#todd stevens fluff

The room was a time capsule of academia–walls lined with sagging bookshelves crammed with faded spines of statistics tomes and dog-eared journals, the faint aroma of stale coffee mingling with the earthy, almost astringent scent of old paper and the subtle cling of chalk dust that seemed to envelop every surface. A brass desk lamp–rusted from years of use–casted a warm, amber light over the chaos of his desk: stacks of red-inked exams, a half-forgotten mug of coffee that had been sitting there long enough for it to look like a science experiment, and a calendar marked with impending deadlines that seemed to have been crossed off and rewritten. Outside the narrow, rain-spattered window, the university quad blurred into a grey haze, autumn leaves swirling in the wind like confetti from a failed celebration, their wet slap against the glass punctuating the tension that was rising inside.

Todd froze mid-pace, his polished oxfords grinding to a halt on the threadbare Persian rug that muffled his steps but couldn’t dampen the storm raging within him. His light brown hair–that was typically swept back and neat–now hung in disarray over his forehead, strands clinging slightly from the dampness of the drizzle he had braved to get here. His blue eyes–sharp, almost crystalline, like shards of sky reflected in a frozen lake–flashed with a potent mix of disbelief and indignation as he pivoted to face the professor. His angular jaw clenched, highlighting the stubble that shadowed his cheeks, a rare sign of neglect in his otherwise impeccable routine. Dressed in his signature blend of fraternity poise and business-major ambition–a well-fitted blue dress shirt splattered with raindrops, a dark red tie with a dotted white pattern that was now slightly askew from his agitated gestures, and a pair of black tailored dress pants that showed off his long legs–the ensemble screamed of someone who strived for perfection in every facet of life. But perfection had eluded him this time, and the sting of it burned like acid in his veins, which only drove him even further to be here instead of being at the fraternity meeting he was due to show up to.

He had sacrificed everything for this midterm–his fall break evaporated in a haze of isolation at the KNA house, where the thump of bass from downstairs parties had been his only companion while he hunched over his desk, eyes bleary from the glare of his laptop screen. Pot after pot of scalding black coffee had scorched his throat, fueling marathon sessions where he went over practice questions, online tests, and YouTube tutorials on the sections he was struggling with until the formulas were dancing mockingly in his dreams. He wasn’t used to failure; he was the golden boy, the KNA president who led by example, acing classes, talking himself and his fellow brothers out of any issues staff threw at them, and of course keeping up the GPA that kept him in this powerful position. Excellence wasn’t optional–it was part of his identity, woven into every late-night study grind and every calculated social move.

And now, that glaring 42% on his exam paper, crumpled in his fist like a betrayal from his own mind, threatened to unravel it all. The red ink seemed to pulse under his grip, a vivid reminder that even his best efforts could crumble and destroy him. Begging here, in this dim den of defeat, made his skin crawl even more and only made him feel worse than the failure, but he needed to fight, he needed to get what he needed to improve or else he felt like his chest was going to cave in on itself.

“I understand, sir,” Todd replied, his voice steady but threaded with an unyielding edge, like he was trying to convey that he wasn’t going to give up so easily. He planted his feet wider, broadening his shoulders as if to physically assert himself, “But there has to be something you can do to help me out. I need this mark up before the end of the semester, and because you took two weeks to give these results back, I’m now in a time crunch to try and find someone who can help me…I know this may come off as entitled, but I think you should empathize with the frustration I’m feeling at the moment.” Professor Davis snorted softly, adjusting his glasses with a flick of his finger, the lenses catching the lamplight and flashing like a warning signal. The deep bags under his eyes–purplish shadows etched from years of midnight grading and the relentless grind of tenure–crinkled as he narrowed his gaze.

”Empathize? Mr.Stevens, empathy won’t rewrite your answers or magically boost your understanding of variance. You’re not the first overachiever to crash and burn on my exams, and you won’t be the last. I’ve got a line out the door of students just like you–fraternity hotshots, dean’s listers, all convinced they’re special cases, and that they deserve my guidance. I am not one to allow people to cruise through my course without earning it…So figure it out on your own; that’s what adulthood is about.” Todd’s eyes darkened from the comment, like the anger was pooling and evaporating the shimmering colour, he was tempted to slam his hands on the desk in front of him, to snap and argue and yell, but he knew it wouldn’t help his case. He could feel his heart thumping in his head, the pulse almost blurring his vision from the pace, as he drew his bottom lip between his teeth, biting the dry skin, taking a deep breath. It was obvious that this was what Professor Davis wanted, to push and frustrate until his opponent snapped and he would have an excuse to kick them out, but Todd didn’t relent, he couldn’t, and he wasn’t going to even if it would’ve been the easiest option.

”With all due respect, Professor, this isn’t about being special; it’s about fairness. I didn’t just wing this–I studied, attended class, took notes, sacrificed my break, and pushed myself to the limit because I don’t settle for mediocrity. My GPA isn’t just numbers to me, it’s what I need to keep all my doors open, and now it’s dropped and you’re not even going to acknowledge that you couldn’t even get the grades back in a normal time frame to give your students a chance to recover. You have to have something to get this grade up–extra credit, a retake…Anyting. You owe us that much for designing an exam that literally half the class bombed.” Professor Davis leaned back, the chair groaning in protest, his thin lips twisting into a wry smile that didn’t reach his tired eyes. He steepled his fingers, nails tapping rhythmically against each other, the sound sharp in the confined space.

”Son, I owe you an education, not a bailout. Need I remind you that the other half of the class passed…And extra credit is for participation, not for damage control. Do you want to make a mockery of the educational process? Every student in here today has claimed the same–hours poured in, egos bruised…Boo hoo…Go to the tutoring center; join a study group…” Todd ran a hand through his hair again, the strands soft yet tangled under his fingers. Heat flushed his cheeks, and the tie around his neck felt tighter, constricting like the walls that were closing in around him.

”Study groups are chaotic. I need targeted, efficient help. I’m not asking for handouts; I’m asking for a fighting chance. You know my record–I’m not some slacker.” The professor rubbed his temples, the skin papery under his touch, exhaling a long, defeated breath that fogged his glasses slightly. The rain outside intensified, a relentless panting against the window that mirrored the back-and-forth barrage between student and educator. His shoulders sagged, the weight of the day–and perhaps a grudging respect for Todd’s tenacity–wearing him down.

”Fine…There’s one student who might help–she’s a peer tutor sometimes, depending on where we are in the semester, she holds the highest average in the class…Name’s Y/N L/N. But that’s all you’re going to get from me; you’re on your own finding her. Consider it a lesson in resourcefulness.” Todd’s posture eased slightly, a flicker of triumph cutting through the tension, though his eyes remained vigilant. He nodded sharply, pocketing the mental note like a hard-won trophy, the name etching itself into his mind.

”Y/N L/N. Got it. Thank you, sir–I’ll make it count.” He stated, straightening his tie with a precise tug, the silk smooth against the heated, clammy skin of his hands, before grabbing his jacket off the chair he had thrown it on and strode out, the door clicking shut behind him loudly, like a seal on one of the most frustration conversations he had experienced in a while.

——————

Finding you proved to be far more arduous than Todd had anticipated, a vexing puzzle that gnawed at his already frayed nerves like an insistent itch he couldn’t scratch. The moment he stepped out of Professor Davis’s office and left the building completely, he yanked his phone from his jacket pocket with a swift, almost desperate motion. The cool, slick glass of the screen met his thumb, still slightly warm from the hour of usage while he was waiting for office hours to commence, and he tapped your name into the google search bar, his fingers flying across the virtual keys with the precision of someone who might’ve typed your name multiple times.

Rain continued to drizzle from the overcast sky, fat droplets splattering against his shoulders and beading the scratchy fabric of his jacket, soaking it with a subtle chill that seeped through to his shirt, mirroring the frustration in his chest. The campus paths were slick underfoot, puddles reflecting the grey gloom overhead, and the air carried the earthy petrichor of wet leaves and damp, dying grass, mixed with soil, a scent that usually invigorated him but now only amplified his impatience.

The search yielded nothing substantial–no profiles, no traces of a digital footprint that most people his age left scattered across the web like breadcrumbs. You were a ghost in the machine, absent from Instagram, Twitter, and even the relics of MySpace or an outdated Facebook page from your high school days. It was as if you had meticulously erased yourself from every online database, a deliberate act of invisibility that struck him as both archaic and infuriating. Todd let out a frustrated sigh, the sound escaping his lips in a visible puff of breath against the chilly autumn air, his eyes narrowing at the screen as he paused under the shelter of a towering oak tree, its branches heavy with rain-soaked leaves that dripped sporadically onto the top of his head.

Of course, he thought bitterly, the one person who could salvage his crumbling grade had to be a recluse, some hermetic scholar buried in books rather than the vibrant chaos of campus life. Fleeting thoughts swirled in his mind like the leaves at his feet: how could anyone in this hyper-connected era shun social media entirely? No selfies, no status updates, no networked connections to leverage or friendships? And worse, he was about to entangle himself with someone who likely possessed zero social awareness, a wallflower who’d probably stammer through explanations and avoid eye contact, making their sessions an exercise in awkward endurance rather than one of efficient learning.

But surrendering to these answers wasn’t in his vocabulary; he clicked over to the images tab, his thumb scrolling downward with determined flicks, the screen’s glow casting a pale blue hue on his rain-dampened face. He was hunting for any crumb, any visual clue that would confirm your existence at Sumpter University and point him toward your whereabouts.

Rows of thumbnails blurred past–irrelevant faces, unrelated articles–until he spotted mentions of your name on the university’s Dean’s List posting, semester after semester, a testament to your academic prowess. There were even a few award-winning essays linked to scholarly sites, dense with citations and analytical depth, showcasing a mind sharp enough to dissect complex theories with surgical precision–it was evident you were no business major. You were undeniably successful, a high-achiever whose accolades gleamed like polished trophies in the digital ether. If you were a guy, Todd would be recruiting you for KNA in a heartbeat–someone with that drive would thrive in the fraternity’s competitive ecosystem, networking their way to power. Yet here you were, a woman whose potential seemed squandered by your invisibility…Even the absence of a LinkedIn profile baffled him, especially in a job market where presenting achievements in one centralized hub could mean the difference between landing a coveted interview and languishing in obscurity. From his own experience–polishing his profile with internships, endorsements from professors, and a meticulously curated feed of professional milestones–he knew how vital that visibility was.

The fruitless hunt drained him, and as he trudged back to the KNA house, with the rain pattering against him, he moved in a faze, his mind looping through dead ends. The house looked like a grand Victorian structure with columns and a wraparound porch, its windows aglow with warm light against the darkening sky, the faint thrum of music and laughter spilling out like an invitation he wasn’t in the mood to accept. He greeted his frat brothers with absent nods and clipped small talk–

“Hey, man, how’d the prof meeting go?” One asked, nudging him with a beer-scented breath emitting from his mouth.

”Rough, but handling it,” Todd replied, forcing a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he navigated the crowded living room, the air thick with the mingled scents of pizza grease, spilled alcohol, something undeniably sticky and sweet–like they had dropped a soft drink on the floor–and the underlying musk of too many young men in one space. It felt like a relief when he escaped upstairs, locking his bedroom door with a decisive click that shut out the noise.

He shed his jacket, throwing it down onto his desk chair, before collapsing onto his bed, the expensive cooling memory foam mattress absorbing the impact, molding to the contours of his body like a custom embrace that eased the tension in his shoulders and back. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his phone screen as he shifted up and propped himself against the headboard. Shadows danced on the walls, adorned with framed KNA memorabilia and motivational posters.

Resuming his search, he delved deeper into the images tab, his eyes straining against the bright display in the otherwise darkened space.

Then, amidst the sea of irrelevant visuals, he struck gold: a group photo from what appeared to be some sort of event, everyone clad in matching burnt orange sweaters, the fabric looking soft and slightly faded, emblazoned with “Sumpter Faith Group” in bold white script across the chests. The image captured a cluster of smiling students posed on a grassy lawn under a clear blue sky, perhaps from a spring retreat or charity event, their faces flushed with camaraderie. The caption beneath listed names from left to right, and he scoured through it quickly, until finally there it was–your name, slotted in the middle row.

Todd couldn’t suppress a low, guttural ‘ugh’ that rumbled from his throat, a sound of exasperated resignation that hung in the quiet room like a deflated balloon. In the photo, you offered the camera a closed-mouth smile, modest and reserved, your eyes crinkling slightly at the corners with what seemed like genuine but subdued warmth. Your arms were draped causally over the shoulders of the two guys flanking you–geeky types with awkward postures, earnest grins and toothy smiles, like this was the first time being touched by a woman–they were faces Todd recognized vaguely from past pledge rushes, perhaps washout or peripheral hangers-on he’d dismissed as not quite KNA material. The whole scene screamed wholesome piety, a snapshot of faith-fueled fellowship that made his stomach twist.

”A bible thumper,” He murmured to himself, the words tasting sour on his tongue, laced with a mix of annoyance and reluctant amusement. It shouldn’t have surprised him; Oklahoma was rife with them, a state where church steeples dotted the landscape like exclamation points, and faith was as ingrained as the red dirt soil. Even his own parents fell into that statistic, devout attendees of Sunday services, their home filled with crucifixes and well-thumbed Bibles that had shaped his early years.

Todd harboured no outright disdain for those with religious beliefs–live and let live, as far as he was concerned–but things got prickly when faith was thrusted upon him, an unwelcome echo of his childhood dragged to mass every weekend, the pew hard and unforgiving under his fidgeting young body, the incense tick in his nostrils as he was compelled to kneel and reflect on the week’s “sins,” repenting to wash away the guilt that felt imposed rather than earned.

He’d been a believer once, clinging to the rituals with wide-eyed sincerity, until adolescence brought clarity: there were too many experiences, too many freedoms he was missing out on, stifled by doctrines that no longer fit the current social climates. Now, it felt like some cosmic jest, a higher power wielding a baseball bat of irony, dangling the key to his academic redemption in the form of a faith-group devotee. Was this divine payback for his lapsed ways?

A heavy sigh escaped him, his chest deflating as he locked the phone with a click, the screen fading to black and plunging the room into deeper shadow. He tossed the device onto the mattress beside him, where it landed with a soft bounce, and let his head fall back onto the pillow, the cool fabric cradling his neck as he stared at the ceiling’s textured patterns, which were barely visible in the dark. Fleeting notions flitted through his mind–that perhaps failure was survivable, a dent in his armour he could buff out elsewhere, or that he could scour the class for another tutor, someone who wouldn’t give him flashbacks to when he was younger. But reality hit him: you had the highest average, and if there had been a viable alternative, Davis would have offered it up. You were his only shot.

So, with a resolved exhale that stirred the air around him, he settled on tracking you down in person the next day, his mind already mapping out the campus hotspots–libraries, lecture halls, perhaps even that faith group’s meeting spot–where a reclusive overachiever like you might surface.

——————

Todd awoke the next morning like a man on a mission, the insistent beep of his alarm slicing through the hazy veil of sleep, pulling him upright with a surge of purpose that chased away the lingering fog of exhaustion. The room was bathed in the soft, diffused light of early dawn seeping through the cracks in his blinds, creating a pale glow over the scattered remnants of last night’s frustration–his discarded jacket still draped over the chair, the phone charger twisted up around his phone and nightstand like a little booby trap. The air felt crisp and cool against his bare skin, carrying the faint, residual warmth of his body heat trapped under the sheets, a comforting contrast to the chill that awaited outside. Todd swung his legs over the bed’s edge, the mattress springing back with a subtle rebound, and padded to the bathroom, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight.

His shower was a brisk ritual, steam rising in lazy curls as hot water pounded against his freckled splattered back, loosening his muscles with rhythmic pressure that bordered on therapeutic. Droplets traced fiery paths down his chest and arms, the scent of his cedar-infused body wash filling the enclosed space, invigorating and grounding him in the moment, shaking the sleep off him completely. He shaved with swift, precise strokes, the razor’s edge gliding over his jawline, erasing the shadow of stubble and leaving his skin smooth, tinged with the cool sting of aftershave that burned his nostrils for a few seconds when he applied it.

Combing his hair back, he ensured it laid slick and disciplined, each strand tamed into place with a light pomade that left a slight sheen. Dressing was equally deliberate: a plain white t-shirt that clung softly to his torso, the cotton fresh and crisp against his skin; black jeans that hugged his legs with comfortable restraint, the denim whispering as he moved; and well-worn sneakers that matched perfectly, ideal for a day free of obligations. He shrugged into his jacket, the zippers teeth meshing with a satisfying rasp, the fabric still faintly damp from yesterday but warming quickly against his body heat. Slinging his army green messenger bag over one shoulder–the strap digging slightly into his flesh with the weight of books–he slipped out of the house before the first groans of awakening brothers could detain him, the front door clicking shut with a muffled finality that sealed his solitude for the day.

The weather had devolved into a tempestuous fury overnight, the once-gentle patter of rain now a relentless torrent hammering down from leaden skies, wind whipping through the trees with a low howl that sent sodden leaves skittering across the paths like fleeing shadows. Water cascaded in sheets, soaking the ground into a slick, reflective mire, the air heavy with the raw bite of ozone and saturated earth, each inhale sharp and laced with the metallic tang of an impending thunderstorm. Todd hunched forward, his sneakers splashing through deepening puddles that sent icy sprays up his calves, chilling his skin through the denim. He opted for the nearest covering: one of the campus’s labyrinthine libraries, a mere five-minute slog from the KNA house, its imposing stone facade looming like a bastion against the deluge. It was on his list of options where he would find you so it was a good place to start.

Swinging open the heavy oak doors, he was greeted by a rush of heated air that enveloped him like a welcoming embrace, the sudden shift from cold to warmth pricking his rain-flushed cheeks and drawing a sigh of relief from his lips. He paused in the grand foyer, running his fingers through his sodden hair, squeezing out rivulets of water that trickled down his neck in cool trails, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

His eyes scanned the directory plaque, its brass surface etched with floor plans under the soft glow of pendant lights, confirming the study rooms’ seclusion on the upper echelons–the seventh, eighth, and ninth floors, realms of hushed isolation. Forgoing the elevator’s mechanical hum, he ducked into the stairwell, the enclosed space echoing with the rhythmic thud of his footsteps as he ascended, skipping steps in twos and threes, his breath deepening into a steady cadence that matched the burn building in his thighs. He mentally tallied the floors–six…Five…Four–the metallic tang of the handrail cool under his pal, the air growing slightly mustier with each level, infused with the faint scent of old varnish.

Reaching the seventh floor, he eased the metal door open with a subdued groan of hinges, slipping into a vast expanse that felt like stepping into a sacred vault. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the dimness, laden with archives and volumes bound in leather and cloth, their spines faded to muted hues under layers of dust, the air thick with the rich, nostalgic perfume of aged paper, ink, and the slight undernote of wood polish.

This was uncharted territory for Todd; he’d never gone beyond the fifth floor’s cacophony of conference rooms, where laughter and debates mingled freely. Here, the quietude was absolute, a profound stillness that pressed against his eardrums like a physical weight, broken only by the distant whir of an air vent and the occasional creak of settling shelves–it was as if he’d been thrown into a bizarro world, a parallel dimension where the library’s essence distilled to pure, undiluted scholarship, devoid of the social veneer below.

The floor laid deserted, the early hour deterring even the most ardent academics, the golden light of morning filtering through tall, arched windows in slanted beams that illuminated motes of dust dancing lazily in the air. Undaunted, Todd ventured along the outer perimeter, where study rooms encircled the shelves like glass-walled sanctuaries, enclosures that invited voyeuristic glimpses into private realms–unless the occupants were privy of the people lurking beyond and slid the curtains closed. The first few stood vacant, doors propped slightly ajar like open invitations, tables pristine and chairs aligned with military precision, the faint scent of lemon cleaner lingering from the overnight janitorial rounds that were made. Then, his gaze alighted on you, and a profound wave of relief washed over him, easing the taut coil in his chest–he’d found you astonishingly fast, a stroke of luck amid his string of misfortunes.

Instinctively, he ducked behind a nearby shelf, the cool, slightly gritty edge of the wood pressing into his collarbone as he peered through the gaps, his breath shallow as if he was trying to avoid detection, even though the study rooms themselves were soundproof. You paced the confines of your space with absorbed intensity, a solitary figure in a bubble of focus, murmuring to yourself in fragmented whispers–perhaps rehearsing something or debating your steps–while idly sucking on the end of a large sour key, plucked from a sizable container you’d brought as your personal incentive system.

Your attire spoke of causal seclusion: black track shorts that draped baggy over your hips and thighs, the soft fabric swishing with each pivot and stride, hinting at freedom of movement; paired with a cropped blue half-zip hoodie that billowed loosely, its hem riding up teasingly whenever you extended an arm to the whiteboard, exposing fleeting slivers of the smooth, inviting dip at the small of your back, your skin glowing faintly under the room’s fluorescent hum. Your gaze flicked over to your laptop screen, angled on the cluttered table amid a sprawl of colour-coded notes, highlighter uncapped and at the ready, and a half-empty water bottle that was condensing with dew.

Returning to the whiteboard, you rose onto your tiptoes, your calves tautening in a graceful arch to maintain the alignment of your script. From Todd’s vantage, the markings were enigmatic–a labyrinth of formulas or perhaps a detailed diagram, loops of symbols intertwining with arrows and annotations that bespoke a discipline far afield from statistics, maybe biochemistry or engineering schematics, he didn’t know for sure. You halted abruptly, retreating a step with a tilt of your head, slipping the dampened end of the sour key back between your lips, cheeks concealing as you drew on it contemplatively. Todd imagined he could see the intricate machinery of your mind at work, your eyes glazing slightly as they roved over your handwriting, processing, analyzing, before your extracted the candy from your mouth, and surged forward again, drawing a bold underline beneath the mysterious question and appending fresh insights below, the marker flowing freely against the board.

Seizing this distraction, Todd advanced in a series of fluid, hushed strides, his pulse quickening with a mix of adrenaline and anticipation. He raked his fingers through his hair once more, taming any errant curls born of the rain, ensuring he appeared composed, if not entirely polished. Grasping the handle–astonished to find it yielded without resistance–he thrusted through the threshold, the door swinging inward with a gentle displacement of air that carried the room’s essence outward.

In an instant, Todd’s senses were besieged by a confectionery onslaught: the cloyingly sweet, artificially fruity bouquet of the sour keys, a vibrant fusion of granulated sugar and biting citric acid that danced in the air like an edible fog, seamlessly blending with a deeper, more seductive layer–a juicy, realistic black cherry perfume that saturated the space, clinging to fabrics and surfaces, infiltrating his nostrils and settling on his palate like a forbidden nectar that triumphed the toxic smell of the whiteboard marker you were using.

The metallic snick of the handle and the door’s intrusion propelled you into a startled leap, a soft yelp escaping as you pivoted to confront him, the sour key tumbling slightly in your grasp. Up close, the detailed sharpened: your tongue bowed a delicate crimson tint from the candy’s pigments, a glossy sheen that accentuated their fullness; your eyes flared wide expanding in the shock of interruption, lashes framing a gaze that shifted from alarm to dawning realization. For a suspended moment, words eluded you, but recognition drowned you, etching surprise across your features.

Of course you knew him–the enigmatic president of KNA, the fraternity synonymous with legendary bashes, hazing rituals that seemed made up, and coveted invitations, where earning a pledge slot was mythologized as a rite of passage, or so the campus whispers claimed. You had absorbed the lore reluctantly through your friends’ tangential ties to party-goers, caught fleeting sights of him striding into lectures with an effortless authority, like he owned the place, though you had always departed early from your front-row perch, evading the post-class throng. You had never truly spoken a word to the man. Yet here he was, a legendary apparition in your private domain, his hair damp and coiling into gentle waves as it air-dried, those mesmerizing blue eyes–intense, like polished azure gems capturing the light–pinning you in place with a scrutiny that sent a nauseated feeling through your stomach. Your lips parted involuntarily under the weight of his gaze, a warmth blooming in your cheeks, but you rallied, corralling your scattered thoughts with a fluttering of your lashes.

”I’ve…I’ve got this booked till 11am, there’s other rooms that are available that are first come first served…” You informed, keeping your voice steady, watching as he stepped fully into the room.

”You’re in Professor Davis’s stats class, right?” He asked, ignoring what you had just said to him, while inadvertently inviting himself in without permission. The door sealed shut behind him with a soft, definitive thud that resonated faintly in the soundproofed enclosure, amplifying the sudden intimacy of the small room–a space that had felt like your personal fortress moments ago, now infiltrated by this unexpected presence. Your brows knitted together in confusion, a delicate crease forming between them like a shadow across your forehead, an undercurrent of wariness prickling along your skin, raising the fine hairs on your arms in a sort of primal response to the sudden shift in dynamics.

Nervously, you placed the wet sour key down onto one of the napkins scattered across the table, the candy’s glossy, sticky surface leaving a faint, tacky residue on your fingertips that you could feel clinging like a sweet echo of your disrupted focus. You recapped the marker with a sharp click, the plastic snapping into place quickly, before wringing it in your grip, the motion eliciting a squeaky protest as it twisted under the mounting pressure of your unease, the sound cutting through the quiet like a tiny, discordant note.

His voice was smooth but rough around the edges, carrying the husky timbre of someone who’d just emerged from the haze of sleep, or perhaps someone who hadn’t uttered a syllable until this precise instant–which struck you as profoundly incongruous for a campus luminary like him, a man who was perpetually encircled by chatter and admiration.

“Ye-Yeah I am…Why?” You pressed, hesitation lacing your voice like a fragile thread, weaving through your words with a subtle tremor that betrayed the whirlwind of questions swirling in your mind, your pulse quickening in your throat as you swallowed against the dryness creeping in. Because evidently he already knew the answer if he’d tracked you down like this. There was no other way Todd could possibly know who the hell you were beyond the fleeting overlap of that one lecture hall, and even that was tenuous; you were only enrolled in stats as an elective to bolster your GPA, a strategic cushion amid your biology-heavy curriculum, while he was studying business–which made stats a required course.

“Well, I heard you were top of the class and I thought I'd put a face to the grade so to speak…” He replied, a small smirk curling at the corners of his lips, a subtle, asymmetrical lift that unveiled a glimpse of straight white teeth and tempered the chiseled severity of his jaw, infusing his expression with a disarming charm that sent an unwelcome flutter through your chest. He reached up and ran his hand over his hair to smooth it out, his fingers combing through the damp strands with effortless nonchalance, though the gesture achieved very little–the waves simply recoiled with spirited resilience, catching glints from the overhead lights that danced like tiny sparks across their surface, emphasizing their soft, unruly vitality.

You felt your lashes flutter, as a warm flush crept up your neck like an invisible blanket, almost embarrassed at the mere notion that you had somehow infiltrated discussions in his exalted social sphere. Slowly, you shifted on your feet, the plush carpet yielding softly beneath your weight, crossing your arms over your body in a defensive fold, the hoodie’s fabric bunching against you, its soft texture brushing the tips of your fingers.

”Okay…Uh…Is there something else you wanted? Or did you just come in here to be creepy?” You trailed off, your voice threading with a hint of defensiveness that echoed in the enclosed space, glancing away from him toward the cluttered table where your notes were, because you couldn’t hold his gaze anymore. You picked absently at the grooved edge of the marker cap, the textured ridges digging into your fingertip, providing you with a tactile distraction that drew your focus amid the escalating tension, the faint click of your nail against plastic beating like a metronome in the silence.

Before looking back up at him, and locking onto his captivating eyes once more, he let out a small, almost surprised laugh–a low, resonate chuckle that vibrated through the air, genuine and completely unexpected, easing the knot twisting in your stomach just a fraction while igniting an unanticipated spark of curiosity that tingled along your spine.

”Professor Davis mentioned that you might be able to help me out with getting my grade up and I–“

“I don’t know why he gave you my name when I’m not a tutor…So you’re asking the wrong person for help.” You interrupted, your words carving through his sentence with a resolute edge, as you gripped the marker tighter. Todd could sense the standoffishness radiating from you like a tangible aura, the discomfort weaving through your tone, almost as if his offhand remark about your grades–intended as a lighthearted opener–had struck a discordant chord, stirring a veil of suspicion that made you question his motives. He bit the inside of his cheek pensively, the subtle sting of flesh yielding to his teeth blooming with a faint, coppery tang on his tongue, adjusting the rucksake on his shoulder with a small shift, the canvas strap rasping against his jacket as he recalibrated his approach.

He had to do something that would at least sway you into feeling bad for him, because evidently nothing short of emotional leverage was going to crack your resolute facade, and he knew exactly what he would have to do. It was the subtle art of manipulation he’d perfected over years in the fraternity trenches–deploying that boyish charm with a dash of calculated sweetness, his words laced with just enough vulnerability to make the listener feel like a hero for stepping in, all while steering the conversation like a seasoned captain navigating choppy waters. There was always a quiet thrill in it, the way he could read micro-expressions and adjust on the fly, turning skepticism into sympathy with a well-timed sigh or averted gaze, his voice dropping into that intimate, confiding timbre that made people lean in, eager to be the one who fixed things.

It was his only hope at this point, a finely tuned gambit worth every ounce of feigned humility if it could erode your defenses and pivot your mind toward acquiescence. If it faltered, though, leaving him adrift in outright rejection, he harboured one final, slightly detestable resort–a ploy that churned his stomach with self-disgust but promised ruthless efficacy: pluck at your presumed religious heartstrings, invoke mercy and redemption, framing his request as an opportunity for compassionate aid, making denial feel like a moral lapse, a quiet abandonment of the charitable spirit he had inferred from that faith-group snapshot.

Yes, it reeked of a manipulative sleight-of-hand, a cynical orchestration that left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue like overbrewed coffee, but desperation pulsed through him like a fevered heartbeat, scorching away ethical qualms–he couldn’t, wouldn’t, take no for an answer, not when the failure yawned before him, threatening to swallow up his year like a monster.

“Okay…Maybe we got off on the wrong foot…I just…” He paused, and you could see the moment of feigned introspection play out across his features like a carefully scripted scene–the way his eyes clouded with a manufactured veils of uncertainty, his jaw tightening just enough to suggest inner conflict without overplaying the drama, his mind visibly whirring like the mechanics of a lock aligning under skilled fingers, calibrating each nuance to dismantle your barriers and weave his charisma into a net of persuasion.

The confined study room seemed to contract further, the air growing denser, creating a sensory intimacy that made your pulse throb faintly in your temples, the fluorescent lights above buzzing softly like a distant hive, their steady glow casting ethereal highlights on the damp strands of hair that had fallen around Todd’s face.

He let out a defeated sigh, the exhalation weighted and resonant, his broad shoulders sagging imperceptibly to underscore a momentary yield, tearing his gaze from yours and breaking the magnetic eye contact–a strategic concession that handed you the illusion of control, as if you held the reins to his vulnerability, the shift palpable like the cool undercurrent of a breeze slipping beneath the door, stirring the fine hairs on your arms and making them feel less like armour and more like a perch from which to dispense judgement.

”I just need your help…Alright? I bombed the midterm we just got back, and I need to get my mark back up before the semester ends, and at this point you’re my only hope…I’m literally willing to do anything. I just can’t have this stupid mark on my transcript.” His plea hung in the air, laced with the desperation that could only come from the frustration of failure looming over his head like a storm, the words resonating through the enclosure with a raw, velvety timbre that vibrated against the glass walls.

It caught you off guard for a moment, snapping a fissure in your defenses as the conviction in his tone–whether born of truth or masterful artifice–tugged at your empathy, your fingers loosening their grip on the marker, its plastic surface now slick with the faint sheen of nervous perspiration from your palm.

You weren’t one for sob stories, but there was something so convincingly multifaceted about Todd–charming, almost in a hypnotic way that bordered on magnetic, teetering on personable if not for the subtle veneer of calculation glinting in his averted eyes like concealed facets of a diamond; it skirted the edge of sociopathic finesse, yet the despair carved into the faint furrows of his brow, the way his fingers flexed restlessly, didn’t ring entirely hollow, stirring a reluctant warmth that bloomed in your chest, like a part of you felt empathy for this man who could practically get the world handed to him on a silver platter.

Regardless, you found yourself falling into the trap, a slight surrender creeping through your veins like warm honey, softening the rigid lines of your posture. From the way your face was visibly softening–the faint crease between your brows easing, your lips parting slightly in hesitant contemplation–Todd could tell he had you right where he wanted you, a quiet victory sparking in his chest like the flicker of a match in the dark, though he wrestled back the urge to let a smirk curl onto his mouth to avoid unravelling the delicate web he’d spun. He could see the moment of consideration flashing through your eyes, a fleeting storm of indecision clouding their depths as your gaze drifted away from him for a breath, landing on the cluttered table.

Then you cleared your throat, the sound a soft, raspy interruption that cut through the air, the vibration tickling your vocal cords as you returned your eyes to his.

”There’s only four weeks and two tests left in the semester before the final and I have a very strict study schedule that I adhere to for my other classes…I don’t think…” You trailed off for a moment, noticing the way Todd’s jaw clenched at your words, a faint ripple of muscle beneath his skin, a flicker of restrained impatience, “I don’t think I’ll be able to get you the mark you want in that time frame.” You added quietly, feeling your heart stilling in your chest, a momentary hush in its steady rhythm like the world pausing between breaths, the words escaping your lips in a whisper that carried the weariness of someone who was too naive to know what type of reaction they would get.

There was a bout of silence, as the two of you stood and stared at one another, like there was a standoff of sorts. And you could see his lashes flutter slightly, squinting a little bit, almost like it was a nervous twitch of his, the delicate fringe framing his eyes in a way that humanized him further, drawing an involuntary flicker of curiosity through you. He knew you were just making excuses at the point, and while he understood you had other classes apart from stats there was no way you never studied for it; you must’ve slotted it into that aforementioned schedule of yours, the proof was in the marks.

So he decided to press even more, doubling down as much as possible without being too pushy, his posture relaxing just a fraction to invite reciprocity.

”I’ll work around your schedule…I already did the calculations, and as long as I get over a 75 on those tests and the final I’ll get a decent grade. So, even if you can lend me half an hour of your time, it would truly help…I just need some guidance.” His tone was softer this time, and you could tell he chose his words carefully, strategically, each syllable rolling off his tongue like a gentle caress, laced with a flexibility that painted him as accommodating rather than demanding–especially for someone who didn’t seem like he would have time to spare. It was truly evident that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

A sigh escaped you, tumbling out into the air, completely resigned, your arms uncrossing slightly.

”Fine…We’ll meet here tonight at 8…Bring your old tests and the midterm with you so we can go over them together…” You murmured, and Todd couldn’t help the triumphant smile that appeared on his lips as you gave in, a genuine curve that lit his features up, his eyes sparkling with relief and victorious warmth, the expression transforming his face from calculated charm to something disarmingly boyish.

“Perfect! I’ll see you then!” He exclaimed, and before you could even say anything else he was already leaving the study room–like he thought you were going to change your mind if he mingled around any longer–swinging the door open with a whoosh of displaced air that carried a cool draft from the outer perimeter, stirring the papers on your table with a faint rustle.

———————

You had returned to the library that evening after your last class, the weight of your backpack a familiar burden on your shoulders as you pushed through the heavy doors, the transition from the biting chill outside to the enveloping warmth within sending a shiver across your skin. The air inside was thick with the timeless scent of aged books and polished wood, a comforting constant that wrapped around you like an old blanket. You claimed the same glass-walled study room that you had booked earlier in the week, the door clicking shut behind you to seal out the rest of the chaos that was now buzzing on the seventh floor–it was prime studying time so it was far more packed than that morning, with groups of people scattered around passing notes to one another.

