper half of his face — you can really only see the scruff of his jaw and lips. He looks calm . . . entirely unbothered. ‘I know what t’do with nervous things.’ It feels like out of a dozen cocoons, butterflies have erupted and made a home within your stomach. Jubie’s eyes are big and full of sweet innocence when she asks, “Did he say somethin’ you ain’t like?” upon following your gaze.

Quite the opposite. “. . N-Not that.”

“What he say?”

“That I scare easily.”

You watch a big smile creep up her soft, glossy lips. “Well . .” she giggles. “You do. You always have.”

“You do, too.” The pout you now wear is precious.

She’s giggling while leaning in to bump her shoulder against yours, “He didn’t mean that in a bad way, lovey . . I think all it means,” you find that she makes a cute pondering expression — eyes shift downward as her cheeks puff up as she scrunches her lips to the side. “I think it means that he likes that you pay attention.”

The both of you look at him.

The pump is pulled from the chamber after the tank tops it all off to the brim before a heavy clunk is heard. He returns the nozzle back to its cradle then takes his time twisting the cap back on. For a moment, he just stands there after that, looking out across the road while reaching into his back pocket — this time, for a small pack of gum. He’s thinking about something. Silently, you watch him unwrap a stick without looking at it to then fold it once between his fingers to then press upon his tongue. Then his head turns. He’s looking at you both.

Quickly, you turn your own back forward and pop your lollipop back in your mouth. Jubie grins, watching him start to walk back over. “You girls got everything you needed?” He asks after opening the driver’s door. Jubie chirps a soft, “Mhm!”

You simply nod.

The truck dips with his weight once he slides in beside you. “Alright then.”

・・・・・

The town of Cotter’s Mill only has a population of five hundred and eighty two. It’s a small dot on the map, located some miles away from Marlow River with mountains bordering it that seem to roll on forever. Most people pass through it without meaning to and there’s only about four conjoined roads that cut through the middle of town. You hear how Armin’s truck rumbles as it rolls down the main stretch. You and Jubie gaze at the old, tall brick buildings passing by — Cotter’s Feed & Supply, Dahlia’s Cafe, followed by a barber shop then hardware store. You watch Jubie press her finger against the window, “There’s Missus Loretta’s diner. I used to work there when I first got here. She serves peach cobbler on Saturdays.”

Your lips wrap around a coo as you picture it — Jubie in a cute, waitress uniform with a notepad and pen in hand as she jots down orders. “You used to work there?”

Armin hums as Jubie nods. “Yeah . .” she says as her eyes glaze over in melancholy. Softer, she finishes with, “I didn’t like it that much though.”

Watching a few people walking on the sidewalk lift their heads to glance at the vehicle you’re all in, you’re a bit surprised to see Armin lazily lift two of his fingers from off of the steering wheel to greet a few. Jubie’s voice is now a whisper when she tells you, “Everybody knows him.”

Cotter’s Mill General.

The engine rumbles to a still when the truck is parked out front. “Oh!” Jubie’s eyes are wide. “They got new skirts and dresses last week—”

“—Hold it,” Armin calmly cuts through. Her hand freezes on the door handle and both of you give him your attention. “Need you both to stay where I can keep an eye on you when we get in there, alright?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

“We will.”

When he’s satisfied with your answers, he climbs out first. You watch him round the front to the passenger door, jaw flexing as he slowly chews on his gum to then open the passenger’s. Jubie hops out first, waits for you to do the same, then takes your hand to gleefully pull you in the direction of the store’s doors. A bell jingles when you both walk inside. The AC has been cranked up high. You can smell cotton fabric, wood polish, and lemon scented floor cleaner as your eyes scan the place. It’s bigger than how the outside makes it appear. Full of racks and racks of clothing near the front of the store while shelves of household goods and items are assembled towards the back. Lining the walls are shelves full of boots and shoes as well.

Not a lot of people roam the inside. A mother and daughter here, elderly woman there, and a lone farmhand scratching his head while staring at the two dozen pair of work boots while trying to decide which he prefers.

It’s quiet, comfortably quiet, with only an old radio on the cashier’s counter breaking through the silence to play 54 Ultra’s I’m Hooked. The man standing behind the counter looks up over his newspaper through thin, wiry glasses before he’s dropping his hands to give a smile, “Well I’ll be,” he folds the paper. “Haven’t seen you two in a while.”

Armin stands behind you and Jubie, his stature easily towering over the both of yours as he gives a chin tilt, “Joseph.”

Joseph does the same, “Mister Arlert,” then his eyes slide down to Jubie. “How y’doin’, Miss Jubilee?”

She coyly smiles, “Hi, Joseph, ‘m doin’ swell, thank you.”

Then his gaze lands on you — curious and friendly. You squeeze Jubie’s hand a little bit tighter. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

Instinctively, you glance up, but Armin doesn’t step forward. He looks down at you through his sunglasses with his jaw still slowly working on that piece of gum. His voice is low yet soft when he says, “Go on. Introduce y’self, sweetheart.”

Something in the way he says so, cool and certain, makes your shoulders ease. Joseph’s obviously good in his book, so he’ll be good in yours too. “. . Hi,” you gently say. “ ‘m ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Miss ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱. Name’s Joseph.”

Armin gives a squeeze to Jubie’s waist. “I’ll be up front right here.”

She immediately lights up with a soft squeak, as if she’s been waiting to hear those exact words all day and starts to pull you in the direction of the racks. “I always find the cutest stuff in this area right here — ooh, see?”

She holds a thick, brown knitted cardigan up to your chest and you glance at the tag. “J-Jules, that’s expensive.”

She pouts, “So?”

“I can’t really let Armin buy me a whole, new wardrobe—“

“—He’d tell you that you aren’t lettin’ him do nothin’,” she pulls out a hanger holding a pink, polka dotted, lace trimmed top and pushes it into your hands without question. “He already decided.”

Gently frowning, you look down at the clothes already starting to pile up in your arms. Jubie’s eyes soften. She knows what you’re thinking about. “꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, you deserve nice things.” The words hit you hard. “You always have.”

The next half hour passes by in a blur of babydoll dresses, gingham tops, tiny, jean shorts, overalls, and airy, short sleeved blouses. You end up with an armful before Jubie’s leading you to the dressing room, not too far away from the cashier’s counter, so that you both can get a look at how it all fits on you. From his position, leaning on a support beam with his arms folded while softly talking to Joseph, Armin has taken off of his glasses and holds them in one of his hands. Every now and again, you saw him watching you and Jubie maneuver through the racks — his stare piercing yet soft. The dressing room’s door is directly in his line of sight now. Therefore, when you emerge from it while dressed in a cute, red and white, sleeveless, gingham patterned romper, you’re able to catch the way he suddenly halts mid sentence while talking to Joseph.

The fabric is a snug fit. The hem sits a bit higher than clothes you’re used to wearing, however, you’re not uncomfortable with it . . just slightly more exposed than you’re used to. The bodice of it clings at your waist before slightly, barely, flaring out at your hips.

And for a second, you simply stand there . . unsure of how to stand or what to even do with your hands.

“I dunno, Jubie. Is it too short?”

She’s quiet now, too. You watch her eyes trace down your bosom, hips, thighs, and legs before she slowly drags them back up while inching a little closer to you, “No,” she murmurs quietly.

Her sharp stare makes you swallow as she steps closer to softly take you by the hips. You understand to give a small turn, feeling her eyes track every slight movement.

“Wow,” She mumbles when your back is facing her. Pauses.“. . Geez, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

“W-What?” You turn your head over your shoulder, feeling jittery with nerves. “ ‘s it that bad?”

She exhales a small breath through her nose then you both are facing each other again. Quietly, shyly, she shakes her head, “No. You jus’ . . You look so pretty.”

Oh.

Your cheeks warm.

But before you can even respond, you feel something shift. When Armin pushed himself off of leaning against that beam? You don’t know. Nevertheless, the linoleum beneath his boots creak as he stops a couple feet away from you and Jubie with his gaze flicking over you — once, twice. It’s a stare of focus, only slightly hazed over with something darker. His voice sounds lower when he utters, “. . . Turn around again.”

Your breath catches.

Jubie glances between the two of you while biting down on a small smile like she’s trying not to make this into something bigger than what is.

Slowly, you obey.

Then for a moment, no one speaks. Armin’s eyes follow you closely, waiting until you’re facing him again before he breathes out a breath through his nose.

“Mm.”

That’s all he gives afterwards and you don’t know how to take that. His fingers flex around his glasses as Teddy tilts her head with her own held behind her back, “Looks pretty huh, Papa.”

Papa.

He doesn’t look away from you for a beat. “Yeah,” he simply responds. “Get it.”

Then he’s taking a step back and already turning back towards Joseph as though this slight exchange has been filed away into something fairly normal. With your brain still reeling, you watch Jubie lift her chin with a proud smile and half lidded eyes, “See?” she hums. “Told you.”

Another half hour later, after trying on basically everything plus finding three pair of new shoes, another pair of boots, satin mary janes, and bow adorned flats, the three of you watch Joseph ring everything up at the counter. Guilt chips away at your conscience, watching the total rise well into the three digits. He hasn’t even made a dent into the pile sitting in front of him yet. You glance up at Armin, finding him patiently standing a step behind you and Jubie with his hands on his hips. He’d been staring at the shelf of stuffed animals and novelties behind the front counter before his eyes suddenly shift downward for a second to meet your stare.

You quickly look away.

“Alright.” Joseph tells him the total and you turn towards Jubie.

“I can put some stuff back—“

“—Mm mm. Look.” The both of you watch Armin pull out his worn down, brown, leather wallet again. Casually, he peels off a small stack of hundreds and places them into Joseph’s hand without much of a thought given.

“I’ll meet you two in the truck, hm?” he hums while sliding it back into his pocket. “Say goodbye to Joseph.”

“See you later, Joseph,” Jubie smiles with a wave. “Thank you.”

He smiles, “Pleasure’s all mine, Jubilee. And it was mighty fine to meet you too, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

Respectfully, you wave goodbye, “Thank you.” and follow Jubie out of the front door, leaving Armin inside. You think about the reasons why he’d be staying in, if it’s anything bad regarding you, but, shockingly enough, only seconds after you and Jubie are situated in your seats, he’s pushing open the door with one arm full of paper bags and the other’s hand holding a stuffed lamb.

Its fur is curly, soft, and the color of muted cream. Your chest tightens the second you see it, already knowing that it was purchased for Jubie.

And after placing the bags within the trunk bed, he’s climbing it to surprisingly hold it out towards you. “For you.”

Your eyes widen, “Me?”

“Jubie has Babs. Figured you needed your own. Saw you glancin’ at it, too.”

You hadn’t even realized you were. Slowly, you reach out to take the lamb from his hand finding that the fur has warmed within his hold. You run your fingers across it as a soft smile pulls up the corners of your lips. Shes pretty. Black, beady eyes, floppy ears, and a small, stitched smile. Armin’s hand had dwarfed her completely, on your lap, her size is nearly the length of your wrist up a little ways past your elbow.

“Thank you . .” you bite down on your bottom lip, eyes wide and glistening when you look into his. “so much.”

Armin hums, “Wun’t nothin’, doll.” He hands over a paper wrapped bundle to Jubie, making her gasp. “And for you.”

Unwrapping the twine carefully, she soon emits a small squeal upon seeing what lies inside, “Eek!” A pair of small, gold hoops that dangle precious, vintage hearts. “Oh my gosh — thank you, thank you, thank you, Pa.”

It’s when you’re all back on the road, headed towards the farm when you let yourself relax. Really relax. Jubie hums along to the music again while admiring the new earrings now dangling from her ears in the side view mirror. You sit beside her quietly, fingers rubbing at the ear of the new friend in your lap, finding a sense of comfort in the repetition as calmness swathes over your usual overactive nervous system. For once in your life, you feel good. Nothing’s screaming at you to bolt or hide or cry. Then you feel Jubie’s fingers on your forearm. They slide down your skin until she’s able to press her palm flat against your own to then slowly, naturally, fit her small fingers between the spaces of yours.

You blush.

“What are you gonna name her?”

“Uhm,” you hesitate then shrug. “. . I dunno.”

You look at Armin. His gaze remains steady on the road as you timidly ask, “Do you have a name for her?”

There’s a brief pause. Jubie’s thumbs stroke across your knuckles while the both of you wait for his answer. He clicks his tongue after a while, “Lily.”

“Lily?” you look down at the stuffed animal as he nods.

“She seems like a Lily.”

Jubie smiles, “Lily and Babs. I like it.”

Lily. You smooth your fingers over the fur between her ears as the road curves towards the familiar stretch leading to the farm. “Hi, Lily.”

・・・・・

A month passes by.

Slowly.

You’re granted permission to work on the farm alongside Armin and Jubie the next day after being gifted your new boots. It’s honest work . . gives you purpose. Neither you or Jubie do as much work as Armin, but it’s enough to have you winded by noon. The two of you alternate days doing certain duties. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays, you feed the chickens and collect their eggs. Jubie does so on the others, though the two of you often end up helping one another anyway, giggling quietly when one of the hens peck at one of your boots or hands to make the other hiss in irritation.

Armin also has you and her brushing out the horses’ manes in the afternoons. It’s a chore that requires a lot of patience. Very meticulous. Jubie talks to them softly all the while she does so, tells you that it’s nice to tell them her secrets and you should try. You gravitate towards Samson, naturally . . finding him all too sweet and take her advice. Gently, you like to mumble to him about your day — little thoughts and small fragments of things you aren’t too sure of where to put sometimes. Some days, when he’s really busy, Armin sends you both out to refill the water troughs. It takes the two of you together to drag the hose out far enough, due to the rubber being so heavy and both your sets of hands being too small, to get the water in the basins.

Sweeping up the barn aisles, pulling weeds, milking the cows, and herding up the goats — doing it all with Jubie is the best. You’re reminded of your times as kids again — shared laughter and quiet teamwork. Only this time, something new is threaded within it all . . structure and stability. Something neither of you truly had back then. That chart stuck to the refrigerator with sparkling stickers dotted all over it? Armin placed another one, decorated with your name on top of the paper, written in his beautiful, olden cursive-like handwriting next to it. The feeling had been so robust — seeing that pink, glittery, star shaped sticker next to each chore you’d done . . the first time had rendered you still. Completely immobile while reaching for the handle to grab the pitcher of milk one morning.

Armin, standing with his coffee mug in hand and a burning cig between his fingers caught your stare, “Helps keep things in order,” he mumbled while lifting the mug up to his lips, eyes penetrating. “Lil girls need . . .” He paused for a moment. “Structure.”

You hadn’t known how to really reply, so you only nodded.

You don’t know when he adds the stickers to the chart and you don’t try to catch him, but nearly every night you find your eyes drifting to it as you all eat dinner. Sometimes, when it’s just Jubie and you alone, sitting on the porch, she’ll nudge you with her shoulder, “We’re doin’ good, huh?”

You are. You both really are.

You catch the things he says to Jubie in passing sometimes. Each word gruff, drawled in his thick Mississippi accent, “C’mere, pumpkin’. Lemme get a look at’cha.” “Slow down, baby. It ain’t a race.” “Who wanted those goats . . . Naw, tell me — Right. Right. It was you. Go fetch ‘em.”

They all make your stomach flip.

Armin exudes an air you’ve never been around before. All the men you’ve happened to know in your life have all been somewhat the same. If they weren’t liars, they were lazy, and if they weren’t physically hurting you, they were disappearing on you instead. Eventually, they’ve all slipped out of your life the minute something became inconvenient. Whether your feelings became too much or if they figured they’d be better off somewhere else. None of them have ever felt steady.

There’s something gentle laced beneath the firmness of Armin. He never raises his voice. Not with Jubie. Not with you. When he speaks, the world seems to know to listen.

Sometimes he even says things like that to you, too.

“Finish your food ‘fore it gets cold.”

“Get your jacket, sweetheart. Mornin’s chilly today.”

“Mm-mm. Sit up straight, shoulders back. There you go.”

Each sentence invokes a warm fuzz beneath your chest. Even more so when he’s speaking to both you and Jubie at once, “You two stick together out there.”

“You girls eat yet?”

“ C’mon now. Y’all bet not make me repeat myself.”

Little moments like that stack up over the weeks. You’ve realized somewhere down the line that it’s simply natural for him. Being authoritative, that pillar of stability and quiet control that catalyzes everything to lean against him. The farm, the animals . . Jubie. You think about one, certain evening.

You hadn’t mean to eavesdrop . . it’d just been something that happened. You’d been walking up the back trail from the creek — lately, you’ve been finding yourself spending time near it to pick up an old hobby, journaling. Back when you were younger, you’d do it often. It helped you sort through things. Your feelings and thoughts that were much too tangled to be spoken out loud.

You saw the kitchen’s back door was propped open . . something they do when they know you’re out, however that night, you heard it — Jubie’s voice drifting out into the warm, mid August air. It’d been different than usual, still sweet and gentle as always, though . . warbly. Pitched only slightly higher, too. Armin never interrupted her as she spoke. You watched him lean against the sink with his buff arms folded as she stood in front of him already showered with her bonnet on and in a pretty, pj set. Their size difference was stark — that’s what you remembered most. She only barely reached the middle of his chest.

So that’s how you look standing next to him too?

When she was done speaking, there’d been a calm pause. Then, finally Armin said something. “Alright.”

A beat.

“An’ what do you want Dad to do about that, hm?”

The word had made you completely halt in your steps towards the porch. Dad. There wasn’t a smile on neither of their faces. It wasn’t said jokingly or even casually. It was said as if it was always meant to be there. You recall the way Jubie sniffled and shuffled on her feet.

“You don’t get to stand here in front of me and act like you ain’t do nothin’, Jubilee,” Armin’s voice was calm and contained yet she still gave a small, barely visible flinch at the sound of her full name leaving his lips. “I know you better than that, you know yer’self better than that. Now get on up them stairs—“

“—B-But—“

“—Hey.” Not loud. Just firm. He straightened himself up prior to leaning forward. The air settles around them both.“You had your say. I listened.” His fingers grabbed her chin to pull her face up to his. “It’s your turn to listen to me.”

Her shoulders had dropped before she sniffled again. No more back talk. You heard her mumble a small, “Yes, sir,” before slowly turning to walk out into the hall.

Maybe you should have moved then — continued up the porch steps or rather even walked around the house to enter through the front door in efforts to be less inconspicuous. But, you remained standing there, doe eyed and stuck, watching Armin remain in front of the counter like nothing had changed at all. That’s what glued itself to your psyche. The naturalness of the conversation.

