#starwovenwrites

you swallow.

the last date the two of you had been on had been watching a movie on Netflix, takeout and wine littering your coffee table, your legs thrown over his lap while he rubbed absent circles into your ankle.

it had been nice.

it had been normal.

but at this table, normal feels embarrassingly small.

“when you’ve been together so long, and with his schedule, it’s hard, y’know, to find those moments—”

another friend waves her hand, not unkindly, but ready to move away from what clearly wasn’t going to be an interesting enough story.

“that’s why you have to find those moments. what has he done for you lately? like for example, jack just planned this entire weekend getaway for us after my boss had been such an asshole and it was so romantic. he bought us tickets to—”

her voice begins to fade into the background.

you look down at your ring again.

it’s not that you think simon doesn’t love you.

of course he loves you.

he loves with the weight of his hand at the small of your back in crowded rooms. he loves with the way he always sleeps closest to the door. he loves with the way he notices when you are too tired to eat and sets something in front of you without asking. he loves with the way he comes home half-dead and still checks the locks, the windows, the thermostat, anything that might touch you before it touches him.

but sitting there, surrounded by candlelit dinners and surprise weekends away, a different question curls itself beneath your ribs.

does he still care?

you had already known what you’d signed up for when starting this relationship. simon was never one for giant declarations of love or grand, pretty spectacles. he didn’t perform affection well. never had.

hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time he’d brought you flowers or planned a proper date.

you shuffle in your seat.

“that’s really sweet,” you sigh.

rugby playing on the tv is what greets you, simon fully settled on the couch, a beer in hand.

his head lifts as soon as he hears your key in the door, shoulders falling even more relaxed at the sound of your footsteps entering the house.

usually, that would be your cue.

you’d toe your shoes off by the door, wander straight to the couch, and drop yourself onto him like it was the most perfect fit. he’d grunt like you’d knocked the air out of him, even though you both knew he could carry you around the house with one arm if he wanted to.

you’d recount whatever pointless gossip had been fed to you that morning, and he’d pretend not to be listening while remembering all of it.

instead, you busy yourself with the mail in the kitchen.

simon notices.

because of course he does.

you try the sink next, if only to give your hands something to do.

the tap sticks.

you yank it harder, and when nothing comes out but a high-pitched wheeze, you let out a frustrated groan.

simon is behind you before you can even turn around.

“probably clogged,” he says.

you sigh.

“i can call a plumber tomorrow.” then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to face him. “we should do something tonight.”

his head tilts.

“we are,” he says, voice low and rough with confusion. “watching that new movie you wanted to see.”

you make a small noise under your breath.

his eyes flicker from the sink to you.

“no, si. i mean get dressed up. go out.” you swallow around the embarrassment already forming. “a real date.”

“why?”

your stomach lurches.

you know him. know he doesn’t mean it with any malice or cruelty.

but after an entire morning of listening to women talk about being chosen loudly, extravagantly, beautifully, that one word lands like proof.

why would he need to?

why would he think to?

why would he care to?

why would you ask for more when this is what you agreed to?

“forget it,” you say quickly, already stepping away. “i have a bit of a headache. ’m going to take a nap.”

simon says your name, but you don’t turn around.

the clanking of metal banging against each other is what wakes you.

for a moment, you don’t move.

you just lie there, blinking at the dim light of your bedroom, listening to the low metallic scrape from somewhere down the hall. the house is quiet around it, warm with evening, the television now turned down low enough that you can barely hear the commentator’s voice.

another clank.

a muttered curse.

you rub at your eyes and make your way to the kitchen.

simon has wedged himself inside the cabinet beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting in the cramped space, one arm braced against the floor while the other reaches up into the mess of pipes above him.

“si?”

he grunts, focused on giving the valve one final screw and your gaze follows down to the toolbox lying next to his hip.

“line was damaged,” he says from under the sink. “it’ll need replacing proper, but i’ve got it for now. try it.”

wordlessly, you step to the sink and lift the handle.

water rushes out, hot and clear.

for some reason, it makes your eyes burn.

simon shifts, dragging himself out from under the cabinet with a quiet exhale. he sits back on his heels and looks up at you from the floor, forearms smudged, hair mussed, expression unreadable except for the little crease between his brows.

“i told you i could call a plumber,” you say.

he shrugs.

“got me right here, don’t you? i don’t mind.”

your chest tightens.

because it was never going to be flowers. it was never going to be candlelit dinners. it was never going to be a string quartet playing underneath a perfect night.

it was always going to be simon, sitting on your kitchen floor with a wrench in his hand, looking at you like the solution to a problem is obvious because he’s already there.

you sit down at your kitchen table, eyes already watering from overwhelm, when a memory comes so quickly it almost embarrasses you.

you, curled on the couch with him months ago with your laptop open, showing him a table from architectural digest with the sigh that you do when you’ve found something you absolutely loved.

“look at this, simon. isn’t it perfect?”

he had just hummed as you continued scrolling before you start laughing.

“absolutely not. who spends five thousand dollars on a table?”

simon hadn’t said much at the time. he rarely did when something lodged itself somewhere deep in his mind. continued stroking your hair, looked at the screen for a second longer than necessary, and went back to whatever match had been playing on the tv.

three weeks later, there had been lumber in the garage.

then sketches.

then sawdust tracked through the hallway.

then simon, scowling and cursing at a video tutorial, rewinding the same twenty seconds over and over until he understood the joint he wanted to make.

you’d laughed then.

you remember that, too.

you remember standing in the garage while he sanded the surface smooth, remember telling him he was insane, remember him saying it wasn’t that hard with all the grim seriousness of a man who had absolutely made it hard.

you remember the first night you ate dinner at it.

you remember how pleased he’d looked when you wouldn’t stop touching the grain.

you remember tearing up at the effort before sinking to your knees beneath that very table and thanking him so thoroughly that, to this day, he can’t sit at the damn thing for too long without his eyes darkening and his pants growing tight.

your eyes move across the room.

towards the cabinets he sanded down because you said the old ones made the kitchen feel too dark.

the backsplash he learned to tile because you had paused too long on a photo of handmade ceramic.

the wall he knocked through because you hated how boxed-in the room felt.

the bedroom he painted three times because the first two colors looked different once they dried, and he had only sighed, changed shirts, and opened another tin.

a house that had been perfectly fine when you bought it, just never quite yours, until simon got it in his head that he could make it so.

your heartbeat quickens.

the whole morning suddenly feels absurd in a way that makes your chest ache.

his gaze lands heavy as he watches every expression form across your face.

“you wanna tell me what got you in a mood earlier?” he asks.

his voice is even, but his hand drums once against his thigh.

your six-foot-four lieutenant of a husband, nervous at the thought of upsetting you.

you shake your head at first

then stop.

because no, that isn’t fair either.

he does love you. he loves you in fixed pipes and sanded wood and walls torn down to let in more light. he loves you in the things he can touch, carry, mend, build. he loves you so steadily that it has become the floor beneath your feet.

but you still want flowers sometimes.

you still want to be asked to put on a dress.

you still want him to look at you across a dinner table he did not build and make you feel, just for an evening, like loving you is not only something he maintains but something he celebrates.

“i know you care about me,” you say quietly.

his brow furrows.

“never said you didn’t.”

simon stills.

“i know that,” you repeat, softer this time, because you do. God, you do. “I just… I think I need more sometimes.”

something shifts in his face.

“more,” he repeats.

you huff a laugh, embarrassed now. “not more than this.”

your hand moves over the table again and his eyes follow the movement.

“just more…” You search for the words, then give up on making them perfect. “more on purpose, maybe. dinner. flowers. you telling me to get dressed because you made plans. stupid things.”

“they’re not stupid.” he immediately corrects you, firm and like he’s already offended on your behalf.

you look up at him and he pushes himself off of the floor.

you watch him stand, slow and heavy, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it aside. he comes toward you with that careful, deliberate look that always makes your stomach dip, like every bit of his attention has narrowed down to one target.

you.

“friday,” he says.

you blink. “friday?”

“dinner.” his gaze drops over you, not subtle in the slightest. “wear somethin’ nice.”

despite yourself, you laugh, small and wet in disbelief at how easy it is with him.

simon’s hand comes up, thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear can fall.

“are you asking me on a date, riley?”

his mouth twitches.

“seems like i am.”

you look down at the table, at the careful seams, the polished wood, the impossible thing he made with his own two hands because you wanted it and he saw no reason you shouldn’t have it.

then back at him.

“good,” you say, standing slowly. “and since you fixed the sink…”

simon’s eyes darken.

you take one step toward him, then another, until your fingers catch in the waistband of his jeans and tug him close.

his hand finds the edge of the table behind you.

your table.

his eyes flick down to it, and whatever memory crosses his mind makes his jaw tighten.

you smile.

“careful,” you murmur. “you look a little proud of yourself.”

his hand settles heavy at your waist, lifting you to rest on the edge.

“built it well, didn’t i?”

A dangerous mix of funny, charming and flirtatious in the way that keeps him leaning in even though he knows better.

Girls who laugh at his jokes and steal his jacket when the evenings grow cold.

Girls who curl up next to him near the firepit and accept his breakfast with bright smiles.

Girls who take turns staring up at him through teary eyes after their couples fall apart, murmuring how sweet he is and how he’s been such a good friend before coupling up with the newest bombshell who walks in and he’s left single and vulnerable once again.

And, every time, he curses himself for thinking that it might be different.

So he’s really beginning to question what his place is in the villa. Whether his entire purpose is to act as a placeholder until another jacked, six-foot asshole is supposed to walk in and steal the girl he’s coupled up with from him.

The dinner challenge gets announced right after lunch. Two new bombshells, three courses each, one boy for each course and at the end of the night, each girl picks which boy they want to couple up with.

The first bombshell’s picks go exactly as expected.

The villa favorite stands before his phone has even stopped chiming, chest puffed as if anyone would be stupid to expect anything different.

“Appetizer.”

He sits back down, smirking as a few boys clap him on the back. His current partner, a blonde who had pulled Johnny for a few chats earlier in the week, turns to the girls close to her and starts whispering frantically about what this could mean.

Another text tone rings out.

The second boy is even less shocking.

Some guy with enough tattoos and large enough biceps that the girl’s decided that his emotional unavailability actually means he’s hiding some deep, sensitive side.

Johnny tries not to roll his eyes.

“Entrée.”

Johnny honestly doesn’t know why he expected anything different. By the time the last boy for the first bombshell stands, he already sees how this is going to play out.

Him, dumped by the end of the week, with his suitcase in hand and a summer full of memories.

And maybe a brand sponsorship if he plays his cards right.

He barely registers the second bombshell’s picks as they begin to stand, including the entrée boy from the first round standing for the appetizer selection.

Instead, he uses the time to strategize. If he can stay in a couple long enough to make it to Casa Amor, there will be a new batch of girls. Girls who are supposed to come in with their eyes set on the boys who have been in the villa. Girls whose heads aren’t turned so easily.

Girls who would want him.

A sharp jab in the ribs pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Ow,” Johnny murmurs, rubbing the sore spot on his side. “Fuckin’ hell.”

A few islanders snicker around him and the boy closest to him huffs a laugh while nodding towards his lap.

“Mate. Your phone.”

Johnny looks down. His phone is vibrating in his lap, screen lit up with a text message bubble.

It takes a moment to register what he’s seeing; screen going black before lighting up with the notification one more time that he realizes he should stand, fumbling with his phone in his hand.

“Entrée.”

A few of the boys cheer loudly, and for somehow that makes Johnny feel worse about his whole villa experience.

That it’s extremely obvious to everyone how badly he needs this right now.

Even if it’s the truth.

He chooses to focus on the notification instead.

In order to stay in the villa, he has to cook a meal to impress a girl he knows nothing about without making himself look like a total idiot in the process

Across the pool, a girl lets out loud laughter as her partner carries her piggyback towards the daybeds, her arms wrapped around his neck as she whispers something in his ear.

Her partner giggles in a way Johnny has never seen from a man before and he looks back down to his phone.

Entrée.

No pressure.

Two cheese toasties sit in front of you.

You raise a brow at the blue-eyed Scot standing at the end of the table.

Johnny has a white towel draped over his arm like he’s presenting a Michelin-star dish instead of a meal usually reserved for children. His white button-down strains across his chest when he straightens, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A ghost of a smile appears on his face, dimples threatening to appear, as if he already knows how ridiculous this looks and is committed to the bit either way.

You glance back down at the plate.

“Cheese toasties?”

A bright grin takes over his face and he leans forward.

“Actually, it’s a cheese reduction sauce cooked between two buttered artisanal slices of bread.”

You blink twice.

“So, a cheese toastie?”

He shrugs.

“More or less.”

You let out a small laugh in disbelief, leaning back in your seat.

Your appetizer date has been fine enough. The islander had made you an amazing caprese salad, tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil layered in neat, colorful rows.

You couldn’t tear your eyes off of him. He was extremely handsome in the laidback, easy way all the boys seem to possess with a golden tan and messy hair that didn’t seem to fall right no matter how many times he had ran his hands through it.

You had relaxed for all of two seconds until he opened his mouth.

You couldn’t get a word in edgewise, forced instead to listen to him go on and on about how happy he was you picked him and how miserable he was in his couple and how clingy and serious the girl was and how he didn’t want to hurt her but also didn’t want to lead her on.

By the time he mentioned not wanting to put all his eggs in one basket, you had looked over at the poor girl twice out of sympathy.

So, you’ve come into this date a little skeptical.

Johnny sits down in the chair across from you, still wearing that lazy smirk, but you see the hope underneath it. The way his eyes constantly move across your face as if he’s searching for a sign that you’re already ready to move on to the next boy.

You pick up one half of the sandwich, and his eyes follow the movement, pausing on your lips as you take a bite.

He stills, and you understand almost immediately what he’s waiting for.

Your opinion.

You’re just not sure if it’s for the sandwich or for him.

So naturally you chew longer than necessary, smirking slightly as impatience begins to build beneath his calm exterior.

His knee bounces once underneath the table.

You swallow.

“It’s good.”

He exhales through his nose.

“Actually, though,” you add, because while seeing him panic is fun, you’re not too cruel to leave him hanging.

And it’s also the truth.

The sandwich is warm and salty and gooey, cheese stretching in a thin line as you pull the sandwich away from your mouth. It’s comforting in a way you weren’t expecting, and something curls in your chest.

It doesn’t feel like he’s trying to impress you so much as he’s trying to make sure you enjoy yourself.

He leans back in his chair, looking entirely too smug for someone whose dish took all of five minutes to make.

“Though,” you say, pointing the sandwich at him, “your presentation could use some work.”

He places a hand on his heart, grin still firmly on his face.

“Wounded me.”

You shrug.

“I call it like I see it.”

“I prefer to let the food speak for itself.”

“And what message is your food trying to say?”

“That this is the treatment you can expect from me in the villa.”

You laugh. “Cheese toasties?”

“Artisanal cheese toasties,” he says.

“I don’t think that’s the message I got from it.”

“Aye, you can argue all ye want, bonnie,” he hums, leaning forward as his voice lowers. “but you’re already taking a second bite.”

You pause, looking down to find the sandwich halfway back to your mouth.

Bastard.

“That’s not fair.”

His brow raises.

“No?”

You shake your head, and he laughs. A bright, charming thing that warms you.

You had expected to be charmed, flirted with in hopes that you’ll pick your boy based on attraction and who you’ll most likely want to crawl into bed with by the end of the night.

You didn’t think you would have fun.

You take another bite, mostly just to spite him and partially because you’re genuinely enjoying the meal.

Johnny smiles triumphantly.

You chew slowly, giving him a long once-over while you do. You follow a steady path from the rolled sleeves covering his forearms to the shirt pulling across his chest before finally landing on his face.

His grin falters.

“It really is good,” you say.

His smile returns, but there’s something careful underneath it. Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Happy to exceed expectations.”

“Mm.” You wipe a crumb from the corner of your mouth, watching his eyes follow the movement before he catches himself. “It’s nice to know that if this is the treatment I should expect from you in the villa…”

You pause, and something mischievous curls low in your stomach.

Johnny’s eyes narrow ever so slightly.

“That you seem like you know exactly what to do with your hands.”

His grin drops clean off of his face, and you have to work very hard not to look proud of yourself.

He smiles again. Differently than the way you’ve grown used to during this dinner. This is charged, and his heavy gaze drops to your lips in a way that feels a lot more intentional than before.

“Dinnae say that, bonnie,” he says, tone lower than it had been a few moments ago.

You pout, letting your lashes flutter innocently.

“Why?”

“‘m already hard.”

You choke so violently that a producer has to step around the camera to see if you’re alright.