Setting yourself up long before you expected Todd to make his appearance, you unpacked with methodical precision, the zipper of your bag rasping open like a sigh of resignation, spilling forth notebooks, highlighters, and your laptop onto the surface with dull thuds that echoed faintly in the soundproofed space. You decided that you were going to at least put in a little bit of time to study your other classes while you waited, as you flipped through your most recent pile of notes you had accumulated throughout the day.

Trying to get your mind off the fact that you were going to be tutoring a frat president of all people, you immersed yourself in the intricate diagrams you had drawn, the lines blurring slightly under your gaze as the interaction from that morning kept replaying in your mind like a looped reel–how he had switched up so quickly on you, his charm shifting from casual to calculated in the blink of an eye, how easily he had manipulated his way into getting you to say yes, his words coiling around your resolve like invisible vines. Even you were surprised that you had folded so easily for him. It was a testament to how he had a way with words, a silver-tongued finesse that disarmed and redirected, and while you felt frustrated at that–your cheeks warming at the recollection–you were slightly impressed by it, a reluctant admiration bubbling up like unexpected fizz in a flat drink; you wondered how many punishments he had evaded with that approach, how effortlessly he convinced people to align with him, how many times he deployed this strategy to bend situations to his will. It was sickening and fascinating all at the same time, a duality that left you unsettled, and made you trace your fingers absently along the edges of your notebook.

You found yourself totally lost in your thoughts, feeling your stomach twisting up into knots like a rope being pulled taut, because as much as you didn’t like the fact you felt guilty enough to say yes to Todd, you couldn’t help but have this obligation to help him, a compulsion that gnawed at you from within, its roots delving deep into the soil of your past. Maybe it was the residual Catholic generosity that you hadn’t fully purged from your system, a lingering echo of the doctrines that had once defined your every choice, now manifesting as an unwelcome tug on your conscience. And you damned it for existing in your mind still, because it weakened you in a way that was unexplainable, a vulnerability that left a hollow ache in your chest.

Your crisis of faith had crept in slowly over the last year, a quiet unraveling sparked by the people in your faith group–those who professed devotion yet freely broke the rules without a shred of guilt, living vibrantly while you had adhered to the Bible with an odd dedication most people didn’t have, weighing most decisions out on the scale of sin and virtue. They partied, dated without chaperones, indulged in the freedoms of the university experience, their laughter ringing like bells while you restrained yourself, always opting for the safer path, the one paved with caution rather than adventure, missing out on the messy, memorable experiences that carved out a normal life in people your age–late-night conversations that stretched into dawn, spontaneous trips with friends, the electric thrill of first kisses unburdened by dogma. The realization had hit like a cold wave: how much you had sacrificed in the name of piety, how the doctrines that once felt like guides now seemed to chain you up, stifling the curiosity and joy that bubbled just beneath your surface, leaving you with a sensation of emptiness. So you turned away from it all, yet it was still one of your worst inner battles that you faced.

You tried to pry yourself out of your thoughts, drawing your attention back to your notes, as you smoothed a creased corner on one of the sheets. You didn’t know how long you had just sat there, reading over whatever you could, trying to absorb something at least. You didn’t know how long you did this for, until you decided to look at your phone to check the time, the screen’s blue glow illuminating your face.

8:12

He was late, which automatically added another layer of regret over your head–like a cloak settling on your shoulders, its weight pressing down with the chill of disappointment–he was already taking advantage of your kindness, and that realization sent a sharp twinge through your gut, bitter and twisting like a knife's edge.

You sighed, slumping back into your chair, the cushioned seat yielding with a soft creak under your weight, the back of it reclining slightly as you let your head tilt towards the ceiling. Reaching up to the thin gold chain around your neck, you toyed with it absentmindedly, the metal links smooth and warmed by your skin, the dainty infinity cross pendant dangling between your fingers, its edges catching the light. As much as you may have pushed away your faith, you still couldn’t bear to part with the necklace your parents had gotten you as a graduation present, even though it was a symbol of the life you had once embraced so fully. It had turned into a fidget toy, one that you would bite or suck on when you didn’t have anything else around you to do so.

You pulled at the chain, feeling it digging into your skin with a subtle bite, as impatience began to claw at you, a restless itch crawling under your flesh, making your legs bounce beneath the table. The audacity Todd had in asking you for help then proceeding to be late befuddled you–how could someone who sounded so desperate to get their grade up be late for their first tutoring session, especially when the person was already reluctant to do the job in the first place? It was a ridiculous thought, but evidently it was becoming reality right in front of your eyes, as the time on your phone continued to tick forward without any reprieve.

And just as your thoughts were about to spiral down another rabbit hole you didn’t want to venture into, the door behind you swung open with a sudden jolt, displacing the air in a cool gust that brushed against the nape of your neck like an unexpected touch.

”Sorry I’m late. I got caught up in a meeting and I tried to wrap it up as fast as I could.” He explained quickly, as you let go of your chain and turned towards him, seeing how disheveled he was–his hair falling out of place in tousled waves that stuck to his temples, his cheeks reddened by the bitter weather that stung his skin with a rosy flush, and of course the contrasting sheen of sweat that lined his forehead, glistening under the room’s glow–while he closed the door behind him with a firm click and lock. You watched as he slipped his bag off his shoulder, pulling up the chair next to you.

“It’s fine…Just don’t let it happen again, cause next time I’ll lock you out and use the time for my own studies.” You warned, your voice steady but coasting with a quiet undertone of firmness. He gave you a small nod, his eyes roaming over you with a quiet intensity that sent an unexpected warmth to creep up your spine, noticing that you had changed since this morning–instead of the shorts and sweater combo, you were not in a simple white t-shirt that clung softly to your body, paired with a baggy pair of black cargo pants that were cinched at the waist, the fabric whispering softly as you shifted, practical yet unintentionally alluring in its relaxed fit.

He couldn’t help but linger on your form a little longer than intended, his gaze tracing the way the t-shirt’s cotton draped over your shoulder and chest, hinting at the softness beneath without revealing too much–Todd didn’t discriminate when it came to women, appreciating beauty in all its forms, and while you may have not been the most pleasant person in the world, judging by the sharpness from your first interaction, he had to admit, you were quite a sight to see, especially when you were being snippy with him, that fire in your eyes adding a spark of intrigue that made his pulse quicken just a fraction, a sensation like the first sip of strong coffee hitting his system.

He tore his gaze off you with deliberate effort, placing his bag on the table with a dull thud that echoed softly in the soundproofed space, flipping the lip open as he delved into the large storage compartment, rifling through the multiple folders he had meticulously organized for each of his classes–where he stored all his tests and essays, the plastic tabs labelled with precise handwriting that contrasted his chaotic scrawl within–going through them until he found the one for Stats.

“You’ll be well within your right to do that…But just know I would probably be sitting outside the door knocking until you open it.” He said jokingly, in an attempt to lighten the mood, his voice dipping into a teasing baritone that vibrated through the air with a warm hum, as he plucked the folder from his bag and set it down on the table with a soft slap before sitting next to you, the chair creaking under his weight, his presence suddenly closer, the subtle heat from his body radiating toward you like a gentle wave, mingling with the clean sandalwood of his cologne. You rolled your eyes, a reflexive gesture, and moved your chair forward so you were closer to the table, the wheels gliding smoothly over the carpet with a muffled whisper, reaching out to bring the folder into your field of vision, your fingers brushing the cool plastic cover, a slight static tingle dancing across your skin from the contact.

“In theory you may think that would work, but I would just call campus security on your ass and get you kicked out of the library.” You countered, flipping the cover open, revealing the first test from week two–one that he had scraped by with a 60%, the red ink marks stark against the white paper like accusatory scars, the professor’s notes scrawled in the margins, one on top of the other.

”Oh god.” You murmured under your breath, picking the package of papers up with a rustle, turning the cover page over to look at his work, the chicken scratch that he would call his handwriting leaving much to be desired–jagged lines and hurried loops that blurred together like a tangled web–but the little patches of red notes written off to the side were a telltale sign that while Todd may have been on the right track, grasping fragments of concepts with tentative understanding, he just wasn’t getting the content enough to actually earn full marks, missing crucial elements in his responses, the omissions glaring like gaps in a puzzle.

“Hey, come on, it’s not that bad.” He stated, watching as your eyes roamed over the page, wide and judgemental, like you were doing the questions in your head and correcting the work he had done without even picking up a pencil, your focus was so intense it sent a subtle thrill through him, the way your lips pursed slightly in concentration, and your eyes squinted every so often.

“It’s bad to me…And the handwriting doesn’t help either.” You commented under your breath, “I hope the other ones aren’t the same.” He hummed and kissed his teeth, the sound a sharp, playful click that echoed lightly, a mix of amusement and self-deprecation lacing the action.

“Well, unfortunately for you they are, the marks get slightly better though…Until the midterm at least.” He mumbled the last part, scratching the back of his neck with a casual drag of his fingers, his eye catching on the cross that glinted against your white shirt like a tiny beacon, the gold catching the light in a warm sparkle before he looked back up to your face, as you quickly flipped through the next pages with a series of soft whooshes, then sighed, ripping a sheet of paper from your notebook with a clean tear, sliding it in front of him across the tables smooth surface.

“Guess we’ll start with correcting this test then…If you wouldn’t mind, could you at least make your writing a little neater so I can efficiently help you, rather than waste my time trying to dissect what you wrote?” He gave you a nod, and reached into his bag to grab a pencil out from one of the pockets.

”Will do.” He replied, watching as you flipped back to the first page of the test package and placed it in front of him with a gentle push.

”Take into account the notes Professor Davis has left you, and try to do something different with your answer, I’ll check it once you’re done.” He adjusted himself on his seat, the chair creaking faintly under his shifting weight as he settled in, taking his phone out of his jean pocket, unlocking it with a quick swipe and placing it beside the sheet of paper. He looked over the question you had told him to do, his eyes roaming over the printed text once, twice, absorbing the words like a strategist, then he began to write slowly on the spare sheet. He was taking his time, glancing over the original answer after every line he wrote, his gaze flicking back and forth like a pendulum, making sure he wasn’t replicating something similar, using his phone as a calculation because he forgot the one he usually brought with him to class.

You looked away from him, flipping open your own notebook, dicing into some of your own study materials for your other classes, needing a distraction from the magnetic pull of staring at him. Every so often you heard his writing speed picking up, the pencil’s scratches accelerating into hurried cadence before abruptly slowing down, like he was stopping himself from going too quickly, because he was trying to show you that he was a good listener.

You crossed your legs, the soft fabric of your cargo pants brushing against itself with a hushed sound, leaning backwards against your chair as it molded to your spine with a gentle give. As you twiddled with the cross pendant again, you read through your class notes, the words flowing in familiar patterns across the page, knowing that within a few days you had a test that you would need to be prepared for, and any review time was useful even though you’d be interrupted at some point.

Todd couldn’t help but look out of the corner of his eye, his peripheral vision catching the subtle movement, seeing the way you tilted the pendant toward you lips and bit down on the tip of the crucifix, the light tapping of your teeth against the metal echoing faintly through the room like a distant metronome, a sound that sent an unexpected jolt through him. He couldn’t help but pause his writing in those moments, the pencil hovering mid-air as his breath caught slightly, seeing you suck gently with absent focus, the motion innocent yet absolutely captivating, before flipping to the next page of your notes with a soft rustle, adjusting your position so you settled even into your seat. He cleared his throat, the sound a rough rasp that broke the silence, bringing his eyes back to the sheet of paper in front of him, refocusing his mind on the question and not the image of your lips wrapping around the holy relic you wore, resuming his writing.

A few moments later he finally put his pencil down, and sighed, the exhalation heavy with a mix of frustration and slight accomplishment, which gained your attention immediately, pulling you from your notes like a hook tugging at a line.

“Finished?” You asked, letting the cross drop from your mouth, and he nodded–not wanting to speak just in case his voice cracked due to the dryness that plagued his throat, a parched sensation like sandpaper scraping his vocal cords–sliding the sheet over to you with a gentle push. Slowly, you plucked it from the table and stared at his handwriting, at the process he had written out with careful precision, at the formula he had used to derive his response, the lines neat and calculated compared to his original scrawl. He saw the way your cheek thinned slightly, as you nibbled on the inside of it with your teeth, hollowing your features just enough to reveal your concentration, like you were trying to make out what he did.

“You used the wrong formula.” You pointed out, making him turn fully so he was facing you completely, the chair swivelling with a low groan. A look of confusion appeared on his face, and his brows furrowed, drawing faint lines across his forehead.

”I what?” He questioned, and you turned the page to him, tapping on the top part of his response with your fingertip, the nail clicking softly against the paper.

”You used the formula for sample standard deviations…When you’re supposed to be using the population standard one…” You explained, picking up his pencil and writing down the correct formula for him with swift, elegant strokes, “Professor Davis always tries to throw us off with the wording in the question, so you have to pay attention to that.” You warned, circling the formula with a decisive loop and writing a short explanation as to why you would use it, along with keywords to look out for within a question that would signal for him to use that specific one.

”So basically he really does want us to fail.” Todd commented, as a small laugh escaped you, light and unexpected, bubbling up from your chest.

“No…He just wants to weed out the weak students.” You corrected, passing him back the paper, “Try it again, but use the correct formula this time…See if you get it right.” You instructed, before picking your notebook back up again and returning to your previous position, glancing over at him briefly as he grabbed his pencil and began writing again, the scratch resuming with a focused intensity.

He was absolutely hopeless in your eyes. If he couldn’t even understand the difference between why you would use specific formulas for certain questions you would need to start right from the beginning to get him up to speed properly, which only meant that you would need to spend even more time with I’m, far more than thirty minutes a night at least, and he would probably need to sacrifice a weekend for you to truly get him to understand the concepts.

The thought alone filled you with dread, a heavy weight settling in your stomach like lead, and all you wanted to do at that point was back out of the arrangement, the words hovering on the tip of your tongue like unspoken regrets, but then you looked at him, seeing the way he was actually focused on what he was doing, his brow furrowed in genuine concentration, like he was trying to understand and it just wasn’t connecting for him yet, you saw the struggle in his eyes, the way they roamed over his writing repeatedly with a determined glint pausing to erase a line, before adding something else and typing in a calculation on his phone with quick taps.

You reasoned with yourself for a moment, thinking about how much time you truly needed to study for your other classes, the mental calendar unfolding in your mind like a well-organized map, how you could rearrange things so you would be able to work with him properly without sacrificing your own marks, and it was feasible, but knowing Todd, there would be scheduling conflicts. God only knew how many events KNA had within the next couple of weeks–school or non-school related respectively–though you weren’t going to be the one to ask about it. You would offer more time to him but at the end of the day the ball would be in his court when it came to making it work.

——————

A week later, the two of you had settled into a tentative rhythm, the study sessions weaving themselves into the fabric of your evenings like threads pulled tight on a loom, binding your disparate worlds with an unexpected familiarity that neither of you had anticipated.

Todd would arrive at 8:30 every evening, the revised time being a pragmatic olive branch you had extended after the first tardy encounter–a buffer to accommodate the whirlwind of his fraternity obligations, the endless cascade of KNA meetings that bled into plannings for future pledge events, the hurried phone calls coordinating house logistics, all of which left him scrambling to gather his scattered notes and textbooks before trekking across campus to the library’s seventh floor. It made sense, this concession; it spared you the frustration of waiting, and it allowed him a moment to catch his breath, to shed the authoritative skin of frat president and slip into the role of an earnest student.

Little had evolved in the core mechanics of your sessions though; you led with a steady hand and guided him with a pace attuned to his learning curve–taking it slow when concepts tangled in his mind and accelerating when a spark of comprehension lit his features. You had become adept at reading his subtle tells: the faint tightening around his eyes when things eluded him; the way his fingers would drum a restless rhythm against the tables edge, displaying the frustration simmering beneath his composed exterior; or the subtle lean forward when clarity dawned, wafting the scent of his cologne across the narrow space between you.

In return for the time you were giving him, he’d often materialize with a chilled energy drink clutched in his hand, a silent acknowledgement of your shared vice for sweetness–gleaned from the countless times he had watched you eat a multitude of sour keys. Surprisingly, the addiction had rubbed off on him when you introduced them as a reward for correct answers, a Pavlovian cue that gave him positive reinforcements, instead of lavishing him with verbal accolades that might inflate his already formidable ego.

Occasionally, the sessions would drift off-script, the deviations almost invariably ignited by him, coiling around the conversation and pulling it into uncharted waters. Yet, you had come to tolerate–perhaps even subtly relish–these detours, the way they broke the monotony of formulas and data sets, injecting a pulse of human connection into the sterile air of the room. It struck you as peculiar, this role you’d assumed as confidante to the president of KNA, a man whose orbit was typically filled with sycophants and reelers, yet who seemed to crave the friction you provided–a measured challenge that pushed back against his narratives without fully dismantling them. You would do this to an extent, your responses laced with skepticism when he’d spin tales of Greek life that you couldn’t fully fathom. He knew you didn’t grasp the concept, but he would press on undeterred, his eyes on yours with an intent that felt like a bid for some sort of alliance, as if each divulged secret was a pebble tossed into the pond of your goodwill, rippling outward in hopes of drawing you closer.

Your defenses held firm, your standoffishness surfacing only when he ventured too close to your personal life–queries about your weekends beyond the grind of labs and lectures or oddly pinpointed probes that hinted at him knowing a little too much. Those types of questions would hang in the air like baited hooks, fishing for more information to validate his assumptions that he had somehow pieced together, though you had volunteered nothing deeper than superficial trivia. You’d parry his questions with evasive grace, your answers curt and opaque, a wall of polite deflection that left him probing the edges without breaking through, even as a flicker of intrigue–and faint wariness–stirred in your chest, wondering at the source of his intel.

Unbeknownst to you, however, you’d begun to infiltrate Todd’s existence with the subtlety of ivy creeping over stone walls, your essence lingering in his thoughts long after he left the library and he retreated back to the raucous energy of the KNA house. You had captivated him in ways he hadn’t anticipated, your demeanour a tantalizing paradox: the firmness in your corrections, delivered with a crisp edge that commanded respect, yet undercut by a vein of reluctant yielding, as if you were a wayward lamb drawn inexorably to the shepherd’s call, resisting yet following in the end.

He would find his mind wandering to you in unguarded moments–the clamor of a frat meeting fading as he recalled the way you’d fidget in your chair, your thighs pressing together with a soft, frictioned whisper of fabric, a restless adjustment that hinted at deeper unrest; or how you would absentmindedly toy with that necklace, the chain’s delicate links catching the light as you drew the crucifix to your lips, sucking with a gentle, rhythmic pull that evoked forbidden liturgies, the metal warming against your tongue in an act of unwitting sensuality.

Those images seared into his psyche, innocent vignettes he’d warp in the privacy of his mind into fevered reveries: your lips, glossed and parted from your saliva’s sheen, or chapped and tender after the citric acid from your sour keys burned them, the faint cracks begging for a touch to soothe–or exploit. You embodied forbidden fruit to him, ripe and presumably untouched, a vessel he could shatter with a single, calculated advance. The temptation clawed at him in fleeting surges, a primal urge to discard the mask of affable pupil and unveil the dominant undercurrent you had only heard rumours of–the control, the intensity that simmered beneath. But he restrained it with a tight leash, recognizing that your untarnished view of him–as the redeemable striver–served his ambitions far better, even though holding back left him with unspent energy, like a shepherd savouring the power of guiding his lamb without devouring it whole.

He sensed your pliability beneath the protests, and he knew you would yield if he prodded just so–your concessions in the face of his favours or questions, the way you’d huff and debate before capitulating, your voice softening like wax under heat, giving in to him just because. He attributed it to the vestiges of your faith, that doctrinal imprint of obedience to higher authority, casting you as the submissive, his presence exuding a subtle dominion that you instinctively deferred to, even if unconsciously. It infused him with a heady blend of unease and exhilaration, the power dynamic a double-edged blade that pricked at his conscience yet thrilled his core, affirming that in this fragile pact, he perpetually held the reins, the upper hand a quiet assurance.

Tonight, under the study room’s unwavering fluorescent hum, he found himself ensnared once more, his gaze drifting to you as you meticulously reviewed the practice set you had assigned him earlier, your pen dancing across the page in fluid arcs, inscribing small little corrections and annotations in the margins with the precision of an illuminator gilding a sacred text–notes that would serve as his compass for the upcoming chapter, their ink blooming like revelations against the paper’s pale expanse. The crucifix was nestled between your lips, cradled but not actively nursed, its gold form a talisman against your teeth, the faint metallic tang you must’ve tasted grounding you amid the task.

Your legs jittered beneath the table, a ceaseless bob that sent micro-vibrations through the floor, your restlessness a stark anomaly against your usual poised serenity, as if an internal tempest churned just below the surface, manifesting in the subtle quiver of your calves and the faint rustle of your sweatpants’ fabric. As you marked, your phone erupted in a symphony of buzzes, notifications cascading like insistent rain against a windowpane–one after another in rapid succession, the screen flaring with ephemeral light that casted fleeting shadows across your features, a barrage so prolific at 11:05 PM that it piqued his surprise; even his own device, perpetually besieged by the group chat he had for the frat house and social pings, rarely matched this frenzy.

Curiosity gnawed at him, a temptation to inquire bubbling up like steam from a kettle, but he quashed it, knowing your barriers would rise like fortified gates; instead, he lingered in patient vigil, waiting for you to conclude his review.

You leaned back and sighed, the breath escaping in a soft, cathartic rush that eased the tension from your shoulders, the necklace tumbling free to nestle against your chest, the pendant adhering to the warm, dewy expanse of your exposed skin that your tank top bared. A small smile bloomed on your lips, tentative yet authentic, curving like the gentle arc of a crescent moon as you perused the page once more, your eyes tracing his progress with a quiet nod of approval before extending the papers back to him.

“Much better…I just put some reminders on the side for you to add to your own notes.” You explained, watching him take the papers from your hands with a deliberate gentleness, his fingertips grazing yours in a contact that sent a warmth blooming through your skin. He set the stack back down on the table with a soft patter, the sheets aligning neatly beside his own notebook, the fresh ink of your additions glistening faintly under the lights, small arrows and starred phrases standing out like guiding stars. You dragged his textbook toward you, the heavy binding sliding across with a muted scrape, as you flipped to the next practice chapter. Your pencil descended with precise intent, circling three problems in looping strokes, the graphite leaving silvery trails in the process.

“These ones will probably be a little more difficult,” You warned, pushing the book back to him with a firm yet careful nudge, the volume gliding smoothly until it rested before him. You held the pencil out for him to take, feeling the heat of his fingers slide along yours in the exchange–a lingering brush that ignited a shiver up your arm like a cascade of cool sparks, making the fine hairs stand on end in a prickling symphony that danced along your nerves, your skin tingling as if brushed by an invisible feather.

Once he was settled, and his posture shifted with a subtle creak of the chair, completely immersing himself in the task, you immediately reached for your phone, and leaned back, returning your necklace to your mouth. Todd glanced down at the questions briefly, his eyes tracing the intricate webs of variables and conditions with a measured scrutiny. But then he peeked over at you, his gaze drawn magnetically to the fluid motion of your thumb scrolling along the screen in rhythmic sweeps, the device’s glow painting your features in soft, ethereal blues and silvers–until you suddenly stopped, a visible cringe etching across your expression, your lips twisting in a fleeting wince that pulled at the corners of your mouth, your brows furrowing in a delicate knot of distaste.

“What’s with the face? Did you get 100% instead of 101 or something?” He joked, his voice dipping into a playful cadence that sliced through the quiet like a warm current through still water, laced with that effortless charisma that always seemed to disarm, the sound making you flinch slightly, a subtle jolt that rippled through your shoulders, surprised that he wasn’t absorbed in the questions you had just laid before him, his attention instead pivoting to you with an intensity that felt both probing and oddly intimate.

You felt a wave of heat overtaking your from your chest, a flush that surged like molten lava bubbling up from deep within, racing up your neck in a tingling rush that prickled like tiny embers against your skin and crowding the apples of your cheeks with a warmth that burned beneath the surface, as if your body were betraying the composure you held. Hastily, you locked your phone with a swift press, the screen fading to black with a faint electronic click, and placed it face down on the table, the cool glass meeting the surface with a muffled thud that echoed your reluctance.

“No…Just stupid guys,” You murmured, the honesty slipping out in a hushed tone that carried a blend of exasperation and reluctant candor, your voice barely threading through the air, the admission hanging between you like an unintended revelation. The reply caught Todd off guard for a moment, his posture straightening slightly with a tension that evaded his muscles, a flicker of surprise widening his eyes as he raised his brows, the arch a silent question mark etched on his features.

You hadn’t mentioned anything about talking to other guys before, not that it was territory he had claim over, of course, but the mere whisper of you dipping into the turbulent seas of the dating scene made his stomach stir with an unwelcomed churn, a knot twisting low and insistent in his belly. Was it jealousy or fear for you, he didn’t know, but he held himself in check, reining in the surge of feelings with a measured breath, his expression smoothing into one of feigned nonchalance.

“What’re they doing?” He pressed, keeping his tone even, masking the edge he swallowed back like a bitter fraught. He put the pencil down slowly, the wood clatter softly against the table with a delicate tap, turning himself toward you fully, the chair pivoting with a groan that filled the space, giving you his undivided attention–a focused beam that enveloped you like a spotlight, which only made you tear your eyes away from his, your gaze darting to the notes on the table.

”Being stupid,” You said simply, the words clipped and evasive, a verbal barrier erected with quiet finality, your fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the table, the faint taps a tactile distraction amid the mounting pressure. He shook his head, a subtle motion that sent a stray piece of hair tumbling across his forehead, holding his hand out to you, palm up in an open gesture that invited compliance, motioning for you to surrender the phone, his fingers curling slightly in encouragement.

“Let me be the judge of that,” He commented, his voice dipping into a coaxing timbre, smooth and persuasive, laced with a hint of challenge that danced on playfulness, his eyes locking onto yours with a spark of mischief that belied the deeper currents swirling beneath. You felt your eyebrows immediately raise at his words, arching in a reflexive curve of incredulity, a disbelieving laugh escaping you before you could contain it–a light incredulous trill that bubbled from your throat like effervescent springs, easing the knot of warmth just a fraction as you shook your head, moving the phone further away from him with a small slide.

”I’m not letting you go through my conversations Todd, that’s a ridiculous request and you know it,” You shot back, the words standing as a resolute boundary, unyielding, as you crossed your arms over your chest, the fabric of your tank top and hoodie shifting with a soft rustle, “And anyways, I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to solve the issue, when you probably do the same thing as these bozos,” You added under your breath, the murmur carrying a wry sting, a jab that lingered in the air like a faint echo of a distant bell–those were definitely fighting words. Todd scoffed, a short exhale that vibrated with a mix of feigned offense and genuine intrigue.

”Now I really need to know what they’re doing if you have the gull to group me in with them,” He countered, his words laced with a mock indignation that masked the curiosity that bit into his senses, his posture leaning forward just a touch more, closing the gap incrementally. You let out a frustrated sigh, the breath escaping in a drawn-out whoosh, shaking your head.

”Can’t we just drop it?” You asked, your voice softening into a plea, “You should be studying anyways, not wasting your time pressing me about my Tinder messages and the idiots I matched with.” Todd let out a laugh, rich and resonant, the sound cascading from him, as he moved closer to you with a fluid grace that narrowed the space between your chairs even further, his presence now a tangible warmth that enveloped you, his knee brushing against yours under the table before settling there completely.

”You brought it up, I think it’s only fair if you elaborate…” Todd’s voice trailed off with a teasing edge, low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine despite the room’s overwhelming heat. He leaned in closer, his chair creaking softly under his weight, making you catch the scent of his sweet, minty aftershave, that clouded your senses in an almost intoxicating haze that made each breath feel heavier in your chest.

“I didn’t really bring it up,” You retorted, your voice emerging steadier than you felt, as you leaned back from him slightly, creating a scant inch of distance that did little to dull the tension, “You asked about my face, and I gave you a vague answer. That’s not an invitation to pry.” He shook his head slowly, the motion unhurried, a low hum vibrating from his throat–a resonant sound, warm and teasing.

”No, no…See, you ended up dragging me into this by saying I’m just like the guys who are messaging you, which is the key reason why I’m prying,” He corrected, each word rolling out like he was building a case against you, holding your gaze with an intensity that pinned you in place, his blue eyes unwavering, reflecting the room’s fluorescents. “I think I have a right to know who the hell I’m being compared to,” He added, his knee pressing more insistently against yours now, the contact firm through the layers of fabric, the heat from his skin seeping into yours.

You took in a deep breath, the air filling your lungs with a cool rush that did little to steady the flutter in your chest, and rolled your eyes. Grabbing your phone off the table with a swift motion, you unlocked it with a quick glance and tossed it over to him, watching as he caught it with effortless reflexes, his fingers closing around it quickly. A part of you marveled at how easily you had capitulated, the surrender feeling both liberating and treacherous, like stepping off a ledge into unknown depths.

“Fine, be my guest,” You said, crossing your arms over your chest with a firm fold, the soft cotton of your tank top bunching slightly against your skin, accidentally granting him a peek of your white lace bra, as you leaned back in your chair. You avoided looking at him directly, your gaze drifting to the table, while he brought your phone up to his leering eyes, the screen’s light casting ethereal shadows across the sharp planes of his face.

You heard his thumb tap on the screen, a series of soft, rhythmic noises that echoed in the quiet, punctuating the moment with an almost hypnotic cadence, and there was a suspended silence that stretched taut between you, heavy with anticipation–before he let out a little laugh, a short, amused burst that bubbled from his chest, easing the tension just a fraction while igniting a spark of defensiveness in your stomach.

”Okay…So you got a few dick pics…You’re on Tinder, what did you expect to get out of this? A husband?” He asked, looking over at you with a raised brow, his tone laced with a teasing lilt that danced on the edge of mockery, seeing the way your brows furrowed in response, drawing faint lines across your forehead, your lips pressing into a thin line of irritation.

”Husband? No! I’m just trying to get myself back into the dating scene for Christ’s sake,” You exclaimed, the words bursting forth with a mix of frustration and earnestness, your voice rising slightly in pitch as you reached over to snatch the phone out of his hands, your arm extending in a swift arc–only for him to pull it away with a playful dodge, the motion drawing you forward unexpectedly, making you lean over him, your hand bracing on his thigh for balance. The softness of his dress pants registered beneath your fingertips, the fabric smooth like finely woven silk, shifting under your touch as the muscle tensed and relaxed, sending an unbidden warmth spreading up your arm like ink bleeding through paper.

”You’re looking in the wrong places…I’m pretty sure if you went out to one of the bars on campus or even joined clubs other than something that could resemble a discount Christian Mingle, you’d get somewhere,” He pointed out, looking down at you with a smirk draped on his lips, the curve of his mouth both infuriating and magnetic, his thigh flexing again deliberately like he was acknowledging your precarious positioning without verbalizing it.

You felt your jaw drop open for a moment, the hinge loosening in stunned disbelief as a rush of cool air brushed your parted lips, the revelation hitting you like a sudden gust, before you pushed off of him to sit upright, the abrupt motion sending a faint hint of dizziness spinning through your vision, a swirling haze that blurred the edges of the room for a heartbeat, your hand lingering with the phantom warmth of his thigh even as you withdrew.

”…Are you talking about Faith Group?” You asked, confused, the words tumbling out in a breathy rush, caught off guard by how effortless he’d unearthed a fragment of your past you’d never once alluded to in your conversations–and how causally he had wielded it, like a card pulled from a hidden deck.

“What else would I be talking about?” He shot back, letting out a small laugh that resonated with a mix of amusement and something sharper, seeing the way you tensed up a bit, your shoulder drawing inward slightly as if bracing against an invisible chill.

”I don’t know but…I never mentioned that I was part of that…I also haven’t even attended a meeting in a year, so I have no clue how you would know about it in general,” You replied, noticing him adjust in his seat with a subtle shift, as he transferred your phone from one hand to the other, his palm enveloping the device with casual possession, taking in the newfound information that hinted at a fracture in your once-unwavering devotion–perhaps a crisis of faith or the dawning realization of how confining strict adherence to scripture could feel.

He let out a little, awkward laugh, the sound tinged with a conscious edge that softened his features momentarily, before returning his knee to yours again, the steady pressure a silent insistence on maintaining that thread of physical connection.

“How do you think I found you or knew who you were? I just looked up your name and scrolled, and found a photo of you in your faith group sweater. I assumed you were still in it since you’re always wearing that cross of yours,” He stated, motioning to the chain with a casual flick of his chin, the gesture drawing your eye to the subtle play of light on his jawline, watching as you automatically raised your hand to touch the pendant, your fingers closing around the warm metal in a reflexive grasp, bewildered by what he had just said and how he delivered it–like stalking someone’s digital footprint was as mundane as checking the weather, the nonchalance sending a ripple of unease through you, mingling with a curious thrill at being so thoroughly observed.

”Well I’m not…But now I feel like I need to find a way to wipe that information off the internet too,” You commented quietly, squeezing the cross in your palm with a firm pressure, feeling its sharp edges digging into your flesh like tiny barbs, the faint sting a grounding reminder amid the whirlwind of exposure, the metal warming further against your skin as if absorbing your agitation.

”Why? Are you ashamed of your beliefs?” He asked, pressing you with a tilt of his head, his tone almost teasing, yet layered with a deeper probe, something challenging that hung in the air like an unspoken dare, his eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity, searching your face for cracks in your composure.

“I wouldn’t be wearing the necklace if I was ashamed, I’m just not a devout follower anymore, that’s it,” You said sternly, the words emerging with a point that brooked no further debate, hoping the firmness would steer him away from the tender territory, but Todd was far too intrigued now, the revelation sparking a hunger for more, to peel back the layers you were guarding, unwilling to let the subject dissolve into the ether so swiftly.

”What caused that?” He questioned, keeping the pressure on you with unwavering persistence, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register that wrapped around you like a confessional veil, seeing the way your eyes glanced away from him momentarily, a fleeting evasion before returning, your jaw clenching in a subtle flex of muscle that betrayed the internal storm brewing beneath your calm facade.

”Why do you want to know?” You countered, looking back at him with a direct stare that held a spark of defiance, watching the tip of his tongue run over his bottom lip in a slow sweep, wetting the flesh there with a subtle sheen of saliva that caught the light, the gesture both absent and intention, drawing your gaze for a heartbeat longer than intended.

For a moment, Todd considered telling you the truth, the raw, unfiltered confession bubbling just beneath the surface–admitting that hearing about your crisis of faith, or at least your deliberate turning away from it, ignited a fiercer desire within him, transforming you from untouchable sanctity to something tantalizingly attainable. You were no longer forbidden fruit, shrouded in divine prohibition; you were just fruit, lush and ripened under the sun, begging to be plucked, and the absence of celestial repercussions meant he could indulge without the phantom weight of judgement looming overhead, no thunderbolt from an angry deity to strike him down for corrupting one of His dearly devoted lambs.

But he wasn’t going to voice that aloud, not yet–not when you teetered on the precipice of opening up. Honesty like that would shatter all the progress, so instead, he offered a half-truth, a veiled deflection wrapped in casual intrigue.

”Because I’m curious…” He stated, his voice a low murmur that resonated through the air, leaning in a bit more. You could feel the warmth of his breath fanning lightly over your face, a gentle caress that carried the artificial tang of fruit from the energy drink he had been sipping on earlier–sweet and synthetic, like overripe berries preserved in syrup–mingling with the crispness of mint that lingered from his gum, invading your nostrils in a heady wave that made your head swim slightly, each inhale pulling you deeper into his proximity.

His eyes roamed over you unabashedly, tracing the rise and fall of your chest beneath the thin fabric of your tank top, and the way your fingers absently ran over the crucifix in your grasp. You dragged your teeth along your bottom lip in a nervous graze, the pressure catching a flake of dry skin and tearing it free with a sting–a tiny rupture that drew a bead of blood to the surface, the metallic, coppery flavour blooming instantly on the tip of your tongue, overpowering the mingled scents of his breath in a rush that grounded you amid the swirling intensity of the moment, the faint warmth of the droplet trickling just before you licked it away.