Then, shockingly, after settling himself back leaning against it with a low sigh, he turned his head towards the back screen door. “You can gon’ head and come on in now, missy.”

Your heart drops.

He doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to see you when you pull open the screen door and slowly step inside. He just looks at you — icy blue eyes evaluating the pink and cream striped tube top with matching fold-over shorts you wear down to the dirty Reeboks on your feet then the lace trimmed journal clutched between your little fingers. “. . Enjoyed y’self out there?”

A small pause before you end up nodding.

“Nothin’ bite on ya’, right? Put on that repellant like I asked?”

“Mhm,” one more nod. “No bites.”

He hums. You watch his eyes trail again, somehow even slower this time. His stare drags across your bare collarbones, to the slope of your shoulders, down to the gold bracelet on your wrist. “ ‘m thinkin’ about breakfast for dinner, what d’ya say, dollface . .” Then they slowly drag back up into your own.

The surface of your cheeks warm as you clutch your journal a little bit tighter. “French toast.”

A thick, blond brow raises as he folds him arms, prior to reaching up to scratch at the scruff of his jaw. “Probably . . . but I thought we were workin’ on manners, me and you. Sounds more like a demand.”

You hiccup on a breath, “Oh.” Armin could tell that you’ve gotten so used to being quiet and staying out of the way that whenever you do get the chance to use your words, most of your sentences are curt, short, and to the point. Not a lot of ‘please’s or ‘can I’s. He doesn’t like that too much. He watches you nibble on your bottom lip, words seemingly dancing on your tongue before you softly ask, “May we have french toast?”

“Better.”

He notices how your shoulders relax. Pushing himself off of leaning upon the counter, Armin brushes past you to close the wooden door, lock it, then open the pantry. “You been down by that creek a good while today. Go wash up.”

Your sneakers scuff against the floor as you go to head towards the hall, “Yes, sir.”

However, the conversation you just happened to overhear replays in your mind — Jubie’s soft, whimpery voice echos the loudest, therefore you halt. “Uhm . .”

“Hm?” Armin murmurs with his back towards you while untwisting the plastic around a loaf of bread.

“. . Did Jubie do somethin’ wrong?”

You watch him pause. For a moment, you anticipate him simply brushing you off, maybe even blatantly ignoring your question entirely to continue sending you off upstairs. You’re unready to hear him huff a sound, though — something akin to a small chuckle. “Naw,” he quietly replies. “Not nothin’ wrong. Jus’ somethin’ I told her not to.”

You linger in the doorway with your fingers clutched around the frame of it. “Was it bad?”

“She’ll live,” he responds while opening the fridge to grab a basket full of brown and white eggs, followed by a carton of milk. “Girl jus’ needs remindin’ sometimes. Ain’t gotta like or understand my rules but they will be respected.”

The crack of an egg shell against the rim of a porcelain bowl forces you on your way, but you can hear it as you walk upstairs . . . the words he didn’t say.

And that goes for the both a’ya.

・・・・・

While scrubbing your skin clean free from the smell of creek water and grass with strawberries and cream scented body wash beneath the firm pressured beads of water pouring from the head of the shower, the word Dad slowly finds its way looping throughout your usual thoughts. It’s not something you misheard, you know that. There’s a weird feeling stirring in your gut. Something crossed between inquisition and something else you can’t quite name. When you picture the scene again — Armin standing there, big arms folded, voice low and steady as Jubie sniffled in front of him . . your chest tightens a little. You don’t know why.

You’ve never seen Jubie like that before. You’ve never seen her stand so small in front of someone . . never seen it . . fit so naturally either. You think about what if it were you . . moreso, what if it were you standing beside her, meek and soft too, listening to Armin’s low, gruff voice drawl out his words, coated in a certain type of patience that makes his disappointment feel all the more worse. His gaze moving between the two of you.

Your heart skips.

You blow out a heavy breath and turn the shower knob with a little more force than needed to cut it off. No, is what you tell yourself. You can’t. You won’t.

Cool air wafts against your skin when you open the bathroom door after wrapping a fluffy, white towel around your body. You’re prepared to simply cross the short distance to your room to continue your nightly routine when you see it . . . Armin and Jubie’s bedroom door left slightly ajar. Wide eyed, you blink softly at it. You shouldn’t. You know it. But you walk on over and carefully push it open anyway.

It creaks when you do.

The room smells like fresh laundry detergent and, interestingly enough, pipe tobacco. It’s bigger than the one you occupy, completed with three, long rectangular windows behind their large, king sized farmhouse bed that’s layered with quilts and half a dozen pillows where Jubie lies on her stomach, legs crossed at the ankles and swaying in the air. She’s rubbing one of Babs’ floppy ears between her small, nimble fingers, deep pout on her lips before looking up to see you. Instantly, her eyes widen.

“Oh,” quickly, she pushes herself up to take a seat upon her butt. “I t-thought you were Armin.”

“Sorry,” you mutter as you slowly step inside. “I wanted to check on you. Uhm . . he’s makin’ french toast.”

Steam still emits off of your skin in pale clouds as Jubie’s eyes flicker over your face before down at the towel wrapped around your body. “Come sit,” she whispers with two soft pats to the cushiony comforter she sits upon. Hesitating, you eventually walk over to do so. She’s been making you more nervous lately, you don’t understand it. “So,” your eyes are big and unguarded when you gently ask, “Why’d you get in trouble?”

You watch her hesitate. Then surprisingly, a deep coral shade starts to blossom beneath the light brown skin of her dimpled cheeks. “It’s kinda dumb,” she mumbles back.

You give a little smile and head shake. “No, tell me.”

Jubie shakes hers too, “No, no . . he jus’ . . caught me doin’ somethin’, takin’ somethin’ I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Ohhh,” slowly, you nod. “. . So, you got sent upstairs.”

“Mhm,” she’s reverted back to looking back down at Babs before her voice gets a little quieter. “Sometimes I’d jus’ rather deal with the spankins.”

The words dwindle . . soft yet impactful. It makes your breath hitch at the sheer picture of it . . Jubie bent over a short gate, outside probably, with one of her cute, polka dotted sundresses flipped up to expose the soft cheeks of her plump, heart shaped butt. Armin’s palm, his belt, or a switch, cracking down on them, left then right . . turning them that same coral shade of the blush painted across her face, then red, maybe even a soft mauve if pushed to that point.

“Oh my gosh — No, I mean . .—“ Jubie must have realized what she said. But quickly, softly, you interrupt, “ ‘s okay.” Your voice is quieter than expected. It swiftly makes Jubie’s words die out upon her tongue, leaving her to simply stare at you.

It’s a different stare.

One you’ve never seen from her. She’s staring at you the way one would daydream — sleek, cat like monolids relaxed yet . . dazed over . . . like she’s thinking about something. It’s heavy for you, thus, you look away with your cheeks burning warm to take a better look around their room. Wallpaper the color of neutral brown with vintage flowers printed all over it invokes a sort of cozy feeling within you. More landscape paintings and a few framed pictures cover it. You spot Jubie’s vanity flushed against the wall between the closet and bathroom door, surface dotted with glass bottles of perfumes, hair care items, and cosmetics. A large wooden dresser’s top holds a small, ceramic tray filled with rings, next to it is an opened music box that showcases her necklaces and earrings.

A box of cigarettes and a lamp sits on Armin’s nightstand, a packet of candy on Jubie’s. There’s a softness to everything. More specifically, a small corner, not too far from the bed, beside the large bookcase. It catches your eye because the circular, fuzzy, pink rug there stands out a bit more compared to the neutrals of the rest of the room. Closer, you look to see a large basket of plush toys, the small stack of children’s books on the lower shelf, the few toys.

“I get small sometimes . . . most times . .” Jubie utters when she follows your stare. Quickly, you look back at her, unable to feel like you’ve walked in on something far too intimate now. “That’s all.”

“Oh,” is all you can breathe out.

The sentence had been six words long but . . somehow it completes the puzzle that’s been quietly forming in your brain since you stepped foot over their front door’s threshold. Jubie’s softness, the way Armin handles her, it all settles into place. “. . You call him Dad?”

Slowly, she nods as her fingers fidget with her nightshirt now, “Sometimes . . He takes care of me in that way, too.”

The gentle honesty makes your stomach flip. You’re nodding softly when you whisper, “That’s good, Jubie.”

She glances up at you then. She seems part relieved and part . . enamored. “You’ve always understood me.”

You can’t help giggling, “You’ve always understood me too, silly.”

For a moment neither of you say much else. You’ve come to realize that you two are seated pretty close. Her soft, painted toes brush up against your thigh when she slowly wiggles them while letting eyes drift down from your own to the curve of your neck. Heart thudding, you watch her lean in closer to you, eyes halfway closed to then breathe in through her nose, “. . . You smell like strawberries.”

You take the chance of leaning in too. It leaves only a sliver of space between your bodies at this point when you shyly angle your nose for the pocket of her neck. “You smell like . . roses.”

Softly, she giggles, her breath soft and warm against your cheek, “Really?”

“Mhm.”

The air between you both prickles with emotion when you pull back to look into her eyes once more. She’s staring at you . . in that way again — that faraway kind of stare. Timidly, you smile, “. . . Hi.”

Her lips quirk, “. . Hi, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

Then, without saying much else, she leans forward.

She doesn’t press her lips against yours . . not yet. Softly, she brushes them across the plump petals of your own, slow and uncertain as if she were feeling the moment out, feeling you out before taking the chance. Instantaneously, your hands fly to her knees to squeeze at them in quivering shock, needing to steady yourself. The both of your breathing grows shaky. “You’re so pretty,” Jubie mumbles, her voice barely even a pitch louder than the droning hum of the ceiling fan whirling away up above. The compliment gives you enough confidence to tentatively take the chance at pecking hers. She gasps softly at the small contact, “C-Can I . . ?”

In the same instance, you both deepen the kiss.

Jubie’s hands lift to delicately cup your face as your grip remains tightened at her knees before it slowly softens once your lips begin to move with a sweet kind of eagerness that makes your heart flutter in your chest.

The pace isn’t rushed. Not at all. It’s just a slow pressure as you both try to figure out the rhythm together. You feel her mouth part open wider when you tilt your head, the angle shifting just enough to make your noses brush against one another’s. The scent of her fills your senses, mixing well with the sweet, clean scent of your showered skin . . it feels intimate as your soft, plush lips move against each other in slow, graceful harmony.

Distantly, you find this to be releasing. You think Jubie does, too — you feel it when she sighs into your mouth before pushing in closer to you. Because, in a way, Jubie’s always been pretty . . she’s always made your heart thud . . she’s always made you feel things you never quite knew how to properly explain. And when the both of you finally pull apart and you see the emotion swimming deep within the dark browns of her eyes, you realize that maybe you’ve always done the same to her.

For a while, neither of you speak.

But something anew has blossomed.

Downstairs, the faint clatter of a pot causes your heads to turn towards the door. “He’s probably almost done,” Jubie says with color flourishing up to her cheeks again.

You nod, but you don’t move. She doesn’t either. Instead, her hand slowly pushes across the quilt to gently lace her index finger around yours. Her touch makes you close your eyes and sigh. “. . You should go put on your pjs.”

Right.

“Yeah.” Slowly, you stand to adjust the towel around your body. “ ‘ll come get you when dinner’s ready, okay?”

Jubie nods, “Yeah.”

・・・・・

One would think you and Jubie’s friendship would grow awkward after that. She’s in a relationship, you know that. She’s in love with Armin, Armin’s in love with her, you know that . . however, interestingly enough, you both become somehow even more in tuned to one another — like a new undercurrent beneath your already strong baseline has been established. Farm duties are still completed, for the most part, together. But it’s not just that anymore.

Everything starts to feel synced . . coordinated . . effortless.

When the both of you sit on the couch during the evening for a period of relaxation with a cute cartoon or an old, 60s romantic film playing on the television screen, Jubie’s legs are naturally draping over your lap. You rub your fingers against her soft calves as you two quietly speak and giggle. She does your hair one day — washes it in the kitchen sink, detangles, finger curls each coil and zigzags a part down the middle to give you two, big, cute puffs. The whole ordeal took about three hours, however you never once felt restless.

Instead, you sat patiently on a chair she sat out on the porch, feeling her fingers weaving softly through your hair while watching Armin push bales of hay across the field. You start to recognize the subtle signs Jubie shows when she’s slipping a little bit smaller now, too. How her voice softens, how she grows a little more quieter, and needy. It takes a lot of self restraint in you to not want to follow her there. Each time it happens, there’s a small part of you that wants to let go — sink into that same sweet softness and stop thinking so hard about everything, about everyone, about those bad memories.

But, you don’t.

You watch her sit on the porch, legs criss crossed as she carefully colors in a butterfly within a page of a coloring book with an array of about fifty crayons beside her thigh, watch her doodle cute drawings on the slab of concrete out near the back field with fat pieces of pastel chalk whose dye gets all over her legs, arms and face, nap on the hayloft with Babs after a particular long day, and fall into Armin when that same sweet softness gets to be all consuming.

Armin.

You try not to freak out too much when you find his icy blue stare lingering on the way you and Jubie hold hands while walking to the barn to brush the horses or when the two of you are doing anything else together for that matter. He knows. You know that he knows, you just aren’t too sure if he knows the sheer extent of what he knows. It drives you crazy.

He hasn’t said anything.

He won’t say anything . . . not yet.

But you catch him looking, really looking at the two of you now, and each time it happens, you’re quick to drop Jubie’s hand or straighten your posture or add some type of distance between the two of you . . out of respect. There’d been a particular, blazing hot afternoon where you and Jubie had been playing with the hose — both of you dressed in tiny, denim daisy dukes, tied tops, barefoot, and sparkly eyed. You both were screaming and giggling, fighting to pull the hose out of the other’s hand, chasing each other across the bright green field and spraying each other until you were completely soaked.

And he just stood there off by his truck with one arm hooked over the bed of it, cigarette burning slow between his fingers.

Watching.

You saw it in the way his eyes trailed after you both beneath his hat, how the corner of his mouth slightly twitched as if he were storing the sight for something private to remember later on. It’s not just that neither. You and Jubie would be lazing together on the couch before you suddenly feel that familiar feeling of prickles crawling across the back of your neck. You’d look behind you to see him leaning against the archway, arms folded, studying the two of you like he’s trying to work out the last few letters of a crossword that’s already ninety percent completed.

It makes you nervous . . definitely.

However . . . you’ve come to realize that something else within your heart, mind, and soul has started to happen. Your feelings for Jubie deepen more and more by the day. You find yourself noticing the shape of her smile a bit too much, needy for the warmth of her lithe body against yours when you’re in bed, and feel the way butterflies flutter about your stomach when she stares at you for a beat longer than usual. Surely, what you feel for her no longer walks the line of platonic.

And then there’s Armin.

If it’s guilt you feel when you find yourself thinking about Jubie while around him, it’s pure shame when you catch yourself thinking about him, admiring him when she’s standing right beside you.

It’s difficult to try to ignore the way he moves about the farm, about life. The weight behind each of his steps, broad swell of his biceps when he bends his arms to snatch off his work gloves, the calm, deep croon of his voice when he’s speaking to you or Jubie or giving instructions. And it’s unfortunate to realize, but ignoring doesn’t stop the feelings from growing.

When you catch him reclined back in his chair, Jubie fast asleep on his lap, as he nurses a glass of whisky and watches a court show, you’re aware of his stare dragging on over to you sitting curled up on the sofa with Lily clutched between your fingers like a lifeline. Not cold or even inquiring, but . . thoughtful. Like, he’s thinking about something. Taking note of something.

Heat crawls up your spine and blossoms across your face each time you catch that look because the actual truth of the matter is, your feelings for Armin and Jubie are separate, nonetheless, they grow side by side, inching up your heart to tighten around it like a noose.

It becomes difficult to sleep most nights because of them.

But tonight’s just one of those nights where you’ve found yourself drained. Mentally, physically, emotionally, so after eating and showering, you shut your door, climb into bed and pass out. Then the nightmare comes — this one the most terrifying one you’ve experienced in a long time. It all seems to happen in quick bursts. You discovering Armin and Jubie standing out by the barn one early morning, the two of them hesitating for a second before telling you that they didn’t mean for things to get so confusing, that it’s best if you leave and found your own slice of happiness. Suddenly the farmhouse wasn’t the farmhouse, but your tiny, two bedroom duplex you grew up in. Doors slamming, screams echoing, your chest cracks open.

That awful feeling of not belonging anywhere, like you’re always too much — it spans over your entire body, leaving your eyes to suddenly burst open as your chest quickly rises and falls.

Your fingers are trembling when you lift them to your face only to pull them back and see the salt traced wetness glistening faintly against the pads of them through the bright moonlight spilling in through the curtains. For a moment, you don’t move. You remain lying there, fighting to even out your fast, quivering breaths as a deep hollow caves itself within your heart . . . remnants that some of these dreams can’t help but leave behind. Squeezing your eyes shut before pressing the heels of your palms against them, you try to forget about it.

In, out. In, out. In, out.

But you still see it — Jubie stepping behind Armin, Armin’s gruff voice telling you that you’ll be alright. Unthinking, you push your quilt from off of your body to swing your legs over and press your feet against the cool, hardwood. The house is completely silent, you’re aware that the two of them may be sleeping, therefore, you try your best to be as silent as possible upon opening your door and slipping past their own for the staircase. Some water and fresh air, that’s all you need. You’ll calm down in no time.

However, you’re halfway down the hall to the kitchen when you notice that the amber glow of the stove light is on. You pause halfway and look behind you at the front door, only to see it still closed and locked — same way it’s been since six o clock when Armin called you and Jubie in for the evening. Carefully, you round the kitchen doorway’s corner to see him . . . standing in front of the stove, broad back facing you, as he stirs something in a small sauce pan with a wooden spoon.

Your barefoot touching the tile of the kitchen is loud enough to have him look over his shoulder to see you standing there, dressed in a butter yellow, thin strapped babydoll slip. You’re wide eyed as you go to subconsciously cross your arms over your tummy, even as your chest still rises and falls with shaky, shallow breaths and your cheeks are sticky with dried tears.

Armin’s gaze lingers on the picture you make before he asks, “Feelin’ alright?”

He wears a pair of plaid, navy and red pajama pants and white undershirt. His hair’s loose tonight in a way you’ve never seen — dirty blond waves fluffy and sticking up this way and that. You inch towards the table, “J-Jus’ a bad dream.”