You wave the producer off with one hand, coughing into your napkin while Johnny grabs your water and slides it across the table. His shoulders shake with quiet laughter, and you glare at him through watery eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Didnae mean to kill ye before you made it to your next course.”

You take a long sip of water.

“What a way to go, though.”

Johnny looks at you, leaning back in his seat as the tips of his ears turn pink.

Another producer signals at you, motioning for you to start wrapping up so you can move on to the next course.

You aren’t expecting the disappointment you feel as you glance from the producer to the half-eaten sandwich to the man across from you.

Something changes in Johnny as well, the ease he just carried himself is replaced by the same understated hope he walked in with.

Almost as if he’s seeking reassurance.

“I guess that’s my cue,” he says.

You nod.

“I guess so.”

He starts to stand, already moving to collect the plates, but you place a hand on his wrist before he can take your plate away.

“Though I’m not sure how my next course will top this.”

Johnny looks down at your hand on his wrist before looking back at you, and his eyes light up, prepared to make a joke before glancing toward the kitchen.

You follow his line of sight, eyes catching on your next date who licks a dark sauce off of a spoon.

He winks at you when your eyes meet, and you pause, quickly turning back to Johnny.

To your surprise, he’s staring intently at you, eyes searching your face as if he’s trying to figure out if he’s already lost you.

“I’m sure he’ll find a way.”

He does.

Chocolate-covered strawberries are arranged into the shape of a heart, each one dipped in a different chocolate and drizzled carefully in a way that tells you he spent most of his prep time making sure that the dish would look perfect from every camera angle.

It takes everything in you not to audibly moan when he feeds you the first one.

Your dessert date smiles, already confident with the way this night will play out, and you smile back.

You try, you really do. You ask all the right questions, laugh at his jokes and even hit him with a flirty comment when the moment calls for it.

It’s just not enough to keep your attention.

Instead, you find yourself looking past the man in front of you to see if you can find bright blue eyes and a mohawk.

Your spot Johnny leaning against the kitchen island as a group of boys surround him. He reaches over to steal something from a discarded pan by the stove as one of the boys says something to him. Johnny fires back without missing a beat, sending half of them into loud laughter.

Your eyes meet, and his brows raise, mouth still half-parted from his laughter.

You look down so quickly that you’re sure you almost pull something in your neck, and you grab another strawberry just to give your hands something to do.

Your dessert date doesn’t seem to notice your attention has slipped.

“— and it really comes down to what I prioritize. As a gym owner, I try to work out 5-6 days a week. Of course, I try to add in one active rest day since recovery is important obviously.”

“Obviously,” you agree, and your date beams, clearly excited to meet someone who shares his opinion on workout splits.

Your eyes meet Johnny’s again, and this time, he grins.

He holds up the other half of your cheese toastie, taking a bite.

Bastard.

You bite into your strawberry and try your hardest not to smile.

Later, when you’re standing at the firepit, your choice is already made.

The host turns to you with a polished smile.

“As one of our newest bombshells, you now have the power to choose which boy you’d like to couple up with.”

A heavy quiet settles over the villa, tension simmering as everyone waits for you to alter the course of the night.

Your appetizer and dessert dates sit on the benches across the firepit, both confident as if there’s no doubt in their mind that you wouldn’t choose them.

You look over at Johnny, sitting on the end of the bench with his hands clasped in front of him. He looks casual, shoulders rolled back in a way that you would second-guess if you hadn’t just spent an entire dinner watching him not try to get his hopes up.

You watch as he avoids your eyes, jaw clenching slightly as he braces for your answer, like he knows he has a chance but believing so would only make it worse.

Your chest tugs.

There really was never any competition.

“The boy I’d like to couple up with is…” you pause just long enough until the producers give you the signal to keep going.

Johnny’s eyes lift despite himself.

You smile.

“Johnny.”

He stares at you for one beat before standing to his feet.

He relaxes all at once, a grin breaking wide and bright across his face. His dimples deepen as the boys next to him whistle, clapping him on the back and shouting his name as if he’s just won the whole series.

You laugh softly, a grin forming across your own face as Johnny crosses the firepit towards you.

When he reaches your side, he bends down to press a chaste kiss to your cheek.

His mouth lingers by your ear.

“Made the right choice, swear.”

His arm settles around your waist, warm and strong by your side.

You meet his eyes, and something about his expression, the relief and giddiness he’s trying so badly to hide, makes something in your chest soften.

You place your hand on his chest, taking in the solid, firm muscle that rests beneath his shirt.

“Don’t make me regret it,” you tease, batting your lashes.

Johnny exhales, arm tightening around your waist as his eyes move over your face.

“Aye,” he says, softer than you would expect. “Could never do that.”

Somehow, you believe him.

You flinch as a couple nearly wipes out on the foam-covered walkway.

The boy slips first, one leg flying out from beneath him before he grabs his partner for stability and ends up pulling her down with him. She shrieks as they collapse into a mess of limbs, both laughing too hard to get back up.

The challenge had been announced earlier that morning, a relay race to test each couple’s ability to work together.

Beside you, Johnny winces.

“Aye,” he murmurs, watching as a couple bangs their teeth together in a messy kiss. “Brutal, innit?”

You nudge his shoulder with yours. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

He looks down at you.

For a moment, the noise around you dulls. His mouth curls at the edges, eyes bright beneath the beaming sun, and you’ve had the same thought that you’ve been having since you sat across him last night.

How the hell did the other girls miss this?

You understand, somewhat, the narrative that’s been painted around him since he’s been in here. Funny, reliable, good-natured Johnny.

You just don’t understand how that’s managed to cover up the broad shoulders, large arms and the lazy grin that somehow makes him look boyish and charming all at once.

His eyes flicker down to your lips.

A sharp whistle pulls the both of you from your bubble and you turn to where one of the boys is sitting behind you.

“Oi, Johnny!” He makes an obscene gesture that has half the girls around him groaning. “Try not to lose this time.”

Johnny tenses next to you, rolling his shoulders back before wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

You frown.

It really has been brutal to watch on TV.

His last pairing had been with a girl who hadn’t been chosen by the guy she wanted and ended up in a friendship couple with Johnny. During the challenge, you could see her heart wasn’t in it, especially when she had to kiss him at the end.

She left the villa the next day.

And Johnny, despite being such a sore loser, had tried his hardest to act indifferent to the whole situation.

Joked, teased and took it all on the chin in a way that’s becoming very familiar.

“We’re winning this,” you say.

Johnny turns his head towards you, ready to make a joke before taking in the set expression on your face.

His brows raise.

“Are we?”

He looks down to where you’ve already slipped your hand into his, and you squeeze once.

“As long as you can keep up,” you tease, and his mouth twitches.

“Don’t think you’ll have to worry about me.”

You squeeze his hand again and he squeezes back.

“Good.” You smile. “Then we’ll have no problem winning this thing.”

Johnny’s grin comes back properly this time, bright and charming, and you fight the urge to lean in and kiss him stupid.

“Aye?” he asks, letting you pull him to his feet as the host calls your names. “Is that so?”

“Of course so.”

The host beams at the both of you, standing tall with glossy hair and a perfect pageant smile and a part of you feels ridiculous in the neon pink bikini production has forced you into.

You smile as you look down at Johnny’s matching pink swim shorts and the sweatband around his head.

“Are you two ready?” she asks.

You nod.

Johnny looks down at you again, and whatever he sees on your face makes his smile twitch like he cannot decide whether to laugh or worry.

“You’re a wee bit terrifying, bonnie.”

The host grabs the air horn in front of her, directing her attention towards the cameras.

“Let’s do Raunchy Relays!”

The air horn goes off and before he can even process what’s happening, you’ve bolted to the other side of the platform.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he laughs, taking off after you.

The first station is at the end of the platform: a silver bowl with large mounds of whipped cream.

You read the instruction card.

Switch off finding the three cherries hidden inside and pass them to your partner.

Without using your hands.

Of course.

You drop to the bowl before you can think too hard about appearances, and shove your face into the cold, sugary cream.

You faintly register Johnny laughing behind you.

You search blindly until your teeth close around the first stem, and you lift your head.

Johnny stops laughing, eyes moving from your cream-covered face to the cherry waiting in your mouth.

You raise your brows.

He bends immediately, lips brushing yours as his mouth closes around the cherry before dropping it into the waiting cup.

His eyes move back towards your lips, and you smirk.

“Focus, Johnny.”

“Trust me, I’m very focused,” he murmurs, bending down to find the other cherry.

It only takes a few moments before he’s emerging, streaks of whipped cream covering his cheeks.

You stand on your toes to grab the cherry from his mouth, and a large hand falls on your waist, lips pressing a little firmer on his.

“Don’t think that’s part of the challenge.” He grins, thumb rubbing a circle on your hip and you grin, bending over to spit the cherry out into the cup.

By the third cherry, both of you are sticky, breathless, and laughing too hard to be useful. Whipped cream is smeared along Johnny’s jaw and melting down the side of his neck.

You slap your palm against his chest.

“Look alive, MacTavish.”

His hand catches yours for half a second, pressing it flat against his bare chest.

“Aye, ma’am.”

Then you’re running again.

A bright pink mixture waits in a clear jug, something thick and glossy that smells like a fruit smoothie that’s been left out in the sun for too long. A measuring cup sits next to it.

You stop dead, and Johnny skids to a halt beside you. He grabs the instruction card, grin growing bigger as he reads every word.

“One partner takes a mouthful,” he reads. “Transfers to the other partner. Other partner fills the cup.”

“I can’t believe they haven’t gotten rid of this one yet,” you whine, placing your hands on your hips.

He stares at you.

You look past him towards the other two couples. One is still at the cherry station, fumbling for the last one, while the other couple has just reached the jug and the girl is backing away with a horrified expression.

You look at him, and you recognize the same competitive thread running beneath him, the need to win despite how ridiculous this whole situation is.

You sigh. “I cannot believe I’m doing this for you.”

He smirks.

“Knew ye liked me.”

You cross your arms. “Drink.”

“Aye, bossy thing.”

He takes a mouthful and immediately his face curls into disgust that you start laughing.

Then he steps much closer than what the challenge requires, fingers catching your chin as he tilts your head to look up at him. He leans in before spitting the mixture into your mouth.

It’s absolutely more vile than you could’ve even imagined.

You twist and spit it into the cup, shuddering so hard that your shoulders nearly touch your ears.

Johnny loses it, one hand still at your waist as he burst into bright, full laughter

“What?” you whine, wiping your face with the back of your hand as you glare at him.

“Your face.”

You huff and his smile softens.

“You took it like a champ.”

The innuendo hits you both at the same time, and your mouth falls open as his grin sharpens.

“Don’t.”

He holds his hand up in surrender.

“Didnae say anything.”

You roll your eyes before grabbing the mixture and shoving it towards his chest.

“Again.”

Johnny’s eyes light up with delight.

The second transfer is faster albeit a little messier. A little of the pink mixture drips from the corner of your mouth, and Johnny catches it with his thumb before you can wipe it away.

You spit into the cup, breathing hard.

“Again,” you say.

By the third time, you don’t even flinch.

Something in Johnny’s eyes changes, watching you wait for another mouthful because you’re not about to let him lose twice.

That you care enough to help him win.

Your cup hits the fill line.

Johnny slams it down with a shout.

You grab his hand. “Let’s go.”

He lets you drag him toward the final station, laughing breathlessly behind you.

The final instruction card waits.

Pop the balloon using only your bodies.

Johnny reads the card over your shoulder, and you can almost feel the excitement vibrating off of him.

He reaches around you to grab the balloon before lying flat on his back, placing the balloon directly over his lap.

The villa screams at the positioning, and you roll your eyes.

He stares up at you, his face the picture of innocence.

“Get to work, bonnie.”

You drop your knees on either side of his hips, and settle above him, hand firmly resting on his shoulders.

It’s so unfair how good he looks underneath you.

Objectively, he’s a mess. There’s still whipped cream around his face, and there’s somehow remaniants of the pink mixture around his jaw.

Yet, his chest has a light layer of sweat and you feel the heat radiating off of him as he places his hands around your waist.

You bounce down once, and the balloon squeaks uselessly underneath you.

Johnny clenches his jaw.

You drop down again, moving up and down in small repetitive bounces and all you get is the balloon moving beneath you.

“It’s harder than it looks,” you murmur, looking down to the balloon beneath you two.

Johnny huffs out a laugh, and when you look back up, his expression is strained.

“You have no idea.”

You laugh, then shift your weight and roll your hips down more firmly.

His grip flexes around your waist.

“Careful,” he murmurs, tone low and rough around the edges. “We’re still on telly.”

Your smile widens, rolling down again.

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m just playing the game.”

Johnny exhales sharply, and you place both hands on his chest for better leverage, grinding down until the balloon bursts beneath you with a sharp pop.

You drop fully onto his lap, and freeze.

Johnny is very, very hard beneath you.

The villa screams, and the host calls out both your names, laughing at the position the two of you are in.

Johnny’s eyes lock with yours, mouth opening and closing as he tries to explain himself.

You tilt your head, smiling sweetly, before grinding down once more for good measure.

He swallows harshly.

“Yer evil.”

You laugh breathlessly, and you pop to your feet.

Johnny follows immediately, tugging you in front of him to cover where he adjusts himself behind your back.

You glance over your shoulder. “Problem?”

His smile is strained. “You know exactly what ye did.”

“Won?”

“Aye.” His hand flexes at your hip. “That too.”

“We have our winners!” the host announces.

The villa erupts around you.

Johnny claps behind you, pressing a kiss to your cheek and you can’t help it.

You turn, grip the back of Johnny’s neck, and pull him down into a kiss.

Johnny freezes for one stunned heartbeat.

One hand buries in your hair while the other curls around your waist, pulling you tight against him as he kisses you back like he’s been waiting for this all summer.

When you finally break apart, his forehead stays close to yours.

“Didnae know that was part of the challenge,” he murmurs.

You smile.

“Consider it your prize for winning.”

His grin returns slowly.

“Best win of my life, then.”

You two end up sprawled across one of the daybeds, waiting for a shower to open up so you can scrub the sugary mess off of you.

Your legs are stretched across his lap, his hand rubbing absentminded circles over your shin like he forgot he was doing it.

He’s warm underneath you, still buzzing off of adrenaline and excitement from securing his first win of the season.

He looks down at you, smiling brightly.

“You’re staring.”

You shrug, moving closer to him.

“Can’t help it. Winning looks good on you.”

He grins, grabbing your waist to kiss you fully.

A male islander walks by, letting out a gagging noise and the two of you pull apart.

“You two are fucking disgusting.”

You smirk, leaning over to lick a stripe of whipped cream from Johnny’s jaw.

“See!” the boy says. “Disgusting!”

Johnny’s chest puffs. “Disgusting’ winners.”

You know he thinks he’s being subtle, trying to pretend like he’s still asleep with one heavy arm laid across your waist. His breath is slow and too even against the back of your neck.

He shifts again, hips grinding ever so slightly against your ass.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Johnny,” you whisper. “What are you doing?”

He stills, before realizing that he’s supposed to be pretending to be asleep and he moves behind you.

He makes a show of waking up, stretching out with a yawn as his arm tightens against you.

You stifle a laugh.

“Bonnie?” he murmurs, confusion lacing his voice, like he hasn’t been grinding against you for the past minute. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to stop acting like you’ve been asleep.”

His face presses into the curve of your neck.

“Was havin’ a nice dream.”

“Were you?”

“Aye.”

His hips shift again, the hard line of him pressing more deliberately against you this time.

“You were in it.”

Your breath catches before you can stop yourself.

The room is quiet around you, but not empty. Someone shifts in the bed beside you, and you move.

Johnny’s hand slides slowly from your waist to your stomach, palm warm beneath the loose fabric of your shirt.

You should stop this. You’re in a room with ten other people, and Johnny is still grinding against you.

You move closer to him, and Johnny takes the opening.

“All that talk earlier,” he murmurs, lips brushing the sensitive place beneath your ear. “Bossin’ me about during the challenge.”

“You liked it.”

His quiet laugh ghosts over your skin.

“Didnae say I didn’t.”

His hand travels higher, then lower again, teasing and tracing a warm path against yoir skin wherever he touches.

“Kept leaning in for me, too,” he says. “All pretty with your mouth open.”

Your stomach tightens.

“That was for the challenge.”

“Aye.” His mouth grazes your jaw. “You were good at it.”

The words settle hot and low in your body.

You turn your head enough to look at him over your shoulder, though in the dark you can only make out the sharp line of his nose, the glint of his eyes, the faint curve of his mouth.

“Johnny.”

“What?”

“Stop being mean.”

His grin deepens.

“You like it,” he says, echoing your words from earlier.

You unfortunately do.

You open your mouth to argue, but his fingers catch your chin before you can, turning you back to him.

