#starwovenwrites

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.

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?”

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. 

“Swear tae god,I’m gonna puke,” Soap whines, and you subtly flip off the camera you know he’s watching through.

“Thanks, cap’. Was tempted to ask Soap to toss a grenade and do us all a favor,” he says.

“Still time,” Soap responds.

“You were the one who said that we were the most believable couple for this op,” you snap, and Soap snickers.

“Aye, wouldn’t’ve picked you two if I knew it mean’t sufferin’ through this. Thought Kyle had more game than that,” he responds.

“We’re not flirting,” you say just as Kyle snaps “Speak for yourself, I pull just fine.” 

“Soap, you might be right that Kyle needs the practice,” Price murmurs, and you mutter a slight ‘kill me now’ under your breath. 

“I don’t need practice,” he grumbles, “And our target just exited the ballroom. Everyone needs to get into positions.”

2.

“What are you wearing?” his voice crackles through the speaker, and you giggle.

“Your shirt, the jersey you wear during football games and a pair of shorts,” he hums in response.

“Darling, aren’t you going to ask what i’m wearing?” He asks after a beat of silence.

“Are you trying to get me to have phone sex with right now?” you raise a brow, knowing he’d laugh at your expression

“Is it working?” he says and you laugh fully at that.

“C’mon love, it’s been weeks since I left and I miss you,” his voice turns gravely at the end and you feel a shiver run up your spine.

You bring the phone closer just as he murmurs, “Can’t get off on just my thoughts anymore. Need the real thing.”

“Fine,” and you play along, feeling a lot like a high schooler on the phone with her boyfriend. “What would you do if you were here right now?”

3.

“Do you and Soap have something you need to tell me?” You turn to where you’re folding t-shirts in your shared bedroom, and see him leaning up against the door, smirking.

“Why would we have anything to tell you?” you turn back to laundry, and he walks over to you, tugging slightly on the back of the hoodie that you’re wearing.

“Your hoodie says Mactavish on it,” he whispers, and you immediately try to turn your head 180 degrees to see what he’s talking about. 

“What the hell?” You finally manage to twist the hoodie around to find out he’s right — you’re baring the name of his teammate across his back. You move to take it off. “Swear, I just grabbed it out of the laundry. It looked like one of yours!”

He pouts, not even believable with the way he’s unable to contain his giggles.

“My own girl and teammate, conspiring behind my back. Oh, the betrayal” he sighs like some sort of shakespearean heroine, and you roll your eyes.

“Why is his hoodie even in our laundry?” you ask, throwing it at his chest, and he stops laughing, ears flushing red.

“I might’ve grabbed it during our last op. We’re on the go so much that I grab a fresh shirt without checking.” You stare at him for a long moment.

“And you’re judging me?” You begin to laugh and he laughs too.

“It’s different, darling.”

“It’s really not.” 4.

“Did the doctors say how long it’s going to be?” you fluff the pillow where he’s laying, and he closes his eyes.

“Six months, could be up to a year,” he groans as he tries to move his arm to grab the cup of tea next to him. Before he can lift it too much, you’re already there, holding it out to him. He murmurs a thanks, gripping the mug tightly.

“Well, that’s not too bad. With physio, you’ll be back to normal in no time.” You continue to adjust his blankets, and Kyle can feel his temper rising, tries to quell the anger building his chest. “We can get you on a schedule for showers and moving you. Soap and Ghost already said they would help out with dinners, and Price could-”

“Will you fucking shut up for two seconds?” He snaps, and you flinch. He’s never raised his voice at you in the two years of dating, and you recoil slightly, holding on to the blanket.

“I’m - I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean it,” he whispers as you simply wave it off, trying to hide the tears welling in your eyes.

“It’s okay,” your voice wobbles, and he shuts his eyes tight. “I know this is stressful for you and all that. I’m going to go check on dinner.”

You disappear into the kitchen, and he sits, feeling useless as he can barely sit up from the couch you have him set up on. He hates feeling out of control from his own body, for so long feeling so in sync with the machine he’s built since joining the royal military.

All to be destroyed from a car wreck and a labral tear.

And here he was snapping at the one person who’s stuck by his side since he woke up in the hospital three days ago.

He tries not to make a noise, not to groan as he moves himself over to you, but he can’t help the flashing white pain he feels as he moves his body.

“Honey, I can help you,” and there you are. Back by his side in two seconds, trying to get him up from the couch.

“I’m so sorry,” he breaks. “I just, I feel so useless. What do I do if I’m not fighting?”