“Mmm,” he hums while turning back forward and clicking off the burner. “I heard you cryin’.”

Your eyes grow a bit bigger, “Really? — Oh, I’m . . I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to apologize for.”

You watch him open a cabinet. His fingers had paused while reaching for a plain, pink ceramic mug before he extends his arm further in to pull free a thicker, plastic one from behind it — clear with cute strawberries printed all over it. One of those that you have to manually open with the push of a button on the lid that pops a straw out. Outside, you hear the faint chirping of crickets and the hum of cicadas as he unscrews the top, lifts the pan off of the oven, and slowly pours in the milk that’s been warmed until it nearly touches the brim.

Each step is slow and unhurried as he walks over to you while twisting the lid back on. When he stops in front of you, you’re left simply standing there, head lifted to watch him look back down at you, eyes heavy lidded, “. . Drink it ‘fore it cools.”

Delicately, you take the cup from his hands, your fingers brushing against one another’s for a split second. The warmth of the milk immediately seeps against your palms. You take a small, tentative sip, surprised to taste vanilla and a splash of cinnamon against your tongue.

“M’grandmother used to make me this ‘fore bed sometimes,” he mutters with his eyes fastened on your lips wrapped around that jumbo straw. “. . Tell me about the dream.”

You swallow and pull it away as the sharp feeling of embarrassment crawls its fingers up your spine, “ ‘s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

You pause as your eyes fall to his chest while looking for the right words. Silence feels long and heavy until you break it with, “I dreamt . . that you and Jubie sent me away.”

You don’t look up at him again, but you hear him inhale a breath through his nose. “ ‘s that right.”

Slowly, you nod. Your voice is quieter when you say, “Told you it was stupid.”

“Ain’t stupid. You jus’ scared you don’t belong here wit’ us, that’s all.”

You didn’t say that part out loud, however, somehow he gets it. Glancing up at him, you notice that he hasn’t pulled his ardent, blue gaze away from your face. He doesn’t make a move to add some distance between your bodies neither, no, he remains standing only about a step and a half away from you with his arms folded. “Shouldn’t bother stressin’ yer’self with matters like that, sweetheart. You ain’t goin’ anywhere. Jubie and I both know that.”

The certainty traced beneath his words are absolute. They make you shiver. One nudge beneath the bottom of your cup from him and you’re understanding that he wants you to drink some more.

“Atta girl,” he mumbles. The praise slips in casually, almost an absentminded thing it sounds like, yet something in you blooms all the more.

Eyes drifting downward, Armin takes in your still quivering fingers, strap of your babydoll hanging off of your shoulder . . . such a pretty thing you are, it’s downright criminal. “You an’ Jubie . . . the two a’ya remind me a lot of each other,” he hums, low and thoughtful. “Both sweet as sugar. Real soft hearts. Carryin’ the same kinda hurt.”

Your stomach flips, listening to him speak like he’s been plagued with this conception for a while now. “You girls get that same kinda look, too.”

“What look?”

“Dazed,” he answers back, voice quiet but matter-of-fact. “Doe eyed . . . Like y’close to slippin’ back into somethin’ small but you keep fightin’ it.”

As you stand there, heart racing and shocked, Armin scratches at his scruff. “Don’t know why you girls do that . . man like me has always been more than capable of takin’ care’a things like that.”

You hadn’t realized that you were that obvious. You hadn’t realized that he noticed. “I don’t . . . I didn’t . .” you can’t find the words.

“You ain’t gotta hide that part a’ya is all I’m sayin’,” Armin finishes as his voice dips slightly deeper. “It don’t bother me none. I take care of what’s mine.”

Blinking, you watch him take a couple steps away to reach up and flick off the stovetop light. For a moment, it leaves the both of you enshrouded in nothing but the moonlight pouring in through the windows. You feel him staring at you, even as he starts on his way towards the hall, “C’mon.”

“Hm?”

“Back upstairs. You shouldn’t be by y’self after a dream like that.”

Oh.

“I-I’ll be o—“

He’s shaking his head after a quick suckle to his canine tooth, “Nah, nah. I don’t wanna hear that. Honey bee’s already sleep, we got plenty a’room for you. C’mon.”

You’re aware that he isn’t really giving you a choice. Still, you waver. He’s already halfway down the hall when he stops then glances back at you over his shoulder. Leaving your half full cup on the table, your feet move on their own. As he leads you throughout the house, towards the staircase, you can’t help but take in how different he looks at night opposed to day. Still solid, still steady, just . . slightly softer around the edges. He smells like soap and smoke.

Their bedroom door is already cracked open when his palm pushes it wider. You’re thumbing with your fingers, looking up at him for permission when your foot crosses the threshold. He’s right. Jubie’s asleep. You spot her immediately, curled beneath the comforters, curls spilling from her silk scarf upon her pillow as she sleeps with her lips parted and fists curled beneath her cheek.

She looks small. At ease.

The sight makes you smile a bit. “I don’t wanna wake her,” you whisper softly to Armin as he nudges you on closer with his fingers on your hips.

“She’ll be okay. Jus’ climb in.”

You move slowly as you climb onto the mattress like you’re afraid you might break something. Heart fluttering, you lift the cover to slide in beside Jubie, not surprised to watch her eyebrows furrow in her sleep before she slowly stirs awake.

She blinks, bleary eyes focusing on you laying your head on the same pillow beneath her head. It takes her a longer couple of seconds, but once fully conscious, a small, sleepy smile overtakes her lips, “. . Hi.”

Your responding smile is shy, “Hi.”

Her voice is lighter yet still thick with sleep, “Bad dream?”

“. . Yeah.”

She doesn’t ask anymore questions. Instantly, she scoots closer, draping one arm lazily over your waist while nuzzling her face into your shoulder. The position is nostalgic. Instincts let you tuck your face into her own, close your eyes and breathe. “ ‘s okay,” Jubie sleepily murmurs. “ ‘ll make you waffles in the mornin’.”

Seated at the edge of the bed, Armin watches the whole thing. A quiet exhale leaves him as his stare moves between how naturally the two of you curl into each other, like pieces of a puzzle. He noticed down there in the kitchen how your body had been tensed tight, full of leftover fear and panic from that nightmare, however now, the warmth of Jubie seems to be easing it all away.

Slow and careful, he shifts forward, feeling the mattress dip as he settles in behind Jubie, not surprised to feel her relax against him, even in her sleep, like she’s done a thousand times before. Armin’s arm lifts, settling it across her waist which only nudges you closer to her. And without waking, your fingers search, slow and twitchy, until they catch on Armin’s fingers. You wrap your hand around his middle and ring, squeezing on them softly.

Armin doesn’t react. If anything, his thumb moves to stroke careful brushes across your inner wrist.

There’s no separation between the three of you. Just warmth, comfort, and quiet.

Eyes blinking for just a couple seconds longer, he takes in the scene with a quiet shake of his head. The two of you are going to be the death of him.

・・・・・

“You wanna have a picnic out in the backyard? . . Jus’ you and me?”

Jubie had asked you the question about an hour ago. It’s been a couple days since your whole nightmare ordeal and nothing has changed — neither for better or worse. Life with them goes on about the same but you think about Armin’s words more than anything.

”You ain’t going anywhere. Jubie and I both know that.”

”Like y’close to slippin’ back into somethin’ small but you keep fightin’ it.”

”It don’t bother me none. I take care of what’s mine.”

Part of you doesn’t really know what to do with the feelings they invoke inside of you. They don’t feel like a threat . . . but they don’t feel light either. Had he meant to insinuate that you’re . . his? Does that mean, in some sort of twisted way that he’s yours? Is Jubie yours, too? It’s all sort of confusing. It doesn’t help that he seemingly doesn’t care to explain neither.

It feels good to sunbathe on a quilt within the mid October sun nonetheless. The leaves are starting to brown, same with the grass. Humidity is switched out for a cool, refreshing breeze. Some of the bugs are retiring back from which they came after their short lived summer. Both you and Jubie are barefoot in flowy, pretty sundresses. You watch her unpack the little, wicker basket she’d brought from the kitchen, seeing that its contents included a few, plastic wrapped sandwiches, platter of fruit, and a couple juice boxes.

You listen to her softly hum a tune to herself as she arranges everything neatly. “Hungry?”

“Mmm,” you shrug and fold your legs butterfly style. “Not super. Think ‘m jus’ snack hungry.”

“Eat some,” she coaxes with gestures to the fruit. She takes a fat piece of a pineapple spear and bites into it first. You take your chance with a couple of cold, green grapes.

And for a while, you both sit there within the calm, farm silence, listening to the wind, cows, and horses sing.

“You ever gonna give me a peek . .?”

Looking over at Jubie, you find that her eyes are stuck on your journal that lays between the space of your legs. Your words have always flowed best when you’re out in fresh air — it’s why you brought it outside with you today. Cheeks warm, you sway from left to right on your butt, “I dunnooo . .” you softly say. “Mostly jus’ poems in here . . and some sad thoughts.”

“Yeah?” her lips pout. “Do you feel sad often?”

The question stumps you for a second. Reason being, when asked this six months ago, you would’ve told her that you’ve only ever felt sad for the majority of your life so far. However, as of late . . “Not really. I’ve been okay.”

“Good, that makes me happy.”

Another comfortable silence. You finish your handful of grapes, look around you, then ask, “. . I never got to ask you how you got here . . . or why you left Georgia.” You’ve always wondered. For weeks and months and years. Why she suddenly up and left, why she never told you . . or took you with her.

Jubie squints up at the sun, nose cutely wrinkled, “Jus’ got tired of it . .” she retorts after a moment. “Of him, you know? ‘Member I told you about m’auntie in Tennessee?” When you nod, Jubie does too. “Well, she always told me her door was open for me. She hated m’mom . . for good reason, obviously. I managed to hitchhike my way to her old trailer park, lived with her ‘til I was eighteen, then I left there too. She was good to me but, stayin’ there jus’ wasn’t the life for me, I could feel it. So somehow, after some more hitchhikin’ . . I ended up here, got a lil gig as a shoe shiner in town, lived in a motel for a bit, eventually took up that waitress job, then . .” Her lips curl up. “Armin came.”

“Oh,” you thumb with the pages of your journal. Jubie leans in closer to you, “How’d you get here?”

“I left home when I was sixteen,” you gently reply, unsurprised to watch her lips pop open in awe. “Yeah . . . Got put in foster care not too long after you left, hopped around from home to home until I ended up a few cities away from here. I lived in a few motels too, before I met this . . guy when I turned twenty.” Jubie notices how you start to fidget and scratch at your shoulder. Whatever memories that are currently flying through your brain aren’t any good ones. “Stayed with him for two years until I finally decided to buy a random bus ticket and get away from ‘im.”

Softly, Jubie hums. Her eyes slowly scan your face before she reaches to interlace her fingers within the spaces of yours. “And that random bus ticket landed you here . . .”

“Isn’t that insane?”

The two of you giggle. It’s a shared laugh full of disbelief on how all the pieces managed to fall into place the way that they did. “Tell me . .” you look away to the blanket, nibble on your bottom lip then look back up at Jubie. She can’t help but notice how bashful you seem now. “Tell me how you and Armin . . how you guys came to be.”

Jubie grins, peers down at your conjoined hands then squeezes yours. “Well . . .” she cutely drags. “I guess you can say I had a teensie crush on him for weeks before the two of us even talked. He used to come to the diner all the time and order the same thing — country fried steak, eggs, and a coffee. Comes up to me one day and tells me that he’s takin’ me to his farm, that he needs some help so . . I go. I worked with him for about . . a month before he jus, drove me to m’motel one night, grabbed all m’stuff, then basically moved me in.”

Your eyebrows lift, “Jus’ like that?”

Jubie nods, once and firm, “Crazy, isn’t he? . . Well, I thought so. I dunno. I lived in the room you’re stayin’ in for a couple a’months. And for a while, we were jus’ . . farmer and his lil farmhand, I guess.”

She suddenly trails off yet doesn’t continue. You watch her cheeks burn bright as she continues to smile while playing with your fingers. Bending your neck, you try to meet her eye again, “And then?”

She covers her face, “Then I let him slide his fingers down m’knickers on the porch one night.”

You gasp. Jubie squeaks.

“I jus’ . . let him. I wanted him to,” she pouts as you begin to giggle. “That next mornin’, I got real shy and curt with him. But he asked if I felt safe here, with him, I told him yes, then he said good, because he didn’t have plans on lettin’ me leave.”

You’re still softly laughing as you cover your smile with a few fingers, “That’s . . . really romantic, I think.”

Jubie huffs through her nose, “I think so too.”

“How does he make you feel?”

She doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, she looks out into the distance at the barn while the wind dances through her long, dark curls that are a bit more frizzy today. You like it like this. “So good,” she finally sighs back. “He sees me . . for me. Understands me. He takes care of me like no one has before.”

Your chest warms, watching her turn back to face you. Her expression shifts into one much softer yet . . elfish. You don’t know how to read it until she whispers, “How does he make you feel?”

Your smile fades as the thudding of your heart picks up. “Me? . . .” You wonder if you should just book it for the house, if she would catch you. “Uhm, good . .? Yeah, good. He’s . . . nicer than I thought.”

“Mm, yeah?” Jubie’s eyebrows lift as you nod. “. . . Such a liar.”

“What?”

She’s smirking now. “You’ve always been a bad liar.”

Swallowing, you shake your head, “ ‘m . . ‘m not lyin’ about anythin’ Jubie—“

“—Yes, you are.”

“I’m not—“

“—Yes, you areee-eeee,” she falls back onto the blanket, leaving you to sit there while feeling like your heart is going to come coughing up your throat. She rests her interlocked fingers upon the surface of her tummy, still smiling while gazing up at you with those sharp, almond eyes that always felt like they could read into your soul. “. . He likes you, too . . . A lot. More than I think you know.”

Your eyes drop to your hands as you begin to shake your head. “No. That doesn’t make any sense, Jules.”

She scoffs a soft laugh of shock, “And why not? You don’t think that you’re likeable?”

“I t-think that he’s in a relationship . . with you.”

She’s quickly sitting up again, this time, closer to you. “Back when I first left . . I thought about you a lot. I’d lie awake sometimes wonderin’ what you were doin’, if you were okay.” Your throat tightens as you continue to trace the lace around the cover of your journal with your finger. “I always hoped you got out, too. Was like, a dream come true to see you again that day, I almost didn’t believe it.”

You glance up just in time to see that her eyes have fallen to your lips. When they snap back up into yours, they’re warm and bright . . full of so much emotion when she simply says, “I adore you.”

The words come out delicately — like she’s placing something small and precious between the two of you.

Your lips part but not a word slips from between them. You feel stuck.

A soft smile she wears as Jubie goes on to say, “I always did. Since we were six.” The wind picks up, blowing both your curls across your cheeks. “And lately . . . uhm. I t-think things have been feelin’ different for me.”

You hear your blood rushing through your ears. “D-Different how?”

“I jus’ notice things now. Little things.”

“. . Yeah?”

“Mhm,” she traces her finger in shy circles upon your knee. “Like, how you look when you’re concentratin’ on somethin’. Or when you whisper stuff you wanna ask me or Armin to yourself first before you do. How cute you look when you’re full and sleepy.”

Heat slowly crawls up your face.

You watch her scoot a bit closer to mumble, “You feel it too, don’t you?”

“I . . d-don’t know what I feel.”

“ ‘s okay.” Her voice is gentle and reassuring and something in you absolutely caves upon the realization of Jubie not being scared of this . . of you. Therefore, before your nerves start to over activate themselves again, you suddenly lean forward to press your lips against hers.

The moment is soft again. Warm. You feel how Jubie freezes in shock for a second until it all settles in. She returns the kiss slowly with a soft sigh as you push deeper, a little less careful, feeling her hands slide up your thighs to the dip of your waist. You pull her closer by the neckline of her dress, tongue swiping against the seam of her lips to taste pineapple as she tilts her head, opens her mouth, and welcomes it in.

The tiny, breathy sound you make shoots right through Jubie and down to the bud of her clit. Closer, she pulls you until she lands on her back, you above her with your hands cradling her face as the kiss grows more eager, warmer, sloppier. Neither of you barely notice the world around you at this point until,

Clap!

The sharp sound of the screen door slamming forces you both away from one another to see Armin standing there, arm resting on one of the porch beams as he watches . . quietly. It seems he must’ve been there for a couple seconds longer than what either of you may think because his posture is settled — shoulders relaxed beneath his fitted flannel and hat brim raised to get a better look at two girls kissing on a blanket in his backyard.

Your stomach drops. You feel how still Jubie grows beneath you.

Even from feet away, you feel his his gaze slowly drift from you . . back to Jubie . . then back to you again.

Nobody says anything for a long while. Then he pushes off the frame and says, “Get y’selves situated then meet me in the living room. Five minutes.”

And with that, he turns and carries himself back on in the house.

“. . . Jubie . .”

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

You scramble upright first while smoothing your hands down the fabric of your dress. A million thoughts race throughout your brain — most of them including you being sent away. “I-Is he mad? Do you think he’s mad?”

Jubie realizes exactly what you’re thinking. Slowly sitting up, she presses her hand against your chest, “No, no. Jus’ breathe, lovie. Okay? It’ll be okay.”

Exhaling a shaky breath, together, the two of you work on gathering the blanket and scattered food, working in nervous silence. You follow behind her across the grass, up the porch, and inside the house. Its okay. Jubie said it’ll be okay so it’s okay. You repeat the mantra to yourself the entire walk down the hall towards the living room, trying to keep your hands from trembling to much upon finally seeing him, standing beside the mantle with a glass of ice water tilted at his lips. His hat is off . . seemed to be tossed upon the couch, leaving his waves loose and free.

You and Jubie stand there quietly, within the archway, watching him slowly take the glass of water to the head . . slow and easy, bit by bit until it’s completely gone. And with a languid, deep breath released from his chest after swallowing, he firmly sits the cup upon the mantle with a thick clunk. Silence stretches . . . He doesn’t look angry. It eases your worries a bit.

“Two a’you girls feel like explainin’?”

Your throat feels like it’s being squeezed between someone’s fingers. Looking down at your feet, you shuffle back and forth on them while hearing Jubie speak, “W-We didn’t mean—“

His voice cuts in, calm but blunt, “—How long’s this been goin’ on?”

She shakes her head quickly, “Not long, Papa, I promise. We jus’ . . kissed once before . . like, t-three weeks ago now.”

One of his eyebrows lift, “Three weeks.”