His thumb brushes along your lower lip.

“Open up for me, bonnie.”

Something hits you low and deep at the command, and wordlessly, you part your mouth.

He spits into your waiting mouth, and his arm tightens around your waist when you swallow for him.

You stick your tongue out just enough to show him it’s gone.

Behind you, he swears under his breath.

“Christ.”

His voice is rougher than it was a moment ago, the word almost broken against your neck.

“Where the hell have you been all summer?”

You reach back, fingers catching at the back of his neck until he lowers his mouth to yours.

This kiss is slower than the one that afternoon, less fueled by adrenaline and more by the ache that’s been building since.

His tongue teases yours, and you let him in with a soft sigh you have to swallow immediately. His arm wraps tighter around your waist, pulling you back until your body fits against his.

You pull away to breathe, and his mouth goes straight to your neck.

You whine before you can stop yourself.

Johnny’s hand clamps gently over your mouth.

“Easy,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in it. “Gotta be quiet for me.”

You nod against his palm.

He kisses your jaw once, like a reward, then slips his other hand beneath your shirt. His palm drags over your stomach, up your ribs, teasing the underside of your breast until your back arches and your ass presses harder against him.

His breath stutters at the contact, and his hand drifts from your mouth to beneath the waistband of your shorts.

He groans softly when he feels how wet you are, the sound rumbling against your skin.

Your hips move on instinct, chasing the contact, and his arm tightens around your middle to hold you still.

“Shh,” he breathes, lips at your ear. “I’ve got you.”

Then his fingers find your clit.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to cover the sounds desperate to come out as he begins to rub tight circles on your clit, other arm tightening around your waist to bring you closer to him.

Everything feels a little hazy, any awareness pinpointed to the man behind you and the little cocoon you’ve made beneath the comforter. Johnny nudges your chin back to him and pulls you into another wanting kiss, all your sense hypertuned to Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.

You decide you want to feel him too.

You reach a hand back, fingers brushing against his waistband before slipping beneath the tiny black briefs he’s worn to bed.

You grip him in your hand and you both freeze: him at the sudden contact, you at the realization that Johnny might have the thickest cock you’ve ever felt.

Your hand barely wraps around his length.

“Fuck.”

You stroke him once, and his hips buck into your hand with a trembling exhale.

You do it again, slow and careful beneath the covers, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“Christ, bonnie,” he whispers, punctuated by pulling you even closer to him so your back is firmly pressed to his chest. “You’re such a dream.”

It’s tender, too tender for how you’re both feeling each other up like a pair of teenagers under the covers, but it pulls something in you either way.

He moves his hand from your cunt causing you to whine at the loss, and he huffs a quiet laugh into your skin before tugging your shorts just enough down your thighs that you’re completely exposed. The air cools your heated skin for half a second before he shifts behind you, pushing his briefs down with clumsy impatience.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow as he guides himself between your thighs.

The head of his cock nudges against your wet folds, and your breath catches so sharply that you bite the pillow to keep any more noise from coming out.

He shifts once, and you both groan into the dark.

“Can I?” he asks, and you’re nodding quickly before something comes back to you. The quiet hum of the air con system. The movement of other beds beside you.

The fact that the two of you aren’t as alone as you probably want to be for this situation.

“What about everyone else?” you whisper, and he gives you a long, hard grind. Your eyes flutter when he catches right against your clit, rubbing against you in slow, perfect strokes.

“We’ll be quiet.”

Somehow, you doubt that.

“Just the tip,” he murmurs against your neck, lazily moving his hips from where he’s currently slotted between your thighs.

“Okay,” you sigh breathlessly. “Just the tip.”

He wastes no time.

Johnny presses inside you in one slow, determined push, and the stretch makes your entire body go tight.

A sharp gasp rips out of you before you can stop it.

His hand clamps over your mouth again, his other arm hooking around your waist to keep you pressed back against him.

“Shh,” he whispers, hot and rough near your ear. “I know. I’ve got you.”

He rocks an inch inside you before pulling out, repeating the movement with low shallow thrusts.

“Christ, you’re fuckin’ tight.” His accent thickens and you turn your head back to look at him.

He looks just as wrecked as you feel, mouth halfway parted as his gaze is glued to the subtle movements under the covers, as if he stares hard enough, he’ll be able to actually see where you two are connected. A faint red blooms from his chest up to his cheeks, and he swallows, jaw clenching when you flutter around him.

You can see the effort it’s taking for him not to slam all the way in and fuck you silly.

You nip lightly at the heel of the hand covering your mouth, and he smiles.

“Want something?”

You nod, and he moves his hand to your waist.

“More,” you whisper and Johnny kisses the curve of your neck. “I want more.”

You feel his smile against your skin as he catches your top leg, guiding it back over his hip and opening you further to him. You’re only distracted by the stretch for a moment before he snaps his hips forward in one sharp movement.

Your back arches as the breath is punched out of you by how full you feel, but your body has already started moving, little helpless rolls back into him that make his grip tighten around your waist.

He begins to fuck into you in shallow, lazy strokes.

It’s not enough, him moving too slowly to really build any pressure, but you know what he’s thinking: that the slapping of skin, creaks of the bed or the obscene, slick sound of your cunt taking him back in is more than enough to get the two of you caught.

The secrecy of it only makes you warmer, tighter around him, and he lets out a strangled groan.

“Can’t stay quiet if you keep gripping me like that,” he murmurs, reaching to rub tight circles on your clit.

It shouldn’t be enough, not with how slow he’s going, but something still builds low in your stomach, from the full drag of him inside you, from his fingers on your clit, from the hand groping at your chest beneath your shirt.

“‘M gonna cum,” you say, shocking both you and Johnny.

“Aye?” he asks, shifting your leg higher over his hip before giving you another slow pull that makes you feel every vein and ridge drag inside you.

“You’re doin’ so good for me,” he whispers, pulling you down by the hips to meet his thrusts.

A hazy part of you realizes you hate this. Hate that you can’t see him properly, speak and moan the way you want to, can’t cling onto him while he takes you apart completely.

Another part of you thinks this is just enough.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

His mouth finds your neck again.

“Come on, then,” he whispers. “Let me feel it.”

Your body listens before your mind can catch up.

The pleasure breaks hot and sudden, your thighs trembling as you clamp down around him. Johnny covers your mouth again just in time, swallowing the broken sound that tries to leave you as he rocks you through it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

Johnny’s hips stutter, thrusts becoming jerky with every tight pulse around him. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath coming rough and hot as he buries himself as deep as he can without making the bed squeak in a way that will give away what the two of you are doing.

“Where?” he rasps.

“Inside. Please, inside,” you say, a little deliriously and his whole body tenses behind yours.

For a second, he goes silent.

Then he comes with a rough, bitten-off groan against your shoulder, hips jerking shallowly as he tries to keep quiet.

You both are breathing hard, skin warm to the touch and at once your surroundings come back to you.

Someone from a few beds over shifts.

“Whoever keeps moving, can you please shut the fuck up? Some of us are trying to sleep.” someone says, voice thick with sleep.

Johnny shakes behind you with silent laughter, and you breathe out a shaky laugh, partly from the relief of not being caught and partly from the aftershocks of how hard you just came around him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispers.

You turn your face enough to glare at him over your shoulder.

He looks wrecked, hair mussed with bright eyes and lips pressed in a tight line to keep from laughing all over again.

“That,” you whisper, “was so stupid.”

His grin breaks through immediately.

“Aye.”

“So fucking stupid.”

“Very.”

“We could have gotten caught.”

“Almost did.”

You drop your head back into your pillow.

Then his hand, still warm at your waist, gives one small squeeze.

“Worth it?”

You turn back from your pillow, and that same warm feeling in your chest betrays you. At the fact that if Johnny blinked the right way at you, you would do it all over again.

“So worth it.”

Johnny’s grin turns devastating.

He presses a quiet kiss to your shoulder.

“Best summer of my life,” he whispers.

“What look?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“The one that says you did something that I’m going to be pissed about.”

His face goes even guiltier, and you stand up.

“It’s not that bad, I promise.”

You sigh.

“Just show me.” you say, and he lifts his hat up.

His hair is gone.

His hair is tapered low to his head, buzzed until only a faint stubble remains, and you try not to gasp.

He rubs a hand over his scalp, grinning.

His hair is also faded, which lets you know he stopped by his barber after work rather than impulsively grabbing some clippers during his lunch break.

“It’ll grow back” is the first thing he says after your prolonged silence.

You wish you could say you hated it. It would be so much easier if you hated it.

However, this is Kyle and somehow the low cut brings out the contours of his face, highlighting sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw, further proving your theory that there’s nothing in this world that could make Kyle Garrick ugly.

“Love,” he says, shifting on his feet. “You’re kinda freaking me out.”

“You cut your hair,” you say.

“Yes.” he sighs, as if he’s relieved that his decision didn’t also end his relationship.

You lift your hand before stopping. He grabs your wrist, lifting it to his head and the short black stubble tickles your palm. Your nails lightly scratch his head out of habit, and his eyes flutter.

“You’re so spoiled,” you mutter and he grins.

“Got you to blame for that.”

You suppose he did.

But how were you supposed to let him walk around using two-in-one shampoo?

You had seen it during the first time you slept over at his place, popping your head out of his shower to show him the bottle.

He looks over from where he’s standing at the sink, toothbrush half out of his mouth, as his eyes slowly move over your body before focusing on what’s in your hand.

“Yeah?” he asks, leaning over to spit out his toothpaste, towel low on his hips.

“Is this what I think it is?” you ask, and he continues brushing his teeth.

“It’s shampoo.” he shrugs.

“Kyle, how is your hair not dry?”

He rubs a hand over his hair, looking at himself in the mirror above the sink.

“Looks fine to me,” he says and you blindly reach your hand out.

“Let me feel. I don’t trust you after seeing this,” you say, and he smiles around his toothbrush, leaning his head over so you can feel his hair with your soapy hand.

You hum thoughtfully, and Kyle can almost see the pinched look you get on your face when you’re thinking hard about something.

“It’s not the worst,” you decide, and reach your hand back inside the shower. “But you should really use a leave-in.”

“Not a ton of time for a wash day when you’re doing surveillance in Lebanon, love,” he says.

Your stomach twists, lips pressing into a tight line as you stand underneath the running water.

Kyle’s told you the bare minimum about his job. His friends call them “first-date” stories. The ones that leave a girl impressed just enough that she’ll want to see him again.

But you’ve never thought about what it must mean to join the military as a boy and learn how to become a man.

“Come over to my place on Sunday,” you say, turning the shower off and grabbing the towel he brought for you. “I have some products for you.”

“Yeah?” he says round his toothbrush, pulling you to stand in his arms. “Gonna make me pretty like you?”

You laugh.

“You don’t need any help with that.”

It becomes a routine after a month.

You start at the kitchen sink since that’s easier with his height, a towel wrapped around his neck and your nails scratching over his scalp as you clarify, condition, and work a hair mask in while you both catch up on a TV show.

You’ll then shift towards the couch, candle burning and music lowly playing through some speakers.

You’ll part his hair, layer on creams and oils until his scalp tingles pleasantly from the herbs and he can barely keep his eyes open.

It’s at that lazy, content smile that you realize Kyle Garrick loves being cared for.

Even if he refuses to admit it.

But after a few weeks of studying your hair products and watching as you do your own hair care routine every night, he shows up at your front door with a grocery bag full of products and big eyes.

You smile.

“Did you get a spray bottle?“

He scoffs.

“Of course. What do you take me for?”

For whatever reason, that makes you laugh, and you open your door wider to let him in.

“I’ll clear off a shelf.”

“Kyle Garrick!” you shout from the bathroom, and he freezes.

He says a quick prayer to whatever god may be listening that you all you need is help killing a bug and that he hadn’t forgot about a date you two had scheduled.

You suddenly appear at the door of the bathroom.

“Have you been using my conditioner?”

Oh.

Oh shit.

In your hand is your favorite conditioner that leaves your curls softer than a dream and smells so good that Kyle would linger in hugs just to sniff your hair.

You’ve only caught him once or twice.

It’s also become his favorite; he chooses that conditioner on the nights he washes his own hair, which are truly few and far between.

“Just once or twice,” he says, rubbing a hand across his curls. While he’s been prone to fidgeting with his hair when he’s anxious or bored, he’s almost constantly putting a hand through his hair since you’ve altered his hair care routine.

“It’s almost halfway gone. This is like fifty dollars, and I bought it two weeks ago,” you whine, and he wraps his arms around you.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, placing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Buy yourself one too. I’m not sharing anymore,” you grumble and he laughs against your head.

“Whatever you want, love.”

Kyle becomes spoiled quickly, trusting you to style his hair and even letting you braid his hair when you’re bored or find inspiration somewhere.

“Hold still,” you say and he shifts under your parting comb.

“You’re so heavy-handed,” he says, and you sigh, zooming in on the photo of the back of Lewis Hamilton’s head on your phone.

“You’re the one who said you liked his hair.” You begin braiding, and he shifts one more time.

“Only because you wouldn’t stop bringing it up!”

You roll your eyes, scratching his head gently and he shuts his eyes, leaning into your palm slightly.

“We’re almost done,” you say, parting his hair into three more sections.

He nods, wrapping his hand around your ankle, rubbing a lazy circle on your skin.

He couldn’t stop looking at himself for the next few days.

It was only after he had mentioned needing a haircut and you had looked at him with big eyes that he drew the line.

“You are not coming near me with clippers. I have a barber for that,” he says immediately and you laugh, kissing his cheek.

“It was worth a shot.”

You really shouldn’t have been so surprised that he was going to get it cut.

“How long until you leave again?” You sigh, and his gaze softens.

“Should fly out in a few days, and the helmet’s bad enough without all the creams and oils in it,” he says.

“It’ll grow back?” is what you say, but something else lies underneath it.

You’ll come back to me?

Kyle kisses the inside of your wrist.

It’s the day you two met that he goes to constantly. When thoughts of isolation and the loneliness of being in the underworld keep him up far longer than he would like.

He returns to you.

It was on a rare visit to Olympus, rushing to meet with his brothers when something pulls him to pause in his tracks. Normally, the group of giggling nymphs wouldn’t capture his attention, yet it’s you, sitting in the center of it all, that brings his fast pace to a stop.

The nymphs surround you, combing your hair and gossiping about whatever comes to mind. Your voice floats through the conversation, humming along to a song from a play you had seen in Athens.

Simon jerks at the feeling of a figure next to him, his brother Posideon following his gaze to the group in front of them.

“She’s beautiful.” Simon breathes out, taken aback by the glow that seems to emit from under your skin. While all gods maintain something ethereal, yours is something he can’t quite tap into. He sees the way life pulses beneath your skin, growing in the same way you make a tendril of ivy crawl for your own amusement while the nymphs weave flowers through your hair. Daisies grow with every giggle you let out, and Simon can see just how young and inexperienced you are with your godly powers, not quite attuned to the flora you create with every careless movement. And yet, it endears him to you even more.

“Persephone, the daughter of Demeter. A young goddess of spring,” Poseidon remarks, amused at the moony gaze his brother seems to be sporting. “Come on, brother. You know how Zeus gets when we leave him waiting.”

So, Simon finds himself traveling to Olympus more often for business. What once was a quarterly visit was moved up to weekly, sometimes twice a week in hopes of catching a glance of you.

“It looks like someone has a crush on you,” Kleia observes, and the rest of the nymphs titter excitedly.

“Who?” you ask excitedly, hoping it’s one of the heroes like Hercules or even Eros, who flutters around you constantly with his bow and arrow.

Instead, to your dismay, you watch as Kleia points to one of the oldest and most powerful gods, Hades.

“You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed him staring at you,” Calliope smiles. The rest of the nymphs snicker, and you look away, rubbing your arm.

Even from a distance, his power looms, callous and cold, and you can hear your mother now telling you to stay away.

“I guess I haven’t,” you sigh, and you go back to stirring a small circle in the pond.

The first time he approaches you, you aren’t expecting the chill that fills the air.

“Goddess,” he greets, and you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Lord Hades,” you gasp, bowing slightly, and he smiles.

“Might I ask what you’re doing behind a tree?” he asks, and your eyes widen as you tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. You shuffle on your feet, and he waits patiently for you to admit it.

“Hiding,” you sigh, peering out behind the tree as if someone will pop out. “from Adonis. He seems to think I’m in love with him, and hasn’t left me alone for the past few weeks.”

Simon’s brow furrows. He doesn’t keep up with much Olympus gossip, but the name sounds familiar enough.

“I thought he was in love with Aphrodite?” he scratches his head, and your brows shoot up, looking around to see if anyone heard him.