As much as you wanted to evade the topic entirely, to redirect the conversation back to the safety of the work that was sprawled out across the table, you still found yourself yielding once more to Todd’s persistent line of questioning, the words spilling out like a reluctant confession, your voice softening.

”Well…Let’s just say I realized there was no point in believing in something that had so many restrictions…” You replied, the simplicity of the statement belying everything that was racing inside your head, a quiet unravelling that echoed the faint ache in your lip from the bite. The revelation trudged up yet another cascade of inquiries in Todd’s mind, his thoughts racing–there must’ve been a catalyst, a pivotal spark that ignited that epiphany, shutting the facade of a faith you had likely clung to for your entire life, and now the hunger for those details clawed at him, craving the full mosaic of your disillusionment.

Before he could formulate the next probe, however, you seized the reins, steering the dialogue away from the vulnerable underbelly of your past with a swift pivot that cut through the tension like a cool breeze dispersing fog.

”Now can you give me my phone back please?” You asked, motioning to his hand where the device was clutched firmly, looking almost comically small enveloped by his thick, long fingers–pale and elegant, the nails impeccably manicured with a sheen that spoke of meticulous care, as if he visited the salon weekly to maintain that balance of rugged playfulness and polished sophistication that defined his aesthetic. You shouldn’t have been surprised; it aligned seamlessly with his groom persona, but it drew your gaze nonetheless, your eyes tracing the prominent veins that mapped the back of his hand. They winded gracefully up his forearm, bursting out into different pathways that went all the way up to the ditch of his elbow and disappeared beneath the rolled sleeves of his light blue dress shirt, pulsing beneath the translucent paleness of his skin with each flex of his grip. The sight stirred you, a fleeting warmth blooming low in your belly before you wrenched your focus away, lifting your eyes back to his face as he nodded, extending the phone toward you with a casual grace.

“Thank you,” You muttered, taking the device from him with a quick grasp, your fingers brushing his in the exchange, before unlocking it once more, the screen’s glow illuminating your features in a soft halo. You cringed again at the unsolicited nude that greeted you, the image stark and intrusive, the man’s brazen display evoking a twist of disgust in your gut like milk curdling, and with a swift tap, you unmatched him, the action a small but satisfying purge that cleared the digital slate.

“Y’know…With the context of your faith I’m kind of understanding why you cringed at that photo…” Todd was bolder now, his tone laced with a teasing undercurrent that flowed like silk, as if the one-sided heart-to-heart you’d just navigated had unlocked a new level of familiarity, granting him license to prod at the edges of your discomfort with a playful jab that carried an edge of provocation.

The comment made you snap your head toward him, your neck pivoting with a subtle crack that echoed faintly in the quiet room, your eyebrows raising in a sharp arch of surprise, the insinuation landing like a punch to your chest.

”I’ve seen a dick before, Todd…I’m not that prudish,” You admitted quietly, the words slipping out in a hushed murmur that barely disturbed the heavy air between you, your voice laced with a defensiveness that felt brittle, like thin ice cracking under the pressure of a foot.

The confession hung there, vulnerable and exposed, sending a fresh wave of heat crawling up your neck, prickling your skin as if invisible fingers were tracing fiery paths along it, the room’s fluorescent glow suddenly feeling too harsh, and too revealing. The sudden shyness enveloping the subject matter painted your features in a soft haze, your eyes darting away to the scattered notes strewn about the table, and Todd couldn’t help but notice it, as a smug smile curled onto his face. You brought your eyes back to his, seeing the hint of mischief playing up behind his irises, eager to fan the flames as he leaned into your clamoring hesitation.

”Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but I’m pretty sure only seeing one dick in your life makes you at least a little prudish…” The nickname rolled off his tongue like a caress, smooth and far too intimate for the relationship the two of you had, landing in your stomach with a lurch that felt like a jar of moths had been shattered open, their wings flapping wildly against your insides, stirring every nerve into a frenzy of chaos the trudges up a nauseous swirl in their wake, your pulse quickening in your throat as if it was trying to escape the confines of your body.

Your lashes fluttered at the comment, a reflexive veil against the intensity of his gaze, and you could feel your cheeks heating up even more, the temperature rising like sunlight focused through a magnifying glass, burning beneath the surface in a way that made you hope desperately that he didn’t notice the mosaic of embarrassment blooming across your face, your fingers twitching slightly as if seeking something to anchor them.

“Alright…This conversation is done, it’s time to get back to studying,” You concluded, your voice firm but edged with a tremor you couldn’t quiet suppress, trying to sever the thread of the topic before it unravelled your further, the words a desperate pivot back to the main reason why the both of you were in this study room in the first place.

You didn’t want to delve into this with Todd, you didn’t want to unearth the buried truths of your inexperience, forged in the fires of a devout past that had left you adrift in a sea of people who navigated intimacy with effortless grace–your single encounter was something that barely qualified, a fumbling exploration that left more questions than fulfillment, making you feel out of sync, like a clock ticking in a different rhythm. The mere thought sent a restless itch crawling under your skin, a sensation like fine sand shifting beneath your clothes, uncomfortable, insistent and everywhere, urging you to move in your spot, the chair cushion squeaking.

“Oh c’mon, you can’t ruin my fun now…” He teased, his knee bumping against yours with a deliberate nudge that sent a jolt of warmth radiating up your thigh, the contact lingering like an unspoken claim, firm through the barriers of fabric. He shifted closer, his body now invading your personal space in a way that felt both calculated and intoxicating, like he was weaving an invisible net to keep you within arm’s reach, relishing the proximity.

You could sense his enjoyment in it–the way his eyes sparkled with an unfamiliar gleam that bordered on predatory, delighting in how it made you squirm subtly, like a restless energy was coiling in your muscles that needed release. He glanced down at the cross momentarily, his gaze tracing the gold pendant that shimmered with the slightly shaky breaths you were taking when you turned your body to face him more squarely, the metal catching the light in fleeting glints that danced like tiny stars against your skin and over the mounds of your breasts, before he lifted his eyes back to yours, locking on with an intensity that pinned you in place.

”I can and I will,” You retorted, the words slicing through the space with a steely resolve, though the edge was blunted by the undercurrent of unease, your voice carrying a faint quiver like a leaf trembling in a storm. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” You tried to infuse your tone with stern authority, but the nervousness encircling the mere whisper of sexual experience made it waver, a crack in the facade that you were trying to put up. It beamed from you in micro-expressions: the faint furrow deepening between your brows like a shadow, the way your lips pressed together tightly, and the restless tap of your foot beneath the table.

”Why? Because you’re embarrassed that you’re a virgin?” He pressed, his voice dropping to a provocative whisper that slivered through the air, baiting you to fracture the composed mask you’d hastily reconstructed, his words hanging heavy with a challenge that dared you to unravel. At the mere mention of virginity, a deeper heat flowed through your body, a wildfire through dry brush, melting your resolve into a liquid warmth that pooled in your veins, turning your insides to a churning mush of embarrassment.

The fact that you were even skirting the edges of such a conversation–and succumbing to his taunt–boggled your mind, a dizzying whirl of confusion that made your thoughts spin, but it only intensified because it was with Todd Stevens of all people, the campus enigma, yet here you were compelled to counter his assumption, to shatter the image he held, as if proving yourself to him carried an inexplicable weight, a desire to impress that bloomed unbidden, warm and insistent against your better judgement.

“I'm not a virgin!” You exclaimed, the declaration erupting from your chest with a force that surprised even you, your voice rising in a crescendo that cut through the room instantly, carrying a blend of indignation and raw truth that left your lips tingling with the aftershock. Your breath came in shallow bursts as if the words had stolen the air from your lungs, the admission echoing in your ears like a confession said into an empty confessional booth, feeling the way your heart was hammering through your ribs in a frantic rhythm that shook your frame.

The look in Todd’s eyes was unreadable to you, a mysterious veil that masked whether he was genuinely shocked by your sharp snap or surprised that you had divulged something so intimate with such minimal prodding, his gaze holding a depth that made your pulse quicken, like peering into a still pond only to sense unseen currents swirling beneath.

Regardless, it cracked open a door for him to press further, and though he could see your growing shyness–the way your posture was slowly tensing up, and how your fingers twisted in your lap–he refused to release you from the hook he caught you on, not when he held the reins of the conversation firmly, the possibilities unfurling in his mind like silken threads waiting to ensnare, each one promising to draw you deeper into his web.

“You know fantasies don’t count, right?” He asked mockingly, the words laced with a playful scorn that swiped at the air like a challenge, taking in the way your eyes widened in a flicker of annoyance, the surprise blooming across your features, your breath catching in your throat with a soft hitch amid the sting of the accusation.

“I’m being serious…” You insisted, your voice steady, a plea woven into the syllables as you watched him lean back in his chair nonchalantly, spreading his legs slightly, pressing into your knee even more, while he crossed his arms over his chest in a slow motion that pulled the striped tie taut against the crisp collar of his shirt, the fabric bunching. His button-up strained over his biceps, the seams whispering a protest as the muscles flexed beneath, and for a brief unbidden second, your gaze lingered on the way they shifted, the play of strength that sent an unexpected warmth fluttering low in your abdomen, like embers stirring in a dying fire, before you forced your eyes away.

“Alright…Spill the details then,” He countered, holding out his hand with a casual sweep, palm up as if he was offering you a stage to speak, his fingers extended in invitation, the faint callouses on his skin catching the light.

”Excuse me?” The shock infused your voice, echoing softly in the confirmed space, feeling your heart catching before kickstarting again and picking up speed–so much so that you could hear it in your ears, thumping over and over again, pulsing through your temples. The demand left you momentarily breathless, feeling another wave of heat creeping beneath your skin, the blood rushing to your chest, and neck, travelling all the way up to your face. It felt like the sun was inside you, burning your nerves and overtaking your mind in a blazing haze.

”You say you’re not a virgin…So…Tell me about your first time, I want to know about it,” He doubled down, explaining it with a matter-of-fact simplicity that bordered on audacious, like probing for such intimate details was as ordinary as asking for the time. The words twisted in your gut, and you couldn’t help but think that he wanted to hear the details so that he could pick apart the story, to catch you in what he assumed was a lie, though his poker face gave little away for you to really know his motives.

”I’m not doing that…” You said quietly, the refusal a soft murmur laced with finality, giving your head a small shake which made the crucifix on your chest shift slightly against your sticky skin, while you rubbed your hand along your thigh in a restless glide, the friction warming your palm as you noticed it was wet with nervous sweat, leaving a damp trail on the black cotton, the clammy sensation clinging to your skin like an unwelcome second layer.

”Then I’ll just ask you questions about it, how does that sound?” He asked teasingly, his eyes gleaming with a frisky malice as he leaned in towards you, watching the way your mouth parted just enough to expose the edges of your teeth as you inhaled softly, attempting to fill your lungs with air, trying bypass how your throat was beginning to close, but it was futile, because all it did was drown you in the essence of him–the aftershave he wore, his sandalwood cologne, the natural muskiness of his skin. It all surrounded you, and pushed you under his spell even further.

“I don–“ Before you could even muster a full rebuttal, the syllables stumbling on your tongue like hesitant footsteps on uneven ground, he interjected with a sultry timbre that enveloped the room, his voice breathy and coaxing, each word dripping like hot wax over bare skin, drawing you in despite the frantic drumming of your heart.

“Was it at one of your little church retreats? Did you…Sneak out to meet him? Was it in your bed, or his? Did he know what he was doing?” He murmured, the questions unfurling in a slow, hypnotic cadence, his breath hitching faintly between them as if he was savouring the forbidden imagery that danced through his mind. His head tilted to chase your evasive gaze, ensuring his piercing blue eyes remained locked on yours even as you tried to avoid them, the intensity making you feel like you were choking on nothing, like someone had wrapped a velvet noose around your throat and began tightening it.

With a fluid motion, he reached out and grasped the arm of your chair, swiveling it toward him with a low, resonant creak that vibrated through the floor, his knee slipping seamlessly between yours to pin you in place, the firm pressure of his thigh against the insides of yours sending a cascade of heat blooming upward, a tingling spark that raced along your nerves like electricity, preventing any easy retread as his presence loomed closer. He leaned forward from his seat, angling his body so he had to look up at you through the thick fringe of his lashes, the position casting features in a shadowed allure that made your breath catch, your skin prickling with goosebumps as if brushed by phantom fingers.

You could feel your brain scrambling for a semblance of steadiness, synapses firing in chaotic bursts like fireworks in a storm, but your mind drew a blank canvas, void of coherent thought, because there was no conceivable way you could have anticipated this turn–the way his proximity was crowding you, the unexplainable pulsing surging through your body, your core, your muscles, not from the sharp bite of nerves or the cold grip of anxiety, but from something deeper, more primal, a budding lust that coiled low like a serpent stirring from its slumber.

It didn’t make sense, this magnetic pull, especially towards Todd of all people, yet it held you in the moment, your senses heightening to every nuance: the scent of his cologne, the shift of his hot breath against your skin.

His tongue dated out to lick his bottom lip slowly, a sweep that left a glistening sheen that caught the light like freshly fallen rain on blades of grass, drawing your eyes down to the motion. The plush curve of his mouth was mesmerizing in its causal sensuality, it looked soft, it looked like it was begging to be touched, and for a moment he bit the flesh, before reaching out with his free hand–while the other secured the chair in place, fingers gripping the armrest with a firmness that couldn’t be broken even if your tried–and ghosting his fingertips over the chain around your neck, the touch featherlight yet scorching.

The metal, warmed by your skin, conducted the heat from his fingers like a conduit, leading down to the cross where his pointer lingered, running along its edges with a slow, exploratory drag, feeling the sticky dew of perspiration on your chest beneath it. The sheen clung to his skin as he relished the way he had you ensnared, exactly where he desired, your body responding with a quiver that betrayed your composure.

”Did you have the cross between your teeth when he was inside you? Were you sucking on it as you pushed down all those little things you learned about purity, about how you should save yourself for someone who deserved it?” He whispered, his touch lingering for a suspended moment on your chest, the pad of his finger absorbing the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat, a palpable thrum that vibrated against his skin like a secret Morse code, before trailing upward to caress the side of your cheek. The warm of his palm cupping your face with a gentleness that contrasted the intensity of his words made you lean into his touch slightly, it was a barely noticeable movement, as his thumb rested on your bottom lip, pressing it against the plush, slightly chapped skin that quivered beneath his touch, slipping the tip of it inside to gather the slickness of your saliva, then dragging it down slowly to smear the wetness along the cracks. The sensation of the air cooling the dampness, sent a jolt through your core, and you could feel the liquid fire in your belly pooling low.

Your lashes fluttered closed at the feeling, the ache that pulsed through your most intimate place, it was familiar to you, yet at the same time…It felt new, like a reflexive surrender to the overwhelming intimacy of the moment, and it only made you squirm in your spot, your hands wringing the fabric of your sweatpants in tight twists, the material bunching under your grip.

“Did he make you cum?” He asked, the question hanging like a temptation–like the apple in the Garden of Eden–feeling his breath ghosting over your lips, carrying the faint minty freshness that made your mouth water. Instantly, as if Todd had shot a truth serum through your veins, you shook your head no, the motion small and hesitant, your eyes opening to peer up at him through your lashes, gauging his reaction–the way his expression paused, and his eyes widened slightly, like he was surprised you finally cracked. His knee bumped the insides of yours with a nudge that spread your legs just a fraction wider.

It was like he was expecting you to elaborate, his silence a vacuum pulling at your words, coaxing them out of you just by looking at your face, and you could feel yourself slowly succumbing to the unspoken demand, a sigh escaping your lips in a soft exhale that brushed against the tip of his thumb, the warmth of your breath mingling with the saliva.

“It happened at a party a while ago…It was quick, and brief, there wasn’t any…Build up, I just kind of did it. We didn’t really know each other, we just met and I decided to take him up on the offer of sleeping with him thinking that if I was turning away from my faith I might as well take the opportunity now and start the journey with a band…I thought it would be different, but it…Sucked to be honest.” You explained, the admission tumbling out in a quiet rush–like you were grasping at the will to form words–following it with a self-deprecating laugh that bubbled up from you like a release valve, light and brittle, your fingers loosening their grip on the fabric of your pants, leaving wrinkled imprints behind.

He kept his eyes on you, unblinking and intense, his irises tracing every shift in your posture–the way your shoulders curved inward every so slightly, as if you were curling around a secret wound. It was like watching a delicate flower wilting under the weight of its own petals, your gaze dropping to the floor in a quiet retreat, lashes casting long shadows over your cheeks as regret etched faint lines across your forehead. He could almost hear the echo of your internal monologue, the self-recrimination bubbling up like bitter bile: how impulsive that night had been, a reckless plunge into unfamiliar waters without a lifeline, driven by the raw ache of rebellion against the rigid doctrines that had once defined you. Speaking it aloud seemed to amplify the folly, turning a hazy memory into a stark, unflattering portrait of haste and disappointment, and Todd savoured the vulnerability it exposed.

Yet, far from deterring him, your confession only stoked the inferno raging within Todd’s chest, a wildfire that leaped from ember to blaze in an instant, consuming his thoughts in a torrent of fevered possibilities. His mind raced ahead like a runaway train hurtling off its tracks, derailing into visions so vivid they bordered on hallucination: you, pliant and eager beneath his guiding hands, your body a blank canvas awaiting his masterful strokes. He imagined molding you with exquisite patience, unravelling the threads of your inexperience one silken strand at a time–teaching you the symphony of sensations that a skilled lover like him could orchestrate, the way a single touch could ignite nerves you didn’t know existed, sending ripples of ecstasy cascading through your limbs.

That pure, untainted mind of yours, still shadowed by echoes of sermons and vows, would yield to him like fresh clay under a sculptor’s fingers; he could be the one to shatter the illusions of your past encounter, to rewrite the narrative of pleasure in bold, permanent ink. No more fumbling in the dark with a stranger who saw you as a fleeting conquest–he would be your revelation, the shepherd leading his lamb not to salvation, but to sublime ruin. All it would take was your surrender, a whispered yes that granted him access to the sacred temple of your desires, allowing him to show you the heights you had been denied, the quivering bliss that should have marked your first foray into intimacy, not the hollow echo of regret.

He yearned to infiltrate every corner of your being, to reduce you to a trembling, writhing mosaic of need beneath him–your breaths coming in ragged gasps, your skin hot and glistening with a sheen of sweat that begged for his tongue to trace salty paths along it, your voice fracturing into pleas and whimpers until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the torment of anticipation. Todd had always been a man of calculated indulgence; he could thrive on sporadic, heated liaisons that left his partners breathless and yearning, but with you, he envisioned something lavish, an endless feast where he’d offer himself up plate after plate–slow, teasing explorations that built to shattering ends, only to begin anew. You’d crave him like an addiction, your body growing attended to his rhythms, and he’d relish the power of granting or withholding, turning you into his most devoted acolyte in this new, carnal faith.

“You had other experiences after that though…Right?” He asked, his voice a low, velvet rumble that came out far more drier than expected, slicing through the silence. He tried to pivot to mask the storm brewing inside him–to distract from the distinct throb awakening in his core, where his arousal stirred, pressing against the confines of his dress pants with a growing insistence that made the fabric feel suddenly constricting, heat pooling low in his abdomen.

You raised your eyebrows at him, the arch a fragile bridge of surprise over your wide eyes, and shook your head again, the motion sending a faint shiver through you, the crucifix swaying gently against the damp valley between your breasts.

“One dick…Remember?” You commented quietly, your words were a hushed reminder, “I was being serious about that,” You added, your voice trailing off into a whisper that carried the weight of unspoken hesitations, your fingers now tracing absent patterns on your thigh, the soft scrape of nails against cotton a tactile anchor amid the swirling thoughts in your mind.

He felt the tie around his neck tightening like a noose woven from his own desires, not literally but in the suffocating rush of blood thundering through his veins, diverting southward and leaving his thoughts hazy at the edges, as if the revelation had hammered the final nail into the coffin of his restraint. It was the tipping point, the irrevocable push that propelled him forward, riding on a surge of hope that you’d yield to the inevitable pull, that the spark he’d ignited wouldn’t fizzle out but blaze into something consuming.

His hand slid off your cheek with a lingering reluctance, the warmth of your skin clinging to his palm like a phantom caress, and he reached toward the knot at his throat, fingers deftly loosening the silk with a slow tug that eased the pressure but did little to quell the fire within. He stood up quickly from his chair, the abrupt motion sending a faint creak through the frame of it, and the sudden absence of his body’s radiating heat hit you like a chill draft sweeping through an open window, leaving your skin prickling with goosebumps and an inexplicable sense of loss that echoed deep in your bones, making you sit up straighter instinctively, your spine slinging with a subtle snap as if you were bracing for the unknown.

Todd moved toward the door with short, purposeful strides, each step measured and charged with urgency, the friction of his erection rubbing against the soft weave of his boxer briefs and the unyielding barrier of his zipper sending jolts of electric tension up his spine, the fabric whispering promises of release against his straining length.

He reached out and twisted the lock on the doorknob with a decisive click that resonated through the room like a key turning in a forbidden lock, sealing you both in this cocoon of privacy, before his hand moved to the chain dangling beside the windows, his fingers curling around the cool metal links with a grip that betrayed the tremor of anticipation thrumming through him.

“What’re you doing?” You pressed, your voice wavering in its steadiness, a fragile thread pulled taut, laced with a mix of curiosity and dawning apprehension that made your pulse visible at the base of your throat, fluttering like a trapped bird as you watched him pull at the chain, the thick, dark curtains descending in a slow cascade, their heavy fabric whispering against the glass with each incremental drop, muffling the outside world until the room was enveloped in a dimmer, more intimate glow.

“Teaching you something for once,” he replied, still turned with his back to you, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the now-obscured windows, waiting until the blinds met the floor with a final, soft thud, ensuring absolute seclusion–that no prying eyes could pierce this veil, no interruptions could shatter the moment. The words hit you immediately, a visceral impact that sent your heart into a frenzied gallop, pounding against your ribcage with such force it bordered on painful, a thunderous rhythm that drowned out everything around you and made your breath catch in your throat, wondering if this was a prelude to a heart attack or something far more transformative.

When he turned back to you, the room seemed to contract around the both of you, the air thickening with a palpable charge that hummed in your ears. Todd could see it immediately–the way you were practically hanging on every unspoken word, your body poised on the edge of the chair as if tethered by an invisible string he held in his grasp, your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths that displayed how he’d already woven his control into you. Your wide eyes locked onto his, reflecting a mix of trepidation and raw curiosity, like a doe frozen in the headlights, waiting for the confirmation that would shatter the fragile barrier between the both of you.

Your gaze roamed over him hungrily as he slowly made his way back to you, each step unhurried, the polished leather of his shoes whispering against the carpet in a soft hush. Your eyes traced the sharp lines of his silhouette first–the broad expanse of his shoulders straining against the light blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing the corded muscles of his forearms that were dusted with faint brown hairs that reflected the light, with his veins standing out like rivers etched into marble. Then, lower, they snagged on the unmistakable bulge pressing insistently against the front of his dress pants, the fabric taut and unforgiving, creating a prominent mound that he couldn’t–and didn’t seem inclined to–explain away with casual dismissal. It was irrefutable confirmation of the path this night was veering toward, a visual promise that sent an overwhelming jolt surging through every inch of your body, like lightning forking through strom clouds.

Shivers cascaded up your spine in rippling waves, prickling your skin from the base of your neck to the tips of your fingers, while a sudden slickness bloomed between your thighs, dampening the cotton of your underwear with a rush that made you fully aware of your own arousal building. Instinctively, you shifted on the chair, your thighs pressing together in desperate movements, the soft friction of fabric against fabric providing fleeting sparks of relief that only heightened the ache awakening from its long hibernation deep in your core–a throbbing need that coiled tighter with each passing second, demanding more.

Once he came to stand directly in front of you, towering yet intimate, your eye level aligned perfectly with the gleam of his belt buckle, the silver catching the muted light like a winking secret. You tilted your head up slowly to meet his gaze, the motion exposing the vulnerable curve of your throat, where your pulse fluttered visibly beneath the skin like a captive butterfly. He was already looking down at you, his blue eyes darkened to stormy depths, holding yours with an intensity that made the air between you feel charged, almost combustible.

He brought his hand back to your cheek, the warmth of his palm cupping it with a tenderness that contrasted the feral hunger simmering beneath, his thumb tracing a gentle path just below your eye, brushing over the delicate skin there as if mapping every blemish. He took you in fully then, drinking in the details like a connoisseur savoring a rare vintage–the way your eyes were glazed over and glistening with unspoken want, lashes heavy and half-lowered; the subtle lean of your body into his touch, chasing the heat of his skin; the small, dizzying smile that tugged at the corners of your lips, tentative yet blooming; and the lust that burned just beneath the surface, flushing your cheeks and warming the flesh under his fingers to a feverish glow. In those suspended moments, he knew without doubt that you were acutely aware his intentions, and the way you nuzzled deeper into his palm, your breath ghosting warm against his wrist, was a silent, unequivocal sign of surrender, a willingness to hand over every guarded inch of yourself, no matter what depraved delights he might demand.

“Sit on the table for me,” He instructed, his voice a low command, authoritative yet laced with an undercurrent of invitation that made your stomach flip. He stepped back just enough to grant you space, his presence lingering like a magnetic field you could still feel pulling at you even in retreat. You blinked up at him for a heartbeat, processing the request through the haze clouding your mind, before compliance took over, your body moving almost of its own accord.

Rising from the chair with a soft creak of the frame, you swept the scattered notes and textbook aside in a hurried cascade of papers, the edges fluttering like startled birds, clearing a space on the wooden surface that felt suddenly vast and exposed. With a small hop, you perched on the edge, shifting your weight to settle comfortably, the cool wood pressing through your sweatpants against the backs of your thighs, grounding you amid the swirling heat. Instinctively, you parted your legs just enough to create an inviting gap, a silent beckoning that he filled without hesitation, stepping forward with predatory grace until the insides of your thighs brushed against the outsides of his, the contact sending fresh sparks racing up your legs like embers scattering from a fire. He burrowed deeper between them, his hips aligning with yours until you were chest to chest, the heat of his body enveloping you completely, so close that his breath mingled with yours, the faint mint lingering like a promise, and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat echoing against your own frantic one–intimate enough that it felt like he was already inside you, claiming a space that no one else had occupied properly.

“What’re you going to teach me, Todd?” You asked, your voice emerging breathy and laced with a subtle eagerness that surprised even you, as his hand came to rest against your hip, his pinky grazing the sliver of bare flesh where your tank top had ridden up from the movements. A smirk curved his lips, slow and wicked, deepening the dimples in his cheeks as he let out a small, exhaled breath that fanned warm across your face, carrying the subtle sweetness of the energy drink he’d sipped earlier.

“Everything…And then some,” He replied simply, the words a tantalizing vow that hung in the air like smoke, his hand slipping further beneath the hem of your tank top to envelop the soft flesh of your hip fully, his fingers splaying possessively as he gave it a gentle squeeze, the pressure firm yet exploratory, kneading the curve there.

Before you could respond, he leaned forward, closing the scant distance to capture your lips in a kiss that started tentative but quickly deepened. At first, you were stiff against him, your mouth pressing back with an earnest but unpracticed firmness–you were not a bad kisser by any means, but the lack of experience showed in the way your lips moved rigidly, mirroring his initial pressure without the fluid grace of familiarity, like a dancer learning steps for the first time. You tried to match his rhythm, your tongue tentatively brushing his as you parted your lips slightly, but the hesitation lingered, a subtle tension in your jaw that spoke of uncertainty.

Sensing it, he reached up with his free hand–the one not anchored at your hip–and gently grasped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, his touch guiding rather than forceful, tilting your head just so with a subtle nudge that encouraged you to loosen, to melt into him. Wordlessly, he coaxed you with the pressure of his fingers, easing the rigidity from your posture as his lips softened against yours, inviting rather than demanding, until you felt the knot of nerves unravel, your body relaxing into the kiss like sinking into warm water. You opened your mouth wider to him then, a soft sigh escaping as he slipped his tongue inside, exploring with a languid sweep that tangled with yours in a dance of heat and discovery. He tasted the sweet, tangy remnants of the sour key you’d nibbled on before his arrival, a citrusy burst that mingled with the underlying freshness of mint on his breath, but what overwhelmed everything was the raw sensation of your tongue gliding against his–velvet-soft and eager, the wet slide sending shivers cascading through both of you.

The kiss turned feral and messy in an instant, a whirlwind of urgency that devoured restraint; saliva mingled and spilled at the corners of your mouths, his teeth grazing your lower lip in a playful nip that drew a gasp from you, the sound swallowed by his deepening claim. Your hands found their way to his belt loops, fingers hooking into the sturdy fabric with a desperate tug that pulled him flush against you, the hard ridge of his erection pressing insistently into your core through the layers of clothing, a throbbing heat that made you arch instinctively, the friction igniting fresh waves of need that pulsed low and insistent. He groaned softly into your mouth, the vibration rumbling through your chest, as your tongues battled in slick, heated strokes, the kiss devolving into a primal exchange of breaths and bites, messy strands of saliva connecting you even as he finally pulled back, both of you panting, lips swollen and glistening.

“Help me take your pants off,” He murmured, his voice roughened to a gravelly edge, eyes dark with unrestrained desire as his hand slipped from your hip to the drawstrings of your sweatpants, fingers deftly untying the knot with a quick pull that loosened the waistband. You nodded breathlessly, kicking off your shoes with hurried flicks that sent them clattering to the floor in muffled thuds, the cool air kissing your bare feet as you shifted on the table to aid him. Both his hands descended then, hooking into the waistband and tugging downward with firm, deliberate motions, the fabric sliding over your hips with a soft rasp against your skin, revealing inch by inch the smooth expanse of your thighs until the sweatpants pooled at your ankles and fell to the ground in a discarded heap, leaving you in nothing but your simple white underwear–cotton panties that were utterly unadorned, with nothing innately sexy about their plain design or modest cut.

Yet, because they clung to you, hugging the curves of your hips and the subtle swell between your legs, they might as well have been the most provocative lace, rendering you feel exposed as if you’d bared everything to him at once. His pupils dilated as they fixed on the damp spot blooming at the center, the wetness from your arousal making the fabric translucent just enough to hint at the delicate outline of your folds beneath, a teasing shadow that made his mouth water. Todd was delighted at the sight, because removing the last barrier was just one step closer to utterly ruining you for any man who might follow–if you even chose to pursue another.

He knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he’d imprint himself into your very essence, that your walls would memorize the ridges and veins of his cock like it was a sacred text, and that every subsequent lover would pale in comparison, offering mere satisfaction where he would forever embody perfection, woven into the fabric of your desires like an indelible stain.

You could see the way he was looking at you now, the raw hunger etching lines of tension across his features, lust scorching through his irises like blue flames, devouring you whole without a touch. His fingers returned to the waistband of your underwear soon after, tugging gently but insistently, a silent signal for you to lift your hips again so he could strip away this final barrier, the anticipation coiling tighter in the air between you like a spring about to snap.

Quickly, you shifted again from side to side, lifting your hips in subtle, alternating rolls that allowed the cotton to slide down inch by inch, the fabric clinging stubbornly to your damp skin before yielding with a soft, whispering drag. The cool air of the room kissed your newly exposed flesh immediately, a stark contrast to the feverish heat building within you, sending fresh goosebumps rippling across your thighs like a breeze. Todd pulled the fabric down slowly, with a controlled tension that made the process feel like an unveiling, a ritual of exposure that heightened every sensation–the faint stickiness of your arousal trailing along your inner thighs in thin, glistening threads, cooling rapidly and leaving behind a prickling awareness that made your core clench involuntarily.

His eyes devoured the sight of you half-naked before him, the dim fluorescent light casting a soft, ethereal glow over your lower body. There, laid bare, was the evidence of your need: your clit already swollen and flushed, throbbing subtly with each erratic beat of your heart; your folds glistening with a slick sheen of arousal that caught the light in tiny, iridescent sparkles, the wetness pooling at your entrance and trickling downward in lazy rivulets that spoke of how thoroughly he’d unraveled you without even a direct touch; and the tight, fluttering entrance itself, a delicate ring that clenched around nothing, quivering with anticipation as if already imagining the stretch and fill he promised. He could feel his cock twitching in his pants at the sight, a sharp, insistent pulse that strained against the zipper, demanding release–but he needed to control himself, to resist the primal urge to rush forward and claim you in one swift thrust, savoring instead the slow burn of building your desperation to match his own.

Bringing the discarded panties up to his nose, he pressed the damp fabric against his face and inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as the scent enveloped him–a heady, natural musk laced with a subtle sweetness, like ripe summer fruit warmed by the sun and mingled with the faint, earthy tang of your skin. It made his mouth water instantly, saliva pooling under his tongue as if he’d bitten into something forbidden and divine, the aroma so intoxicating it sent a fresh wave of dizziness through him, his eyelids fluttering half-closed in momentary bliss. He exhaled with a low, rumbling groan that vibrated through his chest, then placed the panties on the table beside you with careful precision, the fabric landing with a soft crumple that seemed to echo the crumbling of your last defenses.

”Fuck you smell amazing.” He whispered, leaning in once more to capture your lips in another kiss. This one was softer at first, a gentle reclaiming that built quickly into shared urgency, his mouth slanting over yours with a possessiveness that made your head spin. Your hands rose instinctively to rest on the sides of his torso, fingers splaying over the firm ridges of muscle beneath his dress shirt, the fabric warm and slightly damp from the heat radiating off his body; you pawed at him there, squeezing gently, feeling the solid planes of his obliques flex and shift under your touch, a tactile exploration that grounded you amid the whirlwind of sensation. He reached up then, his hands sliding over your shoulders to push your hoodie off with firm, sweeping motions, the heavy fabric pooling down your arms like shedding a second skin; you pulled back just enough to shrug it free, letting it drop to the floor in a muffled thud, the sudden exposure to the room’s air pebbling your skin further.

Without breaking eye contact, his fingers hooked under the hem of your tank top next, lifting it upward in a slow peel that revealed the expanse of your stomach inch by inch, the cool rush of air teasing your newly bared midriff before he tugged it over your head completely, leaving you in only your white lace bra–a delicate confection of sheer fabric that hugged your breasts like a whisper, the intricate patterns doing little to conceal the shadowed peaks of your nipples pressing insistently against it, hardened into tight buds from the combination of arousal and the room’s chill.

He kissed you deeper this time, his lips claiming yours with a fervor that made stars burst behind your closed eyelids, and as your mouths moved in heated sync, his thumbs traced upward to brush over those swollen nipples through the lace, the friction of the fabric adding a layer of exquisite torment that sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He pinched them gently at first, rolling the sensitive peaks between his fingers with a deliberate twist that earned a sharp gasp from you, the sound vibrating against his lips like a shared secret, your body arching involuntarily into his touch. He continued, pinching and twisting with varying pressure–sometimes light and teasing, sometimes firmer, bordering on a sting that blurred the line between pain and ecstasy–while his palms kneaded the soft fullness of your breasts, the lace rasping against your skin in a way that amplified every sensation, your fingers digging into his sides in response, nails pressing through his shirt to leave faint crescents on his skin as the slight burn settled through you, a delicious ache that only fueled the liquid heat pooling between your thighs.

Then, with a sudden but purposeful motion, he captured one of your hands in his, guiding it downward with a firm yet gentle insistence, pressing your fingers against the throbbing heat of your clit, the contact sending a shockwave through you like touching a live wire, your own touch feeling foreign and electrified under his direction. He pulled away from the kiss just enough to speak, his breath hot and ragged against your lips.