Timidly, Jubie nods. Studying her, Armin tries to catch tale of a lie however, upon finding himself unable to, he looks at you. You remain quietly standing beside her, head bowed, and fidgeting with your fingers like you’ve just been caught with your fingers inside his cookie jar.

“Mm,” he rubs his tongue against his cheek with his hands on his hips. “. . You ain’t tell me about no kiss.”

“I t-told you about the other stuff.”

“About your feelins for ‘er, yes, but you left that other part out.”

“I thought . . you’d be mad at me . . .”

“Mad,” is spoken candidly like he’s thinking about that specific word.

Slowly, you pick your head up the longer their conversation continues. Other stuff? Feelings? Upon you glancing at Jubie, you’re able to discern that now is not a good time to ask her about it. For a moment, Armin’s quiet again. He just stands there with his icy blue gaze slowly moving between the two of you as he works his jaw back and forth. “C’mere. Both a’you.”

Jubie immediately obeys. You slowly follow — bare feet soft against the rug as the both of you find yourselves standing directly in front of his large stature, letting Armin continue to survey you as though he’s finally clicked the last lock into place. “. . I’ve been watchin’ the two a’you.”

When your gaze falls again, you suddenly feel a rough hand beneath your chin, forcing your chin back into place. Armin’s voice is gruff when he demands, “Eyes up.”

You gulp. He drops his hand.

“You mean a lot to Jubilee here,” he begins softly with a simple tilt of his head in her direction. “And you’ve grown to mean a lot to me, too.” Your breath hitches. “Now, I’m gonna explain how this here situation’s gone work and I ain ’t interested in hearin’ any slick talk from either a’you, understand me?”

You and Jubie nod with little ‘yes sir’s mumbled.

Armin nods once. “Alright, now. From this day forward, I take care a’both you girls.” His voice is low and steady. “That means you live here,” he turns towards you. “With us. Ain’t no runnin’, ain’t no leavin’. I also expect you to listen when I tell ya’ somethin’.”

Quickly, you nod.

He folds his arms, sated. “You two look after each other. An’ I know you’ve already been doin’ that, I ain’t gotta worry about it too much, but from here on out . . you both might as well be sisters. One a’you gets upset, the other bet not ignore it. An’ if the two a’you start fussin’ or carryin’ on about somethin’, I’ll handle it. I don’t tolerate poison under my roof.”

Second by second, you feel something inside of you loosening. Rules, stability, structure. Somehow it feels like solid ground has been finally placed beneath your feet.

“The three of us look after each other. That’s the only way this gon’ work . . hm?”

Shyly, you nod. Jubie does the same with a small, “Mhm.”

Content with your answers, Armin’s big hand reaches out, cups the back of Jubie’s head then brings her closer to press a rough, scratchy kiss against her forehead. “Need you t’go check on Sam, Sonnet, and Claude f’me.”

“. . . Pa—“

“—Gone. I need to talk to ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ f’a moment then we’ll come and get you in a bit, baby girl.”

Theres no harshness to his tone, he speaks like it’s a quiet promise. Wordlessly, upon realizing she’s not going to walk herself, he spins then nudges her towards the front door with a few fingers to her hip. Jubie hesitates as big, brown eyes flicker between the two of you, flashing some reluctance but mostly full of trust. Therefore, she gives you a small nod and reassuring smile, You’ll be okay, before she’s continuing on her way outside. You and Armin listen to the door creak before it slams closed and her footsteps get fainter and fainter the further she gets.

Suddenly, the house is silent.

He doesn’t move for a moment. He simply stands there, watching you. The weight of his attention makes you want to burrow deep down in a hole somewhere.

“Lemme see those eyes.”

He lifts your chin again, hand loosely clutched beneath your jaw. You’re forced to peer up into his as your chin wobbles, thinking that what you’re going to read in them would be disgust or anger. Nonetheless, you don’t see that . . there’s something deeper swimming in them, something steady and tender. His thumb strokes over your cheek, you breathe out a shaky breath of content. “Couple things I ain’t say while Jubie was standin’ here.”

Your body somehow grows more tensed, Armin notices.

“Relax, sweetheart. Ain’t nothin’ bad, I promise,” he mumbles. “You gotta know this, though. Need this to stick to that hyperactive brain a’yours. You’re safe here. The two a’ya belong here. Yeah?”

Softly, you nod. Your voice is small when you mewl, “ Y-Yeah.”

His gaze lingers on your face as his thumb continues to slowly stroke your cheek. His touch renders you calm. “Alright, now. Secondly . . you don’t go lettin’ anybody else get ideas about you. Some of these fellas out here . . don’t entertain ‘im. No wanderin’ off wit’ ‘im. Don’t go thinkin’ you owe anybody outside’a this house a damn thing.”

“Okay,” once more, you nod.

Armin’s expression softens a bit — eyebrows relax, eyes grow slightly more gentle. “. . You know why?”

This time, you slowly shake your head.

“ ‘Cause you’re mine.”

There’s some possession underlying his tone, definitely, but mostly . . devotion. Like that word mine means something kept safe and close more than just owned . . . only slightly.

“Both you girls are . . And the two a’you are each other’s.”

Armin watches the way your breath catches, how your shoulders ease. You’re doing so good — listening to him. He appreciates that. “Last thing . .” His hand slides away, down to your chest. Your face grows warm at the feel of his wide, calloused palm pressing flat up against it, directly over your pounding heart. “This right here belongs to this one here,” He removes it to tap two fingers against his own. “And that one out there.”

A big, shy smile can’t help spreading across your lips. The slightest smirk pulls at Armin’s.

“Don’t act surprised. Been seein’ it for a while now.” He saw it the minute Jubie stepped her foot off the porch to meet you halfway for that first hug. Now, when you started looking that same way at him? Armin isn’t too sure but he thinks it happened some time after that drive into town . . when he purchased Lily for you. All these feelings inside of you, they’ve been brewing for too long on a body wound tight . . akin to a shaken can of pop. He’s hoping that you finally let go . . finally allow him to take care of you the way a little thing like you should be. “C’mere.”

Like he did Jubie, you hiccup a little when he slowly pulls you in to press a kiss against the center of your forehead. Oh. Something inside of you absolutely brightens. You’re trembling a little when he pulls away.

“Alright, c’mon. Let’s go get our girl, mm?”

The music’s volume lowered the minute he stepped into the spot. Mindless chatter died down instantly.

Yet, this producer is still going. He’s still fucking talking and you’re actively listening. Giving him head nods and sweet ‘mhm’s and offering a small comment every now and again.

He soon smiles, leaning a little closer to go to mumble something in your ear — and that’s when Connie moves.

Not fast, not a word said. He slowly walks across the room, slipping past outstretched legs and still bodies until he’s standing beside the chair you sit in while looking down at the dude with a stare hard enough to turn his blood cold. The producer straightens up then pushes his chair back a few inches — because Connie’s broad. He takes up space without having to try, both physically and otherwise.

“. . Shit, uh . . What’s good, man?”

Connie blinks slow, disregarding the clearly joking energy wafting about the room before he smoothly asks, “You done?”

He can feel you looking up at him, doe eyed and clueless, but his focus isn’t on you. Nah, you’ll be dealt with later.

The producer rubs his hand over his knuckles nervously. Connie watches him glance at you as if he were confused. “. . W-What?”

“You done talking to her. The fuck you whisperin’ to her for, bruh?”

Your heart drops into your stomach. You can hear the previous studio chatter die down into small, uneasy mumbles as the producer clears his throat, suddenly aware that Connie isn’t playing. He isn’t smirking, smiling, nor does he care about the other people in the room watching this scene unfold. “N-Nothing man. It was jus’ an innocent convo, t-that’s all.”

“Con—“

You barely get his full name out of your mouth before he’s slightly lifting a hand up in your direction without looking at you. Quiet. Your mouth closes as you squeeze your thighs around your hands, eyes now glued to the sound panel.

“Innocent convo.” Connie repeats the words while barely squinting his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Why you leanin’ over her like that?”

The producer opens his mouth, clamps it shut, then tries again, “. . I-I wasn’t, bro. We was jus’ talkin’ ‘bout the track—“

“—From two inches away.”

He swallows and shakes his head as you close your eyes, somehow wishing that this was all just some type of weird dream.

“I swear it wasn’t like that—“

Connie takes a step closer. It isn’t an aggressive action but the guy still rolls his chair back an inch anyway. “Stand up.”

The command lands quiet. Connie watches him hesitate as he glances at you again. “. . W-What?”

“Stand up.”

The entire room is watching. It’s deadly quiet as the guy slowly lifts to his full height, which truthfully isn’t much, with his fingers lingering on the armrests of the chair as if he were preparing to get sat back down in it. However, Connie simply looks him over once . . slowly — eyes hardened with a scary amount of cold malice before he gives a small, barely there incline of his chin towards the door, “Fuck outta here, bruh.”

There isn’t any back talk. He closes his laptop, grabs his phone, and walks away . . quickly. And it’s only when the guy is out the door and probably already on an elevator does Connie finally look down at you.

Somehow, the look he gave the producer doesn’t even compare to the stare he pins on you. Your blood runs ice cold as he silently grabs your Stanley cup and bag for you before muttering, “Let’s go.”

Nobody still hasn’t said a word. And although he grabs you by the hand the way he usually does when the two of you walk together, the action doesn’t feel as loving as usual when he leads you out the door.

The front door to your luxurious Manhattan penthouse is shut firmly. Not slammed, but it’s closed hard enough that the sound echos throughout your place to the back hall where your bedroom is enclosed by double doors. Connie walks straight for the living room to set your things down on the couch, reach for his jacket and shrug it off to then throw it over the arm of it as if the fabric irritates him to have on now. He wears a red Sox cap backwards on his head tonight that he takes off to scratch his scalp before pushing it back on.

“. . Papa—“

“—Nah. Don’t.”

You watch him turn to face you as you remain standing in your foyer, dressed in one of his hoodies, jeans, and Uggs. You’re swimming in the fabric. The sleeves fall inches past your hands but that doesn’t stop you from shopping in his closet each time you step foot in his house.

“Yo, you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You’re nervously pulling at them as your eyebrows push in the tiniest bit, “I-I didn’t—“

“—I sat there and watched you smile in that nigga face for five minutes straight.”

Shaking your head, you already feel the wad in your throat forming as your eyes sting with the onslaught of tears. “I wasn’t flirting with him, Connie. We were just talking about a song—“

He stands there . . nearly ten feet away from you with his hands in his pockets, facial expression showing just how unconvinced he is as his tongue slowly rubs against the inside of his cheek. “And he had to lean in yo’ ear for that?”

“He was just trying to tell me something, I don’t know—“

He nods, “—And you was gon’ let him.”

The second a tear falls from clinging onto your bottom lashes, it’s as though the rest seem to follow. You sniffle and lift a sweater paw to your face to dab at your cheek as your voice cracks when you reply, “I . . didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Yeah, that’s the fuckin’ problem, ma. You don’t think.”

“I didn’t embarrass you—“

His eyebrows furrow as the corners of his lips dip with a frown, “You didn’t?”

Shaking your head quickly, you blubber out, “No.”

“You had that whole room watchin’ yo’ every fuckin’ move. You think these niggas out here don’t know you my girl?”

Just how gullible are you?

“That’s n-not true—“

“—Yes it is.”

His bluntness makes you hiccup as you go to intake a shallow breath through your mouth. Walking closer to him, you reach for his sides, “Connie—“ But he’s already there, taking a step back and shaking his head.

“Don’t.”

One word. Stern. Quiet.

Your bottom lip quivers as you immediately go to wrap your arms around your stomach for at least some kind of comfort. He’s never been this mad at you, you don’t know what to do. You think you can hardly even breathe.

He inhales a breath through his nose and starts to slowly pace while scratching at the nape of his neck with his index finger, “Really sittin’ in that nigga face like I’m not even in the room.”

A sudden outburst of emotion can’t help but ripple through you as you go to stomp your foot in frustration. “I didn’t even see you!” Why won’t he understand?

Connie’s voice remains cold and even as he hums, curt and unimpressed, “Yeah, that’s even worse.”

His words hit hard. Tears drip from your chin, down to the floor as you go to drag your wrist across your dripping nose. “I didn’t know he was flirting with me like t-that, Connie. Honest.” The way you see it, even if he was, you didn’t reciprocate his advances for a single second.

“You knew—”

“—I didn’t.”

“You not dumb, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱. Dead it.” Rolling his eyes, he keeps pacing as you hiccup and sniff, willing himself to not fall for them. “Got motherfuckas thinkin Ion got a hold on you now.” He’s never cared about others perception of him, his life, and especially not his relationship with you, albeit, it’s the principle of this situation now. He can’t stand the fact of someone thinking that there’s space between you and him now, that they have a chance, an opening to get to you. It makes his head rush with just enough venom to have him contemplating a murder charge.

“You’re n-not bein’ fair.”

His eyes snap over to you, dark and assessing. “You think I give a fuck about bein’ fair right now?”

You’re trying again. You push closer to dig your fingers within the fabric of his compression shirt as he sucks his teeth and goes to peel your fingers away one by one. “Connie, stop it.”

“Let me go, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”

“Just—“

“—I said let go.”

Your grip only tightens. You sound absolutely broken when you whimper out, “I don’t wanna.”

Connie pauses . . . breathes out an agitated sigh then looks down at you. Your fingers are trembling where they clutch at his shirt and your cheeks are absolutely covered in tears as you sniffle hard enough to rattle your entire body with each inhale. He won’t give in. He pries your fingers away anyhow then takes a step back to insert some space between the two of you once more. “You actin’ like I don’t got a right to be mad.”

You shake your head again, “ ‘m not—“

“—Yes you are—“

“—You can be mad, Connie. I jus’ . .” you swallow and wipe your nose with your sleeve. “I don’t u-understand why you’re acting like I did somethin’ horrible.”

Connie huffs out a dry, low laugh while resuming his slow pacing. Movement is the only thing keeping him from walking out the door, bashing ol’ dude’s face on a curb, and coming back here to let you kiss his knuckles dripping with his blood. “I can’t keep fuckin’ repeating myself.”

“I didn’t do anything, Connie!”

“You entertained ‘im.”

“I was just bein’ nice.”

His voice is rough and clipped when he says, “That’s not just bein’ fuckin’ nice. That’s you sittin’ there, laughin’, smilin’, and lettin’ some bitch ass nigga you’on even know lean to whisper shit in yo’ ear like you fuckin’ single—”

Your breath catches. “—I wasn’t acting single.”

He shrugs, “Looked like it.”

For a moment, you stare at Connie, watching him continue to pace from one side of your area rug to the other. His entire body is so tensed you think a missile can ricochet off of him while the strong line of his jaw flexes like he’s trying to grind his teeth into powder. You want to go back to this morning when he woke you up with soft smooches to your lips while half asleep beside you. Back to when you both showered together and he let you kiss nearly every inch of his skin underneath the water with a glint in his eye that showed just how much he loved you too.

You miss him already.

But there’s a wall between you now . . . a thick one. “. . ‘m trying to fix it.” The words fall out of you, small and warbly, barely loud enough to make it a foot away past him.

“Yeah, you ain’t fixin’ shit right now,” he flatly replies. The words feel like a hard shove.

“ ‘Cause you won’t let me.”

He stops mid step, as if someone had suddenly hit pause on him, slowly turns, then begins to make his way back towards you. Each step is heavy and deliberate. Your chin has to lift in order to keep eye contact when he’s directly in front of you, looking down at you from over the smooth bridge of his nose. “The fact that you barely even noticed me walk up . . .? Is fuckin’ crazy.”

“No—“

“—You was locked the fuck in wit’ him—”

“—I wasn’t—“

His hand is squeezing your cheeks — firm and sudden. Not hard enough to seriously hurt but strong enough to shut you up. He lowers himself down until you both are nearly nose to nose, “Stop.” is all he soon says, voice low and controlled. “You keep doin’ that. Talkin’ over me like you already decided what the story is. You not fuckin’ listening. You defending.” He watches your eyebrows furrow and your eyes well with a new, fresh batch of hot tears.

Shakily, you whisper, “I am listening—”

His thumb presses harder into your cheek and you mewl.

“You see,” he mumbles. “You hearin’ words but you not hearin’ me . . . You think this shit solely about that nigga. Man, fuck that nigga.”

Your chest rises and falls with shallow, little puffs of breath while big, fat tears drip down Connie’s fingers. Your vision is completely obscured from crying so hard and you have to keep blinking to clear them out just to keep seeing him. He remains staring at you for a while — simply holding your face and watching . . . His grip on your face doesn’t soften. He just studies you . . . The tip of your nose is already red with irritation from you constantly wiping it, lashes spiked together with wet, and your lips are swollen. Your weeping echos throughout the space of the penthouse as the refrigerator continues to hum and cars honk at each other nearly fifty floors down. Inside these walls, the air feels tight, like everything and everyone is watching, even if it’s only the two of you here.

Connie exhales a breath through his nose, glances behind you in irritation for a second, before he lets you go. The sudden absence of his hand makes your head drop as if he’d been the only thing holding you up. “Go sit down.”

“. . . Hm?”

“Ya’ fuckin’ room, ma. Go. You bouta make me lose my patience,” he snaps back, still agitated, still angry at you.

The firmness in his voice forces your feet to move as you reluctantly brush past him to head for the hall to your bedroom. Your steps drag. They’re small and resistant as though they’re not sure if walking away from him is safe or not. Behind you, you hear Connie breathe out a heavier sigh, followed by a firm thud as he presumably drops down on the couch. You reach your bedroom, feeling like your heart is tearing, stitch by stitch, in your chest. You’re gasping for breaths now when you force yourself to open the door, walk in, and push it back closed until only a sliver of space remains. You don’t want to close it all the way.

A faraway thought of him suddenly standing up and leaving your apartment, leaving you you sitting here at the edge of your bed, makes a particular hard sob fall from your lips. God, you don’t think you’d be able to handle it. You can’t imagine another man taking Connie’s place in your life. How much you adore him at this point reaches limits you didn’t know was possible.

You press the heels of your palms into your sockets, willing away the unwanted thoughts of another girl on his arm, touching him, kissing him, needing him in the same capacity you do. It makes your stomach churn. But, the image won’t leave. Your mind continues to rush with false scenarios — some faceless girl, maybe she looks a little bit like you, maybe everything about her is entirely your opposite, her standing too close to him, her hands rubbing down his arms, wearing his shirts, looking up at him the way you do.

“Oh my god,” you hiccup out while falling back against your mattress to curl yourself into a tight ball.