“He is. Or was? Oh, I’m not sure anymore,” you groan. “But she’ll smite me if she thinks I’m trying to steal him away, so I’m staying behind this tree until he finds some other goddess to torture.”

You seem to realize what you just admitted and who you admitted it to, and flush even brighter.

“My apologies, Lord Hades. I misspoke,” you mumble shyly, bowing slightly, and he frowns. It seems like Demeter has scared you from the older gods.

Or maybe just him.

“Simon,” he says, and your eyes widen.

Chosen names are a fairly tricky concept, one created after the Titan war as a way to try and not become blinded by the unlimited power the gods possess—a way to try to connect themselves to mortals.

It’s considered outdated, a rare flash of humility before the entertainment of humans won out over the boredom of eternity. Now, it’s considered the highest symbol of trust.

And he gave his to you within mere minutes of your first conversation.

“Call me Simon,” he breathes, and you pause, eyes looking over the man standing over you. Simon feels uneasy, dark robes standing out against the Olympic garden he’s found himself in following you.

A white carnation blooms in your hair and you smile.

“Okay.” Another carnation grows. “Simon, it’s nice to meet you.”

Simon knows it’s wrong, knows that manipulating your naivety is enough to damn him to Tartarus.

“What’s it like?” you ask one day, hiding away from where your tutors are looking for you.

You both sit by a pond as you weave flowers together. He always seems so out of place in Olympus, dark robes contrasted by the chirping birds and bright weather. He carries the burden of the Underworld with him always.

Maybe that's the reason he is the way he is, cold and brooding and reproachful. To be surrounded by death for eternity must be enough to turn anyone that way.

“What is what like?” he asks.

“The Underworld,” you whisper as if the mere mention is enough to crack the ground open and drag you down there. He smiles at the mention of his domain.

“It’s different from Olympus. I s’pose they don’t tell you much about it.” He pauses and a shadow crosses his face. “Or me.”

You shake your head, full attention totaled in on him.

“It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen,” he starts, and you cut him off.

“More than Olympus?” you ask, eyes wide and he laughs.

“More than Olympus, though I might be biased. At least I know my brothers are.”

“I’ve never left,” you admit, shyly. “My mother says she’ll take me down to Earth soon to help with harvests, but who knows when that’ll be?”

You let out a huff, and flop dramatically down onto the grass.

“I can’t imagine a world different than this,” you sigh. You close your eyes, basking in the sun beaming off of golden and ivory walls. A single white rose blooms beside your head.

Simon can’t take his eyes off of it.

The thought begins to form, he tries not to let it unravel, make it stay locked away where he keeps all other thoughts of you.

But the temptation is just too much and he figures that he could give you a slight nudge rather than planting the seed fully.

“You’ll leave one day,” he says, tone even and you snort at that. “I’m sure somebody will take you.”

You think on that, ruminate before sitting up on your forearms to look at him.

“Would you take me to the Underworld?” you ask. He knows the tone, knows that you’re not being serious and just trying to prove a point. That no one will ever take you seriously.

Which is why he chooses to face you fully, and look at you with a concentrated gaze.

“If you wanted.”

He’s kidding.

Telling you what you wants to hear to keep you happy.

That’s what you tell yourself when you can’t sleep at night, tossing and turning over how on Earth he would get you out of Olympus and to the underworld.

Which is precisely what you ask him the next time he sees you.

“There’s plenty of passageways to the Underworld. You just need to know where to look,” he says around a bite of ambrosia.

You snort.

“You sound like the Sphinx.”

He just stares at you, chewing slowly and you hide a laugh behind your hand.

“Persephone, your mother has been looking for you,” the satyr begins before bleating nervously. “My lord, my apologies for interrupting.”

Simon simply waves his hand as you shake your head.

“Don’t lose your hide, Spyros. I’m coming,” you say and walk away without one more look. Simon watches before noticing the flowers next to where you were sitting and he collects them,touching each petal way softer than he had any right to.

What would those flowers look like in the Underworld?

He tries not to entertain it, stop the thought before it could grow, but as soon as it comes to be, it blossoms as you and the goat shrink in the distance.

He places each one into his robe.

The flowers die in three days.

The lack of sunlight forces them to wither quickly, though Simon begins to suspect his presence has something to do with it.

He finds himself collecting more, carrying handfuls from every visit as soon as a single petal falls.

Yet every time you begin to bring the subject up, he starts to shut it down,

He watches as you jog slightly towards him, bright smile on your face.

“Simon,” you gasp, chest heaving. “You’ll never believe what happened.”

Despite himself, he smiles. He knows whatever is about to follow will be pointless gossip, but with the influx of souls from a war in Troy, he finds himself desperate for distraction.

Your mouth opens, eyes light with mischief as you begin to recount some story of one of his siblings messing in another mortal’s life when a figure rapidly approaches from the distance.

“Persephone!” Demeter snaps, and you immediately turn.

“Mother,” you gasp, immediately moving away from Simon as if you’ve been burnt.

Demeter ignores you, keeping her attention focused on Simon.

“Hades,” her eyes narrow. “What are you doing here? The Olympians weren’t expecting you.”

His eyes narrow back.

“I wasn’t aware I needed to keep you updated on my comings and goings, Demeter.”

Your head turns back and forth, tension crackling between the two.

“Stay away from my daughter” is all she gives and your heart pounds.

“Mother, it’s not like that,” you whisper, but she shushes you, holding her hand out to block you as if you’re some dainty thing to be preyed on.

You take a step away from them both.

“Demeter,” Simon rumbles. “She was just asking me questions.”

“She can ask her tutors,” your mother spits out, and your humiliation flourishes.

You don’t understand. You’ve never seen your mother speak to any of the other gods this way, yet she looks at Simon as if he’s killed her past few harvests.

“Persephone, we have crops we need to prepare. Let’s go,” she finally looks down at you, face set in a grim line.

“But, mother-“

“We’re leaving,” she determines, gripping tightly on your arm as she drags you away.

You spare a look back, watching as Simon fades into a black blur in the middle of the garden.

Two harvest seasons pass before you see Simon again.

Whether he’s avoiding you or your mother is keeping you purposely busy, the Lord of the Underworld fades to the edges of your life.

You’re walking along a stone pathway when a familiar chill covers the air.

How long since you had been used to that feeling?

You smile to yourself, resisting the urge to look around.

“It’s easier to hide, y’know, when you don’t change the weather wherever you walk,” you murmur.

“I seem to recall us meeting in a similar way,” he responds, slipping from around a column.

In the years that have passed, he seems to have grown taller and broader since you last saw him. You crane your neck to meet his gaze, deep scars covering his face. In his hand, he cautiously holds a helm with a human skull covering the front of it.

His robes swish beneath him, and you fight the urge to hug him.

Rather, you straighten, rolling your shoulders back as you give him a small bow.

“Lord Hades,” you smile, peering up between your lashes.

He rolls his eyes, tilting your chin up slightly.

“Simon,” he responds.

You can’t help it, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him towards you. He lets out a surprise oof as yellow roses spurt beneath your hair.

He stills beneath you, arms resting awkwardly in the air, skin burning where you touch.

Just as he lowers an arm to wrap around your shoulders, you release him, brows raised as you place a hand over your mouth, realizing what you’ve done.

“I am, I'm so sorry,” you stutter, eyes wide in horror.

Simon simply shakes his head, face still flushed in revelation from the sudden contact.

You had missed him.

Plain and simple.

More than he could’ve hoped for.

You continue to look anywhere but him, clearly desperate to find a way to escape the situation.

Rather, he loops an arm around yours.

“Come.” He leads you towards the pond where you used to sit.

“I figured you’d have much to catch me up on.”

“Why haven’t you gone with your mother this year?” He asks after a long stretch of silence, both of you lying back on the grass as the sun beams down on you both.

You shrug.

“There’ve been droughts all over Greece.” You lower your voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Zeus is apparently pretty angry at a comment my mother said at the last Olympian meeting.”

Simon actually remembers the comment, something about how Zeus wouldn’t be able to tell his master bolt from his own ass (although he’s almost certain Demeter would never use the word ass.)

“So, there hasn’t been enough work for both of us. She would rather I stay here and continue to learn how to control the season,” you smile.

Your entire energy seems different from who he met two years ago. You carry yourself more poised, more confident, and he finds his eyes keep straying from your hair to the grass beside you in hopes of something to bloom.

“I still think about your offer,” you throw out off-handedly, though your glances toward him say something else.

“What offer?” He asks, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

“You said you would take me to the Underworld one day,” you remind him, turning to face him fully. He looks down at you before leaning back into the sun.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” He responds, smirking slightly. He’s teasing you, he knows but it’s fun to watch you squirm while being too embarrassed to speak directly.

“And I still haven’t left Olympus,” you sigh, watching him with narrowed eyes.

You’re certainly a lot more impatient than the last time he had seen you.

“Is that so?” He responds, and you huff exasperated, lying back down on the grass.

A few beats pause and he’s almost certain you dropped it, not even certain you’ll continue. He feels your fingers twitch next to his before you let out a heavy sigh.

“What if you took me now? To the Underworld?” You look at him shyly, like you can’t believe you’re even asking.

He sits up.

“You want to go to the Underworld?”

You don’t bite back, don’t respond with snark. Just simply nod.

“I just want to leave for a bit. In two centuries, I’ve never left Olympus.” You sit up, a slightly desperate look in your eyes. “You always said you would take me.”

Simon sees two choices clearly ahead of him: one of them being the right one, the one that doesn’t follow the trail he laid down all those years ago. When he promised to take you.

He hands you his Helm of Invisibility.

“You’ll need to wear this.”

You feel as if you’re falling while simultaneously floating.

You feel as if you’ve been riding down the cavern for days, and at this point, you can’t remember the last time you’d seen the sun. Total darkness surrounds, except for the lone torch lighting the chariot.

Simon stands at ease behind the reins, wordlessly gripping the leather left and right.

It barely takes a movement of his wrist before the horses are moving, as if this route is ingrained in their every movement, more muscle memory than deliberate action.

You breathe in heavily.

Simon looks down at the movement, where you’re wordless, messing with a nick in his helm as your wide-eyed gaze darts around.

“We’re almost there,” he grumbles, voice low in his chest. You straighten, nodding as you look up at him.

In one final turn, the horses lead way into a cavern lined with obsidian. A slight frost tinges the air as water droplets fall slowly, one by one.

He taps the reins, and the horses pick up the pace, hooves clomping against the obsidian floor.

It’s all you can focus on before your mouth drops.

In front of you, the tunnel gives way to a giant cavern gleaming with black rock. Frozen stalactites hang where the sky would be, glittering like frozen stars.

What truly catches your eye is the palace gleaming before you. Composed entirely of obsidian, Hades ‘palace stood larger than anything you’ve seen, seemingly reaching past the highest stalactite.

Whispers crawl over your shoulder, but you’re distracted by the sudden stop as his chariot slows beside a garden.

Marigolds, chrysanthemums, and lilies line deep, black soil. Simon steps down before holding out a hand to help you down.

You grasp it lightly, sandals sinking into the hard earth beneath you.

Everywhere you look, there are jewels glimmering in the light. As you walk towards an emerald-encrusted gate, Hades plucks a few yellow six-petaled flowers to hand to you.

“A gift from Zeus,” he smiles, watching as a few petals bloom in your hands.

“They’re beautiful,” you smile brightly. Careful not to crush one as you tuck it in your hair. “What is it called?

“Narcissus.”

Your sandals click through the halls as you walk through the largest courtyard you’ve ever seen.

Amazed, you watch your blurred reflection move across the black walls as you stumble upon a fountain. The water falls against three tiers as dark soil surrounds it.

“I wouldn’t get too close,” Simon smiles. “It pulls from the river Lethe.”

You have no idea what that means, but Simon’s tone is enough to have you backing away from the fountain and towards him.

“Simon,” you sigh, eyes darting all over the room like you can’t get enough. “I had no idea.”

Simon feels something in his stomach, a strong pull as a single carnation petal falls to the ground.

He can’t look away from it.

“Can I offer you something to eat?” He keeps his tone steady, pulling a luscious and ripe pomegranate from his robes.

You turn around, confused by the sudden proposition. He holds out a burgundy fruit, slowly meeting your gaze.

“What is it? I’ve never had this before.” You grab the fruit carefully, wondering if it’s as fragile as everything else in this room you stand in.

“Open it, and you’ll see.” He instructs, and you carefully tear it in half, juice dripping down your hand onto your dress. Seeds seem to fall out in droves and six fall into your hand.

You don’t notice the way Simon is watching, breath caught like he’s waiting for the outcome of a game.

Instead, you bring the seeds to your mouth and chew cautiously.

The first bite, the earth shakes, and the pomegranate falls from your hand, smushing into the ground.

“What’s happening?” you ask as jewels fall from the ceiling and skeletons seem to rise.

“It’s okay, you’ll be okay,” Simon whispers, and your vision begins to fade, black dots appearing in place of the thrones that were in front of you.

The sun beams down on his back, and he’s still getting used to the fact that he can go outside to practice football whenever he pleases. It was so different from the gray skies that seemed to permanently haunt London in the springtime, so when he looked up at the clouds to examine if the sky could really be that blue, he wasn’t expecting to see a girl with messy hair and a bright smile staring straight at him.

He had known that there was a girl his age who lived next door, had caught small glimpses of you while you went on walks with your parents, but had never had the chance to speak to you until now.

“‘Lo,” he mumbles. He hears his father in his head, guiding him to speak louder and stand up straight so he tries to follow the direction. Tries to appear older than he is at six years old.

“Hello!” You giggle, and suddenly, he sees the rest of you, sitting on the edge of the nearly five-foot fence separating the two backyards. He briefly wonders how you managed to get all the way up there, and if American kids had some sort of superpower climbing skill that British kids just aren’t aware of. Before he can test this theory on his own climbing skills, you’ve already done a crawl-shimmy-jump down the fence and landed with a flair that only a six-year-old could when jumping into a pile of dirt.

He takes the time to examine his new neighbor with the flushed skin and polka dot dress and scraped knees (’no doubt from climbing other kid’s fences,’ he thinks). You’re the picture of Americana, down to the melting red, white, and blue Bomb Pop you carry in one hand and a Barbie in the other. Kyle does notice, a little bitterly, that you are a few inches taller than him.

“What’s your name?” you ask, a toothy smile on display, and Kyle begins to shuffle his feet when he sees your bright grin up close. He fights the urge to turn away, feeling a similar way to when he looks at the sun for too long.

“Kyle. What’s yours?”

You tell him your name, and Kyle smiles. It fits, all sunshine and bubbly, the way you seem to be. Kyle’s about to ask if you want to play when you pause from eating your popsicle to stick a hand on your hip like you’re sizing him up — and Kyle has no idea what you’re looking for.

“You talk weird,” That’s …. not what Kyle was expecting, and is a little ironic. Yes, he does have an accent, but you do whistle while you speak on account of your two missing front teeth.

“No, I don’t,” he argues back.

“Yes, you do,” you determine with that huge smile, seemingly unaware that your insistence is causing his brow to furrow and his fists to clench.

“I do not!” he huffs. He almost stomps his foot, but quickly remembers that he is supposed to be acting more …. grown up in this situation.

You shrug and turn around, taking this as a cue to examine his backyard. You carelessly toss your Barbie next to the side of the fence you landed on, taking in the green grass and tall pine trees that surround the yard.

As you continue to skip around the perimeter of the yard, Kyle takes the time to examine you. He’s never seen someone his age be so sure of themselves, so certain of how everything should be in the world.

“Do you play soccer?” you ask, and it takes Kyle a beat to register what you’re saying, so lost in his thoughts.

“Soccer?” he questions and you point to the ball at his feet like he might be a little stupid.

“You mean, football?” he clarifies, and you laugh, running over to hand him your sticky, melting popsicle.

“See, you do talk weird!” you grin and move to kick the ball from his feet.

Kyle hesitates, heading to the trash to toss the mess you gave him. He shakes his head as he goes. He talks like Mum and Dad, and they don’t sound weird to him. So why would he?

To his amazement, when he turns around, you’re carelessly kicking his football around, chasing after the ball, and sometimes pausing to cartwheel in between as if you’ve forgotten what you’re doing. He’s never seen anyone play so…. wildly.

“What are you doing?” he asks, watching as you skip after the ball.

“Playing soccer!” you smile, and Kyle fights the urge to shake his head again.

“That’s not how you play soccer! You clearly don’t even know what you’re doing,” he says like he’s some expert, so confused by the way you’re running that he doesn’t even notice that he calls it the American name.

“That’s not true. I play on a team with my friends and I was voted best player.” For the first time since meeting you, you don’t have a smile on your face. Your brow furrows and you look at him disappointed. Kyle doesn’t really believe the best player story, but he can sense that he’s on the verge of hurting your feelings so he changes the subject.