“I want to watch you touch yourself…” He instructed, seeing the way your lashes fluttered at him, a veil of shyness mingling with the haze of desire, your voice emerging soft and hesitant.

“I’ve never done that in front of someone before,”

He gave you a gentle peck, a reassuring brush of lips that lingered just long enough to soothe, his words a velvet murmur. “Just do it for me baby…I want to see…I want to know how you get off…”

You could’ve sworn you felt yourself grow wetter just from the tone in his voice, that sultry sweetness laced with commanding undertones, wrapping around you like silk bonds, coaxing a short, shaky breath from your lungs as you whispered, “Okay…”

He backed away then, grabbing one of the chairs and positioning it directly in front of you with a decisive scrape against the floor. He sat down slowly, spreading his legs wide in a posture of unapologetic dominance, his thighs straining against the fabric of his pants as he settled his hands on his belt, fingers resting there like a promise, his gaze locked on you with an intensity that made your skin flush anew.

He looked down at your hand, mesmerized by the way you gently trailed your fingertips along your clit, the light pressure sending tremors through your body, your breath hitching as you explored the swollen nub with tentative circles. Then, gliding lower, you dipped into the slick warmth of your folds, gathering your arousal onto your fingers–a glistening coat that caught the light like dew on petals–before bringing it back up to the bundle of nerves, rubbing in slow, deliberate spirals that built a rhythm of mounting pleasure. The interaction was intense, erotic, a silent dialogue of exposure and observation; you leaned back against your free hand for support, the wood of the table cool and steady beneath your palm, spreading your legs a little wider to expose more of yourself to his voracious gaze–the way your dripping entrance fluttered around nothing, clenching in rhythmic pulses that begged for fulfillment, the slick pooling beneath you on the table’s surface in a small puddle.

“Fuck, baby…You look so fucking good like that…Keep going,” He urged, his voice rough with restraint, as his hands began to undo his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle echoing through the room like a tolling bell, drawing your eyes downward immediately. He unzipped his pants, the rasp of the zipper a tantalizing prelude, before pushing the fabric down along with his boxers to mid-thigh, exposing his erection in all its imposing glory–far larger than the fleeting encounter you’d known before, thick and veined with a girth that promised a stretch bordering on overwhelming, the length curving slightly upward toward his abdomen. Pre-cum dripped from the reddened, swollen tip, a thin strand connecting to his thigh before breaking as he shifted; from where you perched, you could see the prominent veins mapping the underside like rivers pulsing with life, branching out in intricate patterns that throbbed subtly with each heartbeat, and the neatly trimmed pubic hair at the base, a dark, manicured patch that accentuated his groomed precision, framing him like a work of art. He kept himself impeccably maintained, every detail screaming control and allure, and it only made your core clench harder around nothing, a fresh gush of wetness escaping you as the image of him pushing into you–stretching, filling, claiming–played on a relentless loop in your mind, your fingers faltering for a moment in their rhythm from the sheer intensity of the fantasy.

He wrapped his hand around his cock then, the grip firm as he began stroking slowly, the motion deliberate and unhurried, his thumb swiping over the tip to spread the pre-cum down the shaft in slick, glistening trails that eased the glide, his breath deepening into low, controlled exhales that matched the building tension in the room.

“I want you to finger yourself…” He instructed, motioning to your hand that was still rubbing against your clit, his eyes hooded and fixed on the way your fingers glistened with your own essence.

You obeyed immediately, letting your digits slide through the slick warmth of your folds once more, circling your entrance with two fingers in teasing loops that gathered more arousal, the sensation like silk against silk, before slipping them inside with a slow, deliberate push–the tight heat enveloping them in a velvet grip that made you gasp, your walls fluttering around the intrusion as you began to pump them in and out.

Todd watched on in awe as he continued to fist his cock with measured restraint, the slick sound of his hand gliding over his veined length filling the room like a rhythmic undertone to your breathless symphony. He bit down on his lower lip, jaw clenching to suppress the urge to speed up, to chase the building pressure coiling in his groin–because he didn’t want to cum yet, not without burying himself deep inside you, feeling your walls milk him in ways your fingers could only hint at. But god, the sight of you was testing every ounce of his control: your slender digits plunging in and out of your soaked core with increasing urgency, the wet, obscene squelch echoing like a siren’s call, your arousal coating your fingers in a glossy sheen that dripped down your knuckles and pooled on the table’s edge. Little noises escaped you–soft, involuntary whimpers that started as hushed breaths but grew into keening mewls, each one piercing the air like a delicate arrow, making Todd perk up instantly, his cock twitching in his grip as if responding to your pleas, his free hand gripping the armrest tighter to anchor himself.

“Tell me what you’re feeling, baby…” His voice was a gravelly rasp, thick with the effort of holding back, barely registering in your haze of pleasure; your mind was a swirling fog of sensation, every nerve alight with the building tension, but you summoned the willpower to drag yourself from the brink, your words tumbling out in fragmented whispers.

“Feeling so fucking good…So fucking wet, I…I’m so close…” You whispered, your voice fracturing on the edge of a moan, your core clenching around your fingers in rapid, fluttering spasms that sent electric sparks radiating outward, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping them spread.

“What are you imagining?” He pressed, squeezing the swollen tip of his cock between his thumb and forefinger, a bead of pre-cum welling up anew before he slid his hand back down the shaft in a slow, torturous stroke, the veins pulsing under his palm like live wires.

“Your fingers…Your cock inside of me…I…I want you inside of me so badly.” You were babbling now, the words spilling out in a delirious rush, your free hand clutching the table’s edge for leverage as your hips bucked subtly into your own touch, chasing the elusive peak that hovered just out of reach.

The admission resonated through him like a thunderclap, shattering the last threads of his rhythm; he broke his steady strokes abruptly, rising from the chair with a predatory grace that made the wood creak in protest. In one fluid motion, he closed the distance, his hand shooting out to encircle your wrist–the one buried between your thighs–his grip firm but not bruising, the slick warmth of his pre-cum transferring to your skin in a sticky glide that mingled with your own arousal, sending a forbidden thrill up your arm like liquid fire. He pulled your hand away slowly, deliberately, your fingers emerging with a wet pop that echoed lewdly, strands of your essence stretching and snapping between them like silken threads, leaving your core clenching desperately around the sudden emptiness, a whine of protest bubbling from your throat.

He brought his hand up to your mouth then, cupping it just beneath your chin with his slicked fingers splayed, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pinned you in place.

“Spit,” He commanded, his voice a low, authoritative rumble that brooked no argument, vibrating through you like a bass note that settled low in your belly.

You tilted your head down obediently, parting your lips to let a glistening string of saliva fall from your tongue onto his waiting fingers, the warm droplet pooling in his palm before he withdrew, bringing them back down to your aching core with purposeful intent. He rubbed his saliva-soaked hand against you first, the mixture of your combined essences creating a slippery, heated friction that made your hips jerk involuntarily, his palm grinding against your clit in broad circles that sent shivers up your spine.

“This is what you want, hmm? You want my thick fingers to fuck this pretty little pussy?” He asked, his tone dripping with lust, and you nodded eagerly, desperately, your breath coming in ragged pants as the tips of his pointer and middle fingers pressed against your entrance, teasing the fluttering rim before slipping both in with a slow, inexorable push.

They filled you far more than your own slender digits ever could, the stretch a delicious burn that bordered on overwhelming–his fingers thicker, longer, calloused in ways that added textured ridges to every inch they claimed, nestling deep into your fluttering walls until his knuckles brushed your outer lips. He curled them immediately, the pads rubbing insistently against that rigid, spongy spot inside you that swelled with each precise pass, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating outward. He gave you a gentle peck then, a soft contrast to the intensity below, his lips brushing yours like a whisper before he nipped at your bottom lip, the sharp sting blooming into a throb that mirrored the one between your legs.

“Fuck, Todd, oh god…” You cursed, your voice fracturing into a moan as you squirmed against him, every thrust of his fingers igniting fresh fire along your nerves, your body a live wire arcing under his command.He used his free arm to wrap around the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer, his hold unyielding like iron bands that prevented any escape, trapping you in the maelstrom of sensation as your whines grew louder, more desperate–high-pitched keens that filled the room like music, each one punctuated by the wet, rhythmic slap of his fingers driving into you. Your walls clenched around him in erratic pulses, soaking his hand completely, the slick dripping down his wrist in warm rivulets that cooled on his skin, a messy testament to your unravelling.

“God, you’re going to feel so fucking good around my cock, sweetheart… I’m gonna fucking ruin you…You’re never going to remember your first time after I’m done with you…Cause I’ll be the one that’s ingrained in your mind after this… How would you like that?” He asked, his words a heated growl against your ear, his breath fanning hot across your neck as he leaned in to nibble at the nape, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there in sharp, teasing bites that sent shudders cascading down your spine.

“I…Oh fuck…Todd…I would love it…Erase all of it…Take it from me, replace it all.” You moaned, your voice a fractured plea as his fingers sped up, the pace relentless now, each curl and thrust hitting that swollen spot with unerring accuracy, building the pressure in your core to a fever pitch. Your body writhed against his, the top of your thigh grazing just beneath his cock in accidental brushes that earned low, guttural groans from him, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours. Your walls clenched tighter, a rapid flutter that signaled the edge, soaking his fingers in a fresh gush as you whined and moaned and gasped, your body shaking against him like a leaf in a gale, clutching at his arm with desperate fingers, nails digging into the taut muscle there to leave red crescents in their wake.

He kept thrusting through your climax, drawing out every tremor until the rapid fluttering of your walls eased into languid pulses, only then pulling them out slowly, the withdrawal accompanied by a final, obscene squelch that made your cheeks burn even hotter. He looked down at the mess coating his hand–your release glistening like dew on his skin, strands connecting his fingers as he spread them slightly–before murmuring, “Fucking beautiful…”

Bringing his fingers up to his mouth, he sucked them clean with deliberate slowness, his tongue swirling around each digit to savor the tangy-sweet essence of your release, moaning low in his throat as the flavor burst across his taste buds like nectar. You were panting, chest heaving as you caught your breath, the aftershocks still tingling through your limbs like fading echoes, watching him pull his fingers free with a wet pop before settling them gently against your cheek, the residual warmth and dampness an intimate reminder of what he’d just wrought.

“Open your mouth… I want you to taste yourself off my tongue.” He instructed, and you complied without hesitation, parting your lips as he tilted your head back slightly with his other hand.

He leaned forward, letting his saliva–mingled with traces of you–fall from his mouth in a slow, deliberate string, the warm wetness pooling on your tongue like forbidden ambrosia; you swallowed every drop he gave, the salty-sweet fusion sliding down your throat in a heady rush that made your core twitch anew, before pulling back with a dazed smile, your lips still tingling from the exchange.

“You’re so fucking obedient…You love taking commands, don’t you?” He teased, rubbing his thumb over your lips in lazy circles, tracing the plush curve as if memorizing it, and you nodded, the admission pulling from you like a confession.

“I would only take them…And tolerate them when they’re coming from your mouth.” You replied, your voice husky and breathless, earning a slow, approving smile from him that lit his features.

“That’s what I like to hear…” He praised, leaning in to give you a small kiss, a soft seal of approval that lingered with promise, before pulling back to meet your gaze. “Now, are you ready for my cock?” He asked, searching your face for any flicker of doubt, but finding only unreadable anticipation in your flushed features.

“Yes…Please…Please take me…Use me…Don’t hold back,” You begged, your words a fervent plea, your hands reaching out to clutch at his shirt, your fingers twisting in the fabric.

“I don’t think you know what you’re asking for, baby… You haven’t even experienced a real man before… And you think you’ll be able to handle me when I’m not holding myself back?” He questioned, the tease lacing his voice like velvet over steel, a challenge issued through the haze of your post-orgasmic glow, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

“I want you to do it…I want to feel you at your roughest…I want to know what it’s like…I want you to defile me until I can’t remember my own name…Until you ruin me for everyone else but you…” He smiled at that, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction at how utterly desperate you were for him–so eager, so willing to be taken and reshaped into whatever twisted vision he held, it was almost endearing in its raw vulnerability, a lamb offering itself to the wolf without realizing the depth of the devouring to come. But beneath that flicker of affection, it fed straight into the corruption kink simmering in his core, a thrilling rush at the thought of tarnishing your innocence further, layer by fragile layer, until you were irrevocably his. He leaned in again, capturing your lips in a kiss that started with deceptive gentleness, his mouth brushing yours like a promise of tenderness before deepening into something possessive and consuming, his tongue sweeping in to claim the space, tasting the lingering salt of your earlier surrender mixed with the faint metallic tang from your bitten lip.

As the kiss intensified, your hands slid from his sides to the front of his shirt, fingers trembling with a mix of post-orgasmic haze and burgeoning need, fumbling at the buttons with urgent, clumsy tugs that popped them free one by one. The fabric parted gradually under your touch, revealing the freckled and pale expanse of his chest and stomach–a canvas of smooth, taut skin dotted with constellations of faint brown spots, rising and falling with each controlled breath, the subtle play of muscles beneath, warm and inviting like sun-kissed marble begging for exploration. You traced your fingertips along the newly bared skin, feeling the heat radiating from him, the faint prickle of goosebumps rising in response to your touch, a silent affirmation of how your proximity affected him too.

He mirrored your urgency, his hands sliding up your arms to hook under the delicate straps of your bra, pulling them down with deliberate slowness that made the lace rasp against your shoulders like a whisper of silk on silk, sending shivers cascading down your spine. With a deft flick of his fingers at the clasp behind your back, the band gave way, the garment loosening before he let it slip free entirely, tumbling to the floor in a soft heap of white lace, leaving your breasts exposed to the cool air of the room–a sudden rush that pebbled your nipples tighter, the sensitive peaks aching with the dual torment of chill and arousal. He leaned down immediately, his breath hot against your skin as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to the soft mounds, his lips trailing fire along the curves, tongue flicking out to tease the hardened buds in lazy swirls that drew breathless gasps from you, each one vibrating through his mouth like a reward.

Straightening slightly, he shoved his pants and boxers down in one fluid motion, the fabric pooling at his ankles. He stepped out of them gracefully, kicking the discarded clothing aside with a careless flick that sent it skidding across the floor, his erection springing free once more, heavy and insistent, the tip glistening anew with fresh pre-cum that beaded and threatened to drip. He grabbed your thighs then, his large hands encircling them with possessive firmness, fingers digging into the soft flesh just enough to leave faint imprints as he pulled you abruptly to the edge of the table, the wood scraping slightly against your bare skin with a muted rasp that sent a thrill up your spine.

Positioning himself firmly between your spread legs, the heat of his body enveloping you like a living flame, he guided his thick erection toward you with one hand, the other steadying your hip. He rubbed the swollen tip against your folds first, the velvety head gliding through the slick warmth in teasing strokes that gathered your arousal like nectar, coating him in a glistening sheen that made every nerve in your core ignite with fresh urgency; then, he dragged it upward to circle your clit, smearing his pre-cum along the sensitive nub in deliberate swirls, the combined slickness creating a slippery friction that had you arching toward him, a whimper escaping your lips as electric sparks danced through your veins.

Finally, he lined himself up with your entrance, the broad head nudging against the fluttering rim, and pushed in slowly, inch by torturous inch, the stretch an exquisite burn that filled you utterly–his girth parting your walls with unyielding pressure, every ridge and vein dragging along your inner textures in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids, the sensation like being claimed from the inside out, a delicious invasion that bordered on too much yet promised everything. You whimpered, the sound raw and unfiltered, your eyes squeezing shut tightly against the overwhelming fullness, a mix of sharp sting and profound pleasure that left you breathless, your core clenching instinctively around the intrusion as if to both resist and welcome it.

“You okay?” He asked, his voice a husky murmur laced with genuine concern, pausing midway to let you adjust, his hands soothing along your thighs in gentle strokes that contrasted the intensity below.

You nodded, drawing in a slow, shuddering breath to steady yourself, the air filling your lungs with a cool rush that did little to temper the fire raging within. “Yeah…Just really, really full.”

He let out a little laugh, low and rumbling, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours as he leaned down to kiss along your jaw, his lips tracing the sharp line with featherlight brushes that sent tingles racing across your skin.

“That’s a good thing…I hope you can feel every fucking vein…Every ridge,” He whispered against your ear, his breath hot and teasing, before sinking in fully with one final, slow thrust that buried him to the hilt.

The sudden completeness drew a sharp gasp from you, your body tensing as he filled you entirely, the pressure bordering on overwhelming, every inch of him pressing against spots that ignited fresh waves of sensation. He leaned down further, his mouth finding your neck, kissing the sensitive column with open-mouthed fervor before nipping at the skin there–sharp, deliberate bites that bloomed into stinging warmth, marks that would purple into bruises by morning, a possessive branding that made your pulse race.

Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back to pull him impossibly deeper, the shift angling him just right to brush that swollen ridge inside you with every subtle movement. Your hands slid from his stomach to round his back, your fingers splaying wide to clutch at the broad planes, nails grazing the skin in tentative trails that left faint pink lines in their wake.

He stayed still for a few suspended moments, buried deep, letting the heat of your body envelop him fully, his own breaths coming in controlled pants as he savored the vice-like grip of your walls, the way they fluttered around him like a living pulse. But you couldn’t wait, the fullness too exquisite to bear motionless; you shifted against him, hips rocking in subtle circles that ground your clit against his pubic bone, the friction sending sparks up your spine.

“Todd…Please move…” You begged, your voice a fractured whisper, laced with raw need that made his cock twitch inside you.

He obliged immediately, drawing back slowly at first–the drag of him retreating inch by inch a torturous tease that left you aching for more–before thrusting forward with deliberate control, each push a measured claim that built a rhythm of building intensity. He watched your facial expressions intently, his gaze locked on the way your eyes fluttered with each glide, lashes casting shadows over your cheeks as pleasure washed over you in waves, your lips parting on soft sighs that grew into breathy moans.

The sensation was all-consuming: the slick slide of him filling you anew with every thrust, the heat of his skin against yours, the faint burn where your thighs strained around his waist. Overwhelmed, you leaned forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the heady mix of his cologne and sweat–musky and intoxicating–as you moaned and whimpered into his skin, the sounds muffled but vibrating through him like a secret language.

He continued thrusting, his pace steady and deep, hands roaming your body with possessive sweeps–gripping your hips to angle you just so, fingers digging into the soft flesh to hold you steady as he drove into you, the table creaking faintly under the force. But he didn’t like the way you hid from him, the denial of seeing your unraveling up close; with a low growl, he murmured against your skin, “Sweetheart, be a good girl and look at me while I’m fucking you… Look at me while I take you.”

He punctuated the words with a sharp bite to the crook of your neck, teeth sinking in just enough to sting without breaking skin, the pain blooming into a throbbing heat that made you gasp, your body jolting against him. His hand fisted in your hair at the roots, the pull firm and commanding, tilting your head back to grant him more space; he explored the exposed column with his mouth, trailing sloppy kisses and licks up the sensitive skin, his tongue flicking along the chain of your necklace, breathing heavily to inhale the faint cherry scent imprinted on your body like a signature he couldn’t get enough of.

Pulling back slightly, he looked at you, noting how your eyes remained closed, lost in the haze; he tightened his grip in your hair, the tug sending a fresh zing from your scalp down your spine, and leaned forward, whispering hot against your lips, “I’m going to stop fucking you if you don’t open your eyes, baby…I want to see you…”

Immediately, you let out a small, desperate whine, the threat cutting through the fog, and forced your eyes open to meet his–your gaze hazy and unfocused at first, but locking onto the stormy blue of his irises, the intensity there mirroring the storm raging within you.

“That’s it…Now tell me…Who’s making you feel this good?” He instructed, thrusting harder now, the force jolting through you like a shockwave, his hips snapping forward with a precision that hit deep and unrelenting. You gasped, the air punched from your lungs, your walls clenching around him in reflexive spasms.

“You…Fuck, Todd…You’re making me feel this good.”

He smiled then, a grin of triumph that lit his features with wicked satisfaction, his thrusts maintaining that punishing rhythm as you scratched at his back–nails raking down the smooth planes in urgent trails, leaving raised red lines that burned pleasantly under his skin, a mark of your claim that only spurred him on. One hand slid down between you, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with firm, insistent pressure, the calloused pad rubbing in tight spirals that made you arch into him sharply, your breasts pressing flush against his chest, the friction of skin on skin amplifying every sensation–the pebbled hardness of your nipples dragging against his freckled torso like sparks on kindling.

“And who does this pussy belong to? Who owns it now?” He asked, his voice a ragged growl as he thrust harder, faster, his breaths coming in short, heated pants that fanned across your collarbone, the sound of skin slapping against skin–a wet, rhythmic percussion–mingling with the symphony of your shared moans and the creak of the table beneath you.

“You. It belongs to you… Oh fuck. You feel so fucking good, Todd…” You whined, the words dissolving into a loud moan as your walls clenched around him again, the pressure coiling tighter, a live wire ready to snap. He could feel you teetering on the edge, the way you fluttered around him in erratic pulses, gripping him like velvet vice; he sped up his thrusts, pounding into you relentlessly now, each drive a claim that shook your body, the table groaning under the force as he chased his own release, the heat building in his abdomen like a gathering storm.

“I need you to come all over my cock, baby…I need you to soak it…Claim it as your own.” He commanded, his thumb pressing harder against your clit, the circles frantic now, pushing you over the precipice.

That was all it took–the coil snapping with violent intensity, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, vision blurring at the edges as ecstasy ripped through you, your walls shattering around him in convulsive waves that milked his length, cries of his name spilling from your lips in broken sobs. Your nails dug deeper into his back, scratching down in desperate furrows that broke skin in places, the sting a distant pleasure amid his own unraveling; he shuddered against you, burying his face into your neck as the tightness, the gushing wetness enveloping him, sent him spiraling over the edge soon after.

He spilled inside you with hot, thick ropes of cum that seemed endless, each pulse twitching through his cock as he groaned your name low and guttural, the sound muffled against your skin, his hips stuttering through the final thrusts until he was spent, holding you close so you felt every minute of it–the warmth flooding you, the subtle throb as he softened slightly but remained buried deep.

The two of you stayed wrapped up in each other for a few suspended minutes, bodies slick with sweat and trembling with aftershocks, panting in perfect sync as the room’s hum faded back into awareness. Todd let out a long sigh and shifted first, gently pulling himself from your embrace to look at you, his eyes searching yours with a softness that contrasted the ferocity of moments ago, taking in the dick-drunk haze glazing your eyes as you peered up at him, utterly satiated and vulnerable.

“Is it always supposed to feel that good?” You asked, your voice a whisper laced with wonder, still catching your breath.

He let out a small laugh, warm and affectionate, reaching up to hold the crucifix between his fingers, twirling the warm metal absently as he replied, “We can go another round in a few minutes and I can show you…”

You nodded eagerly, the prospect igniting a fresh spark despite your exhaustion. “That would be perfect.” You murmured, reaching up to push a few stray hairs from his face.

todd sees you. you’re wearing a cute set, not revealing too much for any wandering eyes, but definitely complementing your figure. todd’s eyes go wide and he’s making quick steps to you and wrapping his hands around your waist.

he pulls you into his arms, head nuzzling into your neck, leaving an infinite number of kisses on your neck.

“todd!”

“you look really good right now fuck—did i ever tell you that you look good all the time angel?”

you’re suddenly flustered, your heart beating fast as you feel your face warm up. you try to maintain a calm tone as you speak. key word being try, because your voice comes out way more shakey then you expected.

“we gotta go todd! the party’s gonna start soon—and oh—“

todd leaves a blooming mark on your neck, and your skin burns with the feeling of his teeth on your neck.

you and todd didn’t really do hickeys, or any marking in general. you’ve never received one before either—well a proper one anyways.

todd’s lips move down your neck, nipping at your skin like a man starved. you’re laughing weekly, but warmth floods to your core.

“todd….”

he’s soothing the mark he made with his tongue, giving it a peck before meeting your eyes. he lets out that stupid sly smile that has your heart reeling. like he’s sorry, but not really.

“cmon let’s go. they’re waiting on us.”

todd’s taking a step towards the door when you stop him, grabbing his wrist.

“ten more minutes….?” you look at him intently, hopefully he would get your message,

thankfully he does. todd might not be the smartest, but he can always catch on sex clues. especially when it comes to you.

“you’re getting bold on me angel.”

“m’not, just want you that’s all….” you’re trailing off, eyes wandering to his lips.

todd’s laughing before pulling you in for a slow kiss. todd’s reveling in the feeling of your lips on his, tongue entering your mouth with a slowness that makes you ache.

he’s pulling you close to him, tugging you with a rough grip on your skirt. you’re so close to him you can feel his hardening bulge. you wrap your hands around his neck as his forehead rests against yours. todd takes in a deep breath, breathless from kissing you.

“todd…” you whisper.

“yes?” he punctuates his sentence with a kiss to your cheek.

“can i….um….suck you off?” your hands come back to sides looking away from him.

his finger finds your chin, forcing it up so you can meet his eyes.

“didn’t hear you angel. what is it?”

your heart is pounding, your mind is racing, but todd’s deep gaze into your eyes calm you.

“can i suck you off?”

“of course.” he’s smiling slyly again, your heart reacts the same way it always does.

todd’s eyes glaze over with lust, and he watches in real time as your eyes do the same. how your breath quickens and how you suddenly gain confidence.

todd starts slow, bringing his thumb to enter your mouth.

“show me how you’ll suck my cock angel. gotta teach you before you start right?”

“uh huh.” you mumble around the digit in your mouth.

todd brings his thumb in and out of your mouth, watching as you suck on his thumb. you twirl your tongue around and he’s letting out a groan of praise.

“yes just like that angel. you want another one?”

you shake your head yes, mouth opening to let him in.

todd takes out his thumb to put both his pointer and middle in your mouth. you relish around the feeling of his fingers, tongue twisting around them as you suck harder.

todd begins fucking his fingers in and out your mouth, and you let out a quiet moan in response.

“i think you’re all good now.” todd’s letting out his fingers, groaning at the line of spit from his fingers. he puts his own fingers in his mouth, tasting your saliva.

deft fingers suddenly hike up your skirt.

“todd what are you doing?”

“gonna make you feel good first. you’re being such a good girl for me angel.”

his hands tease against the front of your underwear and your hands grip onto his shoulders for support. the little fuck is teasing you, and he’s enjoying it. that fucking sly smirk.

his fingers find your clit, rubbing so softly you’re grabbing his hands, pushing them harder onto your clit.

“mmm desperate are we?”

“todd cmon.”

“sorry angel, you’re just too easy to tease.”

he slides your underwear over, easily entering a finger into you. you groan softly as his slender finger enters. he begins fucking in and out of you, lips teasing right below your jawline.

he’s fucking his finger in and out of you, and your quiet groans grow louder. but you need more.

“m-more please. please toddy.”

he looks up from your jaw, smiling at your greed. he enters in a another finger, watching how your mouth makes a tiny o shape as you moan desperately.

“my pretty pretty girl. gonna cum for me like this?”

you nod your head vigorously, unable to answer him because of good his fingers feel inside you.

“faster?”

you nod again, lips finding his. his fingers piston in and out of you, hitting your g-spot with ease, much different from when you use your own. todd’s fingers feel so good and the fact that it’s his makes you moan louder.

todd pulls away from you to kiss your neck. he’s biting again and you know he’s leaving another hickey, this time right on your cleavage.

“cum for me and you can suck my cock angel. cmon cum for me.”

“oh todd! oh my god—“ your orgasm hits, pleasure setting you alight. you tremble in his grasp. todd always makes you feel so good.

“good job.” he takes his fingers out of you, sucking on your juices. you moan softly at the sight.

your eyes trail down to his now hard cock, tenting through his jeans like it was nothing.

“you ready angel?”

you let a tiny “uh huh”, going down to your knees.

you rest your head against his crotch, feeling up his bulge with your hand. todd’s hands find your hair, rubbing your head softly. you leave a kiss straight to his clothed cock, relishing when you hear todd gasp slightly.

maintaining eye contact you slowly take off his belt, gently placing it on the ground.

“you look beautiful like this for me. all on your knees for me.”

your heart beats faster with todd’s words. you’re unbuttoning his jeans, tugging it down with his boxers. his cock springs up and you swear you can feel yourself soak your underwear.

just like he taught you the other week, you spit in your hand, slowly jerking him off to begin.

“you’re so pretty toddy.” you say as you trace a vein with your tongue.

now todd’s heart is stuttering. you’re going so painfully slow on him, and he’s utterly desperate for your mouth that the feeling your tongue has him doubling over. but his groan? that’s entirely from you calling him pretty. never did other girls call him pretty, or ever take their time sucking him off.

“cmon angel put me in your mouth.”

you smile before slowly wrapping your lips around him. inch by inch he enters your mouth. you’re gagging slightly but you want him so bad that you just take it. breathing slowly to calm your body down.

once you’ve reached the halfway point you immediately pull out, breathing heavily.

“yes just like that angel. you’re going soso good for me—“

you put him back in your mouth, this time letting his cock enter your mouth faster. todd curses, grabbing your hair for support. this time you put all him in you, whining when you reach the base of his cock.

you repeat this process again and again, going in and out until you’re used to his size. todd’s not quiet during this, moaning, praising you.

you start bobbing your mouth up and down his cock, hands moving to fondle his balls.

“oh angel! fuckfuckfuck—!” todd’s cumming down your throat, whining your name as his high shakes him.

this is the first todd’s said your name during sex. the first time he didn’t call you angel as he came.

something has changed. even you can tell because he’s never done this before. what was todd trying to do to you? because you were falling hard.

you pull off his length with a pop, standing up to kiss him. you kiss him roughly, hands cupping his face.

“i think you killed me angel. are you sure that’s your first time? fuck.”

“yes todd.” you say with a giggle. “cmon we gotta get downstairs.” the two of you fix yourselfs, heading out his room hand in hand.

the party is it at its height now. the KNA house is jam packed, and it smells like alcohol and sweet. truthfully you’d rather be anywhere but here right now. you wish that it was one of those nights where todd was at your place. where the two of you watched some stupid rom com and you lazily made out with him like it was second nature. which would lead to you riding him into the night. the way that people in a casual relationship definitely do.

you’re not isolated at this party per say, you’re surrounded by your friends. all of you are huddled the common area, you sitting on the couch chair with your friends huddled around. but it’s so loud, and your drinks warm now. you’re pouting without you realizing it.

“what’s wrong with you?” annabelle asks.

annabelle blossom is your closest friend. she recently joined you and tom’s study group when they started.. talking? fucking? quickly the two of you got close.

“wish i was home right now.” you laugh at yourself. you leave out the part where you wish it was you and todd at your apartment.

“missing your boy toy?” she asks, grin evident.

“hey! what about your boy toy?”

“right behind her.” tom says. well speak of the fucking devil. now you’re really gonna be bored for the rest of the night.

“bye annabelle….see you later.”

“how’d you know i was even gonna go?”

“i’ve been watching you two eye fuck each other all night.”

the pair of them laugh before heading out.

your eyes dart around lazily, trying to find something interesting to look at. you find it. todd. todd with a giggling touchy girl.

she’s smiling, flipping her hair, and her cleavage is basically popping out of her shirt. and she’s fucking beautiful.

you’d feel insecure if it wasn’t for the boiling jealousy building in your blood. she touches his shoulder. you miss how todd backs away, eyes darting toward you. but you’re too jealous looking at them. a thought fills your head.

“why is she touching him like that?”

why is this watching them infuriating? why do you even care? the way it’s supposed to be is that todd can fuck anyone else he wants and you’re supposed to be fine. you think again to hannah from last week.

“and i know for a fact he hasn’t slept with anyone else since you.”

he makes it so hard not to fall.

you snap out of your trance, and see that todd’s looking straight at you. the giggling girl is nowhere to be seen too. the way he looks at you makes you feel like the only girl in the world. like you’re the only one for him.

but you’re not. and there will be other girls. you aren’t special, and hannah could not know that you are. hell how would she know his sex life?

you break your eyes away, beelining it straight to the drink cooler outside.

the door to the back porch is on the other side of the house, but you don’t mind walking, even if you’re tired and legs ache. you just want to get away. and this side of the house is relatively more quiet.

your mind is so scrambled you bump straight into someone. mitch. you didn’t know mitch well, and you didn’t like him much either. the way he interacted with others was rude, and he was always cussing some pledge out.

mitch’s drink spills directly onto his shirt, but mostly getting on you. he’s drunk and angry. that you can tell by the way he sways around and slurs his words like an idiot.

“oh my god! shit i’m so sorry mitch—“

“what the fuck! this shirt costs way more than—oh it’s you.”

“what?”

“todd’s little fucking slut. get the fuck out of this house! he’s not gonna love you because you whore yourself out to him every day.”

“shut up mitch.” your eyes are welling up, but you can’t stand him talking to you like this. you won’t take it.

“no you fucking shut up! i’m so sick of you coming and going out of this house, you’re messing up KNA you know that? you’re delusional and fucking crazy.”

“what is your problem with me? what did i even—“

“mitch what the fuck?!” here comes tom, annabelle trailing behind.

the pair of them start cussing him out and you take that as your cue to leave. you don’t bother going out the front door, you just grab a drink and head towards your apartment from the backyard.

thank god the walk to your place from the KNA house is ten minutes, five if you speed walk. it’s cold, and your lack of warm clothes is making you shiver bitterly into the night.

the beer you’re nursing helps you calm down, but you still feel the tears escape your eyes. for the first time you’re crying about todd. you’re so stupid. incredibly stupid for letting yourself fall for todd stevens.

todd’s laughing with his friends when the commotion of yelling gets his attention.

what the fuck is going on?

todd follows the noise, finding mitch and tom arguing….? he knows the pair to be close, so to find them arguing is a surprise.

“what’s going on?” todd gets between the two of them.

mitch growls in anger before walking off, not before flipping off tom.

“tom what the hell happened? why can i hear you guys from the other side of the fucking house?”

tom says your name, and todds heart drops.

“look he called her a bunch of things—a whore, stuff like that. because of you. said something like ‘he’s not gonna love you because you whore yourself out every day’”

tom’s last sentence plays in his head over and over again.

his head spins. he knows you too well. he knows that you probably let what mitch said get to your head. he had to find you, now.

“where is she?”

“what?” tom’s shaken, not feeling good after yelling at his best friend.

“where the hell is she? she can’t just disappear tom. i will deal with mitch after this.”

“i don’t know she disappeared when me and annabelle come over here. i think annabelle is trying to call her.”

annabelle walks up, phone in her hands.

“she’s not picking up. she always answers my calls.” she says, worried tone clearly evident,

“do you think she would walk back to her dorm?” tom asks her.

“i mean maybe? but in this weather?”

todd interrupts them.

“i’m going. tom tell everyone the party’s over.”

todd’s slipping out of the house, vaguely making out noises of his fellow brothers yelling that the party was over. as he pulls his jacket on, his only thought is you.

because from the beginning, it’s always been you, and no one but you. todd realized this when he started kissing you slower, more gentler because he didn’t want every encounter with you to be sexual. he realized when he slyly came around wherever you were “coincidentally”. he realized the first night he just held you, the sound of you breathing lulling him to sleep.

but tonight would be the first time he would do something about it. do something about the feelings he thought he was making obvious. instead of just showing you, he would tell you.

todd’s running down the sidewalk, thinking of his first memory of you in his bed. he’s holding you after making you cum so hard you shook in his grasp, and you’re threading your fingers through his hair. gently, softly, and todd’s heart beat a little faster.

it beat a little faster everyday after that. he liked the sex with you, but it was the way that you treated him after that had him enamored. like he mattered.

and slowly, he fell for you.

you kick your shoes off, shutting the door behind you. tonight was something. you laugh at yourself for running away. you could’ve stayed, could’ve just went back to todd’s room, but you ran back all the way home.

a knock interrupts you from thinking further.