Connie’s yours. The thought feels selfish, borderline even childish but it’s the most honest thing settling within your chest right now. Somewhere along these past couple months, he stopped just being your boyfriend and became something even heavier. Someone molded so deep within you, your routine, and your thoughts that imagining life without him makes you feel like your lungs are going to deflate and never work again.

Another shaky cry. You turn your face into your sheets to somehow muffle it.

Maybe he’s sitting out there right now, contemplating leaving. You may have just made him realize that he no longer wants this anymore. You embarrassed him and maybe you’re just not worth the stress.

Something behind the cage of your ribs tightens so hard that it’s physically painful.

You should have noticed the guy’s antics sooner. You should have gotten up and walked away the minute he sat beside you. You should have gone and looked for Connie . . . because you not doing neither has you here, away from him when all you want to do is walk back out there, crawl into his lap like you usually do, and press your face into his neck to breathe him in. You want to feel his arms wrapped tight around you, squeezing, until you feel steady again but you can’t. The way he looked at you forces you to stay here, lying in your bed, weeping quietly.

Outside in the living room, each bawl that warbles out past your cracked bedroom door makes a vein at Connie’s temple pulse.

He stares straight ahead at nothing while the scene replays in his head. You sitting there, laughing, with another dude entirely too close to you. His fists tighten up beneath his biceps as he sits with his arms folded. Connie knows you never touched him, that you didn’t let him touch you. You weren’t flirting back the way some other girls were, but that’s not the point. How comfortable you looked makes something darker settle within his core. It isn’t jealousy, it’s something far much uglier.

Territorial. Entirely defensive.

He drags a hand down his face and breathes. Because real talk, the thought of somebody else even thinking they have a chance with you makes something violent spark at Connie’s intentions. He hears you sniffle and his eyes close.

You crying like this is getting under his skin. He’s seen it before . . your tears . . but not like this. You cry as though you’ve just watched your heart be torn from your body. Nobody fits within his life the way you do. Not even close. He’s had girls before you, none of them have lasted long, but a few have teetered the line of something serious. They have never compared to you. You’re the one who fills up his loft with tubes of lip gloss, frames of candid pictures you’ve taken of him and you both together, the one who’s there when he’s back from schedules overseas, and who curls into his side like you never want to leave.

His jaw tightens. If you ever walked away . . .

He’d probably be there with a tight grip on your shirt, forcing you back.

Thirty minutes drag.

But the soft scrape of your door being pushed open makes you lift your head.

From Connie’s stance, you look utterly exhausted. Your eyes are swollen and each breath you inhale sounds hiccupy and like it hurts to do so. You look up at him, gaze glossy and wide before weakly mumbling, “. . You w-were gone a long time.”

He leans against the wall beside your door with his hands in his pockets. His voice is low, a bit scratchy when he utters, “I was sittin’ out there.”

“Oh.” Leisurely, you sit up properly. He watches you look down at your hands that pick at the charms on your nails. “. . . I thought you left.”

He’s quiet.

“I t-thought you were jus’ gonna go . .” Your voice breaks like you want to cry again but you’re unable to. The water from your body has been drained dry through the leaking from your eyes. “And not come back.”

“Mm,” is all he says for a while. A thick silence lugs on. He keeps staring at you and you stare at your hands in your lap, however eventually, you hear him push himself off the wall to take slow steps over until you see it — his all black Amiri sneakers rooted only a few inches away from your significantly smaller, baby pink Uggs. You look up at him.

The tension between his brows is gone. He looks like your usual, stoic faced Connie aside from a subtle twitch near his eye that reveals his still bubbling irritation. “. . I didn’t mean to disrespect you.”

“I know.”

The two words land heavy. You watch him stand there with his hand in his pocket then stretch his neck to the side a bit to scratch at it with a finger. “You not slick like that, Ion think it was no real shady shit.”

You sniff, “I-It wasn’t. I swear.”

Silence settles again. He’s staring off outside your floor to ceiling windows, clearly still lost in his thoughts.

“I don’t want you thinking that . . that I want anybody else. Or that . . ” He looks back down at you again once your words catch his attention. Your voice trails off, frail and tired. “. . that I’d pick somebody e-else over you. I’d never.” He shifts his weight on his feet while dragging a hand down over his mouth. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer however still edged with something rough around the edges.

“You walk around like you don’t know what you do to people,” he mutters. “Smilin’, talkin’, bein’ all comfortable and shit.” His eyes narrow down into yours. “. . Niggas notice that.”

You’ve never thought about it like that. Looking down at your hands again, you watch your fingers tremble as though they don’t belong to you and curl them into feeble fists. You’re unsure of what to say. “ . . ‘m sorry.”

For a moment, neither of you move. “You really thought I was gon’ leave?”

The question catches you off guard for a second. Slowly, you lift your eyes back up to him before your shoulders follow for a faint shrug. “Y-Yeah. I thought you were jus’ gonna be . . . gone.”

His gaze lingers across your pretty, little face, catching on the sticky tear tracks and swollen lips then at how small you appear, drowning in his hoodie with your Uggs barely scraping the floor from your high risen mattress. “Nah,” he mumbles with a shake of his head. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Your heartbeat skips . . only this time, not out of sheer panic but slight hope.

You watch him pull his other hand out of his pocket then motion with his head, “Ven acá.”

He watches your face crumple. Your lips fold down, eyes squint as you tear up again. You’re quick to stand and damn near slam your body into his to wrap your arms around his abdomen tight. “I ain’t leavin’,” he mumbles again while leaning just the slightest bit forward to almost bury you within his chest. “And you ain’t either.”

He listens to you hiccup and feels your fingers squeeze at his back. You’re precious — an absolute gem. Connie can’t give you up so easily. Especially not when you whimper, “ ‘m sorry, Papa. Really.”

He hums and leans in over you to kiss the slope of your shoulder. “I know, mama. You good . . . can’t be doin’ shit like that, though—“

You’re nodding, “—M-Mhm. I won’t. I promise.” You swear it.

“Look at me,” he’s forcing your face up to hold between his palms to inspect your features now and let’s his thumbs catch on the uneven edges of your birthmark. “Fuckin’ yo’ voice up cryin’ like that.”

You only whimper as you try to impatiently lean back into his chest, nevertheless, he remains holding you still.

“You love me?”

The question isn’t soft. It’s firm and tensed . . bitten out of him like he needs the answer right now. You nod quickly, holding onto his wrists with your fingers, “Mhm.”

His jaw flexes, “Use y’words.”

Your throat feels like you’ve swallowed a million shards of glass but you push them out anyway because you absolutely do. “I love you. I love you s’much, Connie.” You watch his eyes soften, just the tiniest bit. He rubs his thumb over your lips as if he were sealing the confession upon your mouth.

“Yeah?”

You nod again, voice quiet when you respond, “I do.”

Slowly, he pulls you back into him, wrapping one arm around the back of your neck with the other at your waist. Without a second wasted, you melt within his hold like your body has been waiting for permission, feeling his hand rubbing big circles on your back to coax all those leftover shakes out. Against your hair, you hear him mumble, “Relax, mami.”

You try. Inhaling a deep breath in through your nose, you blow it out through your mouth while listening to his heart thud against your ear. The rhythm of it matches your own.

Your relationship with Jubie changes a bit, too. The two of you grow closer in a different kind of way, a more innocent, ‘wet behind the ears’ kind of way. You suppose that all this time all you’d needed was just permission for you to finally slip that small way Armin’s been wanting you to, because after receiving it, you can let yourself crawl onto the floor beside Jubie most days to help her with coloring a page — shoulders brushing as you traded crayons and sometimes filled in the same page. You let yourself hiccup and cry upon scuffing your forearm on a lone piece of wood while climbing down from the hayloft and you let Armin gruffly fuss over you as he cleaned and bandaged it up, not before Jubie had given it a soft kiss.

The first time she calls you sissy happens when Armin gave you your first lesson on riding Samson. She’d been seated on the beam of the fence, pretty in a pair of light washed overalls, yellow crop top and her favorite pair of brown boots. Armin’s body had been warm and solid against the back of yours — your hands were trembling on the reins next to his as he whispered to you on how to direct Samson and get him to gallop. “Sissy, you’re doin’ so good!”

The first time you happen to call Armin Dad happens accidentally . . that same day. Nothing dramatic, nothing bold. Just a quiet slip up as he helped you climb off of Samson, big, rough hands squeezing at your waist as your boots flailed while searching for ground. “D-Dad, no—“ “—I gotcha,” he grumbled in reply as his arms wrapped around your body to pull your chest flushed against his. “You’re okay, baby.” Your cheeks had burned hot enough to have you feel like your skin could just about melt off of your face.

And you’re sure Armin realized, but he hadn’t questioned it or even given a facial expression to show that he did. Those icy blue eyes stared into yours beneath the brim of his suede, white hat as he slowly placed you back down on the ground. Only after did he reach out, pull your face up towards his and leaned in to smack a slow, but firm kiss upon your lips — a deep thing that made your knees buckle as Jubie squeaked in the background as if she could feel it, too.

The house begins to change too.

You and Jubie press your ears up against his office door one afternoon, listening to his deep, guttural voice drawl out to someone over the phone about renovations. The wall between his and Jubie’s room and the one you used to occupy . . it needs to come down, the current one can’t hold a California King mattress and the empty room downstairs begins to get cleared out. Light pink paint, foam play mats, rugs, bookshelves, a monitor cam . . Armin decided it’ll be a playroom for the both of you. For rainy days and those days when the two of you feel too small and restless and need your own tiny, abode from the rest of the world.

Down in the barn workshop, you and Jubie like to keep him company sometimes. He’s building a new bed frame. The two of you like to sit on beds of hay, dragged flushed together and covered by thin sheets by Armin to keep the strands from poking your soft, delicate legs as you watch the frame take shape beneath his big, rough hands. Sometimes one of you pass him tools when asked, other times someone ( usually Jubie ) will nap, head resting on a pillow of thighs while you simply watch him work.

Often, he’ll have his flannel and hat off, leaving him in a fitted undershirt, jeans, and a pair of his western boots. You like to stare at the way his muscles ripple beneath his skin as he saws off some wood. His soft, dark blond waves fall loose near the beginning of his shoulders without his hat holding them back, sometimes sticking to his neck where sweat gathers from all the labor. There’s a sort of rugged charm to him when he works like this. You don’t think he knows just how handsome he really is.

Watching the slow pull of his steel hard, natural built muscle roll and flex makes it hard for you to look anyplace else. There’s something hypnotic about it — your lids fell halfway into your eyes and glossy lips parted — watching his palm rub across the surfaces of the wood to make sure they’re smooth enough.

One afternoon, he pauses to rake a hand through his hair while stepping back to inspect his work. The headboard comes together first. Thick, wooden beams sanded down and sturdy enough to hold, what you think, a dozen of huskies without creaking. Its center is upholstered with a cushiony panel made of a crushed velvet material in dark mahogany. It’s pretty.

Then his eyes drifted over to the two of you — Jubie with her face buried in your stomach, arm around your waist and long curls spilling over your lap as she snoozed, then you . . who had been staring directly at the very noticeable bulge pressing up against the front of his jeans. Pretending to look away was futile, you knew that, but you do so anyway with embarrassment flooding your body. He hadn’t said anything . . . not immediately, but you noticed how he smirked a little with a small, slow shake of his head. “You feelin’ alright, doll?” he asked, voice low and rough with that lazy, Mississippi drawl.

“Mhm.”

Jubie shifted, mumbling softly but not waking. Armin hums after a second of you both waiting for her to settle again. “Mm.” And though he says not another word, you knew exactly what he was thinking.

・・・・・

Wind howls against the windows tonight like it’s fighting for a way to seep into the cracks with mean persistence and somewhere deeper in the house, you hear wood creak as everything settles.

Inside the bed, beneath the covers, everything’s warmer — sweet and shared warmth. You wake without even meaning to. Not from the sounds or a nightmare, but from the soft, cool breaths wafting up against your shoulder blade. Jubie’s still curled behind you, arms around your body, and Armin’s curled behind her, but you’re aware that no one is asleep . . . their breathing isn’t deep enough.

For a while, you just listen. Waiting. But nothing. Jubie shifts closer to you, just slightly, and that’s when you slowly squirm, soft feet brushing up against hers before you roll over to see her wide, brown eyes opened and already staring at you. She doesn’t say anything . . so you don’t. Sleep still sluggishly moves throughout your veins, leaving you to gaze, heavy lidded at her, waiting for her to say something, but she doesn’t. Something about her appears a little . . frenzied tonight. Like, her brain has decided on something that her body hasn’t yet made a move to do yet.

You feel her hesitate before she eventually does.

Her hand lifts, fingertips brush over your forehead, down the bridge of your nose, to your lips - slow and gently. She touches you as though she’s barely realizing that you’re real, that you’re here, with them, and not going anywhere. Softly, you exhale through your nose, basking in her touch as her fingers pause at your lips before suddenly . . her hand falls back between your bodies beneath the blanket.

It’d been a small moment of sweet, sleepy solace until you feel it . . . her fingers again, this time, at the crease of your breasts. You’re too tired to react the way you want if you happened to not be half asleep. You feel your heart pick up a slight speed but you remain lying there, blinking slow, and body not moving as she slowly pushes a hand up the tight, lace trimmed camisole you wear to get a small, soft hand around your tit. You feel her squeeze, only lightly, prior to a thumb being swiped over the soft, inverted bud of your nipple. You inhale a shaky breath.

She continues staring at you, face mostly unchanging as she does it again, not surprised to feel the pearl of it eventually pebble beneath her insistent touching. Tentatively, shyly, eventually she pinches it between the pads of her thumb and index and pulls. Your breath hitches as you hiccup on a mewl, body twitching in reply.

Your twitch makes her twitch too.

Eyes dark, Armin watches the scene play out . . more specifically, your face. He knows the exact moment Jubie gets her sticky, little fingers in between your legs because you do it again — your body jolts as your shaking fingers slap onto her tricep, face turns into your pillow, and your breathing grows shallow.

Your reaction says a lot.

You’re not used to feeling good, especially not so suddenly. And when you make another sound, another mewl, this one trembly and resembling of a small sob, Armin’s there, pulling Jubie in closer which, in turn, brings you closer too. Because of his stature, he’s easily able to curl over you both if wanted, but, for now, he simply leans a bit forward to shush your sounds with a gentle drone of his voice and kiss your temple. “You’re alright, sweet thing” he mumbles, fingers tracing down the tender skin of Jubie’s arm to her wrist then fingers. He can feel that your thighs have completely closed around her hand.“Open . . Open ‘em on up for ‘er — there you go.”

The breadth of his large, warm hand guides Jubie’s . . shadowing her little fingers to sweep across the length of your slit over your thin, little shorts, and introduce her, as well as himself, to the surprisingly fat bead of your clit. “Gentle, baby,” he murmurs against the pierced shell of her ear, listening to Jubie’s own breaths grow a little quivery. He knows that both his girls are overwhelmed now, in ways that neither of you have ever really felt before.

When you twitch and hiccup again upon the moment Armin starts to assist Jubie in rubbing a few slow, firm circles on your clit, he feels how she hesitates when you breathe out a deep breath. But Armin knows what that means, even if she doesn’t . . “She’s feelin’ good.”

Her voice is small and quiet when she whispers, “Y-Yeah?”

Eyes locked on your face that you still have buried in your pillow, Armin nods, “Mhm — let us see that pretty face darl’, c’mon.”

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head.

Jubie whimpers, “C’mon, sissy, please?”

Armin leads her fingers to your hole where they can feel it — the slick that’s starting to seep from the little thing down into the seat of your panties and shorts. He makes Jubie slip her hand down the front of your underwear for finally some real skin to skin contact. That’s when you pull your face away from the pillow to sharply gasp, eyes closed, fingers now gripping onto Armin’s forearm. “Oh m’ . . G-God.”

“Speed up a bit, baby — that’s right . . nice an’ firm.”

Your pussy is growing so wet. Armin feels the warmth of your juices trickling past the creases of Jubie’s fingers onto his own. You’ve never been touched like this before — you almost notice that you can hear your blood rushing through your ears. The few experiences you’ve had with your ex had always been brisk and unfulfilling, he’d always left what felt like a gaping hole in you, figuratively that is, but this . . it makes you feel like your heart’s going to pound straight out of your chest. You all can hear the sounds, even from beneath the covers. Each soft shlup, shlup, shlup as your lovers’ fingers soothe sweet circles on your throbbing clit. It’s all intense . . in the strangest of ways that you can’t explain.

Your thighs close around their wrists as you hiccup, eyes tearing, “Dad, I f . . I f-feel weird.”

Jubie presses a kiss against your lips. Armin hums, “ ‘s okay.” You feel the weight of his deep, blue eyes, entirely locked on every expression, movement, and sound you give like he’s drinking them in, learning you. “You’re jus’ gonna cum, doll.”

You shake your head, noting a lick of fear carving space within the base of your stomach as pressure builds beneath your womb, “I don’ wanna.”

Jubie shakes her head, whispering, “No, no, ‘s okay, sissy. It feels good, I swear.”

Eyes full of dew and soft, pretty lips quivering, you utter, “. . Mm . . you p-promise?”

“Yeah, I pinkie promise,” Jubie breathes while she nods.

You feel Armin’s hand move. The sweet, little fingers on your clit still rub then a thicker, longer one is kissing at the hole of your cunt. It only presses up against it for a second, letting your inner folds blossom around the first knuckle until you suddenly feel it sheathe its entire way inside you within one, smooth glide. “Ngh,” your toes curl.

“Such a sweet girl,” Armin deeply groans before leaning to kiss your temple once more. “Let Dad in. ‘s all you need to do.”

Somehow, one of his fingers is enough to make you feel so full. A muscle in your thigh spasms when he pulls it half an inch free then presses back in until his knuckle is flushed against your perineum. God, Armin wants a taste. Your walls flex around his digit, desperately working at it as if it were trying to pull his skin off of the bone. A distant thought of Jubie’s little tongue laving at your chubby clit, your tongue pushing past the tight ring of her little ass, Armin supervising all of it, telling his girls what to do, how to make each other feel good — he breathes out a deep sigh through his nose as his hips nudge forward to fit the thick, hardening rod of his cock between the split of Jubie’s plush ass cheeks.

She keens at the feel, fighting to wriggle her own back to try to get some friction against her neglected pussy, all the while the muscles of your body wound tighter and tighter. Neither Jubie or Armin are able to peel their eyes away from the bridge of your nose cutely wrinkling and eyebrows furrowing when the first wave of your orgasm washes over you. “H-Hng, mmph—“

“Feels good, mm?” Armin mutters, watching you nod all softheaded and gormless. “God, look at you . .”