“What if we play something else?” he suggests. That seems to appease you and you brighten again, back to the smiley joy he didn’t realize he was already used to.

“Sure! I have my favorite Barbie doll with me, but I don’t know where I put it!” Your brow furrows again as you turn wildly to find where you tossed your Barbie.

It’s at that moment when Kyle steps back to give you some space, he hears a crack that sounds suspiciously like a Mattel doll being fractured in two. Kyle freezes, hoping that if he doesn’t move any further, you won’t notice the fractured Barbie underneath his right cleat.

You turn to him with a glare in your eye.

‘Oh no,’ Kyle thinks to himself.

♡ ♡ ♡

When you open your eyes, Kyle’s nose is about two inches away from yours, and his chest rises and falls slowly and steadily. You cross your eyes to count 35 freckles scattered across his cheeks and chin. Most annoyingly, he is currently cuddled up with your teddy bear that you insisted on bringing to this sleepover.

After a very dramatic Barbie funeral, you reluctantly accepted that Kyle wouldn’t be going back to London (it took stealing your brother’s encyclopedia and two very long conversations with your Mom to understand that you can’t just deport a six-year-old for Barbie homicide - no matter how justified it feels.) So you’ve decided to try and befriend him, mostly because your mother says you have to.

It hasn’t been going well.

Kyle warmed up to you quicker than anyone expected, and somewhere between April and October, the polite British boy you first met was replaced by a full-blown menace.

Every time you try to play house in the backyard, he chases you with frogs. You give him daisy-chain flower crowns; he shoves mud pies into your hands. You want to pick sunflowers, and he’s more interested in running wild with your older brothers and playing “football” as he calls it.

As far as you can tell, Kyle has little to no interest in being your friend, and frankly, you’d be okay if he stayed on his side of the backyard forever.

Which leads you to this predicament.

You two, at another kid’s sleepover, are stuck sharing a sleeping bag, and he is hogging both the blankets.

When one of the other kids forgot their sleeping bag, everyone figured that since you and Kyle were being raised like siblings at this point (and fought like it too), there was really no issue with you two sharing.

You actually had fun for most of the night, painting ghosts and smiley faces on your pumpkin, sneaking extra candy, and laughing with the other kids — until one jumped out from around the corner and tossed a rubber spider on you.

The weirdest part of all is how Kyle had been acting. You had expected him to laugh along with the others when you screamed at the spider, but he pushed the kids aside, mumbling “It’s really not that funny.” before pulling you with him.

After that, he was weirdly nice the rest of the night — he even snuck you the last sugar cookie, even though it was his and you’d already had one.

Despite his kindness earlier, Kyle doesn’t really understand the concept of sharing— at least, not when it comes to sleeping bags — and you watch irritably as he gets more and more comfortable under the blankets as the room gets chillier.

You tug, and he tugs back. And you’re seconds away from losing your mind before he begins to blink, slowly coming to.

“What are you doing?” Kyle asks, rubbing his eyes blearily, and for a moment, you see Kyle as his real age. You know he tries to act older and more mature, a product of his father's upbringing and all, but it’s rare to see him so childish unless he’s tormenting you. You secretly wish he would act more like a kid, even if it means it’s at your expense.

“You kept stealing the blankets,” Both of you aren’t whispering, not really understanding how to be quiet, but you do see another kid turn over and quickly put a hand over Kyle’s mouth.

Kyle looks at you bewildered, and you fight the urge to laugh. When the other kid finally settles, you remove your hand as both of you break out into silent giggles.

He seems to finally notice that he has taken over the entire sleeping bag, and shuffles to give you some more blanket space. His skin burns slightly red as he wordlessly hands you your teddy as well.

”I’m sorry,” You’re not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for, since they’re just blankets and you’re almost 90% sure you probably kicked him in your sleep, but it seems important to Kyle, so you decide to hand him back your teddy bear.

He smiles as he gets comfortable, and soon, his breathing evens out next to you, falling back into those slow and steady rises, and you let yourself relax too.

It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to Kyle for a night, either.

So, you simply pat his shoulder and turn to the other side.

Maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind Kyle sticking around for a while.

♡ ♡ ♡

July 28, 2005 - 11:42 P.M.

“Kyle.”

That can’t be right. Kyle’s solving an equation he can’t quite remember the formula for. That’s not what confuses him, though. It’s you, sitting next to him like you belong there. He doesn’t understand why since you have language arts when he’s in maths, but there you are, staring at him urgently. He wants to respond and ask why you’re here, but instead, he focuses back on the algebra problem in front of him.

“Kyle!” Your whisper comes across more urgently and he whips his head to you, trying to figure out what it is that you could possibly want. You sound annoyed, which is common in conversations with him, but there’s something more. He feels a slight breeze and wonders why you’re leaning towards him before a blunt punch in the arm jerks him awake.

“Ow,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at his arm, already sure there’s a bruise here.

“You sleep like the dead,” you respond matter-of-factly, upside down over his head as he wakes up. Kyle knuckles his eyes slightly, trying to adjust to his surroundings, quickly realizing that he’s not actually in his year six maths class, but still at the summer camp your parents shipped you both to every year since you were seven.

“_____,” he hisses, sitting up to look around him. “You’re not even meant to be in here.”

The rest of his cabin mates seem to be asleep, unaware of the girl standing at the edge of his bed in a strictly boys-only cabin, and for a moment he worries that his counselor will walk in and catch you two.

He stands up, ready to walk you out the door until he really looks at you.

Your eyes are glassy, tears streaking your cheeks in the moonlight, and Kyle forgets about getting caught. You’re crying, and that makes his stomach twist worse than any trouble could. He knows that camp had been rough for you this year — your braces are just the latest thing. Every week, Cassidy Shelton finds something new to pick apart.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“I’d never laugh at you.”

“Even when I fell down during the pep rally?” You raise a brow at him, and even though he tries to stop it, he does snicker at the memory. You laugh quietly as well, before rubbing at your cheeks to wipe your tears away, and Kyle’s heart sinks even further.

“C’mon, let’s go for a walk,” He suggests, already grabbing his jacket. He notices you’re holding his blanket, and grabs it to tug you slightly towards him.

“We can’t leave. That’s against the rules,” You hiss, eyes wide with terror. He holds back a laugh, knowing that the two of you are already pushing it with the amount of noise you’re making and someone is bound to wake up soon for a midnight pee or something. Only you would break into a boy’s cabin, breaking the biggest rule of all, but be terrified by a midnight walk.

“No worse than you sneaking into the boys' cabin, is it?” He shrugs, already headed to the door. If it wasn’t for the midnight quiet, he would’ve missed the barely audible whisper of ‘I just wanted to talk to you.’

The darkness in front of you seems to stretch for miles only illuminated by the tiny sliver of the moon above. The earth is slightly damp beneath your feet as you follow Kyle further through the campsite.

You don’t know where Kyle’s taking you, but you trust him — just like you trusted him enough to climb through the window of Cabin B in the first place.

He’s been a constant in your life for the past six years, and you’re unsure where the shift from childhood neighbors turned into tween best friends. You’ve never had to wonder where you stood with Kyle — he just showed up.

Lately, you’ve needed that loyalty more than you’d like to admit.

Cassidy’s been relentless all summer, never far away with a comment or a look. She made fun of your swimsuit during pool day, made a joke about your retainer when the boys were around, and “accidentally” left you out of the cabin photo.

But today, she made sure to taunt you in front of the entire cabin, everyone crowded in the bathroom to get ready for bed.

“The braces help, seriously” she says, brushing out her hair in long, perfect strokes. “At least now you have a feature people will notice before your nose.”

You tense, trying to rush through brushing your teeth so you can crawl into your bunk where she can’t bother you.

“I mean,” she sighs wistfully, like she’s offering life-changing advice. You know better, know that what comes next is nothing but the punchline to one of her cruel jokes. “You’re just so lucky you’re funny. Some guys like that more than looks.”

A few girls snickered, and that had been the final straw. You felt the need for comfort, missing home more than usual and your feet found there way to Kyle like they always did.

There’s a slight breeze that tickles the ends of your hair, and the crickets slowly fade into a melody in the background as you realize that Kyle is leading you toward the lake. You cross your arms at the chill in the air, and Kyle turns to frown down at you. He’s gotten so tall since the beginning of the summer, and you know deep down that he’s happy he no longer has to look up at you anymore.

He stops in front of you, shaking you out of your thoughts as you almost run into him. He sets his blanket down next to the canoe racks, and you smile. The first summer you spent here, you and Kyle had accidentally capsized a canoe after arguing over the correct way to steer. The next day, the counselors made you both sit out, and you spent the whole hour just talking. It’s become one of your favorite spots to hang out at between activities since.

He sits down and looks up at you, eyes searching yours. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head, already feeling kinda childish and guilty that you had dragged Kyle out of bed to comfort you. He has always seemed so mature, and even now, you feel unsophisticated as you clumsily move to sit down next to him. Where you had been teased and picked on this summer, Kyle seemed to blossom over the past few weeks, breaking records for the fastest time in rock climbing and always being first to be picked in dodgeball.

Everyone wanted to talk to him, and no one seemed to understand why he was always so content to just hang out with you.

Kyle’s silent, and you wish for a second that you could know what’s going on inside his head. You turn to look at him but find that he’s already staring at you, and you both quickly look away.

”Look, you can see Orion tonight.” You look over at him and follow where’s he pointing to the brightest constellation in the sky. He lies down on his back, and you follow his lead, both of you gazing up toward the night sky. “And there’s Andromeda.”

You try to look up to where he’s pointing, but can’t make out the shape. Your hand brushes his as you point upward.

”Where?” you ask, and he grabs your hand, tracing the outline of the shape in the stars. You pause, taking in the fact that you’ve never seen so many at once, before quickly realizing that Kyle is still holding your outstretched hand, and both of your faces burn as he quickly drops it.

”How do you know all this?” Kyle shrugs the best he can while still lying down to your question.

”We learned about it in science class a few months ago, and I thought it was interesting. I read some books from the library, too. They all have these crazy stories behind them. Like Andromeda. She was like…brave or something. And Orion’s a hunter.”

Kyle begins to get excited as he starts to ramble, and you smile. Not only is he great at sports, but he’s also one of the smartest people in your grade, and loves to show off whenever he can.

”That’s Ursa Major, and there’s Ursa Minor. They’re both the bears. And that one’s…. well, I forgot the name, but it’s the prettiest one. And it’s always right there. Like you.” Kyle stops talking so fast it knocks the breath out of you. Your head spins.

You’re not sure what you expected him to say, another fact, maybe a joke, but definitely not that.

You feel Kyle squirm next to you, clearly mortified, and you’re certain that if you turned to him, his face would be flushed from the heat of his unexpected confession - if you could even call it that.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him trying very hard to keep his gaze fixed on the stars, like maybe if he doesn’t look at you, the words won’t count.

And somehow, that makes you smile.

You’ve never even thought of Kyle that way— sticking to daydreaming about boyband members and teen actors, so you don’t know why your pulse keeps stuttering at his revelation. It’s Kyle, and you know the girls in your grade are already starting to become interested in him, have already started whispering about who he might ask to the seventh-grade dance next year and how they hope it’s them.

You wonder how Cassidy would react if Kyle accidentally compared her to the prettiest constellation in the galaxy.

”You shouldn’t let what they say get to you,” he whispers, and you find that he’s looking at you this time.

”Who?”

”Cassidy and them. I don’t know why you care what they think. You’re way cooler than them.” He stares at you intently, and now it’s you who has to look away, who focuses intently on the constellations above instead of the boy next to you.

”Thanks, Kyle,” you sigh, moving to get more comfortable. All of a sudden, you feel exhausted—the day finally catching up to you. Kyle grabs his jacket, draping it over you.

“You’re way cooler than them too,” you mumble, and from the corner of your eye, you see Kyle smile.

The rippling of the water and the cricket sounds slowly lure the both of you to sleep until the next morning when your counselors find you hidden after spending the past hour freaking out over two missing campers.

You both get dish duty for a week. But at least you’re together.

♡ ♡ ♡

April 7, 2010 - 12:57 A.M.

Kyle feels like his black bow tie is choking him, and for what feels like the thousandth time that night, he tugs at the collar of his tux. He’s not sure if it’s the collar that’s making it hard to breathe, or if it’s just you.

Sweat beads lightly on his forehead as he forces another bright smile under the camera flashes.

”One more! Do not make that face, Kyle! It’s only one more picture. I just can’t believe how big the both of you have gotten,” his mother coos, sentences trailing over one another in her excitement. You’re applying a fresh coat of lip gloss as your mum fixes your gown, and Kyle can’t stop looking.

It’s the night of your senior prom, and Kyle originally had no plans on going. But after your date stood you up, he grabbed the black suit from the back of his closet to accompany you on the night you had been looking forward to for the past year.

And Kyle had always known you were beautiful.

He just didn’t know it could make his chest ache the way it does now.

Up until now, Kyle thought he’d seen you in every outfit imaginable. But the blush pink gown wraps around you like a whisper, like you might break if the wrong hands touch you. His throat dries as your glossy lips catch the light as you press them together to smooth everything out. You seem to glow, an outright supernova that somehow made its way to Earth, a divine cosmic intervention that Kyle could only count himself as lucky to experience.

He knows he’s being dramatic, but when you look over at him, eyes bright and smile wide, he feels like he could write a sonnet about you just like he learned in English.

He makes himself keep his eyes on yours, even as the slit of your gown sways closer with every step. He thinks the lights are making him delirious because he swears you float to him in a cloud of tulle and shimmer.

”Okay, one more, and that will be the last one, Beth,” your mother chides, guiding you to stand next to Kyle. He looks down at you, at how you now barely reach his chin, even in your strappy high heels.

”How much do you want to bet this isn’t the last one?” You mutter under a beaming white smile, and for a second, Kyle sees the same six-year-old who once crawled over his backyard fence.

He shakes his head, pulling you closer to him. It takes everything in him not to breathe you in and hold you tighter.

Kyle hasn’t left your side all night.

Which is normal for Kyle. You two won “Class Inseparables” for a reason, but what isn’t normal is just how clingy he’s being.

Kyle had spent the year making it extremely clear that he didn’t want to go to prom, and while he didn’t outright say it, you know that with the recent death of his father, he’d much rather stay at home and do…… whatever it is that Kyle wants to do.

You had struggled to be there, as he shut you out more and more while dealing with his grief. You blamed yourself for not knowing the right things to say, what to do, and most of all, feeling like nothing you did was ever enough to show him he wasn’t alone. It was just something he had to work through on his own, and you made sure to always be a shoulder for him when he called.

So when your mother found out that your date canceled on you last minute, she spoke to Kyle’s mother, and the both of them decided that it would be good for the two of you to go together — one last adolescent celebration before you two fully entered adulthood.

And although you hate to admit it, they were both right. You couldn’t have imagined spending the night any other way, dragging Kyle through all the cliches of photobooth pictures and slowly dancing to pop songs. His laugh infectious as he clumsily dips you to the floor, almost dropping you in the process.

So when the two of you made it to an afterparty, you were surprised to not see him next to you as you exited the living room barefoot to the backyard deck. Already buzzed on a few drinks, your head pounds to the bass of the song blaring and you welcome the muffled quiet you get as you shut the door behind you, heading to the railing to look up to the sky.

Only a few moments later, you hear the sliding glass door open, and without looking, you know Kyle has found his way back to you.

“I can’t believe this is it,” you whisper, eagerly welcoming the bottle of water Kyle slides your way. He takes a sip from his own, and as you dazedly watch him swallow, you notice that he ditched his bow tie somewhere between the limo and the shot of Smirnoff you took with your friends. The first few buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned, and he looks more relaxed than you’ve seen him in a long time.

“What’s it?” He questions, and you smile at his accent creeping through. In addition to class inseparables, Kyle also won the senior superlative for best accent (a category you’re almost certain they created just for him), and to this day, you don’t know how he maintained it despite living in America for most of his life. A part of you thinks it’s due to the yearly trips to England he takes with his family, and another part thinks that it’s just the way it’s meant to be because he wouldn’t be Kyle without it.

“I mean, we’re done. No more high school,” you sigh wistfully. The big decision of ‘what’s next’ seems to loom over everyone’s head as graduation creeps even closer. You had already committed to a college for the fall, but Kyle had kept unusually silent about his decision on what to do next. You tried not to pry, knowing that he was already dealing with more grief than anyone your age ever should, but it worried you that he didn’t have a plan, and a tiny voice in the back of your head won’t stop whispering he’s keeping something from you.

“I thought you, more than anyone, would be glad to be done,” he laughs, taking another sip of his water.