“what the hell..?”

and there it is. todd. calling your name, asking if you’re there. he followed you. he cares.

you want to ignore it, you really do. but you wanna hear todd’s voice. you just want him to hold you to bed.

so you go against your own wishes to run away. you unlock the door and open it, revealing todd, slightly out of breath and disheveled.

he immediately notices that you’ve been crying. his hands immediately find your face, cupping your cheeks and brushing the wet remnants of your tears.

“whatever he said to you, whatever the hell he did, i’m gonna fucking kill him.“

“todd…” your hearts racing, because todd clearly cares. he came and found you, he’s here, outside your apartment and touching you like you’re going to shatter if he isn’t gentle.

“it’s not fucking true. mitch is a fat fuck who doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” his accent comes out, signaling to you that he was pretty pissed.

woah okay, now you have to calm todd down.

you gently place todd’s hands off your face, instead holding them between your own. you peck todd on the lips in an attempt to calm him.

“thanks for finding me toddy. but you gotta calm down. mitch is just stupid and—“

“i’m not done yet angel.”

“huh?”

“i like you. and im a fucking idiot for not doing anything about it sooner. because i think…i always have. mitch is a fucking idiot, who doesnt know jack shit. because i already love you, every little part. i don’t need the sex to know that i do and—“

“wait—you love me?”

your eyes against your will start watering. because after all this time, after feeling like a constant idiot for falling, he felt just the same.

todd’s caught off guard by what he said, but he means it.

“yeah—i do. you don’t have to say it back angel, just wanted to tell you.”

you give a teary smile before kissing him. todd’s smiling too, thumbs coming up to rub your tears away.

“cmon let’s go inside angel. let me hold you to bed.”

todd waits for you on the couch, watching some action movie as you take a shower. when you’re done you come up to him in his shirt.

“so that’s where my shirt is huh? little fucking thief….” todd’s chucking as he pulls you onto his lap with ease.

“god you’re so cute. don’t know how i didn’t tell ya i loved you sooner.” he starts pressing the gentlest and chastest of kisses all over your face. smile growing brighter when you start laughing.

“todd!”

“what do you wanna watch angel? unless you wanna go to sleep?”

“let’s go to bed toddy, i—really missed you today.”

“okay. we can do that. just let me change first okay?” he punctuates his sentence with a kiss to your nose.

todd changes into some of the clothes he left at your apartment, even using the toothbrush he leaves over here. you realize that so much of todd is at your apartment.

his clothes, his toothbrush, occasionally a pair of shoes gets left behind, hell his fucking school bag stays at your place because he doesn’t wanna do schoolwork at the frat house (he just wanted to be around you that’s why he told you that.).

“todd you have so much stuff here.”

todd chuckles at your statement.

“yeah and you have a lot at mine. i think you left your entire makeup bag there. and all of your lace panties….”

“no! i’m wearing a pair right now…”

todd at that literally jumps into the bed. hiking up your shirt to reveal them. he leaves a kiss to your hipbone, thumbs rubbing at the lace material.

“you’re such a tease. and to think i just wanted to hold you tonight. my angel wanted to get fucked huh?”

“mhm….i want you todd.”

todd moves up the bed so now that he’s face to face with you.

“is that why you didn’t wanna watch a movie either?”

you nod your head quietly, a little shameful about how much you wanted todd now that he was here.

“i would tonight angel, but im so tired. you forgot i ran the entire ten minutes here to come find you.”

“oh okay—“ todd sees your little pout of rejection and he’s immediately melting for you.

“i’m joking with you angel—let me make you feel good.”

todd’s lips meet yours, tongue entering your mouth with ease. his hands come to rub your tits. groping them as your mouth opens in a soft moan.

todd then moves on top of you, hands sliding up your shirt, hiking it up to reveal your tits.

“such pretty little tits. god i love your body. everything about you.”

he sucks on an erect bud, relishing in your moans as he swirls his tongue. he pulls off to rub at them, and your reaction is nothing short of beautiful.

“todd…” you’re writhing below him, eyes closed as your hips move, desperate for pressure against your clit.

“sorry angel, i just love seeing you squirming for me. do you want my fingers tonight? or do you want me to fuck you?”

“m’ want you to fuck me. but i wanna ride you toddy.”

“you sure angel?”

“uh huh. wanna do it properly.”

todd suddenly flips you around, you seated nicely on his lap. he doesn’t even know why you’re still so shy at this point. the two of you have seen so much of each other.

you close your eyes, huffing out a breath before siding down todd’s pajama pants.

you’re surprised when his cock springs up.

“knew i was gonna take them off anyways….” he gives you a sly smile, and you’re giggling. you slide off your panties, throwing them at todd’s face as you readjust yourself right below his aching cock.

todd scoffs jokingly at the pair of underwear on his face, taking them off as he chuckles.

“next time i should gag you with your pretty little panties huh?”

“mhm todd…”

you take todd’s cock, carefully teasing your clit with the tip. and god—it feels so good. you were trying to slip him in but when his cock caught on your clit, you began to chase that feeling.

“fuck…that’s so hot angel.”

“oh my god todd! feels so good—“

“make yourself cum for me angel, be a good girl and rub your clit with my cock.”

todd’s tip is leaking and it feels so fucking good. but at this angle it’s so hard, and this position is straining your legs. so you have to cry out to todd, beg him to do all the hard work for you.

“toddy… m’ tired…”

“my spoiled angel always getting taken care of she doesn’t know how to do it herself, how cute.”

he flips you over again with ease. todd’s huffing from above you, taking his hard cock and rubbing it against your puffy clit.

“shit—that feels so good angel.”

“oh todd right there, please. yes!”

with one final nudge to your clit you’re cumming.

as you cum, todd slips himself inside. he slides in all the way, letting out a broken moan from you.

“you know it’s funny angel. everytime you want to take control you just end up giving it back to me.”

“because you’re too good toddy, always need you.”

“oh shit i forgot about the condom—you just felt too good—hold on—“

you stop todd, your hand on his wrist.

“want to feel you todd. cum in me?”

“anything for you angel.”

another harsh thrust and both of you are nearly falling apart. you clench around todd harder, and he’s cumming around you with a groan. todd begins rubbing your clit too, desperate for you to cum with him.

“give it to me, cmon cum for me angel.”

and with his command the two of you cum loudly around each other. you pull todd closer to you, legs wrapping around his waist. you pull todd in for a heated kiss, the two of you moaning against each other.

“todd?”

“hmm?”

“i love you.”

“i’m literally still inside you angel. i don’t think now’s the best time—“

you shut him up with a kiss to his lips.

“no not because we just fucked! you just always take care of me so good, and i really fucking love you and—“

todd shuts you up this time, kissing you softly.

“i love you too.”

you don’t let todd get up to clean up. instead wrapping your arms around him so he can’t go. because if it’s one thing he can’t resist, it’s your hugs.

“angel cmon we’re gonna be all dirty…”

“no toddy. we can clean tomorrow, just hold me.”

so he holds you. because you were right he would do anything for his angel.

he looks at you, his blue eyes narrowing at you. a hint of annoyance swirling in them but it doesn’t stop the growing smile he can’t stop. he wants to be upset, mad even, show you that you can’t get under his skin but, if he was honest with himself, that’s all he wanted.

you give him a challenging smile, “stop biting them,” you mouth to him, your leg moves across the floor and knocks against his bouncing leg, making it stop, “stop.”

he sits forward, arms crossing on the table in front of him. he opens his mouth and moves his arm forward- knocking over your open water bottle onto the table. he shuts his mouth with a quiet hum.

he stands, walking over to the older lady at the check in and our desk, asking her something and her pointing to exit of the library. todd doesn’t look back to you as he walks out of the doors, you follow him though, you always do. and you knew he knew that.

you go out the doors walking down the hallway,

and turning the corner, coming face to face with todd who leans on the wall. his arms crossed over his chest, his head leaning against the wall too. a grin on his face.

“knew you’d follow me,”

you shrug, “you made a mess. was just going to help you clean it up,”

he squints at you but ultimately believes you, pushing off the wall and turning to the small supply closet beside him. he opens it and walks through, holding it open for you. once you take the door, he lets go walking into the small space, very small space.

you leans against the doorframe, “sorry i spilt you water,” he tells you as he searches for the paper towels, “wasn’t watching what i was doing,”

“seemed like you wanted to get your hands on me,” you tease him, giving a small laugh, “was almost done with it anyway.” you step forward.

“don’t let the door-“ the door clicks shut behind you. you reach for the knob and jerk it but it stalls. it’s locked.

you hear him sigh and your put your hand against you mouth, keeping in a laugh, “i’m sorry,” you wince, “i didn’t know it would lock.”

“uhh it’s alright, we’ll figure it out,”

you can feel his back brushing against the front of your body, there wasn’t a whole lot of space in this closet. you turn around, your hip hitting his ass, you search in the dark for a light and flip on the switch when you feel it.

and sure enough, your chest is against the door and you back pressed against todd’s. you can feel the ghost of his hand on your waist as he turns and you can hear him grunt.

todd regretted turning around. he didn’t know what he was thinking. if your hip touched him just from you turning around what made him think your perfect ass wouldn’t be against… him. he just hoped you couldn’t hear the way his heart started thrumming loudly in his chest.

he tries to take a step back but his back just hits a wall… immediately. he curses under his breath and rubs his forehead with his fingers. his mind racing between what he could do to get you both out of this closet and how he could get you to stop squirming around.

you move the knob again, “it’s not giving,”

“it’s not going to,” he tells you with a scary clam in his voice.

“how do we get out? just start banging on the door? barely anyone is in the library, not to mention it’s so far from this closet. what are we going to do?”

“relax, it’s not like we’ll be stuck here forever. the front desk lady knows i went to get paper towels. she’ll…” he clears his throat as you absentmindedly press back into him, “come open it soon.”

you put a hand out on the door, taking a deep breath. you needed to think about anything else than being trapped in here with him. your mind would begin to wander about his hands on you, his lips leaving trails on your neck and your body against his-

“were you getting any work done?” you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to think of anything expect his warmth radiating off of him.

“yeah, yeah. a good bit,”

“looked like you were doing more work on your fingers than your actual assignments,” you try the joke, saying it with a light laugh.

“i was getting some things done before you interrupted me and my hand, i was quite focused, really, and then you distracted me- i need you to stop moving.” his demand was a loud and firm, but you could hear the whine, the plead laced in his words.

“i’m sorry! there isn’t much room in here,” you frown, “i can’t get comfortable” your squirm more, “if i didn’t let the door close behind…” you mumble letting your words trial off, “i’m sorry,” you apologize again.

“it’s okay, just stop moving. please,” you can hear the shake beginning to sound deep in his voice.

“you okay?” you tease him.

“yeah, i-“ you move again, “please,” his hand grips your hip, “stop moving,”

this time you press back on him on purpose. he says your name as a warning. you never did listen to him so easily though.

“what’s wrong toddy? don’t like-“

his hands grip your hips tighter and pulls you against him tight. his hands rush to the button of your pants at your waist. he undoes the button, pulled down the zipper and shoves the pants down to your knees.

his hand cups you between your thighs, a wetness already covering his palm. his other hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back. he lifts his hand, showing you your own wetness.

“all this while we were sittin’ down? were you doing anything except watching me?” his hand goes back down to cup you, two of his fingers pushing into your entrance.

you moan but keep your lips sealed tight, “mm mm,” you shake your head, “was getting a lot done,”

“oh i’m sure sweetheart,” he drags his fingers from your walls up to your clit, rubbing small, slow circles.

you whine at the slowness, the ache building in you making your skin hot and your mind foggy.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, “thought you wanted me to other work with my fingers? this still isn’t good enough?” he ticks his tongue, “guess i’ll try something else,”

his hand leaves your hair, and you lean your forehead against the door. your breath heavy as he keeps his painfully slow, movements at your clit. his hand undoes his khakis and pulls them down, he places his hand on your back, pushing your torso down. your cheek now against the door.

todd lines himself up, pushing into you at a such a slow pace that it’s almost agonizing. the stretch always surprising you.

“ah… shit- todd,” your voice came out louder than intended. his hand on your back lays itself on your shoulder and pulls you back up, his hand on your clit moving to your cheek. his fingers that are soaked with you brush against your lips.

“open,” his raspy voice whispers. at the slightest gasp his two fingers slide into your mouth. your mouth closes around them, slightly sucking at them. “good girl, now stop moving,”

his hand in your mouth keeps you quiet as his hips pick up a pace, he knew there wasn’t much time before someone came looking so the needed to make it quick. his hand on your shoulder moves to bend at your hips between your hip and thigh.

as he thrusts into you, he pulls you back by your hip, moving you quickly on him. he can feel you tightening around him, twitching and almost trembling.

“feelin good as always sweetheart. god i can never get enough of you,”

your tongue moves around his fingers, your saliva coating them now. your moans vibrating against them. he snaps his hips once making you cry out.

“todd!” you mumble against his fingers, “oh my god you-“ he pulls his fingers out quickly only to cover your whole mouth with his hand.

“gotta be quiet baby, someone might hear us,” you whimper into his hand, giving his palm a small kiss.

he moves quick again, keeping his own moans quiet. he moves the hand at your hip to between your thighs, his fingers back on your clit. a few circles and you falling against the door, completely coming undone on him. your walls clutching around him, making his own release build.

he pulls you close, pulling you up right so his lips can latch to your neck. he plants his lips to your neck, muffling his groans as he comes in you.

you shake against him as your high dwindles out, his own following suit. he pulls out of you slowly, gently turning your body so you lean against the door.

he kneels before you, his forehead leans against your thigh while he catches his breath. then his hands are opening your thighs and his tongue is dragging across the inside of them. he cleans you up with his own mouth.

a knock disturbs the peace you’ve both created, “oh dear!” an older woman’s voice sounds, “did you accidentally get locked in there?”

a quick kiss to your thigh and todd stands, his voice slipping into his perfect frat president tone.

“yes ma’am,” he says your name, “came to help me out and i let the door close us.” as talks he pulls your pants up, buttoning them and pulling the hem of your shirt down, trying to make it look like he didn’t just fuck you in a supply closet.

“oh my!” she exclaims. todd pulls his own pants up, fixing him before buttoning them.

you turn around, trying to hide the smile on your face as the door opens. todd is quick to grab the paper towels beside him.

“thank you so much, was getting stuffy in there,” you say to the woman, “apologies,”

“no dear i’m terribly sorry, should’ve let you know the door would do that,” though she’s almost certain she told todd.

todd’s hand lightly taps your ass and you step forward, “thank you ma’am, won’t happen again. come on,” he nods to the library while

It wasn't even midnight yet and everyone was already laughing too loud at jokes that weren’t told and trying not to fall as they stumbled through the party holding onto their friend’s arm. There was a couple or two drunkenly making out so vigorously you wouldn’t be surprised if they suddenly decide to rip their clothes off and just go at it on the couch.

This party definitely isn’t your usual scene. But you weren’t here for yourself. Your roommate Kheyla had practically begged you to tag along once she heard of the party. Oh, and the fact that Todd Stevens wouldn’t leave you alone until you agreed to stop by.

---

“I can feel your eyes on me, Stevens.”

You could feel his smirk on you as you started to pack up your things from the bench you’d been sitting on in the courtyard on campus, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You fought a smile as he walked in front of you, stopping you in place, “There’s a party at KNA next week.”

“Ok?” You deadpanned, raising a brow that asked him why you should care.

He spoke like what he was saying was obvious, “So… you should come.”

You shrugged, “Nah.” You brushed past him, but he followed you.

His brows furrowed as he asked, “Why not?”

“Frat parties aren’t my scene.”

Todd chuckled, “What is your scene then?”

“Anything that doesn’t involve trying to dodge drunken college students from vomiting all over my shoes. Oh, and speaking to egotistical frat guys. Yep, definitely don’t want to do that.”

Todd stopped walking at your comment, biting his lip like he wanted to say something, but he shook it off, sending you a cocky grin, “You’re funny. Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“What’s not that bad?”

Your roommate Kheyla was suddenly smiley at your side; you must not have heard her calling your name. You were supposed to meet up for coffee between classes.

“Oh nothing-”

“KNA’s Christmas party. You both should come. It’ll be lots of fun.” He’s smirked at you. That bastard. You hated how hot he looked with that smug look on his face.

“Oh, hell yes! We will be there. We will totally be there.”

“Kheyla-”

“Great,” Todd nodded at you turning to walk away as he called out, “I’ll see ya there.”

You flipped him the bird. His laugh echoed through the campus.

“Oh, he’s so into you.”

“Kheyla-”

“Did you not see the way he was looking at you? Girl he’s in love.”

You rolled your eyes, “Todd Stevens does not like me. We’re not even friends. I can’t stand him and that cocky grin. And don’t even get me started on that stupid frat of his.”

Kheyla laughed at your attempts to insult him, but the only seemed to convince her more. “Don’t you guys study together, like, all the time?”

“I study alone. He just somehow always ends up sitting nearby me in the library.”

She sent you a teasing smile, “Yes, somehow.”

You ignored her comment because honestly, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find Todd attractive.

He was charismatic, charming, and practically had every girl and boy on campus fawning over him. And those eyes. Those godforsaken blue as the ocean eyes that seemed to be almost calling out to you every time you met his gaze in class. Like he was trying to say so many things without uttering a word.

---

You somehow lost Kheyla the minute you walked through the doors. You recall her saying she was going to go grab your two drinks, but it’s been over a half hour and you’re 99% sure it doesn’t take that long to get a beer.

You sigh, bored out of your mind as you search for a familiar face at the party. You try to ignore the little twinge of disappointment you feel when you don’t see Todd anywhere. You see Tom and Mitch, some of his frat brothers in the distance, but no one else you recognize. You reach down, getting your phone out of your bag, ready to text Kheyla that you were heading home when you suddenly collide with a hard chest.

A red faced, unusually giggly Todd in a Santa hat that’s about to fall off is what greets you, “Heyyy, you made it.” He pulls you into a surprise hug. You squeak as your face is pushed into his chest, not sure what to do with your arms as you awkwardly pat him on the back.

You’re not used to Todd being so… affectionate with you. You pull back just enough to be face to face with him. “Was waiting for you,” Todd is suddenly serious as he speaks. Well, trying to be serious, with how drunk he is.

You tilt your head at him, trying to get a read on him, “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Todd looks like he’s about to say something, a look of determination in his glassy eyes before he’s pushed by someone walking by, beer spilling everywhere as he almost ends up toppling over you, “Oh shit, sorry, sorry.”

He tries to hold onto the wall, but you can tell just by how he’s slurring his words and his wobbly legs that Todd Stevens is really drunk. Way too drunk.

You wrap your arm around his waist, trying to steady him as you sling his arm over your shoulder. “Okay Mr. President, let’s go get you upstairs. You’re way too drunk.”

Todd’s like jelly in your arms, letting you drag him up the stairs of the house. No one notices the two of you, far too invested in their own fun to realize their frat president is incapacitated. Todd tries to help you, leaning most of his weight on to the staircase wall.

Once you reach the top of the stares, you turn to ask Todd a question, only to find his eyes already on you. “Which ones your room?”

Todd chuckles, “Knew it. You just brought me up here so you can take advantage of me.”

You hit his chest. He just laughs at how wide your eyes are, “Oh my fuck- Todd!”

He giggles, pointing down the hallways, “Down there, on the left.”

You both stumble at his door before pushing it open. You’re greeted with the sight of his perfectly made bed and textbooks placed somewhat neatly on top of it.

You sit him down on his desk chair, ignoring his little protest at your attention not being on him anymore. You quickly move the books off his bed and onto his desk before opening the blankets up. You turn to move him from the chair, and he’s got that stupid smile on his face, watching you close as you talk, “Come on Todd, let’s get you-”

He cuts you off, speaking into your cheek, “You’re so pretty.”

You freeze. “Uh-huh”

What the fuck?!?

You're internally freaking out, but you try to shrug it off. You have no idea if it's working. “Sure, thanks Todd.”

Todd’s drunk; probably had too many beers and too many shots to even know what he’s saying right now. You just need to get him into bed and get out of there as quickly as possible. He probably won’t even remember this tomorrow anyway.

Todd frowns, not satisfied at your response at all. He watches you as you focus on taking his shoes off. You avoiding his gaze entirely as you turn and grab a pair of loose sweats and KNA hoodie you found on his chair, “Here, so you don’t sleep in your jeans and that beer-soaked t-shirt.”

You turn around to give him privacy. Your eyes venture off to the pictures that litter his desk. They vary from ones with him and his frat brothers, all standing at attention with Todd at the top of the stairs, looking over everyone with that smirk of his. The next photo that catches your eye is Todd surrounded by what you can only assume to be his parents. The Todd in that photo is serious. That usually cocky smile nowhere in sight. Instead he’s tight lipped, shoulders back as he poses with his mother and father.

Todd eyes you as he changes. He’s fumbling with his hoodies, almost putting his head through the wrong hole, but he figures it out eventually. Once he slips his sweats on, he clears his throat to get your attention again.

When you turn, you notice that Todd's hair is a bit tousled, different from the way you always see it in class, perfected combed back with not a single hair out of place. That usually glaring confident smirk now a dopey smile and tired eyes as he lays back onto his pillows.

You nod at him, biting your lip to stop you from reacting to how cute he looks. You pat his leg before nodding towards the door. “Alright, you should get some sleep Todd. I’ll head out now-”

“Wait.” Todd stops you when you turn to leave, his hand completely encasing yours, “Stay.”

You sigh, trying to cross your arms, but Todd's hand doesn’t leave yours, “Todd, if you’re trying to-”

“Please,” his voice came out surprisingly small, “Just wanna talk to you before I sleep is all.”

You don’t know if it’s from how nicely he asked or the fact that Todd Stevens is actually pouting at you, but you give in to his request with a defeated sigh. “Fine, just until you fall asleep, and you keep those hands to themselves.”

He stuffs them into his pocket, “Hands secured.”

You roll your eyes before sliding in right next to him, both of you facing the ceiling as the sound of the party continues reverting through the walls. You can see out of the corner of your eye that he keeps sneaking glances at you, but you try and act like you don't notice. “You know, I was waiting for you come all night.”

You quirk a brow, still facing the ceiling, not really believing him. “Really?”

“Yep” He nods, ending the word with a ‘pop’.

“Why would you do that? I’m sure you had plenty of people more than willing to be at your side tonight.”

“They aren’t you.”

Your breath hitches at his confession. You slowly turn to face him, only a little surprised when you see he's already looking at you. He leans in close, but stops at your voice. “Todd-”

“What?” He’s right in your face, the tip of your nose bouncing against his.

You gulp, your eyes darting from his lips to his eyes and back down again. “I should-”

“Can I kiss you?”

He stumps you. Your mouth opens, closes, and opens again. You shake your head at him. “Todd, you’re drunk-”

“- And, I’ve been wanting to do this sober for forever. It doesn’t change now.” He asks again, “Can I kiss you?”

You stare at him, thinking about it hard, weighing the pros and cons. But one glance at how he’s shyly waiting for your response, anticipation in his eyes and God, is that hope? You let go, “Okay.”

He closes the gap between you, and the kiss isn’t what you expected at all.

When you think of kissing Todd Stevens, you imagined a sloppy make out session full of teeth and tongue as he gropes your ass and grinds against you. You imagined it heated, gasping against him as your fingers get tangled up in his hair before he’s ripping your clothes off with in a blink of an eye.

Instead, kissing Todd Stevens is slow, soft, almost curious. He’s gentle with you in a way you never would’ve thought he could be. You expect him to go in for one more, but he’s true to his word, kissing you only once.

When he pulls away, he looks at you with adoring, half lidded eyes before cuddling into your side. You find yourself leaning into him, his snores filling the room as he holds onto you tight. You know you should probably head back to your dorm before it gets any later. You should detach himself from you and creep out of here before anyone notices you’re up here.

But Todd's clinging onto you like a koala, his head stuffed in the crook of your neck, and you can’t seem to find it in your heart to let him wake up alone after the kiss you shared. So, with a sigh, you settle in for the night, and the only thing on your mind before you let sleep consume you, is that maybe Todd Stevens isn’t so bad after all.

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‎His voice catches again. “I… I’ll be good. I’ll… be so good, you won't have a single complaint. Just… let me try. Please?”

‎Every instinct you have wants to laugh, to cry, to punch the air, to just… collapse into him. And yet, you’re frozen, overwhelmed.

‎Bob looks wrecked. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Wholeheartedly, entirely, painfully himself. And he’s begging you. You.

‎God.

‎God.

‎Your stomach flips, your heart hammers, and you realize--somehow, impossibly-- he’s not asking for a favor. He’s offering himself. And it’s devastating, and it’s perfect, and… it’s everything.

‎Your hand twitches in his, and you swallow, words caught somewhere between disbelief, embarrassment, and… awe.

‎The room feels like it’s holding its breath. You’re slouched on the couch, hoodie swallowed around you, cheeks flaming, while Bob kneels in front of you, hands gently wrapped around yours.

‎You blink at him, and for a second, your brain forgets words. You’ve seen his eyes a hundred times, but never like this, up close.

Dark navy rims fading into lighter blue, flecks of pale sunlight‑blue swirling near the center, like little sparks that make your chest stutter.

‎Your heart does a weird little flip. Your brain, traitorous as ever, whispers: I would literally auction my dignity for a single fleck of this blue in my family line. Too much. Too hot. Stop.

‎But if I could clone this gene, my future would be golden--

‎ Oh God. Stop. He’s on his knees.

‎You blink again, panicked, muttering, “Stop… stop kidding…” But your voice comes out shaky and high‑pitched, and you immediately want to kick yourself.

‎He doesn’t let go. He just smiles softly, a little sheepish, and squeezes your hands like he’s memorizing the shape of them. “I’m not kidding,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… want to stay where you are. That’s all I’ve been trying to do."

‎Your cheeks heat further. Your brain is firing off alarm bells and fireworks all at once. It’s too close, too sweet, too overwhelming. And yet… you don’t want him to stop.

‎You watch him, flustered and dumbstruck, and a tiny smile slips out. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, voice barely steady.

‎He grins, shaking his head slightly, eyes twinkling with that soft, unguarded light. “Maybe,” he says, “but… I’ll be good. I’ll follow your rules. Just… let me...”

‎Just let me stay with you. let me sleep at the foot of your bed. I would kill for you. I would die for you. If you won't share a life with me, at least let me dedicate mine to you.

‎And there it is. Somehow, kneeling on your floor, holding your hands like the world could fall apart and he’d still anchor you, he looks utterly perfect. Soft, earnest, a little wrecked… and entirely his own kind of devastating.

‎Your stomach flips, your chest tightens, and somehow your brain decides to betray you again: I really like this guy. No denying it. Like, a lot. He’s kneeling and smiling at me. Why is this legal?

‎You can’t help it. You squeeze his hands back, faint and tentative, just enough to tell him you’re not running, not yet. And he beams, small, happy, ridiculously relieved, and it’s almost impossible not to melt right there on the couch with him.

---

‎Rooster was perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging like a bored cartoon character, shoving granola into his face while glaring at the TV like it personally offended him. Coyote was stretched across the couch, letting Socks chew on his hand with the kind of resigned patience usually reserved for dentists or masochists. Hangman had the cat on his head-- it's tail flicking like it owned the place-- and he was cooing,“Gentle, gentle-- those are follicles, sweetheart. Daddy needs at least three to pretend he’s coping.”

‎Payback was tucked into a corner of the couch, whispering softly into his phone to his wife like he was hiding state secrets, occasionally nodding seriously at something she said, because yes, the fate of the free world was apparently riding on this conversation.

‎Fanboy, of course, had his ass in the air over the kitchen table, muttering to himself, “My ancestors are telling me to fix this socket,” while pretending he wasn’t about to electrocute himself.

‎“Stop it!” Phoenix called from the fridge, holding a glass of water and looking like the adult in a horror movie where the monsters are all your friends. “Just take a break! You’re not going to summon electricity gods by yanking at it!”

‎Meanwhile, the whole house smelled faintly of leftover shopping snacks, sweat, and the vague aroma of chaos. Everyone was in their own weird little bubble, none of them paying attention to the others, and somehow it all worked. Somehow.

‎The door opens softly, just enough to let Bob slip inside, and for a heartbeat, the world seems to pause. Expression blank, eyes distant, and the Daggers collectively pause mid-laugh, mid-gesture, and just… melt.

‎Their sweet, old Bobby. Their gentle, eternally unlucky-in-love Bobby. The one who had carried heartbreak after heartbreak like it was a badge he didn’t want but somehow kept. And now? Again. Heart on his sleeve, eyes slightly glassy, face that soft, tired look he always gets when love hasn’t gone his way.

‎And the object of it all-- the cop next door, the wonderful, chaotic, devastatingly lovely woman-- she’s far too freshly wounded herself for anyone to even think about blame. They can’t. Not for a second. She just broke up last night; of course he’d be…

‎The room softens. “Hey,” Phoenix murmurs gently, stepping forward first. “It’s okay, Bobby. Don’t take it too personally.”

‎Bob blinks. Confused. Not just by the words, but by the softness, the care. The way they all hover around him like he’s fragile glass.

‎“What?” one of the others, Payback maybe, asks, brow furrowed.

‎Bob exhales, finally speaking, voice low but steady: “I’m gonna have to ditch the glasses for the event… but I can’t wear contacts myself... Its so scary.”

‎The squad freezes… and then erupts. Half in relief, half in pure, chaotic joy. Laughter bubbles up, teasing and warm all at once. Phoenix claps him lightly on the shoulder. “She said yes!?”

‎Bob blinks again, slower this time, realization catching him. And yes. She agreed. Somehow, she said yes.

‎The room becomes a happy mess. Coyote is grinning, a little too wide, Payback’s whooping, Hangman is shaking his head fondly like he can’t believe it, and Phoenix just sighs, eyes soft: their Bobby. Their forever-adorable, heartbreak-prone Bobby. Smiling again.

‎And somehow, in that moment, all the heartbreaks before feel just a little lighter.

‎---

‎You’re still sitting on the living room floor, back against the couch, staring at the wall like it might explain what the hell just happened. Bob. On his knees. Begging. His voice, shaky and soft, still echoing in your chest like a heartbeat you can’t turn off.

‎You’re replaying it for the hundredth time when the door bursts open so violently the hinges flinch.

‎Phoenix, Hangman, and Payback stand there like a chaotic trinity. You swear there’s a faint heroic theme playing in the background-- or maybe that’s just your impending breakdown.

‎Phoenix crosses her arms. “You look like a car crash.”

‎Hangman tilts his head, eyes sweeping over your blanket, your ratty hoodie, your sock that’s halfway off. “Nah. Car crash implies movement. She looks more like roadkill.”

‎You blink up at them. “Can I die in peace, or do you all have a mission to ruin that too?”

‎Phoenix doesn’t answer. She’s already marching in, opening drawers and throwing clothes over her shoulder like a woman possessed. “Shower. Now. You have exactly one hour and forty minutes.”

‎“For what? My execution?”

‎Hangman catches a pillow you toss at him and smirks. “For your redemption arc, sweetheart.”

‎Payback strolls in last, arms full of a nail kit and his phone. On the screen, his wife waves lazily. “I told him to be gentle,” she says, not looking up from her phone.

‎“You're lying,” you say immediately.

‎“Absolutely,” she agrees without missing a scroll.

‎You’re shoved into the shower before you can protest properly. When you stumble back out ten minutes later, they’ve turned your bedroom into a war zone: makeup, curling iron, clothes scattered like body parts after a small explosion.

‎Phoenix is laying out jewelry on your dresser with surgical precision. Hangman’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, inspecting a curling iron like he’s disarming a bomb. Payback is humming softly while filing your nails, his wife still watching from the phone camera like a disinterested reality show judge.

‎You hiss when Payback accidentally goes too hard on your pinky. “Jesus, I’m bleeding.” then to his wife, “I hope your husband fails his next flight check.”

‎His wife looks up, deadpan. “Girl, me too.”

‎You laugh. He scowls.

‎Phoenix is blending foundation with all the subtlety of a jackhammer. “Stop talking.”

‎“I can’t breathe through my nose.”

‎“Then don’t.”

‎Meanwhile, Hangman’s brushing out your hair with alarming confidence. “You know, if you let me do this more often, your ends wouldn’t look like that.”

‎You glare at him through the mirror. “If you touched my hair again, you wouldn’t look like that.”

‎He raises a brow, smirk lazy. “So violent. You sure you’re not into me?”

‎Phoenix throws him a hair clip like a throwing star. “Focus, Casanova.”

‎“I am focused,” he says, twisting a strand of your hair. “I’m focused on this tragic situation.”

‎Payback snorts. “You should see her nails. She’s gonna look like a debutante with a parking ticket.”

‎You roll your eyes. “I can’t believe you people. It’s like watching children play dress-up.”

‎Phoenix pauses, leans back, eyeing you through the mirror. “You act like this isn’t a date.”

‎That stops everything.

‎Hangman’s fingers freeze mid-curl. Payback lifts his head, blinking. The wife on FaceTime perks up like she’s been waiting for this part.

‎You scoff, weakly. “It’s not a--”

‎Three simultaneous smirks.

‎Phoenix hums. “Sure.”

‎Hangman grins, lips twitching. “She’s blushing. You see that? She’s red.”

‎“I’m overheated!” you say too quickly.

‎“Sure you are,” Payback says, painting another coat of polish.

‎Hangman leans closer, his voice annoyingly smooth. “Just admit it. You’re nervous. You’ve got a crush on our Bobby.”

‎You meet his smug little grin in the mirror. “You talk a lot for someone who once got rejected by a Starbucks barista.”

‎“Ouch,” Phoenix says, laughing.

‎Hangman clutches his chest dramatically. “She’s mean when she’s in love.”

‎You throw a scrunchie at his face.

‎They’re loud, ridiculous, infuriating-- and for the first time all day, you can’t stop smiling.

‎The air smells like hairspray and chaos. Your cheeks hurt from blushing. The moment is almost peaceful. Almost. You’re sitting there with half your hair curled, one earring in, lipstick halfway done, looking like the “before” shot of a makeover montage-- but you’re glowing.

You can feel it. There’s this stupid little thrill under your skin that has nothing to do with hairspray fumes and everything to do with a certain sweet-faced lieutenant who just knelt for you like a man in prayer.

‎And then--

‎CRASH.

‎Something metallic slams against the wall from next door, followed by the unmistakable sound of Rooster yelling, “He said tighter, not strangle him, Mickey!”

‎You flinch. “What the-- are they rebuilding Bob?!”

‎Hangman stops mid-curl. “Probably reinforcing him for emotional damage.”

‎Phoenix groans, sets down her brush, and pads toward the door like an exhausted mother heading into her kids’ room after too much silence. “I swear, if they’ve broken him--”

‎The second she opens the front door to the Daggers’ place, her voice rings out like the gates of hell just swung open.

‎“What in the gay se--” she gasps. “Get off him!”

‎There’s immediate scrambling, thuds, someone’s panicked “It’s not what it looks like!” and the sound of Coyote choking on his own laughter.

‎Hangman is cackling so hard he nearly drops the curling iron. “Oh my god. Please tell me Rooster was on top.”

‎Phoenix’s horrified “Don’t ask!” echoes all the way back through the wall.

‎You’re still sitting there, staring at your reflection in the mirror, cheeks pink, eyes bright. For someone who got dumped and hungover-cried twelve hours ago, you look like you just fell in love for the first time.

‎Hangman catches you smiling and smirks. “You look disgustingly happy.”

‎You shrug, trying-- and failing-- to look indifferent. “They’re idiots. It’s contagious.

‎From next door comes another thud and Coyote’s voice: “He moved! That’s progress!”