Your brain feels like it’s melting within your skull and dripping down your spine.

“Oh m . .” you buck your hips up into both of their touches, shivering and gasping for air. “P . . lease.”The word comes out broken and breathless. What you’re pleading for? You don’t really know but you’ve never felt this before. You don’t know if you’re begging for this profound, all consuming feeling to stop or for it to never end. Your body goes soft before it tenses then goes soft again like it doesn’t know how to react to the pleasure that keeps cresting and falling over it.

Jubie’s eyes widen as she pulls you in closer. She hadn’t known it’d hit you like this. “ ‘s okay,” she whispers, own voice shaking in both concern and awe. “ ‘s okay, sissy. You’re okay.”

When their hands are pulled away is when you finally can start catching your breath. You feel Armin’s scruff against your cheek, your neck, your lips, “Was a big one, I can tell,” he mumbles as your heart rate begins to slow. “Good fuckin’ job, baby.” When he lifts his hand, streaks of moonlight pouring in through the curtains catch on the slick laminated across the length of his middle finger. There’s a halo of cream packed at his knuckle.

Without thinking much about it, he forces Jubie’s chin up with a hand beneath her jaw to push that same finger plus his ring past her lips. She whimpers as she suckles on them — needy and sleepy, tongue curling between the spaces of them to get a better taste. “There you go,” Armin utters, ice blue eyes nearly navy as he pushes them further in to feel her throat convulse as she gags. “Get ‘em clean an’ Pa ‘ll make that lil’ flower a’yours cum too.”

You find out that your sleepiness becomes more pronounced after a good orgasm, nevertheless, you fight to stay up — blinking slow and heavily as you watch Armin tug Jubie’s legs opened beneath the blanket and that same hand that’d he pulled away from her mouth presumably push up her tiny nightgown between them. She whimpers for him, body lax, warm, and pressed against yours as his lips peck soft kisses across the slope of her shoulder to her neck before he looks at you.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he mutters, noticing the still faint twitch of your limbs and those big, dark eyes of yours tiredly blinking. “Dad’ll see you when the sun comes up, I promise.”

Truthfully, you really don’t want to . . not when you start to hear those wet and pretty sounds of his fingers toying with Jubie’s pussy and especially not when you watch her eyes slowly roll back within her skull as he gets the top of gown down so that her plump tits spill out from over the neckline into the cup of his big, calloused hand. But, your brain doesn’t care. It forces you to blink a few more times, each one a bit longer than the last and in between those blinks, you watch Armin eventually get a hand over Jubie’s mouth, muffling high pitched squeaks and rendering her body nearly mostly immobile against his as . . .

Well, you never really get to see.

・・・・・

You’re last to wake in the morning.

As expected.

Overcast skies paints the bedroom within a grey, gloomy glow as you take your time stretching out your limbs and gathering your bearings. The sheets are warm and faintly wrinkled from where the three of you’d been tangled together hours before. You lie there for a beat longer than necessary, mentally fighting to gather your bearings, before finally swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. Your hands feel empty this morning. Instinctively, you pat around your pillow for it, needy for the feel of Lily’s soft, sherpa coat as you grab onto where she’d been pressed against the headboard all night. You keep her tucked within your elbow the entire walk into the bathroom and while you brush your teeth.

You feel . . smaller today.

You notice it in the way how everything else feels a little too big. The creaking silence, the bed, even your own body. You don’t want to change out of your pajamas. You barely even wanted to climb out of bed. Walking downstairs and finding Armin standing by the door, keys looped around a finger, toolbox in the other, you aren’t surprised to watch him immediately notice. Your wrinkled, little pajamas, soft, bare legs and feet, Lily tucked close to your body. Something in his normally hardened expression softens . .“C’mere, baby doll.”

Your footsteps are slow and soft as you pad across the smooth floors on over. He’s already setting his toolbox down beside his boots by the time you reach him so that he can cup your face between his large hands, lift it, and peck a long, sweet kiss against your forehead. It’s after he pulls away when he studies you, really studies you — sharp blue eyes taking in the heaviness of yours and those perpetual dark circles beneath them . . the ones that have never quite manage to fade no matter how much rest you get. Armin finds the feature of yours to be quite beautiful.

They soften you in ways difficult to explain — make your eyes appear bigger and expressive, leaving you to look like you’ve been pulled straight out of one of the world’s most prized, billion dollar paintings.

“Ain’t you jus’ a fuckin’ sight, hm?” he mumbles, voice low and rough as he brushes his thumb just beneath one of those shadows, noticing the way you’re leaning entirely into his touch without even realizing it.

A faint crease folds within the middle of his eyebrows. It isn’t an expression of concern . . more tender admiration.

“Feelin’ a little soft today, mm?”

Your answer is small, “Mhm.”

You hear movement within the kitchen — Jubie closing a cabinet as her footsteps walk towards the fridge.

“Miss Birch called me into town. Heater needs fixin’and honey bee’s comin’ along for the ride,” his voice is quiet as his thumb strokes against your cheekbone now. “Feel like joinin’ us or you stayin’ put today?”

You hesitate as you think about it.

Your fingers tighten around Lily, gaze dropping somewhere upon his chest as your lips part. You’ve never been on the farm alone, you all know that. And regardless of you feeling a little apprehensive at the thought, you answer him softly, “I think . . . I t-think I wanna stay.” You’re not in the particular headspace to be around others today. You don’t have enough fight in you to even try to be social.

Armin hums , . like he expected the answer, just as Jubie appears from the hall behind you while wiping her hands on the sides of the stockings she wears beneath a denim skirt. Her curls are spilling from a big bun she’s thrown them all into this morning. She looks pretty as her eyes widen the second she sees you and takes in your sweet gentleness this morning, “Gmorninnn’, lovie love. Still feelin’ sleepy?”

Faintly, you nod with a small, shy smile. Pouting a little, she steps closer and her fingers find the edge of your tiny shorts that she slightly pulls on while gently asking, “You not comin’ with us? . . Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “ ‘m sure.”

She’s still pouting, even while mumbling, “Okay. We won’t be long, promise.”

“You stay inside,” Armin adds, tone a bit firmer now as he picks up his tool box again. “Doors stay locked. You need somethin’, you call me.”

Once more, you nod, “Yes, sir.”

That earns you a kiss. A soft peck on the lips. “Atta girl.”

Jubie leans in after — pressing a longer one to them before she’s wrapping her arms around you for a hug. You melt into it, holding onto her and basking in the fresh, sweet scent of her perfume and favorite body butter before she pulls back. “Be good,” you whisper. She giggles, uttering back a small, “I’ll try.”

Then the both of them are walking out the door. You watch Armin lock each one as you already begin to feel the difference without them here. Everything feels bigger, quieter. Holding Lily to your chest, you stand there for a moment, listening to their footsteps fade, doors slam closed, truck engine start, then gravel crunch as it pulls away. It’s only after you don’t hear another single sound when you finally move.

Slow and aimless.

Although they had only just left, the difference in the vibe of the house is already so stark. Nothing about it feels particularly unsafe, just . . . hollow. Like the house lost a layer of warmth you didn’t know you relied so heavily on. Exhaling slowly, you stop at the base of the stairs and look up at them. “Okay . .” you whisper, voice floating within the stillness. You can’t just stand around all day.

You force your feet to carry you back up the stairs and down the hall, to the bedroom once more. The bed is still unmade — sheets rumpled and mattress indented where the three of you’d been laying. For a second, you just stare at it while recalling a few visions from only about five hours before. Jubie’s warmth, Armin’s stare, their fingers. Your face grows hot. You hadn’t known that that could feel so good. Previous experiences have all been so lackluster. The appeal in sex for you’d been greyed out for a long time. However, a new, beaming seed of hope has been planted within you.

You think about doing it again — about your fingers touching Jubie, grazing down the softness of her skin, squeezing, nails biting into it, the way she’d melt into you, let you melt into her, allow you to learn her without pulling away. Something in your tummy flips. But then you think about Armin . . . and you grow a bit shier at the thought of the large, burly blond. Last night had been enough to show you that he isn’t only authoritative, staid, and grounded in the daylight . . no, it all carries over beneath the moonlight, too. If anything, it all seems to deepen when everything slows down, when there’s nothing to busy or distract him.

He doesn’t rush or fumble or second guess.

Something about the way he watches you and Jubie, the way he moves, the way he is makes it clear that he’s in complete control of himself . . . and everything around him. Especially Jubie. Especially you.

You don’t think he’d be like Jubie in the sense of letting you do or even say whatever it is that you want. Everything about him tells you that he’d probably guide you . . slow you down a few times . . make you look at him. Make you understand what it is you’re asking for before letting you have it. He’d know what you’re feeling before you even have to say it and when you’re getting ahead of yourself. When to reel you back in or let you drift out a little further.

You don’t think you want to do whatever you want anyhow.

Not when it comes to him. The thought of being handled by him, entirely, settles a feeling that’s been frenzied and untamed inside of your chest for too long now. You want it, you realize. You need it.

Shaking your head to try to clear it empty, you set Lily down beside Babs on one of the dressers, prior to walking over to the bed to begin to make it. No more thoughts. You tell yourself to save it for your journal.

Getting dressed feels like a lot of effort. But, you do it anyway. A pale yellow dress, halter necked, and speckled with black polka dots all over . . and frilly ankle socks — something sweet and soft for a morning like this. You change in the bathroom, movements slow and a bit tired like your mind is still stuck somewhere between sleep and awake. And when you’re moisturized, perfumed, and dressed, the bathroom mirror greets you next. You take your time doing your hair, too. Detangle, part, brush, smooth, and clip back.

Finished.

You look pretty. You feel pretty when you step back outside of the bedroom, Lily back in your arm as you try to figure out something to do. Your growling stomach points you in the direction of the kitchen first, so you go. A bowl of cereal seems fitting enough. Nothing too heavy nor light. You sit at the table while you slowly eat, legs tucked up to your chest on the chair, one hand holding Lily close while the other lazily stirs your spoon within the sugar sweetened milk between bites. You don’t rush.

Time ticks on when you’re finished, bowl washed, and walking back to the living room to try to watch some TV while curled on the couch. For a while, you flip through a couple of channels, fighting to choose between watching a woman bake a sock it to me cake or catching up on the news. Eventually you settle on a cartoon, something light and easy, be that as it may, it doesn’t keep your attention for long. You stare out at the window behind Armin’s recliner, at the still gloomy skies and wind pushing through the trees. The wind chimes sing a pretty song together as your mind wanders.

Nothing to do.

It makes you sigh before you’re back up on your feet again, this time without Lily, as you go to walk down the opposite hall of the foyer. The one that leads to Armin’s office and the room that’ll be your shared playroom with Jubie. You slowly push open that door first, letting your eyes catch on the three pails of pink paint that sit in a corner, the tarp on the floor, built bookshelves, and rolled rugs. It’s coming together slowly but perfectly. A space just for you and her. The thought absolutely warms you. Soon. You give the room one last look before you turn towards Armin’s office door.

You’ve never set a single foot inside, you don’t know why. It isn’t an off limits space, just . . not talked about, really. Hand on the intricately carved brass knob, gently you turn it while slowly peeking your head in through the space the more it widens. It’s as expected. Large, dark wooden desk neat and tidy, creaky, rolling chair pushed in, file cabinets line one wall, wide shelves stretch upwards along the other, a few small windows. Taking the chance, you walk on over to his desk on your tip toes, biting on your nail while reading over a few papers he still has lying across it. Something about irrigation, crop yield estimates, and supplier negotiations.

There’s two contracts spread out where more negotiations seem to be taking place. You skim them a bit, mind easily becoming dizzy with numbers, routes, and names, before you stop yourself. What you’ve seen is enough but it all reads good. Everything’s stable.

You turn to leave, close the door behind yourself, and that’s when you notice it, hanging from the ceiling, about a foot away from the two doors you stand between — an attic string, faintly swaying with the waft of warm air that pushes in through the house through the vents. You pause and stare at it as your head tilts.

You didn't know the house had an attic.

Without much thought, you give a small jump, landing back on your feet with a soft grunt as soon as you get your hand wrapped around the string and then tug. The old, wooden ladder unfolds out three times with a tired groan until it settles into place with a heavy, dusty thud against the rug beneath your feet. You blink up at it, trying your best to peek up into the dark square that’s now visible in the ceiling but, nothing.

Hesitant at first, you eventually press your foot on that first step, listening for any loud creak before you begin to climb, higher and higher until the length of where you are between the floor frightens you a bit when you look down. The attic before you is larger than what you thought it’d be. The air is stale but warmer. With half your body through the opening, you look around at the old furniture covered in sheets, metal fans that you recognize were recently retired up here after summer ended, old boxes lining the slanted walls.

It appears to be mostly storage when you fully climb up and get your feet on the floorboards. Everything’s been meticulously organized to give one space to walk without bumping against anything. A regular ol’ attic. Right when you’d gone to retire back down the ladder is when you see it. A certain box, a white one, written on the front of it is ‘Jubilee’ in Armin’s pretty, cursive handwriting. Your interest is piqued. You move closer to it, expecting to see maybe some of her old clothes or even a collection of shoes, nonetheless, the sight of an old camcorder sitting on two dozen stacks of tapes confuses you.

Upon a closer look, you see that they’re all labeled and dated. ‘Baby’s First Rodeo - 8/20’ ‘Roughhousing During Dusk - 3/7’ ‘My Sweet Girl - 1/1.’ You walk your fingers along most of them, letting flashes of Jubie being recorded at a wild rodeo, smiling and giggling while watching people get thrown off a bull or play fighting with Armin in a field of grass cross your mind. You decide to watch one . . just out of curiosity.

‘Havin Some Ice Cream - 7/5’ is the tape you choose. It’s the newest one you think — the tape is a bit more cleaner than the rest, label not as faded. You hold it carefully in your hand as you climb back down the ladder, walk down the hall to the living room, and kneel down in front of the TV to change to input until the cartoon you were watching is replaced with a screen of static. Cautiously, you push the tape inside the VCR, listening to it click in place with a soft, mechanical thunk and something begins to whirl.

For a second, nothing happens.

You remain kneeling in front of the screen, hands folded loosely in your lap . . . then, static is washed out for an opening scene of the foyer. The lighting is bright, afternoon sun spilling in through the screen door and windows as the camera remains angled down at Armin’s moving boots. You hear his spurs jingle on them while he moves down the hall, clearing his throat all loud and gruff the way he always does before pushing open the door.

Then the camera lifts . . to Jubie, sitting on the porch swing, barefoot and in a pretty, yellow dress with one leg lifted to her chest, the other’s big toe softly pushing her back and forth as she eats vanilla soft serve off of a waffle cone. When she sees the camera, she suddenly grows a big smile.

“There’s my fuckin’ girl.”

Armin’s voice, crackling through the speakers of the television makes you shiver. “Look at you . . .” He mumbles through a small croon, walking closer to her.

Jubie looks beautiful. You stare, wide eyed and lips parted, watching Armin come to a halt, directly in front of her which leaves the camera’s lens pointed down and her having to look up at it, past it to see him. Her deep, brown eyes glimmer something bright as she mumbles, “What’s that for?”

“What’s what for?”

“Papa.”

You hear Armin chuckle and watch the camera jostle a bit, “C’mon, you know what it’s for, sweetheart . .” The lens lifts a bit higher, almost as if he wanted to catch the contrast between her pretty, little face and his dirty, dark washed jeans — his crotch directly within her eye view. Your heart begins to beat a little faster as you think . . . No, no. This can’t be that type of video. You doubt it and push the thought out of your mind. “Let Dad get a nice look at ya’ . . sittin’ out here all pretty.”

Without looking away from him, Jubie’s tongue laves over the swirl of her ice cream, painting pink with a stripe of creamy white. It should be an innocent action. Truthfully, you think it is but then, you listen to Armin’s voice grow a bit deeper, “Hmm . .” he hoarsely hums. “Tastes good?” And suddenly, you don’t think so anymore.

She slowly nods, dimples cratering as she tries to keep from smiling too big.

“Yeah?” The camera jounces again then you hear it, you watch his belt buckle come loose as he uses only a single hand to do it. Jubie tilts her head, eyes slowly lowering down his strong chest to his hips, watching him until his cock is lugged from over his briefs and zipper.

You slap your hands to your mouth as your eyes bulge out of your skull . . . for two reasons. This tape isn’t what you expected, not at all. And Armin’s cock . . isn’t what you expected neither. It’s bigger than you thought, fatter than you thought. Seven inches, maybe seven and a half, about as thick as the breadth of your wrist that tapers off to be a little bit smaller at the chubby head of it. Even through the lens of the camcorder, you see them, the handful of veins that throb beneath the thin skin. Surprisingly, it’s darker than the rest of him, nearly a dark, warm beige, sharply distinct from the neutral tan of his hand when he grabs the base with a few fingers and makes the head bounce upon Jubie’s lips.

“So gorgeous,” he murmurs. “I hear good daughters give their Dad kisses when he buys ‘em ice cream. You a good daughter, baby?”

Jubie pouts, “Mhm.”

“You sure?” Armin’s voice is soft. He speaks like he barely can over the amount of want that’s brewing inside of him. “Then where’s my kisses?”

She leans in closer and in doing so, it leaves his cock lying against her face, big and pretty. Your clit thumps at the sight before you hear a small smooch. She pulls back after and cheekily smiles, “There.”

Armin chuckles again, “Mm-mm, I don’t think that lil one’s enough.”

Jubie’s manicured fingers softly grab him at the halfway mark. It looks heavy and even more menacing within her hand. Curls dancing within the wind and framing her face, her eyes stare, right into the lens, into yours while she puckers up her glossy lips and gives a big, wet kiss to his tip. Your hands slowly fall from your mouth as a quivering breath pushes past your own. Enamored, you watch her kiss all over Armin’s fat, mesmerizing dick on a glitchy, forty inch screen, heart pounding, fingers trembling, and cunt beginning to drip. You see his fingers move out of frame before they’re back . . lathering Jubie’s ice cream over his length, more on the tip.

It must’ve been really hot that day because it’s already starting to drip milky droplets onto her cheeks and bridge of her nose.

“Lick it.”

No hesitation, Jubie’s wrapping her lips around his head and suckling at it first, eyes big as she stares up into his own, swallowing cold cream and pre cum into her throat. “Yeaahh,” Armin softly grunts, stepping closer and smearing some more across his cock. “This’s how you thank me . . This is how you’re gonna eat the rest of this damn ice cream, darl’.”