You suppose that’s true, school had never really been your favorite. But the thought of leaving Kyle to go out of state? You’re not sure how to feel about it. He’s always been a fence away, and your hands begin to twitch as you’re suddenly overcome with a weird urge to hold his hand.

You don’t know what to call your feelings for Kyle. If anyone ever insinuates that there could be anything more between you two, you almost immediately deny it. Tell everyone and anyone who can hear that “he’s just a friend, more like one of my brothers than anything else,” but late at night, in the wee hours when you feel the darkness can hide any thought you’re too scared to say aloud, you entertain the idea of ‘what if?’

You had tried - once in ninth grade because everyone said that’s what two people with “chemistry” like yours were supposed to do, but Kyle had too much of a crush on an upperclassman girl to focus on you properly and you had always felt like your “dates” felt too much like hanging out as friends to ever take it seriously.

But now at the cusp of adulthood, you’re beginning to see Kyle as something more, and it terrifies you slightly.

“Of course, I’m happy to be done. But I don’t know what I’m going to do without you next year,” you admit, softly, the truth coming out before you can bottle it back down. “I mean, you’re my best friend, Ky. Promise you’ll come visit me next year?”

Kyle doesn’t look at you, letting out a heavy sigh.

”Of course, I’ll visit. It’s just-” He stops himself, running a heavy hand through his hair, and looking up towards the sky. Your heart begins to beat faster, trying to anticipate what he’s not saying, and for once, you wished Kyle spoke as carelessly as you did instead of watching every word to make sure he never said the wrong thing.

“What is it, Kyle?”

He takes another drink of water, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt before turning to you with his full attention, staring you deep into your eyes.

”I’m moving back to London at the end of the summer. I’m going to enlist in the military.”

You recoil at that bombshell. You know you shouldn’t be that surprised; Kyle’s dad was in the military himself, and with everything that’s happened, it makes sense that he’d want to follow in his footsteps.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You hate how selfish you sound, knowing that it’s not about you, and the edges of the room start to blur as you try to catch your breath.

”It was just never the right time, and I couldn’t figure out how. Plus, you were so stressed about college applications that I didn’t want to add that on to everything else you were dealing with.”

You try to see how that logic would make sense to him, but as the timeline catches up to you, you start to realize that you have a little over 100 days until Kyle is almost 4,500 miles away from you.

Your heart begins to beat even faster.

You want to be happy for him — proud, even. Because of course, Kyle would do something so brave and selfless. But your stomach churns as you think about everything he’s still carrying and whether running towards something like this will really let him outrun his grief.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” You murmur, eyes burning as you slide down the railing to sit on the deck.

”Don’t do that, love. You’re going to get your pretty dress all dirty.” You fight the urge to roll your eyes because only Kyle could be focused on the state of your appearance while you’re on the verge of falling apart. “C’mon, let's go inside.”

He leads you through the crowded living room, ignoring the whistles and cheers as he takes you down the hall to find an unoccupied spare bedroom.

As soon as the lock clicks, you lay face down on a scratchy pillow, a violent sob racking your body.

You feel the bed dip as Kyle sits beside you, gently stroking your back until your tears quiet. You wonder if he thinks you’re being melodramatic about this situation, if his leaving is as big a deal to him as it is to you. You count down every moment you two have spent together, and wonder if he’s done the same since he’s decided to enlist, if he’ll cling on to the same memories that you will a year from now.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper. You don’t want to say it, not wanting to ruin this momentous decision with your own emotions, but you feel him slipping away, and selfishly, you want to hold on as tight as you can without letting go.

“I know this can’t be easy for you either… but I just — God, I don’t know how I’m going to do this without you,” you sniffle slightly.

”I’m going to miss you more, darling,” he whispers back, moving to lay beside you. He cuddles up behind you, holding you tightly, and the comfort of having him near you is enough to calm you down. You lay in silence for a few moments, letting the sounds of the party outside drown out every fear you’re not ready to name.

“Y’know, when we were six, I wanted you to move back to London,” you laugh, and he snorts too.

”Did you? Why was that?” his embrace softens, and you begin to feel quite tired as the heat from his body envelopes you.

”You broke my Barbie and made fun of my ‘football’ skills,” he laughs at the exaggerated posh accent you put on before you continue- ”As far as I was concerned, you were enemy number one.”

“How lucky am I,” he drags, sarcastically. “that I changed your mind to keep me here.”

“I think I’m the lucky one,” you murmur, your voice small now. “Because now I don’t want you to go.”

He stiffens slightly before relaxing into you more.

And just like that on a borrowed bed in your formal wear, you reckon with the fact that this is the last night of your childhood.

You grab Kyle’s hand and drift off to sleep.

♡ ♡ ♡

November 28, 2014 - 3:19 A.M.

Kyle hasn’t seen you in two years, and yet here you are, sitting in front of him in the tiniest black dress he’s ever seen in his entire life.

Both of you are crammed into a booth in a dark, sticky club, and he tells himself it’s the bass of whatever EDM track is rattling the walls that’s making his head spin — not the way your chest presses together when you lean over to grab your drink.

He takes another sip of his own. You’re spending the summer interning at a finance firm in London, and Kyle secretly hopes they’ll offer you a job after graduation — just so you’ll have a reason to stay. Which is how you found yourself out with him and his friends to celebrate their first deployment going so successfully.

They’d started the night at a proper pub; pints, darts, and all — much to your confusion when you showed up like you were headed to a rooftop in Miami.

“What are you wearing?” He asks, eyes scanning over the smokey makeup and sky-high heels that stood outside of the door of his flat. “You do realize we’re going to a pub, yeah? Why the dress?”

“You said we were going to a bar.” You push him to the side since clearly he wasn’t going to move to let you in, and toss the oversized leather jacket you were wearing onto his couch without a second glance. “This is what you wear to bars.”

Kyle’s almost positive he didn’t say that, any American slang wiped from his vocabulary since moving back to the U.K., and despite growing up together, he still isn’t sure how the two of you manage to miscommunicate.

You turned to him then, lips already pouted, eyes bright with mischief as you looked him up and down.

“What, you don’t like it?”

The problem is Kyle likes what you’re wearing a little too much which is how he found himself in a basement club in central London. You had gotten along well enough with a few friends he made while away, gleefully sharing embarrassing stories with his new military friends (“Kyle, mate, why didn’t you tell us you used to do ballet?” “Piss off, I was like seven.”). So, when you light up at the suggestion of going dancing, staring at him pleading when his friend, Elliott, mentions a club nearby, he grabs his jacket instead of heading home like he wanted, where he’s found himself spending way too much money on drinks and watching how your skin seems to glow under the flickering strobe lights.

You giggle at something Elliott whispers, no doubt a joke at Kyle’s expense, with the way you flash him a wicked grin afterward, and Kyle’s jaw clenches. He takes another sip of his drink as you lick a drop from your lips.

Kyle knows that he needs to stop watching. That soon you’re going to catch on that he’s looking at you in a not-so-friendly way.

But whatever it is, he can’t stop watching the way you move. Can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to pull that dress up around your hips and slide his hands over the skin he’s been dying to touch since you walked through the door.

He tells himself to stop looking and keep his thoughts chaste as you unintentionally pout your lips as you look at him to see why he’s so quiet.

But, fuck, he can’t stop the way he feels.

Like a live wire pulled too tight, every look tossed his way hitting him in his chest. In his gut. Lower.

You were always beautiful, but this — this is different.

Grown. Self-possessed.

Devastating.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, both men watching as your hips slightly sway as you try to find your balance.

“Jesus, mate. You never said you had a girl like that waiting on you.” Kyle watches Elliott for a moment too long. Watches the way he’s already looking at you like a challenge that he could win you over. He’s seen that same look in almost every guy at this club when they look at you tonight, and his fists clench.

“She’s not my girl. We’re just friends.” A sour taste forms in his mouth as if he’s swallowed something acidic, and he watches Elliott light up at the info.

“Really? Is she seeing anyone? Or keen to be?” Kyle almost chokes at the waggle of Elliott’s brow at the last part. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling this way, you’ve both dated other people before so this is nothing new, but the thought of you going home with anyone other than him makes his chest hurt.

“Dunno. You’d have to ask her.” Kyle shrugs, but it comes out too sharp, too fast. He swallows hard. It’s not a joke to him anymore. He takes a proper look, assessing the man sitting in front of him. It would never work between you and Elliott, would it? He’s military, too determined, too focused — too much like Kyle. And if you were going to be with somebody — why couldn’t it be Kyle?

“Gonna check on her, yeah?” he murmurs, rising before he thinks better of it. The rest of the drink burns on the way down, but it barely registers. Not over the heat crawling up his spine.

Admittedly, you got a little lost on the way to the bathroom, the three drinks catching up to you all at once. The club pulses and spins around you, lights strobing as the bass vibrates within your bones.

What was supposed to be a quick trip becomes a full lap of the dance floor, and you’re flushed and slightly dizzy when you walk up to the bar to order another Sex on the Beach. You’re halfway leaning over the counter to pass your card when someone drops theirs ahead of you.

The scent hits you before anything else: sharp, clean, with that rich warmth you’d know anywhere. Tom Ford. Kyle’s favorite.

You go still. Heart thudding.

You don’t turn around to look at him yet, suddenly, feeling too warm, too aware of the way your dress clings to your skin, the way your breath stutters in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just Kyle.

But it’s not the same Kyle, is it?

The one standing at the bar is taller now, sharper around the edges, all quiet confidence and serious demeanor. His gaze tracks you like he’s hunting, like he’s already read your next move and is deciding what to do with it.

And then there’s his body.

He’s broader now, chest and shoulders stretching the sleeves of his shirt, arms thick with the kind of strength that isn’t just there for decoration, but for utility and purpose.

Sun-kissed skin, dark mustache, and a lean athletic figure that has enough stamina to go for hours, whether that’s on the battlefield or —.

But the thing you find yourself staring at the most are his hands. What were once smooth are adorned with callouses, each one holding a war story that he’s yet to share. Like they’ve seen battle and want to learn softness now. Like they could leave bruises shaped like constellations on your hips if you asked nicely.

You take a large gulp of your drink like it might drown the thoughts clawing their way through your head. The alcohol burns, but it’s not nearly enough to dull the way your body thrums when Kyle gets even closer.

You turn around, and there he is — smiling dangerously like he’s hyper-aware of what path your thoughts have taken. His voice is a whisper in your ear, low enough to curl straight down your spine.

“Thought you were looking for the bathroom?” he murmurs, and you hate that your first instinct is to lean in like two opposite ends of a magnet.

“Got a little lost,” you say, breathier than you mean to, and take the straw into your mouth again slowly this time, just to see if his eyes drop to your lips again.

They do.

“What are you drinking?” he asks, and you push your cup toward him without thinking.

“Try it,” you say, soft. “It’s all juice and sugar. You probably won’t like it.”

You expect him to grab the cup and tip far from his mouth like he always used to when you were kids, but instead, his fingers skim your jaw, and he catches a drop from the corner of your mouth. You freeze.

Then he brings it to his lips.

“It’s sweet,” he says, slow and deliberate, still watching your mouth. “I like it.”

Your heart punches against your ribs, wild and frantic, and you barely stop yourself from chasing the taste on his lips. You fumble your drink with a clatter, cheeks hot as if you could be any less smooth.

He grins, cocky and all too pleased with himself, and slides in closer, setting the cup aside like nothing else matters.

The scent of him hits you — cologne and sweat and something deeper — and suddenly it’s like your entire body is one raw nerve. Your thoughts scatter. Your pulse stutters. You want to touch him. You want to climb into his lap. You want him to grab you by the hips and ruin every thread of self-control you’ve ever had.

He’s your best friend.

Somehow, you don’t care.

You try to collect yourself. Breathe in. Out. Focus on your heartbeat. On anything other than the way your skin is still buzzing from where he’s touched you.

But when you glance up, Kyle’s already looking at you half-lidded, pupils blown so wide that you almost have to squint to make out the thin ring of gold surrounding them.

You don’t even realize you’re moving closer to him until your hand brushes his, chest mere inches as you drink in Kyle in front of you. He takes your hand, fingers tracing the inside of your wrist. Your pulse skips a beat.

His doesn’t.

He opens his mouth, whether to speak or kiss you, you’ll never know as two of his friends come barreling in, ripping him away with slurred words and half-assed apologies.

“Oi, Kyle, some tosser thinks I’m flirting with his bird. Tell him he’s having a laugh, yeah?”

And just like that, the moment shatters. The lights, the music, the crowd pressing in — it all rushes back at once.

You even register the annoyed looks from people trying to squeeze past the two of you.

How long had the two of you been standing there?

“Can’t leave you guys alone for two seconds,” He mutters, catching his breath. His hand lingers on your wrist as mouths ‘be right back.’

You reach for your drink, spinning the liquid as if it’ll hypnotize you to keep your thoughts from spinning too.

“He’s pretty good, right?” Elliot slides in next to you, watching Kyle make his way through the crowd. “He was always the most level-headed in basic training. He probably broke up more fights than he was in them.”

You smile at that — of course, Kyle would gain the reputation of being the strategist, the fixer, always thinking things through.

“—- told him in training to go after what he wants, but it seems like he still hasn’t listened,”

You tune back in at the end of his sentence, narrowing your eyes at Elliott.

“I’m sorry?”

Elliott just grins.“Lemme buy you a drink, yeah?”

You should say yes- he’s cute, really fucking cute, and obviously interested by the way he’s been flirting with you all night.

But as you shift you weight from one foot to another, deliberating, your gaze slides to the other side of the club where Kyle is already watching.

You swear his jaw clenches when Elliott moves in closer to you.

“Oh,” Elliott laughs, catching the look. “You’re both a little fucked then.”

You blink. “What?”

He shakes his head, something almost kind about his expression. “Better that I’m not the one to tell you, right? But -“

He stops himself like he shouldn’t be saying something before shrugging his shoulders and tossing back the rest of his drink.

“Plenty of the lads at basic had birds back home. None of them ever talked about their girls the way Kyle talked about you.”

Your stomach twists at Elliott’s words, but you’re not sure if it’s from the implication or the confirmation. You’ve known Kyle was acting different tonight — the stares, the softness, the tension that always seemed just shy of crossing a line. You want to ask what Kyle said, how he said it, when he said it, take every sentence and dissect it syllable by syllable. But you don’t get the chance.

Because Kyle is back.

And he looks… different. Not just under the strobe lights, not just with his shirt rumpled and curls damp at the nape of his neck. He looks like someone who has made a decision.

His eyes skim over Elliott, land on you, and stay there.

You barely register Elliott muttering something about giving you two a moment before disappearing into the crowd. Kyle doesn’t say anything — not at first. He just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize every feature on your face like this is the last time he’ll see them.

“What did he say to you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you open your mouth, you might admit that you’re shaking. That something about this — him, you, tonight — has shifted past the point of pretending. You don’t know how to flirt with Kyle because it never felt like you had to. But right now, standing in front of him with your heart in your throat, you want to be brave. You want to try.

So you just say, “You already know.”

Kyle blinks. His jaw twitches. Then he grabs your hand.

He pulls you into the crowd, the bass drowning out every thought except the feel of his fingers tangled in yours, the way his body moves ahead of you like he’s cutting a path through the world just to get you somewhere quieter, darker, closer.

Your skin sparks under his touch. Your blood hums with electricity.

And you don’t even realize you’ve stopped moving until you’re suddenly chest to chest, breath to breath, the rest of the world nothing more than sound and color. Hidden in some back hallway away from any interruptions or prying eyes. He stares down at you like you’re something divine. Like if he blinks, you’ll disappear.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he says like it’s a confession pulled from his ribs.

His palm slides against your lower back, anchoring you to him as if any distance will push you away. You smile, ready to make a joke, to tease him, to play into this push-and-pull you’ve somehow found yourself in.

But the look on his face punches the air out of your lungs.

Any ounce of self-control has fled from his body, replaced by a primal desire that seems to bleed from him. His hand trails up your spine, every hair on your body standing on end as you come to the complete and utter realization:

Kyle is going to kiss me.

And before you can even process what that means for your friendship, his mouth is on yours.

Suddenly you can’t think, all thoughts flooding straight from your brain as they’re replaced by one single, repetitive thought: ‘Holy shit, Kyle is a really good kisser.’

His hands find your waist, then your hips, then your ass, like he doesn’t know where to hold you because he wants to touch you everywhere. His tongue sweeps inside your mouth, tasting like gum and pints of lager, and a hint of the cigarette he bummed earlier, and that combo would be so disgusting on anyone else, but of course, it works for him, and you hear yourself gasping into him.

Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans deep and low like the sound is being pulled straight out of his chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters, lips moving against yours. “Why do you taste so fucking good?”