‎You roll your eyes but can’t stop grinning.

‎Honestly, maybe it’s not heartbreak you’re feeling anymore-- just a very inconvenient kind of joy.

‎---

‎You stand in front of the mirror, ten minutes before leaving, surrounded by wreckage. Hair straighteners cooling, makeup brushes bleeding color on tissues, and Phoenix half-asleep on your bed like a war veteran who’s seen too much. You’re the only thing in the room that looks remotely composed-- and it’s criminal how well you do.

‎The black dress you tore up last night during your heartbreak meltdown (may it rest in pieces) has been replaced by something otherworldly: a dark royal navy gown that falls like poured ink, the kind of fabric that shimmers when the light hits, not sparkly but alive. It cinches at your waist, the neckline modest but elegant, the skirt flowing and soft, every inch of it whispering Austen heroine but dangerous. The kind of dress that could start a duel.

‎You stare at yourself, and the flashback hits you square in the chest--

‎Bob had been on his knees, looking up at you with that ridiculously open face, and you were trying to focus on the words coming out of his mouth instead of the fact that he was kneeling.

‎“Bob,” you’d croaked, half laughing, half ready to sob again. “I don’t even have a dress. I can’t show up looking like heartbreak Barbie. There’s no time to get one, unless I rob Nordstrom.”

‎He’d flushed instantly, pink racing up his neck. “Uh. Actually…”

‎He’d turned, still sitting comfortably on the floor, and reached for the shopping bag he’d brought in. The same one you’d assumed was just his tux.

‎You’d frowned. “Don’t-- Bob. Don’t tell me--”

‎He’d unzipped the garment bag slowly, like a man disarming a bomb, and there it was. That dress. The one you’d lingered over last month in the mall, touching it once like it was something holy before shaking your head at the price tag and walking away.

‎You’d blinked at him, deadpan. “You did not.”

‎“Okay, hear me out--”

‎“You did not, Bob!” You’d thrown a pillow at him, voice breaking between outrage and disbelief. “I made you buy that stupidly expensive tux, why would you-- how could you-- why would you buy me this dress?”

‎He’d blushed harder, but smiled anyway, the kind that said he knew exactly how ridiculous he looked sitting there. “I’m a Navy WSO,” he’d said softly. “I make decent money. I can buy a dress.”

‎You’d just stared, chest tight. “That’s not the point.”

‎He’d tilted his head. “I was going to give it to you for your birthday anyway.”

‎You’d blinked. “Bob, my birthday was last month.”

‎He’d hesitated, smiled again, smaller this time. “…for your next one.”

‎And that had been it. You’d melted. Completely.

‎Now, back in your room, your reflection catches the light-- your reflection, not some fantasy version of you-- and it steals your breath anyway.

‎Phoenix squints from the bed. “Did I put too much blush on you?”

‎You blink out of your reverie. “No. Just… stop looking at me like you’re my moms.”

‎Hangman, sprawled across your armchair, gestures lazily with a nail file. “Then stop looking like a Hallmark movie ending.”

‎They’re all exhausted, proud, and sprawled out in your disaster zone of a room like soldiers after victory.

‎Payback raises his phone to show his wife on video, who hums in approval. “Told you we’d pull it off,” he says, smug.

‎Phoenix claps her hands weakly. “Twirl, girl.”

‎You sigh, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. You turn, the dress catching air, navy folds swirling like midnight water.

‎For a second, the whole room goes quiet. Then Hangman grins. “Jane Austen could never.”

‎And you think, yeah-- maybe heartbreak looks good on you after all.

‎---

‎You stand there, the November chill instantly finding every patch of bare skin the dress dares to reveal. Your hands are clasped so tightly you could crack your knuckles through sheer panic. It’s fine. Totally fine. It’s just Bob. Your best friend. Your safe place. The man who once tripped over your laundry basket and apologized to it. Nothing to be nervous about. Except for the whole “he was on his knees begging you to come with him an hour ago” thing.

‎Phoenix bangs on the neighboring door with the authority of someone who’s been through this level of idiocy before. “Boys! We’re leaving in five, and if you ruined his hair again, I swear--”

‎From the other side comes muffled chaos. Fanboy’s laugh, Coyote’s nervous “it’s fine, it’s fine,” and something that sounds suspiciously like a hairdryer dying mid-scream.

‎Then the door opens.

It creaks open and out comes chaos in pressed clothes.

‎Rooster’s first, of course. Hair too shiny, shirt too tight, walking like he just won an Oscar for “Most Dramatic Exit.” He flicks his wrist toward the door like a game-show host unveiling a prize. “Ladies and gentlemen-- well, ladies and degenerates--prepare yourselves.”

‎Coyote stumbles out next, holding a lint roller like it’s a weapon of pride. “We did the Lord’s work.”

‎Fanboy follows, all smug grin and exhausted posture, muttering, “If this doesn’t get him laid, nothing will.”

‎And then--

‎Bob steps out.

‎Everything stops. Like the street itself forgets to hum.

‎He’s standing under the yellow porch light, one hand adjusting his cuff, the other shoved awkwardly in his pocket like he’s trying not to combust.

The tux fits him like it was tailored by divine intervention, that dark navy fabric cutting clean lines down his shoulders. His hair-- dear god, his hair-- is slightly messed at the front, as if he’s run his hand through it one too many times while waiting. His glasses gleam, the faintest curl at the edge of his mouth betraying that shy little half-smile that should not, under any circumstance, make your knees feel like wet spaghetti.

‎You blink. Once. Twice. Nothing changes. He’s still there. Still Bob. But suddenly you understand why people drop trays in rom-coms.

‎Rooster mutters under his breath, “Don’t all faint at once,” and Phoenix, from beside you, elbows your ribs so hard you almost yelp.

‎You straighten, try for something casual, but your voice cracks like a teenager’s. “You-- uh. You clean up nice.”

‎He glances up, that boyish, nervous grin tugging at his mouth. “You... don’t look so bad yourself.”

‎“Don’t look so bad?” Phoenix repeats, scandalized. “He rehearsed three compliments for this and that’s what he went with?”

‎Fanboy snorts. “Hey, baby steps. We just taught him how to tie a bowtie without crying.”

‎Coyote folds his arms, solemn. “And moisturize.”

‎Bob glares at all of them, the tips of his ears pink. Then he looks back at you-- and that’s when it happens, the cinematic thing. The air feels heavier, the porch light flickers like it’s got feelings, and for one wild, dizzy second, you swear he’s about to say something that’ll wreck you.

‎Instead, he just clears his throat, offers his arm-- because he’s the kind of man who would and says softly, “Ready?”

‎You nod. Mostly because words don’t exist anymore.

‎Phoenix mutters behind you, “God help us, she’s glitching.”

‎And she’s right-- you are. Because Bob Floyd just walked out like he belongs in a slow-motion montage scored by Lana Del Rey, and you’re standing there like an unpaid intern in your own love story.

You both step out into the cool evening, walking stiffly down the driveway like two middle schoolers going to prom under adult supervision. You're clutching your clutch too tight; he’s pretending his bowtie isn’t choking him. Between them: the kind of silence that hums, the kind that makes your brain start narrating your own movie.

‎Behind them, the Daggers explode.

‎“Have fun tonight, Bob!” Fanboy hollers like he’s calling after a kid on a field trip.

‎“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Coyote yells, immediately followed by Rooster: “That leaves him with way too much, actually!”

‎Phoenix leans out the doorframe, waving both hands like a proud mom. “Text us when you get there! We need live updates!”

‎You whip around, scandalized. “Can you not sound like a sex-positive PTA meeting?”

‎Bob’s blushing so red it could be declared a natural disaster. “Guys. Please.”

‎They just grin wider, voices overlapping, the teasing now a chorus of “We love you, Bob!” and “Make us proud, Floyd!” until both of you turn and bark in unison, “Shut up!”

‎That just makes them howl louder.

‎Bob groans, half laughing, already halfway down the driveway when Rooster suddenly gasps like he just remembered he left the oven on. “Wait! Bob!”

‎Bob groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “What now?” He jogs back reluctantly, and you swear you can see the storm cloud of embarrassment hovering over his head.

‎Rooster waves him closer, pulls something from his pocket like a magician. It’s an expensive-looking handkerchief-- navy silk, folded within an inch of its life. He pins it neatly into Bob’s jacket pocket, straightening it with that older-brother precision that says you’re my little disaster and I will fix you.

‎And in that second-- just a second-- Bob’s eyes flick down the driveway, to you.

The porch light hits you just right, like it’s on your side tonight. Your hair loose at the front, that dress hugging and flowing in all the right ways. You're biting your lip, fidgeting with your hands, looking up at him every other second like you're scared you'll miss it if he vanishes. And something in him cracks open, like the ache of hope finally stretching too far.

‎What if I’m forcing this?

‎What if she’s just being kind?

‎What if I mess it up?

‎Do I even deserve this?

‎Phoenix must’ve seen it all happen in his eyes, because she appears next to him, presses a hand to his shoulder, and quietly slides off his glasses. He blinks at her, startled.

‎She holds his gaze. “Do you want it?”

‎He hesitates. Just long enough to make his throat dry. Then he nods, almost breathless. “I need it.”

‎That’s all she needs. She grins, smug and soft. “Then go get it, lover boy.”

‎The guys whoop and cheer, as he finally turns back around, running a hand through his hair, breath steadying. And there she is-- almost at his truck, hand reaching for the door handle.

‎Not on his watch.

‎He jogs down the drive, gravel crunching under his shoes, just as she’s about to open it. She startles, jerks her hand back, and he’s already there, opening it for her like some storybook gentleman.

‎You blink, flustered but trying to play it off. “Thought we were racing to see who sits first.”

‎He chuckles, that soft laugh that always wrecks you because it’s so him. “I'll let you have it this time.”

And everytime, for the rest of my life.

‎You slide in, heartbeat everywhere it shouldn’t be. In your head, you’re throwing confetti, screaming, sobbing into a pillow. Out loud, you manage a calm, “Thanks.”

‎He shuts the door for you.

‎And when he rounds the front of the truck, you can’t help thinking-- how the hell am I supposed to survive a night with this man when he just opened a car door like it’s foreplay?

---

‎‎The truck hums low beneath you, headlights slicing through the evening, the world outside fading into a blur of trees and streetlamps. Bob’s gripping the wheel a little too tight-- because apparently, the guy who can help fly a multimillion-dollar jet still gets nervous driving up to a rich person’s mansion. But then again, it’s not the mansion he’s thinking about. It’s you, sitting next to him, playing with the hem of your dress like it personally offended you.

‎Every few seconds, you sneak a look in the mirror, muttering something under your breath-- probably a running monologue of self-criticism, curses, and existential dread. He catches it, tries not to smile, fails.

‎So, without even thinking, he lets his hand drift over to yours. Just one finger-- his pinky-- tapping your knuckle like he’s defusing a bomb instead of making contact.

‎You glance at him, startled.

‎He doesn’t look your way, still focused on the road. His voice comes out low, quiet. “Say the word, and I’ll turn the car around. We’ll get dinner somewhere instead. You don’t have to do this if it’s… too much.”

‎And that’s it. The moment you’re sure the stars have packed up from the sky and moved directly into your chest.

‎You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You really think I’m nervous?”

‎He gives you the smallest side glance, like, yes, obviously.

‎You sigh, still smiling. “It’s a tick. I’ll complain all the way there, complain while I’m there, and complain on the way back. It’s tradition.”

‎He chuckles, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening. “Guess I can work with that.”

‎You hum, leaning back against the seat, eyes still catching the faint reflection of him in the window-- his jawline tense but soft now, his hand still close to yours.

‎And you think, not for the first time, that maybe the problem isn’t the event. Maybe it’s that no amount of expensive champagne could possibly feel this good.

---

‎The moment you and Bob step through the carved mahogany doors, the world shifts into something out of an old Hollywood film-- the kind that starts with an orchestra swell and ends in heartbreak.

‎The mansion is ridiculous. Marble floors polished within an inch of their lives, chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like liquid gold, and a string quartet tucked neatly beside a grand staircase that looks like it’s never known a mortal footstep. The kind of place where even the air feels like it’s been taxed.

‎The centerpiece of the hall is a polished parquet dance floor where couples twirl in slow, sweeping circles-- uniforms, gowns, medals catching the light with every turn. Everything smells faintly of champagne and expensive wood polish. A waiter drifts by offering caviar bites like it’s normal food, and somewhere in the distance, a woman laughs the kind of laugh you can only afford after three divorces.

‎Bob actually winces at the brightness, squinting as if he’s stepped into the sun. You elbow him lightly, murmuring, “What, never been to a police ball before?”

‎He mutters, “Didn’t think I’d need sunglasses for it.”

‎It’s a charity event, but “charity” clearly means “rich people patting themselves on the back while comparing watches.” The banners draped across the room read

SDPD Stars of Service Gala,

the font aggressive enough to remind everyone that the Chief of Police is the host.

‎Except-- he’s not here yet. The crowd’s buzzing with polite anticipation and gossip. Every so often, someone glances toward the grand staircase, waiting for the grand entrance that hasn’t happened yet.

‎There’s a display off to the side listing tonight’s schedule-- auction, dinner, speeches, and a small awards ceremony recognizing “exemplary community contributions.” You don’t even have to look at Bob to know he’s silently calculating how to survive three hours of this without breaking into a sweat.

‎You tug at his sleeve slightly, whispering, “Smile, Lieutenant. You look like you’re about to file a complaint.”

‎He straightens immediately, blinking down at you-- blue eyes soft, nervous, endearingly lost in all the glitter. “Sorry. Just... didn’t expect this.”

‎You grin, looping your arm through his. “Welcome to the circus, boyfriend.”

‎You walk arm in arm, perfectly poised, like two people who absolutely belong in a lifestyle magazine but also somehow like you’re about to trip over your own feet any second. Bob’s chest is drumming like a marching band. I mean, he’s literally dying inside, but he’s trying to look like he’s not, which, bonus points, makes him way hotter.

‎Some of the officers on duty salute. You give that casual wave that says, I do this every day, obviously, and Bob has to physically stop himself from thinking: She’s literally flawless. How am I even allowed near her? Because, apparently, this is what love does: turns a grown Navy man into a puddle of internal screaming.

‎There aren’t any young people here. Just older people gliding like they have lives way more important than yours. A few are your age, but they’re on duty. He’s trying to remember what he wanted to ask you and… oh, right, doesn’t matter. Because your hum-- soft, ridiculous, slightly off-key hum to whatever song the speakers decided was “ballroom appropriate”-- is like a tiny little knife to his chest. Kill me now, please. Before I embarrass myself.

‎He could just sit down right here and cry because you’re so… *you*. The thought almost makes him do it, but he pats himself on the chest like, congrats, you didn’t just collapse in front of everyone like a dramatic fool. Progress.

‎And then-- you look at him. Just like that. Small smile. Tiny tilt of the head. And he melts. Completely.

Oh god, I’m doomed. She’s smiling at me. She’s actually smiling at me. Someone get me a paper bag to hyperventilate into.

‎He clears his throat, voice trying to be casual, like a grown-up who has somehow survived infancy, and asks:

‎“So… what do you usually do at these events?”

‎Which, let’s be real, is the most normal thing he could have asked while internally screaming: I want to spend forever making you laugh. Also, I’m never letting go.

‎You roll your eyes-- big, dramatic, I’m-so-over-this eyes-- and Bob nearly chokes on the tiny heartbeat-stutter it gives him. He swears, every time you do that, the world tilts a little sideways, and he’s suddenly incapable of walking like a normal person.

‎“I just…” you wave vaguely around, letting your words tumble out like you can’t even be bothered to sound serious. “Chat up some sponsors-- rich old people mostly. Some are actually kinda cool. Tease the kids a little. Steal from the refreshment table, which, FYI, I am banned from.” You glance at a group of young officers stationed around the room, and your grin goes sharp. “And these poor kids? I rag them for fun. Full-on terror mode. Makes me feel alive.”

‎Bob laughs-- a short, raspy, breath-catch-of-a-lifetime kind of laugh, the one that makes you blink and maybe blush without even realizing it. He snatches two glasses of wine from a passing waiter, one for you, handing it over mid-explanation. The clink of crystal against crystal is perfect, intimate in a way that makes your words falter.

‎You glance down at the glass, then up at him, and the corners of your mouth twitch. “Such a gentleman."

‎He grins.

‎“About time, though,” you mutter, sipping your wine like a tiny adult in a sea of rich old people, letting it warm you up because honestly, who even trusts these chandeliers not to collapse? “I was starting to think I’d have to mug a waiter myself.”

‎You sweep your hand lazily, like you’re explaining the plot of a very boring but secretly dramatic movie. “That one over there? Silver hair, posture like a fricking statue. Owns three yachts he never uses. Probably also owns a small country somewhere, but who cares.” You nod at another lady in red who’s laughing way too loud. “And her? Absolutely terrible jokes, somehow hilarious anyway. Respect.”

‎Then your eyes narrow at a man fussing over his cufflinks. “Him? Rich. Boring. Might die mid-sentence if you ask him to explain why he likes it. Avoid unless you’re prepared for extreme boredom.”

‎You pause and spot a little girl twirling by the appetizers, flinging crumbs like a tiny tornado. “And her… oh god. Entitled. Annoying. Already planning a hostile takeover of the world at eleven. Avoid like plague.”

‎A waiter passes, tray teetering. You tilt your head conspiratorially. “And him? Cute. Definitely questioning life choices. Poor soul. Might cry if one of the old people sneezes on a canapé again.”

‎Bob leans in a little closer, voice hesitant, the kind of voice that makes you want to pinch his cheeks. “The Chief… is he here yet?”

‎You take another measured sip, savoring the little pause. “Oh he's always fashionably late. Classic dominance flex. Or he’s just lazy. Who knows? Probably both.”

‎He catches your smirk, the way your eyes roll, the little tilt of your head as if daring the universe to be boring. And somewhere deep inside, he thinks: I could listen to her do this forever. I might actually die if she starts on the desserts table next.

‎The room glitters with crystal chandeliers, the kind that make you wonder how anyone survives under them without constantly ducking. Couples glide across the polished floor, twirling and dipping with a kind of precision that looks effortless-- like they were born to do this, which of course, they were. You watch them sip champagne with the faintest pink blush in their cheeks, all elegance and poise.

‎Bob’s arm brushes against yours as you move together, and he swallows audibly. He’s buzzing-- heart hammering, thoughts spinning. Now’s the moment. I’m doing it. Don’t mess it up. Just… do it.

‎“So,” he starts, voice low and raspy, like he’s trying to be casual but failing spectacularly, “what do you… think of… this?” His eyes flick to the dancers, then back to you, like he’s measuring whether he has permission to say something bold. “The… dancing, I mean. Do… people actually enjoy this, or is it just… show?”

‎You glance at him, half-exasperated, half-amused, swirling the wine in your glass. “Honestly? I’ve only ever danced once.” You shrug like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Two years ago. With the Chief. It… was fine. Boring, actually. I mostly stood there, trying not to step on his feet. And he looked way too pleased with himself.”

‎Bob laughs-- quiet, rasping, breath-catch laugh that makes your chest ache a little. “Only once?” He shakes his head, leaning a little closer so your arms brush. “Hmm. I think we need to… amend that. Tonight, I mean.”

‎You blink, half incredulous, half oh god he’s serious, and the soft opening notes of a new song drift from the speakers-- Michael Bublé, all slow and swoony, filling the golden room with that easy, romantic energy.

‎You look down at his hand, then back at his face. His eyes squint lazily in that perfect way contacts shouldn’t allow, but somehow do, and for a second your brain goes how's he ridiculously hot and cute at the same time? God you really took your time with this one huh?

❛ When marimba rhythm start to play ❜

‎He glances at you, heart hammering. He swallows, trying to act like a grown-up Navy officer who definitely knows how to do this, and extends his hand toward you. “May I… have this dance?”

❛ Dance with me, make me sway ❜

‎“Hmm,” you murmur, finally letting a small smile tug at your lips. “You do realize I’m completely out of practice, right?”

‎And just like that, your hand slips into his, the music swells, and suddenly you’re both caught up in the ridiculous, perfect moment of ballroom panic and soft laughter.

‎He grins, that slow, confident grin that’s meant to reassure but mostly just makes your stomach flip. “I’ll guide you. Don’t worry… I’m good at… this, kinda.”

❛ Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore

Hold me close, sway me more ❜

‎“You’re actually… not bad at this,” he murmurs, leaning close so his shoulder brushes yours. His voice is low, raspy, teasing, and it makes your stomach flip.

‎The moment your feet hit the polished floor, something shifts. It’s not the chandeliers, not the champagne, not the carefully orchestrated elegance of the room-- it’s him. Bob’s hand slides into yours, confident, warm, a touch too strong to be casual. Somehow, the space around you seems to bend. People notice, and politely-- politely-- give you the room to move. As if the universe itself knows you two are in your own little orbit.

❛ Like a flower bending in the breeze

Bend with me, sway with ease ❜

‎“I’ve had practice avoiding disasters,” you reply, rolling your eyes, though your grin betrays how much fun you’re having.

‎He laughs, that quiet, jittery laugh that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle just enough to drive you a little insane. “Good. Because I’m… probably going to accidentally spin you into a chandelier.”

‎You snort, stepping closer. “Try it. I dare you.”

‎“Cheating?” he grins, voice teasing but with an undertone of pure mischief. “I call it… optimizing the dance.”

‎And then he does the absolute worst thing for your composure-- he guides you in a turn, hips brushing ever so slightly, hand clutching yours like he never wants to let go.

❛ When we dance, you have a way with me

Stay with me, sway with me ❜

His grip lingers, and you catch yourself shivering at the warmth. “Okay, okay, that’s cheating,” you whisper, eyes sparkling.

‎You’re giggling when he dips you back-- way too effortlessly-- and you throw your head back in a loud, startled laugh. His arms are solid around you, holding you close as your laughter spills into his shoulder. You’re flushed, bright red, utterly unguarded.

‎“You know,” you gasp between giggles, “I might sue if you keep showing off like this.”

‎He just grins, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and whispers, “I’d happily let you.”

‎You wobble slightly on the polished floor, and Bob’s hand shoots out, steadying you instantly. His squinted eyes crinkle as he grins down at you.

‎“You’re way too confident for someone who claims they can barely dance,” you mutter, rolling your eyes but smiling anyway.

‎“Confidence is my secret weapon,” he says, leaning a fraction closer so your shoulders brush. “Also… you make it easy to look good.”

‎You snort, stepping back just enough to twirl under his arm. “Smooth talker. Don’t trip while you’re at it.”

‎He laughs softly, that low, raspy laugh that makes your chest do the stupid flutter thing, and sweeps you back into his arms effortlessly. “Tripping? Never. Not when you’re in my arms.”

‎You giggle, burying your face briefly in his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, but the grin on your face says otherwise.

‎And for a few perfect moments, you forget the rest of the ballroom, the chandeliers, the rich old people sipping champagne-- there’s just him, you, and the dizzying thrill of spinning, laughing, and being impossibly close.

‎Bob’s chest feels like it might burst. Every time you laugh, tilt your head back, or let your eyes sparkle at him, his heart swells until it’s a small, helpless balloon threatening to lift him off the floor.

❛ Other dancers may be on the floor

‎The ballroom is alive-- couples swirling gracefully, the chandeliers catching the light-- but it all blurs around you. He sees the other dancers, sure, but they’re just shapes on the periphery. The glittering crowd might as well not exist. All that matters is you.

Dear, but my eyes will see only you ❜

❛ Only you have that magic technique

When we sway, I go weak ❜

‎He hates being the center of attention. He usually avoids it, recoils from the stares. But here, with you laughing in his arms, looking like the most perfect, untouchable version of yourself, he can’t even care. He only sees you.

‎Some people glance at you both, whispering, maybe stealing the occasional curious look, but he barely notices. Because in his mind, you’re right there, in the center of everything, and his chest aches at how breathtaking you are.

❛ I can hear the sounds of violins

Long before it begins ❜

‎And when you glance up at him, catching his gaze with that soft, teasing smile, the world collapses into a single, shimmering, overwhelming point of happiness: you.

‎Every little detail-- how your fingers rest against his hand, the subtle sway of your shoulders, the way your laugh makes his chest ache-- he memorizes like it’s the only thing worth remembering in the entire room.

❛ Make me thrill as only you know how

Sway me smooth, sway me now ❜

---

Y‎ou stumble off the dance floor, laughing under your breath. You’re still clutching his sleeve like you might trip again, cheeks flushed pink. Bob’s smile is quiet, a little crooked, and so painfully full it looks like his chest can’t hold it.

‎Then-- soft clapping. Around you, a ripple of polite, approving applause. The kind of genteel, rich-people claps that sound like gentle rain instead of celebration.

‎You hide your face in your hands, half laughing, half mortified.

‎“Great,” you mutter. “We just turned into their halftime show.”

‎Bob, ever the modest disaster, scratches the back of his neck and gives a sheepish little wave to the audience. “Uh… thanks?”

‎And that’s when the eleven-year-old from earlier stomps over, all fire and shiny shoes, her tiny chin tilted high like she’s about to challenge him to a duel. She stops right in front of Bob, glares up at him, and holds out her hand.

‎He blinks.

‎She doesn’t speak.

‎She just waits.

‎You sigh, crossing your arms. “Lost your parents, lexi?”

‎Bob glances helplessly between the kid and you, like maybe there’s an instruction manual he’s missed.

‎“Uh… hi,” he tries, bending down a little. “You want to dance?”

‎The girl nods solemnly. “Next one’s mine.”

‎Her tone could’ve peeled paint off the wall. Bob chuckles softly, glancing at you again-- your brows up, smirk already fighting its way to your lips.

‎He kneels properly so he’s at the girl’s level, hands resting on his knees. “That’s very kind,” he says gently, “but I think I’ve used up all my moves for tonight. I’d probably step on your toes.”

‎The girl narrows her eyes. “You didn’t step on her toes.”

‎He laughs, the sound light and unguarded. “That’s because she kept saving me.”

‎You snort, pretending to look elsewhere so he doesn’t see the grin threatening your whole face. When the girl huffs and storms off, muttering something about “next time,” Bob stands and looks at you again-- confused, shy, still a little red from the dancing.

‎You smirk. “Smooth, Floyd. Real smooth.”

‎He shrugs, bashful. “Didn’t want to break her heart.”

‎Something weirdly warm blooms in your chest. You bite it down immediately. Get a grip, you scold yourself. You are not jealous of a preteen with glitter sneakers.

‎Your eyes wander, spotting them before they even reach the table-- an older, distinguished lady in a soft lavender dress, flanked by two giggling companions. A quick glance to Bob, and you whisper, “Ready yourself… the test starts now.” Your hand brushes his lightly, just enough to nudge him into character, a tiny smile playing on your lips. “Oh, and Lad will probably bring up her late son,” you murmur, just above a whisper. “Be casual. No need to… overdo it.”

‎Bob nods almost imperceptibly, his jaw setting, a slow grin spreading that’s equal parts mischief and pride. You turn back as the ladies approach, your own smile widening, warmth radiating as you step forward. “Mrs. O’Brian,” you say softly, letting your voice wrap around the greeting, “it’s so wonderful to see you.” You open your arms just a hair and she leans in for a gentle hug.

‎“I’ve heard so much about your dancing tonight,” the distinguished lady says, voice rich and approving. “You both look absolutely… radiant.”

‎Your fingers lightly brush Bob’s arm as you add, “Isn’t he just wonderful?” your tone playful but soft. “He’s my boyfriend.”

‎And just like that, Bob steps in. Confidence rolling off him in waves, a charming half-smile, perfectly pitched to put everyone at ease. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. O’Brian,” he says smoothly, eyes catching hers, voice low and steady. “Your reputation precedes you. And thankyou, your compliments mean more than you know.”

‎He gestures ever so slightly toward you, his hand lingering near yours but not quite touching. “And may I just say-- your company tonight makes dancing an absolute delight.”

‎The older lady’s eyes twinkle, a soft laugh escaping her. The other two ladies giggle again, their whispers barely audible as Bob continues, engaging, warm, effortlessly charming. Every word carefully measured, every glance filled with that just-right mix of attention and admiration.

‎You squeeze his arm lightly under the table, your own grin widening. Even pretend, it’s nice to hear him say it. Nice to see him swell with pride for being your someone. And for a fleeting moment, everything feels just a little softer, a little brighter, a little… perfect.

‎Mrs. O’Brian’s laughter softens, thinning into a sigh as her eyes drift somewhere distant. “You know,” she murmurs, “if my son were alive… he must’ve been about your age now.”

‎The air stills for a heartbeat. The other two ladies exchange tiny, knowing glances, their smiles fading into polite quiet. You feel Bob’s posture shift beside you-- just enough for you to notice, not enough for anyone else.

‎You don’t have to look at him to know he’s thinking hard, measuring his words like he always does.

‎He leans in slightly, voice dropping to something gentler, textured with warmth instead of pity. “He must’ve been someone very special, Mrs. O’Brian,” he says. “Because it takes a certain kind of person to raise someone as kind as you.”

‎The lady blinks, startled, then smiles in that fragile, heart-hurt way that only someone who’s lived through loss can. “You’re very sweet, Mr.…?”

‎“Floyd,” he replies, quiet but confident. “Robert Floyd. But you can call me Bob.”

‎“Bob,” she repeats, like she’s testing the sound. “Such a nice name.”

‎He chuckles softly. “I try to live up to it.”

‎You watch her smile fully now, the heaviness in her eyes lifting just enough to let the glow back in. The other two ladies murmur their approval, one whispering something about “charming young men being a rare breed.”

‎And through it all, you just watch him-- how easily he keeps her comfortable, how naturally he steers the moment away from sorrow without brushing it off. That easy grace of his, all kindness and calm and care, makes your chest ache in that way that’s both tender and terrifying.

‎When Mrs. O’Brian finally drifts away with her friends, you look up at him. “You handled that perfectly,” you whisper.

‎Bob just shrugs, trying to play it off, but his grin gives him away. “You said to be casual,” he says. “I figured kindness counts as casual, right?"

‎You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

‎“And yet,” he murmurs, leaning closer, voice low enough for only you to hear, “I pass the test.”

‎The chatter dips as the speakers crackle to life, a clean voice filling the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome tonight’s host-- the Chief of the Police Department, Chief Alexander 'Rory' Stevens.”

‎Every head in the hall turns toward the doors. The crowd parts as the man himself strides in-- a presence that doesn’t need to announce itself twice. Broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, posture as precise as a parade march. The kind of man whose handshake probably feels like a command.

‎His wife follows a half-step behind, all soft smiles and understated grace, the kind of woman who makes people feel seen just by greeting them. Together, they move through the aisle like royalty who know everyone’s name. Short nods, a few warm greetings, the occasional chuckle that carries easily over the quiet hum of admiration.

‎The room seems to tilt toward them.

‎You shift in your seat. It’s subtle, but Bob catches it-- the way your shoulders stiffen, the faint drag of your breath. He leans closer, voice barely above the music still lingering in the background. “You good?”

‎Your eyes track the Chief’s steady path up the front stairs to the stage. “They’re here,” you murmur, half under your breath. “But… I can’t see their son. Maybe he’s not here? Maybe he convinced them already.” A pause. “God, hopefully so.”

‎Bob blinks, mind ticking back to the half-story you’d told him earlier. Right-- the son. The one who’d texted you begging for help to dodge his father’s matchmaking crusade because he already loved someone else.

‎“Right,” Bob says quietly, processing. “The romantic rebel. Guess he skipped curfew tonight.” His tone is soft, meant to ease the worry threading through your words.

‎You huff a tiny laugh, but your gaze doesn’t leave the stage.

‎Chief Stevens reaches the microphone, his voice carrying a practiced warmth. “Good evening, everyone. It’s an honor to see so many familiar faces gathered for such a worthy cause.” His wife stands just off his shoulder, smile bright but composed.

‎Around you, the audience stills, glasses paused halfway to lips. Even Bob straightens up a little-- the man’s presence demands it.

‎“This year,” Stevens continues, “we celebrate not just service, but the spirit behind it-- the courage, the humanity, and the relentless dedication that defines our force.”

‎Polite applause ripples through the hall.

‎Chief Stevens’ voice rolls steady through the hall, the kind that makes a microphone sound unnecessary. The man doesn’t just speak-- he commands the air.

‎Bob leans slightly toward you, whispering under his breath, “He’s… kind of cool, huh?”

‎You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” you say quietly, gaze never leaving the stage. “He is.” There’s a softness in your tone, one that slips out before you can rein it in. “He’s been like this my whole life-- solid. Always knows what to say, what to do. People just… trust him.”

‎Bob watches your face more than the man himself, catching that small glint of admiration. It makes sense now-- the way your posture changed when the cheif walked in. This isn’t just respect; it’s something earned over years of watching him hold a room like gravity itself.

‎“He looks like he irons his soul in the morning,” Bob mutters, keeping his voice low so only you can hear. “Man’s probably got a backup tie for his backup tie.”

‎You bite back a grin, trying not to snort during the Chief’s very solemn speech about public service. “Stop,” you whisper, nudging him with your elbow.

‎But Bob’s hopeless. He’s enjoying this too much-- half listening to the speech, half mesmerized by the fact that you’re smiling again. He feels absurdly happy, like this whole night might’ve been pulled from someone else’s daydream and handed to him.

‎Then the Chief shifts tone. “Now,” Stevens says, holding up the next envelope, “before we begin the awards-- don’t worry, I’ll keep it short. My wife promised to confiscate the mic if I start quoting Churchill again.”

‎The room chuckles, tension breaking.

‎He pauses dramatically, glancing toward his wife. “She says I have a ‘problem’ with dad jokes. I say I’m developing community morale.”

‎Half the hall bursts into laughter, and his wife-- ever elegant-- rolls her eyes in fond surrender, mouthing something that looks suspiciously like ‘you’re impossible.’

‎Bob leans closer again, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Okay, fine,” he murmurs. “He’s not just cool. He’s-- what’s the word? Dangerously charismatic.”

‎You smirk. “Runs in the family.”

‎Bob blinks, caught mid-grin, and for just a second-- he forgets this is all pretend.

The Cheif adjusts the mic, the room hushed again. “Alright,” he says, voice rich with easy authority, “time to celebrate some of our finest.”

‎Applause rolls through the hall as he starts calling names. Uniforms shift, medals glint, handshakes are exchanged with the kind of pride that smells faintly of cologne and accomplishment.

‎Bob claps, polite, but his brows pull together. He leans toward you and whispers, “Where are all these people even coming from?”

‎You glance at him, puzzled.

‎“I’m serious,” he mutters. “When we walked in, it was all retirees and toddlers. Now it’s suddenly a youth convention. Did they keep them in storage until the speeches started?”

‎You bite your lip to keep from laughing, eyes darting to the stage so no one sees. “They’re officers, Bob.”

‎“Yeah, but they’re our age. What are they-- undercover toddlers?”

‎You shake your head, hiding your grin behind your hand. And God, the way he looks at you-- half amused, half awestruck-- it’s almost too much.

‎He watches you like the rest of the room’s gone out of focus. The lights hit your hair, the corner of your smile, the way you tilt your head when you’re trying not to laugh. He doesn’t even notice he’s still clapping for someone whose name he didn’t hear.

‎Then, softly, he leans close again. “You gonna get one too?”

‎You snort, quietly enough not to draw eyes. “Nope. They tell the winners ahead of time so they can write a speech about courage and teamwork and whatever else puts everyone to sleep.”

‎Bob smirks. “So you’re not--”

‎“--getting one, no. Trust me, I’d know if--”

‎“--and the final recognition of the night,” Chief says, cutting through your words, “goes to someone whose work and integrity have left an impression on everyone lucky enough to know her. Please join me in congratulating--”

‎He looks down at the card.