She doesn’t seem to have a problem with it as she happily swallows him down til about mid way. The sounds are . . vulgar. Her mouth, lips, and throat all working, the drool that starts to drip, Armin’s deep breathing and grunts. You watch how Jubie’s eyes grow a little bit more . . empty, a bit more dazed the longer it goes on. The porch’s floorboards chirrs beneath Armin’s weight. Those same wind chimes carol in the background. “Mm, fuck,” Armin mutters as he grabs her by the back of the head to suddenly firmly pull her in until her nose is nestled in the thatch of light brown pubes at his base. “There y’go, kid. There you fuckin’ go.”

Jubie chokes. The ice cream falls from her hand to the porch with a faint splat.

You’d been so into watching Armin pull her off, so into admiring the thick, foamy strings of cream and spit playing between her lolled out tongue and his dripping cock that you don’t hear truck doors slamming and footsteps walking up to the door. It’s only when you do hear Jubie sing out, “Lovieee, we’re baaaack!” when you squeak, slap your palms to your mouth, then hustle forward to try and punch your fingers as quick as you can against the stop button.

But they hear you.

Jubie’s eyes grow wide when she sees what’s playing on the television screen . . . a small smirk lifts Armin’s lips. He folds his arms, standing behind Jubie, and leans his shoulder against the threshold, watching the screen abruptly go black as the tape eventually comes sliding back out from the VCR slit. Nobody moves. No one says anything.

You remain kneeling there, spine pulled absurdly straight, listening for them . . but nothing. Nervously licking your lips, you slowly grab the tape, hold it in your lap, and without looking at them, murmur, “I’m sorry.” Your voice is thin and quiet. “I wasn’t . . I didn’t . . .” You can’t find the words. Your brain is moving too quick. “It won’t happen again. ‘m sorry.”

Still nothing at first. Then you hear movement. Armin. His footsteps, heavy and slow, grow closer to you until you see them settle in your peripheral but you don’t move an inch. Not yet.

“You were snoopin’.”

It isn’t a question. He says it bluntly. You slowly nod anyway.

“Hm.” He scratches at the scruff on his jaw, looking down at you . . at the tape in your hands. You listen to his bones pop as he lowers down into a crouch with a small groan before grabbing the tape from your fingers. You immediately let go of it. He’d only gotten a peek of what had been playing on the TV but he knows his own dick from a mile away. You listen to him turn the plastic over within his hands, read the label, “. . Yeah, ‘s a good one,” he mutters, almost to himself as his thumb brushes along the edge. “Not my favorite of me and ‘er, though. Think that seat belongs to February third. Jubilee in the Sun.”

Behind you both, Jubie shifts her weight, eyes unable to pull away from you now that the shock is starting to slowly ebb away. Curiosity and something inexplicably soft dances across her expression when Armin shifts his gaze on over to her . . then back at you. You’re like a statue — refusing to move, to say anything, when he properly takes you in, he can see that it’s something you must’ve trained yourself to do when high pressured situations like these arise. Go small, go quiet.

“Y’gonna look at me, young lady,” he says, voice calm but firm.

You flinch. Not very noticeable, but he catches it anyway.

Then your chin lifts slowly. Your eyes, big and teary, find his and he clicks his tongue, low and quietly, letting you watch his hand come up slow to grab you by the chin and keep you there. “Ain’t no need for all this, y’jus got curious is all.”

Softly, you nod as your chin trembles. His heart squeezes.

He nods with you, “ ‘s alright,” he utters. “We ain’t mad at chu, are we, honey bee?”

“No,” Jubie shakes her head, honest as a scout. “ ‘s okay.”

“Yeah,” his thumb brushes a tear away when it comes trickling down your cheeks. The pad of his thumb lingers on the apple of it, stroking back and forth just barely as you breathe in a shaky breath then slowly blow it out. He watches you closely, blue eyes penetrating and captivating—

“Baby girl,” he says, tone shifting towards Jubie without tearing them away from you. “Go grab that camcorder f’me.”

Your heartbeat skips.

She pauses, only for a second. Then chirps a soft, “Okay,”before moving.

You hear her footsteps fade down the hall where you know the ladder’s already waiting for her to climb. Armin’s hand slips from your cheek, but he doesn’t move away. He remains crouching there, just enough in your space to have your gaze locked on nothing but him. “Y’like it?”he eventually asks.

Breath caught in your throat, you only lift your brows before he clarifies with his face handsome and even, voice steady, “This tape. You liked watchin’ it?”

You hesitate . . . before you nod. “. . Y-Yes, sir.”

Something unreadable flickers across his expression — not surprised or even satisfaction. Something . . else. Every hair on your body rises. “Mm.” His tongue briefly presses against his cheek as he softly nods and studies you. When he speaks again, it’s while he straightens back up to his full height, voice deeper this time, “ ‘m gonna make one of you, too.”

Jubie’s already returning from the hall, camcorder held carefully between her hands like she’d already been taught to hold it like such before. Her eyes flicker between the two of you, the way you’re still kneeling, Armin not too far away from you. A bud of excitement sprouts from within her as she settles the camera into Armin’s outstretched hand, watching him turn it once within his grip, then reach up to pull his white, felt, Stetson hat from off of his head and place it upon the living room table.

He takes in the dress you wear, your hair, how quick your chest rises and falls and the way your hands fight to settle. He smirks. “You ain’t gotta be nervous.”

As much as his tone keeps your emotions stable, you find that there’s a hint of a tease to it too.

The camcorder lifts to his eye. He gives no warning when he presses the button to begin recording. You listen to the lens focus on you and swallow, knowing that you’re now being seen in a way that feels different from ever before. “You’re not in trouble. Ain’t nothin to be scared of,” he mumbles, eye fixed on you through the glass. “. . Stand up for me, beautiful.”

Gradually, you do. You rise onto your feet beneath his, the camcorder, and Jubie’s attention, watching him pull the eyecup away and hold the camera at his chest. “My goodness,” he mumbles, looking at you beneath his lashes as he steps in closer, wanting the lens to catch on the swell of your tits, sitting up full within the plunged neckline of your dress and the seemingly miles of soft, precious brown skin. “Jus’ a sight for sore eyes, aren’t you.”

Cheeks hot, you watch him look towards Jubie, “Her dress, baby girl.”

Sh bites down on a smile, walking on over to stand behind you. “ ‘s okay, right?” She whispers, fingers already thumbing with the bow you tied behind your neck as though she simply can’t help herself. With barely a pause, you nod. You feel her fingertips brushing against your skin as she slowly unties it, leaving the fabric of your dress to loosen bit by bit until it ultimately pools at your socked feet. You remained clothed in nothing but them and a pair of white, ruffly underwear, printed with little, pink hearts all over. “Beautiful,” Armin murmurs, forcing the lens to capture the curves of your body — flare of your hips, meat of your thighs. Your soft tummy, arms, legs, shoulders. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, good Lord.”

Jubie can’t help herself. You feel her fingers slide between the hem of your panties at your hips and she slowly crouches as she pulls them down. Reflexes make you want to cover yourself.

Armin clicks his tongue — once and firm. “Mm-mm,” he shakes his head. You slowly rest your arms back at your sides. Jubie pushes your dress and undies away from your feet. Then her hands are at your calves, pushing up, up, up, until they’re on the plush cheeks of your ass, squeezing.

Rounding behind you, Armin soon mutters, “Bend over for me, doll. Let Dad see that pretty, lil flower a’yours.”

You mewl, timid and shy, as you slowly bend at your waist, letting your hands fall flat against the table and legs spread just the tiniest bit wider.

“Spread ‘er.”

Jubie’s fingers are pulling your cheeks opened and you hear them both breathe out a deep breath. Your body’s shaking, you realize. All over. Nervousness isn’t a word that can even begin to explain what you are. You look behind you, “D-Don’t stare.”

The lens draws in closer.

“Fuck,” Armin grunts out. Your pussy is covered in soft, dark curls of silk. He guesses that video of him and Jubie must have really gotten you riled up because thick webs of slick are gathered at your entrance, glueing your lips together and turning some of those curls into more waves. But, it isn’t even just that.

The both of them had felt it last night — your clit. Fat and hard.

Seeing it, is a different story. It’s chubbier than the average, definitely. Round and a rosy brown. Jubie wants to suck on it. Her eyes grow foggy as she hones in on the plump bead, slowly lifting her hand to pull open your lips and get a better look. “Cunnie’s so pretty, sissy,” she pouts at the sight of glimmering pink and your tiny, flexing hole.

Armin knows what his girls want. What they both need.

He takes a step away. “On the couch,” he tells you. “Lay down. Let your sister have a taste at you, doll.”

Jubie gives a happy, little squeak. Mind drawing fuzzy, you can only obey — laying down against the couch, opening up your legs, and watching her crawl between them. “J . . Jubie.” You feel shy. Especially when she’s looking up at you, sparkly eyed and needy . . like your pussy in her mouth has been all she’s been wanting for so long. “ ‘m probably not as good at this as Papa,” she blushes, hands squeezing at your thighs. “B-But ‘ll do m’best. Pinkie promise.”

You let out a deep breath, blood pumping with adrenaline. No, something at the back of your brain says. Jubie won’t.

Her mouth inches closer.

She won’t.

But then you feel it . . her lips around your clit, her tongue.

Your eyes slam closed and a sound you’ve never heard yourself make before comes crawling out from your throat. You keen, high and soft, toes curling within your socks as she sucks . . hard. Armin gives an approving hum, capturing it all on camera — Jubie’s tongue wagging on your clit, your stomach shuddering, voice breaking.

You feel the muscle swirl around and ‘round on the fat and tender bead and impulsively reach out for her hand, interlacing your fingers through hers, squeezing it when her tongue dips lower to press up against your hole where slick begins to trickle from, sweet and salty. “Yeah,” Armin breathes, zooming in on your hairy, little pussy and Jubie’s nose pressed up against your curls. “My goodness, aren’t you two jus’ fuckin’ precious.”

She suckles up every droplet of juice your pussy produces, ringlets falling from her bun across her forehead, some blocking her eyesight, yet she doesn’t push them away. She’s much too enraptured with your cunt in her mouth — sucking at it. Your warmth on her tongue, smearing across her upper lip and the round tip of her nose until all she sees, smells, feels, and hears is you.

Incessantly, you squirm. Your moans are shaky and your mouth pops opened around a pool of drool, “Oh, p-please . .” you whimper, back arching. “Ngh, G-Gosh, Jubie. S’so good.”

You hear her breathe out a happy purr, tongue slowly pushing into the entrance of your dewy cunt to only pull it out, then ease it back in, fucking you with it, sweet and deep. Eyes rolling back into your skull, your fingernails bite into her knuckles as you toss your head back. It feels so good. “Mhm,” you whimper, hips lifting to deliriously roll your pussy along the plane of her tongue. “Mhmmmm.”

Jubie can’t take it. Mindlessly, she slides her fingers down the front of her skirt, into her stockings and panties. The mess her fingers are met with between her legs makes the color on her cheeks grow darker. Armin draws the lens up to your mouth where he dips his fingers into, muffling your sounds into weak garbles. “Tell ‘er thank you,” he coo’s, deep and low as he pushes them in til the ring at your throat. “Let your sister know how good she’s makin’ that sweet, lil pussy feel.”

“T. . T’tanmk you,” you mewl around his digits, teary eyes looking down into hers. “Mmph . . ngh, t-tha’k you, sissy.”

Armin hums, pulling his fingers away to give two, short, firm pats to your face. “Such good manners,” he whispers. “And what do you say to a thank you, honey bee?”

Around her wet mouth full, Jubie trills, “Y’welc’me.”

“Yeah,” he drifts his touch down your chest to a tit to squeeze at it. “Raisin’ two, polite, lil girls, ain’t I? Doin’ so good, both a’you.”

You squeak with he pinches at the small nub of your nipple. He rolls it between his fingers, adds a little bit of pressure, lightly tugs at it. Tiny bubbles of spit trickle down your perineum to your asshole. It shocks you to feel Jubie’s tongue following them — licking it with broad, slow strokes. You feel so dizzy. Overcome with so much ardor and want that it’s twisting your tongue. “You tell me when you cum,” Armin orders as you hear the familiar, metallic clank of his belt buckle undoing. “That’s how this goes. You tell Dad when that flower a’yours is drippin’ into ‘er mouth.”

Breathlessly nodding, you watch him move.

The camera is retired to the table, angled just perfect enough to have you and Jubie caught within frame. Armin falls to his knees behind Jubie, hands hooked within her bottoms, tugging them all off and carelessly tossing them somewhere he could care less about as he pulls his cock out from between the flaps of his zipper. You can’t see much . . not really from this angle, but you watch his hair brush against his jaw as he lowers his chin, his big, muscled arm pump a few times, then his lip get bitten over with his teeth when he presses a hand flat between Jubie’s back dimples before pushing inside of her.

Your clit is released from her lips with a loud, slick pop. The side of her face falls onto your inner thigh, eyebrows furrow, and plush, satiny lips pout around a whiny moan as he bottoms out within one, smooth thrust. “D-Dad, ohm’God—”

“—Keeeep those legs open, keep ‘em open. That’s right.”

Dreamily blinking, eyes unfocused, the buttons of Armin’s shirt are unfastened by him, one by one as he sits there within Jubie, cock entirely enveloped within her warmth, unmoving. What seems like miles of carved, tanned, hairy skin is revealed to you. There’s nothing soft about him, not a single thing. A thin, gold chain dangling a small cross against the dark hair that’s dusted across the muscles of his pecs catches most of your attention. Only because you’ve never noticed it before. It shifts slightly with each breath he takes, clearly made to be worn simply rather than shown off.

“Thought I taught you better than that, sweetheart,” he soon drawls at the scene in front of him, eyes locked on your silken, throbbing pussy. Even at rest, there’s weight to him. “Some’n sweet sittin’ in front of you an’ you sittin’ there like you don’t know what to do with it.”

Eyes wide and apologetic, Jubie mewls a soft, “ ‘m s-sorry,”as she kisses your clit. “I’m sorry.”

Armin doesn’t start moving until he sees her lips wrapped back around it. Each initial thrust is slow . . deep. Delicately, you brush Jubie’s hair back from her face, watching her eyes shyly close as she does her best to keep licking at the bulging bud of your clit and pushing her tongue inside your hole. Then, Armin racks up a nice, steady rhythm, rock hard dick driving forward into the soft, inviting cushions of her walls, leaving her mouth falling open to pant warm, hard breaths against your cunt.

You feel her fingers dig into the skin of your thighs as she fights to hold onto a meager thread of awareness. She sounds how you always dreamed she would — not a lot of words from her but so many sounds. Hiccups, whines, heavy breathing, and sweet yelps. “Hng. Ngh. Hng. Pa . . Papa, please, please, please—“

“—Get that pretty, lil mouth back on y’sister’s pussy, Jubilee,” he grits while swatting a thick smack to one of her bouncing ass cheeks. “You cum when she does.”

The incentive is enough for Jubie to pull your hips closer, burying her mouth back in your cunt and every thought rushing through your head melts away. You feel Armin’s eyes trailing between you both, admiring the jiggling orbs of Jubie’s ass before they’re lifting up to your face to watch your mouth choke out cute moans of bliss. His girls. So good. You both are so good, he doesn’t even know where to begin on it.

It all settles somewhere deep within his chest — a glowing though quiet type of pride that he doesn’t voice very often yet carries all the same. Jubie, soft and bright, always reaching, always feeling everything so openly. And you . . a little more careful and hesitant but just as sweet in your own way. You’re still learning. Opening yourself up. Trying your best.

You both are something he would have never expected to have. Not in this lifetime. But now that you’re both here, bridged together through pleasure he’s instilling, he doesn’t revel in it lightly.

“Papa,” you mewl and shift your hips this way and that. Armin looks down, using his thumbs to spread Jubie’s cheeks apart to get a better look at sticky strings of slick that’s beginning to thicken at his base. Always gets so wet, so fast this one.

“Hm?” He huffs, eyes dark as he pins you there with his stare, pace never halting. “What is it, baby doll? Tell me.”

Jubie’s middle finger is at the hole of your pussy. She pushes it in nice and slow, blinking up at you beneath thick, long lashes. Not long after arrives her ring and together she shifts them about, searching for that little button that always manages to turn her brain off when Armin gets his own fingers on it and . . lo and behold, when she feels that clump of nerves angled near the roof of your pussy, your nose does that familiar wrinkle and your hands curl into little fists within the couch cushions.

Armin breathes out a small chuckle, “Mmmm, good fuckin’ job,” he whispers to Jubie, palming the back of her head and pushing her mouth deeper inside your folds. “Wanna see you swallow it. Lick up every single drop, understand me?”

Breathless, Jubie nods. She was going to do that anyhow, but Armin’s instruction always makes it a bit more better. Your entire body goes catatonic . . and you barely make a single sound when you cum this time around. Armin hears it — the squelching of Jubie’s fingers working inside your cunt, mingling just barely beneath the louder, more deafening symphonies of his hips slapping up against her ass, heavy balls knocking on her clit. Contentedly, she swallows the gift of your release as it washes out upon her tongue, thick and musky. She even goes the extra mile to spread the fingers that are still inside you nice and far apart to dig it in between them for a more deeper, richer mouthful.

You begin to twitch. Your trembling thighs attempt to close as you squirm beneath her touch. “J-Jubie,” you gasp her name, tears of mind shattering pleasure dripping towards your temples. “Jubie, no more. No more, no more—“

She ignores you. Lips pull at your clit, fingers rub at your g spot, warm breaths tumble down to your winking asshole as your pussy continues to convulse and push out more and more rivulets of frosted cum.

“Oh my God,” you sob and arch your back upwards, muffling any more of your sounds into the pillow behind you as you go to squeeze at her free hand for mercy.

“Breathe.”

Armin’s voice is hard.

“Both a’you. Breathe.”

Jubie’s head is snagged away from between your legs. You pant, watching her lick her lips with a spacey grin on her face — looking similar to a puppy who’s recently gotten a taste of one of her favorite treats, brain now foggy as she whines for another. But then, Armin’s suddenly, firmly pushing her down . . side of her face against the rug as he picks up a mean, hard rhythm. Their skin meets for thick fwop fwop fwops as Jubie squeaks, arm still raised, holding your hand, letting Armin beat her pussy into a sloppy, little pulp. “Don’t get to actin’ up, girl,” Armin grumbles. “You listen when I tell y’lil ass somethin’.”