He kisses you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else, and you think it’s working. You will never be able to kiss anyone again without thinking about the way Kyle took you apart, thread by thread, with just his mouth. You pull him in closer, feeling slightly depraved and insane. You want to crawl into his skin, get under him, inside him, anywhere where he can hold on to you like this forever.

You shift, and your thighs brush against him, forcing you to feel him — thick and hard through his jeans and pressing right against your hip. You moan before you can stop yourself, and he grips you even tighter, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re driving me insane, sweetheart,” he rasps in your ear, dragging his mouth down your jaw. You drag his face back to yours, and he kisses you again —deeper, messier, needier— but it’s still not enough. You want more, need more, need to know what it feels like for him to be inside you, fingers buried in his hair as you fall apart for him over and over again.

But for now, you just let him devour you. Kissing you with a promise of what’s to come, like he’s starved and you’re the first taste he’s allowed himself in years.

You break away first, barely breathing hard as you take in Kyle’s swollen lips and chest heaving as if he just ran across the country.

His hand is still gripping your waist like he’ll fall if he lets go, and he rests his forehead against yours. For a second, you think he might kiss you again until he exhales hard, coming to terms with the situation that just happened.

”Fuck, we — we weren’t supposed to do that, sweetheart.”

His voice is wrecked like he’s ashamed of how badly he wanted it. Of how badly he still wants it.

You don’t move. Your fingers are still twisted in his shirt, and your neck still tingles from where he dragged his lips across it. You finally open your eyes to look at him.

And when your eyes meet his, he looks absolutely ruined.

“Stop looking at me like that, love.” His hand twitches like he might pull away, but he doesn’t. Just takes a deep inhale. “We’re friends, right?”

The words don’t match the way he’s staring at you, with lips parted, pupils blown, and you still feel the weight of him fully pressed up against you. And whatever line you two were pretending existed has already shattered.

So, you look up at him, bold and tipsy, and braver than you have any right to be, and whisper in his ear: “I don’t want to be just your friend tonight, Kyle.”

Something settles in between you two, the words impossible to take back, so Kyle just gives a deep nod before calling a cab.

You slide into the cab first, and Kyle follows, close enough that your legs touch, close enough for him to smell the sweet sting of your perfume and whatever’s left of the drink on your lips.

The door shuts, and for the first time all night, it’s too quiet — he hears his heartbeat in his ears, and his nerves continue to dial themselves higher and higher.

You shift, and his gaze drops down to where your dress rides a little higher from the movement. He can’t help himself, his hand settles heavy over your knee, thumb dragging slow, deliberate circles on your bare skin. It feels delicate, pretty, soft and he wonders if you’d feel that way all over.

Your skin warms instantly, and he can feel the heat coming off you in waves. You glance up at him, eyes silently begging for him to move again, for him to kiss and touch and worship you like he craves.

And God does he want to.

Kyle leans in closer, mouth brushing just behind your ear, making sure to keep his voice low enough that only you can hear,

“If we weren’t in a fucking cab right now…”

You still.

“My hand wouldn’t just be on your thigh.” He makes sure to draw a deliberate line up the inside of your leg, stopping just short of where your dress ends, hiding where he wants to see you the most. “It’d be under that fucking dress, halfway to making you come again.”

Your breath hitches. The driver coughs once, and Kyle forces himself back,hand still on your leg, grip just tight enough to remind you that he’s still here, just as wanting as you.

You don’t say a word for the rest of the ride.

Neither does he.

The car slows to a stop, and before Kyle can stop himself, he tosses a large tip to the driver before taking your hand like a man possessed and dragging you into his flat.

The second the door clicks shut, Kyle’s mouth is back on yours.

He barely registers kicking the door shut before he’s got you pinned to it, hands firmly gripping your waist to anchor himself to this moment. He wants to take his time, to memorize how you feel under his hands, how you sound when he kisses your neck, commit this to memory in case he never gets the chance to again, but desperation takes over, and all he can think about is how badly he wants more. How badly he wants you.

Your purse hits the floor, but he doesn’t really care. You let out another gasp into him, and he’s never been angrier at himself. For pretending, for years, that this was inevitable.

He drags his teeth against your bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to suck and bite until it’s flushed red.

Instead, his hands move free of his control, down your thighs, under your dress, until he’s rubbing the front of the thong you have on, and he moans slightly into your mouth.

You’ve completely ruined yourself, underwear drenched, and your hips jerk as he presses a light circle to your covered clit.

He smiles, using his other hand to pin you to the door, and he feels you shaking like you might detonate against him as he continues to draw light circles around your covered heat.

“Kyle,” you whine, and it feels like a livewire has been cut deep inside him as he moves your panties to the side, and slides two fingers inside of you.

And all he can think to say is, “Fucking finally.”

God, you’re tight, warm, and just fucking perfect. Your hips jerk against where his hand is moving, like you’ve been shocked and he feels his breath stutter against the high-pitched moans you make, raw and startled like you didn’t know you could want him this much.

Kyle presses his forehead against yours, cursing when you gasp at the curl of his fingers. And he feels the confession bubbling up, tries to push it back down where it’s supposed to remain hidden and locked away, but you sound so sweet when you whine his name that he just starts … rambling.

“I’ve thought about this,” he rasps, voice wrecked and low. “I tried not to, sweetheart, I really did, but you were always there in my mind at night. What you’d sound like, what you’d look like coming undone, what you’d feel like when you finally let me touch you.”

Surprisingly, you don’t jerk away from his confession, call him a creep, or tell him that he’s supposed to be just a friend. Instead, you clench tightly around his fingers, moaning a little bit louder throughout his admission, and adoration begins to fill your eyes.

It only takes a few more pumps of his fingers, before you fall apart, and Kyle holds you through it, hand steady, mouth skimming your jaw as he tries to brand the shape of your body to his memory.

You’re still trembling in his arms when he pulls back, and he watches you blink, dazed and flushed and impossibly beautiful. He’s never been so hard before, and you reach for his belt, his body slumping forward as you brush a delicate hand across the rough outline of his cock.

He wants you so badly it hurts. But it can’t be like this. Not the first time.

“Baby,” he rasps and you whine at that, grasping the print of him a little harder and he grabs your hand to still you.

“I want you so badly right now.” He cups your face, brushes against your cheek, and whispers against your lips, “But our first time will not be against a bloody door.”

He pulls you in again, lips pressing as he drags his tongue against your mouth, hands drifting down to take a firm grip of your ass.

And just like that it shifts.

Kyle picks you up like it’s nothing, and cradles you close, as he carries you through his flat to his bedroom like you weigh nothing at all. Lays you down so softly like you’re made of glass.

And then you kiss again, softer, slower, as if he’s truly taking his time to learn who you are. He reaches down, pulling your dress off of you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.

He looks as if he’s seen a divine being, wanting nothing more than to lay you down at the altar and worship you until you bless him.

So, he does.

He takes his time, kissing down your chest, your ribs, your hips, like he’s tracing down a map to something sacred. He removes the last barrier you have, the last of your clothes, and you open your legs for him. His eyes darken, the edges lazy with want, and he sucks a deep, bruising kiss at the apex of your thigh.

And then his mouth is on you. If you could even describe something as monumental as simple as that. As if you could describe the starburst that floods your vision with such a crass term as “eating pussy.”

Kyle lays everything out with the broad strokes he licks into you, groaning as if he can’t imagine anywhere else as perfect as in between your thighs.

You cry out, one hand flying to the wall, the other buried in his hair, as he traces soft circles into you.

You hear yourself call out his name, all your senses locked into the way he smiles against you. ”Been dreaming about the way you’d say my name.”

He sucks at you like he wants your legs to shake, like he won’t be satisfied until you come completely and utterly undone for him.

So when you come for the second time, it’s no surprise that it’s with a broken cry that leaves him shuddering.

You think he might stop there. Takes the time to let you recover as he strips himself. But he’s above you again, and you take the time to run your hands across broad shoulders that lead down to a tapered waist adorned with a perfect set of abs.

He hangs hot and heavy between your legs, and you sigh as he takes you in for another kiss, briefly tasting yourself on him before he pulls back,

“Is this still okay?” He whispers, eyes looking for any doubt.

You nod. “More than”

And he sinks into you with a groan that’s been clawed from his chest.

His pace is unhurried and measured, forehead against yours as you clench around him when he presses a kiss against your forehead. His pace falters before picking back up as he mutters “fuck, love, you feel like heaven.”

You lock your ankles around his waist as he laces your fingers together. His mouth catches yours mid-moan and refuses to let go. You wish it felt wrong like this is a dark and dirty secret that will never be touched, but as you come for the third time, you know that you’ll never be able to live peacefully knowing what it looks like to have Kyle fall apart above you, mouth on your neck as his whole body trembles into yours.

He slowly pulls out of you, lying next to you before pulling you close to his chest, and pressing a familiar kiss to the top of your head.

You’ve never felt so serene, so calm, so at ease, and you want to say something to break the moment. To bring you both back down to the level you normally operate at, with friendly jokes and ribbing and teasing.

Deep down, you feel that coil snap, that something’s changed between the two of you. You wonder if he feels that too, but when you look at him, the only thing you see is the same devotion he had a few moments earlier.

So you shove all your thoughts away and close your eyes

You wake up missing the familiar weight of Kyle next to you. The bed is cold, the sheets pulled into a precise military fold, and the only sign he was ever there is the dent in the pillow next to you.

You grab something discarded from the pile of clothes on the floor, Kyle’s shirt, and tug it on before padding out barefoot to the kitchen.

“Morning,” you whisper, voice still scratchy with sleep.

He startles just slightly at the sound of your voice and straightens before turning around.

There’s a small smile on his face, but it doesn’t quite meet and doesn’t feel as genuine as it should be.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, standing on the other side of the island. He nudges your cup towards you, tea prepared the way you’ve always preferred and you hold the burning cup in your hands, lines forming between your brows.

“I’m fine. How do you feel?” you ask, guarded.

Kyle looks exhausted, not the face of someone satisfied after a night of good sex, and you start to second-guess yourself. You’ve seen Kyle with ex-girlfriends, and he’s the picture of romance - flowers, kisses, constantly holding hands and all over them.

For a moment last night, you thought you saw that Kyle when he was with you, but you don’t recognize the man in front of you- guarded, drawn back.

Off-kilter, you take a sip of the tea you’ve been holding, dropping the mug when it burns your tongue. The clatter echoes through the quiet flat, and you immediately bend down to grab the mug, muttering apologies as you check for chips in the ceramics. ”Shit — sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

“It’s fine,” Kyle says quickly, already kneeling to help. His hand grazes yours, and you both freeze.

You look at him, and his eyes stay firmly trained on the mug. The silence stretches across the apartment until becomes unbearable.

“I just — I wasn’t expecting you to be gone,” you say, voice childishly quiet. “When I woke up.”

Kyle runs a hand through his hair, already mussed from sleep, and still refuses to look at you. ”Didn’t want to wake you.” He sounds just as young as you just did, and your heart does an unusual pitter-patter.

“That’s it?” you ask. “After everything?”

His face falls, and the expression tells you everything you need to know. He’s already halfway gone, leaving you again like he did when you were both 17.

You don’t want to ask. You don’t want to know.

“Do you regret,” you pause, struggling to get the words out. “what we did last night?

Kyle’s head whips to you, eyes panicked. “No,” he says. “It was… Fuck, it was—” He swallows hard like something is lodged in his throat. “This just isn’t something I can do right now.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

His eyes meet yours like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time all morning. “I leave in six weeks.”

“And?”

“And I’ve watched what happens when people try to wait,” he says. “What it does to them. I’ve seen it ruin people and wreck lives. And I care too much about you to let that happen to us. To you.”

Us.

Your chest caves a little at that.

“So you thought it’d be better to fuck me first?” You laugh sardonically. The words come out sharper than intended, and you see the hit land.

Kyle flinches. “That’s not — don’t make it like that. It wasn’t like that.”

You hug yourself, pressing your lips together to hide the wobble in your voice. “Then what was it?”

He doesn’t say anything, sits across from you in silence, and you understand. That knowing the truth would hurt too much. That Kyle is still trying to protect you from all the things that could hurt you in this world.

Only this time it’s from himself.

You nod once, jaw tight. “Got it.”

You turn to leave, and this time, he doesn’t stop you.

♡ ♡ ♡

December 24, 2022 - 10:24 P.M.

Kyle listens to the fire crackle, as cousins, aunts, and uncles trickle into his grandfather’s house. The first Christmas he’s spent with his family in years is a big one, and he briefly wonders how they’re all going to cram into the tiny sitting area.

He pulls the tartan blanket over his cousin sleeping next to him before moving to sit next to his mother. In 29 years, he’s never seen his mother look so tired, so weathered, so worried. He knows that it’s because of him, that it must be impossible to sleep at night, knowing that there’s no guarantee that your son will return to you safely. The chime of laughter coming from the kitchen brings him down from where he feels he’s floating a million miles away. He takes his mother’s hand and runs his thumb gently across her knuckles, grounding himself there.

”How are you doing, mum?” he asks, softly, and she turns to him with bright eyes. Kyle’s mind wanders to what if his dad were still here. Would he still have joined the military? Entered the SAS? Met the 141? Maybe he would have ended up here anyway. But the look on his mother’s face says otherwise.

”I’m just so happy to see you here, Kyle.” Her eyes water up, and Kyle knows instantly what’s not being said. He tries not to think about that day too much, the bullets ricocheting off the helicopter, as the only thing keeping him alive is a fraying rope. It’s become a bit of a legend amongst new recruits.

“Can you believe the sergeant fell out of a helicopter and survived? I heard he took out 5 men while dangling from a rope. No, it was six.”

A ringing starts to fill his ears, and he focuses back in on his mom who’s looking at him with concern again.

”I’m happy to be here, Mum.” He mumbles, and suddenly, he feels exhausted. Being tired isn’t a new feeling - he hasn’t had a real night's sleep since before he joined the military, but this exhaustion feels deeper, like it’s carved into his bones. He’s so used to waking up at six a.m. and running 5 km that the stillness of a peaceful night is almost foreign to him.

“He would’ve been proud of you, y’know?” Kyle jerks up at that, turning to his mom. She doesn’t often talk about his father, doing the small things to keep the memory alive on his birthday and the anniversary of his death, but the pain always seemed too much to bear. “He would always say when you were younger, ‘My boy, he’s going to accomplish great things.’ He just would’ve been so proud.” Her voice wobbles a little before she catches herself.

”I know, Mum,” and the funny thing is he believes that. He knows that he’s accomplished everything his father had dreamt for him, grown into the man his father started molding the second he was born. Yet he still feels like something’s missing.

Kyle hears the door open, and close, wondering who the late addition could be. At this point, every family member has arrived.

“Darling, you mustn’t be upset, but she has no family out here. We’ve had her over every year since she’s moved,” His mother rushes out, worry quickly replacing the melancholy that lined her voice.

Before he can even process what that means, who he could possibly be upset about seeing, he hears a voice he hasn’t heard in over 8 years—

Yours.

A part of you thinks it’s weird that you spend every Christmas with Kyle’s family despite not speaking to him for 8 years.

Your job had brought you to London a few years back, and you were more than happy to spend the day eating Chinese takeout and rewatching old Christmas movies. But your mother found out and gave a call to Kyle’s mother and well, “Family doesn’t let family spend the holidays alone, do they?”

Which is how you find yourself at their Christmas Eve dinner every year.

Kyle never shows up, always on duty or leave, but you find yourself holding your breath every year hoping he’ll walk in.

And you’re disappointed every single time.

You shouldn’t be, you don’t even want to be and you don’t know why you anticipate him being there as if he wasn’t the one who said you two were better off as friends and then slowly stopped responding to your texts and calls.

Your friends all tell you that you’re better off, that Kyle fucked up and doesn’t know what he’s missing. And you try and pretend that you don’t look for him in every guy you see, looking for brown eyes and a protective heart in every Bumble date and one-night stand you meet.

So when Kyle turns around, your breath hitches, shallow and fast, like your body’s bracing for impact.

You thought of this moment for years, the moment where you can yell at him, scream and curse, and cry for breaking your heart. Inflict a fraction of the pain he caused you back onto him, make him feel all the nights that you spent crying, mourning the loss of your best friend.

But what stops you in your tracks is how absolutely exhausted Kyle looks.

He’s still Kyle, but his whiskey-colored eyes are rimmed with dark circles and wrinkle a little more when he smiles. His beard has grown a little more, a rarity for Kyle who has liked to be as clean-shaven as possible since the moment he started growing facial hair.

You had heard about the accident, how he barely survived — and his mom had begged you to give him a call. But every time you reached for the phone, something stopped you.

What do you say to someone when there’s so much that’s been left unsaid?