‎“--Lieutenant Y/N.”

‎The applause hits like a small explosion.

‎You freeze. For a full second, you don’t even process your name-- it just hovers in the air, echoing back at you. Then your eyes snap to Bob’s.

‎His jaw drops. His grin follows a heartbeat later-- stunned, stupidly bright.

‎“Go,” he whispers, already clapping hard enough to draw stares. “Go, go, go.”

‎You shake your head, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “I--I didn’t--”

‎He reaches for your hand, squeezes it. The warmth steadies you just enough to stand.

‎“You got this,” he murmurs.

‎Your heart hammers as you rise, the room blurring around you-- faces, applause, flashes of color. Bob’s still clapping like a man possessed, pride all over his face. You glance back once, see him beaming like you’ve just saved the world instead of… whatever this is.

‎And then you start walking toward the stage. Slowly. Carefully. Every step a little more real than the last.

‎The lights catch her as she stands. The whole ballroom dips into shadow except for the stage, where her dark navy dress flickers like water under glass. Every ripple of fabric, every step up the stairs-- Bob feels it in his chest like someone tightening a string.

‎He’s clapping still, but his throat’s dry. God, she looks beautiful. Beautiful in that unfair, holy kind of way that makes your lungs forget their job. For a split second, he wants to yell it-- that’s my-- and then he catches himself. Friend? Sure. Also the woman he’s absolutely, irreversibly, pathetically in love with.

‎She reaches the stage, and the Chief greets her with that rare warmth that melts his usual commander's steel. His wife opens her arms too, hugging her like a daughter who’s come home. The crowd coos a little at the sight; even the servers in the back pause to watch.

‎Bob’s palms sting from clapping, but he doesn’t stop. He’s too proud, too dazed, too gone.

‎Then she steps up to the mic. A brief pause, the tiny clearing of her throat. Bob feels his stomach drop-- she’s nervous. Of course she is. Who wouldn’t be? He could never stand there himself.

‎But then--

‎“Uh,” she starts, voice small but steady. “First of all… I didn’t know this was happening, so if I trip, cry, or faint, please pretend it’s a bit.”

‎The room laughs. Bob blinks. Oh, she’s fine.

‎She goes on, gathering momentum. “Usually they tell the poor soul getting an award so they can write one of those heartwarming speeches about teamwork and honor. But apparently, someone in the department wanted to test if I can improvise under pressure.”

‎Laughter swells again.

‎She grins now, the confidence blooming on her face, soft but radiant. “Honestly, I thought the biggest shock of the night was seeing actual young people here. I was starting to think this department runs on early-bird specials and bedtime at nine.”

‎The officers who already got their awards-- mostly out of Bob’s view-- hoot from below the stage. Someone shouts her name; another whistles.

‎She points down toward them, mock scolding, “Hey! No backtalk! You all had your five minutes. Let me pretend I’m beloved for a second.”

‎The laughter crescendos.

‎Bob’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. God, she’s magnetic. He can’t stop watching-- her hands moving, her voice threading perfectly between humor and heart, the lights haloing her hair. He’s never seen anyone so alive, so sure, so hers.

‎And when she glances out at the crowd, just once-- he swears she finds him.

‎He claps again, louder this time, just to feel the sound of it echo in his bones.

‎Her laughter fades into a smile, and she glances down at the mic as if deciding whether to keep the joke going or tell the truth instead. The shift is small but it changes the air in the room-- like everyone suddenly knows something real is coming.

‎She exhales softly. “Jokes aside… I’m lucky,” she says, her tone quieter now, threaded with warmth. “Lucky to do what I do, lucky to work with people who make the hardest days bearable. And lucky to still want to show up, even when it’s easier not to.”

‎The room stills. No coughs, no clinking glasses. Just the hum of attention.

‎“I think everyone in this room knows that you don’t survive this job alone,” she goes on, eyes moving gently across the audience. “It’s not medals or rank or how many hours you’ve logged. It’s the people who stand next to you--.who hand you coffee when you’re running on fumes, who text to check if you made it home.”

‎Her voice wavers slightly. “It’s the ones who remind you you’re human, when you’ve been pretending you’re made of steel.”

‎A soft murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd. Even the Chief looks faintly misty-eyed, his hand resting proudly on his wife’s shoulder.

‎“And tonight…” she smiles again, lighter now, “…I feel like the luckiest person in the room. Even if I’m still convinced someone mixed up the names.”

‎Laughter breaks through again, gentle and fond.

‎She finishes simply: “Thank you. For the work, for the friendship, and for proving that this uniform means more than duty-- it means family.”

‎The applause hits like thunder, spilling through the ballroom.

‎Bob’s on his feet before anyone else. It’s not even conscious. His hands sting, his throat tightens, his chest feels too small for what’s happening inside it. She looks over just briefly, eyes scanning, and when they land on him, her smile softens-- almost private, like she’s thanking him too.

‎He grins back, helplessly proud. That’s my girl, his heart mutters before his brain can scold it.

‎And as she steps down from the stage, still glowing under the lights, he realizes he’s never seen her shine like that-- and he never wants to see anything else.

The ‎Chief steps back to the mic, watching her descend the steps with that familiar fatherly half-smile. “And that, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, voice booming again, “is why we don’t tell her about these things beforehand-- because apparently, she’s funnier when she’s ambushed.”

‎The room erupts in laughter. Even the band chuckles, a saxophonist letting out a wheezy note that somehow fits. The Chief adds, “Some of us might want to hire her to give our speeches next year.”

‎She waves a hand back toward him, laughing as she makes her way through the crowd. Her award gleams under the chandeliers, catching bits of gold light as she passes the tables. The applause fades back into the low hum of the ballroom-- clinking glasses, the shuffle of shoes, the start of soft music again.

‎Bob’s still standing when she reaches him. He looks like he hasn’t blinked in a full minute. “You were--” he starts, then stops, shaking his head. “You were unreal up there.”

‎Her cheeks flush, a pink that’s visible even in the dim light. “Don’t,” she mumbles, half hiding behind the award. “I was shaking the whole time.”

‎He leans closer, lowering his voice so it barely rises above the music. “You didn’t look it. You looked like you owned the place.”

‎She laughs, small and embarrassed. “My voice cracked twice.”

‎“Didn’t notice,” he says, still grinning. “Too busy being proud of you.”

‎That gets her. The blush deepens, her lips part in a quiet breath. “You’re ridiculous,” she whispers, but she’s smiling so hard it doesn’t sound like a complaint.

‎“Maybe,” he murmurs back, “but I’m ridiculously proud.”

‎She shakes her head, laughing again, the sound soft and real this time. Around them, the music swells-- a smooth, classic waltz-- and people drift back onto the dance floor. The lights glimmer on crystal glasses, dresses swish, and the world feels momentarily perfect.

‎Bob can’t stop watching her, the award balanced against her arm, her smile caught between shy and glowing.

‎And for the first time all night, he thinks maybe pretending isn’t the hardest part anymore.

‎‎The chandeliers hum back to life with a slow rise of golden light, washing the ballroom in that champagne glow again. People clap politely as the band kicks into another song, something smooth and lazy. (Y/n) leans into Bob with a grin that spells mischief.

‎“Okay,” she whispers. “Operation: raid the refreshment table. We move when the first couple starts dancing. You take the left flank—”

‎“—and you take the desserts,” Bob finishes, grinning. “Obviously.”

‎“Obviously,” she whispers back, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

‎Before they can make a move, a familiar voice calls her name. “You thought I wouldn’t find you, huh?”

‎She freezes. Bob straightens a little too fast. The Chief strides over with his wife in tow, his steps steady and his expression caught somewhere between proud and amused. “There’s my favorite headache,” he says, opening his arms.

‎She laughs, hugging him tight. “Hi, Chief.”

‎“Chief?” his wife teases. “You’re off duty, love.”

‎“Right, right,” he chuckles, then holds her by the shoulders, eyes softening. “You did good, kid. Made me look like I actually know what I’m doing.”

‎She ducks her head, suddenly shy. “Just trying not to trip over my own shoes, sir.”

‎His wife swats his arm. “Stop embarrassing her. You always get sentimental at these things.”

‎Then the Chief’s gaze shifts-- past her shoulder, to Bob. He sizes him up in the way only father figures and commanding officers know how. “And who’s this?”

‎She opens her mouth, but Bob, cool as ever, beats her to it. “Bob Floyd, sir. Pleasure to meet you.” He sticks out a hand, firm and polite.

"My boyfriend." You emphasize, gauging I the chief's reaction.

‎“Bob,” the Chief repeats, shaking it. “You Navy?”

‎“Yes, sir. WSOs with the NAVAIR program.”

‎That gets a nod of approval. “Well, thank you for your service, son.”

‎Bob gives a half-smile. “Thank you for raising the most terrifyingly competent woman I’ve ever met.”

‎The Chief’s wife laughs softly. “He’s not wrong.”

‎The Chief squints, mock suspicion written all over his face. “So… Bob. Boyfriend, huh? How long’s this been going on?”

‎Before she can sputter out a half-baked lie, Bob slides an arm around her waist, pulling her in with that calm confidence that makes her knees go weak. “Two years,” he says smoothly.

‎Her jaw drops a little. The Chief’s brows lift. “Two years, huh? You kept that quiet.”

‎“Had to,” Bob replies with a grin that could charm a border collie out of a steak. “Didn’t want the whole department stealing her from me once they realized how brilliant she is.”

‎The Chief chuckles, shaking his head. “Smart man. She’s one of a kind.”

‎“She is,” Bob says, his voice softer now. “You've seen her up there. I don’t think anyone in the room could’ve kept their eyes off her.”

‎The Chief’s wife melts instantly. “Oh, isn’t he just wonderful?”

‎“Don’t encourage him,” the Chief mutters, though he’s smiling too. “Alright, Floyd, I’ll let you off the hook for now. But if I find out you broke her heart--”

‎“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Bob answers, sincere for once. “I’m just trying to keep up with her.”

‎The Chief studies him for a long second, then grins, clapping his shoulder. “Fair answer.”

‎As they wander off, his wife still gushing about the “cute young couple,” the reader elbows Bob in the ribs. “Two years?” she hisses.

‎He grins down at her. “You’d prefer I said three?”

‎She groans into her hand, but she’s laughing, cheeks glowing.

‎And under the ballroom lights, Bob can’t help thinking that for a lie, it sure feels right.

‎She let out a long, theatrical exhale once the Chief and his wife disappeared into the crowd. “Okay. That went relatively well. No one’s been arrested, disowned, or forced into a family dinner. I’d call that a win.”

‎Bob huffed a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly? I actually had fun. Wasn’t as terrifying as I thought. Considering, you know-- your track record.”

‎“My track record?” she gasped. “Excuse me, what track record?”

‎He smirked. “The one where you sprint out of every formal event before dessert.”

‎She shrugged, pretending to examine her award. “Dessert’s overrated.”

‎“You hate these things.”

‎“Hate?” she blinked up at him, feigning offense. “Did I ever say I hate them?”

‎Bob squinted. “You... kind of radiate that energy.”

‎“Well, that’s slander.” She tipped her chin up. “I love these events.”

‎“You-- what?”

‎“Of course. The expensive wine is free. The food’s great. The old people tell better stories than my Netflix queue.” She paused, then grinned, reaching for his hand. “And most of all--come on.”

‎“What?” He looked down at her hand wrapped around his. “Where are we going?”

‎She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then tugged him out of the main hall and into one of the side corridors-- quiet, dim, lined with ornate portraits that probably cost more than Bob’s car.

‎They moved fast, her heels clicking lightly against the marble, his confusion only growing. “You’re kidnapping me now?” he whispered.

‎“Technically, I’m liberating you.”

‎“Uh-huh. That sounds exactly like something kidnappers say.”

‎She stopped at a narrow wooden door, gave him a sly smile, and pushed it open.

‎The bass hit first.

‎Lights pulsed. Music thumped. And suddenly Bob felt like he’d stepped through a portal into another reality-- because the genteel, chandelier-lit ballroom had given way to what looked like a secret disco, tucked right under the same roof. Young officers, off-duty pilots, and a couple of civilians were already in there, laughing and dancing, neon flickering across their faces.

‎Bob blinked. “What the hell--”

‎“Welcome to the real afterparty,” she said, already unpinning the delicate clip from her hair.

‎He stared, half laughing, half in awe. “You’re telling me we were upstairs drinking lukewarm champagne while this was happening?”

‎“Exactly.” She grabbed two glasses off a passing tray and handed him one. “Now stop looking shocked and start pretending you knew.”

‎He raised his glass, grin spreading. “So this is where all the young people were.”

‎She winked. “Told you I loved these things.”

‎And for a moment, under flashing lights and muffled bass, Bob wasn’t sure if he was dizzy from the music or from her-- bare shoulders catching neon, smile bright enough to rival the strobes.

‎She spins onto the dance floor like she’s the star of a wild west musical, scanning the crowd before she locks eyes on Bob. Without warning, she throws her arms wide like a cowboy lassoing a runaway steer.

‎“Come on, cowboy!” she shouts, grinning, and Bob freezes, caught between laughter and disbelief.

‎“Oh no,” he mutters under his breath.

‎She takes a step forward, then another, spinning again, and Bob instinctively plays along. He spreads his arms, stiff and comically exaggerated, like he’s caught in some invisible rope, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as she “hauls” him in.

‎“Woah! Woah! Easy there, cowgirl!” he calls over the music, pretending to struggle, hands “tied” as he’s pulled closer. His grin stretches wide, a mixture of mock panic and pure delight.

‎She yanks him closer again, spinning him toward the center of the floor, and he bounces theatrically, leaning into the rhythm of the music, even though none of it makes sense to him. “I’m trapped!” he shouts, laughing, “Somebody call the sheriff!”

‎She leans back slightly, arms still out like she’s riding a horse, laughing as she tugs him along. “No sheriffs here, partner! You’re mine now!”

‎Bob throws his head back, laughing so hard his chest hurts, letting himself be completely carried by the energy of her-- hands “restrained,” bouncing along to the beat, over and over, until it feels less like pretending and more like pure chaos.

‎The crowd around them barely notices, lost in their own dancing, while they make a ridiculous spectacle of cowboy-and-lasso antics. She spins, he bounces, they both shout and laugh, and the music pulses beneath their feet like it’s cheering them on.

‎At one point, she spins toward the DJ over the loud music, pointing at him. “This guy’s on probation! Been arrested five times before we even hired him-- keep an eye on him or he’s remixing the place into chaos!”

‎Bob, laughs so hard he nearly falls backward. “I--can’t--breathe!”

‎She tugs him upright, grinning like a wild child, and they continue their ridiculous, bouncing.

‎The music pulses in rhythms he doesn’t recognize-- something exotic, almost hypnotic, with beats that roll like waves. He’s not a club guy. Never a club guy. And yet, here he is, hands in hers, grinning like a fool, moving to the beat without really knowing how, just… with her.

‎They spin, stumble, laugh, and spin again, bodies loosely matching the music, more instinct than skill. Bob feels his chest tighten with something that’s part thrill, part disbelief. He’s having too much fun.

‎She leans close over the loud speakers to the DJ, shouting something over the pulse of the music: “Jeff! If I have to bail you out of another sound meltdown tonight, I’m charging you rent for the mixer!”

‎The DJ throws a mock salute, laughing, while she winks at Bob and gestures toward the crowd. “See that crew over there? That’s my batch.” She points out a group waving at her; she catches their gaze and waves back, lips curving in a small sigh of satisfaction.

‎She leans closer, over the pounding bass, and asks Bob: “Wanna go socialize?”

‎Bob freezes for a beat, caught in a haze of flashing lights and her proximity. In his head, there’s only her-- spinning, laughing, alive-- and he thinks, Do I care about anyone else in this room? Not a chance. But then he catches that small pleading look in her eyes, and he knows she’s silently asking him to stay with her.

‎He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m with you.”

‎Her grin turns mischievous, and she tugs him along, letting him trail slightly behind as they weave through the crowd. She leans over, whispering gossip about someone at work, giggling at each small scandalous detail, and Bob listens, laughing softly, nodding, feeling like he’s in some alternate dimension where nothing matters except her.

‎They circle around the floor, moving with the music, brushing past friends, colleagues, strangers, all of it swirling together in a blur of lights and laughter. Every glance she gives, every small jab of humor, sends Bob spinning in a way the music never could on its own.

‎And for once, in the flashing neon chaos, he doesn’t want anything to change. He’s exactly where he wants to be-- with her, in the middle of the madness, laughing like a kid and feeling like the luckiest man alive.

---

‎‎The hall door swung shut behind you, muffling the bass and chatter and the sound of someone very earnestly explaining a silent auction. You and Bob stumbled into the cooler dark of the terrace, laughter still catching in your throats like hiccups.

‎He was grinning, wild-eyed, holding his tux jacket awkwardly closed over his chest like a man hiding a mortal wound. You knew the wound was bread. The evidence of your crime. Warm, bakery-fresh bread.

‎Bob straightened his jacket with exaggerated care, frowning at the front of it. “I think I’ve got crumbs in my conscience.”

‎You turned toward him, eyebrows up. “You mean guilt?”

‎“No, I mean literal crumbs,” he said, deadpan. “You made me hide a loaf in my jacket.”

‎You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “You’re the one who volunteered!”

‎“I didn’t think you meant the entire loaf!”

‎“Crime’s a commitment,” you said between giggles, and he was smiling again, that quiet, helpless kind. ‎“How dare they ban me from the club bar too.”

‎The night air was sharp, tasting like sea salt and money. You leaned your elbows on the white railing, feeling the cool glass beside it hum faintly under the music inside. He came to stand next to you, jacket still suspiciously bulky, and for a minute you both just breathed, laughing quieter now.

‎Your faces were flushed, the kind of pink that comes from champagne and too many whispered dares. Bob exhaled and tilted his head toward you, smiling small and helpless.

‎“You think they’ll notice?” he murmured.

‎You looked at the lump in his jacket, then at his face, and started laughing again. “Only if it starts rising.”

‎That did it-- he snorted, really snorted, then tried to cover it up, which made you wheeze harder. The two of you leaned there, half-drunk, half-giddy, and for a moment the night felt like it was holding its breath just for you two idiots and your stolen loaf of bread.

‎The night had gone soft around the edges. The kind of soft that only comes after too much champagne and not enough sense. The city spilled out below-- San Diego glowing lazy and smug, the ocean beyond it catching bits of moonlight like a thief.

‎You leaned forward against the white railing, cheek pressed to the cool metal, watching your breath fog faintly. Bob stood beside you, hands in his pockets, his tux hanging open like he’d survived something harrowing, which, technically, he had: you.

‎The bread sat on the ledge between you like a third guest.

‎“God,” you whispered. “It’s so stupidly pretty out here.”

‎“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. You could feel him looking sideways at you, not the city. “It really is.”

‎You turned, caught his eyes, immediately looked away again because-- yeah, no. Too much sincerity for one oxygen cycle. “Stop that,” you muttered.

‎“Stop what?”

‎“Being… emotionally available in moonlight. I'm not used to that.”

‎He laughed, that little disbelieving kind. “You started it.”

‎You smiled, small. “Yeah. I do that.”

‎The wind lifted your hair a bit, and you felt weirdly steady, even drunk. Like all the noise from the ballroom was behind glass and this bit of balcony existed somewhere slightly outside the timeline of your life.

‎“Hey,” you said after a moment, fiddling with your bracelet. “Thanks for making me come tonight.”

‎He blinked. “You really didn’t wanted to?”

‎“I did not. I’ve never brought anyone before. I was kind of proud of that. Independent, mysterious woman at gala, tragic and unattached, you know? But now…” You laughed softly, eyes still on the lights below. “Now I know if I ever go alone again, I’ll just die of boredom. You’ve ruined it. You’ve made solitude… unmarketable.”

‎He laughed under his breath. “You think I ruined solitude?”

‎“Yeah, you-- Bob Floyd, destroyer of peace and quiet. Look at you.”

‎He shook his head, grinning. “I’m the least cool person here.”

‎“That’s what’s so irritating,” you said, half-laughing. “You’re the most quietly competent man in the room, and you still act like a deer at a birthday party.”

‎He chuckled, eyes dropping. “I just… I don’t know. I like letting other people talk.”

‎“Yeah,” you said softly. “I noticed. It’s kind of your thing. Makes people like me feel safe enough to be-- what’s the word-- stupid.”

‎He went pink immediately. “You think I make you feel safe?”

‎“Don’t make it a thing,” you said too fast, biting back a grin.

‎“I wasn’t--”

‎“You were.”

‎He laughed again, helpless now, and you found yourself grinning into your hand, cheeks aching. The two of you stood there, shoulders brushing, the ocean murmuring something secret.

‎And for once, you didn’t feel like running away from the nice thing that was happening.

‎The terrace air felt clean enough to drink. You leaned back on the railing, dress swishing faintly against the white metal, while Bob stood right beside you, fussing with his tux like he was trying to remember how buttons worked.

‎The loaf of bread sat on the ledge between you both, perfectly ridiculous in its solemn little napkin wrap.

‎“You ever notice how you talk more when it’s just us?” you said, watching him from the corner of your eye.

‎He glanced up, startled. “Do I?”

‎“Yeah,” you said softly. “It’s like the words know they’re safe.”

‎That made him blink, the way people do when they’re not sure if they’re being teased or complimented. Then he smiled-- small, crooked, real. You looked away immediately, pretending to find something fascinating in the city lights.

‎The two of you laughed under your breaths for no reason at all, the kind of laughter that bubbles out just because the night feels lighter than it should.

‎He leaned next to you against the railing, close enough that your shoulders brushed. The moonlight slid down his cheek, softening him. The silence between laughs stretched out in a way that felt… kind.

‎After a moment, you tilted your head, still grinning. “You know what’s tragic?”

‎He glanced down, wary. “What?”

‎“I’ll never be able to unassociate the smell of expensive perfume with bread theft.”

‎That got him. He laughed so hard he had to brace a hand against the railing, head ducked, cheeks going pink.

‎"Don't laugh! I spent a fortune on this scent and now I can’t decide if I smell like seduction or sourdough starter.”

‎You laughed with him, both of you bent double, the sound spilling into the night until it dissolved into the hum of the ocean below. His eyes tracing your face, traitorous and so obsessed, just wanting to memorize the way your mouth moves.

‎When it finally quieted, he exhaled, still smiling. “You’re trouble.”

‎“You say that like it’s new,” you murmured, and he looked at you-- really looked-- and grinned wider.

‎The stars are jealous of you, woman. And I... I am so lucky.

‎The music behind the glass doors kept playing for other people’s nights, but out here, yours felt suspended somewhere between laughter and something you weren’t brave enough to name yet.

‎You tilt your head slightly, letting it rest against the railing, hair falling over your face. Bob mirrors you a beat later, chin resting on his hands, eyes half-lidded in the soft haze of alcohol and moonlight.

‎For a moment, you just stare. No words. Just quiet grins, little lazy exhalations, and the subtle warmth radiating from being this close. Your laughter has died down, but the edges of your mouths are still curved, smirking in unison.

‎You’ve got that look again.

‎…Yeah. The one where I’m completely in love and can’t hide it.

‎Uh-oh.

‎Uh-oh indeed. I’m doomed.

‎You catch each other’s gaze, eyes lazy, half-lidded, and the world outside seems irrelevant. Neither of you speaks, but you can feel every thought pinging silently between you: admiration, affection, the absolute chaos of wanting each other without needing to say a word.

‎“You know,” you started, voice quiet, “I… I really love your smile.”

‎Bob froze, just a little, caught mid-breath. Then it happened: a stuttered, breathy laugh spilled out of him, short and awkward, and he ducked his head just slightly, embarrassed. His ears flushed pink and he cleared his throat, gulping down air like he was trying to convince himself to be brave.

‎Okay. Just say it. Just fucking say it, his brain roared. She thinks I’m cool, she’s laughing at me, she’s right there. Say it now, Bob. NOW.

‎He opened his mouth, words trembling: “I-- I… I’ve been-- God... I've been wanting to--”

‎And then-- HONK! HONK! HONK!

‎The honk blasted through the quiet terrace, dragging both of you out of your little bubble. Your heads snapped down toward the street like someone yanked on strings.

‎And there it was.

‎A single, impossibly sleek black car sat in the driveway, shiny enough to catch the streetlights. Leaning against it, cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, was him-- your ex. Only yesterday, you’d ripped that relationship to pieces, and now here he was, looking impossibly calm, all casual body language and nonchalant posture… except the glare in his eyes betrayed everything. Furious. Possessive. Fuming.

‎One hand rested lightly on the car horn as if he’d been ready to honk it at the perfect moment all along.

‎Bob’s jaw locked, slow and deliberate. His shoulders squared. His entire stance shifted-- like he’d suddenly realized he was not just defending territory, but declaring it. You couldn’t help but notice the way his jawline cut sharper in the moonlight, the subtle flare of his nostrils, the faint hitch in his breathing. Hot, and infuriatingly protective. The exact kind of hot that made your chest tighten.

‎He didn’t move yet-- didn’t even blink-- but the heat rolling off him was enough. His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on your ex as if daring him to make a wrong move.

‎You could feel your own body tense beside him, still leaning against the railing, heart thudding. The air between you two thickened, not just with the adrenaline of the confrontation, but with that strange, electric tension-- the one that only exists when someone you thought you care about might be in danger and the guy you actually care about is too hot to look away from.

‎Your ex raised a brow, cigarette smoke curling around his head, and smirked faintly, but the look in his eyes was raw. He was pissed. And Bob… Bob didn’t flinch. Not a muscle. Not a blink. Just that jaw, that chest, that entire aura of You’re standing in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time energy.

‎Bob’s brows furrowed like a man who was simultaneously furious and worried he might vomit from adrenaline. Of course he had to show up now. After you’d spent an entire week practically stalking him with polite texts and sighs that could’ve sunk a battleship. After you eventually said fuck it and broke up with him. And now here he is, standing beneath the terrace like a smug, overpriced statue of himself.

‎Bob’s jaw tightens. He’s mad, but not just at the ex. He’s mad because he knows you. You. -- the human embodiment of soft. The girl who once cried for three hours because she clipped her kitten’s nail a little too short. The girl who somehow survived six years of someone treating her like a doormat. And the sheer possibility that you might--- might-- give in again? Yeah. That was unacceptable.

‎He blinks, bracing for the scene: the tears, the glassy eyes, the tragic soft gaze that somehow makes you look like a vulnerable Disney princess about to forgive a villain.

‎But then-- oh sweet blessed heaven-- you do not do that.

‎Your eyes are glued to the sad excuse of a man from the up at the terrace, and your expression is… flat. Absolute, brutal flatness. Nothing cute. Nothing sad. Just pure, concentrated disdain.

‎“...Ick.”

‎Bob swears his brain nearly short-circuits.

Ick.

That’s it. That’s all. That tiny, perfect little word. And somehow, in the middle of his seething, protective rage, it’s hilarious. And hot. And he wants to punch your ex and also kiss you at the same time.

‎He feels that swell in his chest-- the kind that says, Yes. This. This is my girl. She’s disgusted. She’s disgusted at him. And she’s mine. Tonight. Please god.

‎He stares down at the street, jaw tight but lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh. The guy below-- her ex, Mr. Cigarette-and-Consequences-- leans against his car like a moody perfume ad, one hand on the horn as if subtlety was ever his strong suit.

‎Bob doesn’t even bother to hide the amusement curling in his mouth now. He looks at you, then back at the man below, and mutters under his breath, “...He ever bother you after last night?”

‎You hum, casual, eyes still on the street. “Wouldn’t know. Broke my phone, remember?”

‎He huffs a laugh-- quiet, sharp-- and for a second it feels like you two are royalty, bored on a balcony, watching a particularly stupid court jester fumble for attention. The ex tilts his head, trying for menacing, but it just makes him look lost.

‎You rest your chin on your hand. “People are so weird,” you say, light and lazy, the kind of tone that kills without trying. “They only care about things once they’ve lost them. Like, where was all this energy before?”

‎Bob nods slowly, still smiling, eyes flicking between you and the idiot below. “Some men only realize they’re empty once the thing that filled them walks away,” he says softly. “And then they stand in the street with a cigarette, pretending they’re tragic.”

‎You laugh-- a short, sharp, genuine sound-- and he glances at you like he’s just been handed the best view in the world.

‎Down below, the ex shifts, uncomfortable under the combined weight of your laughter and Bob’s quiet, almost kind smirk.

‎“Tragic,” Bob repeats, just to twist the knife, voice low enough for only you to hear. “But not poetic.”

‎Your grin spreads. “Yeah,” you say. “Just pathetic.”

‎And that’s the moment-- the split second where Bob knows he’s completely gone for you. Because you’re not trembling or explaining or apologizing. You’re laughing, and he’s laughing with you, and for once, the world is exactly as it should be: him beside you, some idiot below, and the two of you too busy grinning to care.

‎The ex’s voice cuts through the air-- sharp, angry, useless. Whatever he’s shouting doesn’t even make it past the terrace. The music from the ballroom swells behind you, swallowing the sound whole. He’s just a furious mime in an expensive car now, all cigarette smoke and impotence.

‎You watch him for a moment, brows furrowed in disgust, then let out a tiny laugh-- half pity, half secondhand embarrassment. “God,” you murmur, shaking your head, “I’m getting the ick so bad I might need a priest.” You turn to Bob, still smiling. “I’ll go tell him off, quick. Two minutes.”

‎But Bob doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His jaw tightens once, and that’s the only sign of the storm inside. You take a step, and that’s when his hand finds yours-- firm, warm, trembling slightly.

‎“Don’t,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like a secret.

‎You freeze, eyes wide.

‎He swallows, looking down, thumb brushing your knuckles like he’s steadying himself before he jumps. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

‎It’s barely a whisper, like he’s terrified of what he’s just said.

‎You don’t breathe for a second. The world quiets around you-- no music, no shouting, no night air, just that sentence still hovering between you. He finally looks up, eyes soft but scared, and keeps going, quieter still.

‎“Let me handle it. Please. You don’t have to prove you can survive everything. I already know you can. Just… let me help now.”

‎You can’t even speak. Your throat goes tight, your stomach flips. He’s not looking at you like he’s making a promise; he’s looking at you like he’s already keeping one.

‎"Everything below you is chaos. You don’t need to step into it. Let me... Please.”

‎The lights from the city flicker against his face, and you see it-- how much it costs him to say it, how badly he means it. The air between you shifts, heavy and tender and stupidly alive.

‎And you? You melt. Completely. The sound that leaves you isn’t even a laugh-- it’s something soft and broken in the best way.

‎You whisper, almost dizzy, “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

‎He smiles-- small, shy, wrecked. “…I’ve been losing sleep over how badly I wanted you to know.”

‎The city glimmers below, moonlight bouncing off the white railings, but it’s meaningless now. Everything else-- the party, the bread, even your ex-- has vanished from your brain entirely. Only Bob Floyd exists. Only this moment.

‎You grin, voice teasing and a little breathless. “Are you… confessing?” you murmur, fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket. “…That you like me?”

‎Bob freezes, chest tightening, eyes darkening with the weight of everything he’s been holding back. His lips part, breath shallow. “‘Like’… is a very weak word,” he says, voice almost trembling.

‎You smirk, heart hammering, and close the distance. Your hands cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing along his jaw. His breath hitches, loud, uneven, betraying him completely.

‎“I’ll be in your care, then,” you whisper, your words brushing his lips a heartbeat before your mouth does.

‎And then-- HONK! HONK! HONK!

‎The ex below is losing his mind, honking furiously, probably wondering how the girl he supposedly had just yesterday is now completely wrapped up in the arms of the so-called just a neighbor he hates. Bob’s jaw tightens in fury and amusement.

‎Without breaking the kiss, he grabs your waist, pulls you flush against him, spins you just slightly, dipping you back against the railing in the most theatrical “look at this, idiot” move imaginable. You gasp, laughing through the kiss, hopelessly in love, completely flustered.

‎Your arms snake around his neck as he deepens the kiss, the teasing dip and press against the railing making the ex’s honks sound like desperate punctuation marks to your private chaos.

‎You giggle into him, breath hot against his lips, heart hammering. “You’re ridiculous,” you manage between gasps and kisses.‎Bob grins against your lips, teeth catching yours in a teasing brush, voice low and husky. “Not as ridiculous as him down there,” he murmurs, nipping your bottom lip gently, “or me planning our fence colours again for while kissing you.”

‎You laugh louder, completely undone, and press into him like the world has melted away entirely-- except the ex, who is now apparently losing his mind beneath the terrace, and the music from the party still pulsing softly behind you.

‎Then-- knock knock knock.

‎A junior officer’s voice cuts through the haze. “Evenin-- oh my! Uh… Officer (Y/N)? The Chief is looking for you back in the hall.”

‎You break the kiss reluctantly, forehead resting against Bob’s, cheeks flushed, breath coming in pants.

‎Bob presses one more quick, messy kiss to your temple, whispering, “…We’ll finish this later.”

‎You can’t help but laugh, loud and giddy, and squeeze him around the neck. “…Later, huh? You better mean that.”

‎He smirks, chest still pressed to yours, eyes glinting with mischief and affection. “Oh, I definitely mean that.”

‎And with that, you step back, still laughing, letting the world creep back in-- but only just enough for now.

‎‎--

‎You can’t stop grinning, and it’s a problem. Every time you catch yourself in a reflective surface-- door frame, glass panel, shiny silver tray-- you’re caught imagining that kiss all over again. Bob’s lips. Perfect. Soft. Firm in all the right ways. Oh my God. That was… amazing. And he kissed like he meant it, like he had been holding it in forever, like-- like he had been waiting just for me.

‎Your stomach flips, your chest warms, and you giggle softly to yourself, completely lost in thought. You’re walking through the crowded hallway, bumping gently into a few guests, but you barely notice. The music, the chatter, the laughter-- it’s all just a blur behind the little universe you’ve made in your head where it’s just you and him, tangled up in each other’s arms, breathless, laughing, kissing.

‎Do I smell like him? Do I smell like his lips? Because that would be amazing… and terrifying.

‎Staying single after that sad excuse of a relationship? Fuck that. Absolutely not. I’m done pretending misery is “character-building.” No more crying over idiots who can’t even remember my cat’s name.

‎I’m marrying Bob Floyd. Like, not today, not technically-- but in spirit, in every way that counts.

‎Oh, of course I got hurt before. Of course I did. But he-- he’s different. He’s not a lesson or a test or a heartbreak waiting to happen. He’s… he’s Bob. And for the first time, I can actually imagine letting myself love someone. Truly, entirely.

‎Somewhere ahead, the crowd thins, and your eyes land on the Chief and his wife. They’re standing together, chatting with a cluster of officers and guests, smiling and nodding, completely unaware of the tiny hurricane of emotions swirling inside you. And then-- once they spot you-- they shift, their attention flicking your way, curious, amused, welcoming.

‎You pause a beat, heart still racing, cheeks hot, and for a second consider walking right over-- but decide to linger at the edge of the crowd instead, letting yourself catch your breath… and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of a polished table leg. Still flushed. Still grinning. Still thinking about him.

‎---

You strode over, trying to keep your usual confident air, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. The chief and his wife were lounging like they knew exactly what you'd been up to all night, and you immediately felt like a guilty kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

‎“Well, well,” his wife said, arching an eyebrow, “Running ragged for your handsome gentleman…Should we be jealous or impressed?”

‎“Oh, I’m running ragged? He’s completely angelic-- barely even makes me break a sweat.” you laugh loudly before catching yourself.

‎Too frank.

‎Your mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “I-- uh… not like that, really. I mean… he’s just--” You froze, realizing you were going red. “He’s…well, perfect.”

‎“Oh, we’ve noticed,” the wife said, her eyes sparkling with delight. She reached over to squeeze your hand. “Absolutely perfect.”