Soundlessly, she nods. Similar to you, she says not a word, barely even makes a sound when you hear her cunt squirt out jets of her cum around Armin’s dick. The crotch of his jeans dampen as stray droplets jump from between where their bodies meet come each thrust as each spurt seems to only grow more forceful the longer time ticks on. Mellowly, Armin drones out a deep hum, rolling his hips to better help her ride it out as her body shakes between his hands. “There it is,” he sighs when she finally breathes out a shaky sob. “Looked like that one felt real good, baby.”

Weakly, Jubie nods, “ S-So good, Dad,” she whimpers, body still quivering. “Y . . You make m’feel so g-good.”

Charmingly smiling, Armin leans down to press soft, tender kisses up the length of her spine. “You gon’ watch me make y’sister feel good, too?”

“Mhmm.”

The sweetest, little thing she is. “Alright, now. C’mon.”

He pulls out of her, languid and careful, admiring the moment when her walls release his head with a cute, bratty pop. Unsurprising. Needy, little hole just doesn’t want to let him go sometimes. Before moving onto you, he takes the camera from off of the table, letting the lens admire Jubie’s still arched, twitchy frame. He pulls it down to get between her legs — the pearls of liquid slowly dripping down her inner thighs, pulsing clit, hole still somewhat gaped around the absent length of him. “Pretty as a peach.”

Back onto the table it goes, he pulls Jubie up into his arms with a kiss to her forehead and lies her down on the chaise lounge of the couch.

You watch him with bated breath, eyes tracking his every movement — him pushing his jeans, briefs, and boots off, leaving him damn near barren as the day he was born. His expression is unreadable, but you know that his brain is churning, working and settling on a decision, as he finally makes his way towards you. You don’t know what you really expected, but it isn’t him suddenly lifting you, easily lifting you, with only one arm holding you steady within the air to grab a cushion from behind you, lay it flat, then you on top of it.

Your breath is pushed out of you in a cute puff of shock as you blink up at him, wide eyed, as he settles between your legs. The movement had been so quick, so effortless. Staring at his biceps, you swallow just as he grabs his base to give a few, hard taps to your clit with his cockhead. The both of your lips are parted, eyes locked between your legs, watching the fat, round bead tremble between each one. “Never seen a clit like this on such a small, lil thing like you.”

Blushing, you cover your face with a shy whine. “ ‘s it . . bad?”

Armin slowly shakes his head, blue eyes absolutely gleaming behind his easy expression, “Naw, not at all,” he utters. “ ‘s precious.”

You feel his tip at your hole . . gently pressing at it. Over and over and over again. His face doesn’t change. He remains staring at you as he does, watching your eyebrows furrow in and bottom lip jut out at the simple feeling. Oh, you’re so pretty. So, so pretty.

“Want it?”

Biting your bottom lip, you slowly nod while gazing up into his eyes, unblinking. Armin’s lips quirk. “Mm? . . You gon’ beg this old man for it?”

You’re so shy. Cheeks warm, you don’t say a word or even give a gesture, but your hand slides down . . you wrap your fingers around his base, giving his still, wet shaft, courtesy of Jubie’s orgasm, a nice, firm stroke before you begin leading it inside. Armin pulls back, shaking his head. “Mm-mm,” he softly says. “You be a big girl and use y’words. Ask if you can have it.”

You whine, huffing and puffing, “D-Dad, please?”

He faintly smiles, head nodding, “You got it,” he drawls. “Lemme hear ya.”

It’s either this . . or going the entire rest of the day, empty and aching. You know that he’ll do it — tell you to put your dress back on, maybe even send you outside to do some chores, bring you back in the house, have you watch some tv then start on dinner. The simple thought is enough to have your usual inhibitions shatter. You can’t survive that. Not when his cock is right here, needy for you just as much as you are for it. “Can I have it?” you whimper, hips shifting. “Please, Papa? Please, lemme have it?”

“Mmmmm,” Armin groans, eyes growing heavy. “Ask if I can put it inside . . Beg Dad to break this lil pussy in.”

Your hole clenches at his words, pushing out a glob of slick. “Pretty please,” you shakily breathe, voice thick with too much want. It’s radiating off of your body, you think. “Put it inside me, Papa? . . Break m’pussy in.”

“My God.”

Armin slowly presses in, bit by bit. Doesn’t halt for a second, even as you tense and go to press your hands at his torso, he still keeps on sliding in til he’s home. You begged for it so you’ll take it all. The folds of your pussy divide, leaving your plump, round clit exposed to his eyes. He listens to you squeak out the second his balls are pressed flat up against your asshole and he leans forward, caging you in within his body, lips pressed against your forehead to breathe you in when he ever so slowly begins to rotate his hips . . grinding his cock within the hot, fleshy walls of your cunt.

Your eyes feel like they’re crossing.

“Ungh!”

It’s the only sound you’re able to make. He’s so deep . . so impossibly deep. You never thought it’d be possible for anyone to reach where he is inside of you. “ ‘s okay,” you hear Jubie whisper against your ear. She intertwines her fingers back within the spaces yours and you look to your right to see her face lying right beside your own, tiny smile on her lips. “It’ll start feelin’ real good in a minute.”

His hips pull back.

No amount of anticipation is enough to prepare you for when he glides back in, smooth and easy. It feels like your breath is knocked out of you. “Oh my. . G-God.”

Gruffly, he mumbles, “ ‘s okay, sweet girl. You’re okay.”

Your juices dribble out from around his dick with each following thrust. Your muscles start to loosen, your body relaxes.

“Oh my God,” is heard again — this time softer, more saturated in pure rapture.

Jubie kisses the back of your hand, watching your facial muscles grow idle and mouth fall open when Armin’s rhythm becomes a bit more steady. She remembers how he felt sliding inside of her that very first time too. Made her think she was getting split in half. Howbeit, she thinks it’s just something painful to get through before the irrefutable pleasure hits and renders your body damn near immobile. She knows you’re feeling it now . . because you can barely talk. You’re barely even breathing.

“Ooh,” Armin exhales as his eyes close. “F-Fuck. Give Dad his pussy, sweetheart.”

Your mind is blank. Drawn completely empty. You feel Armin stamping a line of scruffy, sweet kisses down your temple, side of your face, to your neck, but all you can do is hold onto him with an arm hooked beneath his, fingernails clawing into his shoulder when he builds up a momentum. The coolness of his chain brushes within the valley of your bouncing tits once he gets a grip on the cushion below your head for better stability and pushes your legs open wider, fitting himself better between them to dig his dick in as deep as it could go.

You’re squeaking, you realize. Each plap of his hips pushes out a short, high pitched cry from your throat.

“Armin,” you sob his name, feeling him shake his head in reply.

“Mm-mm, baby,” he hums. “Now you know you girls don’t call me that. Address me proper.”

Your responding whimper is weak once he pulls himself back a bit to get a thumb on your clit, “Papa.” He carefully nods in reply while rubbing stiff circles on it. You feel like you’re simultaneously being broken into and mended back together.

From his position, now kneeled above you — Armin takes the picture in. Both yours and Jubie’s gorgeous, naked bodies, frizzed hair, and cloudy eyes. Your tits jumping upon your chest with each shove of his meaty, freckled cock inside the delve of your cunt, how the two of you hold hands. Jubie whispers something to you, eyes bright and a smile pulling up her lips. Whatever she says makes your eyes roll back into your skull and pussy react — your walls clamp down on him, nice and tight, and it leaks out a sudden wave of slick, trickles down Armin’s base and drips to his balls.

“How lucky am I . .” he says within a grunt. Two, pretty girls. Two, pretty, perfect fucking girls, all his, til the end of time. “How fuckin’ lucky am I.”

You feel so good. Borderline too good. You take the chance at looking down between where your bodies meet . . watching murky cream paint his cock with streaks. You feel and hear his sagging though fleshy ballsack clapping up against the split of your ass cheeks, loud and obnoxious. “Want Dad to cum in you?” Jubie hums as she rolls on her stomach to swing her legs in the air. “You gotta ask him real nice.”

Weakly though frantically nodding, you feel tears blurring your eyes when Armin gives a tilt upwards to your hips which allows the head of his cock to knock nearly right up against the nugget of your g spot. Not directly, no, it’s like he knows that that’d be entirely too much for you. But it’s . . right there. You feel like you’re going to pass out.

“C’mon, sissy, tell him,” Jubie whimpers as she pushes her face into your neck to kiss it. More timidly she soon admits against the shell of your ear, “W-Wanna lick it outta you.”

Drool drips past your lips. “Dad, cum in me,” you plead, voice warbly and needy. “Please, please . . please, cum in me.”

Armin huffs a short chuckle, leaning back over the both of your faces, “Mm?” He grunts. “Yeah, you want that . . . ? Or is your sister bein’ a bad influence on you, baby doll?”

You want it. “W-Wan’ it.”

You feel him grab you by the backs of your knees. It shocks you to feel him pushing them . . up, up, up, until your knees are nearly pressed into your shoulders. He adjusts himself too — pulls his legs up underneath him, gets situated more on his toes, then begins to drop his dick inside of your squelching cunt, over and over. Jubie feels your hand crawl up the back of her head. You squeeze at her curls, leaving her with no choice but to lean in and smack a sloppy kiss to your lips. She swallows your spit, letting you pant into her mouth as she wraps her lips around your tongue for an icky suckle. Both of your drool smears along your chins.

“Do I taste good?” She softly asks when she pulls away. You look absolutely gone, nevertheless you nod with a whimper,“T-Taste so sweet, sissy.”

“Wanna taste m’pussy?”

“Yeah.”

Your vision is bleary, but you watch her hand slide down her lithe though shapely body. It’s gone for a few seconds but when it’s back, her fingers are coated in a thin layer of her juices. You turn your head to suckle the middle two within your mouth and it’s as you’re swallowing her taste within the back of your throat when you suddenly cum with a quivering whimper.

Armin feels you clenching. Your walls lock down on him tight before they’re slowly relaxing then locking down on him again as your pussy continues to cast out thick, creamy billows of cum. Rhythmically, he groans out through his nose with each one, dropping himself in deep to apply well needed friction to your clit with the sheet of pubes above his cock. He feels the tightening in his balls. He’s been holding on for too long. “Ain’t cummin’ in ya’,” he breathes out. “Not today.” He needs to see it on you. The both of you.

Therefore, he suddenly pulls out, snatches the camera from off of the table and stands. Pointing the lens down at the both of your pretty, little faces, he fists his dripping wet cock with a tight hand and starts to jerk himself off, swift and firm. “Look at Dad, sweethearts,” he croons. “Gimmie a smile.”

It’s when you both do, all sweet and gorgeous, when the first shot of his cum ejects from his head and shoots out onto the both of your faces. He groans, guttural and quiet, as he beats the rest of them out, ass clenching, toes curling within the rug as he paints the both of your faces — cheeks, lips, and nose — absolutely white. “Good girls, so f-fuckin good. My God . . got t-this old man absolutely smitten.”

Jubie reaches up first. She grabs him by the base, staring up at him beneath her lashes as she suckles his tip between her lips to swallow those last, few beads of his sperm down her throat. He isn’t held within her mouth for long because she soon releases him with a thick pop and angles it more your way. Cum drips across your faces, drying quickly as you lean it to do the same. The camera catches it all — the cum, the kisses, the hearts that dance within the both your sets of eyes when you look up at him then at each other while tongue kissing his tip together.

His girls.

ᯇ delivered by milk

And the weird thing is . . . you do.

Your knee high socked feet leadenly swing where you’re perched. You don’t even realize you’re staring until you watch him tilt his head back to take a swing of his drink.

His hair, still buzzed low to his scalp, though today, dyed a rare, metallic tone catches most of your attention. It’s something crossed between an ashen silver with a soft blue undertone . . . a color not a lot of people can pull off though on him, it somehow fits. He’s on a rollout for the album he’s dropping in about two weeks now. Everyone’s anticipating it.

Therefore, new era. New look.

He never has to say much, nevertheless, you can feel it radiating off of him each time something new like this drops — the intensity of him. Control. Focused.

You hear the oil hiss as he presses the meat down into it, searing something that envelopes nearly his entire loft with scents of rich spices.

“. . And I guess, Anthony got super pissed about all the ruckus ‘cause then he opened the door to tell her something and . . . . — Connie.”

“Mm.”

. . .

You huff out a breath, “ ‘m talkin’ to you.”

Another hum, this one slightly quieter as he flips the meat in the pan to its other side.

Your hands squeeze your knees, “Did you even hear what I said?”

“Mhm.”

“What did I say then.”

The sound of meat sizzling in a pan as a delicious crust burns at the fat fills the silence. He doesn’t turn around.

Your arms fold. “You’re being mean.”

That’s when he glances back at you . . . and there it is. That look. His eyes. A hauntingly beautiful mix of grey, green, and brown. The colors swirl together like storm water and earth. Not one shade overpowers the other and they don’t just look at you, they pin you to where you are . . making your tummy flip and spine subconsciously straighten.

You hate that you love them so much.

You hate that he knows you do, too.

Your words are no longer going in one ear and out of the other. His attention is fully on you now and you’re not sure if you prepared yourself for it.

“. . Stop it,” is all you manage to mumble. He does it to you on purpose. You’ve figured that out now.

He doesn’t say anything. Not immediately. Merely presses at a button on the stove to cut the heat down a bit . . slowly, like he’s in no rush to really reply.

However, then, “Qué tú dijiste?”

Immediately, your nose wrinkles. “Connie, no.” Gosh, you hate when he does this.

“Dime otra vez.” ( tell me again )

“No.”

Cue a long pause.

“No?”

You fight to stay where you are when he starts closing the distance between you both and keep your arms folded while turning your face away to disengage with his eye contact. No. You refuse to play this game with him tonight.

“. . Mírame.”

You don’t.

Your arms fold tighter to your chest, pressing into the pretty lace of your bralette like you’re trying to keep your composure. “No.” The word comes out softer as you press your glossy lips into a firm line.

Stubborn.

Then you feel it, his hand cup the underneath of your jaw to force your eyes back to him, firm and unyielding. “Don’t do that.”

You go to slightly push at his arm, acrylics grazing his skin, while trying to pull your face away. “Constance—“

“—Aye.”

His tone is quiet, yet still lands heavy on your chest. So, you drop your hand though shift your big, brown eyes off to the side. Don’t engage, is what you tell yourself. Eventually he’ll give up . . .

Right?

Don’t engage.

You squirm where you sit, tiny shorts riding up somehow even higher up your thighs, leaving them exposed to the warm air wafting about. “. . I said no.” You go to make your move — let gravity do its thing and plop your feet on the ground, however, he’s right there with you . . . Grabbing you by the waist and easily lifting you up to plop you back down where you were sitting.

“Pa’ dónde tú vas?” ( where you goin’? )

“Connie, moooove,” you whine and kick out your legs when he forces his way between them to place his hands flat on the counter beside your full hips, caging you in where you are. “I don’t wanna do this with you tonight.”

He’s humming, “Ion care. Mírame.”

You’re huffing, grumbling, and pouting, but let him lift your chin once more so that your eyes can connect with is. Wide, soft, and brown. Your extensions frame them in the prettiest way possible, dark and wispy, making it easy for him to read exactly how you’re feeling — frustrated and grumpy. “Why you actin’ like that.”

Your bottom lip somehow pushes out even further. You look like a mean ass kitten. “ ‘m not actin’ like nothin’,” eventually, as always, you look away first . . down at your thighs where you walk your own fingers across the thickness of them. “I jus’ don’t feel like doin’ this. It’s annoying.”

His knuckle gently knocks at your chin, pushing your head back up before you can completely tuck yourself away. “Annoyin’ how.”

You hesitate, “. . . I dunno spanish, Connie. And you talk to me and expect me to reply to you like I do.”

He hums.

So, you continue, “It’s not fair.”

“And?”

“It’s not fair. And then you look at me like . .”

“Like what.”

You look away again. Your voice is but a mewl when you say, “Like ‘m stupid or somethin’.”

Aside from the catchy jingle of Bob’s Burgers’ theme song playing, the kitchen is enveloped in silence. “. . . Don’t do that.” Connie’s voice is low yet hard when he eventually responds. Your eyes flutter up to his, however look away upon seeing the faint crease settled between his eyebrows. “I’m serious. Don’t put that on me, ma.”

He could never. He would never.

“Ion look at you like that. I look at you like you can actually do it.”

Your body loosens when his hand slides up your collarbone to behind your neck where he starts to rub slow, grounding circles against your nape with his thumb. “Suelta eso.” ( let go of that. ) “Háblame.” ( talk to me. )

You breathe out a slow breath, “. . Okay,” For him, you’ll try. For him, you’d try a million times. Licking your lips, you glance up at him for a split second. “Uhm.”

“Tranquila. Dilo como te salga.” ( relax. say it how it comes out. )

Nodding, you find interest in the hanging strings of his sweatpants and pull at them softly as you weakly speak, “Tú no . . . mm . . . estabas . .” You can feel him watching you closely. It makes your heart rate spike. You don’t get how he does this. Exhaling a frustrated breath, you ball your fingers into fists. “No estabas . . prestando . . . . . aten-atención . . . .”

Your hands fly up to your face that burns with shame upon the feeling of something just being . . off. “See? I dunno, Connie—“

“C’mon, stop that,” he’s grabbing your wrists and forcing your hands down so that you can look up at him. “You was almost done. You got it.”

“It doesn’t sound right.”

“Dale.” ( go ahead. )

“. . No estabas prestando . . atención,” you pause, searching for it. “a mí?”

Shockingly, Connie nods. The ghost of a smirk plays at his soft lips when he reaches for your waist to tug you closer to the edge. “Ahí.”

Your eyes sparkle with awe as you tenderly reach for his shoulders, “There? . . Yeah?”

He’s smirking now, eyes lazy as he nods. “Mhm.”

“No estabas prestando antención a mí.” ( you weren’t paying attention to me. )

“No estabas prestando antención a mí. Así mismo.” ( exactly like that. )

He then gives a soft, approving hum. You smile big enough to almost pop your cheeks. “I did it?”

“You did it.”

When you squeak, he’s right there on you . . nearly laying you flat on the counter to peck kisses within the crook of your neck where you’re most ticklish at. Giggling, you throw both your arms and legs around his body, feeling his own arms engulf beneath the curve of your back to pull you entirely flush against his chest.

“Mm, yo siempre te estoy prestando atención.” How could he not?