The door creaks shut behind you, breaking the awkward showdown you’ve found yourself in.

“Darling!” His mother is the first to react, walking over to where you awkwardly hesitate in the door, one step away from bolting. She brings you into a warm embrace, running a comforting hand through your hair.

”I’m so happy you could make it. He won’t say it, but I know he misses you. Still puts up the ornaments you two made in primary school,” she whispers in your ear. Your eyes catch Kyle’s across the at this, and you press your lips together in a firm line. You don’t want to be bitter but if he really did miss you as much as she said, why is he still there — still putting distance between the two of you?

She lets go of you, helping you out of your winter coat, and then a few of Kyle’s younger cousins are dragging you to the kitchen, wanting to gossip about all the things you normally do when you come over, and you forget that once again, Kyle is watching you walk away.

And despite his presence being so loud in the middle of this party, you’re able to continue like you normally do. You laugh and eat roast and mince pies, and even participate in Secret Santa, where you receive an absolutely horrid sweater that will never see the light of day. And it all feels so normal that your heart swells, that if you keep your focus on certain parts of the room, it’s like Kyle isn’t even there.

But whenever your eyes meet, Kyle goes completely still — like something has knocked the breath out of him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just stares like he’s seeing a ghost he thought would never come back to haunt him.

Your stomach churns — it was a bad idea to stay. You should’ve feigned an illness as soon as you saw him there because unhealed wounds are starting to bleed the longer his wide-eyed gaze follows you around the room.

So, you begin to pack up. Walking around from family member to family member to say goodbye, accepting all the kisses on the cheeks and leftovers to eat for the next few days. It’s not until you’re standing by the coat rack to put your jacket on that you shiver from the feeling of a large figure behind you, your body remembering him before your brain can catch up. He’s silent on his feet in a way that can only come from years of military training. He had never been so quiet before.

“Are you leaving already?” he rasps, and your knees almost buckle from hearing his voice for the first time. Your stomach flips like it’s trying to turn yourself inside out.

“Yeah, I need to start driving back now before it gets too late,” you whisper, not wanting to speak too loud as if he’s an apparition that’ll disappear with any quick movements.

“What’s this about you driving home,” Kyle’s mother interrupts, eyes narrowed. You didn’t even realize that she was standing there, but from her crossed arms, you knew that you fucked up.

“It’s only a short drive, Ms. Garrick. Swear, I’ll be home in twenty minutes,” you promise, hoping she won’t beg you to spend the night. Tonight had already been heavy. You spare a glance at Kyle, but his gaze is solely focused on his mom, listening intently to what she’s going to say next.

“But it’s already so late. Why don’t you just spend the night here? You can stay with Kyle, it’ll be just like when you two were kids again,” she beams, and you don’t have the heart to say no.

“Mum,” Kyle protests, already beginning to form an argument but his mother silences him with a wave.

“Really, Kyle? You’re going to make her drive home alone in the dark. I would’ve thought I raised you better than that. Besides it’s just one night,” she dismisses the two of you with such finality you have no choice but to follow Kyle upstairs as he shows you which room he’s staying in.

“I can sleep on the floor- or the couch, give you some space,” and for a moment, you’re tempted to take him up on his offer. But the way he’s slumped, you knew it would be awful to subject him to subpar sleep because of an 8-year grudge.

“It’s fine, Kyle. I’m the one intruding. You take the bed,” you say, and are already grabbing your pillow to head to the door to go back to the couch.

For a moment, it’s just you and Kyle and the ghosts of a hundred sleepovers past — whispered secrets under shared blankets, the safety of knowing he’d always be there

But now there’s an invisible line between you, drawn sharp and painful, and neither of you know how to cross it.

Kyle shifts closer, hesitant, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

You pause in the doorway, pillow clutched awkwardly to your chest. Kyle shifts on his feet, the floorboards creaking beneath him.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low and rough from exhaustion. And suddenly it’s just the two of you, standing in a too-small room with eight years of distance stretching between you.

“Why don’t we just share? My mum would kill me if she found out I made you sleep on the couch.”

“Okay,” you whisper, following Kyle back to the bed, shakily pulling the covers back one by one if anything to delay sleeping next to him again.

He follows your lead, slowly crawling under the bed, back towards where you’d be sleeping. You sigh softly, before following suit, back facing his.

You don’t know how you’re going to sleep tonight, feeling overwhelmed by every shift and movement Kyle makes, the heat of his body next to yours, the careful distance he keeps between the two of you to make sure you don’t touch.

You wait, counting as the seconds turn to minutes in your head. Waiting for him to say something, anything to acknowledge that he has his back turned to what was once the closest person in his life.

It’s all too much, and your throat begins to burn. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to cry.

Then you feel it.

The lightest brush of Kyle’s fingers against your hand, hesitant and trembling, as if asking for permission.

You freeze.

He doesn’t grab, doesn’t force. He just …. waits. His pinky hooked barely against yours, a question hanging between you.

For a second, you want to pull away. You should pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you shift your hand just a little, letting your pinky catch his.

You wait, wondering if his graze was accidental or if he’s going to acknowledge where you two are linked. You feel your stomach twist, and you watch the trees gently sway under the moonlight. You try to calm yourself down and inhale as quietly as possible before exhaling when you just barely hear it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you get hit with a familiar feeling. Of you two sharing a bed before and him whispering those same words.

You feel as if you should turn, and face him to see what he says next, but you are still frozen, petrified that any moment, you’ll wake up to find you’re still in your apartment and Kyle is still a million miles away from you.

“I don’t know why I didn’t call you or talk to you. I - I was 21, and you were the most important person in my life. I, I just couldn’t lose you.” his voice cracks at the end, and he sounds absolutely wrecked at the idea.

“And then I did.” he continues “It was stupid, but I didn’t know how to be your friend after knowing what it’s like to kiss you, to hold you, to be with you. And it fucking killed me, it - it haunted me. And every day we didn’t talk, I didn’t know how to reach out to you. And then you were gone completely.”

You’ve gone completely still. Of all the things, you expected him to say, you didn’t think that would be it.

“Please, just say something, love. Anything.” he pleads, and releases a bone-rattling sigh.

“Kyle,” and you hear your voice tremble. “I was in love with you. And you- you left me.”

As soon as you say the word love, you hear Kyle shift over, and turn to face you, and you know you should follow suit. Turn to face him and brace this reconciliation, but the thought of dealing with his rejection again keeps you in place.

He shifts, moving to grab your hand but pausing. The burning pressure behind your eyes is throbbing, and you have no doubt that you’re fully crying at this point. You feel Kyle’s stare at your back, and you crawl into yourself more, leaving only your hand outstretched for him to still anchor onto.

"That day," Kyle starts, voice cracking a little, "the one where I fell out of the helicopter..." He swallows hard. "The first thing I thought of was you.”

You suck in a shaky breath, clutching the blanket tighter.

"I thought about—" His voice catches. He scrubs a hand over his face like he's trying to pull the words out by force. "I thought about how if this was it, if I was gonna die, you'd think... you'd think I didn’t love you.”

You’re certain that the entire house could hear the sob you let out at that. Without even realizing it, you’ve turned over to him, and Kyle looks just as devastated as you do.

Kyle’s eyes are red-rimmed, his mouth pressed tight like he’s holding back everything at once. He starts to reach for you, then pulls back, and fists the sheets instead.

"I wanted to call you," he says hoarsely. "A thousand times. I just—" He laughs once, brokenly. "I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know what to say to make it better."

You stare at him, blinking hard, heart hammering against your ribs.

"I just..." His voice goes nearly silent. "I missed you so much, love."

He lets the silence stretch between you. A lifetime of things unsaid crowding the room.

"I'm sorry," he says again, almost inaudible. "For all of it."

You don’t say anything, close your eyes for just a moment to process what was just said to you. Kyle continues to breathe shakily, closing his eyes as well.

He’s thrown out his lifeline, laid every card on the table, and you feel your heart break — for all the words unsaid, for all the time missed.

You tentatively grab his hand, intertwining your fingers together fully.

Kyle chokes on a sob, shifting closer so your foreheads touch, closing his eyes to breathe you in, holding tight to the fact that you’re just there, close and in his arms once again.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and you two stay like that, fingers intertwined as you fall asleep.

♡ ♡ ♡

October 12, 2024 -  1:28 A.M.

Kyle mentally runs through the wedding planner’s checklist to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid, like tripping on an untied shoelace and face-planting down the aisle.

He glances down at the daisy chain wrapped around his wrist, something you had woven for him the day before, tucking it into his palm with a kiss to the cheek before vanishing behind closed doors until today.

It took time to get here. To rebuild the foundation, and Kyle wishes he could say it was easy. That things simply slid back into the place the way they used to when you were kids.

He took the time to learn you again, the woman you’d become in those eight years, no longer just the girl who climbed over his fence or the teenager who spun with him under disco lights.

And the more he found, the more he fell.

Nobody was surprised when you finally announced that the two of you were dating. Both your mums claimed they knew all along. Kyle suspects they did.

Then the violins start.

Everyone stands.

And Kyle has to remind himself how to breathe.

Your silhouette appears at the end of the aisle, and his heart pulls so tight it aches. You glow, so soft and radiant in white, and walking arm in arm with your father. And suddenly he’s seven years old again, dressed in his favorite Easter outfit, as a circle of stuffed animals bear witness to your first “wedding.”

The memory clings to him now, tugging at his ribs like a second heartbeat.

You catch his eye, and he smiles widely.

You smile back even brighter.

You take your time crossing the aisle, careful with every step, the train of your dress sweeping heavy behind you.

After Christmas Eve, everything shifted. Kyle called every day, texted when he could, and reached out in whatever way to let you know he was thinking of you. And you, despite everything, met him there, refusing to run and instead letting him show up.

After what feels like an hour, you finally make it to the front of the alter, your father kissing your cheek before handing you off and you step in front of Kyle.

“Hi,” he whispers. His cheeks flush pink, and suddenly you see the six-year-old boy you met all those years ago, with red skin and scraped knees, and honeycomb-colored eyes that you secretly hope your kids get.

“Hi,” you whisper back, sounding so giddy to your own ears. If anyone were to look at you, you’re sure you're glowing with love as you look at the man who is about to be yours forever.

You hate to admit it, but the ceremony blurs by you until it’s time for your vows, and Kyle is shakily unfolding a piece of paper.

“The day we met, I remember I was so amazed that I could be in a place so bright compared to rainy London.” The audience laughs lightly at that, as the rain drums steadily against the chapel roof above, like London itself is blessing your vow.

“And then you came along, somehow making everything brighter. I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment everything changed.

You’ve been in my life so long, I don’t remember a version of myself without you in it. You’ve seen me through every season —every good bit, every broken bit — and you never stopped showing up. So today, I’m promising to do the same. To show up. To love you properly.

You’ve always been my home. And I’m so bloody lucky I get to spend the rest of my life coming back to you.”

You can’t hide your tears if you try, and you hope that the officiant finally says you can kiss the bride by the time you lunge toward Kyle and pull him towards you. Luckily, Kyle is just as eager and he kisses you like he’s waited half his life for this moment, the audience laughing as Kyle flips off Johnny’s suggestive coughing.

The hotel is quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes after hours of laughter and champagne and dancing until your feet ache. You’re still in your dress, the zipper half-undone, your lipstick mostly gone, when Kyle carries you through the doorway of your honeymoon suite.

It’s calm, the way you know he is, arms around your waist, forehead pressed to yours, fists balling the fabric of your dress like he can’t bear to let go. Like he might go another decade without you again.

He sets you down gently on the bed, and for a long moment, neither of you moves. You stare at one another, drinking each other in. You know every line of his face, could sketch a portrait blindfolded and backwards, but tonight he looks new. Lit from within.

In love.

“Come here,” you whisper, voice breathless with happiness, and Kyle follows the sound like a prayer. His lip finds yours, and he kisses you slow, deep, and steady. Taking his time to permanently cement this moment.

He unzips your dress like he’s unwrapping something sacred, fingertips dragging over your skin like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. You tug at his shirt with clumsy hands, and he chuckles in disbelief into your mouth, letting you pull it over his head.

“What?” You ask, smiling a little breathlessly at him, and he runs his thumb across your cheek.

“I just can’t believe it’s you,” he says, awe in his eyes and in his voice. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, moving down to your shoulder, your ribs.

You don’t have a clever reply. All you can do is kiss him, slow and deep, like saying me too without words. Your hands cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the slight curve of his smile, and you think about how you’ll always get to kiss him like this.

When he finally moves between your legs, it’s patient, worshipful. His hands fit perfectly against your hips, like he was made to hold them, and you wrap your legs around him instinctively, already breathless from the weight of him against you.

“Sill okay?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Always,” you whisper back, and he slides into you with a groan so soft and reverent it nearly breaks your heart.

“I love you,” he whispers against your mouth, pulling you in for a deep kiss.

There’s no rush, no teasing, just him rocking into you slow and sweet. His hands lace yours again like he did all those years ago, and he kisses you like he’s trying to tell you something he can’t put into words. Like saying I love you isn’t enough so he has to show it with his body.

You cry a little when you come. It’s embarrassing and messy and overwhelming and Kyle just holds you tighter, kisses your cheeks, tells you how good you’re doing, how beautiful you are. He follows soon after, soft curses pressed to your throat, hips stuttering as he falls apart with you.

You stay like that for a long time, just holding one another. Breathing each other in.

“I love you,” you whisper, tracing a light thumb over his cheek as he smiles at you.

“Forever and always,” he whispers back and kisses the inside of your wrist.

You smile against him as sleep pulls you both under.

Like gravity.

Well, that only sounds like one person he knows. His head thumps back against the wall before bringing out his grappling hook.  

What could it be now? 

He makes a bet with himself, no training tomorrow if you stole anything over $100K, just to keep himself amused as he swings from building to building. 

He wonders what Selina would think, if she knew about the stunts you pulled to get him to look his way. 

“C’mon, sweetheart, I was voted Bludhaven’s sexiest vigilante three years in a row. What do you even see in him, anyways?” is what Jason is greeted with. Dick’s smile is playful as you stare at him blankly, arms crossed while you watch him casually toss his escrima stick. 

“Not interested,” you reply, and Dick gasps, holding his heart like he’s gotten stabbed. “Where is Red Hood anyways?”

“Don’t worry. Your boyfriend said he was on the way,” Dick’s tone is mocking, dripping with teasing and sarcasm and Jason just knows this is going to somehow make its way back to Bruce. 

“Wing,”he interrupts and both your heads turn. Jason knows he’s intimidating, knows that most people shit themselves and run far in the opposite direction when they hear him coming. 

He never understood why you always looked so relaxed when he came. 

“Get him to leave. He hasn’t shut up since he’s gotten here,” you mutter, stalking over to him and Dick cackles. 

“God, you two are perfect for each other. It makes sense,” he says and Jason fights the urge to shove one of his escrima sticks down his throat. 

“What are you doing?” he asks softly, looking down at the feline figure in front of him. He’s punched with a memory of the day you two first met, barely teenagers facing off against each other in a similar fashion. 

You shrug, lips turning up into a dangerous smirk. “I thought we had an agreement. I steal something, you show up.”

“You’re not the only criminal who wants my attention.” It’s true. Black Mask has been popping up around Gotham more frequently, and even now, Jason is pulled to follow the leads he’s been given instead of standing in front of you. 

You hum, considering his statement. 

“What if I’m the only one who deserves it?” you ask. 

“I can’t keep chasing after you over petty crimes.”

“This is petty?” you smile and from where, he swears he doesn’t know, you pull out a diamond ring and toss it to him. 

Jason registers Dick’s wheezy laughter behind him, and he sighs as he takes a look at the very large engagement ring. 

“Where did you get this?” he asks. He knows this ring, had seen it hanging off the left hand of some Gotham socialite at the last gala Wayne foundations had hosted. And now it’s in his hand, glittering in the moonlight. 

You smile, getting ready to jump off the ledge into the night. “I thought you didn’t have time for petty crimes?”

Jason watches you disappear, there one moment and gone the next before turning to face Dick. 

“Fuck you,” he says, and Dick cackles again. 

“I didn’t do anything!” He holds one hand up while holding onto his ribs from laughing too hard. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Dick asks, and for a moment, he’s sincere. Older brother concern coming out of him in waves. 

“Always do,” Jason responds and he takes another look at the ring in his gloved hand. He pockets it, making a note to give it back to its rightful owner before looking at where Dick is gleaming. 

“One more word, and I’m shoving you off this roof.” 

Dick hums, giving a mock salute. 

“Black Cat and Red Hood sitting in a tree, K-I-S - Oomph.” 

Dick’s taunt is cut off by his own screams of delight as he falls 81 stories down, grappling hook in hand.