‎The chief, standing a little stiffly, folded his arms and gave you a look that could’ve stopped a charging bull. “But… are you really happy? And how serious is this?”

You blinked. That question hit differently. He was the chief of police, her boss, and somehow-- somehow--still terrifyingly fatherly. “I… I think,” you said, voice a little breathless, “I think I’m... in trouble, honestly. The good kind.”

‎His wife let out a soft, approving hum, a little nod accompanying it. “That’s lovely, dear.”

‎“The good kind? I’m not sure I trust that kind of trouble.” the cheif made a face, crossing his arms.

‎You pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re acting like you’re cross-examining me, sir!”

‎The chief raised his eyes in mock surrender,“Cross-examining? No, no… I’m just… making sure my goddaughter survives her own decisions.”

‎The chief exhaled, half-exasperated, half-sad, like he’d just realized something he couldn’t quite hold onto. “You know… whatever you choose, you’ll always have a place here. With me.” His eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners. “Don’t worry, we always keep an emergency son in reserve. Just in case."

‎“Now, now… let’s not turn our children into backup plans, dear.” his wife pinches his arm, to which he just laughs loud.

You blinked at him, trying to process the mixture of warning, kindness, and unspoken hope in his words. Your lips twitched into a nervous grin. “Thank you… really. You’re… you’re both… so ridiculously nice.” You laughed softly, brushing at the corners of your eyes. “I-- I’m sorry if I… messed with your… plans. That sounds awful, but--”

‎“Nonsense,” his wife interrupted, giving him a gentle nudge with a chuckle. “All we care about is that you are happy. Nothing else matters.”

‎The chief just exhaled, a tiny sigh escaping him. You caught that faint flicker of disappointment-- his own quietly buried dream--- but it softened into acceptance, and maybe even pride.

You felt yourself wobble slightly, a mix of relief and something warmer flooding your chest. “Well… then I think… this is going to be okay,” you murmured, letting yourself imagine a life where you didn’t have to hide anymore, where your pretend boyfriend had somehow turned into something real, something… perfect.

‎The chief opened his mouth, but his words hung in the air, unfinished. His eyes flickered behind you, sharp and bright, and you felt the tiniest shiver of anticipation.

‎“You haven’t met our son yet, have you?” he asked, voice calm but carrying an edge of mischief. Then, with a subtle flick of his finger, he beckoned.

‎A voice, smooth as silk, cut through the quiet:

‎“Ms. [Y/N], it’s truly a pleasure to finally meet you.”

You turned. Slowly, practiced smile to greet the person who you had been planning this coup for the past week just on texts, finally ready to meet in person. 

‎And then-- you froze. Your eyes went impossibly wide, and jaw fell as if gravity itself had pulled it down.

‎---

‎Bob's fingers trail your arm as you walked away, back into the mansion. He sighs dreamily, his skin buzzing and face bloomed like an afterglow.

‎He turned around, leaning against the railing, eyes locking with your ex, who is glaring, cigarette long since thrown to the asphalt, smoke curling uselessly into the night. He’s half-huffing, half-steaming, chest rising and falling in furious panting, silently daring Bob to step outside. He’ll fuck him up without a second thought.

‎Bob pauses, just a heartbeat, letting the tension stretch. Then he smirks-- slow, deliberate, just that right kind of hot smug that makes your stomach flip-- and tips the champagne glass slightly, letting a drop spill down the side. He pulls out his phone, taps a quick text, and sends it without breaking eye contact.

Your ex’s eyes narrow, red-rimmed with rage, muscles taut and ready to bolt across the street, wreck this charity event, anything to get his hands on Bob Floyd.

‎Just as he steps forward, jaw tight, anger practically vibrating off him, a firm tap lands on his shoulder. He spins and freezes the moment they step in front of him. Who the hell are these guys? He squints, trying to place them. He vaguely remembers-- her friends?-- from some terrible point-of-her-life photo she’d shown him once. The one where she’d smiled, holding up a stupid drink, and she’d introduced them casually: “This is Jake and Bradley. Don’t hurt them.”

‎Well, now he wants to hurt them, but they’re huge, impossibly broad, and smiling in that irritatingly sweet-but-dangerous way that screams you’re about to learn a lesson. One’s taller than him, the other… maybe taller too, mustache even more intimidating, and their arms alone look like they could pick him up and spin him into next week.

‎Oh God, he thinks, realizing he’s completely outmatched, like a toddler trying to argue with a lion. And they’re looking at him like he’s a particularly entertaining misbehaving child.

‎The ex freezes, clearly realizing too late that words were never going to save him. He’s taller than he thought he was in his own head, but these two are even taller-- and far less forgiving. In a few careful, efficient moves, they guide him away from the street, dragging him toward whatever corner of the city will let him vent without ruining the mansion or the party.

‎Bob leans lightly against the railing again, watching the ex get escorted, expression casual but eyes glinting with amusement. Hangman catches his eye, raises a brow, and silently asks, everything okay up there?

‎Bob lifts his hand in a small, perfect wave. Perfect.

‎Bob tilted the glass back, the alcohol burning like it had a personal vendetta against his throat, as he slipped off the terrace and back into the mansion. The ballroom hit him all at once-- the glittering lights, the music, the polite chaos-- and his lips tugged into a grin that was entirely contagious if you asked him, which you didn’t. Just the thought of you made it impossible not to smile.

‎He scanned the room like a man on a mission: there. You. Talking to someone a little ways off. His pace quickened, weaving between waiters balancing precarious trays, sidestepping people fawning over him for that ridiculous ballroom dance at the start of the night. Old ladies practically wagged their fingers at him like, “Boy, we saw that spin. Impressive!” He ignored them. Focus: you.

‎And then he saw the man you were talking to. Tall. Lean but a muscular back. Hair slicked back so perfectly it looked criminal. The stranger should have stopped him. Should have made him hesitate. But it wasn’t the stranger that made him pause.

‎It was you.

‎The way you looked at him-- fascination? Awe? Admiration? Something slightly terrifying he couldn’t put his finger on. It made his chest tighten, a little, okay maybe more than a little. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want you looking at anyone like that but him. His jaw locked without warning, teeth clenching just slightly as he moved closer.

‎And what the hell was this stranger saying to make you look at him like your brain had temporarily checked out? Your eyes barely blinked, barely swayed from the stranger’s face, like you were memorizing him or taking a mental census.

‎Bob didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Every step toward you was deliberate, precise, tense-- like a predator, if predators carried whiskey in one hand and entirely too much affection in the other.

‎Because seriously, the moment you were looking at anyone else like that… that was a problem. And he was very, very bad at letting problems exist without personally fixing them.

‎---

‎Bob slowed as he got close, just enough to hear your voice, and oh god, yes, he definitely heard that.

‎“I thought you were in a relationship,” you said, words tumbling out like tiny confessions, “this is… more complicated, mister. What’s it called? Situationship? Hate-uationship? Fuck-- like--”

‎The stranger laughed. God, of course he laughed. That easy, confident laugh that makes you feel like maybe the world could be perfect if you just existed in it forever. “I’m working on it. She’s a piece of work. One I’d love to work with.”

‎Bob’s teeth clenched before he even realized it. Piece of work? That’s you. My piece of work. He slid his arm around your waist like it had been there forever, the kind of smooth, possessive motion that wasn’t really smooth at all, more like a reflex, a warning.

‎And you? Your attention flicked straight to him, bright and wide-eyed, like nothing else mattered. Wide grin. Excited. God, that grin. He felt it in his chest.

‎“God, I see it,” the stranger said.

‎“I know, right?! It’s uncanny!” you replied, laughing, completely oblivious to the way Bob’s jaw had locked.

‎“I’m sorry… what?” Bob said, voice low, because apparently he had to keep some shred of patience intact.

‎Before you could answer, the stranger laughed again, swirling his champagne like he was in a Bond movie or some nonsense. “Miss (Y/N) was telling me how much I looked like her boyfriend. And… while I’d normally not be thrilled at the thought of being compared to anyone, you’re a handsome fella. I don’t mind at all.”

‎You laughed again, slipping your arm around Bob’s, which he didn’t even notice, because he was currently sizing this guy up with all the precision of someone plotting world domination.

‎The stranger was-- fine, okay height, maybe 6'1-- 6'2-ish, not taller than Bob though, fit build, again, not taller than him, probably same weight. But the aura. Ugh. The aura. That effortless confidence that just radiated off him like he’d swallowed a charm school. Bob’s teeth ground together. Not thrilled. Not fine. Definitely not fine. Bob was better. Way better.

‎Bob’s jaw tightened, just slightly, as if his teeth could clamp down on the air itself. He hated that effortless, dripping confidence radiating from this stranger. Hated it. The way the stranger's shoulders shifted, easy and unbothered. The tilt of his head when he smiled. The warmth of his handshake before Bob even reached. It made Bob want to growl, professionally, personally, universally. He forced a smile, low-key disgust curling at the edges, and extended his hand. “Robert Floyd."

‎“Oh, where are my manners?” the stranger said, stretching out his hand. Warm, firm, calloused in exactly the right way. Killer smile. The kind that women in the room would swoon at. Obviously.

‎“Todd Stevens.”

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Todd had a way of speaking that always sounded like a challenge, as if every word he said was waiting to see how you would respond, and you, you were already used to it.

His voice had that unexpected effect; a simple word, a murmur, would run down your spine with that familiar mix of irritation and attraction that exasperated you so much.

"You should be more careful with your timing" he said with a half-smile as he leaned against the wall while you pretended to look at the papers stuck on it "if anyone else noticed how much time you spend with me, they might…" he sighed "misinterpret it."

His tone seemed like a joke, but you knew him well enough to know there was another intention behind it, a reminder that he was always in control, that whatever was between you would only be a fleeting thing, uncomplicated.

You looked at him sideways, with that expression of yours that usually made him raise an eyebrow.

"Oh, really?" you replied, lowering your voice until it became a whisper just for him "well, that didn't seem important last night, when you were in my room."

The comment caught him off guard. It was just a couple of seconds, but you saw it on his face: the serious expression, the awkward silence. As if that little provocation had hit right on his pride.

Todd knew how to play, but he definitely didn't know how to lose.

"You…" he started to say, but stopped. He cleared his throat and leaned back against the hallway wall, feigning a calm that didn't translate to his hands, which were toying with a strand of his perfectly combed hair. "You know you shouldn't talk so loudly about that" he added after a moment, with that coldness he always used to regain the control he had lost.

You just smiled slightly, and that caused Todd to clench his jaw.

Before you could respond, the echo of boots reverberated in the hallway. It wasn't the usual sound of sneakers, loafers, or heels roaming the halls. The sound was firm, almost strange in the middle of the perfectly waxed floor.

Your gaze shifted toward the noise without a second thought, leaving a stunned Todd in the face of your lack of attention; he wouldn't admit it, but that simple act had gotten under his skin.

A guy his age, maybe a bit older, was walking with a cowboy hat in his hand, boots that seemed to carry traces of dust, and a plaid shirt neatly tucked into dark jeans.

He held a crumpled paper between his fingers, looking at it from time to time with a furrowed brow, as if trying to decipher a map in a different language.

He didn't seem uncomfortable. That was the strange part. He walked as if the entire campus weren't full of eyes staring at him. As if being the only cowboy for miles around didn't make him feel out of place. On the contrary, he moved with ease, almost as if the place belonged to him.

Todd was the first to react. He straightened up, crossing his arms, a short, mocking laugh escaping his lips.

"Well, what do we have here?" he commented, loud enough for anyone to hear "are we filming a Western movie on campus and I didn't get the memo?"

A couple of students passing by laughed under their breath, more at Todd's mocking tone than at the joke itself. He enjoyed that, the small audience he always seemed to have, anytime, anywhere.

The cowboy looked up.

His eyes moved between the hallway signs until they stopped on you and Todd.

He didn't seem annoyed by the comment; in fact, he didn't seem to have registered it as an offense. He walked toward you with a determined step, adjusting the hat under his arm.

"Excuse me" he said directly to you, his voice deep and calm. He had that Southern accent, clearly distinct "could you tell me where classroom A18 is?"

The silence lasted a second. Todd raised an eyebrow, with that crooked smile he used when he thought he had the upper hand.

"Classroom A18…" he repeated, as if it were a ridiculous notion "sure, right next to the stable and the corral"

You turned your head toward Todd with a warning look, but he just shrugged, enjoying his own comment. However, it was the newcomer who responded.

"Oh, thank you, sir. I thought I had the intellect to tell a campus from a ranch, but I was mistaken"

His reply was so straightforward that Todd's mockery lost all its humor, hanging in the air like something unnecessary and a bit foolish.

Todd was slightly taken aback, without a retort ready. You ignored his discomfort and turned to the new guy, feeling an inexplicable need to compensate for the rudeness.

"I'm sorry, he can be a bit of an idiot sometimes" you say by way of an apology, knowing Todd won't like it, especially being called out in front of others "go straight down this hallway, and when you see the cafeteria, turn left. A18 is almost at the end, you'll see the number in large print above the door"

The guy smiled at you, and that smile had an immediate effect, making the atmosphere in the hallway seem to grow warmer.

"I appreciate it, miss"

With a natural and respectful movement, he put his hat back on and nodded his head in a gesture of thanks.It was the kind of gesture you rarely saw in that place,full of feigned formalities and appearances.

He walked away with a calm step, looking back at his paper. And that's when you noticed it: how natural he seemed. No one else in that hallway seemed comfortable with him, and yet he walked as if he were exactly where he was supposed to be. It was strange, but amidst all that strangeness, something made him seem pleasant and attractive.

You caught yourself watching him for a few seconds longer than you should have,until his figure disappeared around the corner.

"What's up?" Todd asked suddenly, without turning to look at you, as if he had felt the weight of your attention shifting. The annoyance in his voice was evident, and he didn't even seem to want to hide it. "You already like guys with hats, or is it that you've never ridden a cowboy?"

His tone wasn't aggressive, nor did it show jealousy; it was just a way of making it clear he had noticed something he didn't like. His jaw remained tense, though he tried to maintain a calm expression on his face.

You didn't respond right away, because for the first time, his words managed to affect you. Maybe it was the first time you hesitated, and you didn't know why.

"God, Todd. You're unbearable…" you say, before leaving him alone and starting to walk down the hallway.

But that doesn't seem to sit well with him; for the first time, he feels rejected.

"Be careful. Not everyone knows how to play this game"

You looked at him, frowning. For the first time, his warning sounded like fear disguised as superiority.

"Maybe we should see each other later..." you replied, with a slight smile.

Without waiting for his answer, you started walking in the same direction as the newcomer, feeling Todd's gaze fixed on your back.

When you had joined the greek system there were a few traditions that you were aware of, one of them was the tradition of the Lavalier. You had never planned on dating within the greek system until you had met Todd your sophomore year at Sumter. Yes, you were in a sorority and yes you were dating the president of Kappa Nu Alpha; Todd Stevens.

After the big hazing incident that involved his fraternity a few months ago and a few of the brothers having to be expelled Todd needed to turn the brothers around and spending time with your sorority; Lambda Omega Nu was a great way to get them into better standing with the Dean of Students. Both houses got their philanthropy hours up and you got to see Todd away from parties, study dates, and him sneaking into the sorority house despite it being against the rules. What panhellenic didn't know, couldn't hurt them.

You were meeting Todd in the library for a late night study session. Your books were already spread out turning a page before you heard a very familiar voice, "Hey baby."

You looked up to meet Todd's dark blue eyes. "Hey," You reached up a little letting your lips meet Todd's. Your fingers ran through Todd's hair before you heard him drop his backpack onto the floor.

"How's my favorite sorority president?" He asked pulling away.

"Pretty good," You said and then ran your tongue over your lips. "most of the girls are stuck at the house since they missed out on mandated study hours so I am all yours for the rest of the night."

He reached for a chair and pulled it away from the table before pressing himself into your side, "That's what I like to hear."

Todd dropped a kiss to the side of your cheek before pulling out a few of his text books. The large political science book made your notes look like a few sheets of paper.

"Didn't you take poli-sci last fall?" You asked him.

"Yes, but apparently the professor didn't like the topic that I chose for my final paper and my advisor 'suggested' that I take it again since they have a different professor teaching it this semester."

You had always admired this about Todd, he didn't accept anything less from anyone and he held himself to that same standard.

"But you passed."

"Yeah and it knocked my GPA down by a few points. I'm not going to be able to get into a good law school with my GPA below a 3.5, and with everything that happened with the house, I really need this."

You gave Todd a smile while he dropped his eyes to the pages of his book before he looked at you, "What?" He questioned.

"I just love you so much." Todd reached over and took your hand in his before kissing the back of it.

"I love you too baby."

You and Todd had managed to get through studying for a while, you finishing up with the current chapters for one of your classes and Todd shoved his political science book back in to his bag before his eyes went a wide at something in his bag.

"Baby," You heard him say.

"Yeah," You said looking up from your notes with your pen still in your hand.

"You know that I see a future with you, right?"

You and Todd had talked about what the future looked like at the start of the school year. He was going to look for a law school while you finished off the last of your pre-med classes. Before the hazing incident you and Todd were on track for applying to Harvard for your respected programs. Todd had even managed to pass his LSATs with a 177 despite all of the drama with his frat brothers.

You nodded, "I know, and in a few months we'll both be out of Sumter and onto bigger things." You had dropped your pen and reached for his hand.

He gave you a nod and held your hand a little longer. "That's why, I think it's time for the next step for us. We've been together since our sophomore year and we're graduating in the spring so before that I was wondering if..." He trailed off before pulling something out of his bag.

You looked over to see him pull open a box with KNA's letters on a charm through a thin chain.

"Todd," You started to say. You knew that this was something serious that Todd had thought about, after all guys in fraternities were only allowed to lavalier a girl once and no one else after.

"You don't have to accept. I know that it's just a formality for your sisters and the guys are going to complain when they find out what they have to do for it but, I would really like it if you were to accept."

You pushed away your notebook and pulled him in closer muttering against his lips, "I will happily accept your lavalier."

Your lips met Todd's when you felt one of his hands move down to cup your chin. Todd pulled away a little before he reached into the small box to pull out the necklace and placed it around your neck. You moved your hair off of your neck before feeling the cold metal settle around your neck as Todd's warm fingers straightened the thin chain.

You reached up and felt for his letters around your neck, and knew that this cemented all of the plans that you had made together. It would be you and Todd together once you both left Sumter in the spring and started at Harvard together in the fall.

"How long do I have before I have to tell the guys that they have to sing on the Lambda Omega Nu lawn for you to formally accept my lavalier?"

You chuckled before answering, "Couple days. I'll schedule the candle passing for Friday before everyone leaves to go out for the night. I just hope none of the guys are tone deaf."

Todd looked up and then shrugged. "They'll suffer through it for me, what are brothers for after all."

"Does that mean that I'll get to hear you sing?" You asked, knowing that serenading house was part of the tradition. 

Todd just smiled and shook his head. "Unfortunately not, sweetheart. You'd have to get me pretty drunk for that."

You let your mind wonder of a second, "When's our next mixer? Karaoke night seems like a good idea."

Todd's hand dropped to your thigh as he leaned a little closer to you, "Not sure the guys would go for it."

"Half-naked sorority girls drinking, singing, and dancing. Sounds like their type of fun, and maybe I'd get to see you in a cowboy hat again." You reached up and ran your fingers through his hair.

You saw him smile at you, "Does that mean we get to leave this so called party early?"

"Yes, but we'd still need to talk to both of our social chairs."

"I'll talk to my brothers tomorrow." He leaned down a little before pressing his lips to yours. His hand moved up a little to cup your jaw before you let your fingers start to pull at the buttons on his shirt. Todd pulled away from you a little. "Now pack up your books so I can walk you home like a gentleman before I sneak into your room."

Because, of course.

Since Todd was studying law. And he was good at it, the bastard. In fact, he looked too good in his formal suits, with those perfectly knotted ties, his hair slicked back, his curls fixed with gel, always so neat and presentable.

And, of course, of all the classrooms, of all the classes on campus, you had to end up with him in the International Public Law class. It wasn't unusual, considering you were studying International Relations… but that's not the point.

The point was that at first you planned to avoid it throughout the entire class. Pretend it didn't exist. You were fine with that. Until the professor decided to complicate everything.

The topic of the day "Humanitarian intervention and state sovereignty". Perfect. Just what you needed to argue with someone like Todd Stevens.

“Stevens, you will defend intervention. YN, you will question it,” announced the teacher.

Great.

Todd stood up, with his characteristic air of confidence. “International law cannot ignore the responsibility to protect. When a state fails, the international community must act. It's not imperialism, it's humanity,” he said in a firm voice.

“Selective humanity,” you replied without thinking. “If the ‘responsibility to protect’ is used only when it suits, it ceases to be justice and becomes politics.”

He looked at you with a barely contained smile. “Pure idealism. The world doesn't work with moral consistency.” “And yours works with arrogance,” you replied, and some classmates laughed.

The professor raised his eyebrows, amused. “Excellent debate,” he said, before moving on to the next topic.

But you could still feel his gaze fixed on you. And he, of course, continued to smile triumphantly.

After the debate, you thought you'd at least gotten rid of Todd for a while. But, of course, the universe knows no mercy.

Weeks later, campus networks were abuzz with the same news: “Todd Stevens had been elected president of the Kappa Nu Alpha fraternity.” As if he needed more reasons to be unbearable.

He was already arrogant by nature; now, with a title and a group of followers behind him, he seemed more full of himself than ever. And worst of all, you didn't expect to care. Until you did.

It all started in another class—Global Relations, if you remember correctly—where you met Adrian O'Brien. He wasn't like the other guys in his fraternity. He had a quiet, almost reserved elegance, without the typical Kappa cockiness. He dressed well—clean shirts, classic watches, the kind of details that spoke of someone who takes care of himself, but without showing off. His smile was easy, sincere; his gaze, serene. And when he spoke, he did so with a disarming kindness.

He was the kind of guy who would offer you his pen without making a condescending comment. Who listened before responding. And, frankly, a breath of fresh air among so many egos in ties.

It was all innocent at first. A conversation, a coffee after class, an occasional text. Until someone—because there's always someone—mentioned it to Todd.

And that was the end of the peace.

Todd showed up one afternoon, wearing that tense expression you knew all too well.

“O'Brien is in my fraternity,” he said seriously, shrugging his shoulders as if that were the most logical argument in the world.

“So?” you replied, crossing your arms and leaning back against the wall, unperturbed.

“And I don't want you messing with any of them.”

“Excuse me?” you laughed, raising an eyebrow. “And since when do you decide who I associate with?”

“Since I decided that Kappas don't get involved in trouble.”

“Oh, right,” I replied sarcastically, rolling my eyes. “So you're protecting him.” You looked him straight in the eye, enjoying every millimeter of his jaw tensing.

From that moment on, the attractive guys in his fraternity became a boundary that Todd had imposed on you. Which was worthless because you tried hard to cross any boundary Todd set. Even if it was just to provoke him and make him angry.

And you found the perfect opportunity.

You were at a fraternity party, and in your defense, you didn't know at first that it was Todd's fraternity. It was your friends who insisted on going, and you ended up reluctantly giving in. It didn't take long before you started to regret it… because, obviously, Todd was there.

You rolled your eyes and tried to focus on the music, the drinking, anything that would distract you. But it didn't take long for you to notice his gaze on you. His arm was firmly draped over the shoulders of a girl who, judging by the way he treated her and her confident smile, was clearly not his girlfriend—or at least that's what you knew. No one on campus had mentioned him having a partner. And it was no secret that he dated a lot of girls; his words, not yours.

You knew he was no saint, but it wasn't hard to understand why women fell at his feet. Physically, Todd had that almost impossible combination of strength and care, tall, broad shoulders that filled out any T-shirt, a square jaw that seemed made to be admired from any angle, and eyes that could be intense or playful depending on the situation. His hair was curly at the ends when it wasn't perfectly combed and gelled, it was a mess of messy waves that gave the impression he had just gotten out of bed, and it suited him.

But what really made him irresistible wasn't just his physical appearance. He spoke with confidence, with that spark of humor that could be sarcastic without being cruel, and an intellect that was evident in every comment and observation. You could see him analyzing any situation, gliding through conversations with ease, and he always seemed to be one step ahead. That combination of confidence, intelligence, and physical attractiveness was exactly what made many girls approach him without him even having to make an effort.

Of course, that meant nothing to you. With you, he had always been a fool, a stubborn idiot… a brute. You could never forget the time in high school —biology class, to be exact— when he came up with his “brilliant” idea to be the liberator of little frogs. Instead of releasing them outside, he chose your locker, fully aware that you were terrified of them. When lunchtime came and you went to drop off your books, you opened the door… and all the little frogs jumped out at you. You’ll never forget it.

You looked away from him and the girl as you rolled your eyes, which Todd quickly noticed; the corner of his mouth lifted slightly in that mocking smile you knew all too well.

Fuck, this was going to be a very, very long party…

.

After a while, you decided you needed a drink, any excuse to relax. You walked through the crowd, dodging a couple of guys with red cups in their hands, until you reached the table where there was a huge bowl of punch that looked more suspicious than refreshing.

Until you bumped into Adrian and the conversation flowed effortlessly, as if you had known him all your life. At some point, you both ended up sitting on a sofa at the back of the room, half hidden from the deafening noise of the party. You could smell his clean, woody cologne with a hint of mint.

The volume of the music forced them to talk very close, too close. Your thighs brushed against his, and his arm, resting on the back of the sofa, brushed against yours every time he moved. You smiled as you felt Todd's penetrating gaze.

....

Todd Stevens considered himself a steadfast man. Calm. Raised with discipline, manners, and a temperament that not even hell could break. Or so he liked to believe.

Until he met you.

From then on, your every word, your every gesture, was a test of his self-control. And the worst part was that you knew it. That night, at the party, was the breaking point. He saw you when you got up to dance in that short black satin dress, he could see the comfort of your body, the way you leaned toward Adrian O'Brien.

His fraternity brother.

That was crossing the line. "Don't mess with any of them. He had already told you. But you did it again.

And when he saw you moving to the music, laughing with Adrian, letting him put his hands on your waist as if it were nothing, all the manners his parents had instilled in him crumbled in an instant.

He knew it. As he watched you dance with O'Brien, he knew perfectly well that you were doing it to annoy him, to irritate him… to provoke him. That attitude of yours—that way of challenging him—always managed to drive him crazy. It was as if you enjoyed seeing him lose control.

And even though he tried to resist, to keep his composure, to pretend he didn't care, he couldn't help himself. It was probably the moment Mia—the girl next to him, his friend—got up to get another drink that something inside him just gave way. He didn't even notice when his feet started moving, only that when he became aware again, he was already walking straight towards you.

You tried to hide the smile of satisfaction that came over you when you saw him approach his friend and whisper something in his ear—something you couldn't hear, but whatever it was, it was enough for Adrian to immediately walk away towards the kitchen.

As soon as Adrian left, you felt Todd's hand firmly around your waist, forcing you to turn toward him. His gaze, full of irritation, locked onto yours without blinking, and the tension between you became almost tangible. Of course, just seeing him was enough to bring a triumphant smile to your lips.

“It's an amazing party, isn't it?” you said with feigned innocence, knowing exactly what you were doing. That was you. Unable to keep your mouth shut, unable to resist the temptation to tease Todd Stevens.

"Keep your legs closed and stay away from my friends. Damn it, that's what I told you, isn't it?" Todd snapped through clenched teeth, his voice low and barely contained. You didn't flinch. You felt his breath close to you, the firmness of his hand still on your waist, and you lifted your face to look him in the eyes. His pupils were dilated, that irritated blue you liked so much.

You smiled. You couldn't help it when you saw him like that. “And since when do I take orders from you, Stevens?” you whispered triumphantly.

“Are you serious?” Todd blurted out, his voice deeper than usual, that irritation he could barely contain. His jaw tensed as he looked at you, his fingers still firm on your waist.

“I've warned you about this,” he continued, moving just a little closer. “My fraternity brothers are off limits to you.”

You shrugged with apparent calm, even though your heart was pounding. The smile returned to your lips, insolent, mischievous. “I vaguely remember you mentioning something,” you said lightly, raising an eyebrow as your fingers absentmindedly brushed his wrist, as if you didn't notice the tension in his grip.

And you couldn't help pushing a little further. “Well,” you said with a crooked smile, “Adrian is really attractive… smart… sexy.”

“Don't you dare,” Todd interrupted, his voice hoarse, his brow furrowed.

“Why? Are you jealous?” you asked, with that defiant edge you knew perfectly well would anger him.

“Shut up,” his tone betraying the anger he felt.

“Try to shut me up, Stevens.”

The silence that followed was brief, barely a heartbeat. He stands still for a second, his eyes ablaze, his jaw set with contained fury. Then something breaks inside him. His hand moves up to the back of your neck, firm, his fingers tangling in your hair with a mixture of desperation and warning. He pulls you toward him, so fast that you barely have time to breathe before his mouth falls on yours.

The kiss is not sweet, nor does it seek redemption. It is a collision. Hard, erratic, a silent battle where he tries to impose himself and you challenge him without backing down. Your lips respond with the same violence, returning each attempt at domination with soft bites, with rage tangled in desire.

He growls against your mouth, a low, almost animalistic sound. He presses you closer to his chest, as if he wants to melt you right there. You cling to his neck, your fingers digging into his skin, not giving him an inch.

When you finally separate, you're both breathing heavily, your lips reddened, your eyes burning. The kiss is interrupted, and the world is reduced to the sound of your ragged breathing. Before you know it, you're climbing the stairs two at a time, his hand gripping your wrist firmly, guiding you through the hallways to his room.

Once you are in the center of the room, and Todd sees that you are about to open your mouth to ask a question while he locks the door, he grabs you by the waist, pulls you toward him, and kisses you again. His lips brush against yours as he murmurs, “Just shut up, okay?” It was not a request, but an order.

You pull away from his lips slightly and say, “What about the girl you were with?” He starts kissing your neck and nibbling your collarbone, while one of his hands squeezes your thigh and brushes your butt.

He can't help teasing you too, asking, “Why? Are you jealous?” He uses your own words, because to him, seeing you with that pout of indignation is extremely amusing.

Without waiting for a response, his lips find yours in a kiss that tastes of victory and surrender at the same time. His hand, which until then had been on your thigh, slides with overwhelming confidence under your dress, his warm palm against your bare skin. A gasp escapes your throat, but he swallows it, drowning any protest in a deeper kiss.

With one fluid motion, he spins you around and you both fall onto the bed. Your back sinks into the comforter as he leans over you, a powerful silhouette outlined against the dim light in the room. His knee pushes between your legs, spreading them with a firmness that brooks no argument. There is no room for questions now, only for the rough feel of his breath on your skin and the weight of his body on yours.

Your dress, now pulled up to your hips, makes you feel exposed, vulnerable. He pulls away just enough to scan your body with his eyes, from your misty eyes to the curve of your thighs that now frame his figure. One of his hands holds your wrist, pressing it gently against the mattress, while the other traces a slow, burning path from your knee to the inside of your thigh.

“Speechless, baby?” he whispers, his voice rough and laden with a dominance that makes you shiver. “That's what it takes to shut that pretty little mouth of yours.”

He leans down, not to kiss you on the lips, but to rest his forehead against yours, a gesture of intimacy that contrasts with the way his hips press against yours, making it clear who is in control. You are trapped beneath him, your dress crumpled at your waist.

Slowly opening your legs, Todd stood between them as he removed your dress. The black lace panties were now the only piece of clothing on your body, causing Todd to sigh deeply at the sight that was making him harder than a rock. He would surely remember the sight and still have an erection. He knelt in front of you as he took off his shirt and threw it somewhere on the bedroom floor along with your dress.

And when you made a move to close your legs out of stubbornness, he made a “tsk” sound before keeping your legs wide open and receptive to him and looked at you reverently.

You gave him a smug smile, “How about I close my legs and keep my distance?” you returned the words he had said to you earlier. You heard him laugh softly, hoarsely, as he began to gently kiss the inside of your thighs, making you tremble.

“From my friends, from my fraternity brothers. Not from me,” Todd said patiently as he began to caress the inside of your thigh with his nose, delicately placing a reverent kiss here and there. Anticipating that you would open your mouth to say something clever again or ask a witty question, Todd just smiled mischievously and pressed his nose against your swollen clit through your panties, making you practically choke and moan loudly, holding onto his shoulders, which made him laugh softly as he held your legs still while you squirmed slightly.

His mouth sealed over you with a hunger that took your breath away. It wasn't a gentle kiss, but a takeover. With his hands firm on your thighs, he opened you even wider, exposing you completely to his tongue.

He started with long, flat licks, from your entrance to your clit, soaking you completely. You could hear the wet sound of his mouth working on you, a raw sound that made you blush but you couldn't deny that it turned you on even more. Then his technique changed: his tongue became more specific, more cruel in its precision.

He concentrated on your already swollen clitoris, circling it with the tip of his tongue in quick circles before gently sucking it between his lips. You screamed, your fingers digging into his hair, but he didn't stop. He alternated between the suction that drove you crazy and rapid vibrations of his tongue directly on that sensitive spot.

When he sensed you were approaching the edge, he would descend back to your entrance, thrusting his tongue inside you with shallow but insistent strokes, savoring you, drinking you in as if you were the finest nectar. His nose buried itself in your skin as he did so, and his grunts of approval vibrated against your most sensitive lips.

That game continued—he moving up to torture your clitoris to the brink, moving down to penetrate you with his tongue—until you were completely lost in the sensation, moaning uncontrollably, your body arching on the bed as he devoured you. Just when you felt the orgasm overwhelming you, when every muscle tensed to explode, he stopped.

Suddenly, the pressure of his tongue was gone. He pulled back just an inch, enough for the cool air in the room to hit your hot, wet skin. A sharp, frustrated moan escaped your throat. He smiled, a mocking, arrogant gesture you felt against your sensitive lips, without needing to see it.

“What's wrong, baby?” he whispered, his voice rough from the effort and laden with a superiority that set your blood on fire. He knew exactly what he had provoked in you, what he had taken away

Before you could curse him, he stood up. His eyes never left yours as his fingers moved toward his belt. With quick, practiced movements, he unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down, along with his underwear, revealing his erection.

It was big, just as you had imagined. It was fully erect, thick and hard, with taut skin. The tip, a deep pink and moist, stood out against his abdomen. Prominent veins pulsed along its length, showing the pressure it contained. He took it in one hand, pumping it slowly as he watched you gasp for breath.

“Are you okay, pretty girl?” he repeated, even more teasingly, proud of the effect he had on you. “Nothing clever to say?”

There was no more preamble. With his other hand, he grabbed your hip, digging his fingers into your flesh. He leaned down, aligned the tip with your entrance, which was throbbing, wet, and desperate for the interrupted stimulation. With a firm, determined thrust, without hesitation, he slowly sank his entire length inside you in one go.

The sound that came out of you was a cross between a gasp and a moan of relief. It was an overwhelming fullness, a stretch that left you breathless. He held still for a second, allowing you to feel every inch of him inside you.

Todd was sure he had lost his mind, but not because of your usual teasing. This time the madness was different, deeper. It came from feeling himself sink into your body, from the wet, obscene sounds that marked the rhythm of his thrusts, from seeing you beneath him, your mouth open in a silent moan, breathless and voiceless, your eyes closed and your hair spread out on his pillow like a painting that drove him crazy.

He loved it. He loved it as much as you did, arching your back to receive each deeper thrust, your breasts swaying to the rhythm of both of you. Your legs, wrapped tightly around his waist, pulled him closer, and your nails dug into his back in an attempt to keep him inside, to make him yours with every movement.

And then he understood, he had found the perfect way to silence your cute, cunning mouth. And, no doubt, he thought with an internal smile as he picked up the pace, he was going to use this method much